Omega Nebula / Sahrabarik / Omega Station

---

If one listened closely when happening upon a moment of sheer boredom they could hear the constant drone of the vessel’s systems humming and vibrating throughout the small, compartmentalized hull. It was only annoying when it was noticed, not because it was any immediately disturbing or mind-numbing sound, rather that it was an annoyance brought on by the constant question, “When will I forget it again?” And thus begins the long game of attempting to not notice it. However, if and when it is finally out of mind, the game is never truly finished. In fact, it is lost whenever the drone is noticed again… A constant, vicious, vindictive cycle of being aggravated over the lucid thought that any attempt to win such a ridiculous game will never be realized.

Sleep is the only way to escape it; and for Declan Calaway, the pilot of the “borrowed” space craft that he found himself cramped in, that is exactly the method he chose. There is a lot to be said about experiencing the weightless sensation of sound sleep in zero gravity; and even more to be said about the tranquility of the loneliness that accompanies it. He could unfasten the safety harness that secured him in the cockpit and curl up or sprawl out in any position he desired; or have a little fun and put himself into a constant spin with his eyes closed, only to see if he’ll still be spinning eight hours later when he awakes. On a mattress at home, he would become uncomfortable or stiff after a while and find himself tossing and turning, sacrificing precious time in a vain attempt find rest without waking up with a crick in his neck. As a spacer, someone born and raised in the heavenly abyss of starlight and cosmic wonders, he slept best when his body was literally free.

The humming of the one-man space craft’s systems was not what had disturbed his slumber. Instead, it was an incessant beeping, a notification that he was being hailed. After his eyes fluttered open and the blurriness of sleep subsided, he let out a grunt as he pulled himself to an upright position in the cockpit and then pushed his body downward into the pilot’s seat. His other hand simultaneously reached out to the glowing haptic adaptive interface before him, a responsive hologram representing various controls and data feeds. Two fingers tapped the receive button to open the communications band and a female’s voice blared over a hidden speaker.

“Omega Tower to unidentified SSV bearing R-0-9-0 to D-1-1-6, respond.” There was a pause before the operator repeated herself. Declan assumed she had been trying to contact him for the past minute or two. Gazing out the cockpit window that enveloped the nose of the F-61 Trident, a Systems Alliance space vehicle meant for assault operations in ship-to-ship combat, Declan could see the massive red-glowing space station that extended in a sprawling amalgamation of metal from the hollowed out shell of an ancient asteroid. It oddly looked like a jellyfish from a distance, with its tentacles being the protruding limbs of various structures that made up a large city. Omega, it was called; the iconic nerve center of the lawless Terminus systems.

“Omega Tower to unidentified SS-…”

Tapping the mic icon at the communications controls, Declan interrupted the repeated hail and replied with a clear voice, “This is Declan Calaway operating the F-61 you’re currently barking at. I’m in the neighborhood and just wanted to stop by to say hello to a few friends and then be on my way. Permission to dock at Terminal 41?”

There was a pause of a few seconds before a new voice, also female, but with a slightly lower pitch, came over the speakers. “Welcome back, Declan. Terminal 41 is open for docking.”

“It’s been a while Trish,” the man said with a hint of enthusiasm in his voice while digging his hand into the backpack at his feet to fish out an electric razor. “How’ve you been?”

“Better than you, apparently. I hear you’re on the run… again.”

Flicking the switch, the handheld razor buzzed and he began to follow the same pattern he always used to trim down the stubble on his face. While shaving, he replied, “Oh, you know me. I like to make lots of friends. And sometimes they just can’t get enough of me.”

“Just try not to draw too much attention to yourself here,” Trish warned over the comms. “Aria doesn’t like it when riff-raff like you cause trouble on her station.”

Satisfied after running a hand over his jaw, Declan put the razor away and a smirked formed on his lips before saying, “Don’t get your panties in a bundle. Omega’s uncrowned queen won’t even know I’m here.”

He heard Trish’s mild laugh over the speaker. “Let’s not kid ourselves. I’ll see you soon.”

With that, the comm link was severed and Declan was left alone in silence to pilot the Trident the rest of the way to Omega’s docking terminals. At least, it would be silent if it weren’t for that damn humming.

---

Stale air grappled at Declan’s lungs as he walked around the docking terminal to stretch his legs and start adapting to Omega’s grungy atmosphere. The station itself was ancient, with new sections extending from older ones, roughly mixing together architecture and designs from all of the species that considered Omega to be home. A majority of the residents either weren’t welcome in Council space, or they never had the opportunity to travel outside of the Terminus systems. To many, it was considered the epicenter of the region, and the opposite in almost every way to the Citadel. Even corruption worked differently on Omega; it was just out in the open and no one cared. There was no police force or government protecting the interests of the citizens; only mercenary groups and gangs of thugs that ran racketeering practices.

If there had to be a form government, perhaps Aria T’Loak was considered it’s sole figure of authority. She was the defacto ruler, a queen in her own right. In her own words, she didn’t just run Omega, she was Omega. The station’s inhabitants adored her, and even Declan had to give her the respect she deserved. The two had crossed paths several times in the past, but there was hardly any bad blood between them. “Hardly” being a subjective term.

Standing in the corridor that ran alongside his vessel’s dock, the man ran through the fees relayed on his omni-tool. Docking, refueling, maintenance… He didn’t have a wealth of credits to spend, so he had to be careful and ensure he kept a tight cap on his expenses. Being on the run had a tendency to dry up a man’s wallet really fast.

When the heavy footsteps of an approaching stranger caught his attention, Declan cast his eyes to his left to see who had approached. A large krogan dressed in a maintainer’s outfit stared through the reinforced glass at Declan’s vessel. When the old alien grunted in slight disgust, the human traced his line of sight to the Systems Alliance A-shaped logo painted in navy-blue on the outside hull of the Trident. He didn’t blame the krogan for his reaction. Not many starship mechanics in the Terminus would be happy to service an Alliance war vessel. The task oozes irony.

“Don’t get your quad in a knot, big guy,” Declan said while deactivating his omni-tool and pushing away from the wall he had been leaning on. “She’s not mine. I’m just borrowing her for a while.”

The krogan stopped just in front of Declan and his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the human that he could very well snap in half in a split second. “What brings you to Omega?” he asked in a deep, rough voice that sounded like the low growl of an untamed beast.

Cheap talk. Such a question is one normally asked on other space stations, particularly ones outside of the Terminus. On Omega, someone’s business was theirs alone, unless it crossed paths with another who had the power to say otherwise. But krogan have a penchant for sticking their giant reptilian nose where it doesn’t belong, as evidenced by a war consigned to ancient history.

“Opportunity, my friend,” Declan replied, having chosen to keep his answer as cryptic as possible, knowing that word travels fast on Omega. “I’m a bit of a gambler in the privateering business.”

The krogan nodded his head. “Uh-huh…”

---

Afterlife, the most famous nightclub–or infamous, depending on who was asked–on Omega. It was not only the prime spot for entertainment, mercenary gatherings, and sneaking a glance at the best looking asari maidens, but also the “throne room” of Aria T’Loak. The main floor of the club was a circular rotunda, where booths gradually ascended up an incline that surrounded the raised dancing platform for the exclusive performers in the center. A towering, cylindrical hologram would provide an enhanced visual of each performer as they shared the limelight with their skills. The constant, steady music was a blend of underground beats that added to the already dark atmosphere.

Declan chose to sit at one of the higher tables for a good view of the entire club. He wasn’t expecting anyone to notice him… yet; but it helped to keep a watchful eye out for those that might think about approaching. In less than a minute, one of the young asari dancers that worked the tables around the club silently walked up the steps with a luring smirk on her lips. She had a bright blue tint to her skin, a vibrant and appealing shade to many. Without saying a word or even stopping to wait for his permission, she gracefully leaned over and slid onto the surface of his table, one knee at a time. Her black leather outfit didn’t reveal much; but, to the asari and other races, one’s nakedness isn’t always the prime factor of sexual appeal. It’s how they move, how they communicate, how they express themselves… all through passion. Even humans, with all of their pettiness, could appreciate the asari.

He enjoyed the dance for a time, sitting in silence while watching her move in tandem to the music’s rhythm in an erotic display of bends, twists, and curls. Several minutes later, movement in his peripheral made him cast his eyes to another asari that had stopped just at the last step up to his table. Despite the dim lighting of the club and the constant flashing of lasers and casting shadows, Declan recognized the distinct violet hue of Trish’s own asari skin. The man raised his arm and activated the omni-tool, indicating that he was ready to pay for the lovely table dance. Nodding her thanks, the young maiden accepted the generous transaction with her own omni-tool and then quietly departed.

“Enjoying yourself?” Trish asked while casting a judgemental glance toward the dancer as they briefly brushed past each other. Asari society was splintered in the way they regarded the younger generations across the galaxy, of which there were three universal stages: maiden, matron, and matriarch. At 423 years old, Trishar Rayana was well into her matron years.

“I kept my hands to myself,” Declan announced, raising up both palms to his shoulders in mocking surrender.

Trish shook her head, but with a smirk on her lips, and then moved to take a seat at the table, sitting up right with her hands clasped over tightly crossed legs. “It’s been two years, Dec. Where have you been?”

“In an Alliance military prison,” the man replied as he leaned back in his seat and stretched his arms out across the top of the booth, “waiting for an unsanctioned tribunal to determine my fate.”

“How’d you escape?”

“You don’t wanna know.” Changing the subject, Declan asked, “So, you’re working for Aria T’Loak now?”

Trish turned her eyes toward a single platform raised above and behind the center dance floor and at the back of the large room. Several guards–mostly batarian, turian, and asari–could be seen standing around with full suits of armor and primed weapons. The head of a purple-toned asari with the collar of a white jacket could be spotted just over the short wall at the front of the platform. That was Aria T’Loak, reclining on her favorite couch, and most likely conducting her usual business of overseeing Omega’s operations.

