[Illium, Pasandris Arcology] Every Great Commodity's Been Sold

It was going to be a brushfire war. A PR brushfire war (so kiss all that orbital support goodbye) no less. "New Anhur" that's what the suits where calling it. Fucking wonderful.

Good shrelling luck He would have said to the poor sods who got kicked the contract. Wheel knows you'll need it. And then he would have knocked back his cheap ruxxia (what he was only a junior officer, he couldn't afford the good shit), given them a jaunty pat on the back, and probably ordered another round for his buddies.

But unfortunately this time the "poor sod" was wearing his poison green skin and his yellow armor.

And drinking his ruxxia alone.

He wasn't some hatchling as to be scared of combat and Aalos would have laughed in the face of any half credit shrink who tried to push that pet theory. He commanded a platoon in the rump battalion composed of 16 and 89 companies. Aka the Ogre's shock troops. Aka some of the hardest motherfuckers in the entire corp. Nah it was more...

more like bitterness than anything else really. That quiet, secret, acidity that tasted like bile in his mouth as he turned on his stool and surveyed the open air plaza packed with drunk and stoned and boisterous Eclipse troopers, getting in one last good party before loading up on the transport at 0800. One last hurrah to keep the slowly ratcheting tension at bay. One last good time before shit really and truly hit the fan.

Aalos was good at his job, there was not denying that. But good is not exceptional and the creeping, crawling worm of mediocrity gnawed away at the base of his skull.

Do you know what happens to the mediocre?

They get forgotten.

And that was the bitterest taste of all.

Aalos knocked back his ruxxia and ordered another. Just for him.

Enter a young-ish Salarian, clad in the black and yellow like so many of his brothers-in-arms sauntered up to the bar. He wasn't here so much for getting drunk or stoned or anything else like the others. He was here mostly just to hang with the crew, maybe have a drink or two. Get a feel for the mood of the other soldiers.

The bright red frog spotted one of his superiors and nodded a respectful salute.

"Aalos. Pretty mess they're sending us into, isn't it?"

Parting through the miasma of lurid yellow and afterthought black, a figure wearing the same class of armor but with alternate hues found the nearest empty seat on the bar. This garnered few inquisitive looks from the Eclipse troops, the sight familiar enough that it was no longer an oddity. The survivors from Bek did their jobs as well as anyone. A few odd quirks weren't going to raise any eyebrows.

Hadrian Mars hadn't survived the annihilation of Bekenstein, and remained unchanged. For one, while he would never admit it aloud, he was pleased that this next assignment wouldn't involve any bombardment on the planet's surface. PR stunt or not, he was fairly certain he'd never be able to see a world burning without suffering a nasty flashback or two.

After taking a moment to remove his skull emblazoned helmet, Mars signalled the nearest bartender, and quickly recieved a cold one for his efforts. After taking moment to enjoy the cold sensation running down his throat, he asked, to no one in particualar...

"So where the fuck is Tsombesha anyway?"

Yet another salarian skulked into the bar. Looking slightly uncomfortable as he walked over to the group of drinking Eclipse and sat down. Staring at the others awkwardly. Especially the human wearing an out of regulation uniform.

"Uhh.. Hi." Bistis said, giving off a smile that was more alarming than friendly. "You guys ready for Tsombesha?"

The red Salarian grimaced a little at the question. He wasn't afraid of combat per se, after all he had joined up with Eclipse and had been doing well for himself. But making sure the communication system was constantly at it's peak, running electronic warfare attacks against whoever they were fighting, fixing tech, that was more where he was at. He could fight, sure, all of them could fight. But he just knew Tsombesha was going to be a shitty place to be in the foreseeable future. He brushed aside the few doubts he had, putting up a smile and nodding to the other Salarian.

"More than ready. You know what I like about fighting Suns? Their networks aren't shit. Bet I'll have us tapped in and listening to their comms by Day Two."

Ah, the bravado of the young. To the oddly colored human trooper, he added, 'I believe you humans use the phrase 'Ass end of nowhere? That's kind of where we're going. On the very edge of Vonskar space. If it weren't for the eezo I doubt the coalition would even give a shit about it."

Meanwhile, a pair of eclipse were sitting at a holo table, close to the bar. On one side, was a young asari huntress, purplish markings dotted around her eyes, intently watching the table. On the other side, a grey skinned salarian that was tapping out a string of commands into the holo deck. Between them, on the holo deck, a pitched battle was laid out. Muted sounds of battle emanated from speakers embedded into the table. Holographic asari huntresses were positioned on the asari's side, krogan on the salarian's.

With a final jab, the salarian finished the command, and with a roar, a large portion of the miniature combatants scrambled out of cover, charging into the other side. Tiny holographic blades crashed, gunfire rung out, all a game between two troops. The salarian stared across the table, hard faced. He took a glass from the end of the table and brought it up to his mouth, all the while the asari was deep in thought.

"Goddess, dammit. I surrender." She said suddenly in a defeated tone.

