Chapter 60 – Holy crap, Retcon!

April 7th, 2021 – Omega Nebula, Sahrabarik System, Omega

SSV Excalibur – Deck 3 – Medical Bay

Data Corruption… Automatic Reconstruction Failed…Data Corruption….Profile Reconstruction Required…

Miranda Lawson, Ex-Cerberus

Miranda dug out a bit of dirt that had somehow made its way beneath one of her fingernails. Waiting wasn't the genetically-engineered, ex-cerberus operative's strong suit or her preference, but it was Shepard's and sometimes there was just no avoiding it. Frankly, if their little experiment wasn't so intriguing Miranda would have left Shepard to her own devices so that she could do something a bit more productive.

The scanner beeped and a light on the front panel turned green, indicating that its task was finished. "Well?" Miranda asked.

Shepard immediately turned to the display. The commander had been pacing non-stop for the last ten minutes as the dingy, little scanner that Miranda had jury-rigged for her out of spare parts she had found lying around the Excalibur and the medical bay had chugged along at its clandestine assignment.

"It matches," Shepard finally said.

Miranda was taken back. What were the odds? She arched an eyebrow, thought about it for a bit, then and simply shrugged. "That…complicates things."

The commander blinked and tilted her head up to the ceiling, exhaling hard through her nostrils. "It can complicate things," Shepard agreed.

"And then it must be—,"

"Yes. Has to be. I would have known."

"Right," Miranda nodded. "Well for now it changes nothing. In fact—nothing has to change at all. It's your call, Shepard. Sit on it if you like. You know Garrus and I won't say anything."

Shepard looked crossly at Miranda and pursed her lips. "I forgot how heartless you can be Miri."

"I'm not heartless, I'm practical," Miranda corrected her. "Morality is a luxury, not a constant. You know what could happen, Shepard. You know what's at stake."

The commander chuckled. "Agree to disagree." The tone in her voice was concerning. Her old friend's obtuse obsession with doing what was right – right to her and sometimes only her – was making Miranda wince for what must have been the billionth time over the last twenty-eight or so years that they had known each other. The ex-cerberus operative had a real love-hate relationship with this particular part of Shepard.

Garrus uncrossed his arms and pushed himself off the wall. He moved beside Shepard and looked at the panel as well. "You sure it's accurate Miranda? You cobbled that thing together rather damn quickly."

Miranda scoffed and rolled her eyes. That did not dignify a response and Garrus soon realized that. The turian's mandibles twitched in embarrassment. "Of course," he said. "Well Shepard, what do you want to do with this?"

Shepard turned back to Miranda. "If it was you, wouldn't you want to know?"

"Of course I would. But I would also have understand if I wasn't told. I would have been angry, damn it, but I would have understood. Because I would have known what was at stake."

The commander bowed her head, her red locks obscuring her expression. "Garrus?"

The turian rubbed his chin. Eventually he turned on his omni-tool and played a video. It was some first-person combat footage shot from what looked like an armor camera. They all watched as the camera-owner walked into a room and executed what looked like four gangsters in cold blood. They had been sitting around a table playing card.

"Now watch this part." Garrus skipped ahead in the video. He started it up again when the image of a gangster standing over a dead asari appeared, a smoking gun in his hand. The owner of the body-camera sprinted over to the slaver and tackled him to the ground, raining blows all over the human's face. The three of them watched as the owner produced a knife and drove it into the man's chest again and again. He stabbed him seven times before the owner looked like he had been wrenched aside. The camera revealed a turian hovering over the owner. Garrus shut the footage off after that.

"Shepard… I haven't had the chance to speak to him much, but I've done my research. You like to believe in the best in people and I love that about you. I really do. But, you also tend to think that people are more like you than they actually are, or have the capacity to be."

Garrus sighed and scratched at a loose scale on his chin. "He's quiet, sure, and he comes across as composed and level-headed – even to the point of seeming cold — but don't let that fool you. He's just a kid, Shepard. A kid who had no one growing up. No one to learn from, no one to teach him right or wrong or how to act or how to work through his emotions. Everything he knows about those kinds of things he probably learned from either the gang he ran with or the two highly-trained killers he's spent the last five and a half years with. He's a kid who is deeply, fundamentally angry."

Garrus looked at Miranda, who nodded back at him in agreement. In a rare moment of solidarity, both Miranda and Garrus were for once on the same side.

Shepard placed her hands on her on the table and squeezed. "So stay quiet then?"

