Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Mass Effect Universe

The Gabby and Ken spinoffs have begun! Where they will end, nobody knows.

A few seconds had been the difference. In those few seconds Okeer should have reached for his protective mask. Instead he'd recorded a message on the terminal by the tank. The laboratory's doors parted and in came Commander Shepard, Zaeed Massani, Mordin Solus and the two Cerberus agents – Lawson and Taylor. They collectively sighed in frustration; Okeer was sprawled before his masterpiece, the life gone from his ancient eyes.

Nothing's changed really, thought Zaeed Massani as a very familiar mission pattern began to once again unfurl in the dying moments of combat. Only difference between now and fifteen years ago is it was a goddamn AI that gave me the news.

The news was that this mission would be a partial success, a mixed blessing, a sweet bowl of punch with only a modest turd thrown in. He'd known what would happen from the moment EDI described Okeer's vital signs as 'fading.' Zaeed knew krogan too well; they were pretty damn stubborn, especially as they aged. Okeer was never going to choose safety over the recording of a dramatic, menacing speech.

The bulk of Blue Sun forces were dead, their hideously undeveloped krogan were dead and the big-mouthed bitch Jedore was dead.

Now Okeer's fucking dead!

Zaeed had once again followed Shepard's orders to perfection and taken the initiative when the situation called for it. Shepard had led him, along with the others, through a merc-infested marathon of shit-smelling foulness few could imagine, on literally the galaxy's trash-hole and they'd be denied the satisfying closure of ticking every mission objective box. What a waste.

Still, gotta look on the bright side I'spose. There's never any harm in lowering the galaxy's Blue Sun count.

Realising that the air in Okeer's lab was safe to breathe, he removed his helmet and brushed the sweat from his uneven brow.

Zaeed was forty, but noticeably aged both inside and out by his experiences. To most he appeared to be a man of fifty, and in the eye of the less flattering beholder, sixty. The short, closely cropped hair on his battered head was iron grey with only thin strips of their youthful black remaining. He was clad in unique, Terminus-fashioned yellow and white armour that left his right arm exposed, not unlike a Roman gladiator. The arm was worn and aged but still strong, covered with grim, dark green tattoos.

Zaeed's haggard, misshapen face told the most interesting tales – far more macabre and miraculous than those in ink on the arm. It looked like a wax sculpture that had long ago been brushed by a flame, dooming its normal human likeness to aesthetic oddity. Flesh appeared to have flared and bubbled in some areas, in others it was cracked and dry. Scars meandered over his face like rusty, neglected train tracks over rolling hills. His eyes were mismatched; the left was small and beady with a sinister dark green colour like the tattoos. The right technically wasn't his, but a silvery grey prosthetic that could easily have been mistaken for a common transplant. Zaeed's current employer was the first man in several years he'd come across with an artificial eye, and the first man he'd ever come across with two. The mercenary had never seen The Illusive Man in person or picture form, but had heard plenty disconcerted and unfavourable whispers from all the Cerberus operatives he'd killed over the years. It was only when Shepard had repeated the story that he had fully believed it. They were unnaturally bright with strangely-patterned irises which added to his mystique and powers of intimidation. But Zaeed really didn't care for such unecessary pretension, and didn't need one of the several reminders of Vido's betrayal on his face to look any prettier; the silvery right eye was a replacement to the green one Vido had blasted out but it got the job done and that was all that mattered. He looked at the tank in the room's far corner.

So that's Okeer's pet project.

It was certainly based on collector technology. The krogan couldn't have been anything but the gently-crafted trophy of a millennia-old madman. Its skin was a garish orange – unmarked; not yet boasting an array of scars, wrinkles and blemishes and not yet the faded, dull yellow of the mature krogan. Its muscles bulged audaciously, veins throbbing with alarming power against the curved encasement of thick and shining armour. Zaeed never thought he'd see a suit of armour this big, or for that matter, a sapient that could fill it to almost excess. That Blood Pack son of a whore Gizzarck may have shat himself and gone down like a whimpering wet-nurse, but he'd still shown up in one hell of a getup. Zaeed didn't pry trophies from just anyone's corpse.

