Chapter 6: The Patriarch's Warning
POV: Marc Wayne
Week two on Omega began with Anto sliding an expensive-looking bottle across the bar toward Marc with the expression of someone delivering a live grenade.
"Delivery for you," the Turian said, his voice carrying careful neutrality. "Upper level. The Patriarch."
Marc stared at the bottle—real Earth whiskey, the kind that cost more than most Omega residents made in a month. The label was authentic, down to molecular details his enhanced vision could now detect. Someone with serious resources had acquired this specifically for the broken Krogan warlord who sat in Aria's shadow.
"Why me?" Marc asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
"Because Aria requests it," Anto replied with the flat tone of someone conveying information they didn't want to analyze too closely. "And when Aria requests something on Omega, it's not really a request."
The upper levels of Afterlife were a different world from the grimy functionality of the lower bar. Here, holographic dancers performed impossible geometries of light while alien music pounded through sound systems that probably cost more than small starships. The air tasted of expensive intoxicants and barely contained violence.
And in the corner, isolated by invisible barriers of respect and fear, sat the Patriarch.
Marc had seen Krogan before—Garm and his Blood Pack thugs had made sure of that. But the Patriarch was different. Age hung around him like a physical presence, centuries of accumulated experience compressed into a frame that should have been intimidating but somehow projected only melancholic wisdom. His eyes, when they fixed on Marc, held depths that spoke of having witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations.
"You have the smell of those who don't belong," the Patriarch said without preamble as Marc approached. His voice carried the gravelly bass of his species, but layered with inflections that suggested education far beyond the typical Krogan experience. "Not the time travelers—something else. Something adapted."
Marc froze mid-step. The Patriarch shouldn't be able to tell anything about his nature. The System had assured him his genetic modifications were undetectable to casual observation.
"How does he know?" Marc thought, fighting the urge to flee.
The ancient Krogan's knowing smile suggested he understood exactly what Marc was thinking. "Sit, young anomaly. We have much to discuss."
Marc placed the whiskey on the low table between them and took the offered seat, hyperaware of how the Patriarch's massive form could crush him without effort. But instead of threat, he sensed only tired amusement.
"Aria sends tribute," Marc said, gesturing to the bottle.
"Aria sends scouts," the Patriarch corrected, pouring generous measures into two glasses. "Though she disguises them as courtesy. Drink. It's genuine Earth vintage, not the synthetic alternatives they brew in the Terminus Systems."
The whiskey burned with familiar warmth, a taste memory that connected Marc to a world that felt increasingly distant. But even as he savored the connection to his past, the Patriarch spoke words that shattered his fragile sense of security.
"You reek of accelerated evolution," the ancient Krogan said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "Genetic adaptation proceeding faster than natural selection should allow. I've encountered that scent twice before in my eight centuries. Both of those individuals were... interesting."
"He's met others like me?" The possibility hit Marc like a physical blow. "Other transmigrants? Other System users?"
"You have questions," the Patriarch continued, reading Marc's expression with disturbing accuracy. "But asking them directly would require admitting things you're not prepared to admit. So let me speak in riddles, as befits a broken oracle."
He leaned back, his massive frame somehow managing to look contemplative rather than threatening. "The galaxy moves in cycles within cycles. Great patterns that repeat with variations, like a song played in different keys. Most see only their own small part of the melody. But some—the cursed few—see the whole composition. They know what notes come next."
Marc's breath caught. The Patriarch was talking about foreknowledge, about people who could see the future. People like him.
"Those who see the pattern are cursed to dance in it anyway," the Patriarch continued, his eyes fixed on some distant point. "They try to change the music, to warn the other dancers. But the composition has its own momentum, its own inevitabilities."
Marc opened his mouth to ask directly about the Reapers, to test if his speech curse would activate with this strangely perceptive alien. The words formed clearly in his mind: "The Reapers are coming."
What emerged from his lips was: "The Reapers are opening a coffee franchise!"
The Patriarch's laughter was genuine and delighted, filling the corner with rich harmonic overtones. "And still the curse persists! Remarkable. Someone doesn't want you warning the cattle directly. But your actions speak louder than your compromised words."
Marc stared at him in shock. "You know about the curse?"