"You don't know how he will take it, and I do not think he is equipped for it."

The three of them stood in silence for a while, with both Miranda and Garrus waiting for Shepard to come to a decision just like they had done so many times before.

Eventually, Shepard sighed. She looked tired and worn out, as one often does when they find themselves pulled back into memories that they would have rather remained buried. "Alright. Not now then. But one day. One day for sure."

Miranda nodded and placed a hand around Shepard's shoulder. "One day, but not today," she promised back.

April 8th, 2211 0157 hours – Omega Nebula, Sahrabarik System, Omega

Current Location Unknown

Data Corruption… Automatic Reconstruction Failed…Data Corruption….Profile Reconstruction Required…

(Lance Corporal Galen Verus, Turian Heirarchy)

Galen found something he wasn't quite expecting to find on this station and that was the cold. The air on Omega was warm and even a bit humid for the most part. It was the sheer number of bodies packed onto the station in conjunction with what was likely a constantly-overtaxed life support system. Recycled air usually had this stale, metallic taste to it, and Galen had never experienced that quality more strongly than when was on Omega.

The newfound cold was both a blessing and a curse in that regard. It was a blessing because he could no longer taste the staleness through the chill and a curse because turians did not do well in frozen climates. His breath was now coming out in frosty, white puffs, or so Galen assumed. Down here in the mines of Omega he could hardly see ten feet in front of him—and turian eyes were sharp.

But Galen could still hear Garm's steady, unfaltering footsteps in front of him and his deep, even breathing. The krogan was a rock. Although there were many places that the young turian would rather be right now, if he had to be here then at least he was with Garm.

After their little visit to Inferno Skulls, Garm had led Galen back to one of the less shadier districts. The krogan had taken them directly to the nearest bar. They had sat down at the farthest table from the door, set their grisly sack down beside it, and ordered a round of drinks for himself and Galen. The two of them then sat silently drinking for about the next forty minutes, with Galen going round for round with Garm.

Around the forty-five minute mark, Garm decided to ask Galen a few questions. They were casual ones at first, with Garm asking about Galen's culture, the Hierarchy, etc. They were also specific enough and directed at him enough that Galen couldn't just not answer them like he'd been doing earlier, on their way down to the inferno skulls when Garm had mostly been talking to himself.

Then the questions got a bit weird. Garm started to ask him about turian mating rituals, what young, turian males were like, and then finally about Cade. It was then that Galen understood what Garm was trying to get at. He was worried for his adopted daughter.

Galen found the concern touching and he was always ready to talk about his favourite hero, and so Galen and Garm spent the next few hours talking about turians and Cade in particular. Galen told the krogan how turians tended to mate for life and would usually abstain from taking another partner even after the death of their current one. He also told Garm about Cade's actions during the Rebellions and how he had killed his own father to save the Primarch and bring about peace. Galen told Garm what he knew of Cade's time in the Blackwatch and how he had developed a reputation for never leaving a fellow turian behind. Cade's service record as a Spectre was a bit more unfamiliar to Galen, but Galen had heard rumors that Cade had saved the Citadel on one of his first missions.

It was the most Galen had spoken in a long while. When Galen finished, Garm set down his twelfth mug of ryncol and gave a heavy sigh. "Thanks, kid," he had burped. Garm wiped his mouth with his hand and signaled for another mug. "Never thought my little girl would pick a turian. A human… a human I was prepared for," he said with a shake of his head. "Spent a good amount of time looking them up on the net, but a turian? Ancestors… a turian? Never in a thousand years, kid… Never would have guessed that in a thousand years…"

A waitress brought another round of drinks over. Garm had grabbed the mug and downed its contents in one go. When he finished he had set the mug down beside its empty brethren and tossed some credits down onto the table. "But even Shepard shacked up with a turian so I guess it's not the craziest thing in the galaxy," he had reasoned with a shrug of his massive shoulders. "So I take it this Kitiarian is a stand-up fellow then? He'll take good care of my little girl and all?"

Galen had also heard rumors about Cade's other proclivities, but that was all before Camilla. He also wasn't exactly an expert on relationships being only eighteen and all. Still, he had seen the way Cade looked at her.

"She couldn't have found a better turian, sir. Cade would never let anything bad happen to her, I know it," Galen had replied earnestly.

Garm gave an appreciative nod. The day was getting late now, and Galen wondered if perhaps Garm might have them set out in the morning instead. "Thank you. Alright kid, time to go. And where we're going… let's just say you'll want to stay close to me."

