He had to keep moving.

Who or whatever was hunting him held no intent of being sporting; they were coming for the prize – one that sat neatly on his life.

Diving deeper into Nos Astra was not a wise choice – getting caught by any of the gangs would mean just as bad as getting caught by the Hunter, the exception being that he would be given a swift end by the latter as was part of their job. But at this second, there was no other option; perhaps he might get lucky and lose them in the twists and turns of the underbelly, maybe find a ship, and hide on a garden world. Eden Prime was nice this time of year…

As he wove in and out of alleys, building, some gang fights, the Salarian realized he wasn't being chased anymore. Peeking out from behind one of the buildings, he saw something that made him relieved; a skycar.

He made a dash for it, still concerned about the Hunter. It was his last mistake.

His body locked up in agonizing pain as volts of electricity surged through his body and tumbled unceremoniously onto the pavement. The Salarian rolled onto his stomach, forcing himself to crawl to the skycar when he began to pick up slow footfalls to his right. Glancing over, he froze up; sauntering over was a lithe form, two-toed feet echoing through the prey's grave. Plates of white metal wrapped around their calves and thighs, covering their small torso with their promises of a long, bountiful life; small, hexagonal islands shifting about on their shoulders while the bracers on their arms gave them the tools of a Good Hunter.

But it was the head that scared him most: A hood covered most of their head, with the only things he could see within were a dim light shining through an armored mask.

And a small, purple LED directly underneath it.

This wasn't an ordinary bounty hunter, as the Salarian now realized: This was the Quarian Mandalorian – his chances of escape were always nonexistent, only now does he realize it.

"You certainly made it further than my other targets," they began, "but I've given you the opportunity to think on your mistakes."

Tossing a puck at the frightened alien, a hologram of his face showed up, and a series of numbers displayed above it: A Bounty Puck.

"Now, we can do this in one of two ways, Deresh," the Quarian stated. "I can either bring you in hot…or bring you in cold."

Her quarry now secured, the Quarian Hunter made her trek to the Citadel, the hum of the Mar'Vasj sang a quiet tune as it left Nos Astra, and subsequently Illium. It felt nice to chase something down for a change; an old, primal urge to hunt and stalk bubbled throughout her body during the last vestiges of the event. Her last bounties have been hulking Krogan pirates that rustled too many feathers on the Turian Hierarchy's heads, and – while she enjoyed a good fight – it was starting to become an annoyance.

If this was how the lizards were going to behave while their Genophage continued to ravage them, she saw no reason for it to end.

A significant step away from her people's upbringing of being sociable and, in some cases, extreme altruism, but she never learned of it when she was…

A short shake of her head snapped the Mandalorian out of her thoughts. Best not to dwell on those memories; only pain resided within them. Instead, her thoughts turned to her last day of residence in the Conclave, and subsequently, the armor she wore.

She sat in the room adjacent to the Armorer's forge, waiting patiently for the craftswoman to complete her task. Her last task was arduous, to say the least, and what remained of her suit was enough to allow modesty and some protection against the elements. However, her mask remained intact; the one rule she readily agreed with when it came to the Way of the Mandalorian, as it was like her people's own…no, the Quarian's rules.

Coming to grips that the race she shared were not her own anymore would be a challenge.

The door opened behind her, and the Armorer stepped in, a crate in her hands.

"Your hunt proved to be quite the challenge you needed, Zorah," the quartermaster said. "And it also proved to be a boon; your adaptation holds strong even now. You have come a long way from the small, sick but fierce Quarian Foundling holding her own against Vorcha pirates."

She set the box down behind the woman, wondering if she heard a small chuckle from the trainee at the mention of her Founding.

"That day proved to be the turning point, Armorer," Zorah said, her natural voice dancing about the room. "Had the Conclave not been there, I doubt I would have held on much longer."

"Perhaps you are right," she replied. "But it seems that fate demanded that you would live that day, for what purpose is something that none of us know. Until that day comes, I believe that you will continue fighting and living; your stubborn nature proves this."

