[Omega] Tread Softly

Tap, tap, tap, click.

The shadow of a drell stopped just at the corner's end, violet lights illuminating his silhouette as he peered out from the darkness. As usual, he was early; minutes stretched into an observatory period as he surveyed the clearing, noting in silence how strangely barren it was for Bloodpack territory. Times were hard for the gangs of Omega, but the distinct lack of activity struck him as suspicious.

Then again, that could be equally attributed to a professional sense of paranoia. The drell steeled his jaw, cast one more glance over the area, then vanished in a flicker as he stepped out into the open. Thirty seconds later, he reappeared poised behind a neon light whose life was quickly dwindling. The spasming bulbs offered him cover enough; anyone looking in his direction would be temporarily blinded as their pupils adjusted to the light that shone from behind the sign's broken glass.

Although the occasion for this outing had been arranged well in advance, Cerastes operated under a strict regiment of wariness that granted him comfort in shadows; if his positioning and cautious movements hadn't suggested this, the form-hugging stealth-suit he wore and the myriad weapons attached to it would have easily sufficed. It never hurt to be prepared, especially when krogan were involved.

Now that he was in position, all he had to do was wait. The escort was supposed to arrive in three minutes - he had to keep his eyes peeled.

The air stank of burnt electronics and spent heatsinks. If you replaced the scent of rusting metal with rock and dirt, it would almost smell like home. There was even the occasional hint of the smell of something rotting out of sight.

Grom didn't know what the vorcha made of the scent of Omega. Then again, the vorcha probably had never been off station. Two of them flanked him as he made his way to the arranged spot. Even more scurried in the dark. They might've gone unseen, but the sound of their scraping steps would give them away. Subtlety was a hard lesson for vorcha. Grom had given up long ago on teaching it to them.

They stepped into the edge of the light. This was the arranged place. If the drell spooked, oh well. This was just side money anyways. The vorcha on his left fidgeted. Grom stood impassive. It was time.

"We here! You here?" The vorcha on his left hand side said. "Stop hiding. We take you into bloodpack land. You may see. No shoot. No steal. Just see."

Grom stood, and his eyes traced the darkness, looking for his supposed client.

Fancy that - the Bloodpack were actually honoring their part of the bargain. From behind the neon lights, a pair of snake-eyes blinked and dilated, focused intently on the approaching triad in the clearing. For the few seconds he had, Cerastes scrutinized them closely: two vorcha, typical, and a slightly larger lump that appeared to be a... krogan?

Blink.

Blink.

... Goddamn it.

The broker ducked his head, glanced briefly at his omnitool as it flickered to life, then took the last remaining second to heave a sigh and pinch his brow. He supposed he should have been glad; at least this way, his evening business would be cut short, perhaps granting him an hour of sleep.

With that promise in mind, the drell flickered into view just outside of his previous position, figure starkly monochromatic against his surroundings.

"Mr. Grom; company." The vorcha were lucky he even addressed them. "This is oddly fortuitous."

All eyes settled on the drell as he appeared. Grom stared and scratched his crest idly as the client identified him. He didn't remember working with or for any drell, nor killed many. He might be a hanar toady though. Grom had probably pissed off some hanar somewhere along the way.

"The client?" The vorcha on Grom's left asked.

"It's the client. The Drell is pale face, like the contact says," the vorcha on the right growled.

"But, Hakarr says Drell can change color, like-"

Whatever analogy the vorcha on the left was going to make, Grom cut it short with a jab to the vorcha's face. The vorcha staggered sideways, and then resumed his post in hurt silence. The vorcha on the right chuckled. Grom pointed at himself, then at the drell. The vorcha on the right stared at him for a second, and then turned to regard the drell.

"We brought you the one you wish to see, so you still pay!"

Maybe the Bloodpack were a pinch smarter than he gave them credit for.

Cerastes' lips pulled into a passionless smirk, knuckles cracking behind his back as he clasped his hands together. "The agreement was half before, half after," he rasped. "I've already initiated the first payment. You give me what I want, and the rest is yours."

With all the hungry caution of a predator stalking in the brush, the drell paced to the side, his attention still focused on the trio. This was a turning point in his investigation. If he played his cards right, he might end up with a stronger lead on Suri'Neyvi; if he didn't, well, it'd be one hell of a messy night.

"Mr. Grom," he addressed the krogan. "I need you to tell me everything in relation to your work history with Ms. Suri'Neyvi. If you don't, her life may be in danger; it's my intent to ensure her safety."