Unfortunately Galen had no such luck. And so off they went and now here they were, spurs-deep in the darkest, coldest, and most foreboding hellhole that Omega had to offer. Omega's old mines.

They were walking atop a metal walkway that ran straight down a tunnel that could have been anywhere between ten meters wide or a hundred meters wide. More likely the tunnel fluctuated in size and branched off in certain spots, but it was too dark for Galen to tell.

At times he could feel a slight breeze come up from beneath him, suggesting to him that they were passing over an open chasm, but it was again too dark for Galen to discern the terrain of the mine. Other times he could see the reflection of the light from his and Garm's armor bouncing off against metal machinery. Galen was curious but he did not dare stray from the walkway.

Most unsettling of all were the red eyes. At first Galen thought he was imagining them. He would see little red pinpricks of light appear and then disappear with frightening speed. "Vorcha," Garm had explained, his gruff voice heavy with disgust. "Keep your weapons ready. You should be safe as long as you're with me but I wouldn't put it past them to try and pull you into one of the tunnels."

Garm had turned to him then, his yellow eyes gleaming in the darkness. "And if that happens you better hope they kill you quick. This place is a damned maze. I would never be able to find you again."

And so Galen had loosened his knife and undid the strap that kept his pistol in his holster.

And so the two of them continued down what Galen was starting to believe was his least favourite place in the galaxy. The darkness made it a hundred times worse. The shape of the tunnel and the horrors that potentially lay hidden inside mutated constantly in Galen's mind, fueled by his youthful imagination. The only constants were the cold and the sound of his and Garm's boots echoing on the walkway.

Eventually Galen noticed that Garm was becoming clearer and clearer in his vision. He looked around the krogan. There was light up ahead! It was a bright, energetic red – not the red of an emergency light. It was pouring out what looked like a set of large, steel doors.

Galen felt the air in the tunnel becoming warmer too. Slowly he could find himself seeing more and more as they approached the light. The tunnel was narrowing now, leading straight into the mine. To Galen's left and right were a pair of old conveyer belts that ran right past the steel doors and into the room where the light was coming from.

The air was hot and stifling now, and hottest right outside of the large, metal doors. "Don't raise your weapon unless you want to die horribly," Garm warned just before they stepped inside.

They had stepped into a massive, domed chamber, perhaps two hundred meters in diameter. Steam-emitting vents and gauges dotted the walls. There were a few catwalks that ringed the upper portions of the chamber that provided access to some panels and equipment that Galen was unfamiliar with.

Galen was shocked by the sheer size of it and moreso by what now lay below his feet, clearly visible through the metal walkway. What had to be hundreds of tons of molten metal, heated into a thick, viscous liquid that glowed a bright, cherry-red that lay bubbling perhaps a seventy meters below. The roiling mass cast a menacing red light on the entire arena.

It was then that Galen realized that the room was a giant foundry. Below them was a small lake of molten metal, massive in scale and size. The conveyer belts that had run alongside them extended out over the fiery chasm. Clearly they were meant to transport ore. Below Galen could see where the molten metal was slowly being diverted down different channels and other, active conveyer belts coming out of different tunnels that were dumping what looked like platinum into the melting pot.

Something emitted a loud shriek ahead of them which echoed through the chamber, prompting Galen to come out from behind Garm to see what was up.

The walkway they were on led to a huge platform suspended above the lake of molten metal that looked like it served as the operations room for the entire foundry. Shaped like a semi-circle it took up nearly half of the massive room. Galen could see several large consoles sitting beneath a pair of massive holo-screens that displayed all sorts of data and more gauges and knobs than he could even count. Pipes and conduits snaked everywhere across that back wall of the foundry, giving it an organic, unsettling look.

It was then that Galen noticed that there were small shapes and figures moving about on the platform. He squinted a bit harder and when he realized what he was looking at he gave a tired, little sigh. The platform was covered in krogan and vorcha wearing armor the color of dried blood. Blood Pack.

They all looked over towards Galen and Garm. A few raised their weapons, but those who raised them did so lazily. No need for alarm on their part, Galen supposed, since they were outnumbered nearly two-hundred to one here after all. Wonderful.

And even more wonderful was the fact that, situated in the middle of the platform, was a towering, grisly throne, built from scrap metal and rock and the bones of at least a score of different individuals.

