Can't save everyone

A little alternate direction the story could've taken, quickly resolving the situation in Lia'Vael's favor. Think of it as Mordin's Paragon Interrupt. It assumes that Mordin steps in before the Turians get very far. Kudos to the anonymous /v/ author.



"Chafing."

A voice, barely a whisper, issued from the darkness behind the Turians as they huddled around the Quarian.

"What in the," the other man said, as he spun to investigate the source of the noise.

The faint, illuminated outline of an omni-tool flickered on and off just before the Turian burst in to flames. His screams and the intensity of the blaze caused the other Turian to draw back in horror and surprise.

Standing up from behind a gray, pill-shaped dumpster, the red-and-white visage of an aged Salarian came in to view, his features glowing orange in the light the flames provided as the immolated Turian danced about in a panic.

"Holy shit," the remaining criminal exclaimed, terrified, his hand shooting to his side to grab at the pistol holstered at his waist.

A gunshot rang out. The round struck the wall near the Turian's head as he stood over Lia'Vael.

"Freeze," the Salarian said, his omni-tool once again activating as he held out his free arm in the direction of the panicking Turian.

The flames went out with a hiss, vapor swirling in to the air. The glowing embers that were once the Turian's body-plates instantly froze from the Bose-Einsteinian condensate that issued from Mordin's device.

"Stop", the Salarian said with great finality, turning his attention to the remaining criminal. Mordin's omni-tool flickered again.

The Turian brought his weapon up, the barrel sliding out from its idle position. Before he could ready it, however, he was struck square in the chest by a bolt of purple electricity that arced from the Salarian's outstretched arm.

His back arched in pain. His body twitched in agony. His pistol fell from his hand. He tried to scream, but his efforts only produced a gargle from the saliva in his throat. He had no more control over his own body than he had over the situation.

Mordin advanced quickly on the immobilized Turian. Along the way, and without diverting his attention from his prey, he stuck a leg out at his side, causing the Turian's frozen accomplice to tip over and fall.

Mordin inhaled sharply through his nostrils as the sound of shattering ice behind him filled the alleyway.

“Shouldn't have done that,” he said, pressing the barrel of the M-6 against the underside of the Turian's quaking jaw.

“Envirosuits tough, but shouldn't be removed. Quarians prone to sickness. Infection. Weakened immune-systems.”

The Turian's ears buzzed with a ringing sound. He could see the Salarian's lips moving, but he could barely hear him.

“Faceplates part of suit. Tinted for UV-protection, color a matter of personal taste. Form and function, form and function.”

Mordin's face twisted up in a pleased smile, his yellowed teeth visible from behind his curved lips.

“Not protection against you, though. Too ugly. What do humans say? Ah! Yes. Ugly tree. Hit every branch on the way down.”

Mordin teased the trigger of the gun with his index finger as his mind raced, albeit efficiently, with thought.

“Quarians, not helpless. Know one. Quite the engineer. Always working. Always thinking. Let's see. What does she think of this?”

Lia'Vael looked up in to Mordin's black, red-rimmed eyes as he gestured at her with a shake of his head. She stammered, scrambling to find her words.

“Angry. I...I just wanted a job. He...they tricked me” she said, slowly helping herself to her feet.

Standing up, the Quarian took a couple of steps away from the confrontation, wringing her hands nervously as she watched.

“Pitiful,” Mordin repeated, refocusing his attention on the Turian. “Quarian on Pilgrimage. Needs employ. Needs job. You take advantage of her! Sad, really. Should reconsider lifestyle, philosophy. Too late for that? Who knows. Let's see. What to do, what to do.”

“Some money would be be nice,” Lia'Vael said, her voice tremulous and quiet. “His money.”

Mordin looked up in to the Turian's stunned eyes

“Recompense. Yes. Fitting. Take what he wouldn't give you. Good, good. Check pockets. Credits, credit-chits.”

“Credit-chits,” Lia'Vael droned, reminded of her humiliating run-in with that terrible Volus.

Stepping up to the stunned Turian, the Quarian went through his belongings with a shaking but assured hand.

“Gun, too.” The Salarian looked at her and smiled warmly.

“Okay,” she said nervously taking the firearm from the Turian's side and returning her to her safe-spot several feet away.

“Well. Glad we would clear this up,” Mordin said.

Bracing the Turian firmly by the neck, Mordin struck him sharply in the groin with the butt of his pistol. A pained wheeze escaped from the criminal's mouth as he collapsed.

As he walked away, Mordin kneeled to examine the ice-sculpture that was now the Turian's accomplice.

“Friend not dead. Shoulder fractured. Arm quite gone.” He inhaled sharply.

“Hospital necessary.”

The Salarian looked to his side, taking careful notice of the woman walking at his side.

“Medi-Gel?”

Mordin held out his arm to the Quarian, his omni-tool glowing.

"Stabilize immune-system until we arrive. Have good ship, good crew. Heard of Shepard?"

Lia'Vael's face brightened.

He smiled.