Hello Good Folk. I'm back with a new story. Yes, I'm still working on Lost in the Translator and A Matter of Perspective; but this one popped up and didn't want to go away. It was inspired by seeing a video of Maori doing a Haka. Being a predator species, I wondered what Garrus and other Turians would think of this. It did sort of take an odd turn the other day so I'm not quite sure where it's going; but I hope you enjoy it. This is set after Just Another Saturday Night, and Lost in the Translator, and before A Matter of Perspective. As always this wondrous Universe is Biowares and I'm just playing with it. I get no money out of this.

Each In Their Own Way

Garrus

Garrus had made his way down to the back area of the mansion. He'd found the small stone patio on his first day here; it wasn't visible from most of the mansion. He came out here now whenever he wanted to escape being an 'Advisor'. Given that the Reapers were gone he didn't think he deserved the title anymore; and had said as much to Victus, but the Primarch seemed to appreciate his input. Either that or he just enjoyed teasing Garrus. (Garrus strongly suspected the latter.) All the rest of the Primarch's Advisors about had a stroke, as the humans would say, the first time he'd back talked, politely of course, to Victus in a meeting. And never mind being a Praetor – he was sure Solana would have a LOT to say about that promotion. None of it complementary.

It was a rare, very rare, sunny day and Garrus relaxed on the stone seat next to the building and soaked up the faint warmth.

He closed his eyes and finally gave thought to his dilemma. He couldn't get near Shepard, couldn't warn her what the Alliance was up to; he couldn't even really let Joker know. Something told him, they'd tapped the Normandy's com lines and possibly even Joker's omni-tool. Either way – he wouldn't take a chance. Not where she was concerned.

He'd thought he'd be able to accept being apart from her as long as he knew she was okay; but the growing heaviness in his soul said otherwise. Every day was a little worse than the one before; particularly when he heard news reports of her being on a victory tour around the globe. And seeing her picture then hearing her voice was like someone driving a knife into his throat then cutting straight down to his gut. Each day he wanted, no needed, more and more to see her, to be with her. And he knew he couldn't do that – she would be the one to suffer if he was weak – and he would NOT do that to her.

That left only one option. One he had hoped not to take; but more and more he was coming to think that he had no choice if he was to keep her safe.

He stirred restlessly on the stone bench he was sitting on. He stood up, needing to pace to get his mind clear on what he had to do.

He'd only made a couple of circuits when abruptly, at a distance, he heard an odd sound. It distracted him as he tried to place it. Straining his ears, he could make out what sounded like a heavy chant overlapping the stamping of feet and something else he couldn't quite identify. Curious, he drifted in that direction.

It only took him a short time to realize that it was coming from what Whiteson had said was an indoor riding arena. He'd been told they'd bunked Turian soldiers out here in the very early days, but only for a short time. It was a little too cold for Turian tastes. Now they just used it as a garage for a couple of the Turian APCs.

The closer he got to the arena the clearer the sounds became. It was a chant – several male voices, again over laying heavy foot stomping and another smacking sound. The beat was a heavy human rhythm – not Turian but it stirred his blood anyway.

He slipped into the arena though the attached stable area. The few horses left, snorted at his presence. The animals were instinctively aware of Turians being apex predators and wanted little to do with them. He was careful to stay in the center of the aisle between the stalls. They'd learned early on that a Turian getting too close to a horse could cause it to panic and bolt.

He finally got to where he could see into the arena without being observed. To his surprise he found a group of about 8 men, their chests bare, chanting and stamping, slapping their hands to their chests. He shivered at that – it was way too cold to go without clothing; but it didn't seem to bother these men.

He recognized them as the small human soldier contingent that had been bunked at the embassy recently. The Alliance base was currently too full so they'd sent these men over here.

Not only were they chanting they were also making the oddest faces he'd ever seen. Not even the human drunks on the Citadel had looked that weird. Rolling their eyes and sticking their tongues out. If he had to guess he thought they were trying to be intimidating.

Then he noticed a ninth man, holding a long stick, he seemed to be in charge/running this maneuver. Dance? He wasn't sure what you would call it. Settling himself comfortably on a crate he just watched them.

While he didn't know what they called it – he recognized it as some form of battle/intimidation performance?

He was thoroughly fascinated. He knew that humans had a bewildering array of cultures and sub cultures; but this one was completely new to him. He watched, entranced, his problems forgotten for the moment.

But before they finished up, his omni-tool signaled. Since they were still engaged in 'mopping up' operations for Cerberus, and those few husks that seemed to have been enough human to survive the Reaper's fall; he'd set his device to silently alert him.

