Patriarch awoke the next morning to a low, distant booming, echoing and reverberating through the air like the rumble of far-off thunder. As he came to full wakefulness, he realized that there was a subtle, yet repeated shiver passing through the structure of the station: Omega was trembling around him. It took him a moment to put the two together, but when he did, he shot bolt upright. Attack!

He started to leap up, tripped, and fell flat on his face; he'd forgotten that he'd taken the couch last night. A quick glance at the sleeping chamber showed that the door was open and it was empty: Aria was gone, probably already dealing with whatever was happening. As he dressed with fumbling haste, his mind raced with possibilities: Batarians? No, they'd been quiet lately. One of the merc groups? But the ones on the station wouldn't dare, and Aria'd been careful to keep on the good side of the ones who controlled the sector, anyway. Pirates? But that was what Aria paid the merc groups for, to keep the pirates down. Geth? Out this far? Unlikely…. That left only two possibilities of those that suggested themselves to Patriarch's fevered mind, both equally far-fetched: Either agents of whatever trouble it was that Shepard had stirred up—the extranets insisted that it was geth she had been fighting, but the picture Patriarch got from his own sources was of something much darker and far more disturbing—or else….

Or maybe Shepard herself.

Come all the way back to Omega just to snatch you up to go off adventuring with her? Hah! With a snort for the delusions of a wistful old krogan, he gave himself a stern shake, brusquely dismissed such thoughts, and set out to see what was happening.

Outside of his quarters, Patriarch was surprised to find none of the frantic activity he'd expected to see. Perhaps the corridors were a bit less crowded; Afterlife itself was less busy than usual, even for the time of day, but that was it. There were no alarms going off, no sirens blaring announcements for everyone to get to the shelters, no raised blast shutters. Occasionally during an especially severe tremor, one of the bartenders would put his hands over a row of bottles to keep them from falling, but that was about it. The dancers were still there, strutting and grinding on the poles above the bar; the customers were still bellied up to the bars sucking down drinks or tucked away in shadowy corners; the music was still pounding; pretty much everything was as usual.

Almost everything. A quick glance up at the balcony showed that Aria wasn't there. What in the world….?

He spotted Anto in his usual position by the stairs and went over to him. "Anto!" he shouted above the throbbing music. "What's going on?"

"Huh?" The batarian blinked his four eyes.

"What's going on?" Patriarch leaned closer. "Are we under attack?"

"Are we—what? Oh—no!" Anto seemed to grasp his meaning. "No—it's that justicar!"

Samara? Patriarch rocked back on his heels. Quickly, he reached out and grabbed Anto by the shoulder, drawing the batarian off to a corner where it was quieter and they wouldn't have to shout.

"What's going on with Samara?" he demanded. "The time for her challenge isn't up yet—"

"No, not like that," Anto corrected him. "I'm not really sure of the details, but from what I heard, early this morning that justicar went down to the lower station and just started cleaning house." Four eyes blinked at him. "She'd been asking around for what was the worst sector on the entire station. A bunch of people directed her to Level 10, Sector 5—you know that's as bad as any—" Patriarch nodded. Aside from being absolutely overrun with vorcha packs, Level 10 was home to some criminal and slaver gangs so nasty even Aria stepped lightly around them. "So apparently, this morning, the justicar just walked in there by herself and said she had come to shut everything down. You can imagine what the reaction was."

Patriarch drew in a breath. "Well, that's one way to solve our problem, I guess—" He broke off at Anto's laugh.

"Are you kidding? She kicked their asses. Cleaned out the entire sector, moved on to sector 6, did that one too, cleared sector 7, and she's still going. That's what all the crashing is," he said, bracing himself against the wall as a particularly bad tremor rocked the station. "From what I hear, she looks set to clear the entire level by the end of the day."

Patriarch frowned, considering. "I bet Captain Gavorn's not going to like that," he mused.

"Gavorn? He's ecstatic," Anto replied. "Said he's been itching to clean out that cesspit for months. Matter of fact, on Sector 7, the justicar came across a squad of his that had been cornered by a vorcha pack. She wiped out the vorcha pack and saved his guys, then ordered them to come along with her to finish cleaning the area. One of his guys called him on the comm and told him about it, and he actually sent a couple more squads down to her for backup."

"Really." The station rocked again; over behind the bar, a couple of bottles slid off the shelf and crashed. Patriarch clicked his claws against the hilt of his knife. "What's Aria think about this?" he asked, glancing meaningfully to the empty balcony.

Anto shrugged. "No one knows. She's locked herself in her quarters and left orders that she was not to be disturbed by anyone. Frankly, after the way she was last night, it's sort of a relief."

"Huh." Patriarch studied Anto for a long moment, then nodded towards a booth tucked away in the shadows. "Come on. Let's sit down and have a drink, what do you say?"

The batarian shifted uneasily. "Patriarch, Aria would rip my eyes out if she found out I'd been drinking on duty."

"If she finds out, you can tell her I said it was all right. Come on." He led the batarian to the booth and sat him down, then slid into the seat across from him. "What'll you have?" he said, catching the eye of a server and waving him over. "Batarian ale?"

"Well…." Anto hesitated again. "All right, sure."

"Batarian ale and a ryncol," he ordered. As the server hurried off, Patriarch leaned back in his seat. "So, Anto," he began. "You've been working here for how long now?"

"Fourteen years," Anto replied.

"So, not that long then."

"Long for a batarian," Anto corrected, as he'd known he would.

Patriarch let it pass. "And how's Aria been treating you all that time?"

Anto's eyes blinked as he pondered. "She's rough," he said slowly. "Not saying she isn't. But she gave me my start. Before she hired me here at Afterlife, I was living down in the lower sections, fighting the vorcha for a corner to sleep in or a scrap of food. I owe her a lot," he admitted. He shifted uneasily again. "But I know what you're getting at, Patriarch. My owing her only goes so far."

"How far is 'so far?'" Patriarch pressed bluntly.

