.

You look for me
Inside the dark
I am the ocean
You are the shark
You hunt me like
Your last goodbye
Oh fallen angel
Of the night

I put my hand against your plastic heart
No, suicide is not the plan
Stand far
Even the stars are trapped inside
Oh my
There's nothing left to hide
There's nothing left to die

Nostalghia – Plastic Heart

Chapter 8 ~ The slow surrender

The 'no time at all' I had told Shepard turned out to be exactly five days; though most of them were spent sifting through dubious offers with Liara's help to find a reliable source for a Thanix core.

It truly amazed me how fast working replicas of Council-confiscated Reaper tech had hit the black markets – let alone the alacrity with which my turian fellows offered them to a militant human terrorist organization. Enough money obviously not only opened sealed vaults but also brushed aside the most insurmountable animosities.

"What do you think, EDI?" I mumbled in thought, while tapping the Main Battery's console and switching through the rudimentary BIOS they had patched onto the Thanix' main controller. "Shall we set the input in the delta frame to 1 point 76 and run another test routine?"

Reaper tech. Distilled and reverse engineered by some resourceful geeks. Maybe we should be a tad more concerned.

"I recommend stabilizing the amplifiers to match the enhanced voltage in the electro-magnetic buffer zone. The preinstalled subroutines are not devised to detect and balance the power excess as they should."

Vexed I clicked my tongue and adjusted the parameter. Bah. Someone whose nick translated roughly with 'Electron Basher' was just not to be trusted. "Good point, EDI, thank you."

I started the test, relieved when no alerts went off. The systems were stable. Finally. We might still need to calibrate the firing angles for maximum efficiency but at least the liquid core wouldn't clump into a useless chunk of metal as soon as we pushed the trigger. Positive that the thing wouldn't blow up into our faces either, I restarted the system with the new parameters, then left the Main Battery to check once more with Donnelly and Daniels if they'd picked up any stress peaks in the He3 fusion reactor. Sure, I could have just asked EDI, but in the end the AI was still only a machine. Some of our organic 'magic' was simply beyond her.

Crossing the Mess, I nodded towards Miranda and Samara the asari justicar, both chatting softly at the center table. The two aliens leaned over a data pad, their foreheads furrowed. Everyone tried to make the best of the forced shore leave, but the longer we were stuck on Illium, the more the wait grated on all of us, even on our newest team additions. There was no word on the Collectors. No sightings, no traces, nothing. As if a black hole had opened up and swallowed them. The silence was worrisome and by far too convenient. The calm before a murderous storm, maybe?

As I waited for the elevator, Shepard's voice drifted over from the Life Support control room, where the drell, Thane Krios – the other addition we picked up on Illium – had put up camp. She seemed… amused? I strained to follow the snatches of conversation. To no avail. The lift arrived and I chided myself. I should be glad that the Commander was in good mood. She hadn't been since Liara left Illium two days ago without so much as a goodbye.

Instead it bothered me to no end.

Assassins. I entered the elevator and scowled at the walls. Oh, I've met my fair share of that ilk during my tenure as Archangel. In the end they were all the same – and they all enjoyed their profession way too much. Killing was a necessary evil in this world, and not a blasted service performed at the whim of the highest bid like a gun-toting prostitute.

And how could being terminally ill soften the heart of about every female aboard, anyway?

The doors to the Engineering deck opened.

An angry yell erupted.

~V~

"Commander? Officer Vakarian requests your immediate presence at Port Cargo." EDI's voice sounded from the blue sphere hovering near the entry of the Life Support.

I stifled a sigh. Here's hoping we hadn't run into a problem with our new armament. Then again… better than dealing with the encrypted message I'd received just this morning; requesting me to stroll straight into the lion's den. Uhg. I would have given everything for just the whiff of a rumor about the Collectors I could chase down instead.

"Ah, if you will excuse me…" I said and pushed away from the table. Thane's big black eyes, as unfathomable as two pits of tar, followed my every movement. Creepy. And somehow quite sensual. In a deviant and deeply disturbing kind of way.

"Of course. Thank you for your company. It was a pleasure, as always," The green-skinned humanoid alien said in this raspy voice that always made me think he was drowning and inclined his head gracefully. It seemed weird to label the assassin in those terms, but that was how he did everything. A dancer's liquid grace paired with the rock-steady confidence of someone who probably knew twenty and one ways to kill with a match and a paperclip.

"Sure," I fixed a tiny smile on my face and stood.

Alright, I'll give you this – he was a nice guy. If you were willing to look past his slightly archaic demeanor. And the fact that his total recall would never ever allow him to forget anything, let alone the look in the eyes of his wife's murderers as he tortured each of them slowly to death. Oh boy. What was it with me always attracting the mentally derailed?

And if you dragged your tongue over his skin...

Now, where had that nasty little psychedelic thought come from?

I gave the drell a nod and I hurried out. My situation was messed up enough already; no need to hand the crazy any more ammo.

Ah, speaking of which… Two minutes later and one deck down, I followed the noise to Port Cargo. The door slid open. Only my combat-honed reflexes saved me. I crashed into the doorframe with my left shoulder just as a folding chair sailed by and dropped to the floor in a clatter.

Inside unfurled a scene of almost antic drama.

Massani and Garrus were vainly trying to talk down Grunt, who was pondering with yet another chair against a sphere of biotic energy hold up by a cursing Jack. Loose poker cards littered the floor. It smelled of spilled alcohol. Pushed against the wall was a suspiciously askew looking folding table. My eyes narrowed. If they made me beg Cerberus procurement for another set of furniture…

"For god's sake," I exclaimed bugged and rubbed my shoulder. "Don't tell me the walls are already looking funny. We haven't even left the docking bay yet!"