“Ever since Cerberus took Omega from her she’s been cautious with unidentified ships entering the system,” Trish explained. “I was hired as the head of her new ‘orbital security’ detail. I’m basically in charge of ID’ing suspicious people that pop up anywhere on our scanners… like you.”

Declan put on a fake insulted expression. “Touched.”

“So why are you here, Dec?” she demanded.

“Why do you work for her?”

“Not so fast. If I don’t get to know how you escaped, you don’t get to know about that.”

There was a moment of silence while the two friends stared each other down before Declan finally let it go and changed course. “I want to get the crew back together.”

Trish gave no sudden reaction, but it was evident by the slight glimmer in her eye that she had been hoping the man would say as much. After taking another moment to gather her thoughts, Trish nodded very slowly and then reclined back in the booth, finally relaxing since she had first sat down. A genuine smile could be seen below the shadow that covered her face in the club’s light.

“We’re going to need a helmsman,” she said flatly.

Declan grinned so brightly, he almost broke into a joyous laugh. “Yeah, well, we’ll need a ship first. But do you have someone in mind?”

"What the hell do you mean five hundred credits? For what?!" Came the billowing voice of a male Turian, even over the thumping rhythms of Afterlife. At the bar the male stood with his scaley grey arms crossed defiantly, attempting to argue with the the Human behind the bar, his black skin and box-cut fade making him look almost comical in hs brightly coloured clothes; like something from the original Earth movies.

"Listen dickhead, you want to flash off and drink premium champagnes that we have to 'import' from Palaven then you have to pay premium prices. This shit don't come cheap. Now either pay your tab or I'm gonna call over a bouncer. Now believe me, you don't want that." Replied the Human. Who wad quickly growing impatient with the Turian regular, who always tried to pull stunts like this at the bar. Though usually he would only have run up one or two hundred credits, today his tab had run up to almost a thousand.

"What, that cute little blonde bitch over there? Please. She couldn't kick a damn Volus out of this place, let alone me." The Turian boasted, giving a brief flex of his muscles to show off his imposing stature. "Go ahead, call her over. She won't get here fast enough to save you from getting your ass kicked."

Rosa had been observing the situation for some time, the Turian, Avitus, was a fairly reputable bounty hunter and an alcoholic with a superiority complex. Whenever he'd finished up on a job, sure enough the first place he'd hit would be Afterlife. No-one was really sure why, he almost always came in alone and when he didn't he would almost completely ignore his company, which sure enough would either be prostitutes or other men like himself. Instead he'd stare vacantly towards Aria's booth. There were some who theorized he was simply trying to impress the 'queen' in order to start taking big contracts with big rewards, others thought he was simply trying to drown his sorrows and the rest of them just thought he was dumb enough to want to bang Aria. Because of this, she was always on strict orders to keep an eye on him whenever he rocked up.

She cracked a smile as she noticed Avitus dare the bartender to call her over, and her body began to flare with blue pulsating energy as heleaned in towards the bartender. "Poor bastard, it's only his first shift." She thought to herself as she began to prepare her body for the strain brought on by a biotic charge. As she did so, Avitus began to noticeably cackle to himself as he noticed her attempt to resolve the situation through intimidation.

"You think you're the only biotic in the building lady? I trained with the fucking Cabals. I could tear yo-" He began taunting, but was quickly cut off by Rosa shifting her body mass and propelling herself across the room with her right hand clenched in a fist, swinging a devastating uppercut moments before impact. Most biotics use their body to barge their foe when they execute a charge, but not Rosa. She had mastered the art of combining her charges with strikes long ago.

Her fist slammed into the Turian's left mandible with a gruesome crunch, the sound of breaking bone being clearly audible to nearby customers. The force of the strike was actually enough to lift the muscular frame of Avitus a foot off of the ground, where Rosa continued her assault, cocking back her left arm and dropping a singularity field beneath the Turians body, suspending it in mid-air before twisting her body and throwing all of her strength into a spinning axe kick to the floating alien's chest. Slamming him back into the ground. There, Rosa placed her left foot on Avitus' throat but did not apply pressure, instead smiling once more.

"You were saying?" Rosa asked, dropping her playful expression and suddenly becoming the visage of anger, almost snarling as she spoke.

Avitus began to speak, but the very moment a sound that wasn't a groan of pain began to creep from his mouth, Rosa shifted all of her body weight onto the foot which rested on the Turian's throat. Silencing him immediately. "Sorry, what was that? You'll have to speak up. I think it was something along the lines of 'Sorry Morrigan, I'll pay the tab and then I'm going home'" She said mockingly as she removed the sole of her boot from his neck, allowing Avitus to speak.

"Yeah. Something like that." He replied, grunting as he staggered to his feet, staring at Rosa in utter shock the entire time.

---

Errol Vahn

---

// A FEW DAYS AGO, TRANSPORT SHIP //

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.”

// PRESENT DAY, OMEGA //

“I still hate vorcha.”

It had been only a few solar hours since Errol touched back down on the familiar territory of Omega, and part of him felt like it would’ve been better to die on the ship then survive a firefight through an assortment of vorcha that may as well had been a damned army. Both of his hands raised to his head as he could still hear the ringing of the gunfire in his head— he could still feel the thumping of the ship as it clumsily wobbled through space as it had been forced to take a nosedive into a god-damned asteroid field— he could still see the visage of what the vorcha did to their targets… the unsuspecting passengers didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. They were as done as a crappy Alliance ordinance MRE.

Just add water for flavor.

But somehow he had made it out with all of his limbs. He supposed that was a lot how instinct worked and even as he got older he still had his wits, instincts, and reflexes. They may not have been as quick as they used to be but they were still there and that was all that really mattered. He audibly groaned as he winced. If he the aching all over his body didn’t make him feel sore and fatigued from Sol to Terminus, the lack of a good sleep cycles damn well would’ve. But he wasn’t ready to sleep and he sure as hell wasn’t going to pass out in a vomit-encrusted service entry at the foot of Afterlife. Not unless he wanted to wake up inebriated, naked, and with his important organs missing, anyway.

“I need a damn drink.”

Taking a heavy breath he looked up towards Afterlife as his hands dropped from his head. He could hear the thumping tribal rhythms from inside. It definitely made him feel an immediate problem being that he was sore all over and could use a good drink— but the music was loud and he had a migraine. He thought for a minute as his hands rested on his knees.

“Make that seven.”

Errol rose to his feet as he grabbed the cuff of his jacket before giving it a hard tug as if to straighten it out. He sighed, he still smelled like dead vorcha and he didn’t look too hot either, but most of the people going in and out of Omega didn’t look much better so he supposed he shouldn't have been too picky. He started moving towards the nightclub side entrances, hands shuffled in his pockets— walking past one of the guards who he had a sort of agreement with. Errol didn’t like main entrances, and considering Errol was a regular he didn’t exactly need to wait in line. The krogan bouncer knew that fact quite well. Errol gave the krogan a nod as he entered, the music getting exponentially louder and more annoying as he did so. He groaned in irritation, but he knew the nearest bartender wasn’t too much of a walk. Plus they were on a first name basis; so basically e-budz.

Ignoring the hustle and bustle he took a seat at the counter.

“Seven. The usual. Hold the actual poison, thanks.”

Abrax K'Dom - Omega

"Oh c'mon Abrax, it wasn't that bad!" Marcus said with a smile, trying to cheer up the bored-looking Krogan next to him. It wasn't that bad?! Their squad had spent 3 long weeks stationed on some far-flung planet, protecting a few nerdy scientists while they took some samples of god knows what. No action, not even a little incident, occured during their entire mission, and there were few things worse than that for Abrax. If he wanted to stand around all day doing nothing, he could have stayed on Tuchanka at his old job. Being a mercenary was supposed to be bloody and dangerous, but lately their assignments hadn't been all that interesting. Abrax couldn't even remember the last time he had to use his gun, his thoughts translating into an even deeper frown. "It was an easy job, and they paid well! Why can't you be happy about that?" Marcus kept insisting. "Marcus...shut up, or I'll smash your ugly head against the next wall" Abrax replied drily, as the duo made their way to the most well-known place on the station.

The electronic beats could be heard all the way down the street, signaling the club wasn't too far ahead now. Abrax wasn't a fan of music or the weird practice of dancing, but clubs had bars, and bars had alcohol, and that was all he needed to tag along. The Krogan was usually cheerful and loud, but life just hadn't been the same ever since the crew had to split. He often caught himself thinking about the old times, where battles were plenty and excitement wasn't hard to come by. And now? He was stuck with Marcus, working for some little mercenary group to try and get by as best as he could. A few moments later they arrived at the door. At least they were known well enough to get in without having to stand in line, one of the few perks that came with the job. Abrax was almost inside when he heard something that made him stop.

"What do you mean they don't need to stand in line?! That's bullshit man...fucking krogans..." A smile formed on Abrax' lips. Things might get interesting after all. He turned around, realizing the loudmouth was some scrawny salarian. "Hey man" the big Krogan shouted over "is there a problem? Did you say something?". The little salarian was clearly intoxicated, and commited the mistake of replying. "Sure big guy. How come someone like you gets in just like that...and I have to stand in line? Are you that special huh?" That was all Abrax needed to hear. He looked over to Marcus, and told him he would be inside in a few Minutes. His body was aching for a little action, and the Salarian had given him reason enough.

