When you picture living in Omega, the smell would not be the first thing that comes to mind. The occasional stray bullet whizzing past your skull, sure. Everyone's ready for that. But the smell? It was barely a passing thought, and it was something you were simply not prepared to come to terms with.
Tatarum lived on Omega longer than most. Most would think nothing would phase the grizzled veteran. His tattered outer shell told countless tales of conflict, and even more still of survival. Experience, after all, was what truly separated battlemasters from other Krogan. Yet, what good was experience when something as trivial as smell still managed to smother his sense of reality?
It made him tired, angry at what it represented. He was tired of the backstabbing, of the fake smiles of those who interacted with him before they pulled a gun behind his skull.
Tatarum was a lone wolf. Many tried to take advantage of him, and many still ended up six feet under.
He remembered a reality before this lawlessness, of this anomie. When he was younger, he took pride in completing contracts cleanly, of doing odd jobs only a single person could, and succeeding. But more than that – there was honour. There was honour for the person you killed – there was honour found in recognising the sanctity of life, and the gravity of taking them that would follow you to the day you died. But the merc groups got too big, too fast. It was the culmination of many little mistakes. The occasional dead civilian here, the 'ends justify the means' approach there. Life soon felt as meaningful as the next fortnightly paycheck.
Soon, he realised he was lying to himself. There was never any honour in his work, then and now. What he yearned for was a Krogan honour warped and corrupted completely into some monstrous amalgamation eating itself inside out.
Age rarely mattered in merc work. It was just a number. He was born in an era where many Krogan remembered their former days of honour. It was within their sense of honour that they rebelled against a system that used them, tossed them aside, and soon feared them for daring to expand their territory. Now? Dead ghosts in a sea of floating, neutered corpses. He reckoned if Krogans had an actual expiry date, things would have turned out differently.
He thought about it often nowadays: listlessness. Was listlessness the fate of every warrior Krogan? Krogan had no natural urgency to accomplish anything since they lived indefinitely. People hate to acknowledge it, but there was a reason why Krogan chose jobs that were hazardous in nature. Without mortality, without any biological or social legacy spurn on by the currency of time, what drives someone?
There was no pride for being a Krogan merc, no one to admire you for being part of a culture long warped and corrupted. The only answer – and to fulfil your calling as a Krogan warrior – was to be walking, and talking, brutes. To become fodder and kill for faceless people too cowardly to do the deed themselves.
Life in Omega represented everything he hated. Yet, Omega was really all he ever knew.
Imagine his surprise when he received mail from someone over the HoloNet. His address? Surprised people still knew about it. He hasn't used it in the last couple of centuries. At least. He wasn't sure what compelled him – some vague hope in one of these lines of text that something new in his life would rock his world, change it forever? He really was going senile.
It was amusing at first, to see the e-mails dry up about a century ago. The rate of profanities dramatically increased as the years went by. As if he was obligated to accept any of their requests for his services. He simply had to settle that some of 'em mysteriously disappeared soon after these were sent. If they were right about one thing, he really was their only hope.
It was the one that was sent four weeks ago that drew in his eyes.
Expression of Interest
From: Quash Kakmar
Sent 2121 CE
A fellow Krogan, eh? Using e-mail, no less. Normally, his kind saw fit to skip the pleasantries entirely and go straight to business, meet in-person. They were also the type of Krogan to have egos bigger than the size of their quads.
But what did 'expression of interest' even mean? He didn't swing the other way, unfortunately.
And a total stranger too? Last time he took a chance…
He wasn't aware of the existence of an Asari cult that vied to breed an Asari master race.
Now he knew.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He shook himself off that line of thinking. No, it couldn't have meant that.
Honestly, he half-expected a virus to infect his sub-systems when he opened it… not what amounted to a job application.
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Dear Tatarum,
I hope this message finds you well. I am an aspiring Krogan mercenary eager to hone my skills in the field. In my pursuit of excellence, I have extensively researched renowned professionals, and your name consistently surfaced as one of Omega's most reliable and professional solo mercenary.
Your versatility, having worked under the Patriarch, the Blue Suns, and the Citadel, has intrigued me. From reconnaissance to bodyguarding, assassination to sabotage, and even heists, your breadth of experience is unparalleled. It is precisely this diversity that compelled me to reach out.
I am not here to request a partnership or collaboration, as I fully understand the dynamics of our profession. Instead, I am seeking your permission to observe and shadow you during your missions. My intent is not to interfere but to gain insights into the methodology and mindset that have allowed you to undertake seemingly impossible assignments solo.
As an inflexible thinker navigating a field that rewards creativity, witnessing a master at work would be invaluable. I assure you that my role would be purely observational, with utmost respect for your methods and discretion. The knowledge I hope to gain is aimed at enhancing my own capabilities and ensuring I approach contracts with the caution that the profession demands.
I understand if I am asking too much of you in a random e-mail. Below, I've outlined my experiences to provide you with a glimpse of my background.
Blood Pack Mercenary (2110-2117)
- Completed 56 contracts (bodyguarding, foot soldier, engineer)
- Worked collaboratively in a team environment for 5 years
- Proficient in snipers and pistols
- Experience using biotics
Blue Sun Mercenary (2117-2119)
- Completed 11 contracts (engineer, platoon leader, prison guard)
- Repaired weapons and vehicles
- Worked collaboratively in a team environment for 2 years
I understand that this is an unconventional request, and I respect your time and boundaries. If you find my proposition intriguing, I am more than willing to discuss it further at your convenience.
Thank you for considering my request. I look forward to the possibility of learning from a seasoned professional like yourself.
Kind regards,
Kakmar
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The chair groaned as he inclined further into it, his fingers idly running through the texture of his shell. Talk about a kiss-ass…
He's had a few requests from people seeking to become his krantt. Over e-mail. The audacity. A krantt is supposed to be your equal, someone you have come to know for decades. You know their greatest triumphs and their darkest secrets. They were your most trusted ally and your closest confidant. Although, he supposed the meaning of it became warped over the years. Nowadays, a krantt was a glorified meat shield.
Sorry, second-in-command.
At least the sender had the decency to realise they were not on a first-name basis yet. That… was a breath of fresh air.
Now, the years absent of any mention of work left him intrigued. This Kakmar character had to be aware of this flaw in an otherwise by-the-numbers e-mail. Was he gravely wounded in the years since this e-mail was sent? Then he wouldn't have sent the message at all. Perhaps he saved up enough to afford an implant?
"So, it's come to this, eh?"
Rarely did he open his work computer outside of completing contracts, but he'd make an exception for this Krogan unknown.
Far as he knew, no Krogan typed in such a formal manner. In fact, this e-mail is atypical of the formal speech patterns taught by the shamans. Not even they were this rigid and flowery with words.
Interesting. The pyjak wasn't lying. The data entries came up in Blood Pack and Blue Sun databases the advertised number of times. The note at the end of the entries was where things got frustratingly interesting.
Quash Kakmar retired from the Blue Suns group, citing "personal reasons" for his departure.
Everyone's got personal reasons, data entry guy. What made him so different from all the rest that you felt the need to only cite "personal reasons"?
So, he expanded his search. He got as far as the ship ports before he saw Kakmar's name attached to a vendor store.
A vendor store…?
Now that was baffling. He even double-checked the dates to ensure the timeline followed and made sense.
He was the new owner of Noodle Haven, circa 2120 .
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Two things:
What the fuck was a Tuchanka miso?
Second: his day just got a whole lot more interesting.
He was feeling a little peckish anyway. These 'noodles' better make him spontaneously ejaculate in his armour.