Jack glanced back at me, relief and chagrin battling on her face for dominance. Grunt's head whipped around and the expression on his massive reptilian face shifted. Yup, sourly as if someone had shoved a fistful of rusty nails up his ass. But at least he stopped deforming the innocent chair any further. Instead he hurled it against the wall behind Jack, leaving another mark there. I took a deep breath. Okay. Now, I was getting real pissed.

"Well?" I asked when no one felt particularly eager to elaborate. I also threw in some menacing glares for good measure. Damn. We were short on chairs as it was already.

"I'm just here for damage limitation," Garrus volunteered with a shrug, then started to rub his face and I realized the turian was trying to hide his ungodly amusement.

Insane. They were all insane. The Illusive Man had bundled me with a ship full of serial killers, whose mental stability was only acceptable by a very loose definition.

"Oh, bite me," Jack finally snarled, still holding up her field, eyes fixed again on the krogan, "We've been merely playing some rounds of Skyllian Five. The krogan was upset that he lost a sure game and I just told him – nicely – to suck it up and chill, but he freaked the fuck out at me!"

I arched my eyebrow at her. "Uh-huh." Nicely. My ass.

Then I turned my stare to Grunt. He growled something noncommittal.

"Impressive. Yet not really informative." I drummed my fingers on my crossed arms. My patience with those idiots was running lower by the second.

The grizzled mercenary cleared his throat. "What she 'forgot' to mention is that she cheated to win." He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his pants with such a self-pleased grin as if he had just contributed information of inconceivable value.

The ex-convict glared at the merc. "Do you really think I need tricks to beat the shit out of you, old man?"

Massani started to laugh. Or bark. "Princess, one day your delusions will be the bloody end of you!"

Jack dropped the sphere and raced past Grunt. Hell, she almost pushed the krogan out of her way. Poking with her finger at Zaeed's chest, she hissed, "Screw you Massani, you're the right one to talk! And if you ever say that fucking name again–"

He caught her hand then, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Now listen to me, kiddo, you–"

"Not again," Grunt suddenly groaned, holding his head. "Shepard, please, make them stop… The stench of their anger is grating the insides of my skull."

Krogans could smell emotions? I filed the information away for later and shifted my gaze to the two humans in question, both locked tightly in their battle for sonic supremacy, shouting profanities and death threats at each other. Violent, foul-mouthed, drinking, gambling idiots. Just the perfect company for a young krogan.

Grunt flashed a look of pure desperation at me. Garrus was typing something into his omni-tool and gave me a thumbs-up without breaking eye-contact with his numbers, symbols, or whatever.

Why me?

"OUT!" This was ridiculous. Finally they fell silent. I pointed at the door, virtually feeling the objection climbing up their obstinate throats. Of all the times being unable to shoot laser beams out of my eyes...

They shifted their feet, clearly torn between scowling at me for the intrusion and resuming to yell at each other.

"Ah, Massani," Garrus looked up from his omni-tool and pushed into motion, herding the merc and Jack out of the room. "Still looking for spares for that Avenger? Think I have some idea where…"

The door closed behind them with a soft hiss.

Grunt scratched his chin. "I don't understand, Shepard. Why do they hate each other at day and then share beds in the night? Is this normal behavior for mating humans?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Oh yeah, better and better. "Hard to say what's normal when it comes to... mating. Most people won't know reason if it bites them in the ass then. Regardless of their age or species."

Yep, some expert I was in that area. Likely my body had already replaced my sex organs with cup holders.

"So," I began again. "Will you tell me what this is all about?"

Grunt took a shuddering breath. "Shepard, something… is terribly wrong. Massani and Jack, they argue. Like always. It stinks but I'm good. And suddenly I'm not. I smell more. Confusing spikes. Their lust. Their fear. And then their rage; it's everywhere. It was there before but never like this. It drowns me in a wave of war, blood, noise and fury… I can't think, I can't focus. All I want is fight. Want to smell their fear. Taste their blood –"

A shiver ran over him, seizing his complete body. With a primal roar, he whirled around and slammed his fists against the tank. A neat crack added up to the otherwise unmarred exterior. He looked back at me, eyes alit with an unearthly fire. "See? But I don't want this rage, Shepard! It's not mine! It's eating me!" His closed fists started to shake. "WHAT IS THIS?"

I sprinted over to the source of barely contained fury, never wasting a second thought on the danger emanating from the krogan. I grabbed Grunt's massive head between my hands, then applied a circling pressure with my splayed fingers just so, mumbling the soothing words of the relaxation exercise, I had picked up somewhere along my way through the N program. He stiffened, then slowly exhaled to my guidance. The tension drained from him like honey pouring out a comb. A minute passed by. Then another.

"Better?" I asked, finally releasing him of my grip.

"Yes… I think so."

"Alright. No gambling with them for the time being, 'kay?" I turned towards the door. "EDI, is there anything on your files matching this? Maybe something related to pheromones?"

"I fear my databases contain no profound knowledge of krogan medical reports." The AI said with the slight huff of frustration I knew way too well. Damn you, Cerberus! "However, you have a contact on Tuchanka. Urdnot Wrex might be able to help. Intel identified him as the recent leader of Clan Urdnot."

"Splendid. Can you get me a connection?"

"Negative. The Aralakh comm buoy is down again. Three days ago a group of technicians tried to circumvent the new bandwidth choke the Council had imposed on the DMZ. The damage to the buoy was worse than usual. The krogans will need approximately three weeks for the repairs."

Great. Just great. Descending with a freaked out krogan on Tuchanka without warning or wasting my breath telling this stubborn Council-lot how deep in the crapper we all were?

Choices, choices.

~V~

Camp Urdnot was exactly the rubble-strewn misery one would expect to find belowground the galaxy's greatest junkyard; a jumbled mess of weapons, refuse, badly patched-up tech and well... discipline. Wrex indeed ran the Camp with an iron fist, hard as it was to believe at first over that questionable smell permeating the air.

