[OMEGA] The Dogs of War (closed)

((takes place after "Booze and Blue Armor"))

The Drunken Varren was one of the few places on Omega that could be considered neutral ground for any of the myriad criminal factions on-station, newfound respectability be damned. It wasn't due to any proximity to Aria, nor was it because of an official agreement between the Big Three mercenaries who loved the place, nor was it due to any story of honor among criminals in its past.

No, the Drunken Varren was neutral ground for the simple reason that it served the best fucking booze in its arcology, and nobody wanted to jeopardize their access to it with gunfire.

So it came to pass that Art Daye, clad in his blue-hued Suns armor, was sitting at the bar downing a shot of whiskey (he was in the mood for hard stuff, tonight), next to a passed-out Vorcha in Blood Pack armor. The crabface had actually been pretty decent conversation---the thing had had the chops to lead a platoon of his own race and had some pretty good stories to tell about it. Granted, it'd reminded Daye of the pidgin English spoken by the ragheads in the DMZ, but that was the price you paid for conversation with a vorcha. Or a raghead.

Three deep. That should loosen me the fuck up. Daye didn't want to be shitfaced by the time his drinking partner arrived---bad fucking form. So instead of waving for another shot of whiskey, he produced his customary tin of dip, and stuck a fat wad of tobacco in his lip. D'Veyra had said she'd be here soon, and he didn't much feel like waiting for the "thank fuck we're alive" drinking to start.

All things considered, it was a bit of a miracle that The Drunken Varren had survived, what with the Cerberus occupation and their ghastly Adjutants. That such a highly-respected bar, even at the local level, could manage to survive not only a humanity-first fascist invasion but their replicating, inhuman pet monsters as well probably said something for the tenacity of the Omegan Resistance.

Not that a certain major Nassa D'Veyra cared about the history, or much else besides catching up with an unlikely friend and getting more than a little wasted in the process.

---

"Oi! Daye!" D'Veyra was a bit hard to find in the crowd, given that she wasn't wearing her typical hardsuit. No, she'd traded down for a lighter suit of armour-weave, the Eclipse corona blazing from both sleeves. "Art fucking Daye!" she exclaimed, shoving the vorcha off his (Her? Its?) barstool with one hand and clapping Daye on the shoulder with the other.

"'Bout fucking time, hey? How've you been?"

Good friends, good booze, good times. If her smile was any wider, the top of her head would fall off.

Daye, for his part, had already waved for the next wave of drinks at D'Veyra's arrival. She liked the classy shit if Bekenstein was any indicator, so this time around it was two glasses of quality whiskey, on the rocks. Unfortunately, he was left with the problem of what to do with his lip.

He settled for spitting on the floor. It wasn't like it hadn't had worse on it. And it wasn't like D'Veyra would give a shit.

"Fuckin' good to see you too," Daye said, sliding over one of the glasses of whiskey. "How've things been since the end of the war?"

Considering how Eclipse was now the fucking darling of Illium (plus one or two sectors), he could guess, but it was polite to ask, anyway. Besides, even if D'Veyra was a competitor she was a friend. In this business, one rarely got to hear that a friend was doing well for themselves.

Daye was right - him hawking up a gob of black chewing tobacco onto the floor didn't even register with the asari. After all, well, Omega.

"Oi, barman? Don't go anywhere, yeah?" She flashed Daye a smile and snagged the glass. "Since the war?

"Not too shabby, to tell the truth. It's good to see somewhere other than Illium - you ever been? - even if it is only Omega. I'm just fucking angry about this 're-training' shit. I mean, the Sisterhood's swimming in contracts out there and they want to keep me trapped here for another week? Tides. I mean, how different's this tech, anyway? Point and fucking shoot."

It probably bears mentioning that D'Veyra's eyes were unnaturally bloodshot. Depending on how many asari drug users the man was familiar with, Daye might be able to notice that he wasn't the only one who'd started early.

"Not bad, this," she continued, sipping the whiskey. "Is this that rum stuff? Never been great with furhead booze, is all." The glass was slammed back, swallowed and upended back on the bar as she waved the bartender back over. "Two more, man, and keep them coming! Haha!"

Sliding a glass over to Daye, D'Veyra shook her head, raising a hand to her temple. "...sorry. It's been a long time since I've had a fix. Tides. Look at me, I'm gabbling away like a fucking salarian on speed. How've you been, since it all started?"

A pause.

