MD III-6: Wrex

July 24, 2179 | 

2436 DP-C5-2I GST (Galactic Standard Time)

Kev adjusted his position, the heat pressing down on him like a goddamn anvil. Armor chafed, dust clung to his visor, and the air had that dry, recycled taste that made his mouth feel like he’d been chewing sandpaper. The ridge they’d posted up on wasn’t great cover, but it was high enough to get a good look at the facility. Krellin Base shimmered in the distance, warping at the edges where the heat rolled off the cracked ground.

“Command says triple pay,” Torres muttered, static fuzzing the edges of his voice through the comm. His helmet was already streaked with gray, dust and dirt both, blue Suns paint barely showing through. “Should’ve asked why.”

“Why? Why’s always the same, Nothing else it could be,” Naughton answered with a scoff, the man checking his ammo block out of habit. “Credits and someone else’s problem.”

Kev grunted as he shifted his grip on his own rifle, eyes scanning the horizon for threats. “Triple pay usually means triple problems.”

“Cut the chatter,” Brakk’s voice crackled through the comm, the batarian commander more on edge than the man usually was. “Intel confirms only one guard.”

“One?” Kev frowned. That didn’t sound right, not for an op like this.

“One krogan,” Torres muttered, clearly unsettled too.

“Odds I like,” Brakk cut in. “One dumb overgrown lizard with no backup means one big-ass body left to rot in the sand. We’ve got three squads, air support, and full mech deployment on him.”

Kev had been with the Suns long enough—five years, three major campaigns, and enough close calls to fill a batarian drinking ballad—to know when something felt wrong. His gut had kept him alive when smarter, faster mercs ended up cooling in the dirt. “That krogan got a name?”

Brakk was silent for nearly a half-minute, the silence only unsettling Kev more. Then, the Batarian finally spoke and it hit like a punch to the gut. “…Urdnot Wrex.”

Fuck. A sharp hiss left Kev’s mouth.

Everyone knew that name. Everyone with sense feared it.

Torres swore under his breath. “I didn’t sign up for a suicide run.”

“Shut it,” Brakk snapped. “He’s just one krogan. Ancient history. Move out.”

Kav gritted his teeth, forcing himself to check his rifle instead of thinking about how bad this suddenly felt, forcing himself just as hard to ignore the dryness in his mouth. Just another job. Just another payday.

The first YMIR mech made groundfall off the combat shuttle with a heavy thud, hydraulics hissing as the blue-painted mech unfolded to its full height of three meters. Dust swirled around its metal feet as two more followed, flanked by FENRIS and LOKI units quickly overtaking the lumbering mechs and spreading out in programmed patterns.

Perfect containment formation.

The plan was simple: mechanized units first, draw out the target, Blue Suns squads flanking from multiple positions. Air support ready to clean up whatever remained.

Torres’s voice crackled through Kev’s comm. “Who’s got eyes on the lizard?”

No one answered as their scouting drones swept the perimeter, sensors already scanning for the krogan’s massive heat signature.

Nothing.

The facility was silent as ever as prefab walls baked in the sun, dust gathering in the corners and edges of the corporate base. No movement. No sign of the target.

“Maybe he’s napping,” Kev muttered.

Brakk’s voice cut through. “Forward units, breach on my mark.”

The first LOKI mech approached the main door. Its metal fingers worked the lock.

The sky above darkened.

Not clouds.

A shadow.

Something massive blocked the sun.

“Above!” someone shouted.

Kev looked up and the merc felt his blood go cold as ared blur descended like a meteor.

The krogan hit the ground with force like a small meteor, the earth buckling beneath him like he simply mattered more. A shockwave rippled outward like an entire explosion, dust and rock exploding in all directions. The YMIR mech closest to the impact point simply… collapsed. 

Not destroyed. Flattened. 

Like something had crushed three tons of military-grade alloy into a metal pancake.

Then the dust cleared.

Urdnot Wrex stood in the crater, a massive red hammer gripped in one hand. The weapon hummed with blue energy, mass effect fields working in triplicate visibly distorting the air around it. His blood-red armor bore the scars of a thousand battles, each plate telling its own story of survival. The krogan’s mouth split into something between a smile and a snarl, revealing teeth that could crush bone.

“Blue Suns.” His voice rumbled like distant artillery. “I was getting bored.”

Brakk’s voice crackled through the comm, panic bleeding through the commander’s usual tight control. “Open fire! All units, open fucking fire!”

The remaining mechs reacted first, targeting systems locking on. The LOKI units peppered the krogan with rifle fire. The FENRIS rushed up towards him with a mechanical whine.

