See? Four. Pay Up.
"I bet I can shoot more pyjacks than you," the little krogan runt said. Through hard work and consistent effort – and no small amount of head butting – he was slowing proving his place in the ranks of young krogan. But on the battle field, he was still considered weak, though admittedly fast and cunning, but lacking the clout of his larger brethren.
But he was getting awfully good with a pistol, and in a few more years he might be big enough to use a shotgun.
"Of course you can't," said the ringleader. "You're too small."
"But I'm faster than you," the runt insisted. I bet you ten credits I can shoot more than you."
The larger krogan looked amused. "Make it 20 and you've got a bet."
The runt hesitated. 20 credits was a lot of money for a young krogan. But he wanted to prove himself, needed to, over and over again to maintain his standing in his peer group.
"You're on," he said bravely.
Ten minutes later, they had an audience, a referee and a set of rules for the match, as well as three more contestants in the competition. The rules were that they could each only use a pistol, there was a three minute time limit, and baiting the pyjacks with food was forbidden. And only dead pyjacks were included in the total – injured ones didn't count. The full 100 credits went to the winner – it was a small fortune, but the runt wasn't interested in the money. No, he was only doing this for his pride, his father's honor, his status in the pack.
"Time begins in three," the referee said. "Two… one… begin!"
The contestants leapt up onto the crates overlooking the pyjack nests and bullets started flying. But the rodents were quicker than they looked. The first minute went by and no one had shot anything successfully. The runt paused for a moment, watching the pyjacks' movements. The way they switched direction. The way they turned their heads and shifted the weight on their hind legs…
He lined up the next shot, fired… and crowed in flee as a pyjack went down. But his joy was short lived as two other krogan also shot their first one, and he glanced at the clock. 55 seconds left.
The din of gunfire got louder as the competitors pulled out all stops in the final minute. Pyjacks tumbled, thermal clips went flying, and then came the inevitable bellow of "TIME!" from the referee. The last echo of the shots faded away and the krogan stared out over the battlefield.
"I shot three!" one krogan yelled.
"I only got two," another said morosely.
One krogan remained silent – he hadn't shot anything – and the ringleader puffed his chest out. "I got three as well. Okay, runt, what did you get?"
"I knew I could shoot more than you," the runt couldn't help gloating. "See? Four. Pay up."
The ringleader stared at the field in disbelief. And there, in the runt's patch of turf, were four dead pyjacks. "I'll be damned," the ringleader said, handing over the 100 credits. "Next time we play 'Battlemasters and Thresher Maws', you're on my team."