Nearly every species was represented there. Galen could see the skull of a batarian—all four of its eye sockets wide and full of darkness. There was a salarian skull as well judging by the curved bones and the skulls of at least a dozen turians. Just exactly what had they used to hold it all together? Galen supposed it didn't matter. Wonderful – just absolutely wonderful.

And seated on the throne was a huge krogan with a dark-green headplate, dressed in that grisly armor. This day just kept getting better.

Galen gave a little jump when he saw that Garm had begun to march down the walkway towards the platform, with his bloody sack in hand. It was a suicidal move. There was absolutely no cover on that walkway, and again the Blood Pack had them outnumbered what looked like two-hundred-to-one. Galen wondered if perhaps Garm needed his attention drawn to that little numerical figure.

To Galen's surprise the Blood Pack mercenaries didn't immediately fill the walkway with gunfire and end both him and Garm.

Garm made the long march down the walkway in sheer silence. There was no need for Garm to speak. The chamber was already filled with the echo of his boots against the metal walkway, the mocking chatter of the Blood Pack, and the sound of Galen's own rapidly-beating heart.

The old krogan eventually stepped onto the platform with Galen just behind him. Blood Pack mercenaries moved in behind them, cutting them off from the walkway. The two of them stopped short of the throne by maybe a dozen meters.

The Blood Pack mercenaries looked a lot more menacing up close. There were also large totems crafted in the same fashion as the Blood Pack throne. Garm upended the sack onto the ground and the bloody helmets and broken teeth came tumbling out onto the platform.

"Jurdon Olak, I come with a token of my respect, for I seek an audience with you," Garm declared loudly.

The krogan on the throne – Jurdon Olak – leaned forward from atop his macabre throne and peered down at Garm. His scarred face was impassive as he took in the two of them, but Galen thought that the krogan's yellow eyes seemed to be searching for something.

There was a flash of recognition. "Grup, is that you down there?" Olak suddenly called out, squinting at Garm. Galen detected just the faintest hint of amused derision in Olak's tone. But who was Grup? An alias of Garm's?

Garm did not correct the krogan. Instead, he dipped his head respectfully.

Olak heaved himself off his throne and descended down its steps. His hide was thick and his hump massive. The Blood Pack leader was likely a century and change older than even Garm. The krogan was clad in blood-red heavy krogan armor similar to what his mercenaries were wearing and he had a shotgun slung across his back. As he approached Garm, Galen saw that Olak was about roughly the same height. His breath reeked of rotting flesh.

Olak continued to peer intently at Garm's face. After a few more seconds of studying Galen's friend, the Blood Pack leader broke out in a gaping, toothy smile and let out a bellow of laughter.

"Grup, by the ancestors it is you! What brings you back to Omega, old friend? Here to grow flowers again?"

The words sounded friendly enough, but even Galen in all of his social ineptitude could hear pick up on the undertone of condescension and mockery. It belied every word. The young turian had no idea what was going on, but clearly Garm was known to the Blood Pack. Looks of recognition had begun to dawn on the faces of many of the other krogan as well. They began to smile and laugh. Some even pointed fingers. However, like Olak it did not seem to Galen like they were laughing with Garm.

Garm raised his head so he could look Olak dead in the eye. "I invoke the Korbal Gorah."

The room suddenly fell silent – so silent that Galen could begin to hear his heart throbbing in its chest. Olak's face immediately darkened and his demeanor shifted in an instant.

The other krogan began give out a low growl. "Don't say such things my friend. We should be celebrating your return – not speaking words that we do not mean," the krogan rumbled ominously.

Garm repeated himself. "I invoke the Korbal Gorah."

The two krogan stared at one another – Olak's two good eyes against Garm's one good one. The other eye sat dead in its socket, milky-white and as still as a corpse's. The ghastly, pale orb lay fixed on Olak.

The Blood Pack leader broke away first. He scoffed and took a step back, shaking his head in disbelief. "You wish to fight me for the leadership of the Blood Pack, Grup? You? Don't be stupid! Run away — tend to your flowers and that little garden you used to never shut up about! Get out of my sight before you make me angry!"

"I invoke the Korbal Gorah," Garm repeated for a third, final time.

The silence soon gave way to a chorus of low, rumbling growls from the krogan members of the Blood Pack. It intensified, and soon the Vorcha began to hiss as well. Olak gave Garm one last furious look and then pulled out his shotgun, but to Galen's surprise he flung it away. The Blood Pack mercenaries began to pack in closer to one another, forming an arena of flesh and steel around the two krogan. The slow beating of loud, bass drums suddenly began to fill the massive chamber. Where had that come from?