The batarian sighed. "I don't know," he confessed. "I guess tomorrow we'll find out." He snorted a grim laugh, then winced as a particularly loud crash echoed through the bar. The server who had been bringing their drinks to them staggered and dropped the tray. "Damn. I was looking forward to that ale."

Patriarch simply nodded. "How do the rest of your men feel?"

"Not sure," Anto admitted. "It's strange—there's never really been a situation like this for as long as we've all been here. We all thought Aria would be on top forever. No one on the station could even touch her, and now…."

"She's always come out on top so far," Patriarch replied. "Throughout all our history together, it's never been smart to bet against Aria."

"Yeah, well, there has to be a first time for everything." Anto shifted. "Look, Patriarch, I appreciate your offer of a drink, but I really need to get back to work. When tomorrow comes…." He blinked. "I won't fight against Aria. That's all I can give you right now. If that's not enough for you—"

"It's not a question if it's enough for me," Patriarch replied, with a shrewd glance at him. "It's a question of whether it's enough for her."

"Yeah, well…." Anto blinked again, uncomfortably. "I should go." The batarian got up from the table and moved off. Patriarch watched him go, considering. When the server came back with the two drinks and placed them before him on the table, Patriarch studied them for a moment, then with a shrug, downed them both. The station rocked again as he got up, transferred some credits to the bar's account, and took his leave.

[*]

The station continued to tremble and reel throughout the rest of the day, shuddering with the impact of distant explosions and echoing to the sounds of combat taking place within it. Once or twice throughout the day, alarms and sirens went off with reports of hull breaches in various sectors, but the repair teams were always able to get on top of the damage quickly. Though the combat was confined to the lower sectors, even in the upper levels voices were hushed and people moved through the corridors in a subdued fashion, reaching out to brace themselves against walls when the station rocked after an especially severe concussion. To Patriarch, the people of Omega seemed to be waiting.

In the afternoon he went out again, looking for Captain Gavorn. The turian was the closest thing to the head of security on the station; he was in charge of making some effort to keep the overall vorcha population in hand and shooting any vorcha that happened to wander up from their dens in the lower levels. The turian was not in his usual place outside Afterlife; Patriarch found him in the small, stuffy closet that passed for his office, speaking into a desk-mounted comm unit. When Patriarch appeared at the door, Gavorn glanced up, waved him in, and kept on talking.

"Okay, Seltris, I hear you. Rotate the troops out and send two more fresh squads down to her. What? Yes, make sure they have extra heat sinks and power cells. Send some rations too, just to be on the safe side— I don't know, there's got to be some place around there that has turian-safe sandwiches and drinks, just run a few of those in. How much more does she have to do? Really—by evening? Well—I've got to go, but I'll check in again shortly. Keep me posted. Gavorn out." He shut off the comm, then looked up. "Patriarch. Something I can do for you?"

Patriarch ambled in and took a seat in the scuffed plastic chair on the opposite side of Gavorn's desk. "Sounds like you're having some excitement," he said, nodding to the comm unit.

"Yeah. Tell the truth, it's about time," Gavorn said. His mandibles flared a bit. "Level Ten's been a hellhole for years. They're all bad down there, of course," he added parenthetically, "but Ten's definitely one of the worst. I've been wanting to go in there and clean the place out for a long time now, but I could never muster enough force to do it. Now this justicar shows up and…" He trailed off, shrugging underneath his armor.

"You been down there? Seen her?"

"Yeah," Gavorn said. "I went down a few hours ago just to check on how things were going. She's…impressive." His mandibles flared again.

"Hm." Patriarch grunted, thinking. "Care to offer a ryncol to a thirsty old krogan?"

"I don't think I have anything a non-turian can drink," Gavorn replied. "I can check the stash, if you want."

"Nah. That's okay." He mulled various ways to approach the subject, then with a mental shrug, dove in. "So, I'm sure you've heard about the challenge."

Gavorn snorted. "Hasn't everyone? The whole station knows."

"What do you think?" Patriarch asked bluntly.

Now Gavorn's mandibles closed up and his pupils constricted. "I think the whole matter's above my pay grade, that's what I think."

"Think Aria will accept that answer?"

Gavorn looked away. "I'm just here to do my job. Nothing more."

"The job that Aria gave you," Patriarch pressed him. Gavorn said nothing. Patriarch leaned forward. "Which side will you be on, Gavorn? You know that Aria has always made loyalty worth your while. And punished betrayal just as severely."

Gavorn shifted. His mandibles remained tight to his jaw as he regarded Patriarch. Carefully, he said, "Aria may not be around for much longer." As Patriarch stared at him, Gavorn added, just as inflectionlessly, "I've seen this justicar fight."

Patriarch sat back in his chair, somewhat taken aback. Around him, the station shuddered to another distant explosion. Gavorn had been on the station for a while, though nowhere near as long as either himself or Aria, of course; for a member of such a short-lived species, he knew a great deal about combat. His estimate was worthy of serious consideration. After a moment, Patriarch ventured, "She's that good?"

Gavorn glanced toward the door of his tiny office, and touched something under his desk, as if verifying that no one could hear them. At last he looked back at Patriarch. "Better," he said quietly.

Patriarch mulled this new information. "You know Aria likes to fight dirty."

In that same flat voice, Gavorn replied, "I can't believe it would help her this time." He sat back in his chair, his mandibles flaring again. "Ahhhh…you know me, Patriarch. I never wanted to deal with any of this political crap. I'm not good at it. You know that. I've got enough on my hands just shooting vorcha all day. I can promise you this," he said, sighing. "When the time comes, I won't help the justicar. But that's all. Don't ask for anything more."

"Anto said the same thing," Patriarch said glumly. "Before I go—what's happening to the people down there where the action is? Sounds like a lot of damage going on—the last thing we need is for innocents to get caught in the crossfire."

