Miss Torva stood in front of the gathered kids, her hands shaking as she held the datapad. She had to get a grip on herself. The message she'd received this morning had been brief, but the contents? Life-changing. The orphanage, which had been hanging on by a thread for years, had just received a donation that would triple their budget.

She cleared her throat, scanning the wide-eyed faces in front of her. The kids, worn down by the daily grind of survival, looked at her with a mix of hope and disbelief. They weren't used to good news, and she wasn't used to delivering it. But this was the kind of news that could change everything.

"Everyone, listen up," she began, her voice carrying through the musty, worn-down room. "This morning, we received a very large donation. Enough to cover repairs to the ceilings, get new beds, buy proper supplies, and… well, do just about everything we've been dreaming of doing for years."

The kids whispered among themselves, eyes widening as they took it in. It sounded too good to be true.

"How big a donation?" asked a Turian boy from the back.

Miss Torva smiled, though she was still processing it herself. "It's enough to triple the orphanage's budget. New programs, tutors, proper food, fresh uniforms—the works."

The room buzzed with excitement, but she held up a hand to quiet them. "But… there's a catch." The words hung in the air, and the excitement dimmed just a little as the kids waited for the other shoe to drop. Nothing in Omega came without a catch.

"The donation came from someone who didn't leave a name," Miss Torva continued, glancing at the datapad as if it might somehow reveal more details. "But they left one condition: after your education and training, you'll have to work for their company—Odyssey—for two years."

The kids exchanged looks, some of them confused, others intrigued. A scrappy Vorcha at the front spoke up, voice sharp and curious. "What kinda work?"

Miss Torva took a breath. "You'll learn how to run a business. Manage supplies, prep food—whatever needs doing. But here's the good part: you'll get paid while you do it. And when the two years are over? You'll have the skills and credits to move on and do whatever you want."

Another kid, a young Asari who had been silent up until now, raised her hand. "So we get to study, get paid, and then work for two years?"

Miss Torva nodded. "That's right. You'll get proper schooling, real training, and when you're done, you'll be part of Odyssey for two years. After that, the world's open to you."

The Turian boy who'd spoken earlier scratched his chin, still a bit skeptical. "Two years… that's not so bad."

Torva smiled, her voice steady. She wasn't exactly in the position to provide that opportunity herself. "It's more than fair, considering what's being offered. You'll be learning skills that will help you for the rest of your life."

The room buzzed with excitement again, but this time, it wasn't the wild, desperate hope they usually had. This was real. Tangible. A future. The kids, who had spent most of their lives scraping by, looked around at each other, nodding. None of them hesitated.

A scrappy Vorcha in the back cackled. "So, who's this mystery guy handing out creds?"

Torva shrugged, glancing at the datapad again. "I don't know. They didn't leave a name. Just a message. But whoever it is, they're giving you all a chance. And it's up to you to take it."

One of the younger Asari, eyes wide, piped up from the back. "When do we start?"

Miss Torva couldn't help but smile at the eagerness. "The tutors and programs will be set up within a week. As for Odyssey, you'll start as soon as your training is done. So be ready."

The kids were practically buzzing with excitement now. Two years at Odyssey seemed like a small price to pay for everything they were being offered. For once, they weren't thinking about how to survive another day—they were thinking about the future.

Objectives for Today:

⏳ Make the most of my time on the Citadel.

💥 Locate the heavy weapons guy. (MUST!)

🎯 Bounty: Track down drug syndicate in Lower Kithoi Wards. Mean-looking Salarian.

🔫 Connect with guns influencer.

🚀 Return to Omega before Tatarum heads off for the DMZ job.

Foolproof plan, Kakmar! 😎

"How in Keelah's piss did you get into my apartment?"

The voice that answered came with a smirk. "Real answer or one that'll make you less creeped out?"

"Both are equally unenticing," Ralos shot back, his voice edged with irritation. His eyes roved the room, landing on the man standing casually by the door. Dirty apparel hung loosely on the wall, a cap adorned with the emblem: Kithoi Ward Civil Services.

Ralos wasn't dressed for trouble—he looked more like a twig wearing someone else's clothes.

The Krogan mercenary stepped further into the room, his heavy boots thudding softly against the floor. "Might sound like a stalker…" the mercenary replied, shrugging with a sheepish grin.

