---

Declan Callaway

---

When the last of the Vorcha had been finally decimated by the Dashers' quick response to the foiled ambush, Declan processed Zik's answer to his earlier question. The cunning little Omus Vol was still in business? Perhaps Dec shouldn't be too surprised. A volus such as that one always stands to make a profit where there is even the slightest possibility to do so. And on Omega? Omus was surely thriving in whatever business scheme he had been concocting over the last couple of years.

"If Short-Stack had anything to do with this," the captain began, "then I'll jab an omni-blade in one of his suit's tubes myself."

An unfamiliar voice echoed from the flank with a turian flange. "First, Mr. Calaway, your presence has been requested back inside."

Declan turned to see three turian guards in full armor, sporting the tell-tale maroon and gold colors of the Talons, their logo emblazoned in white on the chest pieces. Each of them held Avengers in their three-fingered hands, but their composed posture indicated that they weren't there with the intention of starting a fight. They were bodyguards or some kind of security detail, then.

"Requested by whom?"

"Aria T'Loak," the turian in the front answered, nodding his helmed head back toward the door, as if giving a non-verbal order to come with them.

Declan first looked to Trish, who gave him a nod of assurance before saying, "Go ahead. She's been meaning to talk to you since your arrival, anyway. Some about 'house breaking' and all that." The man frowned at the joke.

"Fine," the captain said. "Go track down our tubby little friend while I deal with Aria."

Rosa's voice called out from the remains of the battle further down from the group. "Guys? You might wanna come take a look at this." A datapad was in her hand, but just as Declan was about to step toward her to see what she had found, the turian that had interrupted them cleared his throat.

"Aria doesn't like to be kept waiting, Mr. Callaway."

"Yeah, yeah." The man doubled back to them but said over his shoulder. "Trish, Zik, take the team and find Vol. I'll message you when I'm done here."

---

Trishar Rayana

---

The asari slowly shook her head with a small smile on her blue lips, watching Declan gradually leave the group in tow behind the Talons. It was true that Aria T'Loak wanted to meet with him as soon as Trish had delivered word to Omega's ruler that he had docked; however, beyond her annoyed *tsk* followed by a slight expression of piqued curiosity, Trish didn't know her current employer's reason for summoning him. While she had faith that the man could handle himself in both fights and tough negotiations, she also realized that he had been out of the game for two years, and so she also hoped that he wasn't about to land himself in a heap of trouble with Aria T'Loak.

There was nothing she could do about any of that right now, though. He had tasked her with a mission... which seemed very odd and a bit foreign to her. Without fully realizing it, she had subconsciously acknowledged and agreed to follow his orders to seek out Omus. It's like two years had merely been two days, that Captain Callaway had never left and that they were all still members of a crew. Surely she wasn't so malleable... right? Or would "resilient" be a better descriptor?

Pushing those thoughts aside, Trish turned to Zik. "Do you know where Omus is now?"

---

Declan Callaway

---

Back inside Afterlife, Declan made his way across the main floor to one of the staircases on each side of Aria's VIP balcony that overlooked the club. At the foot of the steps he passed by a turian in red and yellow armor, wearing a look that suggested he had been expecting Declan. A logo printed on the chest plate was a maroon triple-crossed "T" with a white circle around it. The same maroon was also painted on his face, denoting the turian's loyalty to the organization in much the same manner that any other design would normally suggest their clan or home colony.

The Talons. The fourth largest mercenary gang on Omega. As of right now, they're also Aria's most trusted. The group is primarily turian, but there are also a handful of asari and humans on their payroll. Several more stood guard outside of the VIP booth that Aria occupied at the top of the steps.

"All clear," one of them announced after having scanned Declan with his omni-tool, securing Declan’s striker and own omni-tool with another guard a good distance away. As soon as he waved Declan through, the man gratefully continued walking up to Omega's symbolic seat of power. Aria T'Loak sat on her favorite black couch with one leg crossed over another. A drink of light-blue liquid was in one hand, while her violet eyes quickly scanned over a datapad held by the other.

Only a few seconds passed before the defacto queen lowered the pad to her side and glared upward at Declan. "So," she said in a pronounced voice, "I hope you didn’t expect to come all this way from that Alliance military prison to cause chaos on my station, Callaway.”

Declan shrugged his shoulders before crossing both arms over his chest. “I thought I did you a favor back there. Someone needs to make sure Omus Vol stays in check, and I’m the only one that rollie-pollie actually fears. … Or so I tell myself.” Of course, there was little evidence to suggest Vol was behind what had happened, but Zik connecting the Volus' likely knowledge of the event was enough to let Declan get away with a half-truth and have some fun.

Aria seemed lost for a moment. “Rollie-what-now?”

“Nevermind that. As it goes, I’m here to put my crew back together, and you’re going to help me.”

The queen’s eyes narrowed before she placed her hands on her knees briefly before standing up from the couch in a sudden manner, coming eye-to-eye with Declan. However, the human didn’t back away from where he stood. T’Loak may be the last person anyone would want to make demands to, but Declan wasn’t just anyone.