The bartender poured another Ryncol, it was the 4th of the night. Abrax was sitting at his usual spot, observing how Marcus tried and failed to impress some ladies with his "dance moves". Stupid human the Krogan thought, chuckling to himself. The fight with the salarian had been short, but it was enough to lighten his mood a bit. He observed the people around him, it had been quite some time since his last visit to Afterlife. His crew used to be regulars here, enjoying their spare time after succesfully completing another job. His thoughts were interrupted soon after, as some commotion started happening on the opposite side of the bar. A Turian seemed to be thinking he was the toughest guy in the spot, apparently refusing to pay for his tab. Was this his lucky night? He would love to show the Turian what real toughness was, but it wouldn't come to that. A woman struck the troublemaker right on his chin, moving at the speed of a bullet. Abrax laughed to himself, and then one of the lasers illuminated her face in a green glow. No effing way Abrax thought as his eyes grew wider. He finished his drink in one big sip, and started making his way through the crowd. The Krogan knew that woman. It must have been two years since he last saw her.

"No no no, this is my favorite part."

Popcorn was a very human thing. In all of Zik's approximately four seconds of extranet searching, he had not come up with another species that had an appropriate parallel of popped grains consumed traditionally while watching a film. It was cheap, an efficient delivery system for any of a dozen spices, and even moderately tasty--especially when stale, he found, which gave it's normal crunch a bit of spongy texture. Human and salarian teeth were relatively similar, so it seemed likely that the sensation was as pleasurable for them as it was for him.

Even if the little fucking husk stuck between his teeth was figuratively killing him.

On the surprisingly large screen ahead of him, a pair of humans were copulating. They had been for 10 minutes and 41...2...3 seconds now, mammals inserting organs and swapping fluids in a disgustingly fascinating little ritual. The fact that it had been filmed in the apartment he was currently sitting made it even more entertaining, the cross between the illicit conduct and the sheer mundanity of it almost laughable. Placed on the facet of the light above the bed was a small and nearly undetectable camera, and if the view wasn't quite as humorous as it might have been given a better directing budget it did its job. The little couple on the screen pulled away from each other for a moment, tanned skin mixing with spacer-white, as one of the little figures offered a tinny admission.

"...those cargo doors, baby, you've got incoming!"

Zik couldn't help but snerk--another human term he found both amusing and accurate, a precise combination of a smirk and a snort. Who said things like that? His finger flicked to a small button on his omnitool and the film jumped back a second, the man on the screen repeating the statement again...and again...and again...

"Who says things like that?" He asked the same man, who was now sitting next to him on the couch holding the popcorn in his lap. Holding might have been a pretty generous word, though, considering his hands were taped together behind his back. It was a good thing the bowl was stainless steel--having seen the places he'd put the naked organ beneath it, it would have been extremely unhygienic to use anything even remotely viable for bacterial life.

He responded the same way he had to pretty much all of Zik's jokes, comments, thoughts, and professional annotations--a furious wriggle of his head and some desperate plea muffled into yet another 'mmph' by the adhesive on his mouth.

"Not saying my species would have done any better." The frog-man admitted, reaching over and taking another handful of popcorn with his three fingers. Worse than five for containing the independent little snacklets--a spoon would be more efficient. "Salarian pornography--already a joke. Doesn't exist. 'Hey mama, plop me some roundies.'" Another snerk. "Not appealing."

Stephen Vellon was not having a good night. It had been going well enough until he reached his apartment, at which point it all went tits up (hurr hurr--Zik had already used that one to death) at the sensation of a stunner going off in his left armpit. His next sensation was the vinyl weave of his awful couch under his bare ass, followed swiftly by both the intense body-ache of post-electrocution human muscle cramping and the confinement of tape at his wrists, ankles, knees, elbows, and lips. The psychotic salarian grinning at him--oh wait, that was just the tattoo on his face, no, God, it was both--and the hitherto unknown home video of last week's little romp with that tramp a few doors down just made things worse.

"This is the part where I let you talk." Zik was saying as he watched the screen contemplatively, stroking his chin while crunching on his latest handful of popcorn. He was currently hoping to get the hull stuck between L12 and L13 out by consuming more of the stuff; that a four year old could have told him it was a fool's gambit escaped him. "And the first thing you say is 'please, let me go!'. And I say 'No'. And you say 'please, I'll give you anything, if it's about the money--' and I say 'You couldn't pay me enough'. Or 'Fuck your money'. Or 'No', again. I haven't really worked that one out yet. Anyway, then you say 'Please, I have a family', and that's when I laugh. They're the ones that paid for this!" And he did laugh--come on, it was at least a little funny!

Apparently not to Stephen, whose eyes went from wide and terrified to wide and horrified.

"Mockler's Syndrome. Sexually transmitted infection, mutation of common vorcha bacteria when introduced to human vessel. Asymptomatic in human males, extremely unpleasant for human females. Symptoms include painful inflammation of uterus and ovaries. Treatable, but unpleasant. Your wife was the first diagnosed case on Brighton 5, which meant infidelity."

He paused for a moment to let the cheesy, stupid, awful one-liner repeat itself again in the silence. Stephen closed his eyes.

"Wife wanted to know what was going on, hired someone to track you. Someone contacted me. Daughter saw the video he made and threw in extra if you didn't come back and I had...more than the usual amount of intoxicant purchases recently." He looked to the man with a grimace, almost sheepish. "Sorry. Bad month."

The man whimpered slightly.

Zik had to admit, he was losing interest fast. This wasn't exactly some mastermind he was dealing with here, no Moriarty to his Holmes. This was a sleazy mercenary who pretended to his family that he wasn't off taking grunt work and fucking prostitutes. It might as well have been a transaction, something fast-forwarded past. Even his efforts to entertain himself were seeming increasingly juvenile, desperate attempts to eke even some satisfaction out of--

The Sur'Krasher's hit single Reap, Sow, Reap emanated from his omnitool, stopping him in the middle of his thought process. Raising a finger to his very confused captive--hang on, hang on, gimme a second--he flicked a small button on his omnitool and opened up the communications link.

"Trish Rayana. Long time. Something up?"

Pop. In a single smooth motion he drew-aimed-fired the Scorpion pistol fixed at the holster on his thigh. It seemed a natural movement for him, a reflex--he didn't even have to look. The shock hit Stephen before the pain of the bullet, his eyes going glassy and shoulders slumping for a moment. The sound of Trish's questioning reply was tinny through the speaker in his ear.

"No no, it's fine."

A little timer began to tick in the back of his head, a subroutine long ago memorized---three...two...one...

The high explosive charge in the bullet primed. This second pop was much louder. Zik reached up and wiped a gobbet of what used to be intestine from the bridge of his nose.

"I can talk."

Collaboration post with Zorogami:

As Avitus finished transferring the owed credits to the bartender's till via his omni-tool, Rosa nodded to the new employee and directed two fingers at the bottle of single malt whisky at the back of the bartop. With no pause the man turned on his heel, flicking a shirt, round glass over his back and safely into the palm of his opposing hand the human emptied a double shot of the potent liquid into the glass. With a brief thanks the human handed over the beverage and the Turian went on his way. Moments later, as Rosa turned to look out over at the opposite end of the bar, she saw the face of a relatively young Krogan. An old friend.

"Abrax? Tell me that's you." she laughed, taking a sip from the liquor, which tasted like smoky barbecue fumes as it washed into the back of her throat. They closed distance on one another, and proceeded to clash shoulders whilst shaking the other's hand. "It's been too long mate." Rosa exclaimed, the sight of seeing one of the Dashers again in a chance encounter brought back many fond memories. While it was great seeing Trish from time to time, the two women just didn't seem t click like Martinez and Abrax, she always thought it was because those who participated in the boardings shared a strange chemistry. They didn't always see eye to eye, but god were they efficient.

Abrax moved through the crowd as memories of old days played like a cliche flash back in his head. Rosa was a cool chick, dangerous on the field and a great drinking buddy off it. She seemed to recognize him and moved in his direction. The Krogan couldn't help the smile that was forming on his face. After the boring life he had gotten used to, meeting an old friend could be a herald of a very anticipated change of pace. The duo shook hands and bumped shoulders, an old custom both still had engraved in their brains. "Of course it's me, or have you made a new krogan friend in my absence?" Abrax joked. He faced the bartender, adding "Chief, two Ryncol shots and whatever she's having". If they were going to talk about old times and what each of them had been up to over the last two years, they would need more than a few drinks.

"What brings you to this place? I see you haven't lost that mean hook of yours. How has life been treating you?" Abrax gestured over to a free booth, where the reunited friends could talk in peace. Nodding to the bartender and stating that they'd be needing the rest of each bottle, Rosa transferred the appropriate number of credits to the man's terminal and quickly thanked him with a more than generous tip. With the money she'd been making in her new line of work and how little she'd been having to spend, Rosa had saved up a respectable amount of credits.

"After we got hit by that Alliance op, I got away and came here. Fortunately for me, a few of the soldiers involved in that sting served with me on Earth. So they were inclined to let me go. How about you?" She replied as they made their way over to the booth, each person holding a bottle, grimacing after knocking back the Krogan liquor which was widely accepted to be unsuitable for human consumption. Though Abrax and their former captain disagreed with everyone on the subject, stating that this fact just made the beverage do its job even better. Which wasn't exactly wrong by any stretch.

Rosa had gotten lucky apparently, it was good to have friends in many places, especially one's that owed you favors. They each took a shot of Ryncol after a quick "cheers!", the human woman clearly less used to the liquid compared to the Krogan. "Well, after everything went to shit, I found myself surrounded by a few Alliance fellows that were very persistant in their demands to accompany them without further resistance" Abrax explained, giving off a groan that was meant to be a chuckle. "Let's just say their day got a lot worse after I was done with them...then I drifted around, doing run-of-the-mill mercenary work. Very boring, very lame life..." The Krogan was still mad about his last assignment and its lack of action.