"Buddy, you literally broke into my house and documented my whole life up to this point. Not just like a stalker—you are one."

"How in God's name…?"

"Come on. I am not dull. Only a handful of people knew I was working on that project, and one of them let me go. If anyone were to know what transpired - either they are a detective or someone who has way too much time on their hands…"

Kakmar raised an eyebrow, but Ralos wasn't backing down. The Quarian's jaw clenched, his fingers twitching slightly. "Not saying a word until you give me access to your subsystems."

Kakmar's omni-tool flickered to life, streams of data flashing before his eyes.

For a brief moment, Kakmar looked amused. Then, with a shrug, he activated his omni-tool, the familiar orange glow lighting up his hulking figure. Streams of data flickered across the interface, and Ralos stepped forward, his own omni-tool activating in response. His eyes scanned the data, muttering under his breath as the information flowed in.

"Omega… Blue Suns… Work history… Ilium Entertainment stocks? Hah, you're finished."

The hulking Krogan crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall. "You don't seem too worried that I'm a mercenary."

Ralos leaned against the counter, half amused, half weary. "That's actually what I wanted to start with, funnily enough. I used to think being a merc was badass, wanted to be like my mates." He paused, eyes drifting to the floor. "First job scared me shitless. Realised real quick I wasn't cut out for that life. But hey, here we are. Searched for my name on your contract list and it didn't come up, so I guess you're not here to kill me." Ralos chuckled darkly, throwing Kakmar a look. "You want my autograph instead?"

Kakmar's face remained unreadable, his broad, battle-scarred head tilted slightly. The cuts looked fresh. "N-no. I'm here for something a lot worse."

Ralos' nervous chuckle caught in his throat. "Wait, wait, wait… I haven't even gotten a single weapon past pre-production, and now some random merc wants a gun out of me? I'm a fucking Armax Arsenal reject, man."

Kakmar tilted his head. "I thought you left Armax."

"Under duress," Ralos replied, his tone a mix of bitterness and resignation. "Citadel classic."

"Why?"

Ralos shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the question pressing down on him. "Honestly?" He looked away, a distant expression crossing his face. "I set myself up to fail. I was doing it for my ma, really. She needed treatment on the Citadel. We applied for humanitarian entry, but we weren't a priority. 'One among countless Quarians,' they said." His voice wavered, bitterness creeping in. "The Citadel doesn't care. Well, neither do I. Armax can go fuck themselves. They all can."

He turned back to Kakmar, his eyes hard. "So tell me, why should I work for you? Why are you any different from the bureaucrat who graduated from some no-name university on Thessia and tossed my application in the bin without even looking at it?"

Kakmar didn't speak at first, letting the question hang heavy in the air. He knew the weight of rejection. The system had failed plenty like Ralos, and he'd seen how it broke people. But they didn't have to stay broken.

"I've been wandering a bit since then," Ralos muttered, as though he needed to justify his own disillusionment. "Odd jobs. Soul searching, or whatever you want to call it. Need more credits to buy a ship. Make something of this pilgrimage. The world's unfair. I knew that going in, but… I didn't think I'd be the one sitting at the other end of the table when the dealer flipped the cards." His voice grew quiet, almost fragile. "I just want to go home."

The silence that followed was thick, the noise of the city beyond his apartment barely registering as the two men stood in the cramped space, worlds apart but closer than either would admit.

"I'm not ready to give you an answer yet, Kakmar," Ralos finally said, his voice quieter than before.

Kakmar nodded, his face unreadable. "That's fair. Call me if you change your mind. Or don't. We can talk about other things."

"Like what?"

"Life being a bitch," he smirked.

"This is so weird," Ralos said with a single chuckle, more out of disbelief than humor.

"It shouldn't be," Kakmar replied, standing to leave. "And it isn't, to me."

As the door slid shut behind him, Ralos remained still, staring at the space Kakmar had just occupied. He let out a long breath, wondering how his life had led to a Krogan mercenary breaking into his home for a conversation about weapons.

With a long, shaky breath, Ralos walked over to a shelf and picked up a framed picture.