“Excuse me?” Aria growled with a seething temper.

“We humans have a saying:” he continued, “quid pro quo. I can get you something I know you’ll want, but all I need from you to deliver it... is a ship.”

There was a very subtle change in the glimmer of her eyes, the blue flames of rage dying down for a brief moment under the urge of curiosity.

Blah blah blah swaggering human machismo! Blah blah revenge!

Zik stifled a paternal smile. It was nice to have Declan back.

"More likely to know than to have instigated. Stupid, not suicidal." Stupidly suicidal? Suicidally stupid? Whatever. The Turians cropping up to show the human a good time weren't nearly as alarming for Zik as they probably should have been--Aria T'Loak was many things, but stupid wasn't one of them. Declan Calaway wasn't the kind of person you iced in a back alley for shits and giggles, and while the two would butt all sorts of heads he was also smart enough to know what lines to draw. While negotiations with the Captain were always some of the more precarious situations the crew could get into, Zik had learned that said swaggering human machismo also required he be intelligent enough to get away with his bullshit stunts, preferably with his crew in tact.

As the battle wound down and their newly reinstated Captain was lead away by the goons, Zik's attention flicked to the love of his life and her daring question. Having researched the subject somewhat aggressively, Zik still had no idea how it was that asari were able to inspire the kind of effect on Salarians that they did on every other species. Propagation was a method of social control, dammit, not this silly past time of shooting DNA at one another like the rest of the universe seemed to believe! And yet...

Well. Yet.

Zik's internal monologue concerning the asari was entirely Quixotic, filled with grand Tarantinesque gestures and silly little shared banter. A running romance novel of the grizzled salarian veteran and the ancient biotic goddess, Grade A Romance-Holo Bullshit that he maintained more as a lark than anything else. Still, with enough biotic badassery and accumulated combat experience to put messy little holes in him if she ever learned how often he wondered what she would look like in a yellow jumpsuit, Zik was more than happy to keep his little mental gymnastics to himself.

"For you, darling, I can find out."

...mostly to himself.

He, of course, already knew. As he'd already known since long before their little meeting, but it was useful to buy him some time as he worked away with his omnitool. They wouldn't have a lot of time, and as much as he wanted to surprise the Vol he also had to snare him into their little group again, which meant at least some coordination and tact. And timing.

Rosa's comment, however, actually took him by surprise. Making his way over to check the datapad, he cocked his head curiously at the message to the Vorcha. The Salarian? It obviously meant Zik--who else?--but it didn't seem like something Omus had done. Certainly the order had initially been for Calaway, so why...

"Ah. Moment."

Only one way for Omus to know of Zik's involvement and not act directly--for him not to know, but someone else to. A quick scan confirmed it, and he smiled with predatory glee as his system popped up a small red flag on a file stuck onto the last batch of data it had scanned from Vol's systems, a reasonably-competent little spy program determining his whereabouts. Omus personal aid was a bit quicker on the draw than she had been the last few times. She was soon to be a bit quicker on the draw than she had any idea of.

"Looks like a hack in my datapad. Minor. Can't believe I missed it." He lied again with casual ease, fingers working to redo the numbers. What if Omus wasn't the villain in this little affair, but the dupe? The obvious plot, a rotund obfuscation for the true mastermind...

Emily Short. Personal assistant and Super Genius.

"Must have been tracking me, known where I was for the vorcha. Suspect Vol's personal assistant--ambitious. Ruthless. Cunning." Completely ignorant that she was now significantly richer and significantly more wanted by Omega's personal crime lord, who now understood her responsible for more than half of her pint-sized employer's prized schemes and a substantial portion of his wealth, not to mention a back-alley brawl of military proportions.

"Let's say hello. Got his address right here." He added, finally deactivating his tool and motioning down another alleyway for them to follow.

"Good work, team."

And good to be back.

Alexia
Alexia had been busy on a mechanic job for Aria, though she hadn't been contracted directly by the Queen of Omega, when she'd recieved a message from Trishar with news of Calaway's return. But she wasn't one to leave a job half done and especially not when that job is for the one person on Omega you don't piss off. A quick pause in her work and she sent a message to the Asari letting her know she was busy but Trishar probably already knew that.

The frigate she and probably two dozen other people were working on had seen better days but she was happy to work on it. After all she was getting paid pretty well for it but she'd have to finish up today and tender her 'resignation' so she could return to the dashers but she still had another half hour of work to do before she was done for the day, and she'd also have the thrusters almost completely fixed even if they wouldn't be hooked up for a while longer, hopefully one of these other lugs won't break them again later.

"Sigh ... No time to drop home and clean up or grab the rest of my gear." She grumbles to herself as she gives a final tweak on a bolt and looks down at herself, the jumpsuit she had been wearing half undone and tied around her waist showing off her tight black sports bra, glad she'd chosen that one as it was now likely heavily streaked with grease like the rest of her, even her usually fiery red hair had streaks of black grease and she was not going to be enjoying trying to get it out later, at least she kept it short. Setting her tools back in her tool belt she wiped some sweat off her brow only to replace it with a bit of grease. "Nick, I've told you plenty of times I'm not interested so fuck off before you end up sitting down to piss." She growls at a very average if slightly ugly man who had been approaching from the side and instantly backs off after she spoke. God damn there were times she hated Omega and this guy was one of the reasons why.