The krogan's eyes were a truly remarkable feature – huge and perfectly round with electric blue irises. The pupils were like two tall black diamonds. But they appeared to be unfocused, and Zaeed wondered what mind if any brewed behind the great orbs. Was this legacy a sleeping monster on the verge of awakening, ready and able to replace the recently-vanquished one curled up and dead on the floor before the tank? Was this massive tank a shimmering glass Pandora's Box, the first and greatest step towards the return of the unstoppable Horde that haunted the dreams of a million traumatised asari matriarchs? Zaeed examined the rock-hard orange skin and saw that the krogan's brow was furrowed, a cleft in the ground from the rumbling of an earthquake. His shining, undeveloped headplate – the feature most accurately showing this creature's young age – looked like a row of smooth stones that tessellated perfectly. It was not yet chipped by combat or adorned with clan paint. Zaeed wondered if he'd ever be able to pull the thing off when it fully developed, even with his best knife stuck in just right. He was disappointed by Okeer's death, furious that Jedore had so easily outwitted the team, but despite his ire, hopeful.

If this kid ain't totally insane, we've found ourselves one hell of an asset.

First there is the blackness of unknowing, of nothingness. Then comes the Voice which instantly melds with your being and begins your completion. The Voice is kind and guiding. It knows all things and will give you its knowledge. The darkness you behold is leavened by a lone, daring pin prick of light. The light swells and shifts, it pulses and throbs as if alive and you realise that it is alive because you are alive. The light blazes and burns and sears your mind's eye, never resting or permitting you to – rest is only for those that have weakened, and you have barely begun at this point.

Your education begins. You see images, hear words, feel feelings. Your senses are tested constantly. The images are innumerable. You see flashes of the past and present, then visions of all possible futures. You see through the eyes of Warlords, heroes of your people as they came and went, leaving their bloody marks on the pages of history. The Voice shows you their memories and triumphs but never their fears. Fear isn't for you, it has no place inside one such as you. Millennia of myth, legend and history flashes in your mind. The levels of clarity vary depending on how the Voice sees fit. Some days you hear Shiagur's unforgettable words and some days you look into the crazed eyes of Veeol , the Lord of Chaos.

But the Voice reminds you that these are but pale imitations, images and nothing more. Sometimes you try to raise a mighty fist to crush the disgusting plate-covered faces and snap the three-tined fringes of the turians. The Voice somehow intervenes, tells you that you are meant for better things. You can't move yet because you're not complete, not yet free.

The Voice speaks again and you know that it is pleased with you. Then it comes without warning. For the first time you know it: pain. It violates you, white-hot daggers stab into your very being, torturing you without mercy and indifferent to the agony you feel. And you cry, weep…you try to writhe but can't because you're immobile. You're currently useless. The scream is there but it never leaves your body so your mind will have to voice it. There is no widening of your large eyes or twitching of your magnificent muscles so your mind; the very thing that allowed you to experience and appreciate the Voice; the very thing that saved you from the blackness and nothingness lets out the scream. Before your loyalty to the Voice wanes it gives its reason.

"You must know this to conquer this. Many before you have failed. They are gone."

You endure the pain for days without reprieve. Your mind screams further and you want to die but you remain right there, trapped in your own head and unable to move.

Then the pain ends and you still exist, so you must have passed the test. You feel like you now know everything there is to know about pain. It's engrained, you just know.

The Voice speaks.

"Our people have always said that the Nathak know blood no matter the womb. For you the womb is this tank. It's not natural but superior."

