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Mordin surveys what was left of Maelon’s handiwork with a doctor – not a scientist’s – eye. Different thing entirely. Scientist studied; doctor cared. Difference.
Hard not to care about the krogan females. Truly pitiful; like Omega, no, worse than Omega. People had had hope on Omega. Krogan on Sur'Kesh – what hope did they have?
None.
Mordin glances toward the two females – already lying on sheets. No movement on the chest; breathing ceased. Expired. Too late to save them. He ignores the brief pang of guilt that he feels pressing down on him; heavy, unpleasant. Distracting.
Distraction could be difference between life and death for patient.
Last patient, though, still full of life. Subject 627A. Older krogan; hardier than her sisters – has reached full maturity. And still full of enough life to throw one of the scientists three feet into the air, despite barely being able to lift her head. Impressive. Nagan lands close to his feet, coughing, and Mordin grabs him, pulling his fellow STG Operative to his feet with all the grace the office dictates.
“Thanks.” Nagan nods, polite, then returns his attention to the krogan female, still struggling despite the best efforts of the Salarian crew. “Will have to restrain her.”
Mordin watches, lips pursed, as two doctors – Padak and Saedik; both young, naive – approach her bed cautiously, circling the krogan with restraints.
“Really necessary?” Mordin shakes his head. “Female frightened. Restraint unlikely to produce reaction other than more fear.”
Nagan’s eyes narrow. “The female is exhibiting signs of aggression. It is a choice between her hurting us or herself, Solus. She is a security risk.”
Mordin watches as Padak clamps the left arm-restraint on, binding one of her wrists to a strut. She stops moving, surprised, and Saedik takes advantage of her momentary pause, clamping the other restraint to the bed. The female howls.
Mordin winces; hard to not feel for her plight. Hard not to feel guilty for how recently he would have considered such measures necessary.
“Let me talk to her.” He fumbles through his pockets before pulling out a simple saline solution. Unmarked clear bottle, harmless to levo species but good for deception. “Will calm her by force if need be.”
Nagan nods. “If you must. Seems a lot of trouble for one female, though. Has hurt us before. Will hurt us again.”
Mordin didn’t bother replying. Most salarians had very little interest in krogans. Nagan’s attitude not atypical. Not interesting.
But thankfully for Subject 627A, Mordin did not share Nagan’s opinion. He approaches her slowly, carefully. Waves his arms to show he is unarmed; no threat.
“Hello,” he says, blinking as she shakes her body against the rails, shouting incomprehensibly. “Please stop that.”
He holds one hand hesitantly in front of his charge. He wants to help, but doesn’t want to lose his arm. Needs arm. Good arm. Likes that arm.
“Why?” She asks in a voice that is too dry and hoarse to be anything but neglected.
“Hard to undo restraints if you keep moving.” He hesitantly places one hand on the red leather strap. “Don’t want to hurt.”
“I just hurt three of your men. Why would you help me?”
“You were Maelon’s patient. Maelon is -- was -- My student.” Mordin blinks. “Your care – My responsibility. Hold still?”
The krogan nods – slowly, subtly. Afraid. Still doesn’t quite trust him, but willing to try. Good.
Ignoring Nagan’s cry, Mordin undoes the restraints, wincing when he sees the indentations left in thick Krogran flesh.
“Now, introductions. Mordin Solus.” He sticks a hand out to her.
To his surprise – but not Nagan’s – the Krogan darts forward, her hand gripping his neck tight and pulling him upwards. Mordin goes limp, doesn’t resist, and simply stares into her hard – but not pitiless, not unkind – eyes.
“Help me,” she hisses, before dropping him. The action takes a lot out of her; she falters, falling to one knee and shivering. “Help me.”
“Yes.” He touches the mark she left on his throat and nods.
Nagan’s men surround him; Nagan is bearing a pistol, safety already off. Mordin holds up a hand.
“Stop. Subject confused. Did not mean to harm.”
Nagan’s eyes narrow. “I hope you know what you are doing, Solus.”
