One For The Road

We're drinking my friend,

To the end… of a brief episode.

So make it one for my baby,

And one more for the road.

Old Blue-Eyes' lyrics crooned out over the Normandy's sound-system, flowing around the observation deck like musical liquid, filling my soul to the point of overflowing. For the seventh or eighth time that night, I found myself choking up, and for the seventh or eighth time I swirled the amber nectar around in my glass, watching the light play across its surface before downing it in one. The first three had been harsh on my throat—bourbon tasted like pigswill, but it was the only whiskey I had on board—but now it slid easily down my throat. Too easily.

"One for the road, Mordin," I mumbled, pouring myself another generous measure.

The room had started spinning around the sixth glass, and now, on the ninth, it threatened to reel completely out of control. I rested my forehead against my arm across the bar and closed my eyes to steady myself. As I did, images came flashing across my mind, cold and bright, preserved so perfectly in my memory… so perfectly that not even nine glasses of bourbon could scour them away.

The whole building shook, rocked by a series of explosions. The death-throes of the Reaper were violent; it fought even as it was dragged beneath the surface of Tuchanka by Kalros, the planet's ancient and massive thresher-maw protector. Large slabs of rock fell from the damaged ceiling above, the floor began to buckle, and amidst it all stood Mordin Solus, calm and unflappable as ever. He programmed the elevator to take him to the top of the Shroud and, sensing my forthcoming protest, turned to look at me.

"My project. My work. My cure. My responsibility. Won't be coming back. Suggest you get clear. Explosions likely to be problematic."

There was so much I wanted to say. How grateful I was to him for all he'd done, how much I appreciated his advice—whether solicited or not—how sorry I was that I'd taken him for granted, simply assuming that he'd always be there to provide me with some amazing new breakthrough. How much I admired his conviction, his dedication, his resourcefulness… his Gilbert and Sullivan adaptations. But the Shroud was collapsing around us; I was out of time, and mere words were not enough. Words would have made a mockery of our friendship.

"I'm sorry," I said, because I couldn't say goodbye. I did farewells, so longs and see you laters, but never goodbyes. Goodbye was too permanent. It hurt too much.

"I'm not. Had to be me." Mordin blinked those large black eyes… I swear, he winked at me. "Someone else might have gotten it wrong."

The elevator doors closed, and he was gone. The world continued to crumble around me, and all I could do was stand there and think, 'It shouldn't have to end like this. He deserves more.'

By the time my own common sense kicked in, the elevator was halfway to the control room. Though I forced my body to move, my mind was with Mordin, ascending to the sky, keeping him company as he bore his cross upon his back to his final resting place. I pictured him humming his favourite tune, perhaps tapping his foot to keep the beat, completely calm despite the worrying way the Shroud creaked and groaned as if suffering agonising birthing pains.

There was never any question about whether he would get the job done. Mordin was the kind of guy to pursue his goals relentlessly, and I knew he'd worked too hard and for too long on this cure to let something as trivial as a death-fight between a thresher-god and a Reaper stop him. Collapsing building? Barely a minor inconvenience, to a man like Mordin Solus, scientist salarian, genetics genius and STG veteran.

I stood with the rest of our armoured convoy, looking up at the Shroud. It began to change colour as the cure took effect, winding its way through the atmosphere, healing completely the genophage which had ravaged the Krogans, giving birth to a new era for Tuchanka. I smiled. Mordin had done it once again. With his success, the Krogans would agree to fight the Reapers. My chances of freeing Earth, of freeing the entire galaxy from their damn synthetic grasp, increased tenfold. Today, the future was a little brighter.

Then the control tower exploded, and glass rained down upon the ground.

The empty glass slid from my hand, shattering on the floor, but I was too exhausted and too drunk to curse. Today, a great man had died. He was a soldier. A scientist. A hero. My friend. Now just a footnote in the history books. Well, I would make damn sure he was an important footnote. His achievements and his sacrifice would not go unsung. He might not have been a human, but he was a member of my crew. His name would join the others on the plaque, so that even if I didn't survive what was to come, Normandy would never forget him.

It was the very least I could do for the man who'd saved my life.