You don't move because you're not even in the real world, not yet. You're developing; you're in utero; relying on the machines that power the tank and nutrients within the tank. One day you'll be free – birthed but not needing the years of education that sapient babes require, for the Voice gives these things to you. The tank's images delve into your mind and give themselves freely, adding to the rich tapestry that was once but a pin prick of light over the nothingness. You feel emotions and know words and places and people and things. But it is what you don't know and haven't felt – what you must discover for yourself that the Voice declares to be of utmost importance. You have not killed yet but simply must, you have not known a female mate but must.

The education continues. Hours turn to days, days to weeks, weeks to months, months to years but you're only dimly aware of the time. Time isn't a priority. The Voice is in no hurry. You are pleasing to the Voice because you have been made with such painstaking care. Every image given by the tank is understood, every word of advice given by the Voice is remembered.

You are given doses of pain, shown images and you learn all of them with undying diligence. You latch onto the words and images. You familiarise yourself with them. You repeat the words and describe the images in your mind.

Then the Voice tells you that you must see something special. This will be the clearest image yet.

Canrum is the last bastion of the Horde in the waning Glory Days of their Rebellions. It blazes with the ravages of war. The cursed turians – a word that almost makes you retch – have bombed it into a husk of what once was. Ashes swirl without direction in the cruel winds. Flames dance like mocking phantoms over the surface, razing your people and all they hold dear. The eloquent Warlady Shiagur, the fertile female with her armies of subservient men, calls out her final words as the dancing phantoms become an endless flaming tide. The flames wipe out the last of her vanguard. You strain, trying to hear the words but the bombs of the turian bastards are thundering so hard you can't even hear her. The words are spoken but incoherent.

The images change and your anger subsides. These were better times for your people. You're on another planet. You're on a mountain overlooking the land beneath. The Voice has never mentioned this planet's name but you don't care because your people have conquered so many that there's little use in keeping track, you just march on and claim the next one. You study the land beneath the mountain, letting your gaze wonder from the rocky slopes all the way to the horizon. At first you think it's just a featureless, colourless desert. But it ripples, the air fills with thuds so loud they eclipse the turian bombs that destroyed Canrum. You're not looking at a desert. You're not looking at the land at all. You're looking at the Horde, marching off into the distance. Not one speck of land is visible as far as the eye can see. The Horde covers everything. Their numbers are beyond anything you have ever seen, they're like grains of sand on a dune. The Horde grows clearer. Every warrior is armoured and armed to the teeth. You know there must be many clans within this crowd but today they march as one Horde with one battle song that begins to fill the air and drown out even their marching. You beg the Voice for answers.

How can they be defeated?

How can it possibly end?

Then the Voice tells you the most infuriating thing of all. Even the Voice cannot contain its anger, and your intimate joining to the Voice causes you to share in its displeasure. It tells you the tale, bringing up the species you studied years ago in the tank's images. It brings up a name you heard.

"Salarians."

The feeble ones. Short-lived, slight of build, incapable of fighting krogan directly.

"Their weapon was unleashed by the turians."

You know that name well enough, and almost retch again.

The tale is almost done when the Voice finally offers you a single word. You latch onto this word like all the others. You familiarise yourself with it and repeat it in your mind. But this time your zeal is strongest for this is the greatest curse you will ever know. This word carries more history than the most scholarly asari matriarch, more weight than all the planets of the DMZ, more power that the greatest of the Tuchanka-born Maws.

"Genophage."

Anger rises in you as the Voice gives you the word. It has for so long been called the bane of the krogan, the scar we all bear as punishment for the rebellion – they call it the downfall of the Horde and all its dwindling descendants. But then the Voice tells you something you did not expect. The genophage ended the weak and left only the strong, of which you are the pinnacle. You will carry the genophage.

"Defy the blasted turians and salarians and wear it like a badge of honour!"

Your anger turns to pride and eventually arrogance. You love it, you are the evolution of your people. The Horde is a thing of the past. It exists only in the pages of history and there it will stay because in the future there is no Horde, there is only…you.

