#xenoscience

[theinitiativechronicle]

🛰️ Entry 005 – The Quiet Conversion

Filed: 06 October 2022 Archive Code: CR-IN-2202-II Author: Internal Analyst, Forward Analysis Division Clearance: Internal Eyes Only Location: Tashkent Forward Analysis Hub

“To ask the right question is already to understand half the answer.”

The recovery phase in Uzbekistan has entered dormancy. The forest perimeter is secured, the anomalous materials catalogued, and the local story locked beneath geological misdirection and international deflection.

But the most profound shift did not happen in the soil. It happened in Kalameet Lund.

He returned from the anomaly without injury—yet somehow altered. In body, unchanged. In conduct, reoriented. Within hours of the team’s return, Lund withdrew to the lab observatory compound. He ignored summons, postponed his debriefings, and isolated himself in the secure data vault.

He did not speak. He studied.

Logs confirm he manually cycled through every spectral scan, chemical assay, and telemetry fragment drawn from the wreckage. He rebuilt corrupted packets by hand. Reconstructed waveform decay models line by line. What first appeared as obsession—perhaps trauma—has yielded something else.

Insight.

Observed Contributions

Lund corrected Initiative baseline assumptions on alloy decay rates—a revision of 14% that has been verified independently

Identified a repeating harmonic pattern embedded in passive telemetry, potentially a form of primer encoding or signal scaffolding

Reestablished contact with dormant academic networks in Karachi, synthesizing fringe metallurgical simulations into usable models—without clearance or requisition

No funding was allocated. No prompt was given.

He simply acted.

Analyst Note

It is no longer accurate to refer to Kalameet Lund as a conventional field scientist. He is operating with a level of precision and intuitive reach beyond existing Initiative performance indexes. Not erratically—but with discernment, as if some internal compass has shifted, pointing not toward answers, but alignment.

There is no evidence of contact, infection, or neurological breach. But his posture, his silence, his proximity to the unknown—it is changing him. Or perhaps revealing something that was already there.

Strategic Response

Lund’s clearance tier has been elevated

His identity has been quietly added to the Nairobi closed-loop roster

He will continue his service

But from this point forward, he will be monitored as closely as the material he studies

The crater closed behind him. But something did not leave with it

[mypunkpansexualtwin]

Over the last 15+ years since its release, we've had every conceivable kind of discourse under the sun about the Mass Effect games. But I think I've finally found ground that is as of yet unbroken, and therefore perfect for digging into.

I wanna see answers in the tags, folks.

[lunaiz4-misc]

By the time the humans invented wireless Internet, the aliens had already been monitoring the RF bands on and in the vicinity of Earth for decades. Well, they didn't have decades - that was a human concept - but many full orbits of the little blue planet around its yellow star.

The packet encryption broke easily when subjected to advanced computing techniques, and soon they were able to pick up, decode, and even send information on the "world wide web." Wary of being detected, they were careful to limit their queries, but even a severely restricted ability to actually *ask questions* made the xenoscience division go starry-eyed.

Their excitement was short-lived, however, as the screen displayed a message that chilled them to their cores: "to continue, please prove you are a human."

[grislyeye]

This post evolved out of a series of self-essays I wrote on the subject of Mothership while developing CONT/EXT. I present these (incomplete) thoughts here. Please see my previous article on institutional horror.

I continue to unpick the intestinal knot in our cultural psyche that is Alien (1979). This article expands on Skerple's Aliens and Alien Design post, focussing on Aliens as objects of fear for games like Mothership.

Let me start with this: by definition, aliens should be uncategorisable. In the comfort of Skerple's categories, aliens can only replicate the earthbound horrors of slasher flicks and supernatural thrillers. It's a trap to imagine aliens as comprehensible in any conventional sense.

But, how do you go about portraying incomprehensible aliens?

Star Trek Futurism

Firstly, in order to question our assumptions about alien life, you need to understand Star Trek futurism. Star Trek futurism is the (often unconscious) bias that the future will be like the eponymous (and often nonsense) TV show. It's an optimistic vision of the future as it ought to be, with faster-than-light travel and (most relevant here) contact with ubiquitous, intelligent and human-like alien life.

It's a powerful vision, so thoroughly internalised that it colours everything we understand about science and technology. If you've ever wondered why earnest young men consistently keep faith with Elon Musk's increasingly unlikely plans to colonise Mars, it's because Star Trek futurism demands someone, anyone must make this first step.

