[Omega] Bullets are the Beauty

What is power? It was the kind of question philosophers on a thousand worlds endlessly debated. The kind of question that made Political Science majors the galaxy over screw up their eyes, prayed, and turn on the bullshit on exam day.

But no, really, serious question.

What was power?

This place, this station was built on the answer to that question. Deal the cards, flip them over, read the Major Arcana of Omega today. Here. Now. The Aristocrat lounging in his villa, basking in the bloody red glow the filters up from the gulf, from the metal cliffs between spires (wealth, privilege, decadence). The Warlord in his den, idly scratching his hump as he watched the vorcha drill with ugly, snub barreled things cradled in their thorned arms (violence, brutality, domination). The Broker in her cave, watching the datafeeds scroll across the myriad screens as her assistants rushed to and fro (information, access, control).

This was power. Power was not this.

Power was a means to an end. Power was choice.

There's one more, flip the last.

The Man, he stands on the rooftop, hands in his pockets watching the starry dark beyond the ruddy light of Omega. There's a hole in the ceiling, where Cerberus exosuits tore through the building's superstructure. Someone patched it with an industrial envelope field to keep the air from evacuating, there are a few trays here and there, hydroponics equipment. Someone's garden.

He stands on the tip of an artificial mountain, looking at, looking beyond the crags of the inverted skyline above him.

He represents opportunity. Potentiality. A decision.

But for now he merely waits, his contact will be here soon.

The contact in question wasn't nearly so philosophical. He was capable of it, sure, when it suited him, but it rarely did - a lifetime of struggling to survive had impressed upon him the pointlessness of such deep thought. When deep thinking did occur, it rarely ended well for such as Esarkhad Adar, and so he tended to dwell in the present or, when on the hunt, the very near future.

He wasn't here on a hunt. Not yet, at least, though if this meeting turned out like most other such meetings he would be very soon, and that suited him just fine. The hunt was where he excelled, like some kind of primitive throwback - the thrill of pursuit, the rush of the capture, the hedonistic options that presented themselves afterwards. He might not be stalking his prey through the jungle in the dead of night (most of the time), he might not be creeping up through the underbrush on an unwary foe (again, usually), but on a primal level it was the same instinct at work, and after growing up on the streets of Omega instinct was just about the only thing the batarian known as Collar had any faith in. Instinct was the driving force behind actions, both his and those of other people, aware of it or otherwise. Power, money, muscle, it all came down to the same basic instincts shared by most successful species', and Collar was more in touch with them than most.

Huh. Guess he was getting philosophical after all.

The batarian stepped onto a rooftop with only one other occupant, making no attempt to conceal his arrival. That was instinct, too - there was a time and place for stealth, and this was not it. This was an arranged meeting, not a hunt, and sneaking up on a potential client was rarely a good idea. This was particularly true on Omega, notorious for kidnappings and murders and rapes and worse, some of which he'd even been a part of in a past life. No, this was not the time for that at all.

"Esarkhad Adar, Captain, Crimson Suns. You called?"

"Do you have the mark?"

The Man's voice was clipped, his tone formal. Batarian Trade General: Omegan dialect, spoken as if his second or third language, the cadence slightly stilted, a syllable here or there oddly emphasized. He had the air of Old Hegemony about him, something so thoroughly ingrained that not even this place, this Station, could strip it out entirely.

A convoy tram blazed past the window, plunging through the schools of smaller craft that played in the shoals among the towers, and the light shining from the sidelights played across his armor. High quality, functional, utilitarian. Batarian made.

An interlocked set of red links on one pauldron.

A green dragon on a field of black and silver, like a battle standard, on the other.

The Man didn't move save for a tilt of the faceless helm to the left (representative of authority and said authority's employee), unperturbed at the minor revelation to his prodigal relation. Drones, small angular things, orbited his form in lazy patterns, the sudden illumination playing across their metal bodies.

And then the truck was past and the garden was plunged back into the gloom.

The interlocked chains on the other batarian's pauldron matched those on his own, though the surroundings were quite different indeed. That fact gave Collar pause, though only for a moment. He'd known it was a possibility he'd end up dealing with other, active Chains at some point. Hadn't expected it to happen so soon, or on a deal with Titan. Apparently one of the factions was moving up in the galaxy.

The moment passed.

"Of course we do. We just got back, matter of fact - if you hadn't left us a message, we'd've called you," said Collar, activating his omnitool and sending the all-clear. A moment later, and two more Crimson Suns arrived, dragging a moaning form between them and dropping him on the ground before returning from whence they came.