Moving away from the thruster and the perv that had been annoying her she made her way out of the hangar and towards Afterlife as she pulled her jumpsuit back on. Most of the rest of the crew had probably already met up but maybe she could find out where they'd gone by heading to the rendezvous just outside the heart of the station. When she arrived she found a lot of dead Vorcha outside a tennement that looked like it had exploded, probably Zik, he always did have a flare for the dramatic and it made for a decent escape while taking out one's enemies. There were also a few more armed guards outside Afterlife and a cleaning crew was just arriving to clean up the mess.

"Yep definitely the work of Zik and the gang. I wonder where everyone went." She muses to herself as she stays out of the way of the cleaning crew only to have her thoughts interrupted by the door to Afterlife open and Calaway exit the club. "Well damn, the Fitzgerald character returns from the dead. I bet Errol is both delighted to see you and consumed with wanting to beat you into a pulp. And before you say anything yeah I know but you honestly need to read more of the classics." She says a little bit self conscious because of her 'fresh out of the garage' look but also generally not caring because she didn't really want to impress anyone with looks.

Vol swiveled in his chair, deliberately turning it so the back was faced toward the entrance, as a pair of muted thumps sounded from beyond the door. Yesss, a good businessman knew how to conduct a meeting of this sort. He addressed his secretary without looking at her.

"*Hfffffffff* ...Mz Short, take a note, if you would... Should there be any survivors out there.... "

The locks disengaged and the blast doors slid open.

"...Fire them."

Beyond the doors, the red carpet extended far longer than it needed to, sprawling past racks of weapons and explosives toward the volus's monolithic desk, ringed by its holographic monitors and climbing profit margins. Vol's lean, pallid secretary stood to one side, dataslate in one hand, omniblade hovering over the other, watching the newcomers critically, the hairs on the back of her neck already beginning to stand on end. Above it all, behind the arms dealer's dark throne, hung a gigantic portrait of Vol himself standing on a craggy battlefield, holding a Protectorate flag and standing dramatically at the head of an army of Council races, beckoning them onward and pointing toward the threatening silhouette of a landed Reaper. An inspirational piece, he'd thought upon having it commissioned. Probably how it would have happened, had he been there at the time. He'd approached Martinez to paint some of the others, of course -- she would have been cheaper -- but negotiations had soured when she hadn't been able to stop laughing. Well, they would see who was laughing now!

The enormous chair slowly wheeled around to face the newcomers as they approached, the volus's claws steepled ominously in front of him.

"Ahh, Mz Rayana," he announced, smoothly, turning his attentions to the Asari, "*Hfssssssst* ...what a pleasant surprise. Have you come to reconsider my offer of employment? I may not know what Aria has on you, my dear, but you and I both know that she won't be running this station forever."

Vol pretended to notice the Dashers for the first time. Abrax and Martinez were positively glowing in the aftermath of combat, and there of course was that meddling anarchist Zik, grinning as though having the time of his mercifully brief existence and flicking his ocular membranes back and forth at Vol the way an Earth-clan might waggle his eyebrows. If Vol's suit could have vented steam, it would have.

"Ahh, but I see you've brought guests!" The volus spread his stubby arms wide, his voice dripping with sarcasm. A pair of Batarian mass accelerator turrets whined with an industrial chorus as they unfolded from the walls, training their barrels on the Dashers. "*Hffffft* ...May I offer you some refreshments? Cigars? Perhaps a new shotgun for Abrax? I'm sure you'll find my revised prices reasonable, hm hm hm!"

The beady lenses regarded them all in turn, the gun turrets shifting minutely as they recalibrated with each tiny movement. The diminutive arms dealer continued.

"Yeesss, how wonderful to see the Dash-clan all back together again. How quickly the old habits reassert themselves. Ohh, yes; Callaway reappears mysteriously and you all fall into his lap, as though nothing ever happened!" Vol leaned forward and thumped the table, lurching to his feet. "But it did happen! I suppose he was let go for "good behavior," hnnnmmm?... *...Hfffsscht* ...Perhaps you don't see what's going on here, but Omus Vol is nobody's fool!" he punctuated the statement by thumping one hand repeatedly against the chest of his pressure suit and puffing up as much as the heavy rig actually allowed him to.

"Well?... *pfffsssst* ...Why have you come here, hmmn? What could you possibly have to say to me?"

---

Errol Vahn

---

// PRESENT DAY, OMEGA //

“Go track down our tubby little friend while I deal with Aria.”