"Well, the justicar's doing the best she can to minimize civilian casualties," Gavorn replied. "There really weren't that many innocents living in Level Ten anyway—the environment's too nasty. From what I hear, that human woman, Helena Blake, has been doing her best to get everyone out of harm's way—you might want to go talk to her."

"I will. Thank you for your time, Gavorn." He paused, then added deliberately, "See you tomorrow."

"We'll see," Gavorn replied. He bent to his desk and reopened his comm channel as Patriarch turned to go. Around them, the station was shuddering.

[*]

Helena Blake was an elegant older human woman who had arrived on Omega about two years ago and promptly plunged into doing the kind of charity work to which humans, asari, and, to a lesser extent, turians seemed so addicted. Patriarch knew very little about her. She obviously had a great deal of money; Patriarch was not good at telling status among humans, but all the credits to fund these operations had to come from somewhere. He had heard whispered rumors that she had once been the head of a major criminal syndicate, and other rumors that Shepard had been the one to "convince" her to shut it down, but he hadn't been able to say for sure. When she'd first come onto the station, Aria had turned a close eye on her, watched her long enough to make sure she wasn't a threat, then dismissed her. "If she wants to spend her time feeding and clothing the poor, fine," Aria had said, shrugging. "But if she forgets the one rule of Omega, then things will get rough." She'd given that cruel smile of hers. "And I bet I play rougher than she does."

The human woman was not in her usual place in one of the lower rooms of Afterlife when Patriarch went to find her; after some searching, he located her at the transit hub down the corridor. She was surrounded by small mountains of supplies and speaking into her omni-tool when he encountered her.

"—and send over all the blankets you can find immediately. Tell them to bill the charges to me. Yes, that's right, Helena Blake. And stores of nutrient paste as well—both levo-protein and dextro-protein. I'll transfer you the account number—Hold on, I'll have to call you back." She shut off the omni-tool and turned her attention to him. "Well, if it isn't the Patriarch himself," she greeted him cordially. "I'm terribly sorry, but this isn't a good time to talk—I'm trying to organize food and shelter for about a thousand refugees at the moment." Another distant explosion rocked the station. "Oh dear," Helena sighed rather whimsically. "I suspect that number just went up."

Patriarch frowned. "Captain Gavorn said that Samara—the justicar," he clarified at her blank look "—was taking pains to spare civilians."

Helena Blake's face clouded. "The justicar went through Level Ten's slaver district about three hours ago and freed the prisoners there. They have nothing but the clothes on their backs, poor things. Someone has to look out for them."

"You sound angry."

"I am," the elegant human woman replied curtly. "Slavery is a vile practice, loathsome and reprehensible. Even in my former days, I never tolerated it for an instant. I cannot think of any institution that is more abhorrent to sentient dignity." She paused. "Is there something I can do for you, Patriarch? I'm rather busy at the moment, but…."

"Captain Gavorn directed me to you," Patriarch responded. "I just came by to see how you were doing caring for the refugees, and if there was anything you needed."

"Anything I needed. Hm. Well, if Aria would open her empty warehouses on the third level, that would provide excellent short-term housing for all the displaced persons, at least for a couple of days. Also—" she gestured at the mountains of crates around her "—I could use some large hoversleds for all the supplies. Transporting them one carload at a time is simply taking too long."

"I'll see to it," Patriarch replied. As Helena watched, he spoke briefly into his omni-tool, relaying the necessary orders. "Sleds should be here in fifteen minutes or so, and the warehouses are open for you."

"Thank you, Patriarch," Helena said, smiling. "I truly appreciate your help."

"Think nothing of it." He paused. "So I'm assuming you've heard of Samara's challenge?"

"To Aria? Of course," Helena responded. "It's not quite how I would have done it, were I her, but say what you will about her, that justicar certainly has a sense of style."

"What do you think?" Patriarch asked with real curiosity. "When she comes tomorrow, which side will you be on, Helena Blake?"

The human woman raised one eyebrow. "The side I am always on, of course: that of Omega's population. The only side." She paused, studying him. Patriarch waited, wanting more from her, somehow, but not certain how to phrase his request. At last, she sighed. "You want to know who I think will be better for the station?"

"You can trust me."

She nodded. "Everyone on the station knows that, Patriarch. Even though you are Aria's man." A small smile crossed her lips—not dissimilar to Samara's smile, he thought distantly. She surveyed the area briefly, looking for anyone else who might be listening in, then continued, "I will say only this, Patriarch. There are a lot of innocent people on this station who are suffering due to the way Aria runs Omega. Obviously I haven't been here anywhere near as long as you have, but from what I can tell, that seems to have been the case throughout her entire tenure as ruler. If she were to go, I don't think many on this station would complain. I'm sure you understand."

"I do," Patriarch replied thoughtfully. He hesitated a moment longer. "When Samara comes for Aria tomorrow….will you spread the word? Make sure the civilians are all tucked away safe? It could get ugly."

"Of course," Helena said with another warm smile. "Now if you'll excuse me, I really do have to get back to work." She paused. "Good luck to you tomorrow, Patriarch. Whatever it may bring."

"Thank you, Helena," he replied sincerely, and took his leave.

[*]

That evening, Patriarch sat in Afterlife long past closing time, nursing a bottle of ryncol and mulling over what he had heard. The station was quiet again; the distant crashes and explosions had died with the coming of night. I suppose even all-powerful justicars have to sleep sometime, he mused. According to Gavorn, Samara had been indefatigable throughout the day, systematically moving through Level 10 sector by sector at a pace his men had been hard-pressed to match. A formidable fighter indeed.

Aria had not been seen all day. Her balcony had been empty, her door closed and red-locked. Patriarch had tried to contact her a couple of times, but had gotten no answer; nor had anyone else, from what he had heard. She'd had food sent up to her—whatever the girl's been doing in there, at least she's not starving—but Patriarch had no idea what her state of mind was.

