LOGIN: [TCARSON@TYRUS.NOVA]
PASSWORD: [*******]
LOGGING IN… COMPLETE
[ACCESS PRIVATE MESSAGES]
GRANTED
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RECEPIENT: TCARSON@TYRUS.NOVA
SUBJECT: Older little brother!

Good day, Steveo! Sorry it took you so long to send you this email – I recently got a new datapad, and it’s been a bugger to decipher the new interface. Managed to beat the rush and get one with the swirly blue thing though, bloody good show that!
So, how’ve the times been treating you? I’ve been bored off my bloody rocker down here; still reeling over you running off with that merc group! Mum’s absolutely livid, but did you expect anything else?
Oh, and Dad says you should give him a ring sometime. He tries to hide it around Mum, but he’s starting to worry about you. Get on the line with him, he said he promises to tell Mum it’s a work friend! Though honestly, you could say you’re his Batarian mistress and she’d treat you more pleasantly, I think!

Don’t be a stranger – Come visit if those mad dogs of yours pass us by!

Lots of love (but don’t tell Mum),

Benjy
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[Forward Message]

To: SteveoIsViktorious@extranet.com
Subject: FW:Older little brother!

I found this little gem in my inbox after I finished my work. I'm not one to peer into someone's personal life like some kind of voyeuristic specter, but when I find myself confronted with an e-mail from your 270 kilogram brother with the identity crisis that thinks he's a salarian in your mixed species family with the baffling fixation on my birth culture, I take notice. I get if you don't want to talk about any of that, but your mother sounds a lot like mine. You holding up okay?

-T

[SEND MESSAGE]
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To: TCARSON@TYRUS.NOVA
Subject: RE: FW: Older little brother!

Aw man, he got the one with the swirly blue thing?!
I wanted of those things so bad! I knew I should've waited for the newer model to come out...
And for the record, Benjy has slimmed down to 165 kilograms in anticipation for swimsuit season, thank you very much.

Haha, mum... now there's a military woman if ever I saw one.
She didn't take so kindly to me dropping everything and running away with the metaphorical space circus, especially not with my service record.
And by that, what I actually mean is that she disowned me and swore a vendetta. You know, that old song and dance.
You can probably imagine how supportive she was when I resigned from STG, right?

But hey, don't sweat it, I'll be fine.
I don't exactly blame her, or anything: I'd be pretty irritable too, if my 'squishier' son came home with two gnarly scars where his face used to be. More-so if he was self-destructive enough to toss himself back into the fire again.
I mean, wouldn't you worry too if your son ran off with a bunch of clowns like Nova? Haha!

- Steveo

[SEND MESSAGE]
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To: SteveoIsViktorious@extranet.com
Subject: RE:RE:FW:Older little brother!

As a technician, I have it on good authority that swirly blue things are the stamp of quality. Hanhe-Kadar good. Oh, and Benjy (still a fucking odd name for a krogan) has slimmed down, has he? Tell him he should pose for calenders. I'm sure somebody would buy it. Maybe.

My mother was quite the opposite, she was probably counting the days until I resigned from the service, only she didn't like what came back. She kind of has had a thing against the Alliance since my father died and I had a run in with batarian slavers on Mindoir. But I get where your mother's coming from; it's been a long-standing family tradition in the Carson clan to have every generation of the family do a stint in the military. It's part of the reason I joined, amongst a few others. I had to get off Terra Nova for a while to figure my shit out, even if I had a pretty good gig going. Shit's rough, Steveo. I can relate. I know it's kind of unspoken policy around here not to ask questions about what we did before, but why did you leave STG? Surely they were giving you enough coffee makers to assassinate.

Been meaning to say, I saw more than a few turian women checking out that meat grinder you call a face on more than one shore leave. I think they dig the scars, for some reason. I think it just makes you look like a badass, personally. Any kid of mine who ran off to join a bunch of wankers calling themselves mercenaries, I'm pretty sure I'd assume it was an elaborate ruse or a way of acting out, or at the very least a very counter-productive form of suicide which would prompt me to check his shit for a will. Which reminds me, I haven't updated mine since the marines.

Opps.

-T

[SEND MESSAGE]

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To: TCARSON@TYRUS.NOVA
Subject: RE: RE: RE: FW: Older little brother!

We've suggested it a few times, but we says he's morally against being "eye-candy."
Krogans, right? They're so sensitive.

My mum's fond of her familial conscription, alright.
Whenever I got shore leave and I went home to visit, though, she always gave off the vague air that she sort of... wanted me to die in the field, you know?
I think the knowledge that I'm the one child she's definitely going to outlive grates on her, sometimes. And it can't help that my dad'll soon follow.
She'd probably cope better if I went in an airstrike, or with a bullet. Quick, relatively painless. Better than watching me grow old.
And the bonus is, she likes to think, I'd be dying for something worthwhile.
Being in a mercenary group, though... that really winds her up. You might say she finds it "morally dubious."
You might also say she's waiting to catch me so she can rip my limbs off like I'm a spider in the bath.
A screamy, wriggly spider.
The last words she said to me were "You're not a Turian, you'll get yourself killed."
Haven't seen her in a year, since.

As for STG... that was just a mess, all around.
Believe it or not, at one point the council were inept enough to offer me a spectre role, based on my espionage work in the STG.
Problem was, I botched a really important assignment, and in the process I ended up getting a specter killed.
It was meant to be simple, we were just taking readings from Tuchanka's water supplies to make sure the genophage was still in effect...
And I guess I didn't cover our tracks well enough, because a trio of Krogans wandering the desert ended up finding us and pinning us down.
We told them we were unarmed- which was a dirty fucking lie, I'll admit- but they still started opening fire on us. We managed to kill two, but the third went into a blood-rage.
Bastard tracked me across the desert for three days. I couldn't stop to rest without him getting a few shots off.

Needless to say, my second scar is a fond reminder of how quickly an assignment can hit the fan.
I called for an evac after trapping the bugger between a biotic rock and a hard place, but it goes without saying that I didn't make the cut for spectrehood.
After that, I suppose I didn't feel like I was worthy of working for STG anymore. They were the best of the best, and me? I blew it.
Also, they had an unsettling amount of coffee machines in the staff lounge and it made me very nervous.

On a lighter note, Turian girls, huh?
I hear they do the weird stuff on the first date, call me 'Commander' and count me in.

- Steveo

[SEND MESSAGE]

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To: SteveoIsViktorious@extranet.com
Subject: Shit.

Yeah, I've been hearing ever since the genophage they've been a bunch of drama queens. For a race that talks about their balls a lot, they sure are sensitive about them.

I get the distinct impression you haven't really told many people about how... severe your mother is. That's rough, in a lot of ways. Regardless of her reasons, she should have known what she was getting into when she adopted a salarian. You guys live a third of what humans live, let alone the thousand years asari get. I thought most asari came to terms with the fact that they outlive more or less anyone who isn't blue with tentacles on their head or carrying around a nutrient sustaining hump and redundant organs. For what it's worth, I'm glad you aren't dead, Steveo, and I aim to try to make sure that you don't run afoul of an errand airstrike or a stray bullet. Nova's been unbelievably lucky so far, considering; I'd rather not tempt fate and get careless about it.

And fuck, she said that? Your mother has issues, and maybe just a bit of racism lurking in her smug veins. What does your brother do, given he's a krogan? He can't exactly enlist in any military, given the krogan don't have one, and your mother seems to really push that kind of shit on you guys.

If you told me I was going to be a merc scrapping the most morally questionable jobs off the bottom of the galaxy when I was in the Alliance, I probably would have punched you hard enough to loosen a few teeth and told you to fuck off, but life has a way of putting you down paths you never expected. In a way, I almost prefer this, going from system to system, job to job, with no rules or regulations to hold me back and some like-minded individuals. I know I'm not close to people, but... I'm trying. I don't choose to be so distant to people, and cold at times. It's just the way I am. It's hard, but fuck it. You deal with what you got.

You can't blame yourself for when shit goes South, Steveo, although I have a hard time imagining you being considered for a Spectre commission. You were behind enemy lines with no support and just the two of you. Krogan are tough bastards and are pound for pound probably the most brutal fighters in the galaxy, even a Spectre is going to have a hard time in those conditions. The fact you came back alive speaks volumes to your skill and your training. Most people would have rolled over and died, or lost their shit. You didn't. It might not feel like a victory, but you fucking earned it. Most people never know what it means to fight for your life, where the smallest slip up will cost you everything. You should be proud of yourself.

I can understand not wanting to keep with the military life after something like that, although I think your reasons are a bit harsh on yourself. After Mindoir, I got moved to support detachments, fixing shit and being kept away from potential conflicts. I felt like I was being wasted, like the Alliance didn't want me like I was some broken doll or some shit. You can only be shafted from one system to the next, shoved in the guts of some machine, and given pats on the back saying what a great job you're doing before you just get fed up with it. I was trained to fight, and every day, week, month I was away from the survivors from my regiment, I fucking hated myself for not being there with them, for being too weak to keep on the front lines. It wasn't my choice; doctor's orders. You wear your scars on your face, mine rake my soul. I'm not well, but I'm trying. Nova's something of a second chance, a redemption for myself. It's also a family to replace the one I lost.

This shit's getting heavy. I usually don't like talking about it.

Yeah, turian girls are headstrong. Apparently, they have a meritocracy for sex positions, and that shit gets competitive.

-T

[SEND MESSAGE]

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To: TCARSON@TYRUS.NOVA
Subject: RE: Shit

I tend not to talk about her, no.
Hardly seems worth it, Nova’s been a good chance to get a new start, for all of us it seems.
And you’d think so, wouldn’t you?
From what I understand, part of the reason her and Dad adopted me was because at least that way they’d feel semi-normal. Dad was middle aged by then, and I’m short-lived, I suppose it all made sense in her head: Our family would play out like any other, sans her role.
I hear that’s common for Asari, though. They tend to forget about how fast time passes when you’re likely to live for a millennium.
But I guess she’s reached her midlife crisis at this point, except she’s worrying about outliving us instead of the other way around.

Aw, you’re glad I’m not dead?
Careful Tanya, keep this up and I might start thinking we’re buddies or something!
(I am working on BFF gun straps as we speak.)

And oh, Benjy? He was signed up with a paramilitary group back on Tuchanka a little while ago, when he started getting itchy plates, so to speak.
It was nothing official, I don’t think: Just a couple organised guns Clan Urdnot was using to keep the Pyjaks and the Jurdon at bay.
He didn’t really fit in, though: Big, red and angry he may be, but shouting “You bloody blighters!” at incoming enemies left something to be desired by his comrades.
He didn’t much like the whole “no showers” thing much, either.

He quit after a year or two.
Mum didn’t mind that much, though, he’s got the next nine hundred years to find himself a stint in the armed services: In the meantime, I think he’s working as an accountant.
I hope he is, anyway.
Can you imagine that big lug, sat in a cubicle? Little cup of tea next to his computer as he pokes the keys with his massive Krogan fingers?
Makes a man wanna weep with laughter.

As for blaming myself? I guess I never mean to.
I suppose it’s something that, on the surface, I know is irrational, but that doesn’t stop it hitting me every time I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, or a coffee pot (those traitorous fiends.)
It’s that unmoving gut instinct that some bastard is to blame for it.
And I guess the last man standing wins the draw, right?

I just couldn’t go back to STG like nothing had happened.
I knew a hundred other Salarians that would’ve handled the operation better than I did: You know the types, poison darts up their sleeves, smoke grenades in their boots.
The sort of guys that- when you passed them in the corridors- would tell you where a Krogan’s pressure point was (“you know, just for future reference”), and outline exactly where you’d gone wrong.
And I saw them every day.
They were just trying to help, I know: But I guess after a good couple dozen of people tell you how you could’ve avoided screwing up, you start kicking yourself.

I took a month’s personal time, and when I came back I couldn’t even shoot straight.
My hands shook, I was sweating too much. When I used my biotics, I couldn’t control whether I was putting too much or too little pressure onto something.
Resignation just… seemed like the right option, after that. What kind of special tasks group operative can’t shoot straight?
I was too ashamed to even head back to C-Sec, I ended up working as some small-fish vigilante.