Star Trek futurism also biases our understanding of alien life. Faster-than-light travel only makes sense (if it makes sense at all) when there's something to actually visit. Or someone, such as intelligent alien life that shares some affinity with us, i.e. possesses the ability and desire to communicate, trade, exchange knowledge, etc. with us.

Any concept of intelligent alien life that lacks that affinity gives lie to the idea that space travel is a meaningful endeavour, and so we see the endless forms of human-like aliens with funny foreheads in popular scifi.

But these creatures can never be terrifying because they are too like us. We must abandon Star Trek futurism, give up on the unlikely idea that aliens would possess any affinity with us, and leap, heedless, into...

The outside context

I propose a new category: Aliens as outside context entities. The alien as fundamental physiological, psychological, categorical and semantic break with our parochial assumptions of what alien life might look like.

Xenobiological universalism

Alien life, however, does not have to respect the educational difficulties posed by naked apes with oversized brains, and can exploit any autocatalytic system to generate complex 'lifeforms' if the environment permits. And the range of environments - and autocatalytic systems - is huge.

What Does a Martian Look Like? by Jack Cohen and Ian Stewart, 2004

Xenobiological universalism is another powerful concept, one that has influenced science fiction authors like Philip K. Dick and Greg Bear. At its heart is the idea that the complex, self-replicating systems that lead to life are not just unique to this planet, but are, in fact, a fundamental property of nature.

In scientific circles, the general consensus is that conditions for biological life on Earth are so narrow, delicate and improbable, it's unlikely they occur elsewhere in the universe (the Rare Earth hypothesis).

Xenobiological universalism is called "xenoscience" by its proponents, but I'd question its scientific basis.

This is, of course, absurd. Open hailing frequencies!

Universalism rejects this hidebound, parochial outlook. Just as the pond skater can't imagine existence beyond the two dimensions of its pool, our earthbound perspectives prejudice our definition of life.

Universalism seeks to widen our understanding of what life is, and the conditions under which it might evolve. In particular, it focuses on one of the possible origins of life on Earth: autocatalytic systems.

Quick science lesson, bear with me: catalysts are molecules that promote the formation of other molecules, without being used up themselves. For example, enzymes are naturally occurring catalysts, and catalytic converters can turn carbon monoxide into carbon dioxide indefinitely.

Autocatalysts - molecules that can create themselves without being used up - don't really exist, but collections of chemical reactions, taken as a whole, can be autocatalytic. DNA and its various helpers are an example of an autocatalytic system, which are capable of self-replication, a key element that allows complexity to defy the second law of thermodynamics, persist, grow and, hypothetically, evolve into more complex forms.

Examples of xenoscientific fiction include:

Diaspora by Greg Egan, 1997 (a personal favourite)

Dragon's Egg by Robert L. Forward, 1980

Mission of Gravity by Hal Clement, 1951

Ring by Stephen Baxter, 1994

Sundiver by David Brin, 1980

Universalism takes this further, imagining that DNA is just one possible example of an autocatalytic system, and that similar kinds of processes could occur under radically different circumstances. If self-replicating DNA could originate from the building blocks of organic chemistry, could not other, self-replicating systems form in the complex interactions in, say, silicon-based chemistry, magnetic fields, and so on?

These are "analogous autocatalytic systems," that mirror organic enzymes and DNA, but with radically different mechanics. They're a tool for imagining truly exotic forms of alien life, from the sun-ghosts of David Brin's Sundiver, who evolved in the magnetic fields of the Sun's chromosphere, to the microscopic cheela from Robert L. Forward's Dragon's Egg, who evolved on the surface of a neutron star.

All that is needed is that spark of self-replicating complexity, whether that is exotic, nucleic "molecules" formed by the strong nuclear force, or organic-like, silicon-based chemistries.

Or - in one particularly colourful example - squids living in machine-like simulations, running off Wang tile mathematics, formed by the interaction of super-large carbohydrate molecules floating on an alien ocean.

Most importantly, xenobiological universalism allows us to imagine aliens that defy categorisation, that exist in contexts completely outside human experience.

Creatures we can truly fear.