Running my eyes over a gutted-out Tomkah, I ignored the nearby mechanic's baleful stare in morbid fascination. The remarkable fact that nobody had even tried to gut me so far spoke volumes about the influence the old chap had wrestled from the clans these past two years.

As did the very scene before me. Or maybe this was just once more Shepard's own personal magic. I mean, who else could have possibly cajoled a grizzled old shaman into allowing Grunt – a clanless, test-tube experiment – to perform the Rite of Passage? Perhaps the Illusive Man wasn't half as bad at this as I thought.

"Shaman!" An angry voice bellowed.

Ah. Sure enough, not everyone was swayed that easily.

A green-skinned krogan pushed his way into our small gathering and pointed at Grunt, face distorted in disgust. "Shaman, I will not allow this… this abomination to dishonor our traditions! This is outrageous! This-"

I was pretty sure it was the same one I saw ranting at Wrex earlier, completely ignorant that the old warrior had been napping. The shaman seemed equally unimpressed and kept swinging a crooked, elaborate carved ceremony staff in a slow, even pattern before a very solemn looking Grunt, while the newcomer unloaded his resentment in more and more colorful terms.

I leaned forward towards Shepard, my eyes never leaving the bitchy krogan. "Who's this?" I mumbled under my breath.

"Gatatog Uvenk. Clan Chief," she whispered back.

"You're sure? He looks like he needs both of his hands to find his ass..."

She snickered. The krogan finally turned towards us, hatred dripping from his eyes.

"And you!" He lowered his head to stare at the short human woman, once again lacking any awareness of the dangerous terrain he was about to cross. "Of course would such genetic filth show up with a human and a turian in tow." He spat to the ground. His ignorance was mind staggering. "His Krantt? Varrenshit. You are unworthy; and after I've crushed you, I will make you my bitch and the turian's skull my ryncol cup..."

A low, menacing growl erupted from Grunt's chest. I shifted my stance. Sudden and bloody violence, here we come. To my surprise though, the young krogan stayed put and kept watching the Commander for direction. She on the other hand tensed. Even without a visual of her face, I just knew her pupils had dilated and her lips were twitching into this malicious little grin. Right. I suppressed the urge to cover my face. Someone was about to headbutt a clan chief just to prove a point.

"Ah, I don't know. If you want me to tremble before your magnificence, you probably should have thrown in more words like chalice or feculent..." The Spectre taunted idly instead, not making any move towards Uvenk.

The clan leader roared in outrage and took one step in her direction. Then another. She still wasn't moving. My fingers twitched to make him stare into the business end of my Carnifex and I forced them into stillness. I was suddenly very aware of all the trigger-happy lizards surrounding us, just begging for an excuse to make a few bullets ride off with pieces of my brain. Pulling a gun now wouldn't just defy all reason – it would be mind-numbingly stupid.

"That's enough, Uvenk!" The shaman interrupted and kicked the clan chief's hip with the butt end of his staff. "If you want to have a say in the rituals, shed your name and dig yourself barehanded out of a sealed cavern. Until then, hold your tongue and mind your own business."

"But…"

"I heard your words and I said enough!" The shaman repeated sharply.

"You will regret this… tank spawn." Uvenk hissed and jostled himself past Grunt, eyes blazing with unspent rage.

The shaman harrumphed. "Bah! If my brood sister hadn't given birth to his ill-bred father…" He shook his head, then turned to us once more. "Where have we been? Ah, yes." He bit his thick thumb, smearing a wavy line of orange blood down Grunt's forehead. "Remember, you're bound to the rite now. That means you're not supposed to leave the site until you've finished the trials. You know what to do?"

Grunt gave a sharp nod.

"Good, good." The shaman shoved a brown leather satchel at him. "Now be off. And don't make me regret this, hear you?"

We picked our way back to the LZ in tense silence. The stink Uvenk had raised, had obviously not gone unnoticed. The back of my head prickled. Two sentries watched us from their corner some thirty paces away. They were armed with sour faces and massive rifles that actually looked like M350's salvaged from a gunship. Terrific. At this distance the gauge would simply hammer through our shields like wet paper. Not that I knew anything about this.

At the LZ Wrex was already waiting for us. Not so reassuring either.

"So the old grump agreed? You're performing the rite?" He asked.

"Yep," Shepard replied.

"Heh, who would have thought."

"A-aand, we want to be on our way as soon as possible."

"Excellent." The battle-scarred krogan said a bit too quickly. If I hadn't known better I would have said he was actually uneasy about the prospect of having us any moment longer on his turf than strictly necessary.

Wrex pointed towards the krogan manning the ground control. "You. Go and tell Keron to ready a truck NOW. Supplies for two days." The engineer nodded and vanished into the depths of the camp.

I cleared my throat. "And we need the shuttle to get us some equipment from the Normandy as well." I neither wanted to go hungry, nor rely on what krogans thought adequate for surviving two days on Tuchanka's surface. They probably loaded the tuck with nothing but guns and ryncol. And krogan Fornax issues that were filled cover to back with things better left unseen.

Wrex nodded. "Thought so. That's why I took the liberty and sent the shuttle off earlier. It's already back at the ship. You just need to call up and order your stuff down."

I observed a slight tightening to the corner of the battlemaster's eyes. Alright. So he was trying to get rid of us. But then who could blame him? He probably had remembered all the times we visited some nice and quiet outpost – and then things kind of happened and we left a trail of corpses and ashes…

"Okay," Shepard said. Then she frowned. "No, wait. You sent the shuttle back on the assumption that the Shaman might possibly approve?"

Wrex shrugged with a grin, looking not the least apologetic. "I trusted you to figure something out. After all, not even the Void was able to contain you, right?"

.~'*'~.

Tuchanka was a planet in ruins.

