The Last Varren

There were no good restaurants on Omega. Not as far as Kirok was concerned.

There were restaurants with good food, yes. There were also restaurants that are clean. There were restaurants with good service, restaurants with a decent view of the limited scenery, and even restaurants with all of these things combined.

However, there was no such thing as an Omegan restaurant with chairs large enough to deal with a fully armored krogan currently dealing with three varren pups, one full-grown varren, and large shotgun. The goddamned seats were so fucking small.

"NO, I JUST WANT TH' CAWFEE," Kirok bellowed at the hovering waiter drone as it interrogated the krogan for his order. "BLACK. TWO SUGARS. IRON OXIDE. NOTHIN' ELSE."

"Would the customer appreciate a ---CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH--- while he waits?"

"NO. CAWFEE. A CUPPA CAWFEE. DAT'S IT."

"Would the customer prefer it ---BLACK--- or with ---CREAM AND SUGAR---?"

"AH JUST SAID - AW, HELL, FERGET IT, BRING ME WHATEVER IT IS Y'THINK I ORDERED."

The drone beeped, hovered in the air for a second, and then flew back to the drone housing to disseminate the order, mysterious as it was. Goddamn. Kirok was livid. This drell better get here soon to pick up his varren, or there was going to be one less nouveau riche coffee cafe on Omega, reconstruction or not.

Fortunately for Kirok, the drell was already there, and had been for some time now.

As the minutes ticked by, he sat quietly in the back of the cafe, hands folded atop the table as he stared across the establishment and at the source of chaos that had taken a seat not too far from his own. The krogan was actually almost as loud as the varren; he felt he should have been surprised, but couldn't afford the courtesy at present.

A flick of his wrist brought up his omnitool. When it was exactly five minutes til the appointed hour, he rose and started towards Kirok's table with long strides, deftly nabbing a cup of coffee from a distracted droid on the way. The limp in his step was scarcely noticeable as he moved; he was trying to disguise it in the presence of strangers.

"Murtag Kirok?"

It was an unnecessary question, more of a formality than anything. The membrane of his second eyelids nictated as he stood and waited to be addressed, white scales stark against the warm color scheme the cafe had adopted. He had attempted make himself appear more approachable by wearing a well-fitted, black suit with matching shirt and tie, but the monochromatic combination had the opposite effect. Oh well.

In other situations, Kirok might have found the pale, scarred drell odd, even unnerving. However, in this current situation - surrounded by varren and retarded drones and sitting in a chair two sizes too small - Kirok's nerves were already past the point of caring about sinister men in black suits, and the little knot of cholesterol at the top of his spine was ready to lash out at the first target that presented itself.

"WHO WANTS'TA KNOW?!" he barked as he held onto Whitefang's collar to keep her from rushing the roast beef sandwich on the next table.

"Cerastes," replied the same. His expression had failed to change during the krogan's outburst. While he waited for his company to settle, he took a sip of his drink and slid his free hand into the pocket of his dress pants. "We made an arrangement on the Cerberus Daily News forums recently to meet at five o'clock sharp at this location. You were concerned about me potentially eating your varren."

The drell squinted and looked into his cup. Whoever had ordered this had requested cream, which was ruining the bitter taste of the roast.

"Do you need a moment?"

Kirok's eyes squinted.

"Oh. OH. Right. Yer here fer th' varren. Gotcha. Siddown."

With a giant hand, Kirok scooped up one of the squirming varren puppies from the seat next to his and put it in his lap. The tiny reptilian menace immediately started clawing at the top of the table in an attempt to either escape or attack the salt shaker.

"Sorry. Varren're a handful at th'best of times. Siddown, Cer.. Ceras... Cerastes. I'd order ya a cuppa cawfee, but th' goddamned drones 'ere 're goddamned retarded."

Wordlessly, he accepted the offer and deposited himself in the chair across from Kirok. His gaze drifted towards the pup and its mother, inspecting them as the krogan continued his diatribe.

Eventually, he returned his attentions to his (arguably) more sentient company. "I expected as much," he said. Scaled fingers rapped upon his cup to remind Kirok that he had already managed to acquire a beverage. "If you've found the service inadequate, I could relocate one of the droids."

Whatever the hell that meant. He took another sip, then returned to his neutral state of staring.

"I... uh... yeah, okay?"

Kirok had NO idea what that meant.

Cerastes's choice of action turned out to be much less sinister than implied. He glanced off to the side, listening, the reached out and snagged the arm of one of the droids as it came up from behind him (presumably, it was trying to get to the next table down). While the pile of bolts tried speeding up its bottom wheel to escape, Cerastes gestured politely to Kirok and waited for him to place his order.

"Sometimes the simplest method is the best," he said.

Kirok looked at the drell with wary yellow eyes.