Fearful intersection

The problem with analogous autocatalytic systems is that they propose forms of life so alien, it's difficult to understand how we might interact with them. From the perspective of Mothership, our interest is in those potential points of contact, where exotic alien biologies unhappily intersect with our own. With xenobiological universalism in mind, horrors can lurch out of the darkness from some very unexpected places. So, we must imagine (or steal from science fiction) new forms of life that somehow hunger for our own.

Fearful symmetry

...it was a perfectly, perfectly reasonable, it seemed to me, that... that some organism should incubate within the warmth of another being.

John Hurt speaking in The Beast Within: The Making of Alien, 2003

While we stretch the definition of life, we must take care to stretch it only so far. The xenomorph, for example, is horrifying because it is incomprehensible, but also because it speaks to uncomfortable and undeniable truths about biology. It follows a set of rules that make it feel palpable.

When creating improbable biologies, there must be some hook our players can grab onto, so they can at least realise how doomed they are.

Learnings

This article was research for CONT/EXT, my upcoming britpunk one-shot for Mothership. Please follow or subscribe for updates.

I tried to make the alien "xenostoma" from CONT/EXT as inexplicable as possible. It doesn't have any sensory organs, no obvious front or back. It's unorthodox method of locomotion that has no earthly equivalent, seemingly designed for space. As an inhabitant of the Thread, it's not evolved for gravity, its senses attuned to the effluvia.

There's little context for the player's to latch onto, especially as I kept its full form hidden during playtests.

The elegance of Mothership allows us to portray complex creatures using the light touch of the rules. Our outside context entities only need the fateful intersection with Wounds and Instinct. The fiction of the invented biology can inform the rest.

But, the truly inexplicable thing about CONT/EXT is The Thread. Next week, I'll be looking at the psychological and semantic implications of the alien as outside context entity.

[cuprohastes]

Visit Strange new worlds and… How did you even see that?

So there you have it, your little non-terrestrial Zoological survey, all nicely protected by fences, and ground meshes, with those nifty bite proof suits, and of course that one Human who's assigned to carry stuff and do all the Human related Things.

It's hard. A lot of the little critters have amazing camouflage. You have to hunt them with an infrared camera, or set traps.

Except on the days when they let the Human come along because they have this aggravating habit of going "There's one" and pointing to a patch of leaf litter which suddenly develops eyes and goes 'AARK!' and runs off.

Did you know they do this recreationally? They have this tile pattern. You show it to a human and they stare at it a minute and go 'It's a ship'. It's called a magic eye poster. But it's supposed to be a ship not an eye. Nobody can work out what's going on there.

And they do little squiggles and stick them on the board and other humans look at them and go 'ha, it's Dr Kraant, from Bio-Assay' - Every time! They have this weird edge detection thing going on and they use it to split up pictures into thousands of little pieces... and then put them back together for fun.

And then they go out and just stick their hand out and yank a tree creeper off a branch, tell it that it's a good little lizard and tag it and put it back and like It's no big deal.

Back when they first started assigning humans, Dr Kraant hypothesized that humans had motion-based vision and if you stayed still, they wouldn't be able to see you. Turns out if you stand very still the humans just assume you're thinking and politely ignore you, but hey that's Xenoscience for you

[bigfan-fanfic]

What are some headcannons about Kaden and his chubby biologist husband? I’ve recently been replaying mass effect and I just loved those asks

The biologist is from Earth, but happily accepted a research post on the Citadel as a Terran biology expert on the Citadel xenoscience board - he has an office and laboratory, and helps the Citadel scientists study Earth biology in order to accommodate the influx of Terran visitors and colonists into the Alliance.

I figure specifically the biologist focuses on plant life and thus works with salarian and asari horticulturists and botanists to create useful cross-strains to help with food shortages and pharmaceuticals and such.

Kaidan meets him after the events of Mass Effect, still mourning Shepard. However, Kaidan is absolutely charmed by the dedication and enthusiasm the biologist has for his work. Even though he has the option to return to Earth for work, he accepts a post with Anderson on the Citadel, partly to spend more time with the biologist.