The air simmered with heat and each breath brought in a strange tang; a constant reminder of the polluted and toxic environment. Post apocalyptical debris and wasteland stretched as far as the horizon in all directions. Patches of dense brownish brushwood were the only disruption of the otherwise bleak vista. In the distance, the skeletonized remains of a city skyline sprawled against a pale but cloudless sky. The gutted out towers seemed to reach towards the heavens in a last defiant stand against the ravages of time and corrosion. In another life it had been huge thriving metropolis. Akazar'e'Kalros Wrex had called it. Loosely translated 'The city in the shadow of Kalros'. A god perhaps? Yeah. More likely another ruler with too big an ego.

I slammed the door of the truck shut, thankful that we had finally reached our destination. The driver's cab and steering was all fitted to krogan-size and Grunt naturally had never operated any vehicle before. Almost as bad as the few times Shepard had insisted on driving the Mako herself. Hopefully the Alliance had it disassembled and the interior burned after battling the Sovereign. Nothing lasts forever. Except the smell of vomit.

I shielded my face with my arm to escape the cloud of dust stirred up by the wheels of our rapidly leaving escort. We had driven to the outskirts of a raised plaza littered with chunks of collapsed statues and worked stones. Here and there scattered columns and steel poles had escaped destruction. It had been a temple in those days of old, when the krogans had been a proud and dignified race, and not just a rabble of berserk savages. Yet, whatever grandeur the place once possessed had withered away under the merciless assaults of the acid fallouts a long time ago. No wonder the krogans avoided their planet's surface. It wasn't just hazardous. It was downright depressing.

My eyes fell on an oddly twisted piece of dead wood, perhaps one and a half pace long. Something just sat not right with it. I edged closer until a heavy hand on my shoulder stopped me.

"Watch it, turian," Grunt said. "These are dangerous. The venom in their teeth can kill before you even feel the bite."

"It's a log," I said slowly, wondering if the krogan had already seen one bottom of a glass too many.

"And do you see trees anywhere?" He returned smugly.

I opened my mouth; then I hesitated. Huh. He was right. Sure enough, the log suddenly gave a shake and a huge mouth filled with long pointy teeth gaped open at one end. Lids squinted; once, twice and then three lazy, yet too intelligent black eyes stared at me. As if deciding that chasing us across the place to get a snack was too much trouble, the log-thing yawned for a second time and trotted off to vanish in the direction we had come from.

I shook my head. "Visit fabulous Tuchanka. Take part in krogan traditions. Get killed by a moldy log that sprouts teeth the size of switchblades. That exotic enough, Shepard?"

The Commander snickered and jumped from the cargo bed, a brown-striped varren, going by the name of Urz, in tow. The former pit champion had been loitering around Camp Urdnot's only serious merchant. And for whatever blasted reason the four-legged beast had taken an instant liking in Shepard; and the Commander being the Commander...

Head high and nostrils flaring, Urz assessed the perimeter then snuffled at the trail the walking log-thing had left.

"Just wait until you've seen their plants," she quipped and grabbed an oblong dark green bag from the truck.

"And, not to forget that Tuchanka's evolution has designed krogans as a prey species for a reason…" I rubbed my forehead. Slowly. "You're aware that absolutely everything on this blasted planet will try to eat us, right?" I asked, watching how a grumbling Grunt struggled to retrieve the ritual equipment from the truck and fend off the varren that now wallowed in the hard caked dirt between the krogan and the passenger's door.

"Uhm, remember the discussion we had with Wrex that something just had to be weird, dangerous or just plain gross and chances were good that Tuchanka had its own version of it as well? A bigger, toxicversion?"

I frowned at her but failed to recall. Grunt took a step to the side and Urz wiggled about to stay in front of the krogan's feet, all the while producing happy little beasty noises.

Taking in my cluelessness, she sighed, her face unreadable. "Sorry. I forgot that… Never mind."

She turned away, masking the movement by slinging the bag across her back.

Nicely done, Vakarian.

"Shepard, uhm…" I began, then spotted the top of a slim black metal construct with a coil and several taut wires protruding above her right shoulder. Suddenly the prospect of a hunt was a damn lot more appealing. Even considering Tuchanka's conditions, machine guns were, well, bad style.

"… is this a bow?"

She nodded. "Military-grade. Officially it came with my first N promotion; in reality it was a gift from Anderson. He knew the training helped me to keep my calm under pressure and… wait. You know bows?"

"Please, Shepard. I stem from a species of hunters. What do you think we did before the invention of firearms? Throw rocks?"

"Ehr..."

I snorted. "Humans. Case rested."

"What are you standing around? We have a rite to perform!" Grunt suddenly exclaimed and rushed past us, slobbering creature hot on his heels and a huge Claymore shotgun in hand. Seems like style was about to suffer a painful and very messy death.

I shrugged at Shepard. "For the records: I wanted to buy him lap dances."

"Uh-huh. Because getting laid, solving problems since – oh, that's right: nev-a." She raked her fingers through her hair and tied it back with a red ribbon, the corner of her mouth twitching. "But yeah, turians. Case rested."

"It works. Just have to do it right, of course." I managed with a wink before bolting after the krogan.

Some minutes later we found Grunt at the elevated part of the temple ruin where the sanctuary had once been. Now a weathered stone altar dominated the scene.

A few paces behind, someone had set up a battered solar-powered console. Grunt hit a few buttons but instead of more helpful insights or canned instructions there was nothing but static noise. Urz sniffed at the edge of the metal construct; then started to leak from both ends. The varren had a professional opinion on the broken tech as well.

Nothing for us to do but go on with the basics the shaman had given us.

Grunt produced a wooden bowl along with a curved ritual dagger out of the leather satchel and placed them on the altar. Tiny symbols were etched into the clean blade and the handle showed the distinct dark ivory only century-old bone acquired. I looked closer but couldn't see any telling metallic inclusions. Whatever died for its making, it was no turian. Small pleasures and all.

Grunt gave us a serious look.

I suspected he wasn't entirely happy about my presence here. Or Urz', who was again off to some mischief behind the pieces of collapsed column. I was in for a surprise.