With a sigh, he leaned back and stretched his feet out before him. His left was knee aching again and he rubbed at it absently. A broken-down old krogan on a broken-down old station, that's what I am. He took another gulp from the bottle of ryncol, and massaged his eyes with the back of one talon. Anto. He'd been suspecting the batarian of looking for outside work for a while now; Anto's refusal to pledge that he would support Aria didn't surprise him at all. But Gavorn? Gavorn had enough of that turian sense of duty that Patriarch would have counted on him to stick by Aria to the end. Whatever happened to turian loyalty?

He thought back over what he had known of Gavorn's history: the man had been a small-time gang leader before Aria had hired him. His instructions from Aria had been simply, "Keep the vorcha out of my sight," and he'd done that job admirably, expanding his gang and transforming it into the closest thing Omega had for a security force. Once he'd been hired, Aria paid him little attention except to make sure that he still remained loyal, and throughout the years he'd been working for her, he'd never given any indication of selling her out….

Now a new thought occurred to Patriarch, making him sit up. But what if…it wasn't really Aria he was loyal to after all? Or what if his loyalty started that way, but then changed to something else? All that talk about wanting to clean up Level 10—why bother? How would that help Aria? It wouldn't, was the answer. Aria and the criminals who ran that level had a good agreement going: she left them alone and they left her alone. So why would Gavorn care? What if— The thought suddenly struck him, made him sit up. What if it's no longer Aria he's loyal to, but…the station?

Is that even possible here? He frowned, all his years here, he would have thought not. Omega wasn't a place that allowed time for noble sentiments. He cursed under his breath. Damn turians. They take them and practically breed all that stuff about duty and self-sacrifice for the greater good into them from the womb, or the shell, or wherever turians come from. He would have said that Gavorn was just another thug, like all the rest of the scum on Omega. He would have sworn it. But…who knows. Maybe giving him a position like the one Aria had given him had reactivated all those old turian instincts for loyalty and service to something greater than oneself.

Like Aria isn't enough for him? he thought with a twist of mordant humor.

For some reason, Helena Blake's words came back to him, about the effect of Aria's policies on the station, and he rubbed at his eyes again. She's not wrong, of course. Aria had no interest in anyone who was below her line of sight. If they weren't big enough to be either a threat or a potential ally, she couldn't care less about them. There were whole sectors full of people on Omega who had come here for no other reason than to seek a better life, only to wind up as prey for the merc groups, the gangs, the drug runners, the slavers, or even the vorcha, and Aria did nothing to help them.

His jaw tightened. And was it any different when you were in charge? In the years years ago? Of course it hadn't been. Like Aria, he'd taken no interest in the suffering of those people either. At the time, it'd just seemed like it didn't matter. He'd been more focused on hanging onto and expanding his own power than anything else, and besides, it wasn't the krogan way to care for the weak. The strong do as they will while the weak endure what they must. As it should be.

Somehow, he reflected grimly, that sentiment had sounded a lot better back when he had been the strong one.

Aaah… He growled under his breath and took another gulp from the ryncol bottle. What could we really do for them anyway? The problems of Omega were intractable. Always had been, for as long as he'd been there. That damn fool Archangel thought he could solve things by shooting, but if it were that simple, then Omega wouldn't be the charming cesspit it is. Sure, they could shut down a slaver gang here, bust up a drug ring there, but it would be like playing that ancient Earth game that he had heard of once. What was it called? Whack-a-Mule? Another one would just pop up two sectors over. What had Archangel's idealistic crusade gotten him?

His jaw tightened again. A ticket on Shepard's ride, that's what it got him. And Samara seemed to think she could do better than he had.

Patriarch set the bottle of ryncol down. He leaned on the table, staring into nothing, lost in thought.

The problems of Omega are intractable. But were they? He thought they were unsolvable, but no one in the station's history had even tried to solve them. He hadn't. Aria hadn't. For all his glory-hound antics, Archangel certainly hadn't; whatever he might have thought he was doing, from Patriarch's perspective he'd been doing nothing more than nibbling away at the edges. Helena Blake wasn't, with all her vaunted charity work; she was treating the symptoms of the disease, but not engaging the source.

And what is the source?

Patriarch leaned forward, bracing his forehead on his talons. He did not like the answer towards which his mind was slowly, yet inexorably working. For some reason, Samara's words echoed in his head:

"Loyalty is a noble quality. But on its own, it is never enough. You must always consider: what is the nature of that to which you are loyal?"

With a sudden curse, Patriarch caught up the bottle of ryncol, drained it, and tossed it aside. Enough of this varren-dung philosophizing. What are you, an asari? Time to lock up, go upstairs, and get some sleep. He'd been up much too late already, anyway; Aria would need him to be at his best tomorrow.

He started to rise from his seat when the door to Afterlife hissed open, and measured footsteps echoed in the interior. He looked up in startlement as a clear, precise voice said, "Patriarch."

[*]

"Samara." For some reason, he wasn't surprised to see the justicar here, in this place, now. Seems right, somehow. Fitting. A strange pleasure came over him; despite it all, the sight of her gladdened him, brightened his darkening spirits. "Won't you sit down? I heard what you were up to today—hell, the whole station did," he added with grim humor. "You must be exhausted." Though she didn't look it, he had to admit: her pale blue skin was covered with dirt, smoke and grime, and her clothing stained with blood, but no hint of fatigue showed in her ramrod-straight posture.

Samara regarded him. "Thank you, but no. I cannot stay long. Soon, I must return to my lodgings to rest and prepare for the battle tomorrow."

"That so," Patriarch grunted. He studied her. "So, what brings you all the way up here? Come to convince me to leave Aria?" He was discomfited to find that he half-wanted her to try.

Pale eyes blinked at him. "I would never attempt to convince you to do that. You have made your choice, and not to respect that would be wrong and dishonorable. No, my purpose here is fourfold."

"Fourfold, eh?" A strange disappointment brushed him; Patriarch pushed it aside. "How so?"

"I have come for the following reasons. First," Samara began, "to prepare for battle tomorrow. I intend to challenge Aria here, in this place, the heart of her power," she explained, holding out one hand to encompass the bar. "And it is always best to know your ground if possible before a battle."