"It was good to know you made it off Katamayla alive, let alone Earth."

"Whiskey, actually," said Daye with a grunt, knocking back his own. Burned like a bitch going down, but damned if it didn't hit the spot right now. Barkeep kept the place too fucking cold.

He had to snort at D'Veyra's opinion of supervising unit rebuilding. A blood-n-guts type like her would never be satisfied being in garrison for any length of time. Daye hated rear-echelon positions, but he knew how important training and equipping the new 9 Commando would be to being able to do their job and do it well. He knew D'Veyra (probably) hadn't meant anything by the "swimming in contracts" remark...but it still rankled a bit all the same. Especially when one of the reasons the Suns weren't quite doing as well was now under his charge.

"I hear you," he said aloud, raising the whiskey she'd bought for him in salute, "but much as it sucks dick we need to do it. The guys coming into 9 Commando've all had training of some sort, but we gotta standardize shit, make sure they can fight as an outfit instead of a fucking mob. So does it suck? Sure. Is it necessary..." He gave her a taut smile. "Let's just say in a few short weeks I'll have completed the training of a unit that can rival any in the Big fuckin' Three."

OK, so maybe that was hyperbole, but Daye had always been proud of 9 Commando. After all, a commander was entitled to brag about his unit, wasn't he?

Even if that unit had been badly mauled not all that long ago.

"Glad to hear you made it out all in one piece too," Daye said quietly. He had few enough friends, it'd been good that he hadn't lost yet another to the Reapers. "Technozombies killed too fuckin' many."

To put it mildly. Drendovar Del'Serah, Synar Clodius, Jon Nielson...L---

Not here godfuckingdammit.

"Too fuckin' many..." he quietly repeated.

"Hah," D'Veyra snorted, signalling the barman for two more. "It's not training the new recruits I'm pissed about, Daye. It's High Command trying to re-train me. Tides." Her smile faded, replaced with a frown that seemed more suited for her chem-scarred face.

"It's fucking ridiculous, mate. Command's saying that I lost too many people on my last few ops or some shit. Like, they don't even give a fuck about the shit we pulled during the Siege. I've got a load of pencil-necked fucking garritroopers telling me how to run my Company. Tides."

Listening to Daye's macho swagger perked her up a bit, some of the old smile returning. "Hah, I'd better fucking hope so, Daye - the way this galaxy is going, there'll be work for the both of us for the next tides-damned century. The rock lizards, the fucking rachni, those yahg things, the Beast... I dunno," D'Veyra shook her head, waving her hands in a circle. "What's your take on it all?"

As for his whisper, well, that was something she could understand now. Before the war, she'd have most likely sat and ignored it, but now...

Her glass chinked against his. "Safe sailing and sunny skies."

"Yeah." Daye belted back his drink, but didn't elaborate any further. When D'Veyra had lost her...bondmate, was that the asari word for 'em? Whatever it was, when Jish had been smoked, she'd been in a towering rage. Hell, it wasn't like Art could blame her, what with D'Veyra personally knowing the killers and them releasing what was basically a fucking snuff film and shitting on her via the Extranet. She mourned in her own way, and that was fine by Daye, but somehow he'd a feeling she wasn't the comforting type.

So he decided to keep what had happened to the people he'd left behind to himself.

"What the fuck do I make of all this?" he repeated with a philosophical shrug. "We're gonna be in business for a while, that's for fuckin' certain. Alliance is stretched too fucking thin to protect everyone and keep the peace at the same time, colonial garrisons are gonna need support. If they don't hire on full-size units to serve as defense forces, they'll sign on advisors to make sure their militias know how to soldier."

The bartender already had another glass in front of Daye before he'd even gestured. Shoving thoughts of obscenely large tabs out of his mind, he knocked back a swig with a belch and something akin to a cross between a grimace and a grin. "Short version? You and I are gonna have our plates full for a good fucking while."

Unspoken, of course, was if corporate feuding at the top didn't wreck the Suns. Daye needed to have a talk with Puren one of these days---he didn't give a fuck which side of the Del'Serah-Vosque divide the man came down on, but he did need to know he couldn't be spreading dissent within the ranks.

Fucking Puren.

Daye took another swig.

"Heh. I'll drink to that!" And another down the hatch. Tides, starting to feel it now.

"To contracts and motherfucking war!" With an idle gesture, D'Veyra flicked the holographic 'pages' of the drinks menu. The whiskey was good, sure, but she wasn't too far gone to not worry about blowing a month's pay on booze.

