[Omega, Periwinkle Paradise] ...a dish best served cold

A lone parcel was being shuttled along the streets of Omega. Lone parcel covered with all manner of stamps and QR code pictures, and some unfortunate mark of a boot on its side, that chronicled its journey from the far sides of the Milky Way, originating from Citadel above Earth in Sol.

The krogan deliveryman stopped his hovercar outside one and only Periwinkle Paradise, second best tits and drinks on all of Omega (because you don't fuck with Aria or her nightclub). He grabbed the parcel and hopped out, beginning to make his way to the club's doors, kicking a begging vorcha out of his way. Through doors, into the club and onto the counter. Receipts of delivery were signed, and the roughed-up package was left to wait for its intended recipient.

To Silel

Standing next to the main stage was a very unimpressed-looking Silel. She stared at the roughed-up package that had been delivered to her.

"What the fuck?" she said.

Beside and above her, an upside-down asari dancer looked down (up?) and cocked a brow.

"Gift package?"

"Fuck if I know."

"Looks like shit."

"Probably is. KIROK!"

"... no, fatass, that's not where *hssssk* we're putting the film crew - no, not *hssssk* there, either. NO. NO, THAT IS A KEBAB SELLER PAY ATTENTION YOU *hssssk* HORRENDOUS GLOB OF IDIOCY."

Suddenly, Terrorbyte.

The rotund volus was slapping uselessly at his fatass companion's head with a five-foot pool noodle (which had been labeled the "Dwick Attention Getter" by some helpful chap in the prop department) while steering the krogan near the market square just outside of the Periwinkle Paradise.

"NO, FILM CREW HERE, ACTORS HERE, PROPS *hssssk* HERE, okay? Goddammit, why do I have to explain everything a thousand *hssssk* fucking times to you? Do you have some kind of *hssssk* lesion in your brain? No, NO, Dwick, we are setting up a film set here, we are not going into the *hssssk* strip club, NO, DWICK, NO, BAD, *hssssk* THAT IS STRIP CLUB, THIS IS SET, WE STAY ON SET, WE *hssssk* STAY ON FINE GO INTO THE STRIP CLUB SEE IF I *hssssk* FUCKING CARE I'LL JUST DO ALL THE *hssssk* WORK AS USUAL HOPE YOU HAVE FUN IN THE *hssssk* PURPLE *hssssk* PUSSYLICKER OR WHATEVER IT'S CALLED YOU *hssssk* GIANT DOORKNOB MONDONGLE."

CRASH BASH SMASH GLASH (glash?) MASH TRASH RASH LASH

“YEAH, YEAH, I DON’ TELL YOU HOW TER DO YER JOB, DON’CHOO TELL ME HOW TER DO MINE—shit what do we got here-”

The door to the Paradise flew open suddenly to reveal a figure that…well, filled the door. In strode Dwick, clad in a suit that could only be described as a tent made of bleached ivory. The fabric strained as it struggled to keep his massive frame inside it, and the belt on his pants looked entirely overstressed trying to hold it and the holster he’d somehow managed to jam onto it as well.

Dwick stopped and looked at his surroundings. Then he clasped his hands, saw the dancers (who were no doubt distracted by the walking, talking wrecking ball) and grinned.

“Heh heh heh heh heh heh.”

He thundered up to the bar and rapped his knuckles on the counter, shouting. “HEY! WENCH!” he shouted. “GIMME A MUG’A YER BEST RYNCOL!”

All eyes turned towards the loud-mouthed dinosaur striding up to the bar. Dwick would have been a distracting factor under normal conditions, but given that it was the middle of the day and the club was relatively quiet, he quickly became the center of attention.

Silel's eyes narrowed.

"... did he just call Sugar Sweet a wench?"

"He did."

"Okay, give me a minute, girl, I gotta' take care of this."

After dusting off her hands, Silel shoved off the stage and stomped up to the bar. The newcomer might have been a krogan, but that never stopped her before; Silel was 120 pounds of vim, vinegar, and pure concentrated woman-hate, and it more than made up for her stature.

"AHEM."

She crossed her arms, cocked her hip to the side, and tapped her heel on the ground as she glared daggers at Dwick, apparently not recognizing him.

Meanwhile, Terrorbyte stood outside the Periwinkle Paradise, herding and beating the set technicians with the Pool No- er, Dwick Attention Getter, trying to reorganize the shoot as fast as he could.