The duo kept talking for a good amount of time, remembering old missions and knocking back more than a few drinks, some of them in name of their old captain. "So...where do you go from here?" Abrax asked the dreaded question. He was having a great time, probably the best in the last 2 years, and thinking about going back to his mercenary work made the taste of alcohol in his mouth turn bitter.

Rosa sighed as she took a sip from what remained of the bottle of whisky to chase down the final shot of ryncol, shaking her head slightly as she tipped over the line from tipsy to full-blown drunk. If there was one thing she hadn't missed, it was the crew's insistence that drinking ryncol is a good idea. "Well, now...the next guy on shift just walked in. So I suppose I gotta go see Trish upstairs to tell her I'm heading home. It's a quaint little apartment down in the Tuhi District, above a sushi store. Run by a salarian. How no-one else sees the irony in that makes me piss myself." She replied, letting out a drunken giggle as she polished off the remainder of liquid in the bottle. "If you're just in town briefly and don't fancy paying for a place to stay, you're welcome to crash at my place. My door's always gonna be open for you Abrax. Or any of the Dashers for that matter." Rosa continued, reaching for a pouch on her shoulder and pulling forth a small bag of red sand and her credit chit. She began to 'rack up' a pair of long, thick lines of the substance; emptying the bag before discarding it on the floor.

She paused for a moment as she stared down at the crimson powder, though this pause was short lived as she pulled a straw from the bar's caddy and tore it in half. A split second later and she had leaned down and inhaled one of the two smoothly cut lines, leaning back in her seat and staring at the mesmerising lasers and strobes lights going wild overhead as her left eye began to water whilst she snorted, pulling the red sand past her nasal cavity. Wiping her face dry, Rosa turned to Abrax with her eyes wide, feeling like she was actually a few inches above her own body. "You want one?"

The Krogan could tell the woman in front of him was getting drunk, and that lightened his mood again. Rosa was already a fun person to hang with, but once she, or any of the Dashers for that matter, grabbed one drink too many, crazyness and a good story were just around the corner. He wondered if this evening would turn out to be one of those as well. Abrax himself was only slightly tipsy, little surprise due to his physique and the workings of Krogan organs. He finished his 6th - or was it 7th? - shot of Ryncol and observed how Rosa was preparing her dose of Red Sand. Apparently her mean right hook wasn't the only thing she hadn't lost over the years.

Abrax had no problem with drugs, hell, if he did he wouldn't get along with the majority of his former crew. The Krogan just didn't see the appeal in it. Drinking alcohol and getting tipsy was one thing, but stuff like that? It made you go crazy, and although the Krogan would never admit it, he was actually afraid to try it out. Losing control of his body and mind was a terrifying idea to him. "Thanks Rosa, I'm good" He replied, waving over the bartender to order another shot. Abrax decided he would take up Rosa's offer and crash at her place, especially considering the state she was in. The woman did not need a protector, Abrax knew that much, but the thought of letting her leave alone made him feel uncomfortable. Old habits do die hard after all, and Abrax always felt like he was the armor that protected his friends from danger.

With the krogan's decline of her offer Rosa shrugged her shoulders, finished off the remainder of the dust on the table and the pair began to make their way out from the building. A brief, horribly spelt message was sent from Martinez's omni-tool to Trish's, informing her that she had bumped into their former team-mate and that she would be leaving the club in the next five minutes.

Declan and Trish had moved out of Afterlife for a place to talk without constant music drowning each other out. Wherever one found themselves on Omega, it was always dark, as if the station was caught in a never ending night cycle. The lights of the structures that extended up from the base support platforms or down from the cavity of the asteroid’s underbelly were mere yellow dots at a distance, reminiscent of a sleepless city. Most of the bright signs for businesses and venues were either a shade of red, orange, or purple. There weren’t many cool colors to be found, which reflected in the average humid temperature of the station. Steam gradually rose up from the vents on the walkways and streets, and several areas with constantly running machines would make a man sweat just walking near them.

However, despite the grungy atmosphere, the near anarchy, and the high crime rate (if one could even be calculated) Omega was home to 7.8 million inhabitants from all major races. There was opportunity there, and ways for anyone to make a name for themselves, no matter their walk in life. Its reputation for being a haven to pirates and traffickers aside, there were just as many good guys as there were bad. As for Declan… he was someone that fell right in the middle on some days.

The man walked over and placed his hands firmly against the top of a metal guardrail alongside one of the walkways outside of Afterlife. From where they were standing, Declan had a picture-perfect view of Omega’s sprawling interior, which extended both up high and far below him. A steady, almost yellow fog enveloped the distant structures, like how pollution can cloud the air over an industrialized city.

“So who’s this helmsman you mentioned?” he asked Trish, who moved over to stand just over his right shoulder.

The asari crossed her arms and shifted her weight comfortably to one side before replying, “Well, for starters, he’s one in a million; so hear me out before you jump to any conclusions.”

“Alright.”

“He’s piloted everything from fighters and interceptors, to frigates and even cruisers. Quick on the uptake, incredibly fast reaction times, and can make split-second decisions while flying through thick and thin without hesitation. His instincts are always correct when he’s in the pilot seat.”

“Anyone can sound great with such generic praise,” Dec criticized.

A smile tugged at the corner of Trish’s lips. “He’s captured Aria’s attention… and her acceptance.”

Declan turned his head to look at her through his peripheral. “So all of that praise is justified?”

She nodded. “He’s good, Dec. Trust me. And we’ll need someone with his skills, but I can guarantee that you won’t find one better.”

The man turned around and leaned back against the rail. He raised a brow and gave Trish a suspicious glare. “So what’s the catch?” he demanded.

Before she replied, the loud roar of a Mantis gunship flew behind Declan through the transitway at lightning speed, causing him to jump away in a frightened panic. While straightening up to catch his breath, several more spacecraft flew by in the same direction. Even while moving at high speeds, his keen eye was able to spot the familiar Blood Pack skull and fist logos on the pursuing vessels.

“What the hell?”

Trish let out an amused laugh. “That would be him.” Declan glanced at her with a slightly confused expression, so she explained, “Aria’s relations with the three major factions on Omega started to rapidly dissolve after the Cerberus occupation during the Reaper War. They’ve made the unfortunate mistake to assume she’s weak and have tried to make several moves against her. But she’s not a push-over. The Blue Suns and the Eclipse are beginning to fall back in line, save for a few hold-outs in the lower districts, but the Blood Pack are being stubborn. Although, that shouldn’t come as a surprise from a merc group full of krogan and vorcha.

“Anyway, since they refuse to pay Aria what she’s owed, she’s decided to take it by force. That Mantis is transporting two tons of red sand that was stolen from a recently imported shipment to the Blood Pack’s main compound. The one piloting it… is the one I was talking about.”

Declan pointed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction the Mantis had flew in and asked, “One man is taking on the Blood Pack?” He was right to seek clarity. The mercenary organization known as the Blood Pack was probably the most brutal and unforgiving lot in the galaxy. As Trish had mentioned, their membership was exclusively krogan and vorcha, making them a brutal band of murdering assholes. Anyone that knowingly stood in their way had a death wish, and those that didn’t were often unsuspecting collateral damage.

“No, not a man,” Trish replied. "He's-" Trish's omni-tool beeped several times to indicate the receipt of a message. "One sec," she said before tapping the bracelet on her wrist to activate the haptic interface. "Oh, well, what do you know? Martinez and Abrax are nearby. Care to say hello?"

"No, shit?" Declan asked excitedly. "Hell, yeah! Bring their asses over here!"

Trish tapped out a message on her omni-tool back to Martinez, asking them to rendezvous outside of Afterlife at her location on their way out.

Rosa laughed as she informed Abrax that Trish wanted to meet, there were few whom were missing from the random chance reunion. The nostalgia coursed through her body, almost like she was excited, but with a bit of angst at the terms of the crew's disbanding. Whilst they walked through the crowd, the former pirates surprisingly fit in quite well at home, bringing memories back for Rosa. In a twisted sort of way she had missed this criminal camaraderie, the dark rhythms of Afterlife almost being the soundtrack for their shore leave back in the day. Suddenly, Rosa's mismatched cockney accent stuck out like a sore thumb in the crowd, calling out as she had spotted another of their former crew-mates, Errol Vahn. He almost didn't look any different, his skin seemingly never aging, and his brown, spiked hair contrasting the olive skin tone. His damn hair is even the same. She thought to herself as she guide herself and her Krogan companion to Errol's position at the bar. Abrax quickly stuffed the remainder of the ryncol bottle into the human male's hands as Rosa beckoned him to follow, which he agreed, with a confused look on his face, but anyone could tell it was at least a pleasant surprise, in one way or another.

After a short walk, they had made their way through the first door and were beginning to leave. As the music began to drown out from the sound of the sealing door behind them, the trio walked a few feet before Martinez spoke once more. "This is far too weird." She remarked, looking at the ground with her arms around the two. Shaking her head at the ground as they went. Coming up on the sealed door to the club's exterior.

"It's been too long lads."

Abrax - Omega

"You gotta be kidding me!" was all the Krogan could exclaim as Rosa dragged him through the crowd, running into another old companion: Errol. Just a few moments before that, Abrax had been informed about Declan's presence on Omega. He just could not believe almost his entire old crew were in one place at the same time. The krogan was not a religious type, but even to him it seemed that some higher power was trying to bring the old Dashers together.

He put the Ryncol bottle into Errol's hands, urging him to take a sip for old times sake. It took a bit of convincing, but shortly after the bottle was completely empty. Rosa told both to follow her, and although Errol seemed overwhelmed by everything that had happened in the last few minutes, he joined the duo as they slowly made their way out of Afterlife.

