[Rainfall] Sailor, Rich Man, Poor Man, Thief

"The best secrets aren't."
STG Crpytographer Rowett Fenk, 1114

The concept of cultural osmosis is fairly simple to grasp, even if viewed through the limited lens of memetic dispersal. Popular norms, customs, and ideas (those ostensibly not spread through genetic history) are observed by an outside society and fed through its own microcosm of natural selection. Those that survive the interaction are absorbed by the organisms in the populace through variation, mutation, competition and inheiritance, while those that aren't are left flapping in the wind like a rapidly-discarded gene - laying dormant until either until current circumstances revitalize its prominence, or its records are finally discarded.

Meme theory is, of course, a widely contested pseudoscience whose real-world applications have ironically been accused of weakening scientific rigor. Its lack of basic, manipulable concepts have been widely derided, and the accuracy with which memetic cause can be correlated with effect is second perhaps only to that of economics. Its most widely-known form, the "internet meme," is itself a poorly-understood mutation of the concept whose current success has eased the acceptance of ideologically-driven constructs of Intelligent Design, Homeopathy, and leftist liberal screed. Its mention here is merely a means to point out that Emon Spiza was ticking off Things to Do on individual knuckles of his fingers rather than the actual fingers of each hand, as he waited for the rest of his squad to show up at the ill-named "920 District" of Omega.

Oddly enough, the "920 District" was not only a bar and grill, it was a prety glitzy one - that is, until a certain terrorist organization both acquired and lost it in the Aria Tantrums of 2186. Its owners, a loathsome asari/krogan couple known as "Vemakay and Moxie Heart," had been slaughtered during the occupation, and gang warfare had done nothing for reconstruction after the war. In fact, next to no repairs had actually been completed there - Moxie and Vemakay's remains stil lay behind the counter, their hands still enveloped in a death grip around their twin-barrel shotguns.

It was oddly romantic, at least until you noticed the smell, and to be unnervingly honest Spiza felt at home. As "at home" one could be while establishing a base of operations for himself and seven psychopaths, anyway. At the very least it looked like the sort of place he described in his invitations.

A trio of drones issued forth from his omnitool as he slipped lightly over the ruined counter, scanning every surface of the failing building for recording devices and other Unwanted Surprises. "Trial 13 under way," he muttered half to himself as he dropped a seemingly innocuous set of marbles on the floor. "Escape Routes 1, 2 and 3 covered, weapon systems online..."

He wandered over to a table, where his custom-built Stiletto VI and a dusty bottle of ruxxia sat. He grabbed the glass.

"Now just a matter of waiting."

Well, it wasn't the worst place on the station. That honor went to the vorcha-infested sewers and the oxygen-free lower levels. Maybe the mines too, if only because of all the bodies getting dumped there and the mysterious things that took care of them. Still, it wasn't a particularly nice place that Esarkhad Adar found himself reporting to. It was also pretty inconvenient, for him at least - a long way from his usual haunts, which gave him plenty of time to mutter quietly to himself.

"Once, just once I'd like a contract that doesn't involve extra-fucking-super-secret-bullshit. Don't these motherfuckers know standard merc contracts are nearly airtight? Why can't the fucking kra'tashi ever just hire me, let me do my thing, and pay me so I can be on my way? Urakh."

What followed was a string of untranslatable batarian curses and barely-audible grumblings as Collar made his way to the rendezvous, putting no particular effort towards secrecy for the moment. His contact knew he was coming, and sneaking around in this part of the station was more likely to attract attention than deflect it, so he just did what came naturally. He grumbled, and carried on.

"You know I'm surprised at you. No, really I am. Out of all the possible agents for the STG you were quite literally one of the last people I would have pegged for the role. Which, admittedly has a certain brilliance about it."

Silver smoke twined up from the tip of the cigarette, the strands wending their way around each other like spectral DNA before dispersing into a cloud. He breathed out and for a moment, just a moment (and if one were so inclined to flights of fancy) he looked like nothing more than a dragon; teeth glinting in the ruddy half light, emerald eyes shining bright. Dark hair, dark shoes, dark slacks, a long, dark coat. He was a blot, a shadow, backlit by the glow of the station.

He wasn't alone.