He checked. Sighing, it was yet another, useless as far as he was concerned, meeting. Quietly he got up and left the way he'd come.

When he got to the meeting room. Some sort of day room he'd been told, he hadn't much paid attention, everyone else was there.

"Ah Advisor Vakarian, glad you could join us." Victus commented as he came in the door. Given the tone of that greeting he knew Victus was in a snappish mood, something he was noticing from the older man more and more in the past couple of weeks. Especially since they'd gotten in more reports from Palaven, specifically Cipritine.

"Primarch Victus, my apologies, I was out on the grounds." Given Victus's mood he avoided a smart-ass comment. He got a sharp click from Victus's mandibles in acknowledgement as he sat down at the far end of the table.

As the meeting progressed it became obvious that it was more of the usual or as Shepard used to say - the same old, same old. For a moment his heart contracted painfully at the thought of her – then he recovered.

It was Victus that attracted his attention. The older man was moving in sharp, jerky motions not his usual flowing power under control movements. He also had an underlying irritated hum to his sub harmonics that was acting on his staff like someone was rubbing sand into their plates. He'd never seen a bunch of adults fidget that much. Constantly surrounded by some of the weird harmonics on the various Normandys, it didn't bother him quite as much.

After the mercifully short meeting was over; all Victus's advisors discretely left, fled really, the conference room – no doubt driven out by the Primarch's angry sub tones.

Garrus sighed and stayed put.

Victus hadn't realized he was there until he looked up from a datapad he was studying. He started.

"Vakarian, I dismissed everyone."

Garrus didn't move from where he was leaning against the wall. "When was the last time you sparred, Victus?"

He could see the older man bristle at that question. "It's…" He began.

"Horse pucky, as a friend would say." Garrus didn't think about where he'd picked up that phrase. He was too busy warily watching his friend shift into one of Palaven's Apex Predators. A decidedly angry one.

"Advisor." Victus menacingly used his lesser tittle.

"Primarch." Garrus shot back, unintimidated, as he straightened up. "It's obvious that you are under an enormous amount of stress. Enough strain that your staff will be duty bound to help you with it, Primarch."

Victus blanched at that, as much as a Turian could, when he realized just what that might entail. He was still dodging the offers of stress relief from Lieutenant Tafero, his head of Security. Something he couldn't deal with right now.

Garrus knew that Victus's mate was one of the millions who'd gone missing when the Reapers had hit Cipritine. The older man would not fully believe or accept it until he was standing in the middle of the ruins of Cipritine. As a result, he tended to stick with sparring as a stress reliever, considering the other to be disrespectful to his mate.

It wasn't the usual response to such a situation; but sometimes it happened, particularly with life mates.

"What would you suggest I do?" Victus tilted his head in question, some of his anger bleeding off.

"Spar." Came the succinct answer.

"Are you volunteering, Vakarian?"

"If you're ordering it – I'm there." He sighed. "If you're not ordering it, I'm still there." He knew he was good, he also knew that Victus was better.

For the first time since he'd entered the room, Victus smiled; but it wasn't exactly a friendly smile.

"Alright, but I want to do something different today – if you are knowledgeable."

It was Garrus turn to look curious.

"Sit'kessa." Victus told him.

Garrus considered for a moment. "I have had lessons; but I am far from proficient."

"Can you keep yourself in one piece?" Victus got serious.

"More or less."

"Then Sit'kessa it is." Victus indicated the door. As they left the conference room, Garrus wondered what he'd gotten himself into. Sit'kessa was an ancient form of fighting done with armored and edged gloves or cestus. Done slowly it was dangerous and tricky. Done at full speed it was lethal and near impossible to counter unless you were well trained, which he wasn't. He had a feeling that a visit to the doctor was in his future.

Whiteson

Whiteson was making his normal circuit around the grounds. He did this everyday unless the weather prevented him. He was thorough and dedicated; but he didn't feel that that required him to risk pneumonia.

He was out near the barns when a couple of the New Zealand detachment approached him. Their serious looks caught his attention.

"Gentlemen, is everything alright?"

"Officer…"

"Whiteson is fine." He told the younger man. Ari he thought his name was. "How can I help you?'

The two men looked at each other then the older one spoke up. "I don't know if you can."

Whiteson looked askance at that.

"We know the Turians are here." The younger man began.

"But they've never bothered us."

"Has someone done it now?" Whiteson was instantly alert. There was that one Praetor, Temkal he thought the name was, and he was the definition of an ass. Whiteson could easily see him interfering.