Kaidan knew he was the one when on their fourth date, when Kaidan invited him for drinks at his apartment after going to see a Blasto movie and laughing at the stilted hanar dialogue, and he had a horrible biotic headache. The biologist stayed with him, held a cold compress to his head, and when the headache abated, they fell asleep in each others' arms. Neither tried to push, tried to cross boundaries. They could simply be. Kaidan wanted to wake up to make breakfast, but instead woke up to the biologist's face, looking at them, and they kissed. About three months later, Kaidan proposed, and the biologist, with asari cooperation, crossbred Korean ginseng with the asari equivalent of a lily and discovered it could be effectively used to mitigate and treat biotic headaches (it would also come to be used in a drug that would help neutralize the Ardat-Yakshi gene in asari).

Kaidan finds physical touch to be comforting and uses every excuse he can to be close to his husband, whether holding his hand, having arms around him, or cuddling. They'll give each other massages when overworked, and have a habit of calling each other "dear" or "darling." Kaidan also, after having his headaches become treatable, loves to show off for his husband with his talents.

He's also hugely interested in his husband's work and can follow along enough to get the general gist of whatever he explains.

[brother-genitivi]

No one:

My brain at all times of the day:

‼️I am the very model 👀 of a scientist salarian,🔬

📚I've studied species ☠️ turian, asari, and batarian.✍️

✔️I'm quite good at genetics 🧬 (as a subset of biology)🦠

💯Because I am an expert 🎉 (which I know is a tautology).📯

🧫My xenoscience studies 📈 range from urban to agrarian,🗒️

✨I am the very model of a scientist salarian.✨

[inquartata30]

“My xenoscience studies range from urban to agrarian. I am the very model of—”

Dr. Mordin Solus

[lyokzi]

Do you have a favorite line from Mass Effect 2? I think mine is when you bring Legion to recruit Tali and Kal'Reegar notices Legion.

Oh boy howdy do I!

I've studied species turian, asari, and batarian,

I'm quite good at genetics (as a subset of biology),

Because I am an expert (which I know is a tautology),

My xenoscience studies range from urban to agrarian,

I am the very model of a scientist salarian!

[theinitiativechronicle]

📄 Entry 001 — The Veil Cracks in Tashkent

Filed: 30 September 2022 Archive Code: CR-IN-2201-I Author: Kalameet Lund, Science Officer, Initiative Command Clearance: Internal Eyes Only Location: Greater Tashkent Periphery, Uzbekistan

“It was not a storm that fell from orbit. It was a question. One that burns brighter than any answer.”

At 03:24 local time, Initiative-linked observatories in the Pamir and Karatau arrays recorded an unscheduled atmospheric re-entry over Central Asia. The object entered at a velocity incompatible with any known aerospace body—military or civilian. EM distortion, transient radiation spikes, and ground-level tremors confirmed an impact site just northeast of Tashkent.

No state or agency claimed responsibility. No satellite registry matched the telemetry. Internal designation was assigned: Event Vector UZ-Aleph.

Civilian media responded within minutes: headlines ranging from meteor strike to black ops weapons test. But inside the Initiative's subterranean coordination hub, the word used was simpler. Contact.

By dawn, ground assets were en route under diplomatic pretense, operating in a nation riddled with internal fractures and rent loyalties. Uzbekistan’s political apparatus offered both vulnerability and leverage—perfect conditions for Initiative maneuvering. I authorized the deployment of Phillip Minton, tasked with stabilizing relations and seeding local influence.

I deployed personally with the science team.

No weapons. Only instrumentation. Atmospheric calibrators tuned to register unknown ion signatures. Particle sensors configured for decay paths not native to our periodic table. We expected uncertainty. We found something worse.

There was no crater. No scorched impact zone. Only trees bent at unnatural angles, their bark bleached not black but white, and a residual charge that caused interference in our suits and static in our breath.

The military had not yet arrived.

But others had.

We detected drone signatures not our own, traces of short-burst encrypted comms, and footsteps we didn’t make. Another party—possibly more than one—had reached the perimeter either before us, or within minutes. There were no insignias. No banners. Only the suggestion that the Initiative is not alone in its vigilance.

There has been no global announcement. The United Nations has offered silence. Most of the world remains asleep.

But to those of us already listening in the static, the signal was unmistakable.

Whatever entered Earth’s atmosphere that morning did not just defy gravity. It defied ownership.

