The crack of Orsk's knuckles when he laced his fingers and folded his arms on the rickety table echoed off the towers of refrigeration cases in the otherwise empty warehouse. Some sort of four-winged moth, sneaking in through gaps in the ceiling, flittered around the lights. The krogan boss, still in his custom-tailored business suit, sat across from Dahlia like an interrogator. She avoided looking in his yellow eyes or at his greenish skull crest and instead inspected the signs hanging on the far wall behind him.
Days Since Last Accident: 8, Days Since Last Blood Rage: 86.
"I thought you said I was hired. What's with the interview?"
"I like to handle things professionally. Consider it a formality. While I may not have the highest standards, as you may have guessed from the quarian kids, I still try to screen my applicants. There are plenty of other people on Omega willing to hire the dregs. Not me."
Hann and Elsai were sorting and storing the non-perishable supplies they'd brought in from the docks. The vorcha and other guards, who were members of a gang called the Talons according to Hann, kept an eye on the market and on each other.
For the first time since arriving on the lawless rock, Dahlia had removed her helmet. Orsk insisted upon it. Thick droplets of collected condensation clung to her dark eyebrows and close cropped hair. Without her helmet, she'd naively hoped that she'd receive a rush of cool, fresh air. Instead, her naked head found only uncomfortably warm, stale air haunting the market.
"To start with," Orsk said, clearing his throat like a trumpeting elephant, "Why do you want to work for our company?"
Dahlia was momentarily taken aback, curious about how much research Orsk had done on Earth business customs.
"Well, I've always been fascinated by the eating habits of other species. You know, what kind of cheese vorcha prefer, how many sandwiches your average batarian makes in a week."
"I see, so this is a scientific interest?"
Does this bosh'tet really not understand sarcasm, Dahlia thought to herself while nodding dumbly.
"Where do you see yourself in five years?"
"Sitting on a throne made from the bones of my enemies."
"Ooo, good answer," the krogan crooned. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
"...two?"
"Well, you can count. That puts you ahead of most applicants. Okay, last question: who are you hiding from?"
Dahlia raised an eyebrow, sending a drop of sweat running down into her eye.
"I know the other questions were pointless," Orsk explained. "Just because I believe in formality, it doesn't mean we can't have some fun. This question, however, is very serious and I expect a very serious answer. No one comes to Omega with a clean past. We're all hiding from someone. In case you're running from something especially ugly, I want to know if it's going to come knocking down my door."
The question turned Dahlia's stomach. Her answer had to fight to escape against the lump in her throat.
"No one is looking for me. I'm supposed to be dead."
"Ah, faked your death then?"
"More like it was faked for me. I don't plan on making any waves or attracting any attention."
Orsk merely nodded and extended his thick arm for a handshake.
"Welcome aboard," he croaked.