“Trust me,” he says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Am a doctor.”
- - -
“Why are you helping me?” The Krogran female known as Subject 627A asks. He doesn’t like that name, needs something better, something more personal. Scientist sees test subject. Doctor sees patient.
“I told you. Maelon, my student. His death…horrible.” He looks down at the vial in his hands, a compound synthesized from much of Maelon’s research. “My fault. My responsibility.”
“He was going to cure the genophage. We were going to be mothers again.” There’s a wistfulness to those words that suggests loss.
He says nothing to that for a moment, focuses on running tests on the blood sample he’s gotten from Subject 627A and putting it aside.
“Been mother before?” He asks, with his eyes in the microscope. Easier to ask questions about patient history like this, sometimes.
“No.” Her eyes close. “I’ve given birth many times, but my young… have not drawn breath.”
“Am sorry.” The price for the Krogan Rebellions has been a heavy one, one that is weighing on his mind more and more. There was a time when he was proud of his work on the genophage, but it is not today. Maybe it will never be that day again.
Subject is quiet a moment; reminiscing, perhaps. Perhaps not sure what to say. Mordin not sure what to say, either.
“Do you have children, doctor?”
“No. Brother had stronger genetic profile. Family suggested he should accept breeding contract instead. Have nephew, though.” Mordin blinks and smiles as he thinks of his nephew. “In university now. Smart. Very proud.”
“Perhaps I will have nephews and nieces of my own one day,” Subject 627A says. Horrible name. Must find a better one. “Perhaps they will help to rebuild Tuchanka.”
“Yes, you will.” Mordin agrees, an idea percolating. “Have question. Would it be alright to call you by your name?”
“My name is something I lost long ago. It would be against my clan’s traditions to reclaim it, doctor.”
“Hmm, nickname then?” He taps his foot, tries to think of something that might describe her well. Has to be good name. Might be a legend someday; her name will be known throughout history. Has to be good, has to describe her well.
“Why does it matter what you call me?”
“Easier to treat if have personal connection.” Perhaps will call after human culture, nod to Shepard: mother, mater, mujer: no, not essential enough. Not right.
“My people do not need a Salarian friend. They need their sons, their daughters.” She says, chin angled proud, and that is when it hits him, what she is: she is the mother of krogran, the woman who will lead them to glory or to perdition.
“Eve,” he says, a wide smile on his face. “Can call you Eve?”
“If you wish.”
- - -
“Research is going well.” He says, then frowns. “But reaching impasse.”
“What do we do, doctor?” Eve asks, and he knows from her voice that he need only ask, and she would be willing to give.
“More test subjects,” he says, and the request, as expected, is met with silence. For all the progress they’ve made, Eve is still a sensible Krogran. The kind who doesn’t entrust her people to someone who has slaughtered untold generations of Krogran futures in her – and other's – wombs.
“Why do you need that?” She says, finally; voice laced with suspicion. Untrustworhy. Bad. Transparency needed.
“In order to assure Krogran virility, need to account for wider variables in Krogran genome. Can’t do that without additional test subjects.”
“Can you not use my sisters?”
“Already have, but sisters were same clan. Limited variability – gene activated, gene dormant, but change relatively simple. Gene pool..mostly stagnant. Need wider samples, more tests. Otherwise cure only for some, not for all. Beyond that, sisters dead, samples damaged. Impossible to cure. Need living tissue; need to know if cure stable.”
“Do you really think it’s that close to being finished?” She’s guarded, he can tell: voice slightly lower, threatening posture; typical Krogran reaction to stress. It’s a sign of trust in him that she hasn’t picked him up by the neck and thrown him halfway across the STG facility.
“Yes,” he says, and quietly double checks to make sure that the cameras and microphones remain off. Hero or not, would be executed or worse if they knew what he was planning. Must be careful; no accidental slips, no problems.
“There’s a man on Tuchanka…Urdnot Wrex. He’s in charge of the biggest clan right now, and he’d give anything to cure the genophage. Anything. But he hates Salarians.” Eve says, laying down on the bed. Been a bit weak lately; Sur'Kesh atmosphere taking its toll. “So don’t think you can get anything over on him.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“He won’t trust you,” Eve says, quietly. “And I don’t trust the other doctors.”