"It's not just going to be the usual propping up planets shit, too, y'know," she said with a definite slur to her words, "But I've been hearing all kinds of crazy shit down the kiassa vine. I mean, peace-keeping missions on fucking Parnack; going off to fight the Beast; tides, even that the Rachni are going to come swarming back. Fuck. I mean, yahg? Gives me the chills."

There was a silent moment. "All your guys get through Earth OK? Your furhead Centurion, that cock Khor'shok, the new tech kid you picked up?"

Another pause.

"And just in case you haven't had enough shit about it yet, fucking HAH! Schism? In-fighting? Fuck me, Daye, but even the fucking Pack don't fight 'mongst themselves like that! Haha!"

So much for unspoken - although maybe it was just the booze, but D'Veyra's voice wasn't quite as sharp as it could have been.

"No way in hell are our corps going up against the Beast," rumbled Daye, jabbing a declaratory finger at D'Veyra before draining the rest of his whiskey. "Fucking faceplates can clean up their own damn mess for all we care, and this is one time I feel like I actually know you yellowbellies' policy. Geth pirate with fucking dreadnoughts? Come on---even our heaviest aerospace battlegroups wouldn't want to go up against that."

To put it mildly. Besides, it wasn't like the quarians could pay them all that well, was it? Or maybe it was---galaxy was being turned topsy-fuckin'-turvy, might be the Admiralty Board would be willing to give out contracts. All the same, Daye wouldn't want 9 Commando anywhere near that mess. Gimme a good counterinsurgency any day.

"Yeah, they all made it," he said in response to D'Veyra's next question, wincing a bit at the lie of omission. "Dunn made it through OK, tough bastard was commanding the rearguard of our happy little column---Khor'shok, well, he's just too fucking contrary to lay over and die. And Avery?" Daye snorted. "She was happy as can fuckin' be, nice and secure in the rear surrounded by computers and turians. I swear I've never seen her happier."

He shut up, half-listening to D'Veyra as he decided to pass on another glass of whiskey, instead choosing to produce his dip. And then she brought up the divide in the higher ranks and that precious precious chewing tobacco found itself on the floor. "Hold the fuck on," spluttered Daye, "hold the fuck on. You think we want it like this? Del'Serah and the decent combat commanders are pissed the fuck off about him. Aria hasn't said one word on Vosque one way or another but until she makes it clear she doesn't give too shits, we can't remove the bastard."

Daye shook his head mournfully, stowing another wad of tobacco in his lip. "It's a goddam mess."

"It ain't the dreads people are worried about, though," the asari pontificated, rolling her massive shoulders. "It's the idea of a swarm of geth setting up husk spikes on real people's worlds, not just the faceplates'. The Hierarchy and the Unions and that? They'll want to take out the fucker, but they won't want husked soldiers showing up on HV. I dunno, might be a job opportunity down the line."

With an exaggerated wink, D'Veyra began rummaging in a pocket, pulling out some vials of shadow.

"I'll drink to that. To friends getting out of shit alive, heh. You want one?" If shadow did anything for humans (or if it was even safe), D'Veyra had no idea. All she cared about was that her intoxicant of choice was now back on the market.

You knew the galactic recovery was underway when designer drugs were back in production.

"Tides, mate, take a fucking joke, alright?" It was clear she was one of those drunks. A few shots and D'Veyra knew everything about, well, everything. "It's fucking funny, mate. Tides, every PMC goes through that shit."

Popping the top of a vial, she squints at Daye. "So this Vosque's bad enough that you'd be willing to go up against Aria to get rid of him?"

Daye squinted suspiciously at the vials; he'd seen the hajjis in the DMZ get whacked out on the stuff they grew there, the khat or whatever it was called. Pot too. Not his speed at all. "I'll pass if that's OK," he said gruffly, producing another lip's worth of dip. The tin was almost out; he'd need to tell Dunn to pick him up another if he made another run by the PX.

"Can't drink," he said, responding to D'Veyra's wink with a brief grin. "But I'll fuckin' dip to that instead."

And then D'Veyra bought up Vosque and the tobacco suddenly took on a very bitter taste in his mouth. "We're not that desperate," he replied after a long moment. "But he's fucking up the corp, and one way or another it's going to have to get unfucked. That'll probably come when Del'Serah decides to beg forgiveness instead of asking permission and shooting Vosque's sorry ass, but until then we have to live with him."