She paused, taking out the suit specifically designed for the Quarian. "It has been a long time since I have worked on something more than armor for a Mandalorian, Zorah," the Armorer stated. "But knowing your people's proclivity for trust and personal privacy, it was a good change of pace."

"They never found me," she spat bitterly. "I was never part of their people."

"Even if they have not, you share their blood, their heritage, and their chirality," the quartermaster chastised. "They will always be your people, Zorah, even while you do not believe it."

The Quarian remained silent; the Armorer set the suit behind her, turned away from the woman, and exited the room. She waited two seconds after the door shut before turning towards the suit, starting the process to get in the damnable outfit. While she no longer needed it in terms of foreign illnesses, it still was necessary for keeping the illusion of Quarian Society and to uphold the Way of the Mandalorian.

"This is the Way," she muttered.

Her respect for the Armorer remained strong, regardless of what was said. Zorah made a promise to eventually reconnect with the Quarians, but it wouldn't be that day, or anytime soon. In her eyes, they've failed or refused to find her before the Mandalorians did, and they would suffer continuously under her ire – and there wasn't much they could do to stop her, either.

A major weakness in the Quarians – herself included when she was younger – was their dismal immune system, which they mitigated through environmental suits that filtered the air and consumed carefully filtered water and food. Zorah, when founded by the Conclave, was slowly brought out of the suit, to adapt to their environment and beyond. Those days she painfully remembered as the worst.

But it eventually led to better days; she was sick less and less and felt stronger as her body began to catch up to the environment faster. Eventually, she shut off the filters herself, finally free of her confines, being able to feel the wind on her skin, the touch of a flower in her hands, and the earth between her toes.

It was then she pushed to follow the Way of the Mandalorian, a desire to give back to the Conclave for helping her become something more burned inside. A fire that the Armorer recognized immediately, she sent the Quarian towards a seasoned Mandalorian, one whom finished the Rising Phoenix training to begin her own.

That had been ten years ago. The Quarian allowed a small smirk at the memory, reveling in the feeling of altruism she displayed those years ago. Her eyes turned to Deresh, the Salarian quarry fidgeting slightly at his bindings. 'He chose wisely; I don't think he realizes how messy his people become when parts of them are blown to bits.' She morbidly thought. He didn't make any further moves upon capture – something that made her very paranoid – and solemnly accepted his fate.

A ping caught her ears, and a diode to her left flashed; the Mar'Vasj was picking up a distress signal. Pushing a button next to the receiver, a message began playing – at first, she was concerned as the signal was garbled, and became stunned as two words that shouldn't go together were spoken: "Geth…invadin-…-end backup, I repe-!" The message cut off at that.

She glanced at the Salarian, who heard the message. "I uh…guess this is a detour, knowing your people?" he asked, unsure of the situation.

The Quarian thought it over. Every ounce in her body wanted nothing more than to deck the amphibian into unconsciousness for the next two weeks for daring to assume who she threw her bags in, but two things held her back. The first was that no one else knew what happened between her and the Quarians decades prior.

The second was that this didn't sound like the Geth she knew, and this wasn't their MO.

"Under any other circumstance, I'd freeze you solid," she stated, shrinking the Salarian with words alone. "But you're in luck; my curiosity has been piqued by their sudden attack, so yes, this is a detour." With a sharp turn, she veered towards the direction of the distress signal's origin.

'With any luck, I could pry the information out of the robots and learn why they're doing this,' she mused.

It was rare for the Mandalorian to be unnerved by a situation before her. Logic and strategy came rather quickly when a problem manifests rather unexpectantly, whether it be in combat, a hunt, or compiling intel.

Zorah was glad for the suit, for if she didn't wear it, the expression 'scared shitless' would readily apply to her face.

