[Omega] The Worst Weekend Ever. EVER.

Kirok picked up the boiling kettle and poured the water into a very large cup. Still frowning, he reached into a box of tea bags and dropped one in.

As menacingly as possible, the krogan placed the cup of tea in front of the drell.

"Alright, den," Kirok said as the smell of lavender and chamomile filled the room. "Whatcha got so far?"

He did not trust the tea. It would have to cool first.

Had Cerastes' eyes not already been red, Kirok likely could have seen how bloodshot they were as the drell stared at him. Eventually, the broker reached over to the screen containing the clip of the krogan and flipped it around so that it was facing his company.

"Do you know who this man is? I am running a comparison of his facial structure and voice, but it would save me time and effort if you could do me the courtesy of identifying him first."

Kirok looked at the picture with interest. Krogan all had a tendency to look the same after a few hundred years. Still, he recognized the face... barely. More importantly, he remembered the face that this face usually went with.

"Yeaaaaah. I know dis guy," Kirok said as the tea steamed and the varren pups tore apart the sausages. Whitefang looked up at Kirok with careful eyes, then stealthily headed for the big bowl of stew. "Dat's... uh. I know dat guy. Dorm. Corm. Crom? No, not Crom. Drom? Grom? Yeah, dat's it. Guys' name is Grom. One'a Suri's pets, I think. Dumb sumbitch."

"Grom. That will be enough."

A twitch of his wrist brought the video back around so that it was facing of him properly. Cerastes paused to rub at the single dark scale on his forehead, then watched as the file he was attempting to decrypt declined him - again. Piss. The drell bristled in frustration, then flicked the screen away to a new tab.

"Tell me everything you know about Ms. Suri'Neyvi and Abattoir, and I may be able to more effectively aid your 'partner'," he said. After a moment's thought, he rumbled in addition, "She has a very vicious tendency towards hitting below the belt, you know."

"Eh. She needs t'hit harder, in my opinion," Kirok said, eying Cerastes suspiciously. He reached for a cup and saucer of his own - tiny things in Kirok's hands - and poured himself a cup of the tea.

The krogan slurped from the tea cup as he looked at Cerastes over the ceramic rim.

"Hrrrrm. Y'wanna know 'bout 'em, eh?" Kirok said, daintily holding the tea cup. "Well. Suri's... she ain't as smart as she thinks she is, an' she ain't as dangerous as everybody says she is. When y'jump onna extranet an' start tellin' people how badass y'are, that's usually a sign you ain't. She's just some mixed up faceplate what thinks she could be th' next Abattoir or somethin'. She's just a fangirl, s'all. Likes knives b'cuz she thought Abattoir liked knives. Kilt people slow b'cuz Abattoir kilt people slow. She's a... a ... a whatcha call it. Carbon copy? I dunno. But she weren't as good as th' real thing. Dumb as a post, too. Look up her fanfiction. It's LAME. Now how's this gonna help us, I gotta know?"

"When you're chasing a difficult target, the best place is to start with all surrounding connections." Finally, Cerastes picked up the cup of tea and sipped it. It wasn't nearly as good as the caffeine he typically guzzled, but it would have to do. "This project began when Rom Anbel commissioned me to locate Ms. Suri'Neyvi. As he offered me a laughable sum, I looked for other potential clients who might offer me a better fee.

"That is when I came across Ms. Vedral." He shifted in his seat, flicked through a few pages of Abattoir's extensive list of crimes. It never ended. "Her vendetta lent her towards a more reasonable fee. From there I've been tracing contacts, sources, any known sightings in the past five years..."

Kirok looked confused. After clearing his throat (which did little - drell's voices were naturally rough as sandpaper), he amended his strategy. "Anything you know can help me predict her movements and where she's going to be, as well as who she might associate with. Does this make sense?"

Massive fingers drummed against a table. In the background, a varren lapped out of a cooling pot of stew.

"It might," Kirok admitted. "But it also feels like yer runnin' a scam on us. I can't b'leeve y'cain't find better info on 'em out inna world, drell. Them two had more enemies than ennythin' else - hell, Abattoir had a goddamned fan club. Okay, granted, he blew 'em up, but still. Point is I git th' feelin' yer stallin. Stallin, er fishin' fer somethin' else."

The drell across the table stared Kirok down levelly. Mm. Well, Kirok had every right to be suspicious - Cerastes was something of a snake - but he was not, as Shirin had insisted earlier, "retarded". Going up against the ship's crew was very low on his list of priorities.

"Preliminary research," he answered. Another sip of the tea. "I am perfectly capable of handling myself when it comes down to it, but for the moment, I'm gathering what I can. Every bit of data equates to further preparation on my part. I am a professional, Mr. Kirok; you will not see me rush into a serious commission without knowing what I'm doing first."

Briefly, he glanced down at the shirt he'd been given. Ugh. What were half of these stains from, anyways? Wait, he didn't want to know. With a shake of his head (which turned out to be a mistake - his brains were still jostled from the fight with Shirin), he glanced back across the table.