Of course he wasn't alone.

A man stood behind him, turian if the armor design was anything to go by. Hulking. Massive. Arms and legs thick with muscle, sheathed in the armorweave and ceramic plates, the long, mechanical tendrils that sprouted from his back coiling and writhing. There was something feral in the way he was practically crouched there, half hidden behind his master.

His master who was, by all appearances, rather enjoying himself. It wasn't every day you got tapped as an auxiliary for a clandestine operation on the basis of blatant cheating after all.

The appearance of the decidedly disgruntled batarian only improved his mood really.

"And Captain Adar too! My, my this is a party." A lazy half wave with the cigarette, smoke trailing in the air like grey streamers.

It was good to be back on Omega. Of course the place wasn't physically attractive to her in any sense of the phrase. By the scrolls, she had been raised in similar conditions, but her current state of life had caused her to grow to distaste such places. Perhaps it could be called "drifting from her roots". Good. She hated her roots.

She strode through the station, arm placed firmly around her escort. Her dress was formal; a somewhat newer fashion that had become common among batarian women in the terminus. Of course, she had made modifications. Ballistic weaves lined everywhere from the top of her hood to the end of her torso. Pouches and other practicalities lined her legs and waist.

She arrived, her eyes, as separate pairs, swept over the location, starting from the corners of her vision and meeting in the middle. What greeted her was somewhat unexpected and... convenient.

"Mr. Aleksanders. I never expected that I'd meet you in person." she says, adjusting her grip on her escort. Of course, said escort was a Transgression canine drone. Painted in deep shades of red and grey, it's eyes soullessly assessing the situation. Sharp edges lined nearly all of it's moving parts. Teeth, claws, tail, all sharpened to a single molecular layer, with the addition of a Mass Accelerator cannon mounted on it's back that could challenge APCs.

She looked to the table, and the salarian who sat there, drinking away his sorrows. "You are the contact, then?"

Suddenly, krogan.

Stomping into the grill like a two-tonne tank with an ancient diesel engine and 40 horses under the hood, Kirok instantly became the center of attention. Granted, krogan by their very natures don't conjure up images of subtlety and stealth, but Kirok seemed determined to take whatever misconceptions might have existed and shatter them under his heavily armored boot. Kitted to the nines a gold-colored suit of battle armor at least three centuries old and carrying a shotgun that had probably started off as an anti-aircraft gun, the bounty hunter pushed through the crowd like a battleship through a sea of matchsticks.

"Move," was all he said to the group crowded around Spiza's table. Hands the size of hamhocks forced a hole in the crowd and pushed the smaller folk aside with traditional krogan politeness. The krogan looked the salarian up and down carefully, his sulphur-yellow eyes narrow and calculating. The emblem on his shoulders - a skull wearing a crown and smoking a cigar, picked out in lambent neon - lit up the air around him like wildfire.

"Twenny thou," Kirok grumbled, an earthquake rising in his chest.

And that's when everyone's favorite blink hacker showed up.

Of course, it didn't look like him at a glance. The faceplate and gunmetal-grey hardsuit made it hard to tell if it was even a batarian. He didn't carry himself like someone with any measure of military discipline, but the Scimitar shotgun slung across his shoulder by a strap and the repaired Carnifex at his hip both said 'Hi there! I'm armed and I might not be incompetent for once!' He happened to be hefting a sturdy and heavy-looking briefcase.

He scanned the room silently.

And that's when he saw the krogan. Shitshitshitshitshitshit

And the Crimson Sun operative's markings. SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT

And the turian behind none other than Nikolai Aleksanders. SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT

And the drone on the leash packing an RMAC. SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT

And it was time to say hello.

"...Hi there." Mekan nervously spoke up from the doorway. "I miss anything important?"

Spiza gave Kirok a smoldering glare, barely acknowledging Mekan’s existence with a nod. He snapped his fingers, and one of his security drones spun around, speeding past him towards the ruined liquor aisle. It zoomed back again, a bottle of Black Sovereign whiskey dangling behind it as it zoomed up to the krogan.

”Not even a ‘hello,’ these days, Kirok?” he asked, very deliberately ignoring the krogan’s demands. ”It wasn’t that long ago you played Armored Escort for me. Is it the twitch? I bet it’s the twitch.”