"Stand to the side, kid," Garm rumbled. He shoved Galen away towards a few of the Blood Pack. "Don't worry, they won't hurt you—for now."

The drumming grew louder. Galen watched with wide eyes as Olak removed a large, wicked-looking knife from a sheath attached to his chestplate. He ran the palm of his hand against it and a tiny stream of blood began to pour out. "Urdnot Grup, the krogan with a garden – the krogan who didn't want to fight — has come to die!" Olak taunted with a sneer.

That was too much for Galen. "Garm, what is going on? What is the Korbal Gorah? Garm?"

"Garm?!" Olak suddenly cackled. "So that is what you call yourself now, huh? Stolen the name of your dead brother, have you?" the krogan jeered. Olak dipped two fingers into the stream of blood pouring out of his hand and began to draw a symbol on his own headplate.

Meanwhile Garm began to do the same with his own knife. "Your brother was a hundred times the krogan you were, you quadless runt!" Olak exclaimed furiously. "He was a true warrior! A true krogan! His blood sang out for war and his name was anathema to his enemies! He was Uzin incarnate! I thank my ancestors every day that he did not succumb to your cowardly words and your craven beliefs!"

Olak pointed his knife at Garm. "It should have been you who died instead of him! Your brother Garm was a god! Under his leadership the Blood Pack would have taken their rightful place as the rulers of Omega! He would have grown strong enough to challenge Aria T'loak and he would have won – if it weren't for that cursed turian!"

Next Olak turned his knife towards Galen. "And don't think I don't see you there, boy! Once I'm done with your friend I'll take you apart plate by plate and scoop the jelly out of your eyes. My krogan will take turns drinking out of your skull tonight!"

Garm didn't reply. Instead he squared his shoulders, bent forwards ever so slightly, and brought his knife up.

Olak did the same after banging his knife against his headplate a few times, eliciting a shower of sparks. Galen watched as the two krogan began to circle one another, each gauging and assessing the other fighter. He had a pretty good idea now of what the Korbal Gorah was.

Galen watched as the other Blood Pack mercenaries began to beat their armored hands against their chests, adding to the rhythm of the drums. On and on it grew, until the beating rose to a fever pitch.

Suddenly they stopped. The drums stopped as well. Galen's next breath hitched in his throat.

Olak let out a furious bellow and charged at Garm. Garm side-stepped the attack with startling agility and drew his knife against the side of Olak's hump. As thick as Olak's hide might have been, Garm's knife was sharp and his strength was great. A spray of blood erupted through the air.

Olak whirled a growled angrily. It was a trivial blow, but the symbolism was not lost on the onlookers. Garm – or Grup – had drawn first blood.

There was no taunting glance or look of elation from Galen's friend. Garm just stood there, coolly awaiting Olak's next move. There was no point in celebrating. It would take a thousand such blows to kill a monster like Olak.

Olak charged again. This time he stopped just short of reaching Garm and began to launch a flurry of stabs and slashes at the other krogan's face. Garm's good eye widened slightly at the abrupt onslaught. Though he managed to avoid getting hit he was pushed back to the side of the arena. Just when Garm's back was about to hit another Blood Pack krogan Garm managed to catch Olak's cheek with his knife, drawing more blood. The Blood Pack leader recoiled and Garm managed to slip away back into the centre of the ring.

Olak wiped his cheek and looked down at his blood. He let out a rumbling chuckle. "Always running. Always the coward," Olak spat contemptuously at Galen's friend.

"I am no coward," Garm replied.

"Aren't you? I remember you Grup. I remember you well. You were always chasing after your brother, begging him to stop fighting. Pathetic!"

"Krogan shouldn't be fighting other Krogan."

Olak ran forward again and the two behemoths clashed. Their knives were a whirling, flash of steel and orange blood. The Blood Pack around Galen began to cheer and someone had resumed banging on those stupid drums.

Garm was ever on the defensive. Olak was stronger and faster than Galen would have thought, and by the looks of it better at knife-fighting than his initial display of skill would have led Galen to believe. He was almost as good as Cade or Cloud were.