But you’re right, Nova’s a new opportunity! I try not to linger too much on the past.
Besides, scars are fashionable, right? Mottled is the new sexy, that’s what I say.
(It hasn’t caught on yet, but damn it, it will.)
There’s no way I’ll ever forget what happened- I mean, not unless you’ve got the number of a damned good plastic surgeon- but something tells me being slightly unhinged and repressing violent memories is an important part of your résumé if you want to join Nova Squad, right?

And it is getting pretty weighty, isn’t it?
God… you don’t… you don’t think we’ve got feelings, do you? Like… like real people?
Yikes.

Jokes aside though, Tanya, it’s been nice to get some of this off of my chest (although if you ever tell anybody else then I’m opening all of the airlocks.)
And hey, if you ever want to talk some more, drop by any time, alright?
Just remember to knock first.
… who am I kidding there’s no need to knock.

And Hell, competitive you say?
It’s settled. Next shore leave we get, you’re my wingman.
Wingwoman.
… you’re my wingwing.

- Steveo

[SEND MESSAGE]

To: SteveoIsViktorious@extranet.com
Subject: RE:RE:Shit.

In a way, I can kind of understand where she's coming from... it's hard to know you're going to outlive your whole family, and I guess timing it right could mean she'd have enough time to move on. It's still a weird concept for me, your diverse family. Humans have only been on the galactic stage for a couple decades, so it's still strange for a lot of us to be walking around with aliens, let alone dating them. Not to speak off of family, but your mom does not seem to be the sort to have planned a damn thing in her life. I mean, how the hell do you relate to someone who lives on average for 40 years when that seems like a drop in the bucket for an asari? Maybe you just changed to quickly, too fast, for her to know how to react to it. Asari have a long time to get used to their children, as it takes them a long time to mature, but a salarian? I mean, food for thought. I just hope she learns to get the fuck over herself before its too late.

Shit, this is sounding fatalistic. You're young and full of piss and vinegar, you amphibian asshole. You are the poster child of youthful excess. That's why I'm glad you're around, everyone else (except for Kygg, but he scares the shit out of me) makes Tyrus seem like a fucking crypt, or a funeral or something. Seriously, when I'm the one noticing people are being a munch of reclusive, brooding assholes, you know something's gone horribly wrong.

And shit, I can't imagine a krogan doing a desk job. Aren't they obligated to kill something at least once a week? Filling tax returns kind of goes against that whole "We nuked our entire planet and are slowly dying off" thing they have going for them. I guess there's always one odd ball in the gene pool. But shit, how DO krogan type? They've got sausage fingers, and I haven't seen a software firm cater to their needs yet. We have ourselves a mystery.

And yeah, I know what it's like to know when it's time to move on. Sometimes, the things we love kind of turn sour, and the cause you fought so hard for doesn't seem like it matters much when enough shit hits the fan. But sometimes, as much as you need someone to blame for it, there isn't always someone to blame. Shit happens, you take it as you go the best you can.

If it helps, I think you made the right call. This whole mercenary thing seems to suit you. More freedom, less bullshit... okay, different bullshit, but you know what I mean. At least the number of idiots is more manageable. But you got that right; we're just an expensive floating crazy house with no doctors and the medication comes out of a bottle with the word "proof" on it. Speaking of which, I think we're due for a glass or two. Meet up in the lounge? I feel like forgetting a lot of shit tonight, and the fact that I'm disturbingly okay with talking about personal shit now. I think no small amount of vodka can help with this. But don't worry; your secret is safe with me.

After all, information loses its value when everyone fucking knows it. Cue evil laughter, thunder. But seriously, same goes to you. If you ever need to shoot the shit, you know where to find me, usually surrounded by thousands of dollars worth of expensive, fragile crap that nobody else can figure out how it works. Such is my calling in life.

Next shore leave, we'll set up an interview for viable candidates for you. After all, gotta keep those bitches in line. Turians like order, don't they?

-T

[SEND MESSAGE]

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To: TCARSON@TYRUS.NOVA
Subject: RE:RE:RE: Shit

You know, I take solace in the fact that despite everything, being in STG got me a really neat gun.
Can you imagine me without my scorpion? It’d be like an actual scorpion without its tail.
I’m so glad they let me keep it.
Well, I’m glad they didn’t search me when I was leaving, anyway.
Well, not thoroughly enough, at any rate.

And thank God, I thought you’d never ask!
Rendezvous in the lounge in ten? The vodka’s on you, and I’ll go grab my bottle of “emergency bourbon.”
Or was it “special occasion bourbon”?
Maybe it was “birthday bourbon…”
… I’ll find some bourbon.
And whilst we’re drinking away painful memories, I don’t see why we can’t drunk-dial Benjy ask him how he does his job, to wrap it all up with a neat little bow.

Don’t invite the others, though, we can’t afford to share: I want to wake up tomorrow thinking my name is William and that I’m a salesman from Earth.

See you there!
(And hopefully we won’t see much more than blurs and darkness after that.)

- Steveo

[SEND MESSAGE]

The coffee was black, and nearly boiling. Kosso drank it down all the same, grateful for the way the warmth settled in his chest before radiating outwards into his sore and aching limbs. No wonder Steve's obsessed with this stuff. It had been nearly a day since Nova had jumped off the side of Luek's flooded yacht and into the cargo bay of the Tyrus, but Kosso still felt wet and cold, as if the Kahjean sea still had its tendrils wrapped around him. He'd thrown away the water-logged suit he'd been wearing, wiped every inch of his drenched body with the driest towel he could find. Hell, he'd even found a warm place below the engine room, where the heat from the surrounding vents had drawn clouds of steam from the cracks between his scales as he lay for hours, baking. And still he couldn't shake this feeling of dampness, this chill that followed him around.

He wondered if anyone else felt it. Glancing around the mess hall, he noted that the last of the team had shuffled in, most of them looking as weary as Kosso felt. His eyes didn't linger on any face for too long; his glasses were broken and mangled, and were probably resting somewhere on the ocean floor of Kahje by now. He felt practically naked without them, though he did his best to appear unfazed as he addressed the team.

"So." He began, pausing to take another sip of coffee, "obviously, that mission did not go as planned. But we got the information we were after, and we all got out in one piece. That's what matters. Thanks to the efforts of certain members of this team, Luek's ship was stabilized long enough for Kahjean rescue services to arrive and get most of the party guests to safety. So far, the officials are blaming the sinking on a mechanical error, and if any of those guests saw us hightail it out of there on the Tyrus, they apparently know enough to keep their mouths shut. And Luek..." He glanced over at Tanya, their eyes meeting for a single second. "...well, we don't have to worry about Luek.

"I've already started divvying up the information to interested buyers. There's a lot of negotiation to be done, and it's still too early to tell just how much we're going to make off of this little venture, but it looks like we won't want for profit. Everyone will get their fair share, and we'll have a bit left over, as usual. The reason we're gathered here now is so that we can discuss the best course of action for spending our hard earned money. But first..." He gestured idly at the heavily armored human standing near the doorway, the only face that wasn't familiar to him.

"Who the fuck is that?"

Said heavily armored human was rubbing his sore neck -caused by the sinking ship suddenly throwing him across the security room when Luek's fail safe went off- and muttering sarcastically past a cigarette, "didn't go as planned? Coulda fooled me."

Hearing the Drell's inquiry, Mark made a show of looking over both shoulders before gesturing to himself with an index finger.
"Oh, you mean me. Just some dude that didn't feel like drowning so I hitched a ride."
He jerked a thumb in Roland's direction, ready to shift the responsibility of an explanation to him.
"He said I could. Name's Mark, freelance mercenary extraordinaire."

He took a draw on the cigarette as he gazed about the interior of the ship appreciatively before blowing the smoke out the corner of his mouth, away from the other occupants.
"This is a pretty slick outfit you guys are runnin. And seeing as my contract is null, now that the fellow I was hired to keep alive is less so do to your shenanigans," Mark decided to avoid mentioning that he'd basically been fired well before anything had gone down... and that he didn't actually know if his charge was dead or not.
"I figure I can make that money back by working with you guys for a while."
He jerked his thumb in Roland's direction again, "That was his idea too."

"Did your parents never let you keep a stray dog when you were a kid, Roland?" Tanya asked from the corner of the room, stirring a tea that had the faint scent of a mint liqueur. Bandages and stitches were seen across her face and neck, as well as her hands and arms, the result of the first aid that came after the mission. Despite the cuts and being sore as hell from being battered around by Poseidon's fury, as well as hating the fucking name Aurelion, she seemed no worse for wear. Above Tanya was one of the paintings she hung in the mess hall, which was titled, "Giddy Up", featuring a pair of krogan dressed up like 20th century horse jockeys, racing around a track with determined expressions riding comically undersized varren. The engineer's steely eyes bore into Mark. "Last time I saw this sod was him at the bar, drinking in the same uniform as his asshole co-mercs we killed before punching what I have since learned was his boss in the face. I thought we were trying to build Nova's reputation, not pick up Cro-Magnon man here with the crap attitude. If we wanted to pick up a mindless thug, we could have spent five minutes in Chora's Den and picked out the ugliest bastard there."

Tanya turned back to the group. "Regardless, please tell me this is a bad joke, because otherwise what the fuck? We're already running along on a shoestring budget as it is, and Mister Pugilist over there, last I checked, is another mouth to feed who hasn't put a single credit towards the operation of this ship. I don't know about you guys, but I'm out a shitload of credits from that last op. Excluding about 6k worth of fancy people clothes, I also have to put together a new omni-tool and reprogram and rearm 'Shithead', which after Luek's office, I'm in no hurry to do." she drank from her tea, shaking her head. "So I'm not too keen to split my keep with some asswad I don't know who's going to bite into my cut of the profits while fucking around in our home." she looked back at Mark. "Some offense."

Mark stared unflinchingly back into the mohawked woman's eyes while he continued to draw on his cigarette. He offered nothing more than a shrug and a "None taken," in response to her final comment. He'd heard worse over the years.

Steveo had reclined back into his seat, with a look of great physical discomfort pasted across his countenance.
His right arm was wrapped tightly in some crimson red affair that passed very narrowly for a sling, and the mottled scars that had settled his face- Wounds that were meant to have healed years ago- almost seemed to throb as though the Kahje’s sea had torn them anew.
That damned ocean… that damned red, felt atrocity he’d called a suit.
He’d showered nine times since his return- he’d counted, oh how he’d counted- and he still didn’t feel clean.
Even now, pieces of that gaudy material clung to his form like leeches feeding upon the last of a dying breed: Even as they sat, and spoke, he harboured a deep, ghastly itch, intangible without the assistance of his bandaged arm.

And oh, what an embarrassment *that* had been, swirling hopelessly around in the stygian blue with only one good limb, his legs weighed down by his disastrous attire one arm rendered totally unusable, snapped by the impact of the water, and powerful currents awaiting him.
Steveo had not had a good time.
This had not been a fun adventure at all.

He turned to Mark just as Tanya and Kosso had, and scowled toothily.
“I just had to shower a grand’s worth of very tacky, but very expensive materials away. I am malting damn it,” he grumbled bitterly, eyes narrowed, “I’m with Tanya on this one. We can’t afford to be adopting strays, especially not strays that were probably shooting at us not twenty-four hours ago.”
He then glanced down at the table before him, on which there sat a small mug of steaming coffee.
It tasted like shit. Everything tasted like shit.
Everything tasted like sea water.
“Anyone else up for a game of airlock jettison? As tradition dictates, new guy goes first.”

The new guy chuckled as he ground out the butt of his cig on one of the plates covering his left shoulder, the streak of ash barely noticeable amidst the heavy carbon pitting and damage caused by years of combat. He wasn't surprised by their suspicion, he was glad for it really. It meant they weren't naive fools and could survive at least one more mission. Nor was he bothered by the insults, you didn't survive in this line of work by having thin skin, and his was about as thick as a krogan's.
"Well aren't you guys a right bunch of tulips shifting in the breeze. And here I was thinking I was the grumpy one."
Mark crossed his arms and leaned against a nearby table, appearing as unthreatening and unprepared as possible. He doubted the salarian's remark about the airlock had any real merit to it, but if it did, Mark wouldn't make it easy for them.
"A: If I had been shooting at you on the yacht there would be no 'probably' about it. You'd have one or more brand new holes in you. And B: I can take care of myself. I don't need your hand outs. I said I'd work with you, not that I'd rely on you for sustenance, jeez."