"I am going to need two more hours of rest within the next twenty hours, if possible. ... Medigel may also be of assistance."

Kirok harrumphed. He didn't like this. Not one bit. Still...

The krogan tapped open his communicator and dialed Shirin's frequency.

"Hey, lady inna lake. Paleface 'ere sez he needs some shuteye an' some medigel 'fore he gives up th' goods. I say we let him shack up 'ere, get some grub in 'im, keep 'im under our noses, and when e's done, we kick 'im out. Sound okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

Apparently Shirin had her comm available even when she was sulking in the bath. Made sense, given the type of person she was.

"Keep an eye on him."

"No shit, Shirin. An' don't use up alla scale wax."

Kirok closed the comm. He emptied the cup of tea, pulled out his shotgun and sighed.

"Right. Y'got two hours of nappy time, chump, mebbe three, then yer back onna clock. I'll send y'enny files I think you need inna meantime. Ali'll keep an eye on you while I take care of yer varren, and den I'll be back. Inna meantime, don't do ennything stupid. We don't like stupid around here."

Whitefang looked up from the half-empty pot of stew and looked quizzically at her master's back.

Small favors. The shirt might have... not been one of those, in retrospect, but rest and even a smattering of medigel was. The drell reclined further in his chair, the screen following him as he moved, and let out a steady breath. Two hours was not enough. He knew this, but there was little choice in the matter.

Revenant Corp was going to throw a fit.

"Appreciated," rasped Cerastes. He watched as Kirok stood, then realized that he was expected to do the same. The stone-face he wore was difficult to see through, but as the drell pulled himself up by the arms of the chair and stepped onto his right foot, he felt a sharp bolt of agony tear through the thin layer of cartilage surrounding his kneecap. Despite it all, the only indication he gave that he was in pain was a slight pause and the closing of his eyes, after which he drew a breath and stood more fully.

"Where do you want me to go?"

"Dis way," Kirok said, and started walking down the hallway.

It wasn't a long walk. The ship, though large, was well-designed, which meant the living quarters were relatively close to the kitchen and other facilities. No humping your ass across three decks just go to the bathroom on this lovely lady. Kirok stopped at one of the doors that lined the side of the ship - one directly across from one that was labeled "KIROK'S ROOOM - and opened it. The room was empty, save for a cot, a toilet, and a porthole that looked over the Omega docks outside. Apparently they didn't have the crew for this one room. That made this a nice little prison cell.

"Gittin," Kirok said as he jerked his head into the quarters.

Thankfully, the trip this time was short. Cerastes hesitated at the entrance to the cabin, surveying it carefully before entering. It was dark - mercifully so, considering his vision - and practical, which actually suited him much better than any elaborate setting ever could have. Once inside, he tilted his head and gave Kirok a curt nod, then waited for the door to close.

It was time to get to work on finding the cameras.

"You need ennything," Kirok said, silhouetted by the doorframe. "Y'lemme know. Two hours."

With that, Kirok closed the door and sealed it shut.

That was the sound of a lock.

Cerastes half-turned and stared as the hologram on the door turned red. His lips thinned with frustration; here he was, literally kidnapped from his temporary apartment in the middle of the night and now imprisoned on a ship that didn't even have a name. If he didn't come up with a satisfactory amount of data in the next nineteen and a half hours (which he assumed would be shortened, given what had already happened), he was going to be burned alive.

Well, it wasn't like he hadn't been stuck in a shit situation before. The drell ran a hand over the spines atop his skull, then started to pace the perimeter of the room. He needed to exercise his knee if he was going to be able to get out of here.

In the dark, his red eyes gleamed urgently, seeking out any reflective surfaces he could find.

The lights flickered, there was a sharp buzz for just a moment, and then a peculiarly modulated voice came over the room speaker.

"Hey. Hey, white drell. What're you in for?"

Well, so much for that idea.

Cerastes' pupils seized at the sudden burst of light, causing him to squint in an attempt to banish it (which failed, for obvious reasons). The drell was standing beside the cot, which, curiously enough, had been disassembled; one of the shorter supporting beams from the bed's frame was now clutched in his grasp. The shirt had been torn into strips and wrapped about his knuckles, just in case.

His lips drew thin as he glanced up at the corner where he suspected a camera was hidden. "Existing," he droned to the disembodied voice. "Your crew-mates are contemplating setting me on fire."

The speaker crackled to life once again, the voice giving no indication whether it knew what he was doing or not.

"Really? On fire? That's... unusually inefficient, for them. Who'd you piss off?"

"Ms. Vedral has an uneasy temper. Perhaps it's genetic."

Noting that no alarm had been sounded, Cerastes casually resumed his activities. He ran his hands along one of the walls; stared at the back-left corner of the ceiling. After a moment's thought, he limped over to the cot (which now lay diagonally; the foot of the frame had been left untouched) and began to push it towards the suspected wall.

"With whom am I speaking?"