Bullets pinged off Wrex’s shields and barrier both, creating a flickering blue halo around his massive form. The old krogan didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Just stood there, letting them waste ammunition.

His smile widened.

“My turn.”

Kev felt it before he saw it – a shift in air pressure, as biotic energy gathered around the krogan in rippling waves.

Then Wrex moved.

For something so massive, he shouldn’t have been that fast. One moment he stood in the crater, the next he was a blur of motion, hammer already swinging toward the nearest FENRIS.

The impact wasn’t just physical. It was wrong – like the laws of physics took a vacation. The hammer connected with a sound that wasn’t quite a sound – more a feeling that rattled teeth and vibrated through bone. Mass effect fields collapsed and reformed in an instant.

The Fenris didn’t break. It unmade. Metal tore not just from simple force but from several synced and amplified mass fields. Half the mech simply ceased existing in its original form, converted into superheated shrapnel that cut through three LOKI units behind it.

“Holy shit,” Torres whispered through the comm.

Brakk’s sniper scope wavered, crosshairs dancing across the approaching krogan. The batarian’s breath caught. His three remaining squadmates huddled behind the overturned transport, weapons clutched with white-knuckle desperation.

“That’s him,” Sarrok hissed, mandibles tight against his turian face. “Urdnot fucking Wrex.”

First shot missed. Brakk’s finger slipped. Sweat or blood, didn’t matter now. The second YMIR stomped towards Wrex, each footfall shaking loose pebbles from Brakk’s perch. Stupid machine walking to its death.

Wrex just stood there. Waiting. Hammer dangling loose but not careless. Nothing about the krogan was careless.

“Shoot, you worthless sack of shit,” Harak spat through clenched teeth.

Brakk’s third shot hit. Perfect placement, right shoulder joint. Should’ve pierced armor. Should’ve at least made the bastard flinch.

Wrex didn’t blink.

Rifle fire registered somewhere distant in Wrex’s mind. Irrelevant. Annoying. Like insects buzzing around a varren.

The approaching YMIR drew his focus. Cannon arm spinning up, targeting systems locking on to his bulk. The weapon vibrated against his palm, already learning, already syncing with his heartbeat. Core adjusting. Preparing.

Finally. Something real to hit. It had been months since he had actually gotten a real job, something worth unclipping the beast of a hammer from his back. The boy had called it the Thunder Hammer, but the way the thing roared was like a group of young Thresher Maws roaming together… 

That in mind, he could it only call it his Pride. 

Centuries of combat and it was entirely new. Not stolen, not salvaged, not taken from dead enemies. His. Built for his hand, his style, his rage. The human had understood something about krogan warriors that even most krogan forgot.

The mech lumbered closer. Wrex let it come.

“The fuck is wrong with him?” Torres hissed. “Why isn’t he—”

Static swallowed the rest as Wrex moved. Not the blind charge they expected. Something worse.

Wrex lifted the hammer with slow deliberation. Blue energy gathered, distorting the air like heat waves. His scarred face showed nothing but concentration.

Then down.

The hammer fell. Simple. Casual. Dismissive.

Space broke.

The YMIR collapsed inward. Metal shrieked as mass effect fields twisted physics beyond tolerance. Armor peeled back, components crushing into each other in ways materials shouldn’t move.

What remained didn’t look like a mech anymore, just a twisted, mangled hunk of alloy at least a third the thing’s original size.

Wrex laughed, breaking what would otherwise be a silent battlefield, the sound cutting through stalled comms and frozen thoughts. “LOOK AT IT!” His voice boomed across the rocks. “A weapon WORTHY of a battlemaster!”

Battle-lust surged through the krogan’s blood as the hammer hummed alongside his laughter, as hungry as its wielder. That human—Victors—had seen something in Wrex that even he’d forgotten. It was almost like he built this thing to amplify his instincts, not just follow commands. 

His Pride felt alive.

Movement caught the krogan’s eyes as the Blue Suns began to scurry for cover, trying to regroup and already setting crossfire. Smart.

Still useless, though

Biotic energy gathered around the battlemaster naturally as breathing as he raised his Pride high. The hammer’s tertiary core pulsed, integrating, enhancing. Urdnot Wrex bellowed a battle-roar younger generations of Krogan had likely never hear.

A second later, he released everything at once as he brought the hammer down, kinetic and biotic force rushing out.

The pressure change hit Kev first. Ears popping, skull squeezing. The shockwave followed, visible distortion racing across broken ground.

Kev dove. Too slow.

The wave caught him. His eyes went wide behind his helmet as gravity let go and his body lifted, weightless, for a single heartbeat.