"I thought the man would be here himself, for this. Wasn't expecting one of you-" time to take a guess, which faction was the most likely to have corporate interests? "-Lorek guys." Collar didn't actually recognize the other batarian, thanks to the armor and the all-too-brief lighting, but chances were they'd worked together if he was highly-ranked enough to be here. "Been a while."

One gauntlet flared orange, the metal overlaid with the tracery of an omnitool. The drone swarm flitted through the air in response, circling Adar and the prone man on the floor. The room filled with verdant light as scanners played over the pair, cataloging armor and weapons, confirming identities.

"Not so long."

Long enough, it wasn't camaraderie such as they might have had once upon a time or even a common bond. They were more like acquaintances passing on the street, old classmates.

Hey how've you been!

Oh you know same old, same old. How're you?

I'm good! I've gotta get going but catch up later?

Sure, maybe.

Walk off in opposite directions, never see each other again. Never give it a second thought. Common history was perhaps the best phrase for it. Life had taken them down different roads.

The drones chirped. Done.

The omnitool faded away and The Man beckoned Adar over to an service hatch in the corner. A tiny, one man airlock, for maintenance and engineers to access the exterior of the building. The light changed again as another craft broke away from the current, a dark shape framed against the lamps of the neighboring arcologies. Fins. Ablative plate. The distinctive silhouette of missile pods. There was a weight to it. A mass.

The Man tapped a gauntleted finger to the control panel and the interface flashed, cycling through colors as the display fragmented before finally settling on a soft, bright, green.

Both sets of doors cycled open, turning the airlock into a narrow passageway. The craft had docked in a fashion, latching on to the surface of the spire like a remora on the belly of some massive beast. It's hull was already splitting open as The Man stepped forward.

Collar watched the ship descend in silence, held his tongue at the needlessly extravagant display of wealth as the other batarian triggered the airlock. He couldn't be sure if this was the Lorek Chains or Titan at work, but it didn't make much difference - the two were obviously working together and that was worth keeping in mind.

He reached down, grabbed the still-moaning reason for their meeting by the scruff of the neck, and roughly dragged him behind the Crimson Chain without any visible effort. Just like old times.

The hull doors peeled apart, heavy mechanize things that they were, and gunmetal grey of the gunship screeched across dark rust of the station's skin. Wind brushed past their faces, the arcology's atmosphere flowing out through microbreaches in the seal. The pitch of the Scarab's engines changed and the sudden breeze still and died.

A second lock lay ahead, infinitely sleeker, imbued with that almost intangible aura of class that accompanied such well machined things. They split, sliding into the bulkheads. A fraction of a second later and the hundreds of interlocking mechanisms that lined the edges of the divide like so many jagged teeth folded themselves flat. The troop bay beyond, large enough to hold and deploy entire squads of men and women was gone. Well, no, gone wasn't exactly the appropriate term.

Converted would have been more precise.

Long, comfortable couches along the walls. Crystal viewscreens above and behind, so perfectly mimicking windows it took the eye a few precious moments to realize it was being taken for a fool. A step inside and the pulse of the contragrav thrusters, the hum of the drive core became a low, distant thrum.

The hiss building's twin seals realizing they were still open and hastily closing was barely audible at all.

The Man took up a position just within the secondary barrier. Others were here. At the far end of the craft, closer to the cockpit, was an absolute beast of a turian, crouching as much as sitting on one of the Scarab's chairs. One or two more opposite him, another batarian, what might have been an asari, half hidden. The numbers and races of each were difficult to make out, concealed by the dim light.

Another man sat in a chair a few meters away; legs crossed, idly rubbing the fin of some long, sinuous, vaguely reptilian creature. He glanced up at the batarian and his quarry and the corners of his mouth twitched up into what might have been a smile.

"So glad you could join us in person Captain. Please, by all means, take a seat."

This was Weird. As. Fuck.

The converted military vehicle brought to mind nothing so much as some kind of bizarre traveling orgy. Everything was so... comfortable, and the dim lighting gave the whole thing a kind of surreal aura that Collar just couldn't shake. Even so, he dragged the mark to the center of the... was it technically a room? And then took a seat, next to what might have been an asari and across the cabin from the man and his reptile. There wasn't really much to say - the batarian Captain had some idea of why he was here, and understood why he'd been hired, but this was still absolutely bizarre.