[theoriginalladya]

@mtreebeardiles - here's a snippet from the show that Caleb and Kaidan see the night before meeting up with Mordin! :D

I'm trying to work out how exactly it fits with the WWII 'verse, but I can't write Mordin and not include it... am I right?

~~~

“This is… strange.”

Chuckling, Shepard handed over one of the tickets and they headed inside. “If you think this is, wait until you meet the doctor in person.”

As they walked through the lobby, signs proclaimed that a performance of Gilbert & Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance was up for the evening.

“What does musical theater have to do with the war effort?”

Their seats were in the back of the theater, just inside the doorway which was good because the lights were just starting to dim as they made their way inside. Sliding into their seats, Shepard murmured, “You’re about to find out.”

Shepard hadn’t ever seen the comic opera on stage before, but he’d heard music from it over the years, and he understood the general story. He couldn’t exactly say it was his favoritemusical production, but like most Gilbert & Sullivan shows, the tunes were catchy. He’d grown up learning several of them on the piano thanks to Nan.

Late in the first act, Shepard bumped Kaidan’s shoulder with his. Nodding at the stage as the Major-General Stanley shuffled quickly onto the stage complete with red jacket, golden sash and epaulets, and plumed bicorne hat, he whispered, “That is Dr. Solus.”

As the scene continued, other voices dying down for his solo, Mordin cleared his throat and started to sing…

I am the very model of a scientist Salarian, I've studied species turian, asari, and batarian.

I'm quite good at genetics (as a subset of biology) because I am an expert (which I know is a tautology).

My xenoscience studies range from urban to agrarian, I am the very model of a scientist Salarian.

As his voice trailed off, the theater went completely silent. No one in the audience said a word, and the other actors on stage appeared frozen in place.

Kaidan nudged Shepard’s arm and leaned over to ask, “Wait, did he just…?”

Eyes wide, Shepard stared at the stage. “I… think he did.”

[point-maitimo]

« Salarians ».

« I am the very model of a scientist salarian, I've studied species turian, asari, and batarian. I'm quite good at genetics (as a subset of biology) because I am an expert (which I know is a tautology). My xenoscience studies range from urban to agrarian, I am the very model of a scientist salarian.»

( available on redbubble • commissions • patreon • ko-fi )

[max--phillips]

Would’ve liked to run tests on the seashells.

I’m sorry.

I’m not. Had to be me. Someone else might have gotten it wrong.

Hmm hmm hmm… Ive studies species turian asari and batarian… My xenoscience studies range from urban to agrarian, I am the—

[paragontribute]

I am the very model of a scientist Salarian I've studied species Turian, Asari and Batarian I'm quite good at genetics (as a subset of biology) Because I am an expert (which I know is a tautology) My xenoscience studies range from urban to agrarian I am the very model of a scientist Salarian

_________________________________________________________________

Subject: Mordin Solus Medium: Watercolor

For my sister:

@martyrjoan

[evapapamargariti]

New video showing now on linkcabinet.eu

[athelari]

3. snowflakes in the desert

Day 3/7 of the Mass Effect Trilogy Week: Plot. 2k words; canon divergence (Priority: Tuchanka because I just want catharsis, blast it); Shepard+Mordin; no content warnings.

No. No, not like this. Her teeth grind together, bile rising in her throat. If you go up there—and you will, I know you and I know there's no stopping you once you've set your mind on something—

He bows his head. “No. No other option. Not coming back. Suggest you get clear. Explosions likely to be problematic.”

He starts walking to the elevator.

“Mordin, no!” She darts forward. “Wait!”

This, at least, got him to face her. “Shepard, please. Need to do this.” He meets her gaze, black eyes glossy, glimmering back at her, and shakes his head fractionally. “My project, my work. My cure, my responsibility.”

“No.”

He startles at her answer, short and decisive and immediate. She marches forward, never looking away, never breaking eye contact. Something falls to the floor behind her, but she no longer cares.

She keeps her voice low and steady; a voice she only uses for the most serious of situations. “If you're going up there, then so am I.”

His shoulders drop, ever so slightly. “Shepard—”

“I helped you track down Maelon,” she presses on. “I told you to save his data. I introduced you to Wrex, brought you to Tuchanka, helped you gather your tissue samples! I even convinced Victus to greenlight the cure! So this may be your project, but the way I see it I'm at least your damned lab tech here, and I'm coming with you.”

“Shepard,” his tone is urgent, almost pleading, “might not make it out in time.”

