Welcome to Little Heshtok (Open)

Little Heshtok smelled. How did it smell? Well, it was covered in piss, shit, and vomit, and looked like Dwick had eaten a tub full of his dad's chili and rubbed the resulting filth everywhere. Ironically, some of the tastiest food on the Citadel could be found here, from Deep Fried Lard Bars to a local favorite, the Skikkzy Brewery Company's newest creation, steak marinated in mango-flavored beer. These "Frewty-Meetz" became a favorite seller among the Vorcha children, both for its unique flavor and how the owner have it away dirt-cheap to Vorcha. Also ironically, Little Heshtok had less of a murder problem than Tayseri Ward, due to the firm but just hand of the local C-Sec captain, Naeva Narkk. It probably helped that her "father" had been a Vorcha hooker. Still, petty crime was rampant. Public uination, public defecation, fights, unauthorized fight clubs, hookers, butchering meat in the open air, you name it. Once, a local Vorcha woman lit a fart on a Hanar preacher that tried to "civilize" the inhabitants, and ended up throwing itself in a tub of blood-gravy to douse itself. The inhabitants were crude, rude, crass, brass, and proud. Yet, it was essentially the Vorcha equivalent of a hippie commune. How was this possible? Mostly through community organizing, in part largely donated by a certain philanthropist.

Kreb was enjoying some cooked meat in a corner. Children were playing, the Citadel was bright, and she was sure the day would only get better from here on out.

While he didn't hate them, Isadore wasn't exactly ecstatic to be standing in Little Heshtok, surrounded by Vorcha. But, as per his bosses orders, he had business here, so on he trudged, looking for the his contact in the writhing cesspool of living garbage that was the Vorcha district.

"De facto mayor" was a title that made the foul-mouthed philanthropist proud. The Vorcha watched from his "balcony" on the house made of crates in the refugee district that homed many Vorcha, who were becoming a not-exactly-welcome permanent addition to the citadel. A few children, all Vorcha, could be seen daring each other to poke a krogan who had entered the area.

The pokes.

poking.

Isadore was quite fond of children, the promise of an entertaining future and new laws to circumvent, but these children, following him around, working up the courage to poke and prod him....

The battle master finally grew sick of the clawed fingers and the horrible screech they made against his armor, and grabbed all the children with his biotics. He inspected his armor where a particularly bold female had poked and scratched him in the side, leaving a series of long, silvery blue scratches in his pearly white armor that stood out like a cracked claw. Knowing the children didn't have translators, he hissed in their language as best he could, Go, bother someone else!

He released the children from stasis, all but the female that had damaged his armor. He gave her a deathly glare and took a knee before her, releasing the stasis from her. He brought up the translator interface on his Omni and held it out for her to understand him.

Your courageous young one, I admire that. I need your help, can you help me find Gylle Reeze? He asked her, flipping a credit chit between his fingers before making it vanish and swiping some non-existant dust from the shield batteries attached to the shoulders of his pristine armor. The child's response surprised her as her voice was bent and her words rearranged into a krogan dialect that Isadore could understand.

Gylle president of United Laborers Gylle? She asked him after the first few tries and being cut off by her own, kroganized, words. If not for that she was a Vorcha, her voice made Isadore think of the girly little batarian and asari children in their pink dresses and bows and such.

Yeah, that's the guy, I have a business meeting with him, but I am having trouble finding him.

That because he not here [TRANSLATOR ERROR: GLYPH NOT FOUND]

Isadore chuckled but wasn't perturbed, even if the Vorcha wasn't here, it was still time off that frozen iceball...

You can play with us till Mr. Gylle gets back! The child offered hopefully, motioning to the children he had scared off earlier. The short Krogan made a show of thinking about it before agreeing and letting her lead him to a small clearing near what appeared to be a mock up of a castle or mansion made of shipping crates.

Kreb watched as the children played with the krogan, momentarily ready to attack when the krogan used stasis on them. When it became clear that he wasn't going to hurt them, she decided to welcome the krogan to their little slice of heaven. Grabbing some smoky, meat flavored nuts that came in from the local "mayor's" trade, she decided to offer the krogan and children some of the imported food. "Kids, bring your friend! Cooked rekk-nuts!

Though he acted like he didn't, he enjoyed playing with the children. Their game was simple, just enough to hold their attention and keep a smile on ther faces, but few understood what a child's smile meant to a krogan, a species that had learned through their own misdeeds the value of precious children. Though they weren't even krogan, the battlemaster cherished the bubbly, friendly young children like his own kin. The genophage did that to a man, made him appreciate the young that he couldnt have.