He pulled his flask from its pouch on his hip as he spoke, and took a swing of the whiskey that sloshed inside before glancing back at Tanya with a raised brow.
"And the reason anyone hires me over the ugliest bastard in Chora's Den, kid, is that no one there aside from a krogan is likely to have over twenty years of combat experience under their belt. I make slightly less of a mess than krogans too. Besides, from what I saw of that, I'll reluctantly use the word 'operation,' you guys could use a little help. As tall, green, and scaly mentioned, it was kind of a shit show. And by 'kind of,' I mean one biggest shit sandwiches I've ever seen."
He absent mindedly scratched around the scab on his temple which had already started to itch.
"Just sayin."

Tzvi’s form hugged her bottle of water like a shroud. At a glance, she was level. No nervous tics, no slouching. The young quarian didn’t squirm or hide in the back corner. But the head hung toward the comfort of the object in hand.
Mess-ups she could handle. But Tzvi was still shaking off the moment Luek pressed the big self-destruct button on his stupid, overpriced ship. Its first lurch chucked her across the hallway and crashed her into a wall with a rattle, smacking the helmet and mask in the run. Tzvi remembered a booming clang and a sharp crack, and knowing the mask had shattered. There was a string of slurred, weak and hollow whines and murmurs under the rush of the ship that Tzvi would never admit she uttered. It was a long time before she had regained balance enough to reach for and see the faceplate, and feel her face uncut.
The next thing Tzvi did was shout in frustration. All the work to make that progress, gone, in one flicker of the lights. The rest of the job was rushing to fix the main power systems and revive anything else that’d give them an edge on time. After a trip that nearly ended trapped on a drowning ship, to die once the oxygen supply ran out in her suit or another of the ship’s swings cracked her neck, she barely sipped her drink.

The bottle made more for an excuse to occupy her hands without a gun or random piece of equipment, and avoid the fingers fidgeting with nearby subjects. Most weren’t doing better. Steveo switched from clawing at one spot of skin to slowly grating the entire arm away with small scratches back and forth. Tanya and Kosso looked like they took a dare to survive a giant blender for five seconds. Tanya swept the troubles off like rainwater, or faked it well enough. Kosso would have benefitted from focusing on a water bottle.

Tzvi laughed softly at the shared sentiment about their latest hitchhiker. But with Mark cheaply shoving the spotlight of blame to Roland, the guy that saved his rear in the first place, the medic wasn’t going to hear the end of it. Tzvi didn’t join in to add a layer of dissent.
What got Tzvi’s attention was “airlock jettison.” The only thing Mark had in his favor was: he hadn’t tried to steal the spaceship, he hadn’t shot them on the sinking ship, and he had put in effort during the emergency. That was only when the raggedy joke-bodyguard’s life was on the line, but that at least merited a drop-off at the next civilization. And the small credit where credit was due.

It was unfortunate, she reflected with Mark's latest response, that the credit was due to Mark. “Hey now, 'grandpa,'” Tzvi warned lightly, working to stay friendly, and japed, “You decided “bodyguard” had been redefined to “bar,” ‘member? Getting fired and failing to stick around to make sure the employer doesn’t drown makes for sketchy qualifications, and makes those jabs about how a job gets done a little silly.”

“But -” Tzvi paused with a glance at Nova, then Roland. A part of her mind regretted continuing, “ - our friend here isn’t that bad.
“He did good on a solid agreement to help us finish the job and get out, and he was a significant part of the three of us -” Tzvi loosely circled a pointing finger from herself to the two others, “working fast enough, not dying, and keeping everyone alive. That’s worth something. A lot more than the airlock.”

The ship's self-destruction was not a good experience to say the least. Having been forced to shoot the guy she'd taken 'prisoner' in the aft security hub, and the engine room having detonated as one part of the sequence to breach the hull of the ship, Mari reckoned she was lucky to be back on the Tyrus, let alone in one piece - not that anyone would have missed her, but that was beside the point. The engine room's detonation had injured Mari's shoulder after she had been thrown against a wall by the force of the explosion, whilst some glass fragments from the camera screens had become embedded in her thigh. But she wasn't the worst off by a long shot - pure, blind luck had spared her something like Steveo's broken arm or Tzvi's cracked mask. Her outfit, too, was water-logged to hell, but unlike people such as Kosso or Steveo, Mari had elected to try and get her outfit to dry out in her room - a plan that so far hadn't worked all that well, it was still damp. Tired, irritated, still trying to shake off the feeling of clamminess that had overtaken her whilst she was in the seas and above all cursing her luck that the scumbag jellyfish had had the nerve to self-destruct his ship, it wasn't too far from the truth to say that she was in a very bad mood. The others were too from the looks of things.

Marianna sat on one of the chairs in the area that the team had earmarked as a 'briefing room', looking down at the floor with a shotglass in her hand. The team members were trying to decide on the fate of this new human mercenary. Sure, he was probably quite handy in a tight spot, and perhaps he was a veteran of goodness knows how many years of combat, but Mari did concede that Tanya had a point: this Mark guy was an unknown quantity, he was a newcomer on a ship that had already had its fair share of controversy and division between the crew (courtesy of her own stupid bloody actions, Mari thought grimly). Could they risk it? Marianna said nothing, not even caring about the arguments for or against. Kosso wanted him out. Tanya wanted him out. Steveo wanted him out of the airlock. Tzvi was arguing for retaining the guy. The rest either hadn't spoken up or were adopting Marianna's attitude towards the debate, a distinct feeling of 'I don't give a damn'. She downed her shotglass of vodka in one, placing it quietly on the floor and continuing not to speak. It was probably best that she didn't - after all, she felt as if she didn't have the right to help the team decide on this, she'd gotten herself in plenty of shit already. Kosso probably still was out for her blood, Tanya and Roland were likely to be lukewarm, the rest she didn't know or care about... Damn her stupid fucking mother, and damn her stupid fucking mission! It made total sense to send someone into a fucking merc group and pressure to inform on them whilst telling them that they didn't need to do anything of the sort, of course it did!

Mari sat back in her chair and sighed, thinking to herself whilst remaining silent. Typical. We have some people who want this guy gone. She glanced at Tanya and Kosso. And we have some people who owe this bastard their survival most likely. She glanced at Roland and Tzvi. It's your average stalemate - some people want him to stay here, and some people want him out, and there's not a damn fucking thing we can do because of this team's damn leadership system, where 'everyone has an equal say, but some are more equal than others', which means we'll end up having Tanya and Kosso overrule everyone else by virtue of them somehow being magically superior to everyone else or something, it's probably how this shit works. So, might as well pack your bags, new guy, you'll have to take the long way home. Personally speaking, Marianna was in favour of keeping the guy - he was another gun after all, and he looked ready for a fight. He'd argued his case pretty well, but Marianna just didn't care to debate this kind of thing. Why couldn't they just do a simple 'thumbs up to keep him, thumbs down to make him leave'? She thought about bringing that up, but again, probably not the best timing for someone with no small amount of suspicion on them already.

Kasyra’s head hurt. Her body hurt. Everything hurt and moving seemed like a really bad idea. Somehow she’d managed to get off that damned excuse for a ship alive. Banged up and sore, but alive. She hoped with all her being that this didn’t become standard fare. Once she’d gotten back onboard the Tyrus she’d had to strip away all the decoration from her suit and check it over completely - head to toe, every seal and panel. While she’d managed to avoid the horror that Tzvi had suffered with a damaged helmet, she had still suffered several small suit breaches when she’d taken a dip in Kahje’s roiling water. With suit breaches came infections and allergic reactions, but of course that wasn’t all she had to deal with. She’d had a few too many glasses of the very drinkable dextro-alcohol while she was ‘distracting’ the people, and in doing so had managed to distract herself right of being useful to the team when everything started exploding. Now she was paying for it with a constant dull pounding in her skull. She really just wanted to sleep, but there was a meeting she couldn't miss. She’d managed to drag herself along, her suit still bare of any decoration or fabric.

Kasyra didn’t really have a thought out or well-formed opinion of the new guy - largely because right now she didn’t have any solid thoughts at all other than about how much it all hurt, but she was damned if her voice would remain unheard. “Well I think-” she began, flinching at how loud her voice sounded in her her ears as well as how far off the tone was because of the infections that were running their course even now. She continued with a quieter voice “We should keep him. Why not?” She asked rhetorically. “He has a very good right hook…” She probably wasn’t entirely making sense, not even to herself. “And because Kosso needs new friends…” She said to no-one in particular, her less than serious tone making it evident that she wasn’t entirely herself. She greedily eyed the bottle of water that Tzvi had - she’d not made it as far as the mess before the deafening sound of her footsteps had demanded she sit down somewhere - thankfully at the table everyone was meeting around.

Roland was sitting on the ground, cradling his head. He was on the ground, and no longer swimming in Kahje's blue depths. Yet, he could still feel his head spinning as if he were still flapping about in the water. He hadn't been in a fight the entire time he had been on the ship, but he still had come out of it worse for wear than some of his other group members.

It had been when the four of them had been proceeding from the bridge to the engine room. He had been relieved, at the time; it wasn't his fault that they were in the mess that they were, and that had brought about some unconscious pride. He hadn't been paying attention when they had been crossing the main foyer as panic had only just begun to set among the crowd of people there. The guards had been doing their best to control the situation, but the hanging unknown eventually beat itself into the mass's minds and everyone had been scurrying to an exit in blind terror. Roland had been knocked down, and trampled underfoot in this stupor, and had it not been for this new arrival who had decided to pick his ass up -- the same man that many of his fellow cohorts were now fervently against allowing in -- he probably would have remained there to die.

Still, he was there now, concussion apparent, and a biotic amp loose within his head -- both injuries just daring him to fall asleep without proper medical aid -- taking the arguments that were going about the room with only so much as a grumble. He could feel his brow twitch with both pins that Mark had put on him, and a wish form that this guy would just shove a sock in it before he digs himself deeper into his own grave. He could feel a built in sigh (withheld) as Tanya and Steveo elected to get rid of the guy; both rather colorfully. And his eyes were rolling on their own as Tzvi and Kasy both put in their own half-hearted arguments for why the freelancer should stay, or at least not get killed by jettison. With one deep breath, Roland finally stood up shakily with the support of the wall next to him to say his piece.

"Look," he addressed them all, garnering all of the team's attention, "the guy has proven his worth. He didn't shoot Tzvi, myself or even Kygg in the panic that Luek's little stunt had brought, hasn't tried contacting anyone outside of the team since we've met him -- and trust me on this, I had asked Tzvi to monitor his omni-tool's communications -- and has even risked his own hide to save my own. The guy is an uncouth, miscreant, sure, but he has proven himself to me, at least, and deserves a chance to prove himself to the rest of you before we decide to just let him go."

Mark could only shrug and nod in agreeance with Roland's politely accurate description of his character. He thought back on their rush through the skewed and flooding halls of the yacht, and the moment he saw Roland get knocked aside by the crush of panicked guests. In moments and without a second thought, he'd roughly shouldered the crazed socialites aside and hauled the medic to his feet so they could get the hell outta there. It had been almost instinctual, and it was weird because he hadn't done anything like that in... decades? Yeah, back when he was with the Alliance. He'd never had a reason to, working almost exclusively on his own or with scumbags ever since he'd been discharged. He'd never looked back when one of the Suns or Eclipse mercs took a slug instead of him.

Though he obviously didn't show it, he'd enjoyed the frantic escape. His adrenaline hadn't pumped that fast in a while, and being part of a worthwhile team again, even if unofficially, brought out the old soldier in him. And the soldier in him didn't leave a man behind. He'd forgotten what it was like to have allies you could count on, brothers and sisters of war who had your back when shit hit the fan and it was just the two of you holding your trench against all comers. He hadn't realized how much he missed it.