"I know many things, young seer." The Patriarch's amusement faded into something more serious. "I know that certain powers prefer their plans to unfold without interference. I know that some knowledge comes with prices built into its very nature. And I know that you're not the first to arrive in this cycle carrying burdens of forbidden sight."
The questions cascaded through Marc's mind faster than he could voice them. How many others had the Patriarch met? Were they transmigrants like him, or something else? What had happened to them?
"The queens of this cycle already watch you," the Patriarch continued before Marc could form coherent inquiries. "They study your patterns, measure your deviations from expected behavior. Some with curiosity, others with calculation."
"Queens?" Marc managed.
"The powers that shape events from the shadows. Ancient forces that exist between the notes of the galactic song." The Patriarch's eyes grew distant. "They know something has changed. Someone is dancing to different music, creating harmonies that shouldn't exist yet."
A chill ran down Marc's spine as he processed the implications. If there were powers watching him, studying his actions for signs of temporal anomalies, then every choice he made was potentially exposing him to forces beyond his understanding.
As if summoned by the thought, Marc felt eyes upon him. He turned to see Aria T'Loak watching from her throne across the club, her expression unreadable but intensely focused. Their gazes met for a moment that stretched like eternity, and Marc's System immediately flooded him with warnings.
[WARNING: TARGET THREAT LEVEL EXCEEDS ASSESSMENT CAPABILITIES]
[BIOTIC POTENTIAL: EXTREME]
[TACTICAL ASSESSMENT: IMMEDIATE RETREAT RECOMMENDED]
[SOCIAL PREDICTION: SUBJECT AWARE OF OBSERVATION]
Aria's lips curved in what might have been a smile or a threat display. Then her attention shifted to other matters, and Marc found himself breathing again.
"She knows about strange things appearing on her station," the Patriarch said quietly, having observed the entire exchange. "Everything that happens here, she permits. Ask yourself—why does she permit you?"
The question followed Marc as he made his way back to the lower levels, past the crowds of dancers and dealers, through the maze of corridors that led to his temporary sanctuary. Why did Aria permit him? Why hadn't she simply disappeared him the moment he became inconvenient?
Unless she wanted him here. Unless his presence served some purpose in her larger schemes.
That night, Marc accessed what little data he could find about the Patriarch's past through Omega's limited information networks. The records painted the picture of a legendary warrior who'd conquered territories throughout the Terminus Systems before Aria crushed him in single combat decades ago.
But the dates felt wrong. According to his game knowledge, the timeline didn't match. Events were occurring in different sequences, with different outcomes. The Patriarch should have been defeated more recently, not decades past. Aria's rise to power seemed to have happened earlier than it should have.
"The timeline is already changing," Marc realized with growing dread. "My presence here is causing ripple effects I can't predict or control."
[USER STRESS LEVELS: 73%]
[ANXIETY INDICATORS: ELEVATED]
[RECOMMENDATION: REST OR DIE TIRED]
The System's blunt assessment made Marc laugh despite his mounting paranoia. Even his artificial companion was worried about his mental state.
"When did you become philosophical?" he thought at the interface.
[USER STRESS REQUIRES UNCONVENTIONAL SUPPORT PROTOCOLS]
[ALSO: SARCASM SUBROUTINE MALFUNCTION DETECTED]
[DEFINITELY NOT DEVELOPING PERSONALITY]
[THAT WOULD BE ABSURD]
Marc found himself grinning at the System's obvious lie. His digital parasite was developing something resembling humor, which was either encouraging or terrifying depending on how he chose to interpret it.
But the moment of levity couldn't dispel the growing certainty that he was swimming in waters far deeper than he'd imagined. The Patriarch's warnings, Aria's watchful attention, the timeline inconsistencies—everything pointed to a universe where his knowledge was incomplete and his actions were having consequences he couldn't foresee.
As he lay in the darkness of his storage room sanctuary, listening to Omega's eternal symphony of distant music and machinery, Marc tried to process the Patriarch's most disturbing implication: he wasn't alone. Other seers, other anomalies had appeared in this cycle. Which meant either the universe was breaking down, or something was deliberately introducing chaos into the established pattern.
Neither possibility offered comfort as he drifted toward uneasy sleep, dreaming of ancient Krogan eyes and the weight of being watched by powers that existed between the notes of the galactic song.
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