Meeting Declan again...what would that feel like? Abrax asked himself. He felt a deep bond of loyalty to his former captain, there was no command Declan could give him that Abrax would refuse to carry out. After all, it was thanks to the human that Abrax got to explore the galaxy, meeting the crazy people he had just been drinking with. He started wondering if Zik would show up out of nowhere as well. The salarian was another crew member, and although Abrax and him got along, the Krogan was indeed scared of him. His methods were a bit over the top, even for Abrax. If he had to describe the salarian with one word, it would be lunatic.

His train of thoughts was stopped as the group approached the last door to exit the Nightclub.

It could be said, in a surreptitious whisper, that Omus Vol was compensating for something.

His office was huge. His desk was huge. The chair behind it was huge, a plush leather monolith mounted on a wide platform obviously designed to place its diminutive occupant above the eye level of most species, and the whole thing was surrounded by a towering half-circle of glowing holographic monitors; most of them displaying (huge) inventory and profit returns, a smaller bank showing the flickering feeds of illicit surveillance cameras Vol had ordered set up around the station. A thin, expensive red carpet lined the long, grueling, utterly needless distance to the desk from the main door, and lit merchandise racks and exaggerated portraits of the Volus himself flanked the walls every step of the way.

But whatever that "something" being compensated for was, it sure as hell wasn't Vol's bank account. T'Loak may have been running the show -- "for now," as Omus liked to say -- but Omega was balanced comfortably in a state of very lucrative cold war, and the Volus's digital coffers were overflowing.

The cut-price crime lord himself now reclined in his oversized leather business throne, looking over his imports as a skinny, hard-bitten looking human woman in a black polysuit went through his schedule.

"...so, after that, we have a meeting set up with some Blood Pack representatives. They're passing it off as a standard deal, but our mole says they're planning to hit the Blue Suns hard over a contract dispute, and word is they're gonna be buying big."

"Ahh, yes, yessss... *hssfftt* ...Good customers. Give them the preferred client discount."

"The seventy-five percent markup?"

"Mnyesss." Vol sat forward, rubbing his armored hands together, "And see to it that the Blue Suns... *ffssssst* ...are informed we're having a sale on improved shielding this week, hm hm hm!"

The woman nodded and withdrew, making a note on her dataslate. Vol jammed a lit cigar against his mouthpiece, sucking thinly through the valve.

"Myes, good business."

The arms dealer leaned back in his enormous chair, rotating idly to regard the curved wall of monitors. He took another drag on the cigar, chortling quietly as he surveyed his dominion. Yess, there were the Blood Pack now, chasing down that fleeing mantis... There a Sur-clan, hacking into an Eclipse terminal... Ahh, there was that ingratiating (yet enticing, in a Matron-I'd Like-to-Fondle way) narc Trishar Rayana, and next to her...

The crime lord's smug laughter turned abruptly to a smoky fit of coughing, valves whining as his suit attempted to compensate the gas flow. He stood, hands thumping onto the table.

"Im-possible!" he wheezed. "Him? Here?"

But there was no mistaking it. It was him -- the first of the Dash-clan. That same cocky self-assurance. That same waste-eating grin. That irritating Earth-clan hair.

Omus hammered a button, still choking and wheezing, buzzing one of his underlings into the office; a Turian encased in battle-singed mantis armor.

"You there! ...*tsssssssh*..." Vol's stubby arm jabbed repeatedly toward the monitor bank, "I want this man apprehended. Forthwith! ...*hfffff* ...Send some Vorcha to bring him here at once."

The Turian scratched the back of his helmet on idle reflex.

"Vorcha, boss?"

Omus steepled his fingers, "*hsst* Yessss."

"I, uh, don't think we got any Vorcha"

"Then find me some!" demanded the Volus, pounding one porcine fist against the desktop. "What do I... *fffft* ...pay you for??"

A hurled paperweight banged against the door as it hissed shut, the Turian beating a hasty retreat. Omus's beady glowing lenses glared after him a moment before slowly turning back to stare up at the monitor bank, and the digital mirth of Declan Calaway.

"Yess, some things are simply said better with Vorcha. ...Ohh, Declan." Vol leaned in close, the face of his pressure-suit lit with the orange glow of the holo-screen. "*hssssht* ...You shouldn't have come back. Before, I was merely the learner..."

The would-be kingpin sucked another trickle of cigar smoke through his respirator valve.

"...But now I am the mast--"

The Volus broke off as the office resounded with yet another noisy fit of coughing.

The Dashers back together.

What a world, what a world.

Ruminating in the dead man's apartment, Zik couldn't help but feel both tremendous relief and something oddly akin to embarrassment. He'd kept up on the other members of the crew, of course, especially the assault team; most had continued doing what they did best since the band broke up. As he scrolled through the dossiers he kept listed in a file on his omnitool, orange glow highlighting the spatter-pattern of his ex-acquaintance in Omega Neon, he was unsurprised to find that the birds of a feather were already flocking together.

Errol Vahn had continued his mercenary work, of course. Independent contracts, wet work. Good reputation. Abrax had done similar. Rosa had cut into the Omega scene, nominally connected to Aria T'Loak via afterlife--smart move for a smart girl. Trish had done the same--well and over her 'wild years', she was a bit more stable in flight control and administration. Good for her.

It was really Zik that had struggled, a fact he had taken pains to avoid alerting the other Dashers to.

Zik did not do well in isolation. By the time he had run into Declan he was already on a carefully only almost-lethal regiment of chemical intoxicants. Uppers, downers, all-arounders, anything to keep his mind on something other than...

Well.

He would have, by his own nearly-clinical approximation, burned what remained of his nervous system to the ground in little under a year if his rate remained solid. Meeting Declan, forming the Dashers (why, he still pined, couldn't he have chosen the name?), going about their merry business, had in no uncertain terms saved his life. Camaraderie was good for him, gave him something to live for. A consummate performer, an entertainer, and more than a bit of a madman, at least with other people around and a team to lead--again, he forced a reminder, a team to lead again--he had something to look forward to. Some incentive to keep himself together. Without all that it was far too easy to just...

Slip.

He sighed through his teeth, grimacing and letting his head fall back against the leather couch. Pity the popcorn was all gone--not gone, necessarily, but no longer desirable--he could have used something to distract himself. As it stood he was all too aware of his physical condition. If he was very fortunate, the crew's unfamiliarity with salarian physique and the obscuring nature of his armor would prevent them from seeing some of the toll the past few years had had on him. Two whole years...how did other species do it, he wanted to know? How could they stand moving through the world so slowly? Like stepping through pudding, hard-capped by the firing speed of their own neurons. Two. Whole. Years.

Eternity. 5% of an average lifespan.

Focus.

As suddenly as he'd plopped to the ground, Zik stood up and began disrobing. Fingers clicked at clasps on the concealed armor he wore beneath his civilian clothing--habit--letting it fall to the floor as he made his way towards the bathroom. He wasn't about to meet up with old allies covered in blood. What was left of Stephen Vellon flopped to the floor at the sudden motion and lay there.

"Stay." He added over his shoulder without looking, a smile flitting over squared lips. "Good boy."

Fifteen minutes later the now-clean salarian was nearly finished re-affixing his armor, snapping on his bracer only to notice a small green light flickering near his wrist. As he clicked it open once more and scrolled through the displayed data he couldn't help but smile, the way a father might at the badly orchestrated drawing done by his biological contribution's inept childhood nervous system.

Omus Vol. Super Genius.

Zik had missed the rotund arms dealer. Their little games of cat-and-mouse had always been tongue in cheek to him, a sort of casual entertainment. The way some humans played archaic math or word games on their omnitools, Zik had for several years delighted in pushing the little creature's buttons. Having spent so much time with him on the ship, the absence of his favorite playmate had been hard--certainly the volus didn't feel the same way, and since the last time he tried to drop in for a friendly chat he'd nearly been dismantled at an atomic level Zik had decided to respect his decision.

Well. Sort of.

Whenever the Blue Sons were suddenly alerted to another, slightly more lucrative arrangement, Zik did it. If Eclipse happened to learn that the batch of FENRIS security mechs the diminutive war profiteer was offering were at such a good deal due to a manufacturing defect in their friend-foe recognition programming, Zik did it. Frankly it was how he made a good deal of his money, interrupting these little transactions and taking a cut of the diverted profit. Yes, they tended to end badly for whoever it was cutting into the volus' business, and yes, he had felt a bit bad when Vol's security force had allowed him to be locked in his absurdly-well-protected office for two days upon the realization that if they consecutively demanded raises while he was under siege they were more likely to come out profitably, but really. Schoolyard pranks.

The datamine he'd installed in his secretary's pad was actually spitting out interesting data this time. Apparently Trish wasn't the only one who knew that Declan was alive--or planned on throwing him a welcoming party.

"Oh Omus." He said to no one in particular, a wistful sigh on his lips. Last bit of armor in place, he headed for the door.

"It's good to be back."

---

Hallway to the left, 3.5 meters ahead. Approximately 2 seconds away. Heavy impact to rear left shield, kinetic force enough to stumble--unlucky shot distribution pattern from an M23 Katana. 1.3 seconds. Turn, aim, fire, turn, run. 1 second.

...two...one...

The familar wet thump of a Scorpion round detonating in flesh burst from the other side of the corner Zik had just rounded, annihilating the vorcha it had been inserted into and staggering the friends he had brought with him. Fortunate that there were no krogan--not a Blood Pack operation, just a friendly hello from Omus Vol. Expendable. Really, had he been expecting them to succeed?

Still, there were plenty of them, and they wouldn't be staggered for long. And Declan wasn't expecting it, and the others were rendezvousing on his position. The grin on Zik's lips mirrored the tattooing on his face, wide and excited. This was fun! He was back! Reaching for the grenade at his belt--one of his last--he dropped it to the ground and ran for the window.