The mark moaned softly, semi-conscious, lying on the floor. Eyes opened, groggily at first, and then widened in confusion as he frantically looked around, probably wondering if he'd been drugged and dragged into some kind of sexual fantasy. Finally, those eyes settled on the one familiar thing in the room - Collar himself, who simply shrugged and motioned towards the businessman with his head.

Click.

A flame flared to life, a little lost star in the darkness of the cabin; receding after a moment and leaving dim, sullen embers embers in its wake. Nikolai took a long, slow drag on the cigarette. Behind The Man the ships's doors were folding close, sealing themselves shut. The timbre of the engines changed; from a low, steady thud like a great mechanical heartbeat to a rumbling, rolling growl. Gravity distorted, shifted, inside the lounge.

Nobody paid it any mind.

The view on the false windows was changing, the Scarab was pulling back into the river of traffic. Just another heavily armed gunship in the Omegan dark, not so unusual. Just another part of the constant ebb and flow, the tidal patterns of the Station. Not so unusual.

The scarred man exhaled and silver smoke wreathed his head, obscuring his features for a moment before vanishing into discrete vents.

"You don't mind if I smoke do you? It's something an unfortunate habit I picked up in the Corps. I do try to avoid it in polite company but, well"

Green snake eyes slid over to Adar, lightly amused.

"We're not in polite company are we?"

Mfmmfmfmfmmmfmmf.

He leaned in, till he was eye to eye with the batarian's upper set. Raw jade irises and dried mud disks. Gleaming, bone white teeth and a gag. "Now, Mr. Rah'teh I-"

Mfmfmfmfffmfmmfmfmf

"Mr. Rah'te-"

Mffmfmffmmfmfmfmmm

"Mr. R-"

Mffmfmffmffmfmmfmmf

"Mrgh."

One suited arm snaked out and caught the man by the chin, drawing his head up, forcing it back. Four black pupils locked onto the businessman's two. Between pale pianist's fingers bone and cartilage creaked.

"Now, as I was saying Mr. Rah'teh I had a business opportunity I wished to discuss with you."

Aleksanders' lit cigarette glowed like a red star (a crimson sun, oddly enough) in the dim light. Collar's only reply was to chuckle and light up one of his own, letting the smoke drift through his teeth as he exhaled. The batarian could feel himself relax as the smoke carried away the tension of the moment; there had been a shock when he stepped into the vehicle, but now that his eyes had adapted and he was smoking with someone worth about four hundred times what he was, everything seemed much more natural indeed. The near-interrogation happening in front of him probably helped too, grisly as that may be. It was familiar territory, and he half expected Aleksanders to have him step in and apply some force if the poor piece of shit on the floor was stupid enough to argue. That, too, would be familiar territory.

All of this still begged the question of what the others were doing here. It was, in all likelihood, nothing that involved Collar - more likely some kind of demonstration for subordinates or some such. Or maybe there was something sexual about it after all, and those were the CEO's co-fetishists, waiting for their chance to flog the mark. Whatever. So long as they weren't trying to kill him, it didn't much matter - the only consideration Collar gave it was idle speculation while he watched for the squirming form on the floor to react properly.

"You are a mid ranking executive of Sanat and Co. You have no siblings. You have no children. You are estranged from your parents and others relations in the Kite's Nest."

A pause as he swapped the cigarette to his free hand, elbow on his knee, holding it like a pointer. Underline. Bold. Emphasis. Pay attention now this is important. The smoke that he breathed out made the batarian's eyes water, his nose drip. Nikolai delicately shifted his grip and continued. Disjointed facts, extrapolation, guesses, all woven together into a lovely tapestry by the man in the suit, his scars giving him a smile in the half-dark.

"This is, in fact, the express reason your superiors appointed you to your current position as Logistics Head on this little project. There is no leverage to use, nothing to be held hostage against you, and it's far easier to keep an eye on one man than it is a host of people. So that means some long hours for you Mr. Rah'teh, so what? You were grateful for the opportunity, for the dim hope of advancement. Weren't you?"

Faint whimpering.

Good enough.

"Now, here's where I'm afraid that things have gone a little askew for you. You see, your superiors ordered you to hire soldiers piecemeal, small groups, not completely incompetent freelancers, the like, for use by Sanat's Omegan branch. For use against a rival.

For use against me."

Silence. Wide eyes.

"But I wouldn't worry Mr. Rah'teh I'm not angry. I get it. It's business, nothing personal."