Patriarch nodded. "Wise of you."

Samara tilted her head. "Second," she continued, "I wish to ask you to pass a reminder to Aria. Tell her again that if she does not leave the station by tomorrow morning, I will come for her."

"I can pass the warning," Patriarch replied, "but she won't go. If she hasn't gone by now, she's not going."

"Nevertheless," Samara said calmly. "The justicar code states that I must ensure that Aria knows of the challenge, and give her every opportunity to leave before I fight her."

He nodded again. "That's two down. What's the rest?"

"Third," Samara continued, "I wished to request that tomorrow, efforts be made to keep civilians out of harm's way during our battle. If there is someone I must speak to, or arrangements that must be made—"

"Already taken care of," Patriarch said gruffly. "There's a human woman named Helena Blake. Does a lot of charity work on the station. She's seeing to it."

"Helena Blake. I have heard of that name." Samara considered. "I would not have thought to find her involved in such work."

"Apparently she changed her ways after a little run-in with Shepard two years ago." Patriarch felt his jaw tighten sourly.

"Shepard. Yes. And that brings me to my fourth purpose in coming here."

Patriarch waited, but she was silent. She tilted her head, and regarded him for a long moment, long enough that he shifted uncomfortably. At last she spoke.

"When we talked last time, I told you that Shepard had a great deal of respect for you. You replied that she had 'not enough respect, apparently.' What did you mean by that?"

"What—I—" Patriarch groped for a second, momentarily thrown by the change in topic. At last, he recovered. "Just what I said," he replied. "That however much she might respect me, apparently it…just wasn't enough."

Samara blinked at him. "'Enough' for what?"

Enough for her to take me away with her. "Enough to let me join her krantt for real." As Samara looked at him, he gestured. "You know, to join the big, glorious fight against whatever galactic menace she's fighting against. She took Archangel. Took that salarian with her, but not me, despite what she said." He snorted. "Can't say I'm surprised, though. What good could a ruined old krogan like me be to anyone?"

He'd meant it to be ironic, cynical, but it came out with a depth of bitterness and real hurt that he could not suppress. Somewhat abashed, he looked away from the timeless asari warrior in front of him, raking his talons along the table. He could feel the weight of her eyes as the silence stretched out.

At last, her words came to him. "Shepard is…in an unusual position right now," the justicar said quietly. "Though she has earned our loyalty, her crew is … not of her own choosing."

"What do you mean?"

Samara tilted her head. "It is difficult to explain. But at the current time, Shepard is … nominally under the command of someone else."

"The Illusive Man." The words were a growl.

"You are aware of the arrangement?"

"I heard rumors. Couldn't believe it, that Shepard herself would be in thrall to another battlemaster," he snarled. "Let alone one so soft as this Illusive Man."

"The arrangement is…unusual," Samara explained. "It is not a comfortable one for either side. It is more akin to an alliance as you krogan would understand it—both of them are too strong for the other to take on easily, so they have decided not to fight but to turn their aggression to enemies elsewhere. I do not believe it will last long—"

"It shouldn't," Patriarch rumbled. "Shepard should be free." He spoke without thought, and was vaguely surprised to hear himself voice such an idealistic sentiment. Gods and ancestors, I sound like a youngling fresh from the Rite.

"—but while it lasts, it is the Illusive man who sets the parameters for her mission. He it was who brought her back from the dead and provided her ship, and therefore it is he who selected the personnel to accompany her."

"This Illusive Man chose her krantt for her?" Outrage flared within him, along with a tiny bit of sympathy—he knew all too well what it was like to be put on a leash. "How dare he?" He realized he was brimming with fury at the very thought of a hero of Shepard's stature being treated that way. "A warrior's krantt is a sacred bond—no one has the right to tell a warrior who to include in—"

"No." The justicar cut him off. "You are wrong. He chose us for the mission. That is all. She chose to make us her krantt." And while Patriarch was still trying to figure that out, Samara tipped her head. She said, again quietly, "I believe, if Shepard had had the freedom to choose for herself, she almost certainly would have brought you aboard."

He stared at her. Somehow, his rage on Shepard's behalf was ebbing away, taking the surge of strength with it and leaving behind only himself, old and tired and long since beaten. He could feel the weight of every one of the long centuries of his life pressing down on him. "Why are you telling me this now?" he wondered.

"I do not know what will happen tomorrow," she replied, with that same regal distance. "If the worst should come to pass, I did not want to take my leave of you without letting you know Shepard's feelings."

"Ah. Well. I don't know whether I believe you," he told her bluntly. "But thanks for saying it, I suppose. It's pleasant to think that someone in this galaxy still thinks I'm good for something." Even I don't think that anymore. "Good luck in the battle tomorrow, justicar. I wish…." He studied her. "I wish it didn't have to come to this," he said, and was surprised to find that it was true.

Samara merely nodded. "And good luck to you and yours, Patriarch." That smile touched her lips again, bringing an unaccustomed warmth to her face. It was a subtle smile, devoid of cruelty, as Aria's almost never was. That's the sort of smile that makes you want to see it more often, he thought. "If I survive, perhaps we can discuss this at greater length afterward."

"Perhaps," was all Patriarch said. He cradled his empty bottle as Samara turned on her heel and retreated; he sat alone in the empty bar, listening to her steps echo and die away to silence.

[*]

When Samara left, she seemed to have taken the momentary lift in his spirits with her. Patriarch was suddenly exhausted. He sat there for nearly a quarter of an hour, trying to find the energy to get up and at least go to the rooms Aria had given him. At last, he managed to heave himself to his feet. A few brushes at his omni-tool locked the doors to Afterlife; he himself made for the private set of stairs that led to both his and Aria's apartments. He hesitated before going to his own quarters. Suppose I'd better check in on her, just to be sure she's all right….

He stopped outside her door. Chiming a few times produced no response. She might have been asleep…but somehow Patriarch didn't think so. He tapped the comm link.

