[Tuchanka] Tuchankan Don

While being a policeman had good sides to it, like respect from the upstanding members of the community for the hard work of weeding out law-breaking no-good scum, there was the downside too. Crooks took an active interest in making your day worse, opposed to just random chance of being a victim to criminal enterprise.

Such was the case of Arre the Clanless, who had moved to the outskirts of Kelphic Valley to smuggle ryncol and other contraband goods. He was skipping taxes Urdnot alliance was levying to fund public works and dealing narcotics and all the happy sidebusiness such ventures tended to incur to the community, so yes, Prot's days were beginning to get more and more about stopping Arre's flunky business. It was something that infuriated the clanless bastard, no guesses on that. Such tale was being told by the dead body spread all over his office.

Urdnot Prot grunted and tossed his Striker rifle aside, clutching the sizable shotgun blast wound on his side.

"Front desk! Get me stretchers and medigel to my office right now!" he barked into the intercom on his table, and sat heavily down on the sturdy chair to wait.

Earlier that day

Urdnot Prot was sorting through reports in his office. There had been six brawls in the past week, but nothing severe. His men only had to go to the scene and toss the passed out drunks into cells to sober up for tomorrow. In addition, his petition for a dedicated jail had met limited success with the shamans and chieftain. They'd repurpose one of the old bunkers for that use when time and resources permitted, or so they had told Prot.

The police commissioners thoughts on the matter were interrupted by a buzz of the intercom on his desk. He flicked a switch to open the line. "Commissioner's office."

"Sir, there's a, uhhhh, delegate here who wants to talk with you. He's saying something about public safety awareness...thing. Do I send him to you?"

Prot grunted. Sounded like an uppity community leader again.

"What species?"

"Krogan, male one at it."

Great, just great. The guy probably wanted police to stand on guard around his place around the clock and Prot would have to explain to him that this wasn't a bloody bodyguard service, a common misconception amongst the old-minded folk here.

"Send him to my office."

"Okay sir. You heard him, get up there! Follow the signs and you'll find commissioner."

Prot shifted in his chair, focusing back on reports while he still could. soon enough, there was very impatient knock on the door.

"Don't just stand there, get in here!"

The door opened, and a young whelp, from the looks of it, barely a century old, dressed in business suit marched it. "Are you Urdnot Prot, police commissioner?" he asked quick.

Prot stood up and leaned over his desk, peering at the plaque on its edge. "Says so right here. What's the matter, can't read?"

The other krogan grumbled at being made fun of. "Arre's got a message for you. Back off his business or else!" he menaced. Prot just stood there unimpressed. "Or else? What, he gonna start sending more illiterate whelps at me?"

That was the last straw for the young one. He pulled out a gun under his suit, a Blood Pack Executioner and leveled it at Prot. "This."

*KA-BLAM*

Prot dodged to the side, but too late. The heavy-weight pistol hit him smack dab in the side, shot penetrating the light fabric easily, splattering orange blood around the room. He screamed from pain as he landed on the floor, Arre's messenger pulling the slide back on his gun to plug a new sink in.

The police commissioner climbed back to his feet and ran for the gun locker on other side of the room, yanking it open and grabbing his Striker. The messenger/assassin was taking aim again when Prot swung around, gun at his hip.

"I gotta message for you too!" he bellowed and yanked the trigger. The Striker spat out an explosive round that hit the whelp smack dab in his chest, sending him reeling and the Executor out of his hands. "Go to hell and tell whoever's in charge to make room for Arre!" Another shot, and another and another. Miniature explosions shook the messenger's body, ripping it to shreds. He crumbled into a bloody pile by the door, bleeding all over the stony floor, crest cracked apart and flesh seared by the explosions. Dead as a stone. No barriers, no shields or armor. That's what explosive rounds do to unarmored targets.

Prot grunted in pain, tossing his gun aside and walked closer to his desk...

The first ones to come in were alarmed officers. Good, at least they hadn't gone deaf. They scanned the room, guns leveled.

"Commissioner, what the hell happened?"

"Assassins, that's what happened! Why the hell did you not pat him down for weapons, you fuckwits?" Prot barked at the junior officers angrily. They looked very awkward and ashamed, shuffling their feet.

"You didn't say so."

"WELL NOW ON WHENEVER YOU LET PEOPLE BEHIND THE WAITING ROOM, PAT THEM DOWN FOR WEAPONS! Hells! Or we need weapon scanners!" He grunted and headed for the door, still holding his side. It was starting to regenerate, slowly but medigel was the best and safest method to make it cure. "I want my office cleaned and that dead fucker out of there by the time I'm back!"