Hazan was up early the next day. Why? To get a head start, of course. With a mineral bar and a dextro-amino nutrient shake for breakfast, he wasted no time in preparing himself for the fight ahead. He calibrated the sighting of his visor and then synced the tactical readout with the digital scopes of his sniper and his battle rifles. Once done, he pulled on his armour, mostly lightweight nanofibre weave that could withstand most small arms fire and glancing blows, paired together with the heavier plas-steel shoulder pauldrons, arm and leg bracers, and lastly his "collar", a mix of lightweight alloy metals and ceramics, with inbuilt data readouts on the inside displaying his shield strength, cloak module cooldown timer, compass and other navigational data. This data was also synced with his visor, so he had full tactical capability, even on his own. He was used to it anyway, had to be, ever since he crashed here. With no support from Palaven to be expected, Hazan was "enjoying" his permanent residence in Omega, free from the rules and regulations that would've hampered him had he survived and returned. Volintis Security Solutions would be happy to see him leave. He'd even looked up himself on the holonet a few days ago, found the news article on the attack on the recon ship he was on, noted that there were no survivors from the victim ship, judging from the search of debris made by a scout ship from Palaven a day later. No one clocked the lone escape pod that had blown from the ship before it blew up. His disappearing act was complete, in a way he didn't really expect, but here he was.

With rifles folded and stowed in their slots on his back, Hazan stuffed his Tempest into his thigh holster and set all his gear right. Time to set out. It was early in the Omega morning, before people even woke up normally, way earlier than his deadline with Ticus. He had all of the day to retrieve the data and return to the club. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. He wondered to himself about the origins of that phrase as he walked out the door of his dingy apartment, getting himself a flying cab to the Slums. The place wasn't a close walk, he knew that much, and with the rudimentary maps of Omega and the area that he'd dug up from the holonet, he had a little plan in his head for what he'd do; overlooking the block where the infirmary and hospital was, there stood a smaller apartment block, abandoned, obviously. It didn't have any sightlines into the building proper, but it did have a clear view of the entrance, plus it was a short run away from the hospital doors. From that vantage point, Hazan banked on his showing up to the party early to get to his spot, setting up overwatch and then downing anyone that was going for the data. Once he knew that the way was safe enough for him, on with his personal cloak module, in he went and out he came with the data, fast and away before anyone else could kill him. In theory, it was a safe plan. In practice, he knew that there would be as many holes as there were people gunning for that hospital.

A few minutes later and he stood in the entrance to the Slums. A decrepit...pit, simply put. The only people that lived here were the desperate, poor, depressed, or those with things to hide. Or vorcha. There was always the vorcha. Haze sometimes got puzzled about them, they were vermin, yes, but they were also [i]sentient[/i] vermin that could employ themselves in mercenary groups and also handle basic firearms. He'd even seen one of them rock a Mantis with sizable accuracy, up until he'd filled it with a few holes. The Mantis the vorcha had dropped was the one he was using now, with a few tweaks and fixes to make sure that it didn't blow up in his hands or something. A new paint job and voila, one new Mantis sniper rifle ready for the steady hands of the Ghost himself, the moniker that he was trying to sell as his nickname here in Omega. Silent and deadly, or so he hoped. This job was to prove to himself that he could handle his mantle well enough. With confidence in his step, he drew his Mattock, gear from when he was still a scout, and set foot into the hot zone. No turning back now.

[hr]
Two hours. Two long, fruitless hours. He was beginning to think that sniper surveillance was a waste of time, He could've gone to the infirmary and gotten the data and been home relaxing with a synthcaf and another issue of Firearms Monthly on his datapad, but this was the price to pay for his well-founded paranoia. He knew well enough that vigilance in a position such as his was key, and he couldn't afford to slack off. Weary, he took his eye off his scope and moved away from the window, relaxing a little as he allowed himself a small break. [i]My instructors in boot camp would've killed me for this,[/i] he thought to himself as he moved to a shadowy corner of the room to stretch and loose the kinks in his joints, [i]but then again I'm no recruit any more. I'm free.[/i]

He sat down on the cold plas-steel floor and leaned against the wall. His vantage point was an empty apartment that looked over the wide boulevard and stairs that led down towards the infirmary. The block itself was seated on that stretch of walkway, and if he simply went downstairs, out and headed right, he would take ten minutes to be there. Easy, really, judging from the maps he had, hopefully the scale of which wasn't wrong. But he couldn't concentrate on the fine details. He was tired. Waking up early was a remnant of his training from the boot camp on Palaven, but as much as he was drilled into it, his body was never really used to it, so fatigue set in pretty quickly if he had an early day. Which was what was happening now. Sleepy and lethargic after two solid hours of doing absolutely nothing, he began to drift away into a light sleep, which did nothing to help the fact that, shortly, he would be in grave danger.