While this wasn't the most bizarre situation Grom had ever been in (that went to that fiasco with the space fish), this was shaping into something different than the typical milk run for some dope looking for information. Man, and he'd gotten the Vorcha to play so well at having Havoc Disease. And the doctor's coat in his pack would get no use. Such a pity. He'd spent ten credits on that coat, and spent a whole hour washing all the blood out. That was an hour he'd never get back. Such a pity.

Grom rubbed his crest in consideration. An in depth talk was impossible, and the idea of Suri'Neyvi being in danger was- well, she was a merc, her job was being in danger. Special danger needed demonstration to determine merit.

"Yes Grom. Talk to Drell. Talk lots," The vorcha on the left said, his claws still clutching his face. He sniggered, "Talk Grom, we know how much Grom love to talk."

"Krannsh, you're stupid. You'll piss off client," The vorcha on the right said. "Grom not talk. Can't talk. Grom not Krogan. Clanned but not. Grom stay with vorcha, become like vorcha. Weak like vorcha but strong like vorcha. Better than Krogan. Like vorcha, Grom stay with Blood Pack when Krogan run home for war. Vorcha speak for Grom!"

An idea ocurred to Grom. He smiled at the drell, a big toothy grin. He raised his hand, flashing his omnitool. His other hand slid his chit from off his belt. He displayed it for the drell. His reattached the bit, and then, painstakingly, brought his omnitool up and typed in the desired statement.

"CASH," The machine spoke for him.

Cash. Alright, that was something tangible and common; something he could readily understand, although he wasn't entirely thrilled about it. A thin smile curled Cerastes' mouth as he took another few steps forward, his last stride hitched by a moment of hesitant reflex as he honed in on the vorcha. They were unpredictable; he didn't trust them.

"Cash I can provide, but I'm not about to pay you in full without receiving anything in return," responded the drell. When he was confident that his company wasn't about to do something best defined as 'stupid', he flipped open his omnitool. It scanned the chit in Grom's hand and initiated a transfer for another 15% of the agreed upon amount.

"Considering this is a matter related to a very particular and vengeful spawn of Abattoir, you'll forgive my impatience. Info. Now."

Let's see. How does one put it all succinctly?

"EMBODIMENT DISMEMBERED, DISEMBOWLED."

The right vorcha, Krannsh, let his hand fall limp. His snigger had departed, but the cruel snarl of a grin still clung to his face like a vicious spider. The light pondered over his form, but shirked from enveloping him completely.

"War kill lots of weaklings. The Blood Pack lived. Vorcha survive the Krogan running, vorcha survive Cerberus and warping beasts. Vorcha are better than little mercs. Even Abattoir die to what Vorcha and Blood Pack survive."

"IN ECLIPSE NOW."

"Survive as slaves and warbeasts," the left Vorcha interjected, "free only for a short time, then the masters came to collect us again. Same with small mercs. All caught up by the masters who let them loose a little before. A small amount still free, but all answer to masters."

"WE FOUGHT, ILLIUM."

"Ahaha. Grom tell us this story. Ship go boom boom. Reaper slice it in half. Aha. No ship anymore. So much for fearsome Embodiment. Just more weaklings."


The fist struck out a second time. This time there was no holding back, the Vorcha was sent sprawling into the darkness around them. The left vorcha laughed. "Weaklings not so weak, eh, Krannsh?"

In the shadows, many claws closed around Krannsh. They stifled his response with their clasping hands. A dozen little hands, all of them too weak to handle Krannsh on their lonesome, gripped him and hauled him off into the dark. There they would rip, and pull, and tear and show him who really had strength.

"NO CASH. WE SPLIT."

"Embodiment embodies nothing, so why keep it?" The left vorcha shrugged.

"I FIND PLACE HERE," Grom said, his hand settled on the left vorcha's head. He patted it, like a father showing awkward affection for his son, then returned to his keypad. "DRINK TO MEMORY. SEE NONE. PROBABLY ALL BACK ON ILLIUM. FINE HERE WITH NEESHK AND OTHERS."

"CASH," He said.

It made sense, in retrospect. The Reapers had completed a fair share of their purpose, even though they didn't finish the job in its entirety; most of Cerastes' sources had gone dark in the past year, lost to the hungry maws of the husks and the Reapers' hellish lights.

"The Embodiment's demise is common knowledge," Cerastes began in answer. He temporarily ignored the demands, idle gaze instead shifting to the space where the righthand vorcha had been moments before. Omega was infested by carrion, but they served their purpose: the streets would be littered with corpses and disease without them. "Give me something useful and you'll have earned your keep."