Then everything slammed back. He hit the ground like a batarian mining hammer. Ribs cracked and armor split, the taste of iron filling his mouth as he gagged on blood

Through swimming vision he saw his squad as armor plates folded inward. Bodies compressed. Meat and metal becoming one twisted sculpture.

His comm erupted with screams.

“—can’t stop—” “—Spirits save—” “—WHERE’S THE FUCKIN’ SHIP?—”

Wrex walked through it all as those able to scattered in fear, hammer resting on one shoulder, a skilled warrior fighting the equivalent of toddlers. “That all you got?” the krogan projected his voice across the field, feeling the hammer pulse eagerly in his grip. “Not even WARMED UP!”

Movement flickered from the left ridge. Wrex caught it immediately; rocket launcher, human merc setting up the shot. Good position. Smart angle. The missile streaked toward him, white contrail cutting through dust-thick air, closing fast.

Still useless.

The hammer’s grip shifted before conscious thought formed. Sensors picked up micro-adjustments in his fingers, weapon already responding to intention rather than action.

He swung as the rocket closed, timing perfect without trying. The hammer connected with the warhead mid-flight, mass effect fields colliding with explosive ordinance. Reality buckled in the space between. The rocket didn’t detonate—worse. It unraveled completely, components separating as conflicting gravitational forces pulled it apart at the molecular level. Fuel atomized, casing disintegrated. Flash of heat, brief light, then nothing but scattered particles.

Wrex’s gaze tracked the contrail back to its source. The human merc fumbled with his launcher, trying to reload with fingers gone clumsy from fear. Too slow. Always too slow.

The battlemaster gathered biotic energy with practiced ease, feeling it coil around his limbs, his core, his nervous system. The hammer responded, tertiary mass effect core pulsing in sync with his biotic nodes. The weapon didn’t just channel his power—it reshaped it, refined what was raw into something focused, directed. Like nothing he’d ever wielded before.

Legs tensed. Senses narrowed to predatory focus. He launched upward.

Torres watched it happen, words dying in his throat. One heartbeat: Wrex standing, hammer at his side. Next: seven hundred kilograms of krogan battlemaster suspended in air, blue corona surrounding his form, defying gravity with contemptuous ease.

He’d fought alongside asari commandos, even seen turian cabalists in action during his ten years with the Suns. Their biotics twisted physics, bent reality. This wasn’t that. This wasn’t anything the mercenary could process. Wrex didn’t just jump—he violated reality, mass and momentum distorting around him as he launched twenty meters up, then forward in an arc that screamed impossibility.

The impact registered first as vibration. Ground shook like a mining charge had detonated, rocks chattering against each other, dust exploding outward from the point of impact. When it settled, Wrex stood in a fresh crater. The rocket trooper was gone. Not dead. Not injured. Simply erased from existence, matter dispersed by forces no organic mind was built to comprehend.

“Spirits help us,” Torres whispered as his rifle slipped from nerveless fingers. Wrex looked up, finding him despite the distance. Eyes ancient and predatory locked onto his. The krogan’s scarred face split into a grin with too many teeth.

Torres ran without conscious decision to do so.

Another Blue Suns squad tried flanking left, six mercenaries moving with coordinated precision. Professional. Disciplined. Wrex appreciated that—made what came next more satisfying. They fought with the efficiency of soldiers who’d trained together, trusted each other. That kind of cohesion deserved respect. Wouldn’t save them.

Wrex swept the hammer in a sideways arc, almost casual. Distorted gravity rippled outward, a visible wave through superheated air. Two mercs caught the edge of the effect—their armor buckled inward with wet snapping sounds as mass effect fields manipulated density beyond materials’ tolerance. Their screams pitched high then animal-low, bodies folding in ways evolution never intended.

The remaining four kept firing despite watching their squadmates collapse. Bullets sparked harmlessly against Wrex’s barrier, kinetic energy absorbed, redirected, feeding back into the hammer’s cores. The weapon hummed against his palm, eager for more.

He laughed, deep and genuine. “NOW WE’RE TALKING!” The sound echoed across broken stone as he charged.

Brakk tracked the krogan through his tactical visor, trying to process what he was seeing. Ancient battlefield instinct wielded with surgical precision, centuries of biotic mastery focused to lethal purpose. And something new—something wrong. The hammer trailed blue fire as Wrex moved, fields interacting with atmosphere to create visible distortion.

“Fall back!” Brakk’s voice cracked over the comms, discipline fracturing under pressure. “ALL UNITS FALL BACK! RETREAT TO EXTRACTION ZONE!”