Well, this is going about as poorly as one would expect. Tanya thought, finishing off her tea after listening to the others. The general mood in the room was decidedly sour, and not just because of Mark. It was a victory; they got the information and they all came back alive, but Tanya had seen faces like the ones she witnessed in the dining hall, standing or sitting in decided malcontent like they suffered a crushing blow. It was a lot like when the 63rd was finally pulled off the front lines during the liberation of Mindoir, only Nova didn't lose a lot of their friends in the process. Tanya looked at her hand, turning over to inspect both sides. Usually after a particularly stressful mission, she had the shakes, but she was oddly calm, at peace with what happened. If anything, she was somewhat elated at having survived such an ordeal and the team managed to keep the boat from capsizing long enough for rescue to arrive for the civilians. That was a cause worth celebrating. She decided to tap into her past, before she became a PTSD-ridden wreck that had to leave the Systems Alliance Marines, where she was well on the path to getting promoted to Sergeant. It was a part of her that the others apparently looked up to, and on her better days, she was reassured, confident, unflappable. Leadership material. The aimless souls nursing crappy coffee and tea needed direction, it seemed.

"Our esteemed medic, the quarians, and the Caveman in question all bring up some good points." She said, looking around the room. "My reservations still stand, but not everything has to be so black and white. Roland is personally vouching for Caveman's integrity, and Kassy and Savvy both say he's a competent fighter." she turned to Mark, raising an eyebrow. "Even though our mission turned to shit, we still managed to pull it off, and the fact it went wrong is no fault of anyone here. If anyone was going to guess that our hanar friend was a murder-suicide fanatic who would have blown the fuck out of his prized luxury yacht with a shitload of potential investors, I'd have laughed in their face because it made no fucking sense. Happened anyways. These guys say that they might be dead if you didn't pitch in to help, and while you pretty much fucked over your old boss, you may be the reason this ship's not a lot more empty now. For that, you have my thanks. It's nice to not have to say goodbye to friends." she said, moving towards the counter top, placing her cup and saucer on the stainless steel surface. She crouched down, opening the door of the mini-fridge and reached inside, pulling out several bottles of beer, that she handed out to those who could drink it as she headed back around the room, giving the second last one to Mark -who eagerly accepted with a smile and a wink, just to piss her off- before twisting the lid off her own. She continued,

"Everyone here looks pissed, lost, or filled with contempt because of what happened. We took the job, knowing the risks, and we had no idea that it was going to be that dramatic. You see the cuts and bruises on Kosso and I; Luek's private study fucking exploded and flooded, and both of us are probably going to be picking out shards of glass for a week. I managed to get the data out, and Kosso kept me alive while I did it. If the two of us, who were ready to kill each other before the mission launched, could watch each other's back like that, and the fact that each of you did your jobs damn well, and we managed to all get out largely intact and alive... why are we all so pissed off? We fucking pulled off something so insane, I barely believe it happened. And if Kosso's right about this information, for the first time since we started this outfit, we're going to be ahead of the game. We knew we were going to have to expand one day, and while I want to see some of the money go towards a shuttle and an IFV, we're going to have to expand our membership if we want to pull off the bigger jobs. I may not like it, but I'd be a damn fool if I didn't at least consider what Caveman has to offer." she said, turning back to Mark. "As stands, we don't have a lot in the way of straight up muscle. Tillus and Jeanna are both considering leaving Nova for personal reasons, one of whom was offered a job teaching biotic kids, and we're going to run into situations that need tough, experienced fighters, even if they belong to another epoch."

Tanya drank heavily from her bottle before placing a boot on one of the chairs, resting her arm across her raised knee. Her eyes darted from person to person like a hawk. "So, some of us want Caveman, others want him gone... including Steveo's hard-on for hilarious murder." she chuckled. "The way I see it, we're stuck with Caveman until we get to port next, so why not put him on a probationary trial?" she asked rhetorically. "Let him tag along for a couple missions, prove he's with more than the sack of bricks he looks like, and if he actually gels, we offer him a formal position. If not, next time we go for supplies, we kick his ass to the curb. I propose a couple stipulations to ease my concerns about him. Firstly, we dock a third of his cut from each of the mission, this goes to a slush fund for maintenance and equipment procurement. Second, we can set up temporary accommodations down in the cargo hold. We still have a lot of empty, stacking storage crates that could be made into temporary accommodations, as well as those old military cots and foot lockers we had while we were renovating the Tyrus. We stick him there for the time being and his life's limited to whatever he can stuff into a foot locker until he's formally accepted onto the team. Third, and perhaps most importantly, he doesn't get to vote on anything that concerns the team until he's commissioned. He gets to say his piece and offer whatever sage wisdom he brings from the Paleolithic era, but no vote." she explained, punctuating her point with a drink. "I still don't want to split my cut or feed another mouth, but if we can survive Titanic part two and walk away with some rather expensive merchandise in the process, like hell we can't figure out shit out."

“I like him’ah,” chimed Kygg.

The vorcha sat comfortably in the mess hall surrounded by his peers, perched upon a chair that faced the wrong way. His arms crossed upon the back rest, one hand holding a glass that contained a smooth brown liquid that fizzed ever so slightly. He had taken a leaf out of Marianna’s book and had gone for the alcohol approach, trying a new cocktail of his own design to settle his nerves after their previous mission. He didn’t care how ridiculous it sounded but ryncol, cola, and the tiniest dash of cranberry juice tasted delicious, albeit probably unsuitable for consumption by anyone in Nova other than himself. He swallowed a mouthful of his drink, straightened his posture, and spoke again.

“I think he more than proved himself’ah on Kahje,” he hissed. Kygg smiled, fondly reminiscing about their previous mission on Luek’s ridiculous yacht. It had been an awful lot of fun wrecking the hanar’s ship and Kygg had found out, much to his surprise, that Mark could punch like a krogan. That was a trait that Nova couldn’t afford to turn down. He looked a little like a krogan too, Kygg thought teasingly. “But Tanya has point’ah. We could use more muscle, yes, but it’ah doesn’t make sense if we don’t all trust him’ah. So if we’re even going to contemplate’ah bringing him along we need to fix that’ah.”

He wasn’t sure if his opinion was going to have any impact on this debate (and usually there was good reason for that) but Kygg was going to try to fight for Mark regardless. After all, he felt somewhat responsible for bringing the human on-board the Tyrus in the first place and thought that he deserved to stay at least for a little while. They could definitely find a use for him, even if it meant cleaning the ship’s toilets and fetching Kygg chocolates. Maybe I should bring up that last part to Tanya? thought the vorcha.

Kygg stood up from his chair, now leaning against it casually. Unlike most of the crew he wasn’t moping around and exaggerating his injuries in an attempt to get the sympathies of the crew, so moving about was as easy as it had ever been. While he was far from in perfect condition after the destruction of that blasted hanar’s boat, taking a rather painful blow to the side of his abdomen that had bled a considerable degree, it was nothing permanent and he was reassured by the comfortable tingle of medigel as it soaked into the fresh gash. The tiny nicks and scratches he had sustained had almost entirely healed over too, thanks to Kygg’s superior healing factor.

It had made him hungry though. Healing so quickly worked up an incredibly appetite and, while Kygg was all in favour of letting Mark stay aboard the ship to be put to good use, he would happily kill the man where he stood if it meant they could stop for some batarian fast food. Kygg wiped away a thin sliver of drool as his mind wandered to the thought of varren burgers…

“Yes!” yelled Kygg, no longer lost in thought. “I support’ah putting him on a trial run for a mission or two’ah. Those who think the varren bur- human should stay can are happy, and those who’ah don’t trust ‘Caveman’ can have their fears reassured. Everybody wins, sort of’ah.”

A great, toothy grinned crawled onto Kygg’s face. “Wait, who suggested airlock jettison’ah? If he beats my’ah best time then I can kill him, yes? Good.”

Mark's beer was down to the dregs after a few deep gulps. It went down a lot smoother than his usual, and at least he wasn't the only one eager to hit the bottle. He stared at the ceiling and rubbed his stubbled jaw line as he listened to Tanya's proposal. It sounded fine for the most part, he wasn't much for luxury, so the cot was whatever, and he was certain his abilities would prove to be more than adequate. He had bristled at the mention of only getting a third of what everyone else would be though. But he wasn't really in a position to negotiate, and he wasn't exactly desperate for funds either so he left it alone. This Tanya though, it seemed likely that they would be butting heads often, what with her mouth being bigger than the boots she was wearing. But there was one only one place he knew of that made women that hard, Alliance. So he had to give her props for that at least, and assume that she wasn't all bark. Not that he'd tell her that.

He wasn't sure what to think about the bar tending, thumbs-up-giving vorcha who seemed of two minds on the subject, aside from the fact that he was a crazy motherfucker. But then, most vorcha were it seemed.

"All right short stuff," his gaze falling back to Tanya after glancing across the faces of the other crew members, "If everyone else is okay with it, you've got yourself a deal."

Tzvi kept quiet. Tanya was right. The last-second scramble to salvage the mission saved the job and their lives, when, by all rights of luck and logic, it shouldn't have. It was a memory worth having. It was worth a whole 24 hour party with enough mind-alterating food and drink to make a krogan keel over. It was proof that Nova had a shot when the universe tried to pulverize them and didn't throw 'em a bone out of pity.
'- I thought I was a goner.'
For a minute, Tzvi swore she was good as dead, breathing on borrowed time. When it turned out there was a fighting chance, she'd waited for the ship to correct the fact with every creak. It wasn't the first time she'd expected that final blackout, but Tzvi had received it just as poorly.

The quarian harshly squeezed the bottle as the image hit her mind. She couldn't shrug off the frayed nerves. It was just a surface crack and a bang of the head. This was ridiculous.

"I'll get some water for you," Tzvi said low to her delerious roommate that had looked the bottle's way before, the one melting into her chair and half-the-time looking through whatever object her eyes set on. Bonus to helping out Kas, fetching a drink made a good distraction and a short escape.
Kygg was speaking by the time Tzvi had drifted back in. It was enough to catch up on the meeting. Tzvi gingerly placed the new water to stand against Kasy's lap and belly, and piped up after Mark, "Sure, why not, give Mark a test run. Best bet for all of us; we'll see if it works for both sides."
It was worth a chance, even if Tzvi didn't think much would come out of the trial.

The ship decided to join the meeting and squealed three quick beeps in alarm, a red light blinking rapidly in turn. Then it paused to calculate something. Then a loud sailor's whistle swiveled in. Cap'n wasn't quite itself when it chipped in.
"Ahoy, privates! A ship sends an SOS our way. Time to reach: 30 minutes. Her masts are down and her hull breached by cannon balls! She's dead in the water and sinking! Time to move out! Set course to pillage its corpse and capture the prisoners of war!! Go go go!"

Mark glanced up as he heard what he assumed was the ship's VI talking. He responded to no one in particular as he withdrew his flask,
"You said he could be anything so he became a pirate huh? Cute."

The quarian groaned in pained defeat. 'Time to jump back into the fun already?' Tzvi elbowed Mark, "What luck! Guess you're getting that trial early."

The elbow jostled Mark's drinking arm slightly as he was taking a swig and he desperately tried to hold it in as his body instinctively tried to cough it back up due to the fiery liquid not going down quite right. Making a full recovery, he wiped a stray drop from his chin with the back of his hand as his attacker jauntily walked off.
"Well that was fast. Looks like I'm gonna have my work cut out for me around here."

It was an exercise not unlike going through the discount bin in some shaddy back alley hardware store and trying to scrape together something functional. Tanya had several crates cracked open full of discarded parts and gear that the team had gone through collectively and decided to put away as back-ups in case their new, much better equipment failed.

Tanya was beginning to feel like Nova had a serious hording problem.

Three separate omni-tools lay spread across the workbench as she laboured to cannibalize the parts into one decent one that could handle the vast amount of data and tech she normally worked with. Having destroyed her omni-tool on Luek’s yacht, the engineer was starting to have a real sense of what it was like having phantom limb syndrome. The omni-tool had become such a regular part of her life, she found herself trying to use it constantly since it shattered and coming back surprised every time. The worst of all was when she had to hack her way into her own quarters to get out of the tattered dress after returning to Tyrus. It likely wasn’t a sight she was going to live down for quite some time, a sea-salt encrusted late twenty-something woman enduring the occasional electric shock with a torrent of constant cursing until the hologram over the door switched to green.

