[Omega] The Losing Bet

Well, here they stood. This probably wouldn't end in violence, but any hope of a professional association with Cerastes had probably been demolished as thoroughly as her intentions of killing Rom Anbel. Perhaps, at least, they could go their separate ways with an agreeable exchange - if there was something useful to her in there, he could hand it over, and then keep the rest.

This would probably be the ideal arrangement, as the last few minutes had thoroughly established that they did not get along well at all.

"Suri'Neyvi," Shirin reminded the other drell. "Anything?"

The krogan might have been something - she recalled that the quarian had a krogan associate - but considering that he was wearing a helmet, it was difficult to tell without actually checking the files.

"Yes."

At times, it was difficult to relay the importance of the details to clients. Work as a broker could get very technical at times, and it took a certain finesse in communications to get the client to understand just what they were dealing with. Cerastes lowered his arm, the omnitool still processing data, and reached up to wipe some of the blood from his brow.

"Give me twelve hours. Four to sleep and recover from you attempting to render me infertile, eight to decipher and decrypt more valuable archives." The drell leaned his weight against the wall beside Shirin and listened to his body. He had no actual intent on sleeping; it was going to be a phenomenally long night. Hell, he had to get back to his ship, first, which lead him to the next thought. "Do you have transportation? A ship?"

He already knew she did (it had been his intent earlier to stop by and meet with Kirok, unannounced), but sometimes it was better to let them think you were ignorant.

All right. She'd given him some leeway, may as well go whole hog and be merciful - Shirin had definitely come out of their mini-brawl in better shape, and given that he was already ancient, Cerastes would likely need time to rest if he was going to be useful.

"I'll do you one better and give you twenty-four hours," she said, keeping an eye on the other drell nonetheless. "I've got a ship parked at the dockyards - I'll message you with the location once we're out of here. My associates will be advised ahead of time to watch for you." The implication of 'and to keep an eye on you while you're there' was obvious, and didn't need to be explicit.

Lactic acid burned in her muscles, and her jaw ached from the multiple strikes. She could use a few hours' worth of sleep herself.

Alright. They were both worn out, injured, and more than ready to leave the warehouse and never come back. Cerastes glanced at Shirin sidelong at the mention of her 'associates'; he knew full-well what she meant. He was also painfully aware of just how much damage said associates could do if they caught him, having done his research on the crew ahead of time.

Twenty-four hours was a boon, but in the face of a six-hundred-year-old krogan who'd worked for Abattoir, a half-mad asari, a turian whom he knew too little about to be remotely comfortable with, a tech genius, and Shirin, Cerastes felt little comfort. He rolled his shoulders and shoved off the wall, testing his weight on his left leg.

It was going to atrophy overnight. He'd have to wake every few hours to exercise it, lest he be bed-ridden for a few days.

"Twenty-four hours," he reiterated. "We are in accordance, then."

Stone-cold eyes flicked back to Shirin as he licked the blood off of his front teeth, the gesture hinting at an animalistic nature that bubbled beneath his collected exterior.

"Right."

Cordial though the last minute or so had been, it didn't push the six minutes prior from Shirin's mind, and so she didn't turn her back on Cerastes. Instead, with a quick glance over her shoulder, she backed out of the warehouse. Once sufficient distance was between them, she finally turned and hurried in the direction of the ship.

Well, 'hurried'. Her lungs were burning, and quite a few muscles felt like they were about to fall off the bones. Shirin decided that, the second she got back to the ship, she was informing Kirok that Cerastes would be around (so as to avoid an incident) and then drinking a glass of armagnac in the bathtub.

Today had been roughly 90% unsuccessful. Still, that 10% remained - she was alive to scheme another day, and hopefully to improve on the whole scheming process. That had to count for something.

The drell escaped into the night, unaware of the fact that their failure was not as complete as they suspected. The Suns searched for the source of gunfire, but were unable to find anything short of a few corpses outside the arcology. There was nothing to but to call in the repairmen to fix the window and the morticians to scrape up the bodies. There was no investigation, well, not from the Suns at least. Murder was not a crime on Omega, unless you killed the wrong person.

The Krogan courier found his apartment. Grom stared briefly at the eviction notice flowing on the doors holo, and then slid the envelope through the slot anyways. He was blissfully unaware that the person to whom he was supposed to deliver the envelope to was busy rotting on the street below. Content with his work, Grom turned away and began the long walk back to blood pack territory. He had other work to do, more important than this stupid little errand.

The envelope sat inside the slot, unopened, until a certain turian came to search the apartment. He opened the envelope. Contained within was a single photo, printed out rather than a digital frame. The shot comprised of a bed on which two figures rested. The first figure was Quarian, female, and fully suited. The second figure was Asari, and completely in the nude, and clinging to the first figure. After extensive investigation, the turian discovered that the Asari in question was the former mistress of one Rom Anbel.

Someone had signed the photo. The signature read: With Love, Suri.

Fin