And then a smirk. "Besides, not like you're without psychopaths of your fuckin' own. How's Lady Sederis been? Still outta her fuckin' mind?"

"Suit yourself, mate. More for me, heh," was the asari's response, as she unscrewed one of the vials, nodding along idly to Daye's explanation. "Mm. I get that. Tides, do I get that - we had enough problems with fucking deserters and even tides-damned Synthesists during the War that I don't blame you for wanting to murder the fucker. Tides."

Compared to some of the grudges locked away in Nassa D'Veyra's head, the problem known as Ulunma Jerome wasn't as bright and hard as, say, Matora D'Nofi or Helena Mathioudakis. The woman hadn't left her sister to die or 'killed her bondmate', like the others, but whenever Nassa thought of the lanky Nigerian, it was still a whirling conflagration of hate and loathing.

Much like most of the mercenary's inter-personal relationships, to be honest.

"Sederis? Hah!" Shaking her head, Nassa knocked back the vial, grinning at Daye with a grunt. "Tides. Don't even get me started on Her Ladyship. Sure, she's a complete fucking psycho, but she knows her shit, you know? I mean, the leadership circle's pretty balanced, none of the power struggle things you guys love. Sayn's got the technicals down pat, all the drones and sappers and shit, while Sederis has the sheer fucking malice side of it." The sudden pinched look on Nassa's face might have been the shadow kicking in, but it could equally have been the abrupt realisation that she was telling a Blue Sun about Eclipse office gossip. Sure, a friend, but still a rival.

"I mean, think about it. People hire your lot to protect shit, yeah? They hire us to tear it down."

Daye just smirked and spat on the floor. She needed to work on her professional jockeying---that insult might've flown if Katamayla hadn't been a joint op. "I think we both know that ain't the case."

Though to be fair her views on the Eclipse' command group were interesting, and more than a little enlightening. With the Suns, Del'Serah operated with a full staff, of course, but the man was a soldier-cum-businessman through and through. He knew how to wheel, deal, and fight. Vosque...Daye didn't know the story. But the rumors were simply that the guy had been part of a unit that'd had its entire command element knocked out by Reapers and he'd had the balls to take command.

After that, it just...snowballed.

The Suns worked under a bizarre mishmash of corporate and military hierarchy at the top. The Eclipse, apparently, had more of a communal thing going on. Made sense, considering asari, but still slightly incomprehensible to Daye.

Works well enough for the blue bitches, so I guess they're doing something right.

He sucked meditatively some more on his dip. "Besides," he said to D'Veyra, "I think there's gonna be more security force work than search-n-destroy---only the stupidest Terminus governments want to wreck other planets some more, but fuck, they pay me I'll be happy to do it for them."

A lazy smile was D'Veyra's only reaction - she'd be the first to admit that witty repartee wasn't exactly her forté, especially after at least two vials of shadow and, well, too much whiskey.

"Alright, alright, tides, I give up. You win," she replied, tipping her (empty) glass in Daye's direction. "Tides." The asari rolled her neck, tendons popping with clearly audible cracks.

"Mm. Fighting off pirates and training petty Terminus militias. Tides. Makes you wish for another good war, doesn't it?" A brief pause. "Hey, at least we've got new toys to play with. You seen the specs on those Cobra launchers? Fucking incredible, hey?"

Actually, he hadn't, but he'd seen enough of 'em in action during the War (and heard Dunn's ramblings about the things) to know that they could put some serious fuckin' hurt downrange. "Yeah. Fuckin' weapons renaissance this is. Even if there's not gonna be another war they're still gonna see some use on some fuckin' group or another."

He leaned in close with the air of someone about to impart a great secret, posture closed in and sucking meditatively on his tobacco. "'Sides, between you and me? Could use a fuckin' break for a bit."

To put it mildly. Never mind leading 9 Commando, or rebuilding it. The Reaper War had taught Art Daye a very uncomfortable truth: he was getting old. Maybe not quite so bad as Dunn, but the actions on Katamayla and Earth had been excellent reminders that he wasn't a young hound anymore running with the pack. Sure, the old dogs had to keep the yelping pups in line (especially such aggressive bastards as 9 Commando), but it still was weird not being able to keep up from the front.

It's the dip and the booze fucking you up, Art, how many times have you realized you need to quit?

A lot. Not that it'd stop him, though. Guy needed to take his comforts where he could, after all.