The Citadel was as busy as ever. No surprises there. Alexander took his usual path to the market gleaning any information that may be useful from conversations he passes. Nothing new or interesting catches any special attention. The usual mutterings of hustling shoppers and traders, both legal and not. None of it is anything he needs or a lead to follow. He has already filtered through the muck to track down the crime bosses identities and contacts to see if any of them lead to a target on his list. A few did and were eliminated, but none of them were on the top five. Alexander takes a casual turn down a narrower hall to the less busy part of the market. Collectors selling there collections, old men unwilling to bargain for there wares, minority species necessities and such were the trade in this ignored section of the market and at the end nearly invisible for it's obscurity and unpopular 'atmosphere' nestled his goal like a dieing rat in the corner of the kitchen. The air smells distinctly more metallic and oily compared to the rest of the Citadel. Old weaponry, mostly guns, and armor littered the tables and lined the walls. Old camouflage nets and tents were being used for decor, but were clearly marked for sale should any patron so decide that he must have it for his own. One could tell which items the old collector didn't genuinely want to part with because they were grossly over priced. Alexander often wondered why the старик set them out at all if he was so loathed to part with them.

"Hello there!"

A loud, yet worn voice called from the back of the shop. Alexander looked up to see the aged turian emerge from the stock rooms.

"How can I help you today? I've lots to choose from, as you can see, and an extensive knowledge of all human weapons tech. Why my great great ..."

Alexander promptly cut off the impending family history lecture with a raised palm and a distracted glance at a six-shooter in near mint condition on a table near by. It was unpriced.

"Ah, that one was a gift to my great great great.." the store owner began excitedly only to be quieted by the hand again. His mandibles fluttered, but he kept his peace.

Alexander's dark eyes left the metal sheen of the ancient weapon to look at the turian who collected and sold old human militia. Mostly he just collected and shared stories... occasionally by polite force. He noted the turian's irritation and his hunched back, gnarled with the turian version of arthritis.

"Why do you collect old human weapons?" Alexander finally asked. His strong accent made it difficult for the translators and it took a few extra seconds for the turian to decipher what his potential customer was asking him.

The turian's brow knitted together then suddenly lifted. His mandibles spread in a grin and Alexander realized with remorse that he'd just invited another long speech. He came here almost every week just to see what else the старик had managed to find, and occasionally his leasure interest lead him to a potential lead to cross another name of the list. This time, however, all he got was the ramblings of an odd, old turian who was probably old enough to have lived through the original Reaper conflict. He could have been the offspring of Benezia and Saren themselves.

"So I started my collection with that very same piece my father had shot his first fellow turian with as a reminder that humans can be a better ally than your own people. You see, young male, it's not the species that is a friend to you or I, but the guts under the plates that makes us all the same... even if some of us have less or smaller parts than others."

The turian gave Alexander what was surely meant to be a knowing wink as to suggest whatever humans might consider to be important to be large to the females in his case was so. Alexander decided to simply nod, thank the turian for his time and leave before another long story came pouring out like bile from a drunkard. He nearly trampled over a unusually small salarian on his way out who immediately became overly offended at the near accident. Alexander didn't have half a second to mumble and apology before the salarian, who was hardly more than a meter tall squeaked up at him with fierce red ringed eyes.

"Watch where you're treading, human! Not all of us who are smaller than you can be dealt with by your boot! Watch where you tread! I know batarians who'd love to make slaves out of your mother and sisters!"

Alexander glared down at the little alien hard enough to make even the most battle hardened turian cringe away, but this little salarian held his gaze and his ground. There were no weapons on him that Alexander could see, so he assumed the малютка had biotics of some sort.
"I apologize for nearly ending your pathetic life with my boot." Alexander began in a professionally compliant tone, "Perhaps a worm such as yourself should grow a little more before going out alone."

With that Alexander pushed passed the halfling. He could feel the малютка glowering at his back. It would not be the first enemy of insignificance he'd made on his journey, and it would not be the last. Enemies do not concern him. After there was nothing left on the list but the crossed off names of dead men, there will be nothing left for him to live for. No amount of attornment could wash her blood off his hands. Nothing could bring her back. There was only justice and revenge now. His own. Much more blood of both the unavoidable innocent and the guilty would pay for that. Alexander's eyes grew harder and darker as he made another casual turn out of the the alley toward the bar. The flies were always buzzing there. Good sources of information, if not always completely reliable or truthful, occasionally lead in a promising direction... and he wanted a drink. Maybe a bottle of Earth vodka to remind him of his families home.