Errol nearly threw his hands up in protest. When he stepped back on Omega after surviving what he referred to as a Vorcha Holocaust the last thing he wanted to do was thrown into the insanity that was this terrible excuse for a Dasher’s Reunion. Generally people who got back together did it over drinks, not over whatever this hell was. Ignoring the fact that they didn’t even have the time to get proper equipment ready, it was all so much to take in at once. The flood of names, the rush of action, and the expectations to follow through. It was something you’d at least need a briefing for— but there wasn’t any briefing or comprehension beyond “follow leader, point gun, shoot gun” and after having nearly a dozen or so drinks Errol wasn’t exactly in the best position to deal with it. The aching he felt fighting the Vorcha in space was gone, sure, but he wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing here and he knew damn well that the chips were going to fall at some point during their little job-let which would end with Errol needing even more alcohol to numb down a new set of painful woes.

Then there was the point that he wasn’t exactly geared for anything— all he had were a Stinger pistol with one thermal clip nearly depleted and a metal mesh knife tucked in the back of his utility belt. The brown-haired scoundrel took a heavy breath as the group separated from Declan and against his better judgement he spoke up.

“You guys do your thing, I’ll catch up with you. I’m low on ammo and weapons.”

There was a few protesting comments thrown back at Errol but he shook his head as he took off; besides they really didn’t need a guy with a pistol with no rounds. Of course, Errol had his reasons beyond simply restocking— a fact that was obvious as his footing hastened as he caught up with Declan as he walked back inside Afterlife. Declan, of course, noticed as soon as it was apparent that one Dasher had decided not to exactly take his orders and split off from the group but Declan had to see Aria so it wasn’t like they could be distracted and argue or chat over the stipulations on why Errol did what he did. But then again, Declan, always had trouble with “commanding” Errol back when he hadn’t any debt with the sharpshooter. A debt that Errol was still a bit ornery about. However, such animosity was curbed almost immediately as Declan took to conversing with Aria T’Loak with the bravado that reminded him why Errol had stayed on with the Dashers during their original run in the first place.

“Heh. He’s willing to irritate Aria fuckin’ T’Loak over getting his posse back together in full form. Ha. Maybe today isn’t going to be so bad after all.”

The alcohol in his system seemed to begin hammering Errol a little after Declan’s bold comment and things began to go a little wonky. Errol’s first thought was back at his bartending friend and wondering if he didn’t hold the poison as some elaborate prank— but it was just the fact Errol had seven drinks and whatever his Krogan comrade had forced him to down. When things cleared up (after vomiting all over the floor of Afterlife following the meeting with Aria) he was ensured that he did not vomit anywhere near Aria; a fact he was thankful for considering he didn’t want his vomit to be a deciding factor in Declan’s revamp of The Dashers. A good thing, indeed. The next few bits of preparation before they set off back to the mission at hand was Errol’s gear— his additional thermal clips, his rifle, his extra pistol, a new jacket that was preferably not vomit-covered. Declan was likely, or as much as Errol assumed, too busy being amused to comment on why he tagged along to hear him talk to Aria but Errol knew the question would come up eventually or Declan would sweep it under the rug as being unimportant.

But as they were leaving Omega after digging through Errol’s locker of many things (which his bartender friend kept under the counter), they ran into another person from the past: Alexia “Dragon” Stone.

“Well damn, the Fitzgerald character returns from the dead. I bet Errol is both delighted to see you and consumed with wanting to beat you into a pulp. And before you say anything yeah I know but you honestly need to read more of the classics.”

Errol laughed as he came up from behind Declan and slammed his hand on the older man’s back. “Oh no, we’re good. Didn’t you hear, Stone Cold? He’s paying in installments.”

"You never returned my last Norgrud Day card."

Of the many lovely things in Omus Vol's possession, those Battarian turrets were a real masterpiece. Say what you would about the volus, he knew his weapons--the pair of them were perfectly calibrated, with some of the most advanced targeting systems available outside of an SA starship. Well weighted, designed to punch through an Atlas mech without batting an eye, the whirling quad-mounted mass drivers were ready to mow down a small army and stonewalled by the kind of biometrics system that even Zik hadn't been able to hack into. To be staring down the barrels of them (again) was not high on Zik's list of sought-after experiences.

Outsmarting them, and the wannabe crime-lord that owned them, was.

The waggling of his ridges continued, unable to keep his tone contrite as he padded his way forward. A slight hand motion to the team--hang on, hang on--had the side-effect of showcasing the pistol planted firmly at his hip and away from his hand. Like a street performing making it obvious there was nothing up his sleeve. As he stepped forward along the crimson crushed velvet, the whine of the turrets following him was poignant. Zik always enjoyed performance under pressure.

"Rude of you. But I'm really here to do you a favor, Omus, and get you out of here while the getting's still good. They're onto your little charade... Miss Short." He trailed off dramatically and, pointedly, slid his eyes not to the Crime Lord, but to his erstwhile personal assistant. She would probably be considered an attractive human, by human standards--Volus typically made sure his assistance were, either thanks to some latent xenophilia or a simple appreciation for the effect that the finer things can have on clients. Zik would have bet on the latter, though the former was much more entertaining.