“So both of us come back, or neither of us do. Either way, we're wasting time out here. Come on!”

She runs ahead of him towards the elevator. Mordin catches up merely a second later, immediately closing the cracked glass doors behind them. The cramped space hums with tension thick enough to carve like a turkey dinner. The fact that he'd recognised her unwillingness to back down doesn't clear the air at all; if anything, it seems to only make him more nervous. She hears him singing to himself under his breath, fast and quiet, his verbal equivalent of a bouncing knee.

She decides to turn her attention elsewhere. “Normandy, this is Shepard, do you copy?”

A crackle, followed by Joker's voice in her earpiece. “This is Normandy, come in.”

“Mordin and I are going up the Shroud tower. Fifty-second floor. I need a shuttle on standby for evac, ASAP.”

“The Shroud tower? What the—aye aye, Commander.”

If EDI's synthesised voice is capable of sounding alarmed, this is what it sounds like. “Shepard, the tower you are ascending has endured significant damage from the Reaper attack. Structural integrity is estimated at sixty-four percent, and there are live fires on the floor you and Dr Solus are headed to.”

“Thanks, EDI, good to know. You and Garrus made it out in time?”

“Yes. Radio chatter also suggests Eve has regrouped with a handful of krogan warriors. She is being escorted back to Urdnot territory.”

Joker has the Normandy. Eve is as safe as can be given the circumstances. She'd filed the official request to make Garrus her XO. Thane's awaiting his lung transplant, with Kolyat keeping him company. All that's left to do is make sure the cure is properly dispersed, then the krogan and turians will fully provide aid for Earth, along with Kirrahe and however many STGs he convinced to go backdoor for them, and with Liara giving extra intel they should be able to keep going without—

“Would have liked to run tests on seashells,” Mordin says suddenly.

She looks at him, a faint smile on his weary face, and makes a paltry half-laugh. “Plenty of good beaches on Earth. We should go after all this is done.”

Assuming Earth is still around by then.

Assuming you and I will still be around.

“Heard of Earth species capable of shooting venomous darts at prey. Fascinating.”

Beat. She blinks. “We still talking about shells here? Or—”

But then the doors reopen, revealing a lab-slash-control-room covered in debris and flames. Without a moment's hesitation, Mordin darts ahead, making a beeline for the farthest console. A bursting pipe temporarily derails him, but she catches his elbow, and together they cross the room.

She realises, now, how foreign the equipment—and their interfaces—are. Whatever her bluster about being his lab tech earlier, she's clearly way out of her depth, even with her visor scrambling to translate the salarian glyphs on the screens. An automated voice is echoing in the chamber, repeating something about the temperature, but that doesn't tell her how to help.

A thought comes to mind. “Mordin, tell me if you need something, all right?” He nods wordlessly—not silently, however, he's humming again and she knows that song like the back of her hand by now—while she runs to the nearest pile of debris and starts analysing the damage.

If she can't make this go any faster, then at least she'll buy him some time.

Fallen column broke unidentified equipment #1, some flammable—or inflammable?—liquid under it catching fire, runs all the way to unidentified equipment #2 on the far right. Left console is dead, roof cave-in opened a pipe. Doesn't seem to be water. Coolant? Electrical short by the corner—it's awfully close to those pressurised canisters. That can't be good.

She runs to the canisters first, grabbing one in each hand and hefting them to the nearest wall, away from the short. Then it's to the unidentified equipment and the burning liquid. Where's the fire extinguisher? A lab like this has to have several.

“—studied species turian, asari, and batarian—”

There, beneath a pile of rubble. She skids across the room again, narrowly maintaining her footing as a piece of flooring crunches under her weight, and starts digging into the debris. The tank is dented, but its nozzle seems undamaged. She grabs it and starts spraying its contents onto the fire. Kalahira, please let this work.

“—xenoscience studies range from urban to agrarian, I am—”

“The very model of a scientist salarian!” she drops the extinguisher on the floor. It caps off the song with a hollow clang. “How much longer?”

And Mordin throws up his hands, taking a step back from the console. “Done!”

“Then what are we waiting for? Go! Go!”

She beckons him to run into the elevator, determined not to budge until he does. But apparently she'd made her point earlier, as he doesn't waste another moment. They scramble for the only exit, jumping in and slamming onto the controls like starved varren seeing fresh meat.