As much as she wanted to complain, the truth of the matter was she rather enjoyed this kind of work. It gave her focus, and taking garbage and making it functional again was something she wished she could do with her own life. It was much easier to figure out how to Frankenstein an omni-tool rig that could bypass security protocols and fabricate combat drones from spare parts than it was to figure out how to make the nightmares that plagued her most nights stop. At least here, in her workshop, she could keep people at bay with her music, in this case the rather unappealing sound of krogan attempting to mimic human-style metal. The results were hilarious, if oddly endearing. It was likely enough to buy her some privacy.

While attempting to power up her latest attempt, the omni-tool glowing a steady warm orange glow, she ran through the diagnostics on a terminal, only half paying attention to the readout. She wasn’t really sure what to make of that Mark character other than she was having a hard enough time adapting to the people Nova already had employed, let alone taking on some old thug with a smug attitude. She knew that Nova needed new members, especially since both Tillus and Jeanna had tendered their resignations sometime while the rest of the team was doing the mission on Kahje. If Nova was going to make a name for itself, it would need enough manpower to do the jobs. The problem was, with the layout of the Tyrus as it was; there wasn’t much room for expansion. Even now, temporary accommodations for Mark were being laid out across the cargo bay. Nova had to grow, but it didn’t mean she had to like it.

Still, her spirits were uncharacteristically high. The team pulled off one hell of a feat, that much was sure, and Tanya prided herself on her own role in the heist. There was a good chance that if anyone else was in her position, Nova would have gone home empty handed. Now, Kosso presumably was able to scour the treasure trove of information they acquired and would be able to set up some better jobs in the future. One could hope. A part of her still felt resentful towards the drell for what he attempted, but a growing part of her was coming to admire Kosso and trust in his judgement. The hard truth of it all was the two of them worked well together and were well on the way to forming an emotional bond approaching on friendship, which was something that Tanya never realized she was sorely missing. The fact Kosso was the only person on the team who bothered to visit when she was tied up in the infirmary endeared him considerably to her.

Beep beep

Her attention turned back to the omni-tool, which declared a state of readiness according to the diagnostics. “About time.” Tanya said triumphantly, aiming the tool towards a crate and activating an energy drain charge. Suddenly, the omni-tool began to glow bright white and become uncomfortably hot before a loud crack filled the air.
“Oh, you piece of-” she began, tearing the worthless piece of scrap from her arm and tossing it into a scrap bin, but not before the energy drain charge dissipated, striking her torso with a low yield, unfocused blast of energy.

When the pain subsided enough for her to move again, the engineer grabbed a bottle of whiskey from under her work bench and drank straight from the bottle until the burning caused her to gag, covering her mouth with her scorched forearm. Her eyes wandered to the clock on her music player.

45 minutes until ETA with the distress beacon.

With another hearty chug and a change of music, she pulled several more pieces of shit from the “Used” bin and set back to work.

Crack!

The smell of hot energy followed the ruckus, and Mark looked over his shoulder to the other end of the cargo bay where Tanya had been working. He thought about calling out to see if she was still breathing, but saw her rise and chug some booze moments later. He turned back to what he was doing and mumbled to himself, "eh, she'll be fine. A few third degree burns never hurt anybody."

He'd finished setting up his cot in a shipping container just minutes ago without even bothering to grab a pillow. A bottle was all the comfort he needed, though his flask was starting to sound a bit hollow now that he thought about it. Hopefully they'd make port soon. Even his favorite gun was missing, (his other favorite gun anyway, the Phalanx was resting comfortably back on his thigh,) and going back to Omega would like be too steep of a request for just a rifle. He'd just have to buy another, and use one of Nova's loaners until then. Which is exactly what he was looking for now.

With a sigh he popped open another set of lockers. It was probably too much to hope that they'd have a- Mark's brows raised with mild surprise and an honest to god grin broke out on his face as his eyes locked onto the distinctive beige profile of a Mattock sitting between an Avenger and a Katana shotgun.

Come to papa... Mark thought as he grabbed the rifle. He wouldn't be caught dead saying that aloud. He sighted down its length with practiced ease, the rifle resting perpendicular to his squared shoulders. He let it fall and began to inspect the weapon lovingly, recalibrating the systems that had deteriorated from lack of use. There weren't many people these days who would pick a semi automatic over anything else, figuring volume of fire was better than accuracy probably. Nothing beat a quick double tap to the head in his opinion. And no one made power house rifles like the humans either... Well, except for the krogans. Too bad most krogan gear looked about as ugly as the krogans themselves. The Mattock was powerful and stylish.

He slipped the rifle onto the mag lock on his back and shut the locker. Hearing more clangs amidst the piss poor imitation of human metal from Tanya's end of the cargo bay, he figured he'd see what the commotion was about. Walking over, he looked over the variety of parts strewn about which seemed to consist mostly of omni tool hardware. He picked up a piece that was sitting on a chest high crate while the woman wasn't looking and inspected it, not gleaning much. He wasn't very technologically inclined unless it came to guns.

"Avoided blowing yourself up again I see," he started. "So, where were you stationed?"
Mark was certain his assumption of her military background was correct, but he was interested in just what kind of shit she'd been through. Not all marines saw combat after all, maybe she just talked like one.

Errol Vahn didn’t know where he was on the ship or how he was going to get out of this scenario, honestly he was aptly and painstakingly screwed. There was an ancient expression of his people to describe the situation he was in reflecting upon a creek without a paddle, of which fit his predicament exactly. Though he seriously doubted when it was created it would not have been used to describe being in the middle of nowhere with alien raiders violently usurping the crew that kept the ship together, if it was then ancient humans were frickin’ weird. Everything in the previous few hours outside of the ‘invasion’ had gone to plan and for a good while he thought things were going to be different this time around. But not anymore, things were not going to be different, in fact everything was pretty much the same... sort of. Errol had never been in a situation where he was on a ship under siege by raiding mercenaries, though he had been on the opposite end of the stick before when he was working for Graymane, of which the group had raided a Batarian vessel a few years back. Perhaps this was karma? But Errol didn't believe in karma, so maybe not.

It all had started when Errol Vahn had been approached by a man named Robert Calcowski, who apparently worked as a middleman for Errol’s own father—a father that he hadn’t seen in years and didn’t exactly have the fondest of memories for. ErdeCo had been the subject of corporate espionage and Errol was to stop the spy before he reached Feros to dispel ErdeCo secrets which basically was an implied assassination gig. Errol felt no loyalty for his father, but he felt his father’s wallet was offering him a way to get in the business and get a reputation excluding a failed PMC company on his resume so that was pretty stellar if you asked Errol himself. So he got aboard this starcraft with the knowledge that the corporate spy from ExoGeni was onboard and a little bit before things got hairy he had made sure that the spy was swiftly dealt with. It was the first death before the chaos and now Errol was regretting accepting the job from ErdeCo since it was likely he’d be killed by Vorcha before he could get paid for what he had successfully done.

Why couldn’t things be simple?

“Why couldn’t these guys be somebody much more pleasant? Like the Blue Suns?”

Errol’s voice quipped under his breath as his back hugged a corridor wall amongst the dimly lit passageway. Errol had no clue if the Blood Pack had made off with whatever their gain was from attacking this murky starship, but he did particularly know that there were appropriately armed vorcha still looming around the occasional corner. Something of which he knew very well when he turned a corner several minutes ago and ended up barely scraping by. ‘Thank the lord for guns’ he had thought at the time as the most he came out with was a headache and some persistent claw marks on his right forearm that he had to almost waste the rest of his medi-gel supply on so it didn’t get infected by some nasty alien bacteria. The wound still ached like a fresh cut mended with salt, and Errol’s expression on his face as he traveled cautiously with his left hand gripping his Devlon Industries issued Stinger Handgun while his right hand pressed against the wall.

“I hate vorcha.” He muttered under his breath, “Such filthy, senseless, savage creatures…. like a doberman with the ability to wield a machine gun.”

As he clung to the corridors he began to ponder if there were any survivors—other than himself, of course—as if he could bunker down with a group of competent fellow underdogs than maybe they could push the vorcha out or alternatively not die before somesort of rescue operation came in. Now it was possible that rescue-ops were generally slim in space, especially with vessels like the one he was on, but there were people who walked the path of the savior. At this point Errol didn’t care how likely for a rescue detail to come as long as he got out of here without being in a body-bag. It was strange how he had chosen to come back to all of this—the shooting, the anxiety, the sporadic and likely chance of injury or death—yet even if this was a crappy scenario, at least it wasn’t as boring as Eden Prime. Nothing interesting ever happened on Eden Prime.

Errol carefully turned another corridor and in a few minutes found himself in a half-lit room, but it looked more like a field of debris and collapsed structures. By the carbon scarring Errol could maybe guess that the room had been hit by a vorcha strike team wielding explosive weapons that were pretty much thought of as rocket launchers. There was probably a lot of dead bodies about this area which certainly didn’t bode well for Errol’s likelihood of living to see his paycheck. However as he stopped to look over the debris-covered room he heard a bustle of movement—his eyes shot to the direction and that’s when he saw somebody, specifically a krogan. The krogan was underneath some debris but seemed to still be alive, which was not surprising to Errol—krogan were created as tanks by the universe. However, there was still a degree of uneasiness as he approached and while Errol was no bigot he had always had trouble as a kid with the alien races the humans found themselves in contact with. But even with those experiences he knew krogan’s were the biggest badasses in the entire galaxy (so much that the turians and salarians had to work together to put them down) so having somebody like that not dead would be beneficial to Errol’s particular plan of staying alive.

He took a deep breath.

“Look like you had a bad day, krogan.” he paused, “Look like all of us have had a bad day.”

“How can I get you out of there, so it doesn’t get any worse?”

Tanya looked up from her work to see Mark standing across the table, holding one of the old omni-tools like it was some kind of alien relic beyond comprehension. "It's like my old boss used to say, 'If it's not blowing up in your face, you aren't learning.'" she replied dryly, writing into a notepad, Serrice Council model phase emitter NOT compatible with Kassa Fabrication frames!!! "There's a reason there's a big ass disclaimer about not altering or tampering with omni-tools, because shit like that happens. Rule of thumb; just because it fits doesn't mean it works. In this case, the connectors are reversed between two of the different models and it overloaded it, kind of like if you put a battery in backwards." she said, turning down the music to levels it was easier to converse with, the holographic dial on the stereo control calibrated to be a perfect fit for her hand. "You managed to endure and pass my first line of defense. Time to retreat to the trenches." she said, opening up another omni-tool casing and laying out the parts across the rubber surface on the work bench.

"You're quick to jump to assumptions about my history, but consider it your lucky day I'm actually in a good mood today and I've been trying to follow my list of resolutions a bit more closely this year." Tanya said to Mark, glancing up and taking note of the old Mattock he must have discovered that was never unpacked or stored properly. She returned to sorting components from various other omni-tools, parts so small and fragile they looked like watch components. "63rd Expeditionary Division, attached to the 6th Fleet. Not to be confused with the 63rd Scout Flotilla. Instead of being a colony garrison, our regiments were stationed primarily ship side as a reactionary force. Plenty of planet-side deployments and training exercises, some combat deployments that didn't amount to anything, one that did. Not something I care to talk about. If you pan out, get on my good side, and probably get an irresponsible amount of liquor into me, then maybe. Let's just say I've seen shit that nobody ever should and leave it at that." she said, closing up her latest creation and powering it up.

The omni-tool activated, and to Tanya's credit, didn't immediately explode in her face. However, it was much dimmer and pulsing like a fluorescent light bulb on its last legs. Deactivating it, she disassembled the omni-tool with deft, practiced hands that worked with Keeper-like coordination and efficiency. She looked up at the omni-tool in Mark's hand and a moment of revelation hit her. "Pass that here." she said with a hint of excitement, taking it and quickly tearing into it.