"Don't try to deny it!" Zik said quickly, raising a three-fingered hand with dramatic speed to interrupt what was sure to be a dropped jaw or a stuttered response--his eyes closed, long-suffering and exasperated. "Well played, trying to pin the blame on poor Omus, but we both know that Omus Vol is a creature of integrity." His eyes opened, this time pointing directly to the cameras surveying the office. The same ones that could, conceivably (and actually) hide any number of piggy-backed remote record programs--he nodded his head to them in case the idea wasn't clear enough.

He dared further, making his way up to the platform proper amidst the shocked silence and huffing, hissing gaseous noises emitted by Omus' suit. The turrets followed him, almost warily, but he had his hands up diplomatically. "He would never do something as foolish as set up a plan to cross Aria T'Loak, and absolutely not by stockpiling arms taken out of the his best shipments to place into the hands of mercenaries. Clever of you, balancing the right mixture of ambitious, foolish, and dangerous--it might well have been a real threat."

Omus would be getting restless. It was all him, of course, and he'd want the credit. Zik would, he guessed, have to be less subtle--especially to keep the young lady from speaking up. He stepped around the massive desk to the chair on the other side and laid a hand, slowly enough not to excite the aggression-sensors on the alarmingly-close turrets, on Omus' shoulder.

"But the jig, as they say, is up. T'Loak is on to your little game," he said pointedly, waggling a finger to her in properly nannying reprimand, "and I'm not about to let you drag my best friend Omus Vol's name through the mud! I'm taking him away, before Aria's Talons get here to seize all of his hard work, because he had the misfortune of trusting such a lovely and deceptively cunning individual such as yourself." Turning to look at her above Vol's head, away from the cameras, he couldn't resist himself a cheeky wink.

Poor thing.

"And not just I!" His hand shot up fast enough to make the turrets whirl, one finger pointed dramatically to the air as he strutted forward off the volus' miniature throne once more. "No, Omus, after everything you've done for us all, not one of your good friends the Dashers could let you be thrown to the varren over a slight such as this. With our Captain back and negotiations with Aria herself already underway," he said pointedly, extending a hand gamely towards the arms dealer, "I'd say this is as good a chance as any for you to get out of this before you find yourself sunk for good. And if it happens to give Miss Short a heads up that T'Loak is wise to her schemes, well..." He shrugged, sighed.

"I suppose that's the price one has to pay."

Would he buy it? By all accounts it was straight ham, the kind of over-the-top performance that was at best comic and at worst ridiculous. It was as much a farce for the rest of the Dashers as it was a ploy to bring Omus Vol back into the mix, an obvious show, but would the crime lord actually play along?

The portrait of himself at the head of a charge--painted as if he might actually have been in the same solar system--made him feel better about his odds.

Zik stepped forward, into the line of fire. At last. The anarchic interference. The scam netmails. The insufferable jokes. It would be so easy. So easy to end them all.

But he hesitated.

The Sur-Clan was smiling.

Why was he smiling? He shouldn't be smiling. He was outmatched! This was Omus Vol's domain. He held all the cards! He owned the entire deck!

"What?--" Short spoke up in protest as Zik's performance went on.

Vol was paralyzed. Snared in a labyrinth of second guesses. He had lost this game too many times to simply brush this off. Zik knew something. The Sur-Clan knew something he didn't. Paranoia overtook him. The pressure suit's lenses stared straight ahead in blank, silent terror.

"No, that's--"

What was it? Had the guns been reprogrammed? Were they training themselves on Vol's back even now, their ammunition replaced with cream pies?

"Oh, for--"

He was setting up Vol's secretary. But why? What was his grand gambit, his endgame? What nefarious and circuitous plot was he hatching? This had to be only the first step. Where was the pitfall?

"Listen, pal--"

Fool! one half of his mind asserted, it was a bluff! He has to be bluffing!

"I don't even--"

But what if he wasn't? shrieked the other half in borderline panic. It was just possible that Zik was playing some hideous game of reverse psychology. Anything Vol did might be the wrong move!

"You can't possibly think--"

She was cut off again and again as the assault leader delivered his next line, prancing and pirouetting like an exotic dancer made of LIES. As her protests became more vigorous and Vol's Zik-induced paranoia reached a fever pitch, the arms dealer rallied, laying his hands down on the desk and leaning forward. This charade had gone on long enough. The eyes of the Dashers and his own people were upon him. It was time to fold, or to call. And Omus Vol did not fold.

"*sssssssst* ...I don't know what kind of game you think you're playing, Sur-Clan, but--"

The doors slammed open again, packed with T'Loak's personal guard, bristling with heavy weaponry.

"VOL!" bellowed the leader.

"It was her!" Omus blurted, pointing both stubby claws at his (former) secretary.

The woman threw up her hands. "AW, COMEON!"

The armored mercenaries took up positions along the walls, crouching and leveling their weapons. "It's over, kid! We know everything! Aria wants to talk to you. Slowly."

"You fat, backstabbing piece of Elcor crap!" Short pointed a skinny, accusing finger at Vol before rounding on the Salarian, "And you! Don't think I don't know you were behind this! You two think you can just set me up and hang me out to dry? You'll be sorry. You'll both be very sorry!"