You will eliminate the need for another Horde. You possess all of their strengths and none of their weaknesses. You are the greatest thing the genophage ever caused. The turians and their cowardly salarian puppets will regret ever unleashing their little bioweapon. The genophage led to only the strong surviving.

It led to you.

The Voice speaks again. You are complete. The Voice is pleased, even joyous.

Then the Voice turns strangled and husky. The foundations of your whole world shake. Is this weakness? It speaks to another, you are envious. Endless wisdom and all power held by the Voice has been shared with another – Shepard.

"If I knew why the collectors wanted humans, I'd tell you."

The Voice speaks your name in its final words, letting you know the final detail, your own name. You are a legacy but have not been named as such. You are a perfect and pure krogan but will never be named as such.

"This…Grunt."

'Grunt.' It's simple, powerful and memorable. The name Grunt is brief enough to fully grace the lips of awestruck enemies in their final moments. So brief it can never be interrupted by the bombs of the turian bastards.

The Voice is silent for days. Everything changes.

The safety of your cell is compromised. All confines break open. Dreams, shadows of the past and the words of long-dead krogan will not suffice in this single moment. All you need are your survival instincts, you may be under attack. Light – real light in its far more potent and intrusive form invades your mind's eye – no – your real eyes. Your lids flutter and you blink rapidly in an attempt to adapt to this change.

The Voice is gone, it's not coming back.

You are grateful for the images because they prepared you for this – the emptying of the tank. Finally all your actions are physical, tangible. You feel your limbs spring free and move. They're huge; tree trunks from the Tuchanka rainforests of old. You could snap a Nathak with these hands. Your organs flare up and live at last, primary, secondary and tertiary. Three hearts pound like the feet and battle songs of the Horde. Six lungs try but fail to suck in air but there's something in your mouth. You choke and spit out the now-useless nutrient liquid. Choking is a weakness. You hate weakness, weakness has not been a part of you since the Voice gave the pain and you cried pathetically. Your eyes see not tank-issued images of the past or visions of the future but reality as it truly is here and now. You know what this place is – the Voice taught you well and the images were always clear enough. You're in the cargo hold of a starship of human design.

Humans – bipedal mammals that live an average of 150 years; stronger but less agile than asari, longer-lived and stronger but less intelligent than salarians, most comparable to turians or drell physically, capable of wielding biotic power but never naturally.

You have only a few seconds to process this. Your three hearts beat strongly, causing your veins throb against the armour which almost feels tight around you. You don't yet see the armour but you know it's magnificent. No other krogan could wear your armour – it's too big.

Your quickly-clearing eyes swivel up and you see more than the room's lower half and metal-panelled floor. You see one of the humans aboard the starship. It's opened your tank, it's birthed you, but you feel no endearment or kinship for it. The human is a fool. You can't see a single weapon or armour plate on it. It must think you're here to talk. It can't know the strength of your desire to kill. What you feel is not the legendary Blood Rage, only the pounding of three hearts, the adrenaline rush and the ragged breaths, courtesy of your six lungs.

This is an ordinary rage, nothing more than a standard krogan survival instinct. You move with the speed and power the Voice always knew you were capable of and have no trouble grabbing the pathetic human and pinning it against the wall opposite. Every one of your physical qualities has worked in accordance with the Voice's desire.

The human doesn't even bother squirming; he's one jerk of your arm away from a snapped neck. With him firmly in place and not going anywhere unless you decide; you utter your first real words and relish them because you're once again reciting the truths of the Voice.

"Human. Male."

I know what you're thinking. This is done in a totally different tone to Gabby and Ken. I want a realistic portrayal and development of these characters and couldn't do it in the laugh-a-minute bawdiness of Gabby and Ken. Rest assured there will be humour here, but a Grunt and Zaeed story in my mind was always going to be more of a black comedy.

This story may be my central focus for a while now. I'm suddenly finding myself gifted with plenty of free time but writer's block over the others, but feel free to read them if you haven't yet and want more context.