[Omega] The Worst Weekend Ever. EVER.

Earlier...

Everything hurt.

It had been four hours - four fucking hours - since Shirin and Cerastes had had their tussle in the warehouse, and Cerastes was already feeling the fallout. He'd managed to sleep for one precious hour upon arriving back at his temporary apartment, but duty called him back upon the scene immediately after.

Duty, and the fact that the painkillers had worn off.

Now, looking like nothing short of a bag of hell, the broker sat shirtless in his own kitchen, metaphorically licking his very literal wounds as four holographic screens flickered in front of his face. He'd already downed several cups of coffee, and was fairly certain at this point that it was all that was keeping him going. White fingers flashed in the dark of his apartment as he flipped through one screen after another: decoding, decrypting, analyzing. It was a pattern he'd be locked into until he'd run through all of the data available to him.

What a horrible, horrible weekend this was turning out to be.

Presently...

Kirok was cooking.

Well. That was inaccurate. Kirok HAD been cooking. Now he was napping as the pot on the ship's range boiled and simmered, getting all the flavory goodness of his 'spicy 'chunkan stew' into every little bit of meat involved. The pot burbled on the stove like a rumbling volcano, steaming into the electric range and sending up the smell of spice everywhere.

Kirok snored, the giant cloth apron draped over him like a blanket. On his stomach, several varren pups eyed the bubbling pot. Whitefang just curled up at the krogan's feet. The food would be ready in time.

"ZZZZZZZZZZXXXXXXXXKKKKKKKKKKK"

The sound of boots on the deckplates awoke Whitefang a moment before Shirin stormed into the As-Of-Yet-Unnamed Ship's mess hall. She took in the tableaux - varren, krogan, stew - with a bruised-up eye, them dragged herself over to one of the storage units, reached in, and pulled out a bottle of Chanticleer armagnac.

Without another word, the drell pushed past Whitefang and stormed off toward her cabin.

Unfortunately, there is no alarm system as well-tuned as a brood of tiny, hungry, excitable varren pups.

As soon as Shirin walked by, the pups on Kirok's stomach turned as one and just started YAPPING at her from the safety of Mount Kirok.

"YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP"

There was a sudden, horrible sound as Kirok woke up, the chair under him breaking as he fell down, and the krogan was on his feet, shotgun out. Varren pups went everywhere, and Kirok was yelling at whatever might have upset them.

"RAAAAAAANOW YOU'LL DIE NASTY Oh, hey, Shirin. What's up?"

"Followed some personal leads," came the answer, and Shirin half-turned (turning the whole way was not an option, due to the pups swarming around her legs), giving Kirok an eyeful of the dark sunburst on her jaw. "They panned out badly."

With that, she resumed heading down the hall, popping the cork out of the armagnac. "That information dealer, Cerastes - the one I left you a contact number for - he's supposed to be dropping by later. Don't kill him if he shows up."

From out of the krogan's line of sight, the doors to Shirin's cabin hissed open--

"If you need me, I'll be in the bath for like five hours."

--and closed.

Kirok narrowed his yellow eyes.

Yeah.

See, that wasn't the way they did things back in the good old days at all.

Taking off his apron, the krogan clucked under his tongue to call Whitefang to his side. Then he grabbed a bandolier of heatclips from the wall - yes, he kept them in the kitchen, where would YOU keep them? - and a bayonet. Then he stomped towards the bathroom Shirin was in and opened the door.

"S'cuse me, Shirin," the krogan said, not even looking at the drell getting into the tub but focusing instead on the clothes. Grabbing one of the bloodiest bits, the krogan stuffed it under the varren's nose.

"Sniff! Sniff! Gimme a scent! C'mon girl! There ya go! No, not her, not her, th'other one - YESSSS, THAT'S TH' ONE! GO! GO WHITEFANG! GO! HAHAHA!"

Whitefang took off down the corridor to the ship like a bat out of hell. The krogan grinned a terrible broken bottle grin.

"Y'may wanna git dressed in 'bout an hour. We'll be right back."

"Seriously, don't kill him," said something that may have been Shirin Vedral - it was hard to tell under all the steam and bubbles. A second later, though, a hand reached out from the huge foamy mountain and grabbed a glass of the brandy, which pretty much confirmed it. "We have an arrangement. I guess."