"Anyways, don't take offense to my lack of transparency. Most people on the team know next to nothing about my past with a few notable exceptions, and it's kind of an unspoken rule that we don't go digging into each other's closets, so to speak. If you want to stick with Nova, you need to understand that it's a fresh start for pretty much everyone. You don't end up here unless you're trying to discard some baggage that's been haunting you for a while for the most part. Why else take a chance on a small team of misfits instead of joining an established outfit? I wouldn't have it any other way." she said, reassembling the omni-tool with the new components, powering it up. Almost immediately, it materialized with a solid, stable glow. Tanya quickly ran through it's functions, grinning at her handiwork. "I'll credit you with the assist for this one. The parts I plucked out of that Nexus tool have very little resistance from the power source to individual components, so the Ohms rating is optimal. This piece of Frankenstein shit will work for now, until I can buy a new one, but at least it'll be mission worthy. Anyways," she turned her attention to Mark. "You strike me as a fellow marine. What the fuck happened there?" she asked. "You claim a lot of combat experience, and yet we find you shitfaced at a bar instead of doing your job guarding some asshole. Times are rough?"

Kasyra had finally made it back to her shared quarters, taking far longer than the others to leave the briefing because of the pounding in her head. Every step was hell for her, and the quiet beeps the door made when she unlocked it had sounded like the ship was trying to shout her out of existence. She had finally reached her bed, and once there had very nearly fallen straight asleep.

What she had instead done, after several minutes of sitting silently, was pick out a small metal box from under her bed. Inside the box were a number of drugs, mostly stimulants of varying kinds, already prepared for injection straight into a Quarian suit environment. For what seemed to her to be an age, she contemplated just putting it back where it belonged, laying down and leaving this rescue mission to the rest of the crew. They didn’t have infections to contend with after all.

Eventually though, she talked herself back around. The crew didn’t have the advantages she did in this sort of a situation. Her suit was sealed and shielded, so she could navigate hazards others couldn’t without a second thought. Not only that, she was a Quarian. Every Quarian knew at least a little about ship repair and functions, and if anyone could buy more time for a ship in a terrible situation it was her. Or maybe Tzvi. But two Quarians were better than one right? That way they could wire up twice the amount of scrap metal to make precision jumps.

She took several of the syringes from the box and placed them carefully on one of the tiny ports on the exterior of her suit designed to allow medicine to be administered without opening the suit. only moments after she depressed the syringe the stimulants started to flood her system, injected through the suits on-board medical systems, and her headache began to subside, clearing up almost immediately. The next syringe was filled with immuno-boosters to help against the infections. The effect of that one would come later. The final syringe was filled with a cocktail of drugs to stave off all of the effects of the infection that were currently making her life a living hell. Unlike the immuno-booster, the effect was instant, restoring her mind and body to a near perfect state. She tried not to think about how much worse everything would be when it wore off though.

With the injections done, she put away the small box and its syringes and started looking around the room for the extraneous pieces of her suit she’d haphazardly removed after the mess on Lueks yacht. She started with the armor plates that kept her suit safe from accidental breaches and provided a little more protection in combat. Much of this was stored nicely near her bed as she’d removed all but the most vital plates for her party outfit. Still, those vital plates were now the ones she had to find, and hope they were dry and largely undamaged.

ACCESSING NETWORK...
ACCESSING PROFILE: Kosso
ENTER PASSWORD: *********
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LOGGING ON....

ACCESSING EXTRANET
URL: "electrofinds.net"

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Welcome to your source for the latest in indie and underground electronic music!

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Genre:

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Ambient/Trance

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ACCESSING REVIEW ARTICLE...

Album Review: The Anatomy of an Imploding Star
Artist: Shades of Green
Publisher: Independent

Track Listing:

1. Between the Void and I
2. Despite All Appearances, his Blood is Probably Black
3. Murderer, Medic
4. Drastic Times and Drastic Companions
5. A Man from Kahje
6. Send the Alliance my Regards
7. Captain, You May be the Best of Us
8. Two Suits, Too many

As anyone that trawls the forums of IndieEl these days can tell you, new ambient/trance artists are a dime a dozen: it seems as though every misguided amateur with a brand new sound program and a rudimentary grasp on ambient rhythms somehow gets corralled into the comments section of that site with a handful of mediocre songs and a heart full of hope...only to have that hope dashed as more experienced forum-goers jump to point out every flaw. One such EP, however, has been making quite the stir on IndieEl within the last week: The Anatomy of an Imploding Star, a surprisingly competent collection of songs by a new and unknown artist, known only by his forum handle "Shades of Green." Since its posting, the EP has gained several thousand downloads, and has since been seen being spread to other ambient/trance forums around the extranet.

Perhaps what has allowed Anatomy to avoid the fate of so many similar first-time projects is its unique concept. According to the author's own (admittedly cryptic) comments, the EP is built on sounds gathered from his environment: A spaceship bursting at the seams with ex-criminals and mercenaries. According to the creater himself-"I'm just a simple man, traveling with a bunch of assorted freaks and fools. Most of them never seem to shut up, so I figured I might as well use their voices for something useful. Most of the album was created using voice clips of various members of the ship's crew, recorded secretly during briefings and conversations and then later touched up and mixed with more traditional ambient elements via the SoundPro v.2.4 program. Enjoy."

A refreshing concept, to be sure, and one that almost immediately shows promise. The opening track, "Between the Void and I," begins with standard, boring ambient fare before opening into a strangely haunting mix of mechanical hums and beats, allegedly gathered directly from the spaceship the artist lives on. That intro, which perfectly encapsulates a feeling of separation and isolation via spaceflight, builds into the decidedly more intricate (though much stranger) "Despite All Appearances, His Blood is Probably Black," which features a recurring background loop of a Salarian muttering about coffee, of all things. The follow-up third track, "Murderer, Medic" fades in with more surprises: bumbling, jumbled syllables spouted by a human male, arranged in a surprisingly catchy undercurrent that speaks more to smooth jazz then it does to traditional trance.

It's easy to see why this EP caught the attention of the underground ambient scene. While the music is competent, it isn't exactly ground-breaking. The addition of voice and other natural noise, all of which sounds genuine, turns what would be lackluster tracks into more intimate and emotional pieces, without sacrificing any of the vast, echoing soundscapes that draw fans to this particular genre. "Send the Alliance my Regards," for example, punctuates its already catchy bass-driven beat with a repeated chorus ("Mako, Wankers!") "sung" by a human female and distorted in such a way that it practically begs to be sung by the listener as well. The arguable highlight of the album, "Two suits, Too many" also capitalizes on the strengths promoted by this concept, featuring a long and intricately woven duet of female Quarian voices, stitched together perfectly into a echoing and somewhat threatening masterpiece.

That's not to say the EP is perfect. "Drastic times and Drastic Companions," certainly has an interesting build-up featuring the beautiful and harsh voice of an Asari, but the decision to include an echoing Vorcha laugh in the background, barely distorted and sounding almost as real as ever, may be enough to turn some faint-hearted listeners away. This reviewer herself had nightmares for days after hearing that track. On the other hand, the two songs that don't play to the strengths of the album's concept by including voice or other ship sounds ("A Man from Kahje" is fairly typical ambient affair with very little to be interested about, while "Captain, You May be the Best of Us," is built off of dialogue made by a VI program, a concept that has been mostly played out by now), tend to drag the experience down, and may affect repeat listens.

Overall, Anatomy is certainly an interesting EP, and as a first-time offering, it's also quite exciting. I'm sure I'm not the only one that wants to see what this new artist may come up with next, assuming he continues making music. It'll be interesting to see whether or not the concept of this album is a crutch to mask amateur music-making skills, or whether "Shades of Green" can come up with something to rival his first release. Either way, this EP is worth at least one listen, and is available for free over on the IndieEl forums. Recommended.

-Fillaria Notin

Rating: 3 stars out of 5

Recommended tracks:
"Murderer, Medic"
"Send the Alliance my Regards"
"Two Suits, Too many"

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Tzvi’s mind bobbed from scrambling for an excuse not to join the rescue crew to ardently searching for distractions to ignore every idea that encompassed the first thought. The Tyrus had jumped from one sinking ship just to throw ‘em in the next.

It’d be like every other time. The job always had risks. Even an easy one, even that easy one flawlessly done, even all that way far off from the target. Tzvi’d accepted this as part of the deal. Close gunfire, bad partners, hackers, surprise changes, broken omni-tools, angry krogan. There'd be bad days that the plan fell apart and tried to get her killed - and leave a few scratches - and there'd been thirsty and hungry days when luck found itself in a real nasty mood. That didn't matter. It was always manageable. None of it was a problem, if she just played it smart. Her nerves just got frayed. No biggie.

One leg got irritated with this line of thought and started to bounce impatiently. ’Maybe I can say I’d do a better job from a desk, on this one.’ Tzvi tossed a look over her shoulder to see Roland rummaging through the fridge nearby, “Hey, Roland. When were you born?”
The question didn't look like it caught his notice; the medic went on about his business. But the answer came over, muffled by the fridge.
“2148.”
“Okay. But what day?”
“August 24th.”
...
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
Neat. Now she just had to translate that to Galactic Standard Time. And if she didn’t skip to the extranet or a calculator, that’d take up some time.
Playing with math and virtual clocks succeeded in trapping her full and overenthusiastic attention enough to later turn Roland's departure into a wisp of memory and speed up the passing minutes. However many minutes those were. But then that ended. A creeping sense of awareness butted in, and then another thought: 'Maybe I can worry myself into getting sick.'

The momentum had died before Tzvi tried to spark it back up with a tangent attempt to read up on archaic asari calendars. What she needed, she decided, was a bubblier Chuckles - Kosso had seized and probably destroyed Kygg's first son - or some flower trinket made out of string and junk. Tzvi wrinkled her nose in contempt at the counter and chair like the whole sit had been an unjust timeout by an uptight parent. The quarian sprung out of her seat to escape to her quarters. When the right door crawled its way over to her and slid open, Kas was picking herself, and a plate for her suit, up from the ground.

Tzvi's half-raised arm gave a small wave, chirping, "Hey, shipmate." It struck Tzvi that Kas wasn't painstakingly climbing on the bed to get up or otherwise tumbling about the cabin. Kas was still roughed up and her knees looked stiff when she straightened them out, but she was remarkably more animated and in control of her limbs than the meeting - what, a half hour before? There was an uncertain pause when Tzvi mulled over what she was watching. The quarian tried to brush it away, and asked out of friendly curiosity, "How's it goin'? Fixing your suit up for the next job we're picking?"

"I'll take your word for it," Mark muttered as Tanya dropped some tips and tricks about omni tools as she worked. None of which was likely to help him if his ever went down. Not that he used his omni tool for anything more important than communication anyway. He'd met some people who could do some pretty impressive stuff with the things. But he preferred explosive breaches to hacking. Just as fast with twice the fun.

He lit up a cigarette and leaned against the work table with his arms crossed as the woman have him some insight to her military career, but she was pretty cagey with the details. He didn't press the issue though. If a soldier didn't want to talk about what they'd been through, they usually had a pretty good reason for it, and that was all the evidence he needed that Tanya hadn't been some pencil pushing desk jockey. Besides, though he'd largely come to accept the events that had taken place during his time with the alliance, he could remember a time when he was just as iffy about it as well.

Mark glanced her direction as she inquired as to his own past.
"Well first off, I was not shitfaced. And I was doing my job up until I decked that salarian prick, which I would have done regardless of how many drinks I may or may not have had. Guy was a douche."
Mark shrugged as smoke drifted past his lips and he gazed at the ceiling with a contemplative expression.
"But yeah, I was a marine once. A long time ago. I was a starry eyed patriot, fighting Earth's enemies. Putting my life on the line for humanity. Up until the Alliance decided I was no longer useful to them anyway. Then, despite everything I'd done for them, everything I'd lost for them, they tossed me aside in the interest of their reputation. Eh, I don't blame 'em. I mean yeah sure, I was pissed at the time, but working in this business I've realized that's exactly what war is. Business. Aggressive negotiations. Its all in the interest of profit. And it was more profitable for the Alliance if I wasn't a marine anymore. So I bummed around the galaxy and moped for a year or two before figuring out that if I wanted to survive out here, I'd have to take a shit on everybody else before they took a shit on me. So no, I wouldn't say times are hard, there's always someone that needs an extra gun. That asshole at the party for example. Unfortunately for him Ive been doin this for too long and just don't give a damn anymore."