It was of him and his mother on an artificial beach. He remembered that day—the sun simulated to perfection, the sand soft but uncomfortably warm beneath their feet. That day had been too expensive, just like everything else was on the Citadel. His first paycheck couldn't have gone into anything better.

His eyes welled up, his thumb brushing over the image of his mother, frozen in time, her eyes as bright as the fake sun.

The open-air kitchen of Odyssey Noodles hummed with the usual bustle, steam rising from the bubbling pots of broth. Lo'liys floated silently, prepping orders with his usual efficiency, while Sala darted between the counter and tables, keeping the front of house in check. They had expanded - renting out a bit of the sidewalk to put more tables.

But it wasn't Sala or Lo'liys who had a spark of something new that day.

Jark, a scrawny Vorcha with a knack for tinkering, stood over the simmering broth with a grin that could only mean trouble—or genius. He'd been with Odyssey for a while, brought in mostly for the back-end work. He cleaned, prepped, and handled minor repairs. But today, he had an idea.

"This broth... too clean for Omega," Jark muttered, stirring the pot with one clawed hand while his other scratched his chin. "People here like things... messier. Stronger." His sharp teeth glinted in the dim kitchen light as he rummaged through a side cupboard, pulling out a jar of unknown spices he'd been sneaking into the pantry.

Sala eyed him from across the room. "What're you up to, Jark? That's the Odyssey Special—don't mess with it. The customers like it."

Jark shook his head, not looking up. "No, no. They like it... because they don't know better. But Omega... Omega wants something with kick. Something that hurts." His eyes gleamed with mischief as he unscrewed the spice jar, tipping a generous amount into the broth. The pot hissed in response, releasing a pungent, fiery scent that instantly thickened the air. "All... the food we have here is either imported or... or made from trash. The trash has more soul than the pre-made stuff ever had!"

Lo'liys floated closer, watching the bubbling pot with mild curiosity. His kind couldn't sense or taste spice, but aromas? "This one notices an alteration. Is it intentional?"

Jark grinned. "Intentional? This is innovation, boss. Omega-style. Stronger spices, more heat. Something that punches you in the gut before you can finish the first slurp."

Sala sniffed the air, wrinkling her nose. "Are you trying to kill our customers? I can smell that from here."

Jark shrugged, still stirring. "You'll see. This'll be the hit of the streets."

Sala snorted. "I've been on Omega long enough to know what people like."

"No," Jark shot back, voice sharper. "You been here long enough to see what newcomers like. People with credits. Omega's not just them. The ones who grew up here? We ate what we could. We took pride in the pain. It made Omega." His eyes flicked to the bubbling pot. "Not just food. It is how you know you belong. Know for fact none of them come here. Only tourists."

As the new concoction simmered, the first customer of the day—a grizzled Batarian merc—stepped up to the counter. He had the look of someone who'd seen his fair share of Omega's violence and was probably hungry for more than just noodles. Sala gave him a once-over, deciding that if anyone could stomach whatever chaos Jark had brewed, it'd be this guy.

"Try today special," Jark called out before Sala could hand over the usual order. "It's... spicier."

The Batarian raised an eyebrow but shrugged. "Spicy's good."

He took a seat, eyeing the steaming bowl that Jark placed in front of him. As soon as the first bite hit his tongue, his eyes widened. He slurped down more noodles, his mandibles twitching slightly from the heat.

"What... the hell is this?" the Batarian muttered between mouthfuls.

Jark grinned, leaning over the counter. "It's Omega Style—punch in the mouth and keep on going."

The Batarian paused for a moment, as if considering throwing the bowl across the room, but instead, he nodded, continuing to eat. "I've had worse burns from an Armax rifle."

Sala raised an eyebrow, watching as the Batarian finished the entire bowl. He slammed it down on the counter and wiped his mouth, grinning. "Keep making that, and I'll be back."

Jark puffed his chest out, victorious. "We'll be Omega's go-to, you just wait! The Boss would be proud."

Sala let out a soft laugh. "I wouldn't go that far. But if it brings in more customers, I'll make sure he knows this was your idea."

Sala wiped the sweat from her brow, her boots kicking up dust as she stepped inside the crumbling remains of the abandoned mining factory. The air was thick with grime, and the whole place reeked of old rust and decay. It wasn't just an eyesore—it was a deathtrap. But to her, it was more than that.