Too late for Third Squad. Wrex reached their position in seconds, crossing ground faster than anything that size had any right to move. The hammer rose, fell—not wild with battle-rage but calculated, controlled. The ground beneath six trained killers simply gave way. Perfect four-meter circle of dirt and rock collapsing, twisting inward, taking the mercs with it.

Their screams cut off with sickening abruptness. Comms filled with static, then chaos.

The operation shattered. No longer a mission, no longer a fight—just survivors scrambling for escape. Brakk heard his own voice, high and desperate: “GET ME AIR SUPPORT! WHERE’S THE GUNSHIP?!”

The Mantis gunship appeared over the eastern ridge like an answer to forgotten prayers. Heavy cannon under its nose, missile pods loaded on both wings, reinforced hull plating. A killer in its own right, designed for atmospheric superiority operations.

Wrex’s blood quickened at the sight. Finally, something worthy of the hammer.

The craft banked hard, weapons systems spinning up to firing velocity. Cannon fire stitched dirt around Wrex’s position, kicking up stone and dust. Targeting laser swept across his armor as missile systems acquired lock.

The krogan didn’t move. Didn’t take cover. Didn’t even raise his barriers higher. He just waited, letting the gunship commit to its attack run. The battlemaster’s natural biotics intertwined with the weapon’s fields, strength and finesse merging into something greater than either alone.

The pilot must have sensed something wrong—craft suddenly banked sharply left, breaking target lock, thrusters straining as it tried to gain altitude.

Too slow.

Wrex launched skyward, propelled by biotic force channeled and amplified through the hammer.

Kev watched the impossible unfold. Krogan aren’t supposed to fly. Aren’t built for mid-air course correction. Definitely aren’t meant to intercept gunships with their bare hands.

But Wrex did all three, blue corona surrounding his massive form as he shot upward, hammer extended before him like some ancient boarding weapon. The gunship tried desperately to evade, banking hard, thrusters screaming as they pushed beyond safety parameters.

The krogan adjusted trajectory. Mid-flight. Like physics was a suggestion rather than law.

Impact.

The sound reached Kev a half-second later—not an explosion but something deeper, more fundamental. A resonant boom that vibrated through bone marrow and liquefied internal organs.

The gunship’s hull buckled inward where the hammer struck, metal deforming beyond structural limits. Systems failed in cascading sequence as mass effect fields disrupted everything—stabilizers, weapons, thrust control. Port wing crumpled like paper.

Most horrifying wasn’t the impact but what followed: Wrex clung to the dying ship, hammer buried in its side, riding the vessel down as it spiraled toward earth. His laughter—genuine, joyful laughter—carried across the battlefield. The sound wormed into Kev’s brain deeper than any war cry or death threat he’d ever heard.

The ship hit half a kilometer away, carving a trench through hard-packed dirt and shattered rock. Flames erupted from torn fuel lines, black smoke climbing toward an indifferent sky.

Silence fell across the battlefield. Mercenaries froze in place, weapons forgotten, eyes fixed on the wreckage.

Then, through billowing smoke—a silhouette. Wrex emerged unhurried, hammer resting on one shoulder, stride purposeful but relaxed. His armor was scorched but intact. No limp. No hesitation. Not a single sign the crash had affected him at all.

The remaining Suns scattered toward extraction points, all semblance of military discipline abandoned. Training replaced by blind animal panic. Wrex watched them flee with predatory amusement. He could kill them all, of course. Probably should. But survivors had value beyond their deaths. Stories spread. Fear propagated. Terror infected others who hadn’t even witnessed the battle.

Movement caught his peripheral vision—lone batarian hiding behind a boulder, rifle clutched in four-fingered hands that trembled visibly even at distance. Wrex approached unhurried, each footfall deliberate, giving the merc time to recognize his fate.

The batarian looked up as shadow fell across him, four eyes widening as survival instinct warred with training.

“Going somewhere?” Wrex’s voice rumbled between them, harmonics carrying layers of amused contempt.

The batarian raised his rifle on instinct, the motion so futile it approached comedy. Wrex laughed, the sound vibrating the air between them. “Good instincts. Bad judgment.” He gestured toward the horizon with the hammer’s head, blue energy trailing the movement. “Tell your boss this facility’s under Urdnot protection now. Next time, I won’t be feeling so generous.”

The merc’s throat worked, struggling to form words through fear-dry mouth. “We’re leaving. Right now.”

Wrex nodded, genuinely pleased with the answer. “Smart for a Blue Sun.” The hammer pulsed once, mass effect fields gathering, coalescing. “But your friends need motivation to move faster.”