He paused to pull on his cigarette appreciatively, "I've been sticking with small jobs lately, smuggling. Personal protection. You know, easy stuff. But easy stuff is boring. I used to run with the big outfits like the Suns and Eclipse, pirates too once in a while. But they're just like the Alliance. Everyone is just cannon fodder to them, no real camaraderie. So I was in a bit of a dilemma, bored with the little jobs but not willing to risk my life doing the big stuff with a group I can't trust... but then you guys came along. There's something about you guys that strikes me as being worth it. And for all the shit I gave you guys about sinking the boat, I won't lie, I had a hell of a lotta' fun."

“Hey, wasn’t meant as a job. Half the people on this team are semi-perpetually shitfaced. You’d blend right in.” Tanya said with a smirk, eyes scanning over the terminal as she worked through the omni-tool’s software diagnostics. Mark’s story wasn’t that uncommon amongst former marines, Tanya included; most people who left felt like they were undervalued or that it was time to move on. She could certainly relate, after Mindoir her superiors saw fit to keep her in rear echelons in maintenance divisions, well away from potential action and what was left of her friends. It took her a few months before she too got fed up and decided that her talents, and her life, was best dedicated elsewhere. Mark’s listless, aimless wandering wasn’t all that uncommon either. People had it pretty easy this day and age to disappear from one place and appear in another, looking for something that spoke to them. The years were evident on the man’s face, as was the ever present weariness Tanya had seen far too many times. The man wasn’t stupid, that much was sure. He took far too much initiative for himself to be your usual dumb-as-fuck gun for hire. Maybe he would fit in, after all.

The engineer eyed the cigarette warily before reaching under her work bench to pick out an old ration can and dumping a few assorted bolts before placing the can without a word in front of Mark. She wasn’t a smoker, but she didn’t particularly care if people did it, even if she hated the smell of it. The fact that she was occasionally covered in some kind of flammable liquid probably was a strong reason for that. “Yeah, I get that. Credits only go so far before it all just seems hollow.” She replied to Mark lamenting his past. “It’s part of the reason I feel lucky I stumbled into these guys in some seedy Citadel bar and got talking half drunkenly about saying fuck it, screw feeling sorry for ourselves and let’s do something stupid and make a mercenary company. After the Alliance, I’ve basically been my own boss, calling the shots with the other. Isn’t perfect, and some people can be pretty fucking daft, but what can I say, it’s like family.” She paused, drumming her fingers on the work bench, as if in thought. “And turns out I needed people like them.”

Tanya’s grey eyes looked up to Mark. “Wait. You got hired on with both the Blue Suns and Eclipse? How the fuck did you manage that? Those wankers hate each other.” She said with a grin and a slight shake of the head. “I’d have an easier time believing you if you said you were shagging that Veronica Preston chick, you know that big actress that you can’t go see a movie without her being in it? I used to make fun of people like her for being vapid dipshits until I realized they were making a lot more credits than I was for half the effort. Eh, fuck it. I still make fun of them. We usually make Thursday night movie night in the longue, just brush off responsibility for a few hours and pretend we’re one botched job from not being able to afford fuel and food for half a month. It’s good. You should make a point to stop by, get people used to seeing you.” She suggested, stepping away to open a locker where her armour and weapons were hung in various compartments and slots. She pulled out the body suit, stepping behind a screen for privacy while she got out of her tank top, boots, and coveralls to fit into the combat gear.

“And fucking tell me about it with the ship! I swear, I’m the only person other than Kygg,” she paused, realizing Mark probably didn’t know who anyone on the team other than Roland, Marianna, and Tzvi were. “The vorcha, who came back from that not being miserable as fuck. I mean, sure, we almost all died because that stupid fucking Luek bastard decided killing himself and everyone aboard was better than losing his fucking information, but he’s dead, we’re not, and we’ve got a steady source of income, assuming Kosso knows what the hell he’s doing with the shit we grabbed. I can’t say I’ve ever fought on a sinking ship like that before, it was actually one of the only times in my life I’d been on an ocean-worthy ship. It’s nice that a hull breach isn’t an instant-death sentence like in space.”

She stepped out from behind the screen, zipping up the body-hugging suit and grabbing the various outer components of the armour. “You’ll have to run by me what exactly you and the others did after the ship started fucking capsizing after we get back from the distress call.” She nodded towards the gun on Mark’s back. “We picked that thing up after one of our earlier missions; we kind of made it a priority to loot the guys we killed for gear when we were starting off. That rifle’s one of the weapons we picked up but had no use for. I was intending to use it as a target rifle to work on my aim, but never had time. If you’re killing with it, it’s better than it collecting dust. If you want, I can probably rig some modifications in there. It’s the same base as the Argus and the Harrier, so it’s really not hard to find parts to put a select fire mode in there.”

Roland stumbled into what could be considered his office, the med-bay. The beds remained neat and untouched by disturbances and the equipment on every side lay dormant. His desk sat with scattered datapads and the occasional paper that housed the team’s account information and budget, as well as a few medical books and the occasional novel. Compared to his threadbare room, this place felt more of home.

Still grasping his head, he walked over to the crowded desk (only tripping on his own two feet once) and nearly collapsed from his feet to the chair; still adjusted to the highest position due to some earlier, childish decisions he had made. Fixing it, he proceeded to think about how to handle his current dilemma. He had no actual medical knowledge to go on besides the many uses and benefits of medi-gel. And that’s how the medic would have solved this problem were it not for the loose amp in his skull. Despite the miracle cure being able to set bone and fix even the most sensitive of injuries, the last thing Roland wanted was for the amp to be stuck because his solution “healed” the spot where it was supposed to go.

So, the question was for him: What the hell am I supposed to do until we reach the Citadel? The rest of the team, he had assumed, were getting ready to board the distressed ship, and he was simply in his office trying to preoccupy himself… It made him feel rather pathetic in comparison. Well, he had thought, trying to steer himself away from his usual negativity, “I could always start watching those movies…” It had been an idea that had hit him while tied up and while Kygg and Tzvi had started to beat down on those guards. It was likely to help him in the long run, and the generally low budget effects meant the flashing that would aggravate his concussion even further would be kept to a minimum. “Heh,” he said standing up to head for the lounge, “I wonder what the team would say if they came back to me watching old kung-fu movies…”

It occurred to Kosso as he prowled the cramped corridors of the Tyrus that Nova had a very particular and impressive talent: they always seemed to know when he wanted to be left alone, and bothered him incessantly with accordingly inane matters whenever that was the case, but when he was actually looking for any of them, they somehow vanished into the cracks and crevices of their relatively tiny ship, leaving him with the dreadful choice between knocking on their doors like a hopeful solicitor or going through the arduous process of conversing with Captain (and whatever ridiculous personality had been uploaded into him last) to have the VI seek them out. Grudgingly, he chose the former, but Tanya's door remain closed when he knocked, and the "hitchhiker" they'd picked up on Kahje wasn't in the bunk they'd lazily laid out for him. Normally he'd set up these rare interactions with the rest of the crew through cold and impersonal digital messages, the way it was meant to be, but Tanya's omnitool had finally justified his general distrust in advanced tech by spontaneously exploding, and he didn't have the new guy's contact information.

In fact, the entire crew was absent, all wrapped up in their own thoughts after the near-disaster on Kahje. Kosso might as well have been the only living thing on the Tyrus. Seizing what might be his only chance, he decided it was the perfect time to sneak into the lounge and steal those two Khar'shan beers that Steveo had promised him in return for hooking him up with a dedicated coffee bean distributor on Omega and then immediately (and conveniently) forgotten to give him. Which was fair enough, considering that Kosso knew the coffee bean distributor cut his stock with cocoa beans, and had only fed the lead to Steveo so that the Salarian would stop complaining about how hard it was to find good coffee in the Terminus Systems.

But when he confidently strode into the lounge with a grin on his face and a notion that a little bit of embargoed alcohol might actually help calm his nerves, he found Roland there, looking like shit as he sagged against the couch cushions and watched some nonsense movie about Humans ineffectually flailing their limbs together. Kosso took one look at the screen and immediately knew he was in over his head; whatever was going on here was obviously some sort of deeply ingrained and wholly incomprehensible Human ritual. No one could ever think watching this sort of schlock was entertaining. He briefly considered just turning on his heel and heading back to his room without a word, but he knew that was pointless. He'd just end up pacing the floor between his desk and his bed, restless. Any attempts were fruitless, because every time he laid down he swore he felt the Tyrus tilting impossibly, spilling itself into the void just like the Aurelion had torn itself asunder and thrown its crew into the raging waters.

So he swallowed his pride, retrieved the two bottles of Batarian beer from the lounge's mini-fridge, and settled himself on the other end of the couch, noting Roland's dramatic wincing as he was jostled. He winced again when Kosso tossed one of the thick bottles into his lap. "Is this what passes for a good movie on Earth?"

"I'd noticed," Mark said when Tanya pointed out that few of the Nova crew spent too much time sober, "usually I can tell what somebody is drinking from the smell, but there were so many different flavors wafting about the kitchen it was too difficult to tell them apart. Nothing brings people together like their love of booze."

He glanced over as the mechanic set the empty can next to him and chuckled briefly but got the point. He tapped the ashes from his cigarette into the container and placed it back between his lips. He listened quietly as she gave him a quick summary of how she'd ended up here and noted the thoughtful pause in her story. Seemed that there might be a bit more holding this crew together than greed. Mark wondered how he'd fit into a group like that. He wasn't exactly the touchy feely type, but he was reliable. And loyal to those that deserved it. He may never have the same connection with the others that they had with each other, but if he could make it work, at least he'd have somebody trustworthy watching his back.

Tanya's question about his time with the feuding mercs brought him back. "Well I wasn't working for both at the same time obviously. Not officially anyway. Like you say, they hate each other, so I just played off that. They'll do just about anything to take each other down."
Mark grinned and gazed upward, contemplating his old exploits. "Those were the good ol days, I'll have to tell you about it sometime."

He tossed the remainder of the cigarette into the makeshift ashtray as Tanya came from behind the screen where she'd been prepping for the rescue. For his part, he started doing some simple stretches and cracked his neck.
"Nah," he said when she offered to mod the rifle he'd claimed, "she's perfect how she is. I only fire semi automatic anyway. More efficient. What's the plan for this rescue anyway?"
He looked around the cargo bay, wondering if he'd missed something.
"How are we supposed to board without a shuttle?"

"Very carefully." Tanya replied, pulling out segments of her armour and laying them out on her work bench to quickly inspect them before donning it. "We don't have a shuttle, and we lack proper ship on ship locking apparatus. Still haven't had enough jobs to afford all the fun toys, and let's face it; how often does something like this happen?" she asked rhetorically. "I have a plan, isn't a good one, but so far bullshitting our way through things has worked." she gestured to a shipping container behind Mark. "First thing's first, we'll need that."

_ _ _ _

"So, either this will work, or it'll be hilarious until one of us dies." Tanya said to the gathered boarding party, all of whom were in armour and armed for the expedition. She held up a length of long chord. "This is how we're getting on board to see our friends in the distressed ship that's probably still crawling with Blood Pack. Ladies, let me introduce you to the Model 25 dash DC8 Extra Vehicular Activity safety line. Most of you haven't seen these before because they, like that M-96 strapped on Mark's back, is something we picked up, threw into storage, and promptly forgotten about. The area around my workshop is like a graveyard for forgotten goods, by the way. Chances are, if you think we need something, it's in one of the dozens of crates we have stacked around." she said, handing out caribiners each of the people gathered around the airlock near the bow of the ship.

"Since we don't have proper docking equipment, we're going EVA and relying on good-old fashioned physics. We don't have to worry much about the Blood Pack noticing Tyrus since her stealth drives are engaged, so let's hope they're too busy doing their dirty work to glance out the window. Everyone who's remaining behind are going to monitor communications and sensors and make sure that the ship's ready to bug out if things turn sour. Our lack of proper preparation here might actually be an advantage: The Blood Pack ship can't engage us until it's properly disconnected from the one we're both boarding, where we can just hop back in and go. Currently, on the other side of the airlock, is a maintenance hatch, used by crew members who need to do repairs on the hull of the ship. That's how we're getting in.