"Aria?" he tried. "Aria, girl? It's me. Patriarch. I know you're not asleep yet…. Let me in, girl. Please? I—"

Abruptly the red lock on the door shifted to green. The door hissed as its cogs retracted, startling him, and the heavy mechanism rolled aside, revealing a darkened interior.

Cautiously, Patriarch stepped inside. The lights were all off; the only illumination came from the big bank of windows that looked out over the long, jellyfish length of the station. The lights of the stars and of the station shone through the clearsteel windows, but they were not strong enough to truly challenge the dark. He could see Aria's shape, standing at the windows, looking out over her station, and approached her carefully.

"Aria?"

She did not move. There was something about her silhouette in the darkness that made Patriarch wonder if she had been standing there for hours, just looking over the station that was hers.

"Aria, girl?"

Still no response. Daring, Patriarch stepped up beside her. Aria did not move, did not acknowledge his presence in any way. Silently, the two of them stood side by side, looking out over the twinkling metal edifice of Omega.

When she did speak, it startled him. "She's coming for me tomorrow."

"She is," he acknowledged. He said nothing else, there was nothing he could say. Aria stood beside him, tense and unmoving. He rolled one eye to look at her.

Her voice was iron-hard. "I'm afraid, Patriarch."

"I know," Patriarch replied quietly. His hearts twisted within his chest.

Now she turned her head, glancing at him sidelong. "Will you stay with me…till the end?"

"Aaah...." He scoffed a bit. "I've got nowhere else I need to be, girl. You know that."

She did not speak, but a slight smile touched her lips. Patriarch had seen the same smile, or one very like it, on Samara's lips not two hours earlier. "Aria, girl...." He hesitated, then drew a breath and continued. "I have no children," he fumbled. "Never was fortunate enough to lie with a fertile female, least that I know of. But…if I had had one, and she had been a daughter…." He paused. "I would have hoped she'd grow up to be a mean-spirited bitch like you."

Aria said nothing in reply, but the trace of the smile on her lips briefly bloomed into a flower of breathtaking beauty. Patriarch reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder. Around them, the station hummed as its internal chronometers ticked the minutes away. In just a few hours, it would be morning.

[*]

As she had promised, Samara came for Aria the next morning.

The atmosphere in the bar had been tense since dawn station-time. Helena Blake had kept her word; the bar was completely empty of civilians. Not even the bartenders and dancers had shown up; instead, Aria was there with her bodyguards, all armed, all ready for anything.

"Gavorn!" Aria had demanded, seeing the turian was notable by his absence. "Where the hell are Gavorn and his men?"

Patriarch had tapped a quick inquiry into his omni-tool. "They're all down on Level 10 cleaning up after yesterday," he'd replied. Aria had said nothing, but her eyes had narrowed in a way that caused those standing close to her to draw back and look pale. Patriarch had the brief thought that he wouldn't care to be Gavorn should Aria live through this.

"Maybe she won't show," Grizzt had suggested hopefully. "Maybe one of the other assassination teams got her." Aria had sent out two more teams last night, with instructions to find Samara and dispatch her. Aria turned on him and raised her hand as if to strike; Grizzt had flinched.

"Then why haven't they reported in, you four-eyed imbecile?" she'd snarled. "No," she'd continued and drawn a breath. "She's coming for me. I can feel it." And she'd gone back to pacing her balcony.

Aria had been right. Exacty seventy-two hours to the minute after Samara had arrived on the station, the door to the bar rolled back with a huge, booming crash. It had been knocked aside on its track with power enough to override the mag-locks. As the echoes of the crash died away, a voice called out, "ARIA T'LOAK!"

It was Samara's voice, tolling like a great bell, swelling, echoing and resounding till it filled every crevice of the bar, hanging in the air like a great, vibrating presence. If the galaxy could speak, Patriarch thought crazily, it would sound like that…. And on the heels of that voice came Samara herself, moving with long, authoritative strides into the very heart of Afterlife itself. "Aria T'Loak!" she cried again, her eyes going to Aria's form, reclining on her balcony. "The time allotted to you is up! This is your last chance—leave the station or die!"

She's glorious, Patriarch thought, staring at Samara's perfect, poised form. She seemed utterly invincible, standing there in the middle of the bar, her biotics glowing around her in corona. Aria's four bodyguards all raised their weapons, but Aria motioned them down. She rose to her feet, the air around her quivering with tension. She took hold of the balcony's railing, looking down on the intruder.

"Justicar Samara." Her voice throbbed with danger. "At last we meet in person. Have you enjoyed your time on my station?"

"This is your station no longer, Aria T'Loak," Samara pronounced. "Your time is over."

"Omega will always be my station," Aria snarled. "Bodyguards—Kill her!"

"Weapons down!" Anto's shout rang in the air. The other bodyguards froze, caught between their boss and their mistress. As Aria turned on him, Anto shrugged regretfully. "Sorry, Aria. I don't like the odds."

Sheer fury leapt across Aria's face, and her biotic corona burst into light. She stretched out one hand, and Anto gave a short, sharp cry: his head jerked on his neck and he collapsed to the ground with a gurgle, then lay still. Aria whirled from the corpse of her late lieutenant to the rest of the guards. "If the rest of you don't shoot her, I'll kill you myself!"

That was apparently good enough for the remaining three bodyguards; they rushed to take up firing positions along the balcony railing. And they were cut down. On the floor below, Samara gestured slightly: two of the bodyguards went flying, hurled off the balcony and into the ceiling so hard that Patriarch could hear their bones cracking inside their bodies, while the third one was pushed backwards by a wave of force, and slammed straight into the wall behind him. He slumped to the ground, lying unnaturally still. Samara did not so much as blink as she turned her attention to Aria.

"I had hoped you would be reasonable," she said regretfully. "But, since you will not…."