What she learned from one lone unit – a Heretic, if memory serves – was enough to threaten the entirety of multiple races across the galaxy. One segment remained at the forefront of her mind that entranced her:

"Eden Prime was a major victory! The beacon has brought us one step closer to finding the Conduit."

"And one step closer to the return of the Reapers."

The Mandalorian wasn't unfamiliar with the first voice: Spectre Saren Arterius. She ran into him during a couple of hunts for high priority targets and had to fight him for her quarry. The Quarian readily admitted that she couldn't face a Spectre head-on, so she fought dirty to escape him with the target.

It was a grudge match between the two elite soldiers, slowly building up to this breakpoint. It would be poetic if what he said didn't raise alarms.

Eden Prime. Attacked, probably razed by the Spectre in search of some Conduit through a beacon's message. A Prothean Beacon, eliminating other possibilities, made sense.

But what do these Reapers have to do with the Conduit? This demanded research.

First, she needed to get into contact with the Shadow Broker. Personally; no messengers, dead drops, or avatars. They needed this information brought to them directly, for if a Spectre is involved with this…

She didn't want to think of the potential consequences. Begrudgingly, the Mandalorian messaged Barla Von, the Volus banker in service to the Shadow Broker, about potential information she uncovered about Saren which needed to be delivered to the Broker. A minute later, her omni-tool received a response:

'Presidium, near the Emporium. As soon as possible.' -BV

'Should the Council know as well? It's their agent, after all…' she wondered. Then scoffed at the idea. 'While I know that they would be appreciative of receiving the information, the Broker could get it through with better pull.'

The Quarian continued her journey to the Citadel, forgetting that she sent the message unprotected…and tracked by the Spectre in question.

Salarian in tow, the Mandalorian marched up to the bounty handler in C-Sec, Officer Bailey, who was sporting a grin at the Quarian's continued competence and skill.

"I swear, Mando, every visit you grace us, it's always with a gift in hand," he said nonchalantly. Taking one glance at the prisoner, he checked the terminal, nodding with the results. "Deresh Invo, smuggler of high-profile substances, credit chit printing, and…eugh, race trafficking between systems. You're looking at a long time in a cell," Bailey stated, shuddering at the last charge.

The Quarian glanced at the Salarian and wondered if Earth's frogs were exactly the size of what Deresh had become with every charge listed. She slightly shook her head as he was moved out of the room, letting the question go.

"And you, my great compatriot, have turned him in alive and well…all things considered. Two-hundred-fifty thousand credits have been wired to your account, with C-Sec and the marker giving you their thanks," he stated, tapping a button on the terminal. Zorah's omni-tool pinged, indicating that the transfer was successful. "Stupid question, but I believe you want the next set of bounties, Mando?"

"No."

The room went silent. Officers in the room immediately turned to look at the bounty hunter as if she were insane. For as long as they knew the Quarian, she never turned a bounty down, even after the first one they gave her as a joke.

Bailey was stunned; he was the first one she talked to about bounties and the Mandalorian terrified him after she dragged in the first bounty, a high-profile criminal they couldn't touch because the bureaucracy protected him from C-Sec. After that day, the organization realized that she wasn't held down by their rules and made the system official, placing Bailey in charge as the Bounty Handler.

"I'm…I'm sorry, no?" he stammered out. "But, why? What caught your attention?"

"Can't say. No one in C-Sec is getting paid enough to know why," Zorah stated. "I'll be seeing you afterwards, Bailey. Count on it."

She turned and left the bounty wing, leaving a stunned C-Sec room behind and pondering what the enigmatic Mandalorian found that superseded her endless hunts.

A Turian Agent that overheard the exchange had an idea, but nothing concrete. Shelving that investigation for later, he turned to one that held a greater priority; building a case against the Spectre Saren Arterius.

'Fist seemed far more fidgety than usual,' Zorah thought. 'He's usually harder to convince to allow contact with the Broker, and yet he readily sets one up after a single call with it…something's not right.'