"Each length of chord is about 200 feet, so we should have plenty of length between the three coils. With the airlock open, we tie one end of the rope to the hard points just outside of the exterior door, and the other to whoever volunteers to make the leap with me. Worst case scenario, you fuck up the jump and need to be pulled back in to try again. Ideally, though, we hit the hull of the ship, tie off on the maintenance hook points, and then open the door, which I'm pretty sure I can have open in about fifteen seconds. Once the other end of the rope is secure to the other ship, the rest of the boarding party clips on with their caribiners and pulls themselves along towards the other ship. If this were any simpler, it would be high school calculus. Once we're done, everyone goes back the same way, I hook back onto my suit, and you guys drag me back to Tyrus.

"One we're all across, and I have the hatch open, we'll go in single file, in teams of two. I'll let you guys figure out who your buddies are, but let's get the bastards who have a hard on for fighting in first. We stack up inside the airlock, and as soon as the exterior hatch is closed, we should have a few moments before the interior pressure equalizes and the door unlocks. There's no telling if anyone's going to be on the other side, so be ready to start shooting. Chances are, if it's a krogan or vorcha, you fucking shoot it." Tanya looked over at Kygg and shrugged. "Sorry, Kygg. We'll try not to shoot you too much."

The engineer slipped on her helmet, securing the seals. "Although each of our suits are a bit different, I know each of us has about an a hour and a half worth of air in the suit, which should be plenty to get aboard the ship and back again, even with occasional heavy breathing. Don't forget to engage the maglocks on your boots when you hit the hull of the ship so you don't go bouncing around into each other and can make it into the access hatch easily. I'll leave the tactical shit for whomever drew team leader for this one, but until we're on board, follow my lead. This is how I earn my cut." she said confidently, securing the caribiner to the end of one end of coil and then to her armour. "Remember, this is a distress call. It's looking pretty fucking bad for whoever's on board, but we're going to help them any way we can. We worry about survivors first, then whatever cargo they're carrying. In the event everybody's fucking dead, we'll see if we can't secure their cargo for ourselves. I'll be fucked before I let the goddamn Blood Pack get the better of us. Alright, Nova. Time to earn ourselves a little side money."

As soon as everyone's helmets were secure and their magboots activated, Tanya opened the airlock, exposing the team to the endless black void of space and the damaged, boarded vessel dominating the team's view. Tanya walked over to the lip of the airlock, feeling a slight tinge of vertigo as inches away from her toes was quite literally a bottomless drop-off. She knew that even without her magboots, she wouldn't fall unless she pushed herself off, but human beings were never meant to get used to the idea of weightlessness. While she was anchored to the steel grating of the ship, up and down still very much accounted for her subconscious perspective. Leaning out of the ship, she secured the other end of the coil to an anchor point with a caribiner and stepped back, looking back at the team. "Well, here goes nothing." She said, heart pounding from excitement and no small amount of nervousness. She took a couple steps back, taking a few deep breaths to steady her breathing. Mentally, she told herself that the other ship was down, and that she was falling towards it, not jumping a horizontal leap. She lowered herself into a crouch, grabbing a handhold, and once she decided on her trajectory, deactivated her magboots and pushed off, floating towards the looming white-silver hull of the ship across from her.

As she floated, the coil trailing behind her and being fed by one of the team, she dared not look at anywhere but her destination, because even the slightest motion or jerking around could alter her course, enough to miss her mark, and in not-so-extreme cases, the entire fucking ship. It was peaceful, the only sound being her own breathing as she floated weightlessly towards her target, which while only about 40 meters away now, felt like kilometers. After what felt several minutes longer than the handful than the journey actually took, Tanya activated her magboots again when she approached the hull, and the combination of her momentum and the electro-magnetic attraction sucked her into position, hitting the hull with an inaudible thud. Even how thick the hull of a starship was, nobody aboard would have heard her impact. She now looked around to get her bearings. Tyrus loomed reassuringly close, and she could see her teammates looking back at her. Most offered reassuring gestures, and in one case, she made out gesture of a middle finger. She laughed over comms. "Yeah, fuck you too." she said, looking for the access hatch, finding it about 12 meters away. Not too bad, considering I haven't done this before. she thought proudly, walking over to it.

Finding an anchor point, Tanya detached herself from the coil and attached it to the anchor point, while she positioned herself to another one, securing herself before gesturing to the others. "We're in business, come on over. The grass is greener, or some other reassuring bullshit." she said, focusing her attention now on the access hatch. Interfacing with the connection, Tanya's omni-tool sprang to life and she began to start a by-pass. Several seconds later, the locks on the hatch disengaged and she was able to pry the door open. As the team began to arrive, she held open the hatch and gestured dramatically. "Ladies first."

It was first just a quick pop over to his room; Roland kept all his movies on his private terminal, so without picking a single one to watch, he was going to be busy downloading every single file on there aimlessly. It was there that his personal V.I. kicked in. Re-purposing the pilot V.I. he had found from his shuttle hijacking on Omega into a personal security measure and search engine was more of a programming feat than he was capable of, so he was just lucky that Tzvi was willing to help after he had sent her that movie. "What's up, sugar?" Of course, the quarian never did remove its speech patterns like he had asked, and had in fact made them all the more embarrassing. "Er, nothing?" It went without saying that the human had a hard time imagining a conversation with a program, but such was life in space it seemed. "All I need is a kung-fu movie. Something older, from the late 1970s preferably." The screen went blank before a rotating half-circle appeared on the screen- "What's those secret words then, sugar?" Roland groaned; he was really beginning to hate his teammate's sense of humor. "If you would please... honey-dumpling." He could hear Tzvi laughing despite her being no where near him. "Got it, sugar. Just give me one more quick sec, okay?"

~~~

A few quick strokes from his fingers to his omni-tool led to the movie being displayed and played on the lounge's big television instantaneously. Roland had settled in on one arm of the couch with a soda and some bag of what he guessed were salty potato chips (it certainly didn't help that Steveo incessant paranoia had him repackaging all food that came on the ship. "Lest the coffee finds its mark," Steveo had said when Roland had asked for an explanation). He would have preferred some buttered popcorn, but for some reason it was exorbitantly pricey anywhere you could buy it except for on Earth.

Roland was only a few scenes in when Kosso's lovely drell face came to bother him. "It was," the medic said, "Granted, this movie is also nearly two centuries..." He looked a the bottle of ale that had been tossed to him -- it didn't have a label, so he was guessing it was the salarian's -- before placing it unopened on the coffee table in front of them. "So, I'm guessing by the way you're sitting, and the beer that's in your hand that you aren't joining the boarding party as well? The Aurelion knock a little too much out of you too?" He was being careful with his questions. He knew Kosso was the last person to want anyone aboard the ship to know anything about his past, but he also knew how to pick up on the little things -- slight shifts in tones, minor fidgeting movements, the little expressions which reveal more of what you're feeling than you would ever let on -- and that had been a problem in their interactions since their last training session. "Ah, don't worry about it," he had said returning his attention to the screen, "You can just help me get some mnemonics down by watching this movie with me... My own sort of training session as it were." He let out a hesitant chuckle.

Roland's question was meant to be the start of friendly small-talk, Kosso didn't doubt, but his body still froze up a bit when he heard the word Aurelion. For a second, he felt a memory coming upon him, and he closed his eyes for just a second to see a roaring wall of water rushing towards him. When he opened his eyes again, the memory was gone, replaced by the peaceful lounge and the sounds of humans fighting. Kosso cracked open his bottle and took a deep swig, keeping his eyes focused on the t.v. What was he supposed to say? That, "Yes, the last mission did affect me? Awoken a primal fear in me that I'd once thought had been forgotten? Had shaken me up and made it even harder to sleep at night?" He felt naked and vulnerable enough without his glasses, no need to add more complications by spilling his guts to Roland, as helpful as the medic seemed.

Luckily, Roland quickly picked up on the fact that he didn't want to talk about it, and moved on to other topics. "Training?" Kosso watched the movements of the actors on screen for a few more seconds. "Their form's alright, I suppose. Smooth, good use of weight and momentum. Didn't think Humans knew these sort of things, never seen one that was a spectacular fighter at close range. Most seem to think knowing how to operate a gun makes them warriors. Most are wrong." Kosso's brows raised in surprise as one of the actors practically flew across the room to strike his opponent. "And I've definitely never seen a Human do that before. Maybe I'm just being close-minded, but how is this sort of thing supposed to help you train?" He took another drink, smiling a bit. "Now that Kahje's got you all limbered up, maybe we could make some magic happen in a real training session. Been too long since we've been down in the cargo bay, what do you say we head down there and I beat you up some more?"

"Oh good," Mark grumbled as Tanya pointed out the shipping container that would be used in their half baked support mission, "for a second there I was worried this would be easy."

---

Mark stood just to the side of the airlock, double checking the calibrations on his rifle and then the seals on his helmet while Tanya gave the briefing. Though it was spur of the moment the plan was simple and a good one, all things considered. The less complicated the plan the less opportunities for failure. Plus, simple plans are easier to remember when you're getting shot at.

After a final once over, he placed the helmet on his head and loa idea everything down. It was the armored variant, with only a thin strip of viewable space over the eyes. He usually preferred visibility over protection, but in this case he'd rather take a stray bullet that he didn't see coming than risk suffocating in vacuum because his helmet pane cracked for some reason. Certain now that his equipment was secure, he beckoned the Nova member closest to him so he could double check the seals on their helmet. He gave a quick pat to the shoulder and a thumbs up signaling they were set before turning back to Tanya, who was about ready to go herself.

"I'll go in first," he said when the engineer brought it up, "I didn't get to shoot anything back on Khaje."
Moments later, the airlock opened and Tanya was floating towards the wrecked ship. Mark's eyes scanned the space before them. It was unlikely that there would be any targets waiting, but you never knew.
"Yeah, fuck you too." Tanya called back as somebody gave her the bird. She have the signal to start making their way over soon after. Mark clipped himself onto the cable and leapt towards the other ship. He'd been in zero G a few times, and decided that the easiest way for him to avoid vertigo was to forget about which way was "supposed" to be up. "Up" just happened to be what was above his head at the time.

Seconds later his feet slammed against the battered hull and he quickly unhooked his carabiner from the cable before drawing his rifle and scanning the area for hostiles while Tanya got the hatch open. Mark appreciated her efficiency, the airlock was open in seconds. He made his way over and pointed his rifle inward, checking that the room was clear.

"Ladies first."

"Careful there," Mark started dryly as he began to clamber inside, "all that chivalry might make me swoon."
Standing up on the proper deck, he made his over to the inner door, hugging it closely as he peered through its small window while the rest of the team filed in and Tanya closed the exterior hatch. Being on point, he decided to take command.
"All right, when I open the door I'm gonna take the left. The next person cover right. After that split it fifty fifty, take up positions along the wall and hold there. Don't fire unless you absolutely have to. As far as we know, they have no idea we're here. Let's keep it that way as long as possible. Once the hall is clear, we'll split up. No sense in having everybody pinned down in the same hallway if shit hits the fan. Everybody clear? Good. On my mark."
Mark held his rifle to his shoulder with his strong hand while his weak hovered over the door controls.
"3... 2... 1... mark."
He tapped the control and the airlock hissed open, Mark swiftly stepped out and swiveled to the left, his gun barrel up and sweeping across the hall, ready to blast anything in the way. The direct front was clear so, hugging the wall, he moved down the hallway a few feet to make room for the others before dropping to one one knee with his rifle still up while the team took their positions. At least he hoped they were taking their positions, he wasn't sure how familiar they were with military tactics.

All was quiet as the team held their positions and Mark waited to see if any Blood Pack came waltzing around a corner. None did. A few seconds later, Mark decided it was safe enough to move forward, so he got to his feet and turned to address the others.
"Ok, we all know the plan, so let's do this quick and clean. Check in over comms every ten minutes so we know everybody is still living and let us know if you find anything, we'll do the same. Sound good?"