This guy was weird.

"Er, cuppa cawfee, black, two sugars, iron oxide. Pronto, bucketbutt."

The krogan watched the drone extricate itself from the drell and wheel back into the kitchen. This was getting bizarre.

"Awright. So y'wanned a varren, right? We've only got th' one left. Hope dat's okay."

After releasing the droid, Cerastes adjusted his tie and replied, "That was the deal, yes. I presume you have other business; four hundred credits base, one hundred for travel expenses and time taken. Is that adequate?"

He re-folded his hands on the table, resigning to hold off on drinking his coffee in front of Kirok until the latter had gotten his, too.

"Wait. Wait wait wait. Y'want me t'pay YOU to take a varren? That's ridiculous! I ain't payin' you nothin'!"

The varren pup in Kirok's hands got free and rushed the salt shaker, gripping the ceramic item in its jaws so tightly that cracks began to show. This was a varren pup that DEMANDED salt.

The salt couldn't be good for the pup. Varren produced a healthy amount of sodium on their own; additional suppliments would dehydrate them and lead to potential kidney failure.

Plus, it was getting salt on the table, and that just wouldn't do.

Cerastes reached out and, while stroking the tiny spines on the back of the pup's neck, utilized the distraction to tug the salt shaker between two teeth and pull it out from there. That done, he lined it up neatly with the pepper shaker to the left of the napkin dispenser. Much better.

"No," he said calmly, "I am offering you five hundred credits for the varren. If you want to negotiate, I have two hours, fifteen minutes and forty-one seconds available before my next appointment."

"Oh."

Kirok relaxed. He hadn't been expecting payment. As far as he knew, Sil had just been giving the things away.

... that said, these varren were of prime stock. Hell, anything born of Whitefang's genetic code had to be special. Right? And even if they weren't, there was no reason not to sweeten the pot a little.

"Nah. Thousand. This here's prime, grade-A, purebreed varren here. Their mother's a goddamned miracle of evolution, and is smarter'n some goddamn vorcha out there - I know that don't sound like much, but trust me, it counts. That kinda shit breeds in, right. You ain't buyin' some ordinary varren. Yer buyin' the best varren Tuchunka ever goddamned breathed life into."

"Six fifty."

It was on. Red eyes flicked to the side as the droid returned and delivered Kirok's order; finally, he could resume drinking his coffee (fouled as it was by cream).

"You're a busy man, but you've left the handling of the pups to a human women who is inexperienced with animal husbandry and rearing of offspring, regardless of what natural talent she may display. Socialization during the first eight weeks is the most crucial factor in raising varren." He stared Kirok dead in the eyes, level and calculating. "I would have expected better of someone reputed enough to have his own nickname - 'The Butcher,' at that - but then again, implications therein might have been attributed due to an unrelated cause."

He sipped the coffee with distaste. The cream was settling at the bottom, making the drink sweeter and sweeter the closer he got to finishing it off.

"Hah! Y'think Sil's just some human. Hell no. She ain't the sharpest knife inna drawer, but she knows howta take care a' varren. Fact all eight survived this far without eatin' each other's sign'a that. Eight hunnert."

For a krogan, this one wasn't too bad at playing ball. Cerastes smiled thinly and clasped his hands together atop the table (after flicking away a few stray grains of salt, of course - they would show up on his suit otherwise).

"Seven. You're an unregistered breeder, which reduces their value; I won't be able to show them properly without starting my own line and paying the registration costs myself."

Kirok had called the woman "Sil." They must have been better friends than he'd thought.

Kirok grinned. Oh, this guy was good.

"Seven seventy-five. B'cause you were innerested 'nuff t'fly alla way t'Omega to pick up a varren AND do yer research on me. This ain't just some casual shit fer you, is it?"

... Hrn. Years had lent wisdom, evidently. Maintaining his poker face, Cerastes took a final sip of his coffee, then waited for another hapless droid to wheel by. The cream was unacceptable at this point.

"Seven fifty," he said, a tad conspiratorially. "You have no concept of where I've come from, or whether I flew at all to get here. This could easily be a walk down the street for me. For you? It's time out of your day, time that you could be spent earning credits. You need what you can get after your the loss of the Pit, don't you?"

Another smile.

"But that's just common knowledge."

Kirok's grin began to dip, and his eyes narrowed.

"Seven seventy-five, b'cuz now yer makin' this personal. Final offer."

"Fair enough."

It was best not to tempt the krogan's temper. As enjoyable as the negotiation was, Cerastes had come to the cafe marginally armed; he wouldn't hold up in a close-range scuffle as he was, and a varren was no reason for dissolving future contacts.

"Seven sixty. What is your preference, chits?" he removed a gray-toned wallet from his coat pocket and casually flipped it open, "Or deposit?"