The pyjak certainly knew how to make an impression. You couldn't go 200 metres without seeing the neon sign proclaiming in its rainbow puke glory: 'Noodle Haven – an odyssey in the stars!'
Steam rose steadily from the humble shop, a respectable queue of patrons from all walks of life perched on stools he was certain couldn't hold his weight. Garnering that many clientele in such short a timeframe wasn't something to scoff at. Either the food was just that good, or he was a marketing savant.
The stall stood out alright – a deep scarlet hue flowed through a wooden imitation as the base, topped by a black canopy adorned with golden lizard creatures that posed proudly at the edges.
He couldn't part much from the steam, but he'd worked in dark enough environments to tell apart the silhouettes of different races. Many Krogan would scoff at the very idea of serving others, but the figure seemed… surprisingly earnest in his work. Even with the hustle and bustle of the Commercial District, he could still hear genuine laughter emanating from the stall.
However, that wasn't what surprised him the most. It had been a good few centuries since he'd seen his sister's kids, yet something he couldn't shake was the absence of the crests on their shells. Or rather, the lack thereof.
This runt displayed all the hallmarks of someone not even of age yet. Many clans forbade their young from even considering mercenary work before substantial aging. Urdnot Clan had the right idea – a truly vicious rite of passage that would beat some sense into younglings with quads bigger than their heads. And if they succeeded... they were ready to deal with the consequences.
Swear to Vaul, if his parents weren't well and truly dead, a stern word would be the least they deserved.
"Welcome, sir! Haven't seen you around here before."
That was quick. He just got here. Surprisingly, a Batarian kid was the one to greet him, a courteous smile adorning her lips.
"Chef just finished a Lexo batch with stuff he got from Thessia this morning. Not exaggerating when I say it's one of the best broths I've ever had. And if today's special doesn't suit your fancy, you can try our signature dish – varren noodle soup!"
"I will have the special."
"14 credits, please!"
As he watched his credits being transferred over his eyepiece, he threw a cursory glance toward his Krogan of interest. Steam billowed around his face as he lifted what appeared to be strands of yellow bands from the water. Almost as if it was one quick motion, the 'noodles' transitioned into a bowl he carried, a sizzling broth pouring over and coating it in a delectable oily sheen.
"Pyjak soup ready."
"Yes, chef!"
The girl meandered toward her boss, and when the two finally turned to face each other, Tatarum was treated to quite the spectacle. An unassuming face sporting an even more unassuming colour — the kind that could hide in a lineup of yellow paint swatches. Yet what drew in him the most were his… eyebags. Just how much weight did they carry?
And as quickly as their interaction began, they turned back to their respective tasks.
He'd be lying if he said he envied them. Tatarum's attention span was much too short for any service industry. But... it shouldn't have to be like this. The whole situation. Kids shouldn't be on their own, breaking their backs just to put food on the table. On Omega station, there were far too many than he'd care to admit. No matter how much he pleaded with the Patriarch or Aria for genuine change, they'd give half-assed attempts at best — a 'non-profit' org that totally needed 75% of its own earnings to remain functioning did not count. No matter how many credits he sunk into 'charities' outside of them, nothing changed.
In his contemplation, he hadn't realised that the bowl had already landed on his side of the counter.
"Enjoy! Holler if you are in the mood for chilli."
"You got it, little lady."
Well, it didn't exactly make him ejaculate on the spot. The noodles slapped and slathered on his chin before it was vacuumed into a never-ending abyss.
But it got pretty fucking close.
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"Please, for the love of all things, please take it easy tomorrow."
"Creds won't come in by themselves."
"But you don't need to be there every day we are open. You think you are so slick? It's so, so obvious you are tired. Take a day off, at least."
"That's precisely what I don't want."
"Then what is it you want? What is it that's so scary you can't get a few more hours of sleep?"
"I just can't…"
"Any more half-assed responses like that, and I will personally fucking suplex you, you piece of shit. You know what? I am taking it upon myself. You come into work tomorrow, and I will fucking kill you. I will kill you before you kill yourself. That's a promise."
She stormed off, a truly wicked grimace etched on her face. Not a care given to turning around, and certainly not an ounce of patience left for his antics.
A crumpled smile formed on his lips, a hollow sigh escaping. His raised hand retracted, finding refuge in the folds of his work uniform. Sala always kept her promises.
Kakmar slowly emerged from the alleyway, head down. The burn of neon lights pierced through his eyelids as he welded them shut.
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An orange light flooded the dim hallway. Smart-locked, if you can believe it. Not many have been able to afford such entrances, but the abundance of malicious actors in this station made it more of a necessity. Not even the sounds of Omega's eternal nightlife could penetrate these walls.
