Darz squatted, peering curiously out of the darkness that concealed him. Ragged hand-me-down clothes clung to his lithe frame, bits of old armor from the mercenaries he lived amongst salvaged for a makeshift fourteen year old's protective gear. He was lean and wide-eyed, a perfectly designed duct rat in this vast, unforgiving place. But he was streetwise and had survived longer than many whores' brats. It helped to be under the protectorate of a mercenary lord too, though. Not that Rox Thresher ever threw the scrap of a boy much without a reason. He was a runner for the Black Star, the mercenary group that Thresher lead. Being a nonthreatening little human boy, he was often sent to collect small deliveries, and owed money. No one suspected the fourteen year old to pull a switchblade and press it to their jugular with lightning speed. He smirked and fingered through a pile of trash, looking for anything useful or of value. Nothing but used contraceptives (he didn't even know what kind of convoluted penis would need some of these shapes), and old needles stood out in the pile of other nondescript junk. He scowled in displeasure, grey eyes darting alertly. Suddenly he dashed out of cover, intercepting a passing salarian.
"Hey, you. Where's Thresher's pay? You promised the credits to him by the end of last week. I don't see no credits. You want us to come smash up your store, salarian? Is that what you want?" Darz snarled, toying with his sheathed blade in his baggy pocket. The salarian jerked and stammered, trying to sidestep the boy. But he was always two steps ahead, despite dancing backwards through the crowd.
"I-I-I-I don't know what you're talking about kid, l-leave me be, I'm v-v-v-very busy," the salarian stammered, typical hyperactive bastards, Darz thought. He held out his hand, a smirk crossing his face. Under the childish puppy fat, he had a sharp jawbone and piercing eyes. Darz looked old beyond his years. Putting a foot out, he tripped the salarian. The slender amphibious looking creature tumbled to the floor, it's spindly arms sprawled all around. The teenager leapt on the stricken salarian, and flicked open his switch blade near where he guessed it's ear was – he didn't know, he didn't care much for biology that wasn't his own.
"Give me the money. Now," he snarled, an animalistic character emerging from behind his humanness - a side effect from living amongst krogan and vorcha for his whole life, perhaps. The salarian began to shudder, short sharp breaths making ragged sounds in its chest.
"I don't have the money!" it squealed, squirming under the human, but Darz was heavy enough to weigh down the slight creature underneath him.
"I'm broke, please, I'll do anything the krogan wants just don't kill me!" he wailed. The people walking by didn't even give them a second glance. Sights like this were common in the more shady parts of Omega. Not that any of it was particularly bright, but the more affluent areas liked to do their dirty work in a bit more style.
"Well this makes my life a whole lot easier," Darz purred, grabbing one of the salarian's curved horns. He pulled his head back, and dragged the knife across his throat. Then he jumped off the salarian's back and bounded into the dark alleyways that he knew like the back of his hand, a map inside his head telling him of every short cut and open vent. The salarian twitched, convulsed, and bled out in a pool of green blood. People stepped around the pool as if it was a puddle of water, or maybe a leak of coolant from the station's vast piping systems.
He popped out of a vent, dropping neatly to the floor of the warehouse. Loping across the room he ignored the stares of the scattered mercenaries. Most didn't like him much, just some annoying kid that entertained the boss, but some found him useful to use as their errand boy. He could get around the station faster than most, dashing through vents and climbing pipes up and down through the vast decks. Some even felt a little bit sorry for the boy – his mother had died when he was only eight, having eaten foul food from a garbage can. After Slice died the mercs quickly became disinterested with trying to keep her alive but the boy, Thresher had even given him his clan name of Rox, was not to be abandoned. He scampered up alongside Thresher now, his honorary father.
"I killed that slippery little salarian you sent me after," Darz said in a matter of fact way, perching himself on a precariously stacked pile of crates like some kind of scrappy bird. The children that grew up in the streets of Omega were miniature acrobats, but their tricks often got them hurt or even killed.
"Very good," the krogan rumbled, handing the boy a grease soaked burger and a broken data pad to play with. Darz wolfed down the food with his hands, still squatting on his perch. Then he wiped the grease off his hands on his shirt and inspected the data pad turning the sleek item this way and that, his sharp eyes scrutinizing. He popped off the casing and his fingers worked at the circuitry inside and soon the orange glow of the screen lit up.
"Crappy soldering came loose, pushed it back in, should work now Thresher," the boy piped, pleased with himself. The krogan just nodded. A long, thoughtful pause followed, with the krogan staring into the distance in a calculating manner.
"Darz, my boy. I think it'll be time soon for you to board one of the ships. We have good pickings of the Attican merchants these days, after we pushed back those Blue Suns bastards. We need as many space worthy crew as can be found, and I think you're up for the job, don't you?" the krogan always adopted an amiable tone with the teenager, but to the rest of his gang he was cold, calculating and un-wavering. Darz shrugged and cocked his head.
"Suppose. Never been in a ship, would I be any good?" he asked, boyish uncertainty in his voice. The krogan laughed, an expansive rumbling sound.
"You can kill people, can't you?"