“Will have to trust me,” he says, laying out, then straightening three days worth of rations on her table. “Am doctor. And will not be gone long.”
He "accidentally" locks Eve’s room tight when he takes his leave, and is conveniently '"unavailable" when the Salarian doctors who are meant to help her "recover" from Maelon’s "failed" attempts to render her fertile. None of them try too hard to reach him; a dead Krogan isn’t worth much.
Especially one that might have gotten a bit too close to genophage cure for Sur'Kesh command.
–-
Without Shepard’s protection, he is punched in the face by no less than two krogan before he comes face to face with Urdnot Wrex.
Wrex towers over him in his cell, regarding him as a curiosity. Easy to understand. Salarian on Tuchanka – odd. Hard to go undercover. Would be much better if could contact via extranet, but the STG has a wide net and ears that are always open.
“I’ve got to admit, you’ve got a quad, salarian.” Wrex grins, but mocking; predatory. “Frankly, it’s the only reason I haven’t let the guards kill you yet.”
“Good reason,” he agrees. “Have better one.” He’s going to tell him about the genophage cure, but Wrex squints his eyes and gives him a hard once-over. There’s true leadership in those beady eyes, and Mordin isn’t sure it’s a good sign or not. Hopefully promising. Either leading Krogran to pointless civil war, or rebuilding.
“You were here with Shepard, weren’t you? Looking for the Salarian pup.”
“Yes.” He doesn’t really want to talk onabout kMaelon though, so he instead pulls his first card. “Thank you for allowing me and Shepard access to the surface.”
“Easier than trying to stop her,” Wrex scoffs. “Have you ever tried to get between her and something she wanted?”
“No.” He blinks. “Statistically not likely to be worth hassle.”
Wrex tilts his head up and laughs, a big belly laugh; welcome sign, show of potential friendship to show neck to Salarian.
“You’re alright Salarian,” Wrex says, a wide grin on his face. “But I assume you didn’t come here to talk.”
“No.” He agrees. “Came here to cure the genophage.”
“What?” Wrex gawps at him for about ten seconds, mulling over what he’s said as he folds his arms and waits. Other species not as fast as Salarian brains. Will be patient.
“You’re serious.” Krogan's voice in extreme disbelief. “You want to cure us? I find that hard to believe after what Shepard said you were here for.”
“Yes.” Mordin nods and looks up at Tuchanka’s moon through the grimy window. “I think it’s time. Maelon’s research methodology horrible…but his morals, not.”
“How can I trust you?” Wrex asks. “It’s a bit hard to trust that you’re going to just do this for our benefit. Sur'Kesh would kill you, and judging by the fact you just strode in here, you’ve got to at least be STG.”
He opens his omni, wordlessly displaying a picture of Eve.
“The females?” Wrex’s eyes narrow. “You took them?”
“STG took them. What was left of them.” He doesn’t tell Wrex that there’s only one left; bit of a lie, but he needs the commitment of the leader. Or closest thing Krogan have to a leader, at least.
“Trust you are listening now?” He asks, and Wrex doesn’t bother to look at him, still staring at the image, as he slowly nods.
“Good. Trust me. Am a doctor.”
- - -
For months, they work, the three of them: undetected, unknown. STG security almost disappointing in how little it follows him, how beneath their radar his work is. Would have thought perhaps more of a challenge but – ah, should not worry for fortuitous actions.
When he sees Wrex on Tuchanka barreling toward the exits, he know the time has come.
“Ready, Eve?”
“Am ready, Doctor. Was born ready.”
And perhaps she is.
Eve, mother of all, he thinks.Knew name was going to fit.
“Might be a bumpy ride, but will see you through," he promises. Means it, with every fiber of his being.
“I know.” She puts one hand on his shoulder, covering him as they dodge Cerberus troopers. “I trust you, doctor.”