So it wasn't hard to confirm that the shuffling of footsteps behind him wasn't actually a figment of his imagination.
"I know you are following me."
"So it seems, so it seems." The figure was decidedly Krogan, what with the hunched back and grave voice that rumbled through his mask. "So why haven't you brandished your weapon yet?"
"If you had actually wanted me dead, you'd have skipped the stalking."
Kakmar couldn't help but look bewildered when the Krogan in question held out his hand shortly after. Surely Krogans didn't do handshakes, right? Handshakes were much too soft for their tastes – they preferred bashing skulls together as a valid substitute for judging one's strength of character.
"Quash pleasantries fallen out of favour recently…?"
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His eyes widened.
"It's you."
"Whatever gave it away?"
"No, it's just… can't believe you actually read my e-mail."
"When you get to this stage of your career, you tended to start giving less shits on how you found work. People tended to approach you in person rather than over text. Makes for a good first impression, makes it more likely I took the contract. I don't do business with clients who don't even make the effort of showing; killing someone shouldn't be done over text. Besides, it provides a really convenient excuse, not having to comb through hundreds of messages per day. Sorry about that."
"I get it."
"I have built up the luxury of picking and choosing contracts, believe it or not," Tatarum flatly states. "Guess you didn't have such luck."
"No, never. Just grabbed whatever I could get."
"Then… I'm sure you know what I'm gonna ask about next." Kakmar begrudgingly nods. "Not judging you or anything, but you have to admit, from the outside looking in, you have transitioned from two completely different career paths."
"I had a sudden change of heart, I guess."
"Come on, I wasn't hatched in an incubation tube yesterday. Something must have happened. What's your story?"
The colour faded from his face. "I, uh… no offence, but I feel filthy right now. Not in the right headspace."
"Of course," he relented. "I have all eternity to wait."
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The door shuttered shut behind him. Like a zombie, he staggered into his bedroom and buried his face between the plushies and pillows, letting out a guttural scream.
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"Took your sweet time."
"Needed a change in clothes."
The old man regarded him for a moment, before giving a curt nod. "Walk with me."
It wasn't long before they reached the streets of Omega. The stench was dreadful, like days-old piss on carpet. Vents were out, it seemed. Yet there seemed to be enough budget left in Omega's pockets to power the neon signs that blared on your face. It was hard not to brush past someone in a crowd of pedestrians when you were this big.
Rule one of meetings you don't want overhearing… go where the crowd goes. Privacy was a thing of the past in a galactic civilisation as advanced as this. Yet no civilisation so far possessed sonar technology that sorted through a sea of a thousand conversations happening at once.
"How many of Quash clan did you know?"
Tatarum was shaken out of his stupor.
"None recently. Last I heard of the clan was four centuries ago. But they were good people, if a bit soft. But they never abandoned their own, even at times of adversity."
"My parents aren't dead, if that's what you are implying." Gods, this kid was quick on the upkeep. "Good old-fashioned parental bereavement."
"Have you considered rejoining Quash clan on Tuchanka?"
"Got no money."
The old man rolled his eyes. "Cut the crap, kid. You have enough money to open a business, you certainly have enough money to stow away on some tacky courier service heading to the DMZ."
"What's with all this judging?"
"Not judging. Evaluating. You are an anomaly among our kind, kid. You gotta be aware of that. Can't blame a merc like me for being cautious."
"Nothing to be cautious about, unfortunately."
"Yet you survived a decade being a freelancer before you settled."
"As I said, had a change of heart."
"C'mon, kid," he said, stopping in his tracks, "Help me out here. I'm just trying to understand the mentality behind that e-mail. You seemed to be doing fine-"
"Major difference going into personal experience and personal information."
"Then why send the e-mail at all? Wouldn't you be leaving your Batarian friend behind if you came back from retirement?"
There was a lull in the air. A million thoughts seemed to stream from the kid's head at once, all of them much too loud for coherent thought.
"Can we… can we go somewhere more quiet? Please."
Tatarum's expression softened. "Sure, kid."
The path toward the alleyway was wet and putrid. The occasional sideway glares from the local bums did little to assuage his feelings. But he got what he wanted. Soon the noise around him died out slowly, and he felt for the first time in the night that he had space to breathe.
Like an ever-watching sentinel, Tatarum stood by.
"You don't have to tell me if you aren't ready to."
"No… I have to get through this—"
"GET DOWN!"
He barely processed getting tackled into the ground before a bullet screamed in the air and hit the ground beside him, dust dancing in the aftermath.
His hearts dropped instantly.
Instinctively, his feet propelled him towards the nearest dumpster. Another bullet flew through the air, this time spearing the metal container.
"You got a gun on you?!" He was taking cover on the other side of the alleyway.
