Sala only had three seconds to react when she heard footsteps behind her. She was far enough along the walk to her door to know she had no neighbors past this point. Her movements were practiced and disciplined; the less said about how her Batarian stalker reacted, the better.

As he lay sprawled on the cold sheet of the boardwalk, she figured he was probably rethinking his life choices up to this moment. She would get her answers. A pistol held to the face was usually a sufficient motivator.

In her mind, there could be only one reason for why she was being followed. "I am not gonna kill you. Because I have a message to send him."

The Batarian paused his struggling.

"Tell him to leave me be," she whispered. "The time for apologies was over a long time ago. It's not my fault they can't produce someone halfway competent to manage the factories. I am not a toy he can just throw away and pick up again whenever he wants. You are a sorry excuse for an assassin. Haven't you heard that my father took great pains to ensure that we were 'adequate'?"

"W-what?"

She raised her pistol an inch closer to his cheeks. "Don't play coy."

"This... this ain't about any factories!"

"Then what the fuck is it about?"

"Y'know... your noodle place! The one that's been going viral?"

She stood there, incredulous. The Batarian winced as her foot pressed down harder, like smashing a burger patty.

"What about it?"

"Other than taking a lot of the normal clientele the bigwigs used to get?"

"Tell me everything."

Being the prickly coward he was, the Batarian spilled.

"So, they wanna buy us out, eh?"

Kakmar had impressed upon her the importance of not selling out to a bigger corporate entity. Someplace called Singapore had many such cases, and the food apparently suffered for it. Credit was credit, it could always be made. But there was a soul that food brought, and if any of the ingredients were to change after being bought out, that reputation was hard to replace.

Besides that, there was the obvious reason she agreed to co-running a food joint: food, for food's sake. She hadn't questioned it.

"So why are you carrying?"

"Ain't it obvious? To motivate ya."

With a deft movement, she crushed his dropped pistol into its individual components, sending sparks flying.

She leaned in closer, her voice dripping with menace. "I hope I motivated you enough to consider picking your contracts more wisely.

"And in case I haven't made it clear enough already, go tell your masters my answer's no."

Sala had a self-importance complex, no doubt about it. Her mind often lingered in the past. She hadn't even considered whatever she did here was consequence for her actions. Her father's influence was significant but not limitless, and certainly not fictional. She couldn't believe these thoughts had escaped her in the shower, yet here she was.

What had she learned today? Her father didn't want her back. That was a relief. Escaping that life had made her current one much more enjoyable. Dealing with the usual riff-raff of customer service—customers who were usually wrong, bitchy, or just plain assholes—was a small price to pay for the satisfaction of honest work.

Old habits died hard. Hearing her father say 'good job' was both her greatest treasure and her undoing. It made it all the more dangerous that he would come for her.

He used to be so full of life when she was younger. Before he Ascended, that is. Batarian politics either broke you or made you a prick. She can see where it led him.

What did Kakmar call her problem? A father complex?

She tossed her apron unceremoniously into the washing machine and slouched heavily onto her leather couch. She had many plans to make now.

Franchising prospects were promising, at least for the next five years. Yet, the company was in its infancy and vulnerable to financial instability. While she loved her work, hospitality was notorious for devastating setbacks.

If creating a packaged version of their noodles meant reaching the masses who couldn't afford to eat at her shops, then so be it. For the love of the game.

Their product wasn't highbrow, but it was good, honest, hearty food. Omegans would devour the concept—affordable and perfect for the average workhorse.

Flash frying noodles wasn't unique, but the potential for quality food from a single packet with minimal effort was. Above all, on a station where most people juggled two jobs, time was a precious resource. Many chose vending machine food to save time rather than eating out.

Launching their product would change things on this rock. Gone would be the depressing mass-produced junk in vending machines across the station. A meal kit that was as easy to cook as it was to open. This message wasn't entirely new, but it was foreign enough to the people of Omega, who were accustomed to being taken advantage of.

To convey that their product was healthier than the rest, she needed branding. She needed media. 'Marketing Management' was one of the first subjects her father taught her dutifully. She understood the importance of shifting cultural perceptions favourably toward your product. Otherwise, it was better not to try at all. Traditional media was too expensive and saturated with competitors.

Indeed, a grassroots campaign using existing social media would be challenging but not impossible. That would mean hiring consultants from Ilium, most likely.

She smirked to herself. She had always been up for a challenge.

"Ugh…"

She felt as if her retinas could melt right off judging by how long she was staring at her blue datapad. Serves her right for not getting an omni-colour datapad.