If she could pull this off.

The Batarian sitting on a half-broken crate across from her wasn't impressed. His four eyes were fixed on her, unblinking. Korrak had inherited the mining factory from his late uncle—a washed-up smuggler who ran it into the ground decades ago. Now, Korrak squatted here, clinging to the property like a life raft in a sea of misery.

"You really think this place is worth something?" Korrak grunted, his voice thick with disbelief. "The place is a dump."

Sala folded her arms, eyes locked on him. "I'm not here for your opinion, Korrak. I'm here for the deed."

Korrak chuckled, his laugh as rough as the factory's rusted beams. "Deed, huh? I'm not giving up my birthright for some noodle operation."

Sala leaned in closer, her voice low and sharp. "You're not giving it up. You're betting it. Big difference."

She slammed a small package onto the table between them—Odyssey's new limited-edition noodles. The wrapper gleamed under the dim light, a stark contrast to the grimy room.

Korrak glanced at it, frowning. "What's this supposed to be?"

"A bet," Sala replied, her grin dangerous. "Odyssey's blowing up. You've seen it on the feeds, heard people talk. Social media's losing it over this stuff. The noodles are everywhere, Korrak. Even in a place like this, I know you've heard of them. And I'm betting you have no idea what you're sitting on."

He shifted uncomfortably. He had heard of them. Hell, even he'd seen the packets floating around the black market. But giving up his property for some fancy food gamble? He wasn't sure.

Sala saw his hesitation and pressed on. "Here's the deal. You give me the deed to this factory. In exchange, you get a cut. But if we lose the bet, you keep the factory. Simple as that."

Korrak snorted, leaning back on the creaking crate. "And what bet are we talking about here? What are the odds?"

Sala's eyes glinted. "Simple. One year. I'll get Odyssey noodles into every major shop on Omega. If I don't? You win. But if I do, this factory's mine. And you get a percentage of everything we make here—after it's converted, of course."

Korrak's eyes narrowed, scanning Sala's face for any sign of weakness. He didn't trust her, not fully. But he knew opportunity when he saw it, and Sala had a fire in her that couldn't be faked. He weighed his options. Hold on to a dying hunk of metal and rot, or roll the dice and potentially walk away with credits flowing into his account?

"Fine," he grumbled, standing up. "You're on. But if you lose, I'm kicking your ass out, and I'm keeping whatever changes you make to this place."

Sala smirked, extending her hand. "Deal."

Korrak shook it, his grip strong and calloused. "One year," he said, his voice low. "Don't think I'll go easy on you if you fail."

One year. The clock was ticking, but Sala wasn't sweating. She had bigger plans than just noodles.

Sala shot him a dangerous smile.

With that, she pocketed the small package of noodles and headed for the door, feeling Korrak's eyes on her back the whole time. As she stepped outside, the derelict factory loomed over her, but she didn't see a crumbling ruin anymore.

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Tentacle movie situation is crazy

"I always wanted to be a star in the movies. Emphasis on wanted. Not anymore. I got you guys, all 20 billion of you, anyway. But apparently, the first rule of being a celebrity these days is, uh, having a questionable relationship with kids. I don't know what the hell's going on in the Bachjret Wards, but nothing good, and honestly, I don't think I want to know."

pauses, looking dead into the camera

"And for the record, let me just say—I am not suicidal. But yeah, it's a shitshow. Which is why it's up to the independent filmmakers of today to actually make something decent, while keeping their hands in their pockets, please and thank you."

laughs, leans back in the chair

"On EV, you see so many projects of pure passion that blow away the garbage getting churned out by these big-budget hacks. There's real creativity happening with indie creators. But can big-budget films make a comeback? I don't know, man. They've got the money, but they've definitely lost the plot. Maybe we'll see it, but right now, all the cool stuff's coming from the little guys."

pauses, smirking

"I say that, but I am a fucking shill and actually got approached by a producer to consult on a movie in the works!"

hard chuckle, eyes widen as she leans forward

"Check this out."

She gestures to a black, tentacle-like contraption... a bodysuit molded exclusively for a Hanar.