"ALRIGHT, WE'RE MOVING *hssssk* THE SHOOT IN HERE! YOU, DUMTHORPE, GET ME THE *hssssk* RELEASE DOCUMENTS! ZALLINEX, I WANT *hssssk* THE LOCAL POWER GRID TAPPED AND RUNNING WITHIN *hssssk* FIVE MINUTES! SOMEONE GET MAKEUP ON *hssssk* LORD FATASS OVER THERE, WE'VE GOT 24 HOURS BEFORE OUR *hssssk* BUSINESS VISAS EXPIRE, AND I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO PAY *hssssk* THESE PIRATES ANOTHER GODDAMNED GREEN CREDIT OF MY *hssssk* MONEY!"

The squat, white-suited volus poked his head inside of the bar, pool noodle wavingly ridiculously.

"HEY, MANBOOBS, WE'RE DOING THE *hssssk* COMMERCIAL IN HERE, SINCE YOU ARE DUMB AND AN IDIOT. FIND A *hssssk* SEAT UNDER A GOOD LIGHT AND WAIT FOR MAKEUP! AND GET THE *hssssk* OWNER TO SIGN THE RELEASE FORMS! AND ORDER ME A PITCHER OF AMMONIA*hssssk*TINIS!"

A datapad sailed out of his hands and hit the krogan in the crest as Terrorbyte waddled off, cursing up a storm and terrifying technicians.

Dwick’s head turned to look at Silel, the datapad bouncing harmlessly off his crest and clattering to the table next to Silel. A very complicated-looking contract, written entirely in legalese, began flowing out from it.

Dwick had to lean over to see Silel past his own bulk. Completely ignoring his volus “compatriot,” he looked from her to Sugar Sweet and back again.

“…Soooooo, what? You another wench, or one’a da sluts?”

Kirok rolled his eyes at the sound of his voice. Goddammit, what did Silel want now? He'd just been, er, "convincing" a customer not to handle the girls in back room, and he was on the human's ninth finger. You had to be CAREFUL with fingers. Otherwise they'd heal properly.

"I'm a lil' bus-"

The words died in his throat as he stepped out. There he was.

DWICK.

Freezing solid like a statue, Kirok slowly slid back behind the curtain that divided the main room to the dancer's dressing room backstage, silent as a ghost, praying the other krogan hadn't seen him. Yet.

"... The sluts?"

Silel stared.

"The SLUTS?"

Kirok didn't have to worry much about Dwick seeing him, because all Dwick was about to see was stars. All Dwick received in warning was a twitch of Silel's eye before she abruptly reared back and kneed him in the quad with all of her might.

"WE ARE -WOMEN-, THANK YOU, AND -YOU- CAN FUCK RIGHT OFF!... after paying, that is."

"DWICK, HAVEN'T YOU GOTTEN THAT *hssssk* RELEASE FORM SIGNED YET what is *hssssk* this?"

As Terrorbyte came stomping back into the Periwinkle, he stumbled over a small package on the club's doorstep. He looked at it silently, respirator cycling as he pondered the small box. He poked it with the Dwick Attention Getter.

With a shrug, he brought it inside, set it next to the door, and promptly forgot about it.

"DWICK. RELEASE FORM. SIGN. *hssssk* LEGAL DEPARTMENT. LAWSUIT. *hssssk* NO MONEY. DO IT. Also, hello, sir or ma'am, my name is *hssssk* mumblemumblemumble, and we represent DDS, we'd like OH, DAMN, RIGHT IN THE *hssssk* QUAD! HAHAHAH, THAT'S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU IGNORE ME, *hssssk* FATASS!"

When you attack a krogan, you pretty much put your life into your hands. Most krogan weigh in excess of 500 pounds, most of it muscle, and breeding on a planet infested with thresher maws, attack varren and killer plants has left them with more ways to defy death than the entire Seth Macfarlane franchise. They’re built like a tank, have mouths that can crush stone, and their crests were apparently hard enough to gore Brutes during the Reaper War. So much as giving them the wrong look, therefore, was a good way to invite death.

Despite this, every once in a blue moon, someone gets damn lucky. A good smack, dead on the correct nerve cluster, can bring anything to its knees, and Silel managed to hit just accurately enough to make Dwick’s eyes bug out. It wasn’t enough to cause lasting pain, of course, but it was enough to actually get his attention and to signal her as something besides “sommat ter fuck.”

So his reptilian brain went for the other response.

“HHHHHHHHHAW! I LIKE YOU!” he bellowed, hand flopping around and grabbing for Terrorbyte’s hand (which he assumed had a stylus in it for the datapad). “Awright, fine, woman, how much up front ter get a fuckin’ drink ‘round dese parts? Oh, and bloatball here probably has sommat ‘ee wants ya ter sign.”