Panic surged through Kakmar's veins as he realised he'd left it back home. He'd been so caught up in the rush to get ready…
"NO!"
"Catch!"
His eyes darted to the pistol swirling toward the metal grating beside his feet, its sleek metallic form gleaming under the dim alleyway lights. A bemused thought crossed his mind briefly, a fleeting realisation that the make was probably worth more than his life. Another bullet ricocheting off the dumpster brought him back to reality, bits of shrapnel scattering in the air.
"What… what do I do? I can't see!"
"Cover fire! I need a clean shot!"
"Fuck me…"
Knowing doing nothing would spell disaster, he was just about to move his hand above the dumpster and fire in a vague direction before he heard multiple footsteps surging behind them.
"FLANK!"
Belonged to three guys, masks obscured their faces, and it was too dark to fucking see anything, but there were lights from their visors – he needed to only aim between them—
*click*
The air crackled as the shot hit square between one guy's face, cleanly rippling past his spaghettified brain and out the other side. The guy barely hit the ground before his friends returned the favour.
A bullet something fierce must have lodged into his gut, and a searing pain came from within, yet he didn't have time to think, to glower in the agony, only time to simply do.
His arm shot out, his brain straining at the immense force – a crackling singularity the radius of a basketball manifested.
The assailants stumbled at the sudden pull, sending them reeling off balance, just enough time for a torrent of bullets to sail.
Screams pierced the air as the bullets found their mark. But they couldn't have been dead yet! Not yet, they can't be – but no matter how many times his finger pulled the trigger, the weapon only sputtered in response, the barrel glowing red-hot.
FUCK!
His arms shot up instinctively, as if they could shield him. Yet… the bullets never came.
He cracked open his eyes. The alleyway was empty, save for the two figures sprawled on the metal grating, their bodies contorted. A crimson puddle pooled around them. He pulled his legs closer before the blood could reach him.
"Tatarum, the sniper-"
"Already dead."
"What?"
"Singularities are light shows at the best of times…" he said. "And enough for me to shoot back."
He only realised in his stupor that Tatarum was standing straight up. The old man offered a hand, stowing his rifle. Kakmar gladly took it.
His breaths heavy, he dusted himself off of the Omega's grime. Yet, Kakmar's eyes couldn't help but trail back to the corpses.
"W-who were they they?"
"People who wanted me dead." The old man sighed. "Finding the fuckers who sent them is gonna be a headache."
"You are going after them?"
"If I don't, what's stopping them from sending another bunch of sorry mercenaries after me? Swear, if it is Eclipse again…"
"Didn't know you were that much of a headache for them."
"I took a significant chunk of their richer clientele, people who preferred a defter touch."
Kakmar drew the weapon out, clipping back the safety. "Your gun back."
Tatarum looked at it contemplatively for a moment, before waving him off. "Nah, keep it."
That threw him for a loop. An Elkoss Edge Mk. X, and he's telling him… "What?"
"Don't lie to me, kid. You were practically begging for a gun that can easily penetrate through kinetic barriers, can see it in your eyes," he said, grinning ear to ear. "Besides, you will probably need it more than I do."
"You've seen how I fared against only three guys. I belong in the kitchen, not..."
"This is how I see things turning out, kid," he interrupted. "You have been seen with me fighting back. Don't forget they weren't only aiming for me. Which means you are an accomplice."
The weight of his words pressed down upon him. At that, Kakmar solemnly had to concede.
"Aria may be all-knowing, but sudden violence against a random street vendor after work? Not on her list of significant events."
"Then, w-what do I do?"
He chuckled, earning a raised brow from Kakmar.
"You really are the antithesis of a Krogan," he commented. "But you have potential. You are willing to suck up your pride and have the skill to push far past your current boundaries, even if you don't want to admit it."
Getting all this praise so suddenly from who amounted to a mercenary idol felt oddly fulfilling.
"But… your decision-making could use some work. You panic too easily when things go haywire. By all accounts, you are a liability."
"Yeah…" he said solemnly. He knew it. "I am not cut out for merc life."
"On the contrary, this was just what I needed!"
Kakmar underwent a mental double-take. "What? H-how?"
"Just as you have your own reasons for becoming a chef, I have my own for taking you on," the old Krogan said. "You don't have to say anything if you aren't ready, but I have to admit, I am curious. Let that hang over your head for a bit; and when you feel like you are ready to tell me your reasons… I'll spill. So, are we in agreement?"
Kakmar swallowed hard and closed his eyes. This was what he wanted, right? Being able to fight back when a future Armageddon would descend on every living being on every solar system in a very near future.
"I… I need to call Sala."
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Hope the fight scene was good enough :)