A third story window in the tenements above and behind Trish and Declan exploded outwards, a compact form cloaked in a flickering blue shield emerging from it. Broken glass caught warring neon lights, scattering electric indigo and the city's omnipresent neon-orange-red like a corona as Zik fell through the air. For a breathless few moments he hung, letting inertia catch up and draw away the last of his momentum, before the inevitable plummet. A human, krogan, turian would not have been ready for it, too much bulk and osseous structure in the way, but a salarian--

He tucked, rolled, directed what remained of his shields downward. Hit the ground hard, felt the shield struggle and overload with the strain, impacted on his shoulder and rolled forward to pop up on his feet. With a slight hop the dismount turned into a stroll and Zik was walking towards his former captain and that saucy minx of an asari matriarch like the cat that caught the canary.

Tarantino couldn't have shot it better himself.

"Declan Calaway. Trishar Rayana. Been a minute. Good to see you again."

The hole in the wall behind him exploded, blossoming outwards into a ball of fire. It lapped at the plasteel walls seeking something to burn and, finding nothing but detritus, left it smoldering behind. The snarling cry of a vorcha or two meant it had bigger fish to fry on the inside. Without shields, they would have to take the long way down--that bought them at least a bit of time to catch up. He ejected the thermal clip of his Scorpion with dramatic ease, slotting another one in and looking to the pair with more warmth than he'd intended.

"Missed you. Thought I'd bring party favors."

"So who else is on Omega that we know?" Declan asked, following some continued chatter after Trish had sent her message to Rosa.

"Errol arrived on the station a few hours ago. Knowing him, he should be grabbing a drink, too. Probably already met up with the other two. Then there's Zik. He's... well, he's Zik; but I've seen him have better days. Oh, our tubby round friend is here, too. Vol has been making a name for himself on Omega, as well as being a thorn in Aria's side." Trish walked over to the railing and placed her forearms squarely over the top bar, leaning over to gaze out into the distance.

"We've all been doing our own thing, Dec," she continued. "Whether that be odd jobs, working for more powerful people, or trying to piece together some delusional plan for our lives..." She looked back at him over her shoulder, with dark violet eyes glaring at him with the flare of Omega's red and orange lights. "So, you better be real about coming back. Because we don't need you to fuck with us anymore than fate already has."

The man started to speak, but paused to think about his words carefully. Part of what she just said had rubbed him the wrong way, but he also knew she was being genuinely forward with him, and that's just how Trish was. Besides, it was evident by her tone that the former Dashers had been through enough after they were split up. It wasn't his place to step in and be the savior that was going to make everything right again. God knows... none of the last two years had been easy for him either.

"Trish, I-"

The sound of a door swishing open pulled their attention away and toward the three figures that walked out of Afterlife. They were certainly a sight for sore eyes. A pink-cheeked and obviously inebriated Rosa was leading the trio, with Abrax and Errol in tow shortly behind her. Declan opened his arms to his sides and yelled down to them with a wide grin, "Holy hell, you guys look like shit! Abrax, you big lug, have you lost weight? Errol, enough with the doom and gloom look, man. You've still that going for you, huh? And Rosa-"

Several muffled gunshots from behind caught everyone's attention, and Dec, before he could finish his comment on the blonde's unruly hair, spun ninety degrees to face the tenement building adjacent to them and Afterlife. Trish jogged away from her spot at the transitway railing to join them and looked up toward the approximate floor that the firefight was taking place on.

"I see Omega's gang activity is still as wild as ever," Dec commented right before an obnoxious explosion erupted from several windows on the third floor, making the gang back away to avoid the falling debris.

He could see the faint glimmer of someone's kinetic shielding in the surrounding flame and then the body gracefully tumbled down through the air and landed with an elegant roll, straight into an up-right stride that oozed egotistical confidence. The snarky smirk, the face-paint, the aura of a born and bred killer... Of course it was Zik. Only he would make such a reckless entrance.

"Declan Calaway. Trishar Rayana. Been a minute. Good to see you again."

Dec, with a raised brow and slightly agape mouth, slowly looked from Zik to the flaming inferno he had left behind in his wake on the building's third floor. He could hear the painful cries of... Vorcha, maybe?

"Missed you. Thought I'd bring party favors."

"Of course you did, buddy." Dec replied with a mixture of a sigh and a chuckle. Reaching behind him, the man lifted up his leather jacket and unholstered a concealed Striker from the magnetic clip. As the pistol extended itself in his hand, he casually looked to the others and asked, "Well, how about we all catch up over a round of Vorcha?"

Abrax - Reunion Party

The steel doors slid open with a faint swish as the trio stepped out of the Nightclub. There he stood, grinning from ear to ear with his arms wide open: Declan, in the flesh. The years had been good to him, or at least he didn't look much different from what Abrax remembered. Their old captain greeted them in a cheery tone, which was enough to disperse the last bits of bad mood that had still lingered in the back of the Krogan's mind. Abrax was about to reply, when a series of gunshots caught everyone's attention, quickly followed by an explosion in the neighboring building. The group observed the scene in silence, everyone wondering for themselves what pack of thugs or mercenaries might be responsible this time. On Omega, sightings like these were not unusual.

It was then that Abrax thought he saw something shimmering falling in their direction. "Is that...?" he started saying in an incredulous tone, only to have his suspicion confirmed a few seconds after. Zik landed in a roll that showed more athletic talent than a Krogan like him could ever hope to achieve, transitioning into an upright swagger that fit the Salarian perfectly. Lunatic. Once again, that word was the perfect description for what Abrax and the others just got to witness. Of course, it wouldn't be Zik if he didn't finish it all off by saying some witty one-liner.

"Missed you. Thought I'd bring party favors." and there it was.

Declan was the first to regain composure, grabbing his jacket and readying his gun to get out of the place, which was probably a good idea. It hadn't been a minute since the group was back together, but trouble was already brewing all around them. Abrax had to smile, finally something exciting was happening! He tried to reach the shotgun on his back...only to realize he had left it in his ship. Well, crap. Luckily, he still had his pistol with him, which he grabbed and readied for the upcoming escape.

"Ready to go captain, give the command and we are out of here!"

---

Errol Vahn

---

// PRESENT DAY, OMEGA //

It had been a very long time since Errol Vahn had run into any of his former “comrades”. Following the group's final mission the universe seemed to give them every sign that it had been the end of The Dashers— a sentiment that carried over in a multitude of ways including the awkwardness that essentially separated each individual member from each other as they went off to do their own things independently. Errol was never really sure why they decided to become solo players in the galaxy at large, but it was what they did. The asteroid husk that was Omega remained their central hub, but for some reason until today Errol couldn’t recall when the last time he saw let alone interacted with one of his former teammates. But here he was and Abrax was right in front of him now shoving a bottle of Ryncol in his face as he shouted with an energetic bravado that made Errol smile through the dulling pain that he felt in his bones. It also didn’t hurt to have another bottle than he expected in indulging for the night. It felt like old times, but given the impatient expression on Rosa Martinez, another one of Errol’s partners from his “dashing days”, he got the feeling that this was a little too out of place and convenient to be a social call.

But what was the occasion? Did they have a job that required a few extra hands?

Errol dismissed the thought before Rosa made it clear that they had a place to be around the time Abrax finished downing the bottle. Errol looked to the bartender with a dazed smirk as he finished his transaction and gave him a temporary goodbye. The fact that Rosa insisted they had to go at that moment did make his anxiety flare up as he jumped up to his feet. As they began to move through Afterlife the colonial human in him sprung to life as he began making a series of comments towards their female partner. The shots probably didn’t faze her in the slightest.

“You running the show now?”,

“Didn’t know Abrax preferred to be on bottom!”

“Can’t it wait?”

“This is so sudden, I feel like some foreplay is needed before we go any further!”

These and other comments were pretty generic as far as Errol’s style of commenting went and it made him wonder if it took the two in front of him back to their days as dashers.

As they walked through Omega and finally made it to their destination, Errol’s disposition immediately changed. The cocky and presumptuous expression dropped into one of gloom and confusion. A change of feeling that was hardly unnatural or even unwarranted. Errol frowned as his brows narrowed as he realized that this wasn’t Rosa’s operation… it was a dead man’s or at least… he was supposed to be dead.

Declan Calaway, the former leader of The Dashers and the reason they disbanded, stood in front of Errol with a gregarious cheerfulness. A man that was supposed to be dead. Declan’s comments shot at Errol about his apparent gloominess didn’t faze him or perhaps Errol didn’t really hear them. All Errol could think about was the fate of The Dashers and the burning question of what the hell was going on? It was obvious that this was about reforming and getting the gang back together but it didn’t stop a burning dread and backseated rage to overflow in Errol’s veins. For a few moments Errol ignored everything else that was going on as he took a step forward— debris blasting above. But Errol didn’t care, something else was on his mind. Irrationality filled his movement.

“Declan, you son of a bitch—”

Errol curled his fist and sent it forward, attempting to hit his former friend and leader.

“—where’s my goddamn money?!”

“Didn’t know Abrax preferred to be on bottom!”
“Can’t it wait?”
“This is so sudden, I feel like some foreplay is needed before we go any further!”
"Ready to go captain, give the command and we are out of here!"

Everything was happening so fast for Rosa, one minute she was pissing it up in a bar with Abrax and the next, Errol and his smartass remarks had jumped their way back into her life. It wasn't that she never got along with Errol, on the contrary Rosa actually considered Errol a friend, much like any other on the ship and actually enjoyed his presence, they expressed themselves in almost in a yin and yang fashion. As they stepped outside, Rosa's eyes were immediately drawn to Trish, before she noticed Calaway standing beside her, Zik burst through the wall in what could only be described as the most 'Zik method' of arriving to a reunion ever. "It's like he's always in a film." She said aloud to Errol and Abrax as the three ran down to unite with their former comrades. The sting still angered her to this day, having to use the word former any time any of the crew came up in conversation. She missed the Dashers.