There was a thunderous biotic detonation, an explosion of reinforced metal, and a fleeing secretary, pursued by Aria's hounds. Vol stood rigid as the dust slowly settled. And then he gradually stepped out from behind the desk, simmering. He spread his arms, forcing a glacially cheery tone.

"*hsssst* ...My dear friends," he wheezed, "How... good it is to see you again. *hffshhh* ...If you will just give me a moment to... *hffff* ...call my number two secretary and... transfer some assets... Whilst I prepare for your..."

Omus glared murderously at Zik. His teeth grit so hard behind the sculpted respirator it made the speakers vibrate.

"...Adventures."

The crooked portrait fell from the wall with a weak thump.

---

Trishar Rayana

---

Trish stood in the middle of the group after the team had barged into Vol's office. Making their way through his building was pretty much a cinch, almost as if the volus had completely forgotten exactly what they were capable of. Hired mercs? Cliché booby traps? Well... the turrets were a nice touch, and Rayana had to admit that she wouldn't want to make the slightest move that would set them off... Okay, perhaps Vol had learned a thing or two while gallivanting across the galaxy with them.

The asari was about to suggest that they withdraw and target the turrets with biotics, or use some of Zik's explosives (as, without a doubt, the salarian still had some on him), but the assault team's leader had a better idea in mind. What exactly that idea was and where he was going with it, Trish hadn't the slightest clue. Nevertheless, she watched with sheer anticipation as the salarian paced about the room and gave a grand and totally bullshit speech. It became quite evident he meant to use a bit of psychology and clever misdirection to throw Vol off his game and pin everything on his assistant. The human woman attempted to protest several times, to Trishar's amusement, but she got no where before the Talons arrived.

After Short's entertaining exit, Vol's rapid change in attitude only brought a sharp smirk to Trish's lips.

"Uh-huh...," was all she could say in response when he finished.

While the others secured the area and harassed Vol, Trish turned away to bring up her omni-tool and tap out a quick message to Declan.

We're done here. Location for RV?

---

Declan Callaway

---

Back at Aria’s VIP booth in Afterlife, the asari stood with her back to Declan, overlooking her domain with crossed arms and pondering eyes. She had finished listening to the man’s proposal nearly a full minute ago, but she was mulling it over in her thoughts, contemplating everything that had just come out of his mouth. Half of it appalled her, the other half intrigued her beyond anything else.

“You’ve just given me a lot of sensitive information, Callaway,” she said in a foreboding tone. “Are you so sure I won’t turn around and sell it to the highest bidder tomorrow morning?”

“I’m sure,” the man said with firm confidence. “Doing so would mean that you stand to lose everything… And we both know you’re not one to play it fast-and-loose anymore when it comes to Omega.” Throwing a thumb over his shoulder at the guards, he also said, “And you have a thing for holding on to the past, too, it seems.”

Aria turned her head to shoot an icy glare over her shoulder. “Don’t test me, Callaway.” There was a brief spark of biotic energy that arced across the back of her neck for only a second. When she let the comment go, she turned her gaze back to the dancer’s platform in the center of the club and said, “You’re going to need a helmsman. Mr. Mansfield perished in that brave stunt you pulled two years ago, didn’t he?”

Declan allowed a more somber tone to escape him in his reply. “Yes… he did. And Trish brought up the same fact. I’ll need a good pilot, even though I know that no one can ever take Darcy’s place. She did have a recommendation for one though… Someone currently working for you, as a matter of fact. You apparently sent him on a mission just a while ago to mess with the Blood… Pack…”

The man’s voice trailed off when he saw that Aria had dropped her arms to her side and was clenching both fists. Her entire demeanor had changed, but Declan couldn’t get a solid read on her so long as she continued to stand there with her back to him. But a slightly bowed head and tense shoulders revealed a mixture of emotions to him.

“T’Loak?” he asked.

“Of course she suggested him…,” she mumbled, barely audible to Declan. “I’ve already lost one child to them, why must I lose another?”

… “Huh?” Declan felt an overwhelming confusion envelop him right where he stood. “W-wait, hold up… This person is one your daughters? But Trish said “he”, and I know gender doesn’t really apply to asari, but--”

“He’s not an asari,” Aria said, cutting him off. “He’s a human.” She finally turned to face him, her eyes revealing a tangle of emotions.

“You... adopted a human son?”

“Not something so formal, Callaway,” she began to explain. “He was a slave to a batarian trader on the station. When Cerberus arrived, the imbecile that owned him died in the wake of their chaos. I felt… empty after--” she raised a fist close to her chest and turned back around. “Nevermind that. I found him and took him under my wing. That’s all you need to know.”

Scratching the back of his head, Declan dared to ask, “So… just how old is this guy?”

“Old enough to pilot an array of vessels,” she replied. “And old enough to understand what it means to kill someone, if that’s your concern.”

“You mean Trish literally just suggested I take on a child as my helmsman?”

“Yes, it’s absurd. ...And I have a litany of objections to her incomprehensibly irrational idea…”

“Then I’ll gladly find someone else. There’s no way I’m letting a kid on my crew--”

“And that’s precisely why I also demand you take him.”

She said what now? … “--The fuck?!”