Sala hadn't realised how daunting it was to introduce a new product into this saturated market until she did her research. How many products existed that weren't owned by a handful of conglomerates on the station? The barriers new products faced were intense and unreasonable, not just natural economic challenges.

Corporations here tended to perpetuate poverty. Aria hadn't fully consolidated control over the so-called 'free market'. When competition can be eliminated through force and extortion and a bullet to the cranium, it can hardly be considered truly free.

That meant she had to implement a contingency plan for all her employees. Probably a carry-on policy. If this attack on her failed, her other employees would be easy targets. They would send more and more people after her to force compliance. She dreaded imagining Lo'liys the Hanar defending himself against mercenaries. They were just too vulnerable.

"Damn," she muttered. As always, the reward for good work was more work.

Dorgo, a Volus banker, waddled to a terminal, his exo-suit shimmering under the lights.

When he was approached by a mercenary named Kakmar from Omega about participating in the Ilium stock market, Dorgo was at first puzzled.

The whole thing was done over call. You'd think it'd be courtesy to meet in person to ensure your broker wasn't ripping you off.

But no. He was flattered, but they had never met before. Not once. But at that point, Dorgo was willing to give anything a go, given how his last client ran his name through the mud.

Dorgo reviewed the peculiar list of investments: Synthetic Insights, Armali Council, and Ilium Entertainment.

The latter was floundering, and the former two were as green as grass and had been stagnant for years.

…

Ah well, the commission was high enough that he wasn't going to question it.

ILIUM ENTERTAINMENT INVESTOR CALL 2124, pt. 7 (Transcript)

KAKMAR: Can we revisit last month's suggestions?

PALIO: Not this again. Your grasp of the political climate makes the idea of a Hanar Spectre impossible. It'd be seen as patronizing at best, racist at worst.

NOIRAHA: What's that?

PALIO: What's what?

NOIRAHA: Those flashing yellow lights in Kakmar's background. Also, why are you in a full suit of armour? And… is that an Armax Punisher behind you…?

(A silence filled the room as Kakmar hastily tried to hide the weapon before dejectedly turning off the camera.)

KAKMAR: Just... something I picked up from Palaven a few days back. Like collecting guns. Anyway, let's stay on track. The idea isn't meant to be a realistic depiction. Some people want to see a Hanar swinging from branch to branch, taking out bad guys – with a gun in each tentacle. And that's okay. It will be a crowd pleaser!

PALIO: Seriously? Have you done any market research? Run a focus group? Any insight development? Clearly not, because the concept wouldn't have survived first contact.

CENDURIA: I have to agree. The public is too sensitive to movies like that. They want more substance. Although, a strategy like this might have worked 200 years ago.

NOIRAHA: Way to out yourselves as non-Asari. I agree it's risky, but there's a lack of simple entertainment right now.

PALIO: For a good reason! People won't watch otherwise!

NOIRAHA: I remember those days, Cenduria. Sometimes movies are meant to be background noise, not award-winning master works, and that's okay. Plus, people go crazy for films if they know what they're getting. With a good marketing campaign… well, maybe market it as a family movie.

KAKMAR: Thank you, Noira, for believing in the concept. But it's clear the rest in the call won't invest. I understand. So, I have a proposition.

PALIO: Okay…?

KAKMAR: I will sell my share of Ilium stock to you, free of charge, if it bombs.

CENDURIA: Spirits above, you might as well be handing us credits.

KAKMAR: If I'm right, and I think I am, I get ten of your shares before the investor windfall.

PALIO: A bloody windfall? This guy…

CENDURIA: I would shake on it if I could, but it feels a little too dirty.

NOIRAHA: Ooooh. Spicy!

CENDURIA: So, what are you going to call the project?

KAKMAR: …'BLASTO'.

I am back.

Meet me at the Projects. Let's talk on the job.

Seriously?

20% cut of a job just about to be finished. Take it or leave it.

In the end, Kakmar simply followed the sounds of gunshots. What laid before him was a grim tableau—dead men and women clad in black armor dotted the scene. The blaring red of neon lights, emanating from a rather promiscuous Asari establishment nearby, was his only light source. The goons seem to be perched on top of the stairs leading into the building. He could cuss out Tatarum all he wanted for not filling him in. But at this point, he was nearly 90% sure he texted back on the job.

He shouldn't have expected anything less.

Despite everything, it wasn't hard to spot his mentor—the sound of mad cackling cutting through the air even louder than the bullets.

"Better now than never," he muttered, raising his marksman rifle. He quickly found the unprotected head of a turian target. Blue mist erupted from the turian's shattered skull as the shot rang out.