“Declan, you son of a bitch! Where’s my goddamn money?!”

As Errol lashed out at the team's former captain and began his strike to the head, Rosa thought it fortunate that she was beside him at the time given the current situation. Declan and Vahn among other crewmen had a bit of a habit of getting into poker games back in the day, and at least to her knowledge, they were always the source of basically any animosity among the crew that she ever experienced. Raising her left hand to meet Errol's wrist in flight; catching the punch. "Now's not the time really the time mate." She argued. Moments later a massive group of Vorcha came bursting through the hole in the wall, prompting the Dashers to draw their weapons, and Rosa to raise her barriers. A blueish purple hue surrounded her as the biotic protection went up and Abrax's voice rung through the air as shots came in from their weapons. "Ready to go captain, give the command and we are out of here!"

"Oh? You don't seem so keen to fight after all these years. You've changed." she joked, beginning a sprint past her team-mates and towards the fray. The blue aura she emitted seemed to crackle and pulse as she picked up speed, scanning the dozens of Vorcha for the biggest threat and generating what many referred to as an annihilation field as she went before coming into a full biotic charge. Jumping from her teammates to the Vorcha in an instant, she landed a devastating jump kick to the head of one carrying a missile launcher, which knocked his shot at the group slightly off target just in the nick of time. As she fell to her feet she regained her balance and entered a kickboxing stance with her right arm and leg forward, shifting her weight lower and slipping a punch from the Vorcha's omni-blade clad hand and countered with a heavy left uppercut to it's unarmoured ribs, forcing the alien to keel over and land on his face under the pure force from the biotically charged punch. With a shifting of her feet and a raising of her right leg however, Rosa smashed the tip of her armour's boot into the Vorcha's temple, knocking him out with ease before turning her attention back to the Vorcha 'Heavy'.

He hissed as he threw the unloaded launcher to the ground in frustration and began to advance upon the human. Enraged, the Vorcha swung one arm after the other with the claw-like blades protruding from his omni-tool in attempts to slice through her throat and chest but was unsuccessful in landing a strike as the woman backed up and parried, redirecting the force of the unskilled fighter's strikes away from her as she went. However, as much as she was avoiding being hit, the ferocity of the beast-like alien was such that she could not land a counter strike. Then, came her opportunity as the Vorcha mercenary attempted a jumping attack, arms spread wide hoping to essentially bundle her to the ground under his weight.

But Rosa's reactions were too quick and she was riding her high, she was even more relentless than usual. With a rapid generating of a throw field as she twisted her upper body out of the way she launched the Vorcha spine-first into a nearby window frame, deterring the attack with a rather comical climax at the foot of the breach from which Zik had emerged. Finally advancing, Rosa moved to the Vorcha she had previously thought defeated as he attempted to rise to his feet once more, despite having been thrown into a wall. Grabbing him first by the spines on his head while he knelt; then slamming her knee in between his eyes twice before his body went limp. As the rest of the Vorcha came piling through the breach, Rosa rushed closer into the combat to prevent the Vorcha manoeuvring their weapons fast enough to shoot her. With a singularity thrown to the middle of the pack, her comrades began proving covering fire and entered the fray themselves.

Abrax - Where is my damn Shotgun?!

As the group prepared their weapons and attacks, it was Rosa to be the first one to go on the offensive, inebriated as she still was. The comment she gave him before leaving made Abrax chuckle. Of course, after complaining for an eternity, it would only be fitting for him to have left his shotgun back in the ship, right as things started to be interesting again. Armed with nothing but a pistol, his muscles and the will to smash in some heads, Abrax ran into the fray.

Rosa was doing an amazing job at kicking the Vorchas asses'. She was quick and agile, and powered with her biotic powers, she had a lot more strength in her punches and kicks than the enemies expected. Abrax shot a few rounds of his pistol into the opening in the wall, where a group of Vorcha were preparing a new wave of attacks. He could feel shots coming from the left, and turned around to see a Vorcha firing off some sort of Autorifle. The few bullets could do little against his armored body, and so Abrax quickly closed the gap between him and the now reloading Vorcha. His uppercut send the alien flying, his body smashed against a wall right after. Abrax did not care if he was dead or just knocked out, that one would not get back anytime soon. Grabbing the autorifle the Vorcha had dropped, he returned his attention to the opening and Rosa.

His companion had made quick work of the first assault team, but there were plenty more who needed to have their heads smashed in. As the next wave came running through the opening, Rosa perfectly timed a singularity field, trapping numerous of them into a very tiny space. Abrax could feel the adrenaline rushing through his body, it had been ages since he had felt this alive. Letting out a loud war cry, Abrax rushed the group, holding his finger on the trigger, laughing at the fun he was having. Most of the Vorcha were either dead or seriously injured when the group was only a mere feet away from him, but the job was not done yet. Increasing his pace for the last few steps, Abrax put his whole weight into his shoulder and smashed into the group.

Those who did not get lucky enough to die might never be able to walk again after the impact. Abrax got back up, dusted himself off and glanced at Rosa. "I haven't changed, human, merely got rusty over the years. I still got your back." He gave her a little grin, and focused again on the opening, waiting for the next assault of enemies.

“Declan, you son of a bitch... where’s my goddamn money?!”

Callaway raised a brow at Vahn as the man lunged forward with what would have been a nasty hook had Rosa not intervened to stop it mid-strike. Although, Declan almost wished the man's fist had connected with his jaw, or even his nose. He not only expected them to still have whatever reserved animosity they held toward him after what he did, he wanted them to express it--no matter what form it came in. For Errol, that frustration might just be disguised by his demand for Declan to pay back a debt... Or he could just be genuinely upset about the debt... Which the man could easily pay back right now... If he wasn't such a penny-pincher...

"Do you take installments?" he asked with a witty smirk.

When the vorcha had finally arrived to crash the reunion, Declan watched with a big grin as his former crew members went to work on dishing out one helluva beating. It was the brawls with the nastiest gangs in the galaxy that he had missed the most about being with the Dashers. One could argue that Captain Callaway had a strange affinity for life-or-death thrills. To say he was fearless would be in accurate, however. The privateer definitely knew fear, but it was the adrenaline brought on by the state of mind that had become so enthralling.

Before the next wave could group up and change their tactics, Declan and Trish readied themselves with a brief nod toward each other. Trish, being an asari, was a natural biotic. Her talents made her the crew's always-reliable sentinel, combining tech and biotic abilities to support her teammates. Meanwhile, Declan, being a privateer by trade since his teens, had many years of experience with the latest gadgets and toys. He had taken a liking to using technology to overcome obstacles in the field and provide versatile support for his comrades. With Declan as the captain and Trishar as his XO, the two brought a lethal combination of tactical oversight and combat support to any situation. Of course, their skills for reading, planning, and executing were nothing compared to Zik's. The salarian was basically a one-man, wise-cracking army; but the captain and his second-in-command still made a powerful duo in their own right.

Dec brought up his omni-tool and quickly tapped out a drone-call command, materializing three spherical combat drones in front of him that floated a few feet above the surface. Adjusting their settings, Declan modified the the right drone for incinerate charges, the left for overload charges, and the center for cryo blast charges. With the elemental damage placed on the field, the vorcha had more to worry about than biotic charges and krogan headbutts. Meanwhile, Trish had used her biotics to deploy barriers around the drones for added protection, since they would most likely be targeted first, given the fact that they stand out so brightly amidst Omega's dark atmosphere. She also focused some of her energy on helping to recharge Rosa's own barrier, since the human woman was the most vulnerable as the team's vanguard.

When another dozen of the smelly pests broke out into the alley, the drones took flight and weaved between the Dashers to immediately flank the attackers. Declan didn't need to issue many commands on his omni-tool, as the VI took care of most of that for him. So while some of the vorcha were being burned, frozen, or shocked, the man picked off the weakened and confused targets with his Striker from a safe distance back.

"Keep 'em coming!" Dec exclaimed. "By the way, anyone know who these idiots are working for? Vorcha aren't smart enough to coordinate an ambush like this on their own."

Vol watched, slowly grinding out his cigar, his pressure-mask expressionless as his Vorcha welcome wagon was scorched, pulped and perforated by the enthusiasm of the suddenly-reformed Dashers. The lug, the lush and the loner, all together again, and all tearing through his carefully-laid plan like pyjaks through a food crate. Now everyone BUT Callaway would be heading toward his inner sanctum. The situation had spiraled out of all proportion. And it was all because of...

"ZIK!" bellowed Vol, wheezing and thumping one metal fist against the desk as a familiar shape cartwheeled across the camera's field of view, grinning maniacally.

---

A pair of seasoned thugs, one human, one Turian, glanced back toward the sealed door as they lounged against the alcoves to either side. The black marketeer's muffled rage continued to sound distantly through the blast shields.

"He sounds mad." crackled the human's voice from behind his helmet. "You think this Zik is gonna launch a counterstrike?"

"Nawww, there ain't no such guy." offered the Turian, smoothly.

"What, for real?"

"Yeah, yeah." he gestured vaguely. "It's some Volus thing, like if I was to say to you, uhhhh, 'the Devil made me do it' or something. Like, there's no literal actual human Devil, it's just a thing you say when things go wrong. Specter of bad luck, wrench in the works, you get the picture."

"Seems pretty worked up over a specter."

"Listen, I've heard the boss blame 'Zik' for everything from a reactor overload to not enough blue ice in his Matra Colada. It's a fairy tale, like Kalros, or Josef Stalin."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

"...Those were both real, though."

"What?"

"Kalros and Stalin were both real."