After several furious moments they broke away a second time. "Garm told me what you wanted him to do… what you wanted us to do," Olak taunted, who was bleeding now from a dozen cuts all over his body. "You wanted him to walk away. You wanted us to go home and lick the bootstraps of that Urdnot Wrex. 'He will lead us to a better tomorrow'. 'He will give us a better future'—," he mocked.

"And he did!" Garm countered. Olak's taunting had finally gotten to him. "Because of him we krogan have a home again! I wanted us to stop killing one another! I wanted us to work towards a real future instead of squatting in this little corner of hell spilling—"

"You wanted us to stop being krogan!" Olak roared furiously. "What cowards like you and Wrex fail to see is that he only got what he wanted because the krogan he tricked into following him were strong, and those krogan became strong because of our warrior ways!"

Garm shook his head in disbelief. "Is that what you believe? That it was this—," he gestured at the Blood Pack around him, —"that allowed Wrex to give our people a new future? Olak, you could not be further from the truth! These barbaric ways were preventing us from achieving our potential!"

The one-eyed krogan raised a finger. "Hundreds of thousands of our brothers died because of warmongering bastards like you! Hundreds of thousands of krogan – krogan who could have grown up to be scientists, teachers, doctors! Countless krogan brainwashed into believing that our way would only ever be the way of war! The way of violence! You and those like you kept us groveling in the dirt, spilling each other's blood and keeping us from ever becoming any more than animals!"

Garm raised his knife. "You'll pay for what you did to my brother, Olak! Your words and your ideologies warped him and made him into little more than a rabid dog! Mark my words, I'll kill you here, today!"

This fight, it was personal. Very personal. The pain in Garm's voice…Galen felt like an intruder.

Olak's lips curled into a sneer. "Come then," he beckoned with his blade.

Garm let out a cry so full of pent-up anguish and rage that the sound of it nearly broke Galen's heart. The two krogan charged at one another and collided in a tangle of steel and flesh. They were no longer bothering to dodge. Galen watched as Garm sank his knife up to the hilt into Olak's side, punching past the heavy krogan plate. He ripped it out, spilling a torrent of blood out onto the ground, and shoved it into Olak's ribs again. Meanwhile Olak did the same with his own knife, stabbing at Garm's face and chest.

They hacked and slashed at each other with a brutality that shocked Galen. The floor soon grew slick with the blood of both combatants. Any other species would have long died from the wounds they had inflicted on one another, but the unique physiology that the krogan possessed managed to keep both fighters upright. It was the first time Galen had witnessed the famed krogan blood rage.

On and on the fight went. Olak fought with a barbaric grin on his face, relishing each opportunity he took to end Garm's life. Garm however… the only look on his face was one of remembered heartache. Not even the blood rage could dull the nature of the inner demons vying in either of these two old warriors.

Galen let out a gasp as Olak suddenly found an opening in Garm's defence and managed to sink his knife deep into Garm's cheek, right below his dead eye. Garm reeled in pain and shock.

A sinister grin crept onto Olak's face. He yanked the knife out.

Small bits of flesh rained down onto the floor and Garm let out a wet gurgle. The Blood Pack howled in delight and Galen's heart froze.

But Garm spat a mouthful of blood right into Olak's eyes. Olak let out a surprised shout and began to claw at his face, trying to clear his vision. Garm followed it up with a headbutt, stunning the behemoth, which allowed him to then shove his own knife into Olak's neck.

But even that would not be enough to kill Olak outright, and both Garm and Galen knew it. But, the move brought Garm enough time to grab Olak's face and dig both of his thumbs hard into the other krogan's eyes.

This time Olak let out a pained, panicked scream. His hands flew to his eyes. Garm let go and pulled his knife out of Olak's neck.

When Olak removed them, Galen could see his eyes were little more than a pile of ruinous, red jelly. The now-blind krogan began to swing his arms wildly in front of him, clawing furiously at the air ahead of him in a desperate attempt to catch Garm. The pain in his scream had evaporated, leaving only pure rage.

But Garm had circled around him. Panting heavily, Garm crept as close to Olak as he could and then drove his knife into the base of Olak's spine.

Olak jerked violently with a cry of pain and tumbled to the floor, spewing profanities in Tuchankan. He could no longer walk, at least – not until his regeneration could kick in and heal his wounds.

It was over and Galen knew it. The mood in the massive chamber had begun to shift after Garm had blinded Olak. Whereas Olak had started with the full support of his Blood Pack, but that support had melted away as soon as Garm had made the decisive blow. Many of them now were starring dully and impassively at their wounded leader. Love amongst gang members was a fickle thing, Galen supposed.