He listened detachedly to the scraping sounds in the dark, the occasional gushing crunch. These sounds were familiar to him, like background noise; one might even have ventured to say that they were comforting.

"Where on Illium did you fight? Where was the last place you saw her, and does she trend towards any particular venues?"

"NOS OLMOS. NEYVI HOSPITALIZED. WOULDN'T GO TO NOS ASTRA."

Bleh. He hated long conversations. Most sign developed for Krogan had been lost since the nuclear fire that scorched Tuchanka's surface. He could do salarian sign, same number of appendages, but always felt dirty afterward. Volus sign was almost useless outside their colonies, so he'd never bothered to learn it. Maybe he'd pick up Quarian sign over the next few centuries as they improved their reputation.

"BEYOND THAT, ASK ECLIPSE. LEFT."

He shrugged, indicating that was the extent of his knowledge.

Of course. Nos Olmos.

News on the area had reached him recently, but he hadn't paid much attention to it; something about a colossal robbery, a bank left destitute, no suspects. It hadn't struck him as the sort of thing to pay attention to, not until now. The drell's eyelids twitched briefly in recognition, followed by his hands tightening their grasp behind his back.

This was going to be difficult. He was going to need to see the pirates again, and he wasn't exactly keen on the subject.

"Nos Olmos," he hissed the name; it lingered on the tip of his tongue. Fingers rapidly brought up his omnitool and whisked over the keys, searching for housing. "Is there anything more you can offer me, Mr. Grom? I understand the proximity of your work in association to Ms. Suri'Neyvi; it is my hope that you, of all people, would be most compassionate in aiding my endeavors to locate her before her enemies do."

"CASH IS MY ONLY FRIEND," He said, flickering through his omnitool screen. The two conspirators watching their omnitools instead of each other, they looked more like they were in the middle of a Void Channel Monsters match than trading valuable information. He tweaked the transfer, adding an even more considerable percentage. "I HAVE SOME OLD PERSONNEL FILES, BUT THEY WILL COST."

It was an absurd amount.

Cerastes glanced from Grom to his omnitool, then tweakeed the final settlement. "That's still more than it's worth, and you know it," he rumbled in turn. "Settle on that, and we're done here."

His eyes flicked to the shadows, the scant traces of blood trailed upon the ground, then back to the krogan and his vorcha company. The sooner he got out of here, the better.

For once, Rom Anbel might've approved of Grom. At least, he would've if the Volus wasn't moldering somewhere in some Suns morgue, waiting to have his corpse ransomed back to relatives. Grom was hardly a businessman, but indeed, the sum agreed upon was worth more than the information. Whoever this guy was, he was indeed desprate to find Suri'Neyvi. Neeshk fidgeted besides Grom. The krogan smiled a small, toothy grin. His yellowed teeth and rancid breath didn't help make the gesture seem more friendly.


"DONE."

The transfer completed, Grom let his hand drop. There was nothing left for him to say. He gestured to Neeshk.

"You run now, far from blood pack land," The vorcha advised, "We leave soon, and my brothers are always hungry. See how they eat Krannsh. We hold them back now, but once we leave..."

The implication went unstated.

"... Once you leave, they will find nothing."

Cereastes was not about to be intimidated by a pair of Bloodpack thugs. His expression remained unwavering as he stared at Grom and the vorcha, his stance confident. This was not his first rodeo with the gangs of Omega, and while he did not treat it lightly, he was not about to crawl away like a varren with its haunches low.

"A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Grom," concluded the drell. He turned, twitched his wrist, and flickered out of sight - there would be nothing for the carrion of Omega to find after his departure, save for the lingering scent of living flesh.

Grom and Neeshk stood within the light. The smile faded from Grom's face. Everything went as it should, in spite of the unexpected twist. Yet the presence of this Drell and his strange warnings of danger made Grom's scales crawl. Everything was working out, everything might be fucked up soon. Ah well. It wasn't like he wasn't used to escaping from fuckups already.

The pistol slid from the Krogan's holster, and he aimed. He fired, two shots. The lights shattered and the dark rushed in to envelop them all. Like the dark, the vorcha came and surrounded them, prodding claws and grinning vile faces full of sharp teeth, all hidden in shadow.

It was Neehsk's turn to snigger now.

"Krannsh is dead," Neeshk declared, "I will rule the Stable now. We will blame the drell."

Politics.

The vorcha here were pleased.

Grom stood amongst them, one of them, apart from them, guiding them, helping them, ignoring them. The flickering light from afar glinted in his eye. Yes, everything was working out, and everything might be fucked up soon.

Better tell Suri about the drell.