"Get outta here."

"Telling you, man. Seen the vids."

"...Huh."

Both men stood up a little straighter, shifting their grip on their guns and watching the dim corridors with sudden unease.

The best thing about vorcha was that you never felt bad for what you did to them.

Zik just couldn't say the same thing about any other species in the galaxy. There was always some aspect of them to empathize with but vorcha were nasty, dirty, vicious, and most importantly ugly. Like...really ugly. Somehow that made it easier to carve one's way through a gaggle of them without feeling anything but satisfaction. It certainly seemed to work for Rosa, who had dashed in there and started kicking the shit out of the little buggers without more than an instant's hesitation.

The brawl in the middle of the street was cast in Omega's trademark cinematic glow, the kind of color only cheap fluorescent and military grade hardware could buy. Rosa's blue-flash fists, Declan's glowing neon holo-drones, the constant, discordant muzzle-flashes and explosions... if he could only get the damn angle right, this would outsell Blasto in a hearbeat.

"Personal annotation," Zik appended idly to his omnitool as he typed away with a one-handed proficiency that would have spoke of unseemly habits if his species had a non-Asari-induced sex-drive, "look into directing career." And he was, in fact, typing, and doing substantially more than that. While the firefight went on, Zik was basically...well...standing there. Having lead the vorcha to his remaining teammates, the battle was functionally on auto-pilot for him--now was the time to crunch the data.

Rosa was significantly less cautious even than usual--high probability of substance use given increased biotic activity and aggression. She'd kept up on her kick-boxing, which was a pity. She still hadn't taken up Military CQC, which she would benefit from and Zik had nudged her towards before she left. He'd have to start leaving flyers in her feminine hygiene products again.

Abrax was a tank, as per usual, but he was a reluctant tank, which was not usual. Rusty as indicated, rather than reluctant? Significantly more likely despite self-assessment. Monitor further. Quarter-step backwards to compensate for impact on kinetic barrier--stray round? No, vorcha aggression instinct targeting apparent weakness. Draw-aim-fire-holster, increase bracing distance of rear leg. Current rate of shield depletion satisfactory considering--

Pop.

That.

And so on. It was how Zik operated, how he'd learned to operate within the group. For the leader of the Assault Team he seemed to do a surprisingly little amount of the actual assaulting, on paper--why would he? Both Rosa and Abrax could sustain close-quarters combat much longer than he could and specialized in it. No competition. Errol was better equipped and a better marksman at distance than he cared to be, Declan preferred to waste omnitool memory on drone controls and VI updates, and Trish was naturally inclined towards supporting others and powerfully equipped to do so between her biotic and technical expertise. So where, then, did that leave Zik?

That's the point of the thing, Zik mentally sang from a 195 year old cult classic, not to know!

Declan's question drew him from his processing, eyes flicking over to the returned human for a moment. Possible reaction upon revealing treachery of Omus Vol was likely amusement--vorcha not a significant threat, unlikely to deal real harm to a team of Dashers' caliber. Alternative possible reaction of possibly lethal irritation resulting in the (statistically likely) loss of Zik's favorite chew toy. Too risky. But...

"Not certain, but I know who does." He lied with clipped, silken ease, fingers working away on a new window of his omnitool. Draw-aim-fire-holster, return to work. Another vorcha had been getting uppity on the corners of the battlefield--the blue pulse of the high-explosive round embedded in his diaphragm three seconds earlier. Adapt to that, non-differentiated cellular biology, Zik had better things to do than play with you right now.

Like catch an old friend between a rock and a hard place.

One screen was busy collating his accumulated files of one Omus Vol into a tight little dossier--it wasn't hard. Zik kept dossier on most people as a matter of course, for personal entertainment, but in this case he was really redacting more than he was adding in. Couldn't leave the little titan's empire too tattered to be useful for a newly-formed Dashers. His Omega contacts, however, including a few sensitive little transactions that he absolutely would not want a certain Aria T'Loak to find out about, however, Zik...

Well. Sent to said certain Aria T'Loak, of course. Along with the holo-meme of Credit Karad, the famous Batarian rapper, turning on his dual-banded sun visor and dropping his vocal recorder on stage at the end of his concert. For effect.

"We should pay Omus Vol a visit. Sooner, rather than later."

CRACK.

As Abrax caught up with the human female, the thunderous sound of an explosive shotgun round firing off echoed through the gunfight, as did the bursting of Rosa's barriers that followed. "Fuck!" She exclaimed as the shrapnel from the weapon impacted the back of her armour at point-blank range and proceeded to detonate, blasting the off-balance vanguard to the ground in almost an instant. As she laid on the ground, her head spinning from the 'catch-up' with the Krogan in Afterlife, she felt the pulsing of a biotic barrier forming over the plates of her armour. "Trish."

Suddenly, a combat drone whizzed over her head as Rosa rolled over, avoiding a second blast from the Katana wielding vorcha and
kipping up to her feet, placing her left hand on the space station's flooring to gain balance before reaching out for the shotgun's underside, along with control of the creature-like being's wrist. Seizing control of his weapon a moment later by clutching the rear of the weapon and twisting it away from her face just in the nick of time as a third shot went off, a mere foot away from her head. Rosa felt the burn of the gun's muzzle as she slammed it into the vorcha thug's chin, forcing him to release control of his weapon, knocking him back a few steps with a bloody chin for his efforts. Turning the shotgun to it's owner, Rosa gave a smirk as she pulled the trigger.

Click.

"Typical." She quipped as the vorcha snarled, almost taunting the woman as he charged her, tackling her to the ground. He almost even succeeded in keeping her down, but Rosa's finesse was such that she was able to roll both of the outlaws out from the takedown and finish the manoeuvre in a dominant position, standing over her foe. Quickly raising her right leg, Rosa brought it down upon his throat with such force that the vorcha's neck broke immediately upon impact.

A series of multiple three shot bursts began to pepper at Rosa's barrier from her left as she regained her bearings, her head beginning to ache as it always would while she used her powers, a side effect of her creation. Rosa always used that term. She wasn't born for the same purpose as other children, she knew that. Everything about Rosa's upbringing made that very clear to her. She was conceived for the purpose of an experiment, nothing more. Looking to her left, the vanguard identified three targets leapfrogging away from her using what little cover there was left between the former pirate and mercenaries after Zik's prior antics. All Rosa knew, was that as ever when it came to Zik's solo adventures; she didn't want to know what.

Planning her next assault, Rosa broke off to the left of the burning building's interior, away from the gunfire of the vorcha in an attempt to find some decent cover. Eventually it came, in the shape of a set of steel drawers. "It's better than nothing." She grumbled to herself, dropping into a slide across the floor and into refuge from the automatic gunfire. It was in this moment, that all but one of the trio of began to redirect their fire towards the rest of the old Dashers crew, evidently believing that one autorifle would be enough to keep the woman pinned.

Oh how wrong would they turn out to be.

Clearing her head for a moment, Rosa lowered her barriers in order to free up more of her concentration, fuelling the destructive energies of her annihilation field as the throbbing began to rear it's head. God she hated that. While she was multitudes more powerful than your average biotic, the stress her body went through during combat was also significantly higher. This coupled with Rosa's over-aggressive tendencies often caused her to push herself so hard, it was not uncommon for her to pass out due to sheer exhaustion mid-operation back in the day. Vaulting over the set of drawers as her foe began to cease fire, Rosa was incredibly lucky not to catch a round from the second vorcha's ensuing suppressive fire as she dropped into a roll, lowering her figure out of the hired gun's line of fire, before rising to her feet once more and breaking into a sprint at the now in-cover vorcha, who had dropped to reload.

As she came upon the ceiling rubble that her enemies were behind, Rosa performed a pop vault, spring-boarding off of the concrete and above the head of the vorcha which had previously been attempting to pin her, cycling her legs as though she were riding a bicycle and generating a warp field as she did so. What followed, was the human slugger kicking the noticeably distraught alien square in the middle of his face, knocking him clean out. With a cat-like balance the zealous assault team member landed on her feet and let fly the fluctuating orb of kinetic energy, when it made contact with the vorcha's chest, a destructive biotic explosion erupted at the point of impact, blasting him back several feet. Without hesitation Rosa continued her onslaught, slamming the left shin of her armour into the inside of the fleshy alien's knee, the unexpected strike knocking him severely off balance before 'the Morrigan' followed up with a monstrous right hook-left knee combo to the solar plexus and forehead of her final foe, dazing him for long enough for her to use her biotics to raise him into the air, and then slam him head first into the ground.

The crunch that followed was sickening, with her foes defeated, listened in on the surrounding combat and was glad to hear that the gunfire had stopped. Having been away from the team for so long had made her start to get lonely in her position, and even though the group did not break up on the best of terms she longed to gallivant across the Milky Way with her comrades, no. Her friends.

It was as those thoughts went through her head that Rosa felt what could only be described as a stabbing sensation in her cheeks. Cursing, the woman brought the fingers of her right hand up to the bridge of her nose and began to apply pressure whilst shaking her head. After a short while she released her grip and caressed her upper lip, wiping the blood which seeped from her nose from her face with her gloved hand. She began to feel slightly nauseous, but after a moment her nose ceased bleeding and Martinez began to sober up. Looking around by the unconscious and dead vorcha, Rosa spotted a small data pad on the belt of the pistol wielding vorcha and she moved to investigate.

Upon opening the data pad, a message was immediately displayed in large font capital letters as though it were meant for a simpleton.

\\\\\\\\\\ VORCHA BRING BOSS SALARIAN //////////
//////////

"Goddamn it Zik..." She mumbled to herself, giving a slight giggle at how little the Salarian had changed since she had last seen him before raising her voice so that the others would be able to hear her. "Guys? You might wanna come take a look at this."