"Not exactly; but we noticed one of them watching us this afternoon as we practiced. Very intently."

"I don't believe it's anything they might know about." Whiteson hoped that the Turians wouldn't make trouble for the New Zealand soldiers. "Did you recognize the man?"

"He's new around here." That was Ihaka the older man. A white haired veteran, bearing scars of years of fighting everything from pirates to Reapers. "A badly scared face, blue colony marks, and very blue eyes."

Whiteson knew instantly who he was talking about. Vakarian. Who had appeared at the mansion a few weeks ago. Victus had welcomed him with open arms, so to speak. But he, Whiteson, knew next to nothing about the man. The other Turians seemed to regard him as some sort of hero, and he thought the name Vakarian was somehow familiar.

But if he was a hero, he didn't act like it. He kept a low profile and was always pleasant and courteous to the staff of the mansion. And he certainly didn't dress like it. Usually wearing a mismatched suit of battle damaged armor with no rank markings on it. The one thing that made him stand out was the enormous sniper rifle he carried. From the worn and well cared for look of the weapon Whiteson had a feeling that he was a master of it.

"Do you want me to ask the Primarch to put your practices off limits?"

"No." The older man said. "We don't mind them watching – we only wanted to know if our practice was somehow stepping over some sort of cultural line."

"I doubt it; but I will ask for you." Whiteson told them. The older man nodded and he and Ari headed back to their barracks.

Whiteson took a moment to think where the Primarch might be. The Turian tended to check in with his people most everyday, like himself; but had no set schedule and could be anywhere and often was.

Whiteson decided to check the mansion first and work out from there.

He headed for the kitchen entrance of the mansion; but as he was passing one of the outbuildings. It had been turned into a warehouse for supplies decades ago – he heard the sounds of combat. Turian combat. Grunts, mandible clicks, low growls, and snarls. He knew that part of the warehouse had now become a secondary gym/sparring area for the Turians. The main one being in the mansion where it was warmer. The Turians did not like the cold.

Curious he decided to check it out, just on the off chance the Primarch was there.

Not only was Victus there, he was one of the two men in the ring. The other, speak of the devil, was Vakarian. They were engaged in some sort of lightning fast routine that entailed a lot of striking and slashing with their hands.

They'd stripped to their undersuits and were each wearing odd tunics. Made of what seemed to be heavy quilted leather – they covered the fighter's torso and neck. The arms being shielded separately.

An odd darkened gleam alerted him to the fact that along with the tunic they were also wearing gauntlets that had long metal strips across the tops of their talons and fingers, on them. Victus struck at Vakarian and Whiteson saw the lighter mark on the leather as something scored it, even as Vakarian dodged.

Those metal strips were not only razor sharp, if he was any judge; but serrated in areas. Given their speed and size – he would not have wanted to get into the ring with either of these two men. In this moment they were the epitome of the Apex Predators the Turians were known as.

Victus was the obvious master here – raining blows on the younger man and forcing him to dodge and dance out of the way, defending rather than attacking. But Vakarian also had some moves on him, and if Whiteson was any judge, some of them startled Victus; but you didn't get to be a general by not learning how to adapt on the fly.

Whiteson knew better than to distract the two men. There was live steel out so he remained quiet and simply watched. Frankly, he was fascinated by the display. He'd seen Turians sparring before but this was something entirely different – far more stylized than anything he'd yet witnessed. Almost more a ritual if he had to guess.

Victus snapped out something – more a growl and click of his mandibles and their 'dance' speeded up. Vakarian wasn't getting many blows in; but he was giving a good account of himself. Victus couldn't seem to close with him no matter how hard he tried.

"Primarch?" Came a loud flanging voice and another Turian came from around some crates, looking at a datapad.

Both fighters were distracted and Vakarian took a vicious swipe to his upper arm before he stumbled back out of range.

Victus whirled on the intruder, decidedly angry, and snarled at him. "Temkal!"

"Ah, I didn't realize you were sparring, sir." Temkal sounded and looked contrite, if Whiteson was any judge.

"Then you need to clean the fluff out of your ears." Victus snapped. At least Whiteson thought that was what he'd said, as odd as it sounded. Temkal looked embarrassed.

"What is it?"

"The reports from the patrol ships, sir." He held up the datapad

Victus stood there, his mandibles flexing a few times – counting to ten Turian style, Whiteson realized.

"Anything out of the ordinary, Praetor?" Whiteson winced at the heavy sarcasm in that question. The Primarch was furious.

"Er…no, sir." Temkal told him.

