Short one, I know. But I'll make it up to you with a big bad battle next time.
It was a rough day. How many vorcha had that asshole killed? Sure, they multiplied like pyjack, he could build up another small army within a month. But training them was the pain in the ass. Garm needed an army now.
He was an impressive krogan specimen. Years of merciless slaughter had earned him striking scars, an intimidating high spiked hump, countless breeding requests, leadership of Omega's Blood Pack, and the title of Battlemaster. And on Omega? He was king, as far as he was concerned. What used to be a mounting vorcha army was supposed to go after Aria, not die smoldering in a decimated warehouse, victims of a surprise attack and copious amounts of explosives and incendiary ammo.
Now he needed an army to go after Archangel.
He was pacing out of the warehouse, flanked by a pair of vorcha. He'd put in an order to have more of the creatures shipped to Omega before the end of the month. His various krogan mercenaries had been called in from field operations as well. He was too vulnerable now. That damn Archangel.
He'd get his hands on him. Garm went to bed at night thinking about him. How he'd kill him. How he'd break each finger off, one at a time. He'd rip off Archangel's scrawny arms, then his legs. Finally, he would slowly and methodically remove the turian's head from his body with a serrated knife. The necks were the fleshy vulnerable part on the species, after all. He'd have to get creative with what to do with that head. Keep the outer carapace as a trophy, have it mounted. Maybe turn his skull into a urinal.
The krogan chuckled to himself as he lumbered through a tunnel, heading deeper into Blood Pack territory. This area had all been mines once. That was what brought people to Omega in the first place. The miners would hollow out the eezo, and then build settlements into the newly cleared space. In a few short years, the asteroid was nothing but a hollow husk, and when the work was gone most of the workers left, leaving the asteroid empty and outside Citadel space. The perfect place for every major mercenary band to get a foothold.
Krogan used to run this place. Now? A squishy blue bitch did. Problems on top of problems. Nothing that he couldn't handle, of course, but it sure as hell was giving him a headache. But one thing at a time. Archangel had to come first.
Garm jogged out of the underground tunnel and up a short ramp, before coming to an apartment complex. He had a few floors here all to himself. And his quarters gave him a full view of the Blood Pack base. Of course, he had been sleeping during the last attack. Now? He couldn't sleep. Too much work. He stepped into the elevator, hitting the controls, heading to the floor below his sleeping quarters.
The vorcha behind him started to hiss, grumbling and mumbling to each other. Garm looked over his shoulder at them, scaly brow furrowed. They probably had to be taken outside. He'd be damned if he let another one shit on his carpet. Vorcha shit stains were harder to get out than vorcha blood stains, and one inevitably always followed the other. "Go outside!" he barked at them, slapping the elevator controls with a hand. The doors slid shut, the elevator descended, and the krogan battlemaster was left alone in his silent empty rooms.
Garm rounded a corner, heading toward his walk in freezer. Hungry as hell. Time to throw a varren carcass in the radioactive cooker and-
There was someone here.
Garm froze, and the figure at the other end of the room froze as well. It stood near the window, sniper rifle in hand, trying to shrink back out of his line of sight. But the neon light from a rotating advertisement outside had swept over him and he was caught.
A turian in full battle armor, his face hidden behind a thick protective helmet.
A split second later, the krogan bellowed, "ARCHANGEL!" and charged towards the turian at full speed.