Spiza’s veneer of bravado was just that: a carefully-focused persona he draped over himself. In reality, he was quaking in his boots. Nearly everyone in this room was openly carrying twice the firepower he appeared to have, and even the security systems he’d installed would take a second to activate. That was plenty of time, he’d been warned, for a krogan mercenary to render him into swiss cheese, let alone everyone else.

Still, though, one of the first things taught about krogan interaction was to never show fear. They could smell it – literally, in fact, thanks to their redundant sensory organs – and a bloody-minded krogan would take out a salarian in honest combat any day of the week. All the more reason not to get in an honest fight, of course, and to use Rule #1 of Negotiation: When you’ve got nothing,bluff.

”In any case, yes,” he said, turning to Calypso. “Agent Dickcissel, STG, professional Guy You’d Never Suspect – “ he gave a sidelong look at Aleksanders at this – ”…and head of operations for this joint venture of ours.”

oh wheel oh wheel oh wheel why the shrell did they put me in charge

“Now, while we’re here, why don’t we go around the table and introduce ourselves, especially the boy toy in the back,” Spiza continued, spinning up a few dossiers from his omnitool and indicating Aleksander’s personal guard. ”Get us all on equal footing.”

Kirok didn't reply. He just kept eyeing the salarian warily, those big yellow eyes watching him like a desert vulture. Arms crossed, he towered over the group, face a carefully constructed mask of calm contempt. Without a word, he stepped back a bit, never taking his eyes off the salarian; he'd dealt with tougher individuals, especially ones who hadn't gone to Margarita Night on Omega. If the frog wanted to play Big Boy, let him. As long as he got paid, it didn't really matter.

"Kirok. Bounty hunter."

This was a... peculiar party, to say the least. Not a professional bone in any of their bodies, except maybe for the salarian operative, and salarians didn't have the same bones as anybody else to begin with, so that didn't really count. The krogan was interesting - he'd basically just introduced himself as 'The Competition', and that bore keeping an eye on. Thankfully, Collar could spare one.

"Esarkhad Adar, Captain, Crimson Suns. I go by Collar."

Introduction out of the way, the grizzled batarian pulled a pack of cigarettes from his belt and lit one up before offering them to the rest of the group. Always bring enough for the entire class, right?

Kirok looked at the cigarette dubiously, then put it in his mouth... and chewed it to a pulp.

"Why thank you, it is a pleasure to meet you as well Ms. Alfarsi." Hands in his pockets and embers dangling from his lips, he casually made way for the krogan about a half second before the small mountain of armor had the opportunity to forcibly remove him. To say he was at home here, in this breed of company was not precisely correct but neither was it that far off the mark. It would perhaps be more accurate to say that this was relaxing in its own fashion. No cameras. No eyes save those of the like minded (and, let's be honest, none of them were here because they were such wonderful people no really).

Why not indulge a little?

Why not have fun with this?

"And yes Mr. Spiza that does sound like an excellent idea." Inhale flame. Exhale a roiling tongue of smoke and ash. "Nikolai Aleksanders, no doubt here in some support role I imagine. This is Canius."

A silent incline of a helmeted head. Barely a centimeter.

"He's shy."

If it was possible for a faceless helm to look unamused, the bodyguard was somehow managing it.

"I am Israa Alfarsi, Pirate Lady of the Damavand Corsairs and council representative for the TCCR." She makes a somewhat dramatic gesture as she introduces herself. "Or you can refer to me by what the bounty offices call me. Calypso." She released her grip on the Transgression's chassis. "And this is Hub, my warbeast." The beast continues to observe the new inhabitants of the room with what was either a purring or a chronic growling.

Welp. The krogan wanted him dead, the male batarian was the slaving asshole he'd been insulting, turning down job offers from, and simultaneously soliciting for self-defense advice. Spiza was STG, so he was shady by default. Nikolai was Nikolai, and for all that Mekan respected the man, he couldn't really bring himself to say he liked him. The turian was one of Nik's attack varren. And the woman was the pirate. Half the people in this room were likely to write him off as a potential hindrance to the mission, and everyone else was a well-established sociopath.