In the ensuing chaos, a salarian staggered backward, a shrill cry escaping their lips as another bullet from Kakmar nicked their side.

"F-FLANKS! FLA—" The salarian's warning was cut short by another shot that whizzed through the air and silenced them.

Kakmar then sprinted toward the nearest barrier, diving into cover beside his mentor. Bits of concrete sprayed over his head as splashes of red hit his cover.

"Sitch?"

"Clearing out a Creeper den. Boss man doesn't want to close shop. Here we are."

Creeper was a powerful drug. On more than one job during his time with the Blue Suns, he found himself entangled with it in some way. Yet…

"The hell you need me for?" Jobs like this were Tatarum's bread and butter.

"Think of it as a date! A heart to heart. It's been a while since we talked. Nothing more sincere than red hot blood to be spilled in the battlefield!"

Kakmar simply shook his head. "How Krogan of you…"

He powered up his sniper to its max bullet capacity before peeking out again.

There was a lull for a moment before anyone screeched anything else.

"Shit, he's got that merc?!"

"Yeah, I've got that merc! Now keel over and die!" Tatarum's scream could have shattered the sound barrier judging the spit that escaped his jaw.

The sound of a gun clattered on the ground.

"Fuck this! I'm not dying here."

"You coward!"

"Yeah? Cowards get to keep their lives!"

True to his word, one silhouette under the sign decided enough was enough. He had a clear shot, but he knew more than anyone mercs on Omega was as fickle to loyalty as they come. His shadow freely slinked into the night.

"You saw that?! Your boss is a dead man walking!" Kakmar shouted. "Leave now before anyone else gets hurt!"

"THE FUCK I WILL!"

"…then die."

If Kakmar could physically pale, he would have. Right then and there, Tatarum stood up for all the world to see.

"COME HERE!"

With a biotic barrier, he charged with the speed of a rampaging bull.

It didn't matter how many bullets they shot at him if they all stopped in stasis. The ground shook with the sheer body of mass. Like a freight train he elbowed the mercs onto the ground. With a truly vicious grin he raised his shotgun – a veritable thing of beauty – and unloaded it into one poor turian's face.

Blue, chunky ribbons would be appropriate to describe the remainder of his head.

By then, however, his barrier was no longer up. Energy blasts hit Tatarum's side, and he winced at the sudden pain. It wouldn't kill him, but it hurt.

He was about to raise his pistol in response to the attacker before blasts coming from his side started raining down on the merc.

With practised form, Kakmar stalked up the steps with one eye between his optics. Shot after shot, hitting the salarian's torso. The bloke's brain tried to raise to fire but didn't get the memo their body was already dead. The pistol flopped onto the ground unceremoniously.

Three more guys toward the side returned fire, but Kakmar's magazine hadn't needed to reset yet. He quickly adjusted and continued to move steadily. In a skirmish like this, best to keep your head on top of yourself and not move too much while firing; your shots were more likely to hit than theirs that way.

So, it did. By then, Tatarum had already gotten up, and with a grimace that could frighten a toddler to death just with how he looked.

This shouldn't take long.

It was finally over.

The boss was dead. Long live the boss.

Stale club music droned on in the background. Smoke still emanated from the bullet holes in the wall.

Panicked eyes stared at the corpse, and stared at them back.

"Keelah."

An Asari, a Quarian, and an Elcor could only stare on. Kakmar was sensing a pattern here. An uncomfortable one, judging from their common gender.

"Hell of a way to get out of contract," the Quarian muttered. "T-thanks."

Tatarum smirked. "Go."

The Quarian quickly nodded and stepped around the body. The rest of them followed suit. A quiet lull passed before Kakmar broke it.

"What did this place do to deserve getting merc'd?" Kakmar's foot nudged the place's manager. Thankfully, he remained limp. "Other than the indentured servants used for nefarious purposes."

Tatarum sank into the leather chair, the material creaking under his weight as he adjusted to find a comfortable position.

"It would have been fine, had it gone through the correct channels. Unregulated drug trade is bad for obvious reasons; poisoning, overdosing…" he inflected. "This one made the critical mistake of ripping people off. Powerful people. Plus, someone's kid died in this den. It was a credit pool in the 6 figures. Hard to resist."

Kakmar's enhanced sensors picked up something wet brushing against his boot. With a grimace, he stepped around the pool of blood, shaking off whatever had smeared onto his armour.

"Hard to imagine these people wanted to die for their boss," Kakmar muttered.

"Two words, Kakmar: merc insurance. Remember your Blue Suns contract?" Tatarum replied.