She drew back her hand and hurled a massive biotic energy blast straight at the balcony where they stood. Patriarch saw it coming in just enough time to activate his personal shielding; then there was a tremendous booming sound, the ground shuddered and gave way underneath him, and he had the sickening sensation of falling through space. He heard his shields crackle at the impact with the floor, then crackle again as a section of destroyed flooring landed on top of him. He surged up, throwing the chunk of rubble aside with a strength born of desperation. Aria—

Dust filled the air. It took a moment before he could orient himself, but when he did, he spotted Aria, slithering out from underneath a pile of her destroyed seat of power. Her expression was frightening. "Where is she?" she raged. "Where is that justicar bitch?"

"Aria!" At Samara's cry, both their heads snapped up, and Patriarch's breath caught in his throat.

Samara was hanging in mid-air in the center of Afterlife, her biotics flaring and crackling around her. Her eyes were glowing a smooth, pristine white, without iris or pupil. Energy danced up and down her form, shimmering at her fingertips, leaping about her like tongues of fire. Patriarch was only very faintly biotic himself—with the best amps on the market, he was strong enough to perhaps lift a glass of ryncol—but he knew enough to recognize that what she was doing was related to the "biotic charge" ability that human Vanguards had been developing. Nevertheless, the effect was still utterly terrifying. He had never seen anything like it before. Samara seemed like a goddess, like something out of this universe, completely beyond mortal comprehension, and as he huddled in the wreckage below, even his stout krogan hearts quailed within him.

As she hung there, Samara raised her hand and flung another devastating blast of biotic energy at the two of them. It impacted with a shattering concussion, and Patriarch was hurled sideways into a wall. His overstressed shields crackled and gave out, and he felt the thick plating of his skull smash into the hard surface. Shaking the disorientation off almost immediately, he scrambled to his feet and frantically looked around the club's interior, searching desperately for Aria.

He spotted her on the other side of the room from himself. She was climbing out of a pile of wreckage—shattered chairs, tables, and pieces of wall and ceiling—and her expression chilled Patriarch's blood. She was smiling, a fierce, deadly grin made up of excitement, rage, fear, and a supreme, utter recklessness, a willingness to stake everything on one toss of the dice. He had seen her look that way once before.

"I've always wanted to kill a justicar." The words were a low, throaty growl. Her own biotic corona flared to life around her.

And the battle was on.

Patriarch rapidly lost all illusions he might have had about actually being able to help Aria. He had everything he could do just to focus on surviving. The two women traded blast for blast with such speed and force that the bar seemed to be tearing itself apart around them: walls exploded, furniture went flying, computer consoles burst with deadly showers of sparks, whole sections of the ceiling came crashing down in chunks. Later, thinking back on it, Patriarch knew he should have run for the exit—it was open; Samara had torn the door off its hinges on the way in, there was no reason in the world why he couldn't just leave—but somehow it never occurred to him, and even if it had, he couldn't have done it. The fate of Omega—the chunk of rock that had been his home for over five hundred years—was being decided now, here in this bar, the same place that it had been decided over two centuries ago, and he could not look away. All he could do was retreat to a corner, huddling behind an upended table like some damn plateless salarian, and watch the titanic struggle unfolding before him.

Aria was breathtaking. She was there, all there, in a way he had not seen her since their own battle over two hundred years ago. Her biotics burned around her as brightly as a small sun, and she traded blasts and blows with Samara with a dark grin that spoke of a wild exhilaration, the thrill of exerting herself to the utmost against an opponent who was a worthy match. Everything she held dear was hanging in the balance, and she fought with everything she was, everything she had.

And Patriarch could see that it would not be enough.

For if Aria was fire, Samara was ice, cool, restrained, and completely unbreakable. None—not a single one—of Aria's wild, burning strikes reached her: either she simply evaded them, or else they burst harmlessly on the impenetrable wall of her defenses. She did not waste her energy in futile attacks; when she struck, she struck with an absolute economy of force and to devastating effect. Before long, Patriarch could sense that Aria was already beginning to tire; her strikes were growing wilder, more unpredictable, while Samara maintained her effortless, perfect precision. She was exhausting herself fruitlessly against Samara's unbreachable defense.

She's not even trying…. Patriarch's breath caught at the realization. A chill wave engulfed him. Samara's not even trying. She's not using a quarter of her full strength. Maybe even less than that. Samara was demonstrating enormous power, power such as he had never seen. Yet as he watched, a looming sense of restraint overwhelmed him—a sense that despite it all, she was holding back; that the demands of this combat were not even coming close to tapping the true depths of her abilities. He crouched behind the flimsy table he was using as a shield, overcome with awe. Gods above….she's incredible…what she could do….

It ended simply. With a howl of frustration, Aria lashed out with her biotics. She ripped a section of the bar from the floor, hurling it at the justicar with a wild, desperate fury. With a single gesture, Samara brushed the massive chunk of debris aside, sending it shattering against the wall to her left. She reached out. Her hand clenched into a fist, and a wave of violet light suddenly surrounded Aria. Aria's entire body convulsed, as tendrils of the violet glow twined their way from Aria to Samara, wreathing her and sinking into her body. Her agonized, gurgling scream rang in Patriarch's ears, continuing and continuing to ring long after she had fallen silent. When the light died away, Aria collapsed into a twitching heap, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The biotic glow around Samara died. The justicar tilted her head as she regarded the shivering form of her erstwhile enemy. Patriarch dared to rise and creep out from behind his table, clicking his claws on his knife hilt. The sudden silence in the bar was almost deafening.

Samara studied Aria for a moment more, then began to advance on her with long, firm strides. Aria was still trembling helplessly on the shattered floor, but she floundered, struggling to retreat. Samara's expression showed neither pity, nor triumph; there was something terrible about that slow, implacable approach. Closer she drew, closer and closer. Patriarch saw that Aria was almost sobbing in fear, and he was shocked to the core of his being to see it. His own guts churned within him. Aria—Aria, no—Gods and ancestors, girl, I— Yet there was no stopping that deadly advance. Samara drew closer still, until she stepped forward and put one boot on Aria's neck. Aria turned her head, staring directly into his eyes. Her glance of desperate appeal rocked him like a biotic blast.