Emphatic nodding, as far as the vicelike grip around his jaw would permit.

"But at the same time, I can't exactly let this stand you see? So, here's what we're going to do about it."

He casually released the man, letting him fall back on the floor in a heap. A gesture and the asari (and it was an asari) next to the Crimson Sun deftly hauled the prone man up onto one of the couches. A flick and a flash of dull metal and the singularly unfortunate executive's arms were freed. The gag fell into his lap.

"Which is actually why you're here Captain. I have another job for you and your affiliates if you're so inclined? Several really."

"I don't make it a habit to turn down work," grunted Collar, with a glance and a smirk at the terrified victim a few seats over. He took a drag, exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift up between his razor-sharp teeth, swirling around his face, giving him a positively demonic appearance for a fraction of a second.

"What've you got for me?"

He was reclining now, lounging, luxuriating. The reptile had draped itself over his shoulder, muscular tendrils spiked with keratin dangling from its back, head tucked under his collar. The light from the cigarette was snuffed out, the butt ground into nothing.

A spark ignited.

Hellfire on hollow human fangs.

And then the shadows, momentarily forestalled, surged back.

"A platoon, ideally Crimson Suns, with at least several members experienced with controlled demolitions and the rest moderately proficient at infiltration at a minimum. The detachment will operate under the ostensible authority of our dear Mr. Rah'teh here as his hired soldiers while continuing to take orders from myself. Prior to the actual engagement of hostilities with Titan's defensive line you and your men will enact your standing directives."

A wireframe, a model of the Vasakadian Concourse sketched itself out in the air between them, buildings and wings and towers rising out of Omega's superstructure; construction in real time. A square of holographic portraits unfolded themselves from the borderlines. Four batarians. Two krogan. Front, profile, in media res, names, age, estimated personal retinues.

"Cripple the docks, there are two in the arcology we believe. Sanat himself and his inner circle will be present within the base to oversee the attack. Remove them however you see fit, leave the rest of his staff as untouched or, rather, as undamaged as possible."

His tone was almost apologetic. "And yes, I'm afraid that includes enslaving them. However, in recognition of the difficulties pursuant to such restrictions we are prepared to include twenty percent of Sanat's atmospheric and mechanized units as gratuity. The remainder of the company's auxiliary fighting force is, of course, yours to do with as you please."

The mercenary leaned forward in his seat, studying the wireframe model closely.

"It's doable. If you want the whole platoon involved, it'll cost extra, but we're guaranteed to get the job done."

Guaranteed might have been a bit of an understatement. Bringing in all of the Crimson Suns would be the equivalent of dropping a nuke on an anthill, in this kind of environment. They'd rival the numbers of their largest potential opposition, and Collar'd done some homework on the groups involved - only a few of them were anything approaching professional. The rest were barely-affiliated freelancers calling themselves a company because it sounded better. There might be some talented ones, in there, but nothing that could in any way oppose the Suns even if they took the most direct approach to this, which really wasn't his style. No, this was going to be a good one, and Aleksanders could pay them enough to make it happen. Wasn't often the whole company got involved, but they hadn't failed yet on those rare occasions. In this case... Well. Given the makeup of the other groups involved, in this case it was entirely possible the target would use the Suns as his core force. In fact, he'd be stupid not to, but that'd just give them better access and make their job easier.

"You'll include this map, of course. For the sake of efficiency?"

"Yes but I'm paying for quality aren't I?"

Tap tap tap tap goes the rain of ash into the dull tray as one idly flicks.

"And yes, of course; the maps, the dossiers, what we've managed to acquire is all yours. Though, and this does bear emphasis for all present parties, the efficiency and speed with which this venture is executed rests, in large part, on Mr. Rah'teh's actions over the course of the next several days."

Darkly gleaming disks twitched, the focus of the room shifted.

"..." a half glance from side to side with each pair of eyes, as if to ask "me?"

Yes you.

"How-"

Back of a stained cuff to his mouth, a cough and the wet rattle of spittle. There were certain skills one picked up in the irreconcilable stratosphere in which Omega's corporatist factions resided; a degree of charm, of charisma, of politesse and polish could loosen tongues and unlock accounts. It could, if you were fast enough, lithe and hungry enough, be the difference between life and death and the worst of both worlds.

The potential applications in this situation, for example, were rather obvious.

"What would be the requirements for this from me if I...ah.

If an arrangement could possibly be made."