When the elevator judders back to life, taking them down the vertiginously high tower again, she finally lets out a sharp, bright laugh. “You stubborn old man,” she manages between shaky breaths. “I knew you could do it.”

She looks at Mordin's smile, relieved and open, and it strikes her how much younger he suddenly looks, like he'd just shed off ten years' worth of weight from his brow. “Had to be me,” he half-whispers.

“Someone else might've gotten it wrong,” she nods, still grinning.

He bows his head for a second. Then he looks back at her, straightening himself again. “Thank you, Shepard.”

“For what? All I did was—”

A deafening boom.

The elevator staggers, throwing them back. She loses her footing and sprawls on the floor. Mordin, lighter and less sturdy, is knocked against the external doors.

There's a sickening sound of glass breaking, and then he falls backward, plunging into the emptiness without.

“Mordin!”

How she manages to dart forward and grab his arm on that very second, she doesn't even know. But now she's on her stomach, her grip on his wrist the only thing keeping him from plunging down to the concrete floor far below. His mouth is moving, but her ears are still buzzing and she can't make out a word he says. The only thing she hears is a rushing, swirling sound, like waves crashing on the shore.

The elevator's still moving, she realises. The explosion dislodged them and broke both the inward- and outward-facing doors completely, but the mechanism is still intact. They're still going down, and if she can't pull him up in time then momentum will still get him one way or another.

“Mordin! Take my hand!” She reaches down with her other hand, the one on his wrist gripping with more force than she'd normally consider using.

He swings, sways, and finally manages it, fingers just barely brushing hers. She latches onto them anyway and pulls, hard. It's not enough to get him fully back on the elevator, but he manages to get a knee up and pushes back, glass shards crackling under his weight as he climbs back on.

“You okay?” she sits up, kicking aside a few broken shards in an attempt to provide some clear space.

“…bruises, strains. No serious injuries,” his breathless reply is barely audible over the rushing sea in her ears.

“Good.” Her throat suddenly feels very dry. She leans back against the metallic wall, her head thudding against the surface, and wipes the sweat running down her brow. Except something about it is oddly sticky, and her hairline unaccountably damp. She looks at the back of her gauntlet. Oh. She lets her hand drop again to her side.

“Saved my life, Shepard,” Mordin covers her hand with his, causing her to look up at him. “Twice in an hour.”

“And you just saved countless more,” she shoots back.

They stay low until the elevator nearly reaches the ground floor, and then she jumps back to her feet, pulling Mordin up with her. They spill out onto the lab, walking fast and wary of any further surprise explosions.

She hears Mordin emit a soft gasp, just at the edge of hearing, and turns to look at him.

And then, she sees it.

Pale, yellowish particles, falling gently like snowflakes on the harsh Tuchanka desert, carried by the lazy breeze. She looks up and sees many, many more, drifting in every possible direction. And at the centre of it all, the Shroud tower, shooting the flakes into the sky like a steady, benevolent volcano.

She feels shivers climb her spine. “Mordin, is that—?”

“Shroud mechanism operating to specifications. Cure dispersing evenly. Weather should carry particles to—” he pauses, inhales sharply; blinks once, then twice, then releases a shaky breath, “—completion.”

Completion.

That's what this feels like, she realises. The culmination of a lifetime's work, a crescendo built upon sleepless nights and grinding regrets. Whatever else happens, whether or not they survive the war, this is their legacy now.

A shuttle homes in, cutting a straight line atop what was very recently the site of a Reaper bloodbath. Then its door swings open, and out jumps Garrus, rifle in hand in a true example of turian military readiness. She spots EDI and Liara already inside the shuttle, which likely means Javik is as well.

“You should be halfway to the Normandy by now,” she chides as soon as they seem close enough. “I asked for one shuttle, not all of you.”

“Oh, I'm just here because Wrex'll kill me if he finds out I left you behind,” Garrus replies glibly. He looks at Mordin and his expression sobers. “So it's done then? You've cured the genophage for good?”

She turns, too, to face Mordin. She sees the faint tremor of his lip; the way his cheeks twitch and tug and finally break into a small, genuine smile. “Yes.”

A simple, blunt reply. Garrus flexes his mandibles, momentarily silenced. After what feels like a breathless eternity, he nods. “Then let's get out of here. Bet the krogan are itching to throw their new hero a celebration.”