Aria turned back for a final time and marched up to Declan, practically coming nose-to-nose and staring him down in a forceful way that actually made the man step one foot back to brace himself from falling over. “As long as he’s with your crew, I know he’ll be safe. He doesn’t belong on Omega, surrounded by this… filth. Trish has tried to convince me of that several times, and I’ve always pretended to brush her off, but… She’s right. He needs to leave. You object to it not because it would be a pain in the ass, but because you don’t want the same thing that happened to Darcy Mansfield to happen to someone else, especially a youth.”

“Well… I…”

“So you’ll take more precautions this time to not… fuck… up.” Aria finally backed away and returned to her couch, where she dropped back on the cushion in a manner that betrayed relief; a very rare sight to see from the queen. “That’s my stipulation to the deal. Take it or leave it. I know this doesn’t become me, Callaway, but I’m willing to sacrifice my desire for vengeance if it means he’s given a second chance at life.”

Declan thought he had known all that was needed to know about Aria T’Loak; enough to sum up into three “C’s”: clever, charismatic, and cold-hearted. But the rumors about her having a few soft spots were true, it seemed. Everyone knew about Liselle, the daughter of Aria’s that was presumably murdered in cold blood many years ago. Just how many daughters Aria has is unknown, but the loss of Liselle had visibly affected Aria to the point that it escalated her level of paranoia and fierce protectiveness over Omega. All of that was ancient history, as far as Declan was concerned. He hadn’t entered the picture until after the Reaper War, so he had only second-hand knowledge of those events. Regardless, her peculiar concern for this young human male confirmed the past’s portrayal of her current self.

Gesturing defeat with raised palms, the man said, “Fine. I’ll take him… despite not knowing his name.”

“As a slave, he didn’t have a name,” Aria calmly replied after taking a sip of her Noverian Rum, “until I gave him one. Ezra; that’s what I settled on after a day of having him around.”

“Ezra?”

“I chose it from among your kind’s more ancient names. It had a nice ring to it.”

Crossing his arms, Dec asked, “I don’t suppose he’s taken ‘T’Loak’ as a surname, too?”

“Just Ezra,” she replied matter-of-factly. “He only wanted the given name. Wouldn’t say why.”

“It’s a nice name… I guess. So, where can I find him?”

Aria allowed herself a small smile before plucking up the datapad she had been reading earlier when Declan approached. A few finger taps pulled up a screen with several images of a large vessel, at least from what the man could make out from where he stood. Before needing to inquire, the asari tossed the pad at him unexpectedly, but his reflexes were still sharp, despite being locked up for a while.

“He’ll be waiting aboard your new ship… Captain.”

Those images portrayed a frigate-class starship, military grade by the appearance of the armor. The outer hull gave away its obvious human origins. A commandeered Alliance vessel, perhaps? No… the colors aren’t right, and-- Declan pulled up the ship’s details on the pad’s interface, --it’s been outfitted with Silaris armor plating? That’s far too advanced for the navy’s budget, not to mention the fact that its asari by origin. The final piece of information that the man made note of was the ship’s christened name: the Marathon.

“Where’d you acquire this beauty?”

Raising her chin with an air of cockiness reminiscent of the Aria that Declan had come to know, she answered, “When I took back my station from Cerberus, I sent those thugs packing through the airlocks… with none of their ships attached to the other side.”

Declan stared at her for a moment with wide eyes and jaw slightly agape. “This is a Cerberus vessel?”

“I believe it’s a Dashers vessel, now. Don’t you?”

---------

After settling the deal with Aria, Declan made his way back down from the VIP booth to meet up with Errol. The man had just retrieved what appeared to be some personal belongings, already gearing up for their inevitable departure from the station. Callaway smiled at the sight. Despite the two of them butting heads every now and then, Errol was a good person to rely on, and he always displayed integrity worthy of praise. Declan did worry a little though, whenever he saw Errol following him back into Afterlife and almost all the way to T'Loak. His conversation with Omega's leader needed to remain only between the two of them... for now. Luckily, Errol had turned back before anything of significance had been said.

When they exited the club, another familiar face came approaching from out of nowhere... Alexia. "Well damn, the Fitzgerald character returns from the dead. I bet Errol is both delighted to see you and consumed with wanting to beat you into a pulp. And before you say anything; yeah, I know, but you honestly need to read more of the classics."

Declan let out a light chuckle. "Like you're one to make fun of names," the captain replied. He wanted to hug Alexia, having missed her spunky personality, but considering that she was covered in goodness-knows-what, he decided to pass on that for now.

Errol's heavy hand on Declan's shoulder and the words that followed in response to Alexia teasing the captain about his gambling debt helped to push out the remaining uneasiness that settled in his stomach after his conversation with Aria. “Oh no, we’re good. Didn’t you hear, Stone Cold? He’s paying in installments.”

"But no interest," the man insisted with a raised finger. "Two thousand credits and nothing more."

His omni-tool beeped several times in rapid succession. Declan raised his wrist and the haptic display activated instantly to reveal a message from Trish.

We're done here. Location for RV?