"Patriarch!" she cried in the voice of a child. "Help me!"

Samara's head came up at once, and her piercing gaze found him. Patriarch froze, held in counterpoise between two sets of eyes, dark and pale, young and old. Aria's eyes held all their long history together, the bonds that held them, knitted together out of blood and pain, loyalty and affection. In Samara's pale eyes, he read different things: restraint. Respect. Power. And a promise, of a sort he could not identify. She would not try to influence his decision, he could see that. But if he did attempt to aid Aria, she would crush him. At once and without mercy.

He hesitated for what felt like eternity, calculating advantages, weighing the balance. At last, he drew a breath. When he spoke, it felt as if the words were being wrenched out of him.

"I'm sorry, Aria," he said quietly. "Not this time."

The expression on her face in those last moments was something he would take to the grave. It slid into him like a knife. Not anger—hurt.Betrayal. Then Samara looked down.

"Find peace in the embrace of the goddess." She twisted her boot. Patriarch looked away, but he heard the crack. Within him, his hearts were breaking. He stared at his talons, as behind him the life went out of what had once been Aria T'Loak.

[*]

Every bone in Patriarch's body seemed to be aching. Slowly, feeling even more like a decrepit cripple than he was, he began to pick his way through the shattered wreckage to the victorious and defeated. Samara did not move, simply watched him approach her. When he reached the two of them, he dropped to one knee. With one talon, he brushed Aria's cheek, then closed her eyes. Standing up again made him feel at least a century older.

"She was none of mine," he murmured. "She wasn't my daughter. Wasn't anything to me, really."

"That does not make it easier."

Startled, he glanced up at Samara, but she gave no sign. Patriarch waited for her to say something such as Thank you for your help, or I couldn't have done it without you—words intended in gratitude that would have stung like whipscoring. She said nothing, and for that he was somehow grateful. Instead she turned away, her eyes roaming over the wreckage of Afterlife.

"You tore this place up," he rasped.

"Indeed." Samara nodded. She said no more, simply continuing to examine the damage.

"So what are you going to do now?" It came out as an accusation; some goad was driving him, perhaps the depths of his own pain. As she turned to look at him, he demanded, "You defeated Aria. By the rules that operate on this chunk of rock, that means you now own the place. So, what are you going to do? You going to stick around, actually do what you said you would earlier? Try to clean things up around here?"

Samara nodded. "Yes. That is my intention—for a while, anyway."

"For a while?" Patriarch demanded.

"For a while," was her only reply. She was still running her eyes over the ruined bar; then her gaze found him and focused. "And you, Patriarch? You said earlier that you could not leave Aria. Yet Aria is now dead, and you are free. What will you do? Will you return home, to Tuchanka?"

Return to Tuchanka… Patriarch felt his jaw tighten. "Tuchanka isn't my home anymore," he said with deep bitterness. "I haven't been back there for five hundred years, and even when I was back there there wasn't much to do anyway. The whole damn place was a ruin." Much like this bar, he thought with a grimace. "Doubt it's changed much in the meantime—and even if it had, there's no place in what passes for krogan society for a beaten old krogan like me, without any krantt or glory to speak of. No," he sighed. "Omega is my home now." And how pathetic is that?

"I see." That slight, startling smile again touched Samara's lips. "I had hoped you would say that."

"You—you did?"

"Of course. You said Omega is mine now—but I do not know how to rule it. Governing is beyond the scope of a justicar's usual duties. And besides…" Her gaze went past the wreckage of Afterlife, up to the station's ceiling, and seemingly out to the stars beyond the thick metal bulkhead. "Shepard's mission is not yet finished," she said quietly.

A shiver ran down Patriarch's spine. Perhaps it was something in the way she spoke, so calmly certain, or the way her eyes slid past him, as if fixed on something only she could see. "You're—you're sure?" he asked her.

Samara nodded, her pale eyes distant. "I can feel it. This is simply a pause…as if the universe is holding its breath. A moment in time, no more. The time will come, before very long, when Shepard calls to me again, summoning me away into danger, and I will go. Because I am sworn, and because…she is my friend." She turned and regarded Patriarch with that penetrating stare. "I will need someone by my side when that time comes. Someone who knows the station, knows how to rule. Who can hold it for me, when I must go, and see that all the good work I do is not undone if I do not survive. Someone strong. Honorable. Both respected, and worthy of that respect." That smile returned again. "Someone like you. If you will. Will you?"

The question hung there. It took Patriarch a moment to realize what she was asking and to overcome his amazement; another to marshal a response.

"I will." As he spoke, he realized that in truth, he'd already agreed; sometime between their first meeting and now, the question had been asked and answered without a word being said. "Hell, I did it for Aria. Might be nice to work for someone who actually has a heart, for a change," he added gruffly. Samara blinked and looked away.

"Perhaps," was all she said. Then she drew a breath and looked back at him.

"What is your name?"

"My…name?" Patriarch frowned.

"Yes. Aria called you 'Patriarch' to mock you. I do not wish to do the same," she replied.

"You mean, you want my…my real name?" He snorted. "I haven't heard or used my real name in so long that I can scarcely remember it. Best keep calling me Patriarch. That's what everyone here knows me as, anyway."

Samara considered for a moment, lowering those intense, pale eyes. "If you think it best," she conceded at last. "Still—I would like to know. For myself."

"For yourself. Very well then." He had a moment of mild panic, suddenly realizing he couldn't actually recall his name, before it came to him. "Urdnot," he said. "Urdnot Kruv."

"Urdnot Kruv." She smiled again, that small smile that somehow seemed to light up the darkest reaches of space. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

She reached out and clasped his hands in the middle of that shattered, ruined bar. It was strange: though Aria lay dead in the rubble along with the last two hundred years of his life, somehow—he couldn't have told how—it felt less like an ending than like….

A new beginning.

Finis.