Silel, having grown used to krogan over the past few years, had absolutely no qualms about putting them in their place. This was reinforced by the fact that krogans tended to avoid retaliating against her physically: she was too small and too soft ("not worth my time! HAW HAW HAW"), and the fire in her eyes had a tendency to intimidate most living beings these days.

There was also the fact that Silel had literally no sense of self-preservation.

That said, she absolutely was not in fear for life as Dwick recovered from the great Smashing of His Balls. Instead, the woman balled her hands into fists and propped them up on her hips, adopting a "i am woman hear me roar, giiiirl" attitude as she stared the dinosaur down. It was only Dwick's roar of affection a few seconds later that managed to penetrate her demeanor; Silel blinked, cocked her head to the side, then squinted at Sugar Sweet in confusion.

"Uhhhhhhhhh," she began, then cleared her throat. "WELL, I think you owe Sugar Sweet here an -apology-, since she's a mixologist, not a goddamn wench. ... said apology could come in the form of a tip, however. What'd you order, you fucking relic?"

"He ORDERED a fucking RELEASE *hssssk* FORM, ISN'T THAT RIGHT OH LOOK THERE IT *hssssk* IS."

Terrorbyte picked up the datapad and slapped Dwick in the arm with it again before putting it front of the krogan.

"Look, we're trying to film a commercial for *hsssk* DDS - you may have *hsssk* heard of us - and we need you to sign this release form before we *hsssk* start filming DWICK WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT *hsssk* THAT SUIT, YOU ARE WEARING WHITE, IT WILL SMUDGE EASILY, *hsssk* DO NOT MAKE ME GET WARDROBE OVER HERE."

“Aw, wouldja just SHADDUP?!” shouted the krogan, rubbing his arm on the bar’s countertop for emphasis. “I’ll put my FUCKIN’ arm where I FUCKIN’ please oh and I asked for a shitload’a yer best ryncol—”

He leered at Terrorbyte.

“…in a in da biggest mug you got.”

Silel stared hatefully at the ugly package near the entrance. It had moved around since its arrival ten minutes ago, and she wasn't sure how she felt about it. It looked unsanitary.

She was distracted, however, when Dwick answered her - sort of. He was more or less talking to the little volus next to him, which... wait. Did he say they were from DDS?

Silel saw credits. She looked again to Sugar Sweet, exchanged a look of astonishment, then quickly ordered herself a tequila (which she slammed immediately upon its arrival). Alright. Play it cool. Dwick and Terrorbyte were famous, but they were also rich, and Silel knew how to work her way around rich people.

"Ohhhhhhhh, a release, huh? Well, maybe. I'd have to hear a little more on what it's about; this is a respectable establishment, y'know. And that'll be fifty credits plus tip, dino-brains."

Cool as a cucumber, baby.

Whatever Terrorbyte was about to say got drowned out by Dwick's shout.

"FIFTY CREDITS?!"

A slight pause.

"Dat's cheap."

"SHUT UP, *hsssk* DWICK. BUSINESS FIRST."

Terrorbyte moved in like a shark, pushing aside as much of Dwick as he could handle with his pudgy arms. This was his arena.

"Ah, yes, renumeration is not entirely *hsssk* unexpected. However, unfortunately, sadly, due to the *hsssk* somewhat, well, extra-legal nature of Omega, well, any payment we give you would be *hsssk* taxed by Aria T'Laok and her *hsssk* organization, which - of course - would result in significantly smaller returns for you, however, we can *hsssk* promise that you'll get free, that's right, free advertising on DDS through this spot, and *hsssk* how would a lifetime supply of Moon Chips and a whole crateload of PowerPonchos(tm) to be used AS YOU SEE FIT for *hsssk* absolutely NO COST TO YOU?"

The datapad hovered mere inches away from Sil's face, filled with complicated legalese. Terrorbyte held his breath. There was a chance this could work. EVERYBODY loved PowerPonchos(tm)

Silel had no idea what a power poncho was.

"Yeah, great, buddy. There's a thing called hard credits, though, and another thing called 'this is my business so I want to know just what you're going to do with our image'. So let's cut the small talk - heh, sorry - and move on to the hard facts, eh?"

Dwick looked from Silel to his hand, which was still mug-free. He then looked back at her expectantly.

Silel looked to Dwick's empty hand, stared at him deadpan, then called over her shoulder, "Sugar, be a doll and fill the order."