"Thank you. I really appreciate… this." The young krogan gave a grateful nod in my direction, then held out the dagger to Shepard. "Ready?"

She stripped off her gloves, unbuckled the armor plating covering her left forearm and pushed up the flexible sleeve to expose her skin. We had talked this through; the ritual demanded "Blood of hand" but we were no krogans. A cut in the palm would take forever to heal and no soldier in his right mind would willfully hamper his ability to hold a weapon like that. Especially not on Tuchanka.

"Ready."

She sliced the blade across the inside of her left forearm. Red welled up and I stiffened at the distinct metallic yet earthy scent.

Feros.

Leave… Let… me… die…

Somehow the smell of human blood always brought back the memory of Feros.

The scar from the Thorian… It's gone…

I pushed the two very contrary images away.

The tiny river had snaked down her arm and she made a fist, red drops trickling into the bowl in a slow steady pulse. The Commander cleared her throat. I dragged my gaze away from the blood and took the offered dagger.

"Aww, c'mon, Garrus. No guts, no glory."

Grunt snorted and I rolled my eyes. Right. What had I gotten myself talked into again?

I gave the dagger a quick rinse from my canteen and added another cut to the four variously faded lines already crossing the thin skin on the inside of my forearm. I should probably stop handing out blood oaths I'd never get the chance redeeming…

Blood flowed out of the gash. I passed the blade on. The heavy smell of copper and iron thickened and I let a trail of my own blood ran over my hand and into the bowl as well. Curiously, I expected some kind of reaction upon merging with the human blood. Clogging into an ugly lump maybe? Instead, where the red and the blue met it simply mingle into a dark, almost black violet.

Opposite of me Grunt harrumphed in annoyance, then stabbed again at the wound that had closed before more than a drop of his viscous blood had emerged. Seems like the palm wasn't working for him either. Some team we made here. He finally gave up, stretched out his arm and sliced the dagger across the wrist, rupturing the artery there. Blood gushed, a bright orange stream that stained the ground before he directed the already ebbing flow into the bowl.

He clasped his hand over the cut. With a solemn voice he chanted the ritual words, my translator picking them up:

"From ancient times and glories old, birthed into the storm of battle.
Forever bound by blood and steel; to be the sword, to be the shield."

Then he started to shout:

"Child of Vaul; never to yield, for fear is all they hearts will feel!
By fury unchained, so hear my thunder!

Raise the banners; raise the fists,
we tear the foes asunder!"

A primeval howl erupted from him, his face full of fierce determination. On and on he roared, sending his challenge out into Tuchanka's unforgiving wilderness. Urz jumped out from the ruins and added his high-pitched yowl to the krogan's roar, creating an oddly harmonizing distortion and inevitably I wondered if this was part of the reason why both their species would always feel connected even while bound to kill each other.

The war cry ebbed.

Reptile eyes alit, he rummaged through the shaman's bag until he pulled out a small gilded box. From it he dropped a brown powder into the bowl, stirring the blood with his finger until it turned into a tarry paste. Grunt motioned me to come closer and with a few rough strokes he added up to my clan markings with the blood paint. There was a heavy feeling of meaning to it. Not only because the krogan was invading my personal space, but more so because of the gesture's significance behind it; sealing a ritual that predated even the destruction of Tuchanka's surface. A sign of trust, and the stalwart commitment to fight alongside each other – the way to swear in a new Krantt. I doubted there were more than a handful of hushed up occasions when a turian had been part of it. Perhaps none.

I turned to Shepard and she held up the bowl.

A strand of pale hair had worked its way out of the ribbon and I carefully pushed it back behind her ear. I dipped my thumbs into the bloody paste and cupped her face lightly to turn it up. The alien texture of her skin tingled in the tips of my fingers and she stiffened ever so slightly; the moment stretching infinitely to give way to a new thrilling tension that simply should. Not. have been here. Black-rimmed eyes, as green and unfathomable as the Cipritinean Sea, never ceased their watch of me, and all of a sudden I was back on Omega. Wounded. Defeated.

Dying.

Dying; while happily drowning in the green depths before me…

Garrus. Stay with me, okay?

I jolted back to reality and hastened to apply the prepared blood with my thumbs; there – a quick symmetrical motion from the bridge of her nose, along her cheekbone, towards the hairline. Here. In reflex I added a second symmetric set of marks and blinked. In stark contrast to her pale skin blazed the black counterpart to turian clan markings. Sure, the edges were less sharp, the angles a little different but the pattern was the same.

Mine.

Damn it, Vakarian. What do you think you're doing?

This was a really stupid and dangerous place to poach. Before I could do something about it, the human Spectre pulled away with an unreadable expression. Her finger stirred in the bowl for another moment. Then she turned to Grunt, her lips quirked into an evil smile, and once again I was caught off-guard by the sheer endless extent of human versatility.

No matter how benign their smiles, how physically inferior their appearance, this wasn't the face of someone harmless. It was the face of a warrior; one no less savage and deadly than our krogan friend. Granted, the Commander always looked martial when geared up for combat. Wearing my markings though…

I looked away, trying very hard to ignore the deeply-troubling sensation of pleasure that warmed my blood.

Betrayed. By my own body and its inability to cope with one tiny moment of insanity.

This was just getting better and better.

~V~

This was just getting better and better.

My boots splashed as I worked my careful way through the half-muddy, half-brackish soil, that dominated the scene wherever I looked.

Yep, it was a bog.

A goddamn bog.

On Tuchanka; complete with the awful stench, the humidity, and the whole friggin' enchilada. And no, it didn't matter that it was most likely the only bog far and few in between. Parched and lifeless? Thanks for nothing, Alliance Codex!