Suddenly, it seemed like a magic hour was upon the district, as spats of gunfire erupted in different sections of the neighbourhood. Screams of pain, anger and anguish rang out soon after, interspersed with the cracks of rifles and the roars of shotguns. Angry snarling could soon be heard all through the district, signalling the arrival of the sentient vermin that would soon be swarming all over the neighbourhood, intent on destroying the intruders on their turf. Haze's fatigue, however, got the better of him, as he soon sank into a deeper sleep, which made him fail to notice the commotion inside the apartment block he was in. Downstairs, several vorcha were massing, firing their pistols and submachine guns at some foreign threat as they retreated into the complex. The angry cracks and rattling of gunfire shook the structure slightly, even as the vorcha pulled back upstairs, while their unknown pursuant gave chase.

Footfalls closing in on his location woke Hazan faster than the angry snarls and growls of the nearby vorcha. With swiftness he jabbed at his personal cloak module and disappeared completely from sight, save for the slight distortion in the air that marked his position, as three vorcha stumbled into the room. One of them was bleeding badly from an inch-wide hole in his shoulder, a wound recently sustained in a gun battle of sorts, and the other two were supporting him. Outside, Haze could hear the tell-tale roars of a combat shotgun, maybe a Scimitar or a Predator, he wasn't sure, and the pained cries and whimpering of injured and dying vorcha. Then he heard a sound that he didn't want to hear at all.

The very distinctive roar of an angry krogan.

Something heavy slammed into the opposite wall, and the roaring grew louder as the krogan came closer. The three vorcha in the room fired potshots at it, wherever it was past the doorway, but failed to stop him from charging straight into the vorcha he had thrown into the wall, crashing into it with a screech of steel as the whole thing bent heavily inward. With a rallying cry the two uninjured vorcha ran outside to avenge their fallen comrade while the one lone casualty laid in a heap on the floor. The sounds of battle gradually faded away, though not entirely, which was all the chance he needed to escape. The vorcha on the floor, however, was a little problem. If he uncloaked and ran out now, he'd surely make some sound and alert the others to the sniper's presence. He had to solve the problem somehow.

Then a plan sprang into focus in his head.

Not exactly perfect, but a plan nonetheless.

From his position in the shadowy corner of the room, Hazan stood and slowly advanced forward, stalking towards the bleeding vorcha even as the latter struggled to its feet, a hand jammed against its shoulder as it staggered backward, out of balance. Hazan saw this and stopped, the smaller beast gently bumping into his chest. Immediately it gave a yelp and sprang forward, and what it saw terrified it to bits. Hazan decloaked, emerging from the shadows into the light shaft cast by the open window, a hand deftly tapping his omnitool, making a bright crimson silicon-carbide blade spring forth from his right arm. The weapon shone in the dark room as he advanced forward, stalking towards his prey. The vorcha was frozen stiff with fear, paling further even with blood streaming through his fingers, dripping gently into a dark puddle on the cold, steel floor. It gibbered and slowly backed away as Hazan brandished the weapon, bringing it close to his face so that it lit up his features that were scrunched into the turian approximation of a snarl. Then he charged.

[hr]
The building was no longer safe. This, he knew. The krogan had long since gone, probably heading for the data or for death, who knew, but Hazan knew that he had to advance on the infirmary as well, braving the gauntlet that was the main boulevard that led downward towards it. His cloak module was recharging as well, even more fuss, stuff that he didn't like. He'd make do though, he always did. Even now, as he stowed his Mantis and whipped out his Tempest, he saw a small battle raging in the street; a pair of salarians were busy fighting against a turian and two humans, both teams equal in strength. The ensuing stalemate fight was occupying most of the front entrance, nice as a distraction, but he had to get past that to get moving. Watching the battle, he noticed that the salarians did have some form of an advantage: one of them was armed with a particularly wicked Scimitar shotgun, normally a weapon suited for a stronger krogan, but the thing was just as deadly in the hands of the speed smart salarians, even if the thing weighed more than he could probably carry. The other team also had a trump card: a biotic that was currently shielding his teammates from the devastating fire of the shotgunner, all while letting his buddies return fire from under the shield. If he could tip that power balance somehow, he could resolve the battle on the street and be on his merry way in no time. He made a decision quickly, for if he stayed any longer someone might notice him and he'd become another target.