"What if the Hanar developed a superbeing-like capability to lift themselves up with the strengths of their tentacles alone. Think about it, yeah. Now, I want you to picture that same Hanar... holding a gun. Call him Blasto."

pauses, letting the absurdity sink in

"Stay tuned, folks."

camera cuts

The usual droning of cars and the rush of Citadel traffic had faded, replaced by the soft rustling of shrubbery and the low hum of ventilation systems. This was the quiet side of the Citadel, far from the bustle of the wards.

A lone Krogan approached the camera, his face obscured by a mask, moving with deliberate, heavy steps. He paused before the lens, his gaze sharp but unreadable.

Kakmar tapped the screen of the Ring looking ripoff. "I am outside."

Inside, the Turian's talons clicked softly on the console as he studied the Krogan's figure on the monitor. His eyes lingered for a moment, considering the Krogan's broad features, then focused on the subtle detail they'd agreed on: a blue ribbon tied loosely around his wrist, just as they'd discussed over email and in hushed calls.

Wordlessly, the Turian flicked the switch, disengaging the locks, letting Kakmar in. The heavy metallic door slid open with a low hiss.

Ya'kiv stood by the console, his eyes flicking up and down the masked Krogan as he entered.

"Thank you for your discretion. Shadow Broker has eyes and ears everywhere," the Turian began, voice low, cautious. "And as I said, I'm on every manufacturer's shitlist."

He considered the Krogan for a moment, taking in his battered armour and the fatigue evident in his posture.

"Man, you look like shit."

Kakmar let out a rough chuckle, the sound rumbling from his chest. "People tend to after doing a job."

The Turian leaned back, his mandibles twitching. "How the hell has C-Sec not…?" He trailed off, shaking his head in disbelief.

Kakmar shrugged, the motion slow, almost lazy. "I try to take jobs that C-Sec may have already been investigating. Ones they have bounties for. The Executor loves doing things by the book, but in some cases, a bullet to the head's what's needed."

A silence hung in the air. The Turian's eyes soon narrowed, his mandibles tightening. "Oh spirits, do I really have to spell it out? What I was insinuating was that you should really take a shower. You stink!"

"Ah," Kakmar said shortly after. "Right. Sorry."

Entry… I don't even know anymore. Feels like time's slipping away faster than I can keep track of.

I'm scared. Been through more firefights than I can count, watched more mercs go down than I'd like to admit, but this? This is different. It's not bullets flying past my head—it's the weight of what we've started. The donation to the orphanage felt right. No, it was right. Those kids need something more than the streets, more than what Omega offers. But now… now I feel like I've lit a fuse I'm not sure I can control. They're gonna work for us, learn what it means to survive and thrive in this galaxy.

...Does this make me a slave owner? Their futures, completely and utterly, are in my hands.

And then there's Sala. She's out here buying an old mining factory like it's a game of Quasar. Strong-armed some Batarian into giving up the deed. She's serious—dead serious. Plans to scale Odyssey like we're some kind of galactic food empire. Flash-fried noodles to take over Omega? I mentioned like it was a half-formed idea. But I've seen stranger things happen. She says it's just the start. I want to believe her.

The Terminus needs something better than the soul-sucking corps that run this place into the ground. Odyssey could be that.

That's where Ya'kiv comes in.

Met this guy online—an influencer with too many opinions about guns. He accepted the deal. We're gonna shoot a video together, here on Omega, showing just how impractical these guns are right now. How many idiots out here carry around rechargeable weapons, not knowing that half the time, they'll fail you when it counts? People need to see the truth, and this guy's got the platform to show them.

We're gonna expose it. Make it clear that the galaxy needs something better. And that's where Ralos comes in.

Introduced the Quarian gun inventor on the last call. Guy's a genius, but completely jaded. He's been burned, screwed over by corps, and blacklisted. Now he's living in the shadows, working some dead-end job, barely scraping by. But he's got the mind for this. I've seen his designs—kinetic guns that don't rely on some weak-ass battery packs. Real firepower. The kind Omega needs, the kind Odyssey could supply. Ya'kiv and his network of gun enthusiasts. Showcasing Ralos' guns to the galaxy.

It'd be a miracle if any of this actually worked. Imposter syndrome is hitting hard right now.

Time to head back to Omega.

End log.

Been one million years. Currently still being butt-fucked by masters coursework. Getting there tho. Sorry for the wait 😭