And fun fact: the nuclear winter that had followed in the wake of the Krogan Wars' apex had only obliterated 90 percent of the planet's already menacing flora and fauna. The rest adapted and simply came out more vicious and dangerous than ever. Hell, even some of the sparse plants had mutated into carnivorous versions of their former selves, preying on everything that was careless enough to enter their radius.

A dozen tiny shadows wiggled away from my boot. I made a face at the murky water. What else was hiding in the shallows left and right of our pathway was anyone's guess.

We were dragging our asses through this fetid misery for hours now. My initial anticipation for this little venture had fizzled out very quickly in that foul-smelling hole. Breathing here was much worse than back on the plaza, as a heavy humidity had joined the already hot clime. I tugged back a loose strand of my dampened hair and exhaled slowly. Sweat ran down my face, smearing the caked blood. I heroically tried to ignore my itching skin and failed.

At least our attack varren was enjoying himself. Utterly uncaring about the depressing view of mud, hunched over brushes and mangrove-like trees more grey and brown than green, Urz plowed happily through the swamp next to me. Then as if following a sudden inspiration he bolted off into the direction Grunt had taken to scout. The young krogan had claimed our smell would drive off the game, but so far I had seen nothing substantial aside from mosquitoes the size of crickets. And that weird purple plant that had actually snatched at Urz. Yah. This wasn't going too well. Perhaps Grunt was just rushing ahead in a desperate attempt to stumble across a hungry pack of whatever.

Behind me an equally sobered Garrus brought up the rear, muttering under his breath.

"Why? Why do we never go anywhere nice?"

I just sighed and took a sip of water from my canteen to wash down the sulfuric stench. We trotted on in silence. Tragically, somewhere between Therum and Ilos the question had become purely rhetorical. I really missed those days. Things had been so much less fucked-up then. Well, in hindsight at least.

"Shepard?"

I turned to find the sniper crouch over a patch of sturdy grass. Grass. Dumbfounded I looked down. Dry feet! Finally!

Garrus gave a pleased hum. Funny how for someone complaining non-stop about being outside, the turian was actually a fairly skilled tracker. Which was our saving grace – because Grunt and I really really didn't know squat. Okeer hadn't found it necessary to teach the krogan anything besides warfare studded with weird ideas of omnipotence and me… I grew up in the underbelly of the East Cost's biggest metropolis; I was at home among skyscrapers, dirty alleys and crowds of disillusioned people – reading the size and gender of some random animal from a twisted blade of grass or an old turd was so far beyond me, I couldn't even see it anymore.

The turian looked up, sharp teeth exposed in a grin. "Let's find Grunt before he gets lost again. I think I have the trail of something big."

Fifteen minutes later I crept through tough brushes, bow in hand and wincing at every rustle my boots produced. Goddamn nature everywhere!

There. Through the foliage I spotted our prey. Klixen. Maybe 30 yards away. The oversized bug looked like picked straight from a bad horror-slash-alien flick; or as Joker would have said 'a fugitive from Klendathu'. It was busy digging up mud with its forelegs, its deep red chitinous shell glistening wet. A low growl rose from Urz until Grunt dropped his big paw on the varren's head.

The klixen lifted its hideous head, exposing the leathery bladder-like organ that produced the liquid fire in its breath. It also had the unpleasant tendency to ignite and explode in your face when gunned at.

Mhmm. Hit the firebag with a broadhead, let the krogan move in and chop up the insect with claws and teeth. Piece of cake.

Moving slowly, I reached over my shoulder and pulled out one of my two dozen carbon fiber arrows. I nocked it and raised the bow until I sensed someone standing very close. A hand touched my shoulder.

"Hey, uhm, may I?" Garrus whispered right into my ear in this low throaty voice. His breath tickled my neck and suddenly a little shiver of delight went through me. Irritated I pushed the insane sensation away. This was wrong on so many levels.

"Sure."

He took bow and arrow, backed off a few steps and gave the compound's string a few probing tugs. Then he placed the arrow and drew the 65 pounds with one fluid motion to his flat nose, wrist twisted just so, thumb resting below his chin. It looked decidedly odd and then again curiously at ease. He closed his eyes for a moment, standing so utterly still he seemed to have turned into a statue. The poised hunter ready to kill.

And then the string sung. The arrow leapt forward.

It flew true.

I groaned.

Now I would never hear the end of it.

.~'*'~.

When we returned to the plaza, dusk had started to fall upon us.

So the Rite of Passage demanded from each young krogan to bring the proof that he was capable to best Tuchanka's predators, and after we had found the klixen, the hunt had turned out not half as bad. Actually, the greatest challenge of the day had been the drive back to the temple ruins with 150 pounds of agitated varren fussing on the front seat like an epileptic on bad meds, while a bag with cut off heads spread their odor in the back. Yep, heads. And pieces of heads. And no, I did not know why all the krogans had this unhealthy penchant for skulls, but considering that they were equally obsessed with their genitals I was just thankful we weren't carting a sack full of wieners around.

I was out of the truck before the wheels had stopped completely, and somehow Garrus still had beaten me. Gods, I didn't even want to know how it would smell tomorrow in there. But yeah, leaving them on the outside was even less an option.

Grunt shooed Urz out and I slammed the door shut behind the varren. On the driver's seat the krogan seemed to argue with himself for a moment, then he got out as well and went to the cargo bed. He pulled out the hind leg of some boar-like creature – only with bronze scales instead of bristles and clearly carnivorous – and tossed it towards Urz who immediately jumped at the piece of meat and dragged it into the ruins. Grunt saw me watching and shrugged.

"I'm not that hungry. And you won't eat it."

Couldn't actually, but who was I to argue? "I see." Not bothering to hide my amusement about the krogan finding an unexpected companion, I jumped off to prepare our camp for the night.

We had loaded the truck with dry scrub and (hopefully) dead wood salvaged from the outskirts of the swamp. With the last rays of the sun gone, we had a decent fire going; big enough to keep the dangers lurking in the dark at bay and yet small enough not to draw too much attention. After a quick meal of canned-whatever, Grunt vanished into the ruins. The rite saw for him a night spent in solicitude and contemplation.