A casual flick of his wrist sent focused biotic shockwave toward the main group of retreating mercs. The ground beneath them erupted, bodies tossed skyward like toys. None dead—just reminders of how close they stood to oblivion, how completely their lives depended on his momentary whim.

“Tell whoever hired you,” Wrex called after the fleeing batarian, voice pitched to carry, “next time, spend credits on something smarter than Blue Suns. Like a decent funeral.”

Kev ran without looking back, lungs burning, armor chafing against sweat-soaked undersuit. Another impact shook the ground beneath his boots. Another shockwave rolled through his bones. The comms dissolved into chaos—orders contradicting orders, pleas for extraction, prayers to gods who had no business on this planet.

Through it all, that sound pursued him. Low, rumbling krogan laughter. The sound of a predator enjoying the hunt more than the kill.

Shuttles banked sharply overhead, pilots assessing the carnage below. One veered off immediately, abandoning its pickup entirely, survival instinct overriding duty and protocol.

“Just one krogan,” Torres gasped through blood-wet comms, words strained through what had to be punctured lungs. “Just one. Fucking. Krogan.” His thoughts weren’t of the triple pay anymore, or even survival. They drifted to his sister on Illium, who’d warned him about life with the Suns. About becoming another nameless corpse on a forgotten planet. 

She’d been right, and he’d never get to tell her so.

Wrex surveyed the devastation as the last shuttle vanished into atmosphere, contrails dissipating against clear sky. The hammer cooled against his palm, weight perfectly distributed, techs and neural systems integrated completely with his combat style.

The human weaponsmith had exceeded every expectation. Created something that understood how a krogan battlemaster fought, how the old ways lived in blood and bone. Something that amplified rather than restricted, enhanced strengths instead of compensating for weaknesses.

Worth every credit he’d paid. Worth twice that.

A satisfied rumble built in his chest as he tested the weapon’s balance one last time. The sound wasn’t from the killing—though that had been satisfaction enough. But from finding a weapon truly worthy of his skills after centuries of making do. Something built not just for any krogan, but for him specifically.

The hammer pulsed once more in his hand, as if agreeing with the unspoken thought. Wrex’s scarred face split into a grin wider than before.

“Not bad,” he murmured to no one and nothing, “for a human.”

The battlefield fell silent except for distant moans of the wounded and dying. Fire crackled from the downed gunship, metal cooling and contracting with sharp pings. The hammer hummed against his palm, eager for more but content for now.

Fear was a currency as valuable as credits in the Terminus Systems. Sometimes more so.

And Urdnot Wrex had just made a very substantial deposit.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

November 2, 2179 | 

2436 DP-C5-3G GST (Galactic Standard Time)

Zedd sat with one leg pulled up onto the chair, elbow resting on his knee as his omnitool cast a royal blue light onto his fingers. He wasn’t really looking at anything on the display, just skimming half-attentively through open tabs and reports, more out of habit than necessity. The numbers and projections blurred together, just another set of problems to solve. His mind kept drifting, pulled toward the empty space Nina had left this morning, toward the one Kira was about to leave in a few days.

They had lives outside of him.

That was a good thing.

Objectively.

But the house felt too quiet already.

Not in a way that mattered. Not in a way that affected anything tangible. But still.

Behind him, Kai Leng stood at the threshold of the balcony, silent, motionless. Zedd had gotten used to his presence over the past few months—used to the way the man moved like a shadow, always in the periphery, never obtrusive, never speaking unless necessary. He had to admit, as far as personal security went, the guy did his job well. Better than expected. But right now, the weight of another person just standing there, watching over him like some human fail-safe, made his skin itch.

Zedd exhaled through his nose, tilting his head back against the chair, watching as the sky bled darker.

Then—

“Boss,” ADAM’s voice broke through the quiet, smooth and precise as ever. “There’s an applicant for the assistant position that passed all primary filters.”

Zedd blinked, sluggish from the inertia of his own thoughts. “Huh?”

“A candidate,” ADAM clarified. “For the role of executive assistant. The one you authorized three days ago.”

Zedd frowned slightly. Oh. Right. That. He had done that, hadn’t he? It had been one of the first things Nina insisted on as soon as she told him she was going to school. Someone got past in three days? He’d barely glanced at the logistics, just signed off on ADAM handling it. He hadn’t really expected anything to come of it this fast.

He swiped at the air lazily, pulling up the file. His eyes skimmed past the basics first—qualifications, experience, clearance level. It all checked out. He barely processed it. Then his gaze snagged on the name.

He frowned, tapped the file, pulling it open.

“…Huh. Melanie Lightman.”