"Vaguely."

"Most can divert a bit of their pay toward insurance. Upon-death clauses are a must for most rational mercs. The ones who wanted out already left. The rest stayed because they had nowhere else to go. And if they died? Well, the payout to their family is substantial with the right contract. Looked like the moral tradeoff was enough for them."

"Now they're dead. So much for understanding their situation and their plight."

"Hey, that's what you get for working with a drug lord who's probably killed hundreds already."

Kakmar wandered around the room, kneeling down to check for safes. He felt something uneven on the floorboard, and tearing it up, he found a hidden compartment. As he fiddled the credits out of the safe, Kakmar motioned to speak.

"So, Tatarum, you wanted to talk?"

"Ah, yes. Nearly forgot. You remember when you did that jump over the crane in front of that CCTV camera?"

"Hard to forget the most embarrassing moment of my life, but yes."

"Well, I'm here to tell you that you cocked it up," Tatarum said with a smirk.

"Cocked what up?"

"For one, you weren't wearing your armor. How are people going to recognize you now?"

Kakmar sighed. "What if the point is to not become recognized?"

Tatarum crossed his arms. "You've made a name for yourself through your deeds, yes. But to truly earn money and achieve your goals, you need to become larger than life. Celebrity mercs are all the rage in elite social circles. 'I hired so-and-so the other day to deal with him.' The rich don't flaunt their wealth because money isn't a concept to them anymore. Their greatest social commodity is the people they know and can brag about."

Kakmar took a deep breath. "Tatarum, listen…"

"That's a lot of momentum you've lost. No more superkrogan antics is hurting your brand image. Once you have a brand, people will start coming to you personally, and not your name coming to them."

"What momentum? That I'm a psycho killer?"

"That you're a badass killer! A reliable killer."

Kakmar shook his head. "My priorities have changed over the years. I'm sorry I didn't make it clearer sooner, but I didn't want to ruin our arrangement. I don't want to kill and keep killing to achieve what I want to achieve."

"What do you mean?" Tatarum's tone softened slightly.

"How many countless orphans have I made on this station alone? And then you wonder why they chose crime in the first place. Because they didn't have anywhere else to go. I didn't have anywhere else to go. It's a vicious cycle – and I don't want any part of it," Kakmar said, his voice filled with resolve.

Tatarum shook his head, disbelief etched on his face. "In case you haven't noticed… we live on Omega. What you do is tame."

"Do you even comprehend what I am saying? I quit merc life for a reason."

"You little pyjak – you said you wanted to become stronger, smarter, better. Don't tell me you are giving up now. More experience. More gigs. More everything. That's what I am giving you, what I have been giving you all this time. For the gods' sake, we are hunting down people traffickers! It can't get more cut and dried than that!"

"So many people here were only guards."

"Who chose to be here! Who chose to work here! Why are you so naïve? Do you think everybody has the best in them? You are a merc. They were mercs. Your life could end any minute and yet you decided to play the game all those years. Guess what? So did they. You won. They lost. Get it through your head!"

Kakmar knew deep down that if he wanted to make any impact on how the Reaper War turned out, he needed to make the hard choices—the choice of who got to live or die. But that didn't have to be now.

"Glory," he muttered.

"...What?"

"That's what you think I want, isn't it?"

"Not necessarily just glory. But, from what you wrote in that e-mail, it seemed you needed the confidence boost."

"I understand now," Kakmar said quietly.

"Understand what? I ain't following."

"When you first talked to me, I mentioned I was from the Quash clan."

"I just took your word for it. I didn't want to pry."

"I haven't been honest with you. Not really. Quash is not my clan. Fact is, I don't have any clan. I woke up on this station with no memory other than being in an alleyway with two needle injectors by my side."

The air was getting colder by the second as the heaters started powering off.

"I found Quash online using a phone I picked up from a corpse. Picked it so the Blue Suns didn't laugh me out of the office. I don't know anyone on Tuchanka before I lived in this system, and frankly, I don't give a damn," Kakmar admitted.

"Kakmar, What are you getting at?"

"I wanted to become stronger out of some misplaced sense of feeling like I am not a proper Krogan. That I should be stronger than I am right now – and there was a process behind the Krogan Way. But I realise now; there is no fixing us. There is something deeply fucked about our people, Tatarum. I am sorry for wasting your time."

"Kakmar…"

The boy walked away quietly, leaving Tatarum to slink further into the leather.

He had been poor all his life. Hunger was always a couple credits away.

He had been working all his life. Paycheck to paycheck, as those old Asari movies used to say.