"No you're not, you can still win."

"Yeah, if I get lucky with armor penetration. Krogan got too powerful in the last update."

"It was a well deserved buff."

This went on for a couple of minutes before the asari abruptly stood up and left. Yori shrugged. She was a sore loser, and he was just better. He reasoned. She was embarrassed that someone a dozen decades younger had beaten him. He puffed on the Eezo Stick in his mouth, named so because of the blueish Sur'Keshan plant it's derived from, and turned off the table, standing up as well. He needed to refill his drink.

He sat next to the fire red salarian, and signaled to the barkeep that he needed a refill. He started in on the conversation just as he had remarked on the Blue Suns networks. "Hey Kenlin, yeah, I'll take that bet, I could probably have their mechs doing the hokey poker in 12 hours."

Kenlin grinned and let out a short laugh at Yori's entrance. The image amused him to no end, surely.

"That just seems like a shame! All their robots dancing a jig and no way to even talk about it, heheh." He raised a glass to no one in particular, or perhaps it was to the small cadre assembling around their commander at the bar. He bolstered up some more of that confidence that was mostly genuine. "Shrell. This one's in the bag already, boys."

Sweet

Fucking

Shrell

Why are there so many people over here?

He grunted around the edges of his glass at the red salarian's greeting, more or less resigning himself to thoroughly not enjoying the next Wheel knew how long.

But then, oh but then, some couldn't tell his cloaca from a hole in the ground know nothing shit engie sauntered up all full of piss and vinegar and just laid out his metaphorical dick.

Aalos set down his glass with a short sharp clink and wiped his lips with the back of one green hand.

"9 Commando doesn't use mechs."

A pause. The unspoken You idiot hanging in the air like a heavy, ponderous weight.

At least someone's not acting like this is some stupid fucking game.

Seriously. It was like listening to a bunch of green, dumbass teenagers, who still thought war was matter of getting points on a scoreboard. How many would die, when they hit dirt and realized they were trying to unseat an an enemy who'd already entrenched themselves, and we're just as trained and experienced as they were?

Let's nip this FNG bullshit right in the bud

"You do realize we're not going up against pathetic last minute coalition of wannabe freelancers, right? The Suns have had time to entrench and fortify, and they're just as trained and experienced as we are. And they know we're coming, and are preparing accordingly. You underestimate them, you risk getting you, and your squad killed."

He snarled, before taking another drink of his beer.

Well. That happened. Kenlin's brow quirked, regarding both his commander and the human. That... was not the response he had expected. He looked abashed for a single second before his fire returned. What the hell was that about?

"Hey now. You don't think I know that? We're just having fun here. Serious is for when we get there. Nothing wrong with that."

He gave the human an irritated look.

"When we hit the planet we'll give the Blues all 'due' respect in terms of the battlefield. No reason to not have some fun at their expense while we're still up here. It'll be a fight. Just saying we're going to win is all."

Sheesh, tough crowd.

Yori, true to his complete and total "I am always right" mentality, just puffed on his Eezo stick during the pause. "No mechs? Not even drones? Huh, I give them more credit then they're due." He took a swig of the now refilled glass.

As the human made his sobering statement, Yori just sat there, staring at his glass, puffing on his stick. "Yeah, you're right, we can't underestimate them, not here."

His steadily growing migraine abruptly doubled.

Then redoubled.

Then went on to raise itself a nice little migraine family with a bunch of rosy cheeked baby migraines and build itself a lovely migraine society with all the other fucking migraines in existence.

"Mars.

Calm your tits before they set your shrelling armor on fire."

Nobody wants to hear the fire and brimstone shit, 'specially not from a garitrooper out of Bek. He silently added, trusting that the human was smart enough to at least pick up a bit of subtext. Shrell, you know, you try to deflate a cocky little shit, take him down a couple notches and then your resident officer's pet throws himself all over it.

"Yori.

You have a basic recognition of the obvious.

Congrats."

It was like there was a fucking jackhammer on the inside of his skull. Keep going, keep going.

"Kenlin."

He gestured at the bartender and a glass of clear, bitterly pungent liquid slid down the counter to the red salarian. Aalos raised his own drink in a mock salute and then it was all

"Hey, guys, how's it going? Is this a meeting? Am I late? Traffic, know what I mean? Nah, just kidding. Got distracted by a stripper or two - totally dropped the ball. Probably shouldn't have said that. What, uh, what's on the it- Nah, just forget it. I'll, uh, just be quiet and pick it up from here."

The quick, faded turian eyes scanned the room, determining the small features on each face. Scars, nicks, bruises. This was a rugged group.

"Anybody got some d-lick I can split? Uh, liquor, I mean, Dextro. Shit'll tank a liver but- you know what, I'll go right back to being quiet."

Senitius scanned the room again. Lacking anything of note, he pulled a large blade out and began slicing very, very small bits off the edge of the table. While idly playing with the knife, he briefly pricked his own finger, reacting only in so much as to pull the finger out of the way.

