Javik's hands are submerged in his basin, washing the residue of the one who resided in this room before. For Protheans, touch is a way to transfer information; something as simple as touching an object can convey so much. The echoes of the ones before always linger, and for Javik, this is an inconvenience.

Constantly surrounded by primitives, his kind is long extinct, and he resides in the room of one who was so simple. He remembers a time when he had the potential to rule the galaxy, and now he serves under one human. A human, of all things; they still lived in caves when Protheans were king.

"Must you invade my space again, primitive?" Javik grumbles, as his hands breach the surface, dripping with clean aqua. He says the word, primitive, with a certain degree of vitriol. He is superior, no matter what history says.

"I am in no mood." He's never in a good mood, really. He would prefer to be left alone unless there was an opportunity to fight.