"Then leave the reports with my aide." Victus snapped. "Is there anything else?"

"No sir. I'll see to that, sir." With that Temkal beat a hasty retreat.

Victus stood watching him go then snarled to himself. Cursing Temkal if the static and spitting coming out of Whiteson's translator was any clue. Then he started stripping off his gloves, pausing only when he realized there was ink blue blood on one of them.

"Garrus?" He spun towards the younger man – who – unnoticed by the others had gotten the arm off his tunic to reveal a deep slash on his upper left arm. He'd already retrieved a medi-gel packet from his armor and was applying it to the wound.

"You're injured." Victus sounded ashamed.

"I've gotten worse from an exploding geth." Vakarian shrugged it off. "Besides, that's the chance you take when you fight Sit'Kessa."

"Not when someone distracts you." Victus stalked over and studied the wound. "You need to see Jakan."

"I'm fine, Adrien." Vakarian reassured him, starting to put his armor on.

"No, you're not." Victus glared at him. "Go see Jakan; and that's an order."

"Victus.." Vakarian began and Victus glowered at him. "Oh…all right."

He got the rest of his armor on and departed, nodding politely to Whiteson as he passed him.

"Whiteson, thank you for your combat etiquette." Victus finished removing his sparring outfit and started getting his armor on.

"When live steel is out, you stay out of the way and keep your mouth shut." The older man told him as he walked over. Bending down he picked up a greave and handed it to Victus. Victus nodded.

"Not everyone…" Here Victus glared in the direction that Temkal had gone. "…understands that."

Whiteson nodded, picking up Victus's gloves from a nearby shelf and handing them over.

"Is there a problem, Whiteson?" Victus accepted his gloves.

"I don't believe so, sir." Whiteson told him.

"But you've obviously sought me out for some reason."

Whiteson paused, unsure of how to phrase what he had to say.

"Is there some cultural taboo for the Turians about another culture's semi-religious practices?" He finally got out and could have kicked himself for sounding so pretentious.

"What?" Victus was confused.

"Sorry, Primarch. That came out wrong." Whiteson took a deep breath and tried again. "The human recruits we're putting up."

"The Morry?" Victus said.

"Maori." Whiteson corrected him. "They have a kind of dance called a Haka – it's descended out of ancient war dances and these days is done as a sign of respect or acknowledgement."

Victus indicated for him to go on.

"Well, would the Turians be upset by them practicing their Haka on the grounds?"

Victus looked surprised. "No, of course not. Why, did someone say something?" The way he looked off in the direction that Temkal had gone made Whiteson think he was well aware of the younger man's less than tolerant behavior.

"No; but Praetor Vakarian was apparently watching them this afternoon and they were concerned." Whiteson explained. Victus's tense look eased.

"They needn't worry." Victus smiled. By now, Whiteson had become familiar with how Turians smiled.

Victus

Victus didn't know for sure why Garrus had asked him to keep his identity quiet; though he had a suspicion, but whatever, he'd respect the younger man's wishes.

"It's just curiosity?"

"Yes, Garrus tends to be rather curious about human customs." He explained, then added by way of explanation. "Former C'Sec."

Whiteson nodded, looking relieved.

"Do you want me to tell him and the others to avoid the Maori when they're practicing." Victus would make sure that there was no friction between the humans and the Turians.

"No, not at all. They don't mind if you watch – just didn't want to step on some toes, so to speak." Whiteson assured him.

"I'll let them know."

With that Whiteson excused himself.

Victus put away the Sit'Kessa gloves and tunic.

As he did, he considered Vakarian's situation. Apparently Garrus had been right when he said that without his visor the humans wouldn't really recognize him. Even observant humans like Whiteson. Victus gave a soft chuff of amazement at that.

In almost every vid taken during the fighting, that Victus had seen, Garrus was right behind the Commander – towering over her – guarding her six.

While the humans might not know him; most all the Turian forces did – even without his visor. Vakarian was something of a hero, particularly among the cadets. Victus chuffed in amusement, at that. Garrus had been reduced to mandible clicking embarrassment when Victus told him about his celebrity status among the younger members of the staff. And he'd been ready to run and hide when Victus went on to describe the rather besotted behavior of some of the younger females.

Vakarian didn't consider himself to be a hero, and behaved accordingly. Victus just wished that all of his people behaved that way. Unfortunately, like the humans, there were Turians who were, what was that human saying he rather liked, much too much impressed with themselves.

That meant that part of his duties were spent seeing that such individuals were in positions where they could contribute but that their attitude wouldn't cause trouble.