"Oooh, that's blood," he began muttering to himself. "Blood's what I'm good at, I guess."

He continued muttering, fidgeting, and playing with his knife, taking only a few seconds to barely dress the wound.

"Good! Good!" Bistis said to the red salarian. Letting out an awkward laugh in the process.

He didn't say much afterward. Just a twitchy glance as Yori walked to the table and and a bit of fidgeting as the rest conversed about the situation on Tshombesha.

Bistis wasn't really a social person.

"Um, I think you cut your finger there." he said as he took notice to the cut on the turian's finger.

"Yeah, thanks. Remind me why I'm here if you're such a talented motherfuckin' medical professional?"

The turian never looked up, returning to playing with his cut and the large knife. It didn't seem he actually expected any sort of direct response; rather, he intended to frighten the clearly out-of-place salarian into leaving him to his habits.

Kenlin took the hint the commander offered, nodding in return and downing it quickly. The blood red frog gave the turian a curious look as he joined the table, followed by a confused look when it pricked itself. He quickly changed to unease and more confusion at the minor outburst at Greenhorn.

Well he scares me. That's supposed to be our medic?


He chuckled nervously, clapping Greenhorn on the shoulder and offering him a shot of something.

"Relax, buddy. Can't be too stressed going into this or you'll make mistakes, get hurt. Then you'll have to have this guy.." a thumb jerked towards the turian currently entranced with blade and blood. "Patch you up." Kenlin pulled a face at the other Salarian, one of mock horror, and dragged an invisible blade across his throat. "And you just wouldn't want that, would you? So relax!"

Mars didn't say anything in response, but his eyes briefly smoldered in potent silence.

Stupid drunk fuck. Couldn't do a proper dress down without resorting petty insults. Or tell the difference between realism and defeatism. Fucking useless

Mars set down the mug down a little harder than strictly necessary. Truth told, his resentment had been festering for some time. Illium's Eclipse division had been proving increasingly grating to tolerate. If it weren't FNG's reeking with piss and vinegar, it was the cadre of officers who thought they were hot shit for defending Illium sucessfully against the Reapers. They were starting to believe their own PR, which was was pathetic.

They even have a TV show now.

He signalled the bartender for something harder, wishing he could get to Tsombesha faster, so he could kill something.

I need to get off this fucking planet.

Her armor was mostly black, marked with only just enough yellow down the arms, legs and the stylized sun emblazoned on her chest to pass as regulation. Barely. Not that Doran was looking to draw attention to herself. The dark human slipped into the room without fanfare and quietly ordered something with enough alcohol to burn a hole in her gut. It still counted as one drink, right? And some Sanves Skewers. A quick scan with her omnitool (Allergens and contaminants not detected.) and she wound her way to the vacated tabletop simulator.

Bits of the conversation made her roll her eyes. At least they were airing out their stupid before the mission.

She chomped on a bit of roasted meat, letting out a pleased hum at the familiar spices, and uploaded a game with her free hand. Days of Dominion was at least two decades out of date and the AI was as dumb as a box of rocks, but she’d had a date with this game since before she was the one being shipped out. The badly rendered maps, AI-boggling maneuvers, and the jangly tune piped into her earpiece were like old friends. Everyone had their way of unwinding before a long deployment, and this was hers.

If Aalos cared at all about Mars's aching rectum he gave no indication and if the trooper chose to vocalize his opinions the salarian's reply would have been something along the lines of "stop acting like a hatchling in a tantrum and grow the fuck up".

Shit happens.

Shit happens.

Holding a cool glass of...he didn't even know at this point to his forehead and letting the breeze wash over him (definite perks to an open air bar) the officer just sat back and listened to the sounds of the rest of the "room".

There was the turian who was probably as strung out as fuck right now (still weird as hells seeing a spikehead in the gold instead of blue), the green kid (twitchy bastard), the new...chick (I guess, half the ladies have more balls than I do). And of course, Kenlin. Cheerful little fucker but he knew his shit so some small sins could be forgiven.

"Oi. Basillian."

A bottle was lobbed through the air towards with a (more or less) steady hand.

"Play nice."

The plan of "some me time" had gone straight to shit and if Aalos was going to have to suffer company there was no way he was letting the turian slide by with a knife and a little blood.

The turian reflexively caught the bottle as his knife slid from his hand onto the table with a loud clatter.

"Yeah, fine."

He placed the bottle firmly on the table, swinging his knife into his hand long enough to pry the bottle open. Without further ado, he grasped the bottle firmly, taking a long swig. Without swallowing, he spat most of it out onto the cut hand.

"Good, always handy to have an antiseptic," he muttered, digging the knife once again into the table. "Heh. Handy. Heh. Cuz I cut my hand. Get it, gu- ah, forget it."

He returned to fiddling, leaving the bottle mostly alone except for a brief foray into attempting to shave the glass off. This venture was a failure, so he returned to idle playing.