A voice called to the little group through the crowds, drawing the children from their game. The girl, Lysh, grabbed his hand and, with surprising strength, pulled him towards the woman that the voice belonged to.

Alrigh' alrigh' yeh don' have teh pull my arm ou'a socket! He followed young Lysh, un-fastening his helmet to hook it on his belt and revealing his scarred up face, smile traced on the rough gap of his mouth a just a hint of joy shining from his emerald green eye, its milky counterpart staying staying dull and mute.

Names Isadore, pleasure teh meet yeh mum! He said with a bit more enthusiasm than he meant, offering her his synthetic hand as he drew close.

Kreb blushed deeply. "Ohhh, I'm not their mother. I just watch over them sometimes. How's your stay in Little Heshtok been?" Chanting can be heard on the other side of the wall that encircles the "village" as a group of turians, humans, asari and the odd salarian chant "GOBLINS GET OUT!" The woman gives an angry glance. "I hope you didn't come with those scumsuckers."

Isadore withdrew his ceramic arm and tucked i behind his back.

Sorry mum, i's how I say it. An No, im neigh here with those bigots, Im actually here looking for Gylle. Im tryen teh negotiate terms with 'im teh get a work force o' you vorcha fer my company. Besi'es, how coul' I be bringen hate to yeh're door when yeh got youngerns here with yeh? Isadore said earnestly, legitimately suprised and actually angered at the crowd that he found he could now hear if he listened for it. A flame of rage burned in his good eye and a ripple of biotic power flared over his body. The verticaly challenged krogan crushed his body's natural response and forced a smile back onto his face when he saw the frightened land unsure looks he was getting.

Sorry bou' tha', hearin' bou' tha' crowd really ruffled my scales a bit.

A group of teenage Vorcha boys walked over to the wall, and began to piss on the protesters. Some ran off, but others started to scream slurs. "Oh, for the love of- BOK, GET AWAY FROM THERE! Sorry, if you really want to talk to anybody about business, that'd be the "mayor" in the center of "town"." She guided the children inside, while the protesters began chanting "CITADEL NOT SAVAGES! CITADEL NOT SAVAGES!"

With a laugh, Isadore grabbed the boys in his biotic grasp and let them piss on themselves a moment before flicking his wrist and sending them soaring for a dumpster. He headed up into the odd mash up of shipping crates and parted out shuttles that made up the faux house. Eventually he found his way to the balcony where he had seen the so-called mayor standing earlier.

Anybody home? The krogan accentuated his question with a few loud thumps on the wall.

The door opens, and sitting on a throne made of crates and ratty pillows and torn quilts, sat a Vorcha in a suit of custom-made armor. What really catches the eye, though, is the twin morbidly obese Vorcha women in stained velvet lingerie lounging on piles of torn-apart pillows. "Is this about the trade request? I paid good money for that food, and the people here are wondering when the food will be resupplied! Well, aside from those two, but they tell me they got glandular problems. Anyways, are they willing to trade food for booze?" The twins look nervously at each other, while Reem ignores them and notices the krogan. "Wait, you're not the same guy. What do you need?"

Isadore. Im here for SpitFire Cybernetics. I was supposed to meet a Gyyle Reeze about enlisting a Vorcha workforce, but was told to talk to you instead.

The verticaly challenged krogan officer scanned the room with his good eye, taking in the "office". It had an air of... nicer, than the rest of the ramshackle village. The women in the corner were definitely attraction, though they didn't really pique his interest, he was sure they would pop under him, the thought of such a thing giving him a chuckle. The "mayor" in his "throne" was an interesting fellow. He had an inexperienced face, but something about him was off for him to be pulling the young and stupid act. The glint in his eye just a little too sharp, the point of his teeth just a little too well manicured and dangerous, the subtle lines of his musculature were just a little too defined, and the armor was just a little too well made for show, something was off about this Vorcha, and it was bugging him, Isadore knew he couldn't relax around this one, he was just a little too...... much, to be just the filthy rich inheritant of a fortune.

"What sort of a workforce? We don't just toil for crumbs anymore. We've seen how you live on the Citadel and in Council space, we want a slice of that pie." The Vorcha had a look in his eye, as if he was used to correcting people who thought of him as a lesser being. "If this company just wants expendable workers who they can pay the absolute lowest price, they can stuff it. Gyyle is away on business, but if he plans on selling out the rest of Little Heshtok, then I may need to have a word with him."