He retreated a ways away and hid behind a fallen pillar, bracing his rifle atop the concrete and steel structure as he took aim at the salarians. As much as he wanted the smarter duo to survive, he couldn't chance having the heavy firepower against him later. With crosshair centered on the shotgunner, Haze took a breath in, let it out slowly and squeezed the trigger. The Mantis bucked in his arms as it spat a high-speed metal slug at his target, splattering the salarian's brains out all over the pavement a mere half-second later. Surprised by the sudden death, the other salarian panicked and abandoned his cover, making the other team give chase. The biotic's field dropped, which gave him all the opportunity he needed to enact the other part of his plan. He racked the heat sink release, ejecting the steaming hot sink as he deftly slammed the bolt back into place. His aim shifted to the biotic, and even as the man straightened and grabbed his rifle from the floor, another shot rang out and a fist-sized hole tore through his throat, messily releasing his head from his neck. The turian caught sight of his buddy biting the proverbial bullet and yelled out a warning.

Another reload, another heat sink, another aim shift.

The other human, distracted by his friend's yell, was killed by the salarian returning fire with his pistol.

Haze's next shot found its way into the salarian's shoulder, spinning him around and collapsing him in a bleeding heap.

Another reload.

The other turian spotted his hiding spot and advanced towards him at a frenzied pace, obviously anxious to end the fight quickly. Which he did as a round tore through his knee, severing his leg at the joint and dropping him straight to the ground with an inhuman scream. Haze racked the bolt on his rifle and loaded a few more fresh sinks into the gun, watching as the last mark struggled to rise, even as his dark blue blood pumped vigorously out onto the floor. With rifle in hand, he stood and walked over to the fallen turian. Never in his life had he had to fire at one of his own kind, until recently. He'd learned quickly that turians on Omega were usually selfish assholes or some other type of jerk that either ended up rich and famous, or most times dead. As he approached the dying soldier, he kicked away his rifle, a bog standard Avenger, and stood above him. A grim sort of pity went through his mind; here he was, a stranger on a foreign station, shooting at people that were just as likely to kill him as he was going to kill them. People he didn't know. Maybe they had families. Lives. He didn't know, and it wasn't his job to care. The only thing he cared about now was the credits. The Circle had given him this chance, and he wasn't one to squander it.

[i]"V-V-Volintis..."[/i]

Huh?

"Huh?"

The turian on the floor coughed and stared up angrily at him.

[i]"T-that paint...Y-you're Volintis....p-part of VSS..."[/i]

"....yeah? So?"

[i]"So? So you must be their missing son, Hazan."[/i]

So. The folks were looking for him. He wasn't exactly thrilled to learn the news.

"And what's it mean to you?"

The turian looked away.

[i]"Your family hired me and my buddies to look for you. I had a few contacts that said you were in Omega, doing business for some shady people, so it wasn't that hard to find you. We got word that you were heading this way, so we wanted to meet you halfway and maybe get you back home somehow, and well, wouldn't you know it, the prodigal son just slaughtered my team."[/i]

Haze felt embarrassment and shame grip him tightly. He'd just shot people that were coming with peaceful intentions? Maybe even to help him? The thought made him so mad.

[i]Spirits. This job's a fucking nightmare.[/i]

"W-well...what if I don't want to go back?!"

The dying turian laughed, a mirthful, humourless laugh.

[i]"Y'know...your folks are worried for you. They know you didn't perish in that pirate attack, and they're scouring the entire Terminus System looking for you. Not in person, but they've sent teams everywhere to find you."[/i]

As Haze watched, he raised his head up and stared right at him.

[i]"I don't know much about your family, kid, but I understand how much you mean to them. It'd be great if, y'know, you got back to them somehow, instead of living life in this shithole."[/i]

If turian cheeks could flush, they were certainly doing so now. Haze looked away, trying to hide his emotions. The dying turian gave another cough and collapsed gently on the floor, barely enough energy to keep himself up on his hands. The blood pouring out of his severed leg had reduced to a trickle, but enough of it pooled on the floor to make Haze understand that the male he'd shot was going to die either way.

Just then, he felt a tug on his ankle. It was the turian.

[i]"Listen, kid. If you do make it out of this shithole one day, go back to your folks. Then maybe we wouldn't have gone out in vain, eh? Now end me, and get going. It's too dangerous to stay out here."[/i]

He couldn't lose it here. Not now, while opportunities were just waiting to be taken advantage of. He calmed himself, drew his Tempest and aimed it at the fallen turian's head.

"I...I can't go back. I have a job to do. I'm sorry."

Haze pulled the trigger. His Tempest barked.

Then silence amidst the chaos.

He swallowed, silently burying a sob as he knelt and closed the eyes of the fallen soldier he'd never known. Then, inspecting the corpse, he found the turian's pistol, a sleek Stinger, painted a bright red. He folded it and stowed it in the empty holster on his left thigh, a memory of his mistake. Then, with his pride firmly buried, he forged on, exiting the apartment block to make his way down the street towards the infirmary. He had a job to do, family or no, and he'd die before he gave up on it.