When he accepted his position at Odyssey, he hadn't expected much to change. Job security wouldn't be an issue given how aggressively they have been expanding from their original locations. However, behind all great expansions is a corp too far up its own ass to care for the consumer base who, most likely, chose the store because of its location rather than how good the food is. On Omega, the whole bell and whistle of the matter is how cheap the food was and whether it was edible.

"Don't forget to take your lunch break, Lo'liys."

This place was different. It was frankly fantastical. 5% commission for upselling Odyssey sides? On top of a strangely bougie and competitive salary from a new franchise? He didn't know how they stayed afloat. All he knew was that he needed to hang onto this for as long as he physically can. With all his tentacles.

"This one will remember."

He started to mix the ingredients in both levo and dextro broths... much to Sala's chagrin. Sala has always complained about this aspect of their services, for reasons unknown prior to being hired.

Dextro and levo varieties, depending on your tastes and penchant for amino acids. Not that amino acids matter anyway… just a way to get people to notice their sense of inclusivity. Amino acids were like the varren salt (read: MSG) of the civilised world.

Dextros can eat levo meat and other products just fine, and vice versa. And medical technology has advanced enough if it did have a bad reaction, it can be pumped out.

His levitation pack was starting to go out of shape when he applied. Sala went out of her way to get him a new one, on the condition of reduced pay. The last time he had an experience like that was when his school-leader… well, less said about the past, the better.

He donned his white cylinder hat.

"This one is free to take orders!"

Tatarum saw the transfer happen on his holowrist.

20000 added back to his bank account. He didn't even pay the kid that much – which was 18000.

"Fuck…" His head slammed against the bar surface.

"What's the matter now?"

"I've got a bleeding heart for a mentee who has major delusions of grandeur."

"Hah! I was wondering when you two would crash out."

"You were hoping for this, Ganar?"

She smiled, strutting up and sitting across the bar from him.

"No, of course not. But the way things were going, it was bound to happen. And I've gotta say, what a spectacularly Tatarum way to blow out!"

He drank to that.

"Just like me, eh?" he drawled. "I just… I don't get it. Get him. He is a walking contradiction."

"You haven't seen things eye to eye on much of anything since day one. Well, considering one was barely 30 and the other in the early 4-digit range…"

"No shit, Ganar. His shell's barely grown out, hah," he spurted. "But he needs to be candid with me if we have any hope of making this shit work out. I didn't even know he was an orphan until today, and we have been working together for the better part of two years."

"From experience, Tatarum, it is not because he hates you or anything. He respects the shit out of you. I know I did with my krantt. The only one willing to take a runt like me under his wing."

"Wait. How did you get away with getting out of Tuchanka?"

"Faked the infertility."

"Ah."

Ganar shook her head.

"Regardless, you can start by apologising, Tatarum," she motioned. "Just as simple as that. He wouldn't have stuck by you if he doesn't think you are the coolest motherfucker on this rock. One apology can go a long way."

"Me? Saying sorry? The great Tatarum?"

"The great Tatarum wouldn't bust out the rancol to drink away his sorrows for just about anybody. Face it, Tatarum, you love the kid."

He smiled softly. "I do."

"Then you should have known taking him out during an assassination contract was not the play. He got the impression killing was your kind of fun."

"It is!"

"Maybe. But not to him. You need to ask him – directly – why he sent that expression of interest in the first place; why he would suddenly quit at all. Believe me, he didn't speak a word about it to me, either.

"But just know from all my years of knowing you – you two are more alike than you'd think. Keep that in mind."

TO-DO:

Apologise profusely. Get on my fucking knees if I have to.

Find the weapon designer.

Work: (i) Trophy Hunting project on Tuchanka, (ii) Pics of Thresher Maw for Xtreme Magazine, (iii) Rescue politician son (Salarian) in Citadel (ask C-Sec for bounty money too)

Paperwork (Sala's ideas and forms)

SOFT POWER IDEAS

Cosmic horror series about Reapers? Political undertones of ineffective governments. Jab at the three-person Council system.

Conspiracy theory posting? Evidence from Batarian Hegemony?

Commission piece… criticising all the galaxy's people. It ain't racist if we are racist to everyone…?

HALLO! Hope you liked the banter between the characters. By far my favourite part about writing! So here Kakmar and Sala are expanding their portfolio, literally! To survive in this world took credits, millions upon millions of them. This is one of the first steps they have taken to truly realise the vision, even if Sala isn't privy to it yet!

Don't forget to leave a review! I eat that shit up for breakfast.