As she walked into the alleyway in the Wards, she noticed a Turian waiting at the center. While she wasn't a master of stealth by any means – that title was held by a rather annoying thief – the Quarian was quite subtle when the need arises. Such skill allowed her to notice that the bird wasn't alone and two armored guards were hiding behind the crate a couple yards away.

"Did you bring it?" the Turian asked, sauntering up to the Mandalorian.

"I highly doubt you're the Shadow Broker," she started, "and last I checked, Fist was a human. Where are they?"

"They'll be here," he falsely reassured, reaching out to stroke her plated shoulder. "Where's the evidence?"

'Too far, birdbrain.' With one deft move, her pistol was aimed directly at the Turian's head, ready to destroy his shielding and paint the alleyway with his blood.

"The deal's off," Zorah stated, a trace of anger swelling. The two guards stepped out from behind their cover, and with her left hand, a shotgun was drawn on them. 'Salarians, terribly armed at that. They're not here on the Broker's command, they're assassins.'

"Surrender, Quarian. It's three-to-one, you're outnumbered," one of them said.

"I like those odds," she replied, not once letting any of them leave her sight.

Until the Turian assassin's head exploded in front of her.

The two Salarians jumped back in shock, and the Mandalorian took advantage.

Two shots barked from her pistol, knocking their weapons out of their hands and breaking shields. A report from the shotgun she wielded shredded one of their legs off and bit into the foot of the other, sending both to the ground.

With one pistol round, she ended the life of one of the assassins, and noticed the other trying to scramble up to his feet and run. Shooting a tether from her bracer, she reeled in the fleeing assassin and brought him back to the ground, all while unsheathing the knife she kept with her since she was young and stabbing the Salarian in the neck.

When she was certain that the assassin moved no more, she withdrew the knife from the corpse, and pondered it for a moment. 'When was the last time I unsheathed this?' the Quarian asked herself. Regardless of the tools at her disposal, for some reason, the knife she held in her hand never failed in quelling the rampant emotions she sometimes had.

Footsteps approaching her snapped Zorah out of her musings; wiping the blood off on the dead Salarian and sheathing the blade, she stood up and had to regard the strangest crew she had ever set eyes upon. A Krogan, a Turian, and a Human, the latter appearing to lead the former two.

'The Foundlings would have a joke for this, but for the life of me, I can't seem to remember it,' the Mandalorian thought, allowing a small grin.

"I suppose you aren't their backup, considering the shot originated behind me and killed one of these poor fools," she stated.

"We aren't," the Turian assured.

"Then Fist set me up. I believe I need to have another talk with him, and deal with this treachery personally," the Quarian angrily stated.

"Already ahead of you, Quarian," the Krogan rumbled, a smile forming. "His head's become décor for his office."

The Mandalorian regarded the Krogan for a moment, then jumped slightly with recognition. "Wrex. I thought that was you outside Chora's Den. Why the change in occupation?" she asked.

"It's actually why we're here," the Human interrupted. "My name's Shepard. I'm looking for evidence to prove Saren's a traitor, and the last person to have possible concrete evidence-"

"Is me," the Quarian finished. "Then it means we're after the same thing, Shepard: Saren's head on a pike. I'll help, but not here – too many ears."

"The human ambassador's office is safe, he'll want to see this anyways," the Turian said. He then took a moment to look over her, eyes narrowed with interest. "You're not like the other Quarians I've met on the Citadel."

"Trust me, Turian; there's no one else like me on the Citadel."

With one change, a young girl's entire life is set on a path unexpected. Through it, she was granted a boon her race considered a fatal flaw in their ecology. May her aim be true, her hunts be free of doubt, and her prey blessed with a swift and clean end. For her helm never be removed by her hand or by others, she shall always be one of the Conclave, walking the Way of the Mandalorian. For she was once a Foundling, may she bring Foundlings of her own when they are without their home, and protect them with the strength she found and was granted through our blades. This is the Way.