I took two field cans from the fire and stirred in different leaves of tea in each. In the early days of hunting Saren it had felt strange that water – in Tali's case purified water – was the only thing dextro- and levo-amino based beings could share without provoking troubles. Funny how you could get used to about everything.

I poured two cups and slumped down on the ground next to Garrus, who sat against a collapsed chuck of stonework, his back to the fire to preserve his night vision. He took the cup with a murmured "thanks" and resumed with his observance of the dark.

I leaned back against the stone and watched the sky.

Tuchanka had no moon, not anymore. The krogans had nuked it in their endless clan struggles some three thousand years ago, leaving behind nothing but a ring of debris. Idiots. They were lucky that it had been too small to entirely destabilize their own homeworld. And yet… the Milky Way's spiral arm stretched over us in a myriads of stars; a thick band of sparkling crystals made visible only through the absence of other lights.

It was beautiful.

And in midst all this beauty, the Collectors were lurking. Awaiting their orders to eradicate yet another unsuspecting settlement... Uhg. What was wrong with me?

"Missing home?" Garrus suddenly asked and I shied away from my bleak thoughts.

Home. As if. Where was that even? The last time I had seen earth was, well, years ago and with my apartment gone… I shook my head. "No. The Normandy is my home now."

And she would always be. A tiny smile stole into my face. Somehow the admittance filled me with pride and a deep contentment. The family might be a little crazy, but it was a better home than most had. A better home than I ever had.

"What about you, Garrus?"

"I'm not sure…" He begun with a sigh. "It's been quite some time since I stayed on Palaven longer than just a few weeks, and the Citadel? Ah, you know how it is."

"Mhh-hmm."

I did. Like many others I had never felt particularly at home on the Citadel either. No matter what the people built and changed, it was always as if we were intruders merely tolerated by the Keepers, the real denizens of this alien space station the asari had discovered millennia ago.

"It's weird, but Omega is probably the closest thing to home I had in the last ten years. Who would have imagined – I'm actually missing this blasted space dump…"

He stopped. Yah. Just guess where that train of thought had derailed. "Hey… Will you tell me about them?"

Silence.

"You're going to insist, huh?"

"No. Scout's honor," I said towards the night sky.

The turian shifted position with a soft scrape of armor against stone. Pleasant warmth seeped from the titanium cup into my palms. Behind us the fire cracked.

"We've been twelve," He begun, voice subdued to a low rasp. "Twelve like-minded people; brought together by injustice. Some were soldiers. Some not, but every single one of them was a fighter in his or her own right..."

I waited and his words picked up strength.

"There was the core, those four it had evolved around. Sidonis and Mierin, both turian. Sidonis. It had all started with him and Mierin… We found her in one of those basements. It was really ugly. After, she refused to leave until we taught her to fight so she would never have to be a victim again."

I nodded to myself. This motivation I understood a damn lot better than was conductive for my mental health.

"Then there was Monteague, a human biotic. He was also a brilliant strategist and paranoid to the teeth. And Grundan Krul, of course, the most peculiar krogan I've ever met."

"Do tell. How can he possibly be worse than Wrex?"

"Well… For once he had ties to priestesses of Athame."

"Huh. I thought the order doesn't exist anymore?" I asked, recalling bits and pieces of a discussion I had with Liara once.

"I know at least of one shrine that is still active."

"Okay. Krogan with asari temple friends. Honestly, that's not too strange."

"He… uhh, never tried to kill me."

I snickered into my cup. "Alright, alright. Definitely your point. What about the others?"

"There was Vortash, our batarian procurement specialist. He could get you everything, from Rakhana forged knives to blue prints of Aria's bedroom. Sensat, a salarian and a true genius if it came to explosives; and Butler, his brother. Both were former C-Sec as well and always bitching like two merchants at fish market. I'd bet my Kuwashii that's why Pallin kicked them out in the first place. Erash, also salarian and our engineer; and Melanis of course. He was a bounty hunter from Palaven, as old and tough as boots. And at least once a day he'd tell you that after the next gig he would retire. To buy an inn of all things."

He paused and I caught him downing his tea. Likely wishing for something stronger to dull the sting.

"The last who joined were Ripper and Weaver. Two human mercenaries, bounded to each other for almost three decades. As opposed to what her name might suggest, Weaver was as inept with a needle as I've ever seen in our line of business. And yet Ripper always insisted that no one stitched him up but her. Poor bastard looked as if he had fallen into a shredder. I tell you, Massani's a beauty queen in comparison."

"That's… either true love or shithouse crazy."

"Actually, it's been a damn lot of both."

He paused and I took another sip of my cooling tea. The air's temperature had already dropped significantly – for Tuchanka. In New York it would have been a mild summer night.

"I would have… No. I had trusted each of them with my life. We were good together. We helped. Made life safer for a lot of people. Unlike C-Sec, this felt really right, almost… almost like those days hunting Saren. The mixed crew, the missions, the spirit. That we actually made a difference. But I'm not you. Do you want to know the irony, Shepard? Deep down I sensed something coming. I sensed it and I did nothing." The turian took a deep breath. "Because I never expected betrayal to come from within…"

I looked at him, shell-shocked. Oh no. No wonder it was eating him up. He refused to meet my gaze and kept staring ahead, his whole posture yelling his misery out into the night.

This is your fault, Commander I'm-so-fucking-paragon. You just had to lure him into your investigation. To advise him to stay at C-Sec. To do the "right" thing no matter what.

Fuck this. Only a selfish asshole would make this about her guilt. And yet I couldn't deny that none of this would have happened had I never picked him up that day on the Presidium in the first place. He would have simply moved on; blissfully unaware of my existence. But no, instead I dragged him down and right into the vortex of chaos my life was. And look where that had gotten us.