Tapping his response, Declan replied, Docking bay E-71. Have everyone gather their belongings.

Rosa hadn't really been paying much attention to the room as she entered, the adrenaline had begun to wear off, her mind started to tumble and not after long, it landed straight back into it's state of drunkenness. Though now somewhat more composed. Still however, she was noticeably late to respond to any immediate danger from the turrets as they were revealed, Rosa seemed to disregard them entirely to give a feint sneeze and chuckle at the painting of Vol. When Zik's plan kicked in and Vol's assistant took flight with Aria's goons they had attempted to stun the crew with a biotic shockwave, but had their attack nullified by Rosa triggering the forceful wave of energy with a well placed warp just moments before impact. Causing the attack to just form into a moot, weakened biotic blast causing only mild discomfort if anything.

Noting Vol's apparent reunion with the crew, Rosa felt numb, the effects alcohol and use of biotics made her very apparently weak, for many it was a stupid idea to drink and her exceptional power made the matter of the fact doubly truthful. But she didn't care, with a loud sigh she slumped into a chair beside the volus' mini-bar, which had thankfully remain untarnished by the prior altercation and the woman began to listen to the ongoing conversation, things sounded quiet and her senses almost dulled from the immediate cease of chaos.

"...Adventures.

We're done here. Location for RV?

Docking bay E-71.!"

She looked around at the group and pulled a pack of cigarettes from a pouch on her left breastplate which was designed for the male variant of the two tone white and black Janisarry armour, and a lighter briefly after it. A cloud of smoke permeated throughout the room, and she gave a cheeky smile beneath her blonde fringe, a few jet black roots showing near the crown of her head as it fell. "Well I'll be damned. the Dashers back together again." Rosa stated, a feminine giggle escaping from her lips. The crew had not seemed phased by her need for rest, they had grown used to it back in the day. Such power always has consequence, or so they say.

"I'm ready to leave when you guys are. You know me." Rosa elaborated, she had no doubts about it and was sure everyone else was. From the days of the Dashers she had adapted a very nomadic lifestyle, and though much time had passed since the group's separation and she had found new employment, gained ownership of an apartment, she still had truly yet to settle down. Always ready to a fight, rarely out of her armour, always waiting for a perfect opportunity to get them. But now, after her whole life of waiting, now, she might just have another legitimate shot at tracking the bastards down.

Alexia
Alexia sighs and rolls her eyes a little at both Calaway and Errol. Calaway for turning her remark back on herself and Errol for the continued use of that very annoying little nickname he insisted on using, not that the nickname she earned from her time with the System Alliance seemed to carry over very well but she did do her best to get people to use it or her regular name. Despite her annoyance at Errol she actually had to laugh a little when she heard the ummm 'agreement' regarding Errol's repayment.

"You know I dislike the nick name 'Stone Cold' but since that hasn't stopped you so far I'm not quite sure what will. And I'm glad you two aren't about to be at each others throats if we don't keep a close eye on you. Though Declan do try to stay away from the gambling, having debts like the one to Errol can get kind of hazardous."

She said while Declan was busy reading a message and then typing a quick reply on his omnitool. Well except for that last sentence she made sure to wait until he was done typing to say that. But at the same time now that she'd met up with the Dasher's though obviously she'd missed the rest of the crew she wanted to go get cleaned up and if needed grab her stuff. And after being part of the military and living out of a foot locker you'd be surprised at the amount of stuff she actually had and was able to keep in hers.

"So what's the plan? I'd kind of like to go get cleaned up before leaving not that getting cleaned up on Omega is easy."

---

Errol Vahn

---

// PRESENT DAY, OMEGA //

The fact she didn’t like the nickname “Stone Cold” was exactly why he would continue using it. To Errol there was no greater joy than the subtleties of a cringe or annoyance-filled sigh; such an exasperation was hilariously entertaining to him. Everybody seemed to have a reaction to his antics and preferences— something that always made the Dashers a lot more fun to be around then some of his previous contracted company in comparison. A groan or awkward chuckle was a bit more friendly than a “if you make one more quip I will make sure you never speak again”. It was good to be back with present company.

"So what's the plan? I'd kind of like to go get cleaned up before leaving not that getting cleaned up on Omega is easy."

Errol let off another chuckle. “You do know there are facilities on whatever ship Declan has “acquired” that include hygiene, food, and rest. I doubt it will be that hard for you to get “cleaned” up.”

His shit-eating grin didn’t leave his face as he ended his comment. But Errol wasn’t oblivious to what was going on around him as he caught the beeping of Declan’s omni-tool and the brief silence from his “commanding officer”. There were a number of things that could’ve meant but all and all he had to guess either they were meeting up with the others if their little bout got complicated or they were readying to leave Omega. Either option didn’t change much for the snarky marksman as he was ready to go pretty much anytime— he had all of his weapons and equipment on-hand and there was nothing really he had locked up in storage; least not on Omega of all places where there were about as many grifters, thieves, and hackers amongst the population as much as the Alliance Fleet was overpopulated. Besides Errol preferred traveling light.

“So where are we off to next, Dec?”