A pause, and then a half delirious "ohhhhhhh" echoed through the bathroom, presumably the result of Shirin lounging in the volcanic-hot bath and taking a heavy sip of the armagnac at the same time.

"Unless he turns out not to have any data, in which case we're going to set him on fire, I think. But until then, don't kill him."

A turian entered the mess just as Shirin left, he was jabbering on his omnitool.

"No listens, I know... let me just explain.... it's just what I... listen.. listen" He opened the fridge while he was trying to get whoever was on the other side to taking out a big pot with 'Dextro' scribbled on top and opened it.

"... no I wasn't talking to you will you finally listen to me?" He rolled his eyes. "It's simple if mercing makes sure he gets taken care of... yeah I know you don't want me to be in his life, but I am he..."

He put something in the oven and microwaved it. "Damn women he's my son, I know I was just a sperm donor for you but that doesn't mean I should just be that to him." A few seconds passed and he closed the channel.

"Fucking... you would think she would be happy for the extra scratch," he muttered to nobody, and continued, "but oh no it's 'blood money' or some varren shit like that." He saw Whitefang, followed by Kirok, "Hey Kir... don't want to be the guy he's after."

He sniffed the air, "smells delicious..." he looked at the pot, "for levo food..."

Contacts, videos, images, recordings - was that pornography? - he didn't want to know. Cerastes gulped down the last half of his current mug of coffee, shoved it towards the last three, and then reached up to begin rearranging a series of numbers on one of the screens floating before him. The decryption process was almost done; Rom Anbel was a careful volus, but Cerastes was very, very good at his job.

"Almost..." he growled. He was just about to move the last few digits into place when suddenly, a violent, earth-shattering buzzing erupted in his apartment.

Well, that was what it felt like, anyways. It was actually just the doorbell. After spitting a series of curses, Cerastes stood, fell into the nearby wall when he mistakenly put too much weight on his left leg, then shoved himself back up and limped heavily towards the door.

"This is a private resident," he snapped as the door slid open with a hiss. "If you don't have an appointment, I'm afraid I'm going to have to--"

Oh. Cerastes was so down-trodden by the time he realized what was happening that all he could do in answer to the sight of Kirok's grinning face was let out a long, haggard sigh. The drell was something of an eyesore: the absence of a shirt meant the krogan was getting a fine view of new bruises mingled with old scars (and oh, were there ever scars), along with dried blood crusted between the scales lining his forehead and jaw. His dress pants were crumpled, his shoes scuffed; the stealth-suit had been abandoned shortly after his return. Great. What a way to make an impression.

"... Mr. Murtag Kirok," Cerastes droned. He was briefly reminded of the varren pup slumbering in his bedroom. "To what do I owe this obvious pleasure."

"Hey," Kirok said as he grinned. At his feet, Whitefang growled. Between them, they showed enough teeth to make an orthodontist rich.

In most societies and primitive cultures, the baring of teeth is a sign of aggression. And krogan society could get downright primitive at times.

Bringing up his shotgun with that same toothy grin, Kirok poked the drell in the middle of the chest.

"Okay. So. Y'know who I work for. Easy or hard, yer choice, tiny."

It was not the first time a gun had been pointed at him that evening. Cerastes looked down, eyes at half-mast, then glanced to the varren. Right, there was no way he was making it out of this on his terms, not yet.

"This is perhaps the shortest twenty-four hours I have ever witnessed," he said, then turned and stumbled back into his apartment. "Allow me to obtain a shirt."

In the background, his own varren stirred and began to whine at the bedroom door.

"Nah, let's leave th' shirt an' just git goin,' son," Kirok said, easing himself into the room. "Donchu worry - we'll be back here in one piece soon 'nuff. See, Shirin might be th' soft type, but I know how long twenny-four hours kin be - an' what can be done in dat time. So we're gonna settle this now, an' then y'kin come back t'yer fat 'n happy lil varren pup, alright?"

Whitefang, the model of restraint, did not immediately go up to the bedroom door and start barking at the pup. Not yet.