Olak pushed himself off the ground with both arms, still cursing in tuchankan. His eyes were closed and his legs twitched behind him.

Garm stepped over Olak's prone form and stopped right in front of the wounded krogan. He knelt down just out of arm's reach and stared at Olak.

Olak let out a snarl. His head swung back and forth as he sniffed at the air, trying to find Garm. "You better kill me, flower-boy, because if you don't I swear on the bones of my ancestors that I'll tear you apart!"

Olak continued to curse and rail at Garm. To Galen's surprise however, Garm didn't just slit his throat. Instead his friend sheathed his knife and stood up with a quiet groan.

"— you coward! You alien-loving, soft-plated coward! You and that Wrex – you're perversions! Abominations! You time will end! The old ways will never die, you hear me? Never!"

Garm didn't reply to the wounded krogan's inane ramblings. Instead, began to limp back behind Olak, his eye fixed on the floor. Not a single Blood Pack member moved to interfere with the one-eyed krogan or help their crippled leader.

Garm bent over and wrapped his hands around one of Olak's legs. He straightened and began to drag Olak away.

"What? What are you doing? Where in Uzin's name are you taking me? Grup!?" Olak barked, a current of fear beginning to set into his voice.

Garm stayed silent. He stoically continued to drag the wounded krogan away. The ring of Blood Pack members parted before him. Step by step, Garm continued to take Olak toward's the edge of the platform.

Olak realized what Garm intended. "No!" he began to beg. "No! No!"

Olak's claws carved deep ruts into the metal of the platform as he tried desperately to stop Garm's unrelenting advance towards the sea of fire below them. "Please! No! Give me a clean death! A warrior's death! I deserve that much, Grup!"

"You are no true warrior," Garm rumbled.

Olak began to call out for help, naming individual that Galen presumed were other Blood Pack krogan. But no one left the crowd. Olak's pleadings fell on deaf ears, and Garm continued his grisly march. Galen himself was frozen in place, seized by a macabre curiosity.

The end was not what Galen expected. There was no final exchange of words between the two old foes. Garm did not invoke his brother's name and denounce Olak one final time for his old, barbaric ways and for robbing him of his beloved brother, though Galen had no doubt that was what was on his mind. No, Olak simply continued to beg and plead every inch of the way, swinging his head desperately around, his blind eyes searching for some sort of absolution or deliverance. Galen was tempted to end the old krogan's misery himself, but he knew that it was not his place. Somewhere along the way, the deep ruts he had been leaving behind in the metal platform had begun to fill with blood as his fingers were ruined.

When they finally reached the edge, Garm grabbed Olak by the collar of his armor and hurled him off the platform and into the sea of fire below them. Olak took a long time to die. Galen would hear those screams for the rest of his life.

Garm stood quietly on the edge there for a minute. He raised his head and let out a sigh, and Galen saw the tension leaving his broad shoulders. After a few moments, Garm – or Grup, Galen supposed – turned around and began to march back towards the throng of Blood Pack soldiers, blood streaming down his face from where Olak had struck him.

He stopped before Galen and to Galen's surprise, pulled the young turian into a tight hug. "I'm sorry you had to see that, kid," Garm rumbled apologetically. "I… I wasn't planning on doing that. I don't know what came over me."

Galen just patted the krogan gently on the back and nodded understandingly. Galen wanted to tell him that he'd be okay – that he wasn't a normal turian and that he didn't feel the way normal turians felt, according the doctors, but that condition was preventing him now from doing just that. And so, Galen settled for just returning the hug in silence.

Eventually Garm broke away. He turned to the Blood Pack. "I, Urdnot Grup, hereby claim the mantle of Warchief of the Blood Pack by virtue of the Korbal Gorah. Hear my words- in a few days, a fleet of rogue Systems Alliance ships will arrive, with a Hierarchy fleet in pursuit. Our ships will allow the safe passage of the turian fleet and assist them in defending Omega against this coming threat. Await my further rorders!"

With that, Garm beckoned to Galen to follow him. The krogan grabbed his Spitfire and together the two began to leave the chamber and the mines, with Galen lending the krogan a shoulder.

Their journey through the mines was uneventful. The eyes were still there, but whereas they were probing and taunting before, now they kept their distance. Word of Garm's victory must have spread quickly following Olak's demise.

"What did Olak mean by flowers?" Galen asked the old krogan.

"What?"