Mekan just sighed, resigned to his likely fate. He was certain half of the room held him in contempt, and the krogan was almost certainly going to paste him when he learned his name. His experiences with Korwun Gorik had made it clear krogan weren't dumb, despite the likes of Dwick and Mandatory. Kirok was almost certainly going to remember Mekan was on 'The List.' "Mekan of Omega. Security and cyberwarfare expert. Part-time merc."

He calmly set the briefcase down on the floor at his feet, closed his eyes behind that faceplate of his, brought up his OT user-interface, and waited for the inevitable krogan charge.

There was a flicker of recognition in Kirok's eyes; the match as it fell towards the tank of gasoline.

"Mekan. Mekan. I know dat name."

With an elemental slowness, like tectonic plates grinding continents to dust, Kirok turned to look at the batarian, his broken bottle teeth bared.

"Yer dat 'tarian on that site. Th' mouthy one. Y'insulted me more'n a coupla times, I reckon. More'n a couple, indeed. Din't I tell ya I'd feed y't'ma varren if'n we ever met?"

Mekan just forced himself to stay calm. If he was gonna die here, it was gonna be with a bit of dignity. If he happened to live, he could worry about the medical bills and accusations of team-killing later. He took a deep breath, forced his legs to stay perfectly still, and opened his eyes, looking out at Kirok through his helmet's HUD. "Yes. Yes you did. And here I am."

Every scrap of self-preservation instinct in his body was telling him to say 'fuck off' to Spiza and the STG, and then just run. On the other hand, the one defiant node of synapses in his brain was willing to make Mekan stand his ground.

Like any headstrong idiot with a habit of getting into dangerous situations they were woefully unprepared for, Mekan was listening to the latter at this point.

The OT interface on his arm silently scrolled down to the 'Incinerate' app, his HUD allowing him to view the screen without actually looking down.

“We move any further in that direction and you can kiss that twenty grand goodbye,” interrupted Spiza. “After all, that’s not why we’re here, is it?"

Great. Not five minutes into the conversation and he was defusing one death threat over another. About the only way this could get any worse would be if his superiors threw Jorgal Dwick’s resume into the file.

“Now Kirok, retract that threat from Mekan, and Mekan, turn that app off, he warned. ”We’re all good businessmen here, and even if we aren’t— another warning look at Kirok – ”It’s in our best interest to pretend as such until I’m thirty parsecs away from this station. Capice?”

There was a tense second as Kirok eyed Mekan dangerously, fiery slits staring deep at the batarian as if they could burn a hole in them. With a noncommittal grunt, though, the krogan turned his gaze away from Mekan and planted it back on Spiza. Money was more important now, anyways. Twenty thousand could... get quite a lot.

Besides. There was always after the mission.

Or during, if you were clever about it.

Collar took a long drag, finishing his smoke in record time, and immediately lit up another one. At this rate, it was going to be a loooooooooooong mission.

"I get that you brought us all in from different places for deniability, but how can the STG be this desperate?"

"Oh come now, no reason to be so jaded Captain. I'm quite certain the STG is bringing in support of our caliber because they have a such multitude of other choices and but really just wanted the most entertaining group possible."

Vipers gave warmer smiles to their meals than the grin Nikolai gave to their handler; cigarette dangling from his lips, silver banners wreathing his head.

"So very, basically. They are somewhere between very, incredibly, and hilariously desperate. Which I would imagine has at least something to do with a good chunk of Entish getting turned into a smoking crater."

Spiza's terminal merely had a small private message window pop up silently on its screen.


"Considering past experiences? It fits what I know of 'em. Sick senses of humor, and a habit of calling in the most unlikely people. I mean, Aphin brought in Jorgal Dwick for the Pequod boarding action. That should tell you everything you need to know."

The OT interface on Mekan's arm shut off as the batarian leaned down to pick up the briefcase at his feet, finally approaching the briefing table, preferring to circle around to one side that kept him out of Kirok's immediate arm's reach. He set the briefcase down on the table and opened it.

Inside were several things - weapon mods, what looked some tools, and an impromptu workbench built in, and a small section of the briefcase that was clearly an icebox filled with cans of Rampage Energy Drink. "Anyone want a drink before we start the briefing?"