The drell stopped in the hallway. His head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut in exasperation as he realized what was about to happen: he was going to be paraded across fucking Omega, of all places, shirtless, bloody, limping, and escorted by an elderly krogan with a gun and a varren.

And he'd thought the fight with Shirin had condemned his dignity. Convinced that he had nothing left - pride was scarcely holding on, as it was - he simply turned on his right heel, braced a hand against the wall, and used it to shove himself out the door.

His knee was killing him. Each step was hailed by a hiss between his teeth, but he didn't bother complaining; Kirok would give him no quarter.

"By your lead," he rasped.

Kirok just gestured with the shotgun towards the door.

Fuck dignity. This guy could have a gun hidden upstairs or something. If you have a choice between giving a man some dignity or giving a man to put your brains out, then fuck dignity.

"C'mon, buddy. We gotta date t'keep."

-----------------

There was a very polite knock on Shirin's bathroom door.

"Hey, it's th' speedy d'livery guy an' I brought a packBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK GODDAMMIT, WHITEFANG, Y'RUINED M' PUNCHLINE!"

"LEAVE," said a familiar voice from behind the door. "It hasn't even been thirty minutes yet."

There was a bit of confusion. Kirok looked at Cerastes almost apologetically.

"Uh. Boss. I brought back th'pale drell. Whatcha want me t'do with 'im, siddim down an' get him a cup of tea?"

The walk to the As-Of-Yet-Unnamed Ship was long. Had anyone else been escorting Cerastes, it might have been quiet, too, but as it was, Kirok had spent the vast majority of the trek either humming to himself or talking to Whitefang. At several points, Cerastes had stumbled over himself, nearly collapsing, but he'd somehow managed to keep himself from at least that embarrassment.

Thankfully, Shirin's cabin was on the main deck. He didn't think he could have handled stairs at this point. The drell rolled his shoulders and straightened his posture on the other side of the bathroom door; he might have been half-dressed, but he could at least try to look presentable just in case.

"Hello, Ms. Vedral. Twenty-four hours is apparently a transitive concept."

There was a pause, and then the unmistakable sound of armagnac being chugged straight from the bottle.

"He's supposed to come back and talk about data with you, since you'd be acting as my proxy while I got some rest," came the agitated reply. "And he was supposed to do it tomorrow. So go talk to him about the data, and if he doesn't have it, set him on fire. Tea is optional."

There was an awkward pause.

"Oh."

The gears in Kirok's head began turning. They weren't very big gears.

"Uh, alright. You. Inna kitchen. Siddown."

The krogan muscled his way into the kitchen, shoving rings of garlic and onions aside, then pulling the bubbling pot of stew off the burner and replacing it with a tea kettle. The varren pups in the room went ecstatic with Kirok's return; rolling his eyes, the krogan reached into the fridge and pulled out some sausage-looking things before throwing them at the floor.

They didn't last long.

Kirok looked at Cerastes, frowned, and then reached into a bin of rags he kept nearby. Pulling out a t-shirt, he tossed it at the drell with a frown.

"Here. Put dat on. Don't need no germs in mah kitchen. Tea'll be ready in 'bout a minute. Now TALK. About dis DATA."

Dammit, why weren't things simple for the krogan any more?

The varren were horrible. Their barking ringed in his ears as he slowly eased himself into a seat and straightened his left leg, keeping it out to the side so that he could at least stand again if necessary. The coffee he'd consumed less than half an hour ago left him with enough wits about himself to catch the shirt as it was tossed; the rag was, to be polite, absolutely disgusting and in no way matched the rest of his attire, but small favors.

After tugging on the... 'shirt', he leaned his elbows on the kitchen table and flipped on his omnitool. The same four screens from earlier sprung up again; one displayed a repeating clip of a krogan removing its helm, one a series of audio waves lined up against each other, another the profile of a familiar red drell, and the last, an incomprehensible mess of numbers.

"Ms. Vedral has hired me to locate the whereabouts of Ms. Suri'Neyvi," Cerastes explained. Enthusiasm was his antonym. "As of four and a half hours ago, I secured a lock on some data belonging to Mr. Rom Anbel prior to his... disappearance. I am now in the process of decrypting said data, and was managing perfectly well on my own prior to your interruption."