"The flowers," Galen repeated. "Olak said you should go back to your flowers. What did he mean?"

Garm gave a tired, old sigh. "A long time ago - long before you were born, we krogans turned most of Tuchanka into a nuclear wasteland. Most of it was almost completely uninhabitable, except for small pockets of land here and there that were capable of sustaining some semblance of life. What was left of my people back then made homes in those small, little enclaves."

"My brother Garm and I… we grew up in one such enclave. We were very close. We were born from the same clutch, which was very rare for my people at the time because we were still under the thrall of the Genophage."

Garm let out a nostalgic chuckle. "Garm was ever the model krogan. He was big and strong and a biotic, whereas I was small, frail and weak. He seemed destined to become a famous battlemaster. Our father loved him, and always he would defend me."

Galen looked at the old krogan in awe. It was hard for him to picture that there was ever a time that Garm – or Grup – might have been considered weak.

"Anyways," the krogan continued. "Him and I had been raised under the old ways. Violence and war was the currency of the krogan in those days."

"Still," he shook his head. "When we were young, Garm and I… there was this small grove close to where our clan lived, hidden away. We found it one day, and we found it filled with flowers. See, flowers were an uncommon occurrence on Tuchanka – not after what we had done to it."

"Garm loved those flowers. Him and I would sneak away and tend to them whenever we could. Those were some of the happiest moments of my life – when we could run away from all of the combat training and take care of those flowers."

Garm shook his head. "That's when I knew that we krogan weren't born savage and vicious. No – it was something that had been taught to us – a product of a perverse cycle that my people had found themselves locked into. And I knew that if for just one moment we could break this cycle of rage and self-pity and fear that had us all dying on some distant planet for credits or glory or whatever poison we had picked, then we could be something more. We could have been something more…"

His gaze darkened. "But eventually, the time came for us to leave the clan – leave it, and strike out into the galaxy as countless other krogans had done after the Genophage. To earn the coin and glory that so many of us felt would be all that we ever could have. The only legacy that we could assure ourselves of."

"We came upon Omega and that was when Garm and I came under the care of Olak." His friend spat on the ground at the mention of the now-dead krogan. "Olak was a high-ranking member of the Blood Pack even then… he took us in and when he saw the potential for violence in my brother, he corrupted him. Twisted him. He filled his head with poisonous thoughts and lies and turned him into an animal. A true Blood Pack krogan."

"I tried everything I could to bring my brother back. I tried to talk to my brother – I begged, pleaded with him to leave Omega, but he wouldn't listen," Garm recounted painfully. "Eventually, I thought that if I could just get him to remember the grove on Tuchanka, he might come to his senses and realize that the path he was walking down was wrong. So I started a flower bed using some seeds I traded for from a merchant here on Omega. I thought that maybe – just maybe – he would remember the krogan who he once was, and see the krogan that he could grow to be."

"And what happened?" Galen asked.

"I showed my brother the garden," Garm replied with a strangled whisper. "He laughed in my face. The next day, I saw Olak, Garm and several other krogan there, trampling over it."

Tears gleamed in the darkness. "They killed my brother long before Shepard and Vakarian did. I wish that I was strong enough to march back in there right now and kill the whole lot of them!" Garm screamed brokenly into the hair, his voice heavy with anguish. "But… I know I'm not. And more than that, I know I can't. I know I have to be better."

Galen didn't know what to say, and so the two just continued down the tunnel in silence for a while. Eventually, Galen was seized with another question.

"And his name? Why take it?"

Garm thought about it. "I loved my brother. I still do, and I refuse to let my brother's name remain tarnished forever. I took it when the Reaper War started. Fought under it. I'll wear it until the day I die, and when I die, my only wish is that everyone will remember that the name Urdnot Garm is the name of a hero."

And so Grup was dead too then, Galen supposed. Died so that the krogan standing beside him now could be born. A krogan unlike any that Galen had ever met. It both perplexed the young turian and yet it made sense all the same.

"I will do that, Garm. I will remember," Galen promised him solemnly.

Garm let out a round of boisterous laughter. "Ha!" he clapped Galen on the back, causing the turian to stumble. "Did you forget that I'm a krogan! I'll live for another several hundred years! Don't worry about it. You'll be long gone by the time I go, kid. Thank you though. You're a good kid, you know? One of the better ones."

"Long gone kid. Long gone…"

AN: It escaped me all those years ago that Garm was already used. Retconning here I guess.