"So, what happened…" I finally asked softly, trying to read something from his face, but there were just shadows.

"I was out. Investigated a lead that connected the Blood Pack to some recent weapon shipments. It was a setup. I returned to my team as fast as possible, but the Blue Suns had already stormed our base. By the time I got there only Mierin was still alive. But I was too late…"

His voice turned flat.

"Bullets had shredded her body so badly the floor was running blue. I've seen many good people die, but this… Shepard, she was so terribly afraid… I held her in my arms and she was crying. Crying and begging me to help her. To save her… There was nothing I could do."

The image of another girl's broken body flickered on the fringes of my mind like a strange echo to his words. My mental safeguards kicked in and it was gone.

"I'm so sorry, Garrus…" I whispered, feeling the need to hug myself. Life was a bitch that never played fair. "Was she–" I stopped, biting my lip. "Ah, never mind. It's none of my biz. Just ignore this idiot here."

His breath left him in a long sigh. "I would be lying if I told you I hadn't pondered this question myself lately. Was she a friend? Yeah, definitely. A lover? Not quite. She very much wanted to us to be more, but… All those things she endured… they had damaged her. Physically. Mentally. She was so desperate to overwrite these memories with something good. I gave what I deemed safe, but…" He rubbed his forehead. "Damn, I don't know what's worse; that I wasted the chance to find out if I could love her back or the grim calculation that making Omega my first priority saved me a lot of heart ache."

I mulled it over, unsure how to feel or react to so much intimate information heaped on me. The darkness helped. God, I really sucked at this. Finally I said, "Does it matter? I mean, you've been with her when she needed you the most. In the end, this should be the only thing that really counts."

"Perhaps…" he said bitterly. "Still, I hope that finding him will silence some of the doubts."

"Him?"

"Sidonis. He betrayed us all. And he is still somewhere out there. Hiding. But one day I will find him and then there will be hell to pay."

I flinched at the hatred in his words; all too easy remembering the new embittered Garrus I had seen before. The cold-blooded and reckless Garrus that was slowly dying from the inside out. I didn't want this to happen. "Garrus–"

"Don't, Shepard. Please. This is different from Saleon. It's something that needs to be done. Not for me, or my ego, or my misguided sense of justice. For my friends. I owe it to them."

He had turned his head to watch me, his eyes catching and reflecting the flickering light from the fire in a way a human's never could. No matter how hard we pretended, there were those distances between us that simply could never be bridged.

"Okay." We would face that beast when it cornered us.

For a while we sat in comfortable silence, each of us absorbed in our own thoughts. I downed the rest of my tea and stared into the night, trying to make out anything in the pitch-black ink. Some nocturnal predator howled in the distance but didn't come nearer. In the camp I heard our attack varren growl in reply, but even Urz was clever enough to stay near the fire. It sizzled and crackled softly as it slowly consumed the dry wood and then the fire sizzled and crackled and… Damn, I was tired.

My eyes closed and my head lolled to the side until it dropped against Garrus' armored shoulder. The contact should have raised my warning flags, but my body was already shutting-down to the numbing peacefulness that rolled over me, catching up with my severe lack of sleep. Despite everything it had been a good day. Normal somehow. It probably didn't bode too well that it needed lots of head-cutting for me to feel normal, huh?

I sensed Garrus stir, but instead of pulling away, he just shifted his shoulder and my head clunked against the collar of his armor. Stupid thing. And why did he have to look so dangerously good with that blasted bow? Losing some of my ever-present tension, I inhaled and the night wind brought the odd sulfuric tang of Tuchanka's air to me. And beneath, his scent.

Hot metal, I thought. Like iron heated by the sun. It was a pleasant smell. Comforting and assuring, like the feel of a gun in my hand. Solid.

Male.

A single spike of heat stabbed hard into my core and I found myself aching for – dammit. This grotesque need for proximity was screwing with my head again and I was too worn out to battle it down. Hell, I even imagined sensing his arm around me right now! And unbidden my thoughts flashed back to that evening before we hit Illium. When for this tiny, ludicrous moment it had been as if his embrace had kept it all from falling to pieces…

It meant nothing.

Nothing, huh? Then why do you even remember? Why can you still feel the tingle of his breath on your neck? And why do you long for his hands on your skin again? Why–

I pushed the irritating questions away. I was just too tired to think clearly.

A big yawn cracked my jaws and Garrus nudged my side.

"You go and sleep, I'll take the first guard."

Sluggishly, I untangled my legs and shuffled towards my sleeping bad. I unbuckled most parts of my armor, kicked my boots off and crawled into my blankets. Eyes already closed, I shoved the Carnifex underneath the edge of my bedroll. I fell asleep combat knife in hand.

Old habits died hard.

.~'*'~.

I strayed through corridor after corridor until I finally stood again in front of this iron-clad door. It was the same dream that had troubled me again and again in the past days. Only… something had shifted. Whenever I had reached the door before I had wakened or simply slipped into a lighter dreamless sleep.

Not so now. I eyed the sturdy lock with a faint sense of urgency. This was important somehow, and yet something was already reaching out to wake me. There wasn't much time left.

I drew my gun and fired. A well placed kick and the lock gave out.

I stepped into the cell.

A naked woman sat on the floor, hugging her knees, her back against the wall. Her head hang down, the tangled mess that was her hair caked with dirt and old blood. It fell forward, obscuring her face. Iron shackles clasped around her arms and chained her to the dark stone walls behind. Another chain snaked out from the curtain of hair.

A collar around her neck... My fingers went to my throat on their own. I felt sick.

Suddenly she looked up, face twisted in an angry snarl. A wave of hatred rolled off her and she hurled herself against the shackles, screaming in outrage.

"RELEASE ME!"

I saw the feral light of stark madness glittering in her eyes and it made me step back in horror. I woke with a start, my heart racing in anguish.

The woman had been me.