[Omega, Periwinkle Paradise] ...a dish best served cold

"Right, credits, of course."

Terrorbyte tried very hard to ignore the 50 credit drink that was sliding over to Dwick. All these credits were adding up. Bribes to the local gangs, the 'donation' to Aria, the crew, the technicians, the props, the lighting, the security guards, the ship... this was a ridiculous amount of credits to spend just to get DDS some "street cred." Now he was having to pay this two-bit hustler of some jukejoint, too?

In his dreams, Terrorbyte was sitting on a vast pile of credits, hacking the universe's bank accounts as he was massaged by a dozen gorgeous asari maidens. Every day he worked for DDS, that pile got a little smaller.

I will drag this fatass kicking and screaming into financial security or KILL HIM TRYING, the volus promised himself for the thousandth time. I CAN HIRE PEOPLE TO DO IT.

"Well, credits would be *hssssk* acceptable, yes. First you need to *hsssk* sign the document, though..."

"I'm not signing anything, short-stack, until you tell me what exactly we're working with, here." Silel reached over the bartop and snagged a drink that Sugar Sweet had made, then leaned back and locked eyes with Terrorbyte. "I've asked you twice to tell me what you're going to be using our image for. I don't want us to get a bad rap because you present us as some sleazy joint or something, so if you want that signature, you're going to have to come clean to me."

Sugar Sweet sighed and put on the heavy-duty gloves, hefting a heavily-reinforced, “krogan-size” mug over to a massive keg that had been specifically placed at mid-level to avoid potential spillage. Draining the mug with a viscous, hissing froth that was most pleasantly described as “noxious,” she then carefully slid it over to Dwick – who grabbed it by the upper rim, jerked it up, and knocked it back, chuckling at the pain as the drink seemed to eat away a portion of his tongue.

“Yer a fuckin’ doll,” he said grinning at her. Then, turning to Silel, he stroked the fractured hide next to his right eye.

“Awright, you listen ter me now. Y’see, what we’re doing here, what we’re doin’, is what Fatty here calls ‘targeted...marketin.’” He jabbed a finger at Terrorbyte to emphasize the phrase. “We got a couple skits ter act ‘ere on Omega dat need da whole ‘dey’re doin’ dis place in a place what’s da shit, aaaaaand we figgered dat dis place was a shitload better’n purty much ennythin’ Queen Bitch has VIP access fer, dig?”

There was a moment as he smacked with his mouth, apparently trying to get some sort of aftertaste (blood, probably) out of it. Then he started talking again, drawing up a hand to his massive chest.

“So we figgered, y’know, doin’ a couple fight comedies in dis here place, an’ after dey was done…y’know, doin’ a commercial’re two sayin’ ‘HOLY SHIT DIS PLACE IS REAL AN’ DEY GOT DA BEST FUCKIN’ DRINKS EVER!’ Y’know, sommat what’ll get some traffic in a place what isn’t fuckhole station. Get what I’m sayin’ here?”

Terrorbyte just goggled. When the hell did Dwick start making sense.

He quickly brought up his omnitool to verify the universe wasn't coming to an end.

No such luck. SPACE PROTECTOR(Z) Sensogoggles sales were slightly higher than usual, but that was about it.

Oh.

Well, that was perfectly reasonable. Silel ran a hand through her hair thoughtfully, her gaze drawn to the pink mix in her glass. DDS wasn't exactly known for its, ahem, "ethics" management, but it was extraordinarily popular, and if they were marketing on Omega, that meant more business for her...

"Why the hell didn't you say that in the first place?" she eventually said. "That works for me. Just give me a minute to read this over, alright? I'll letcha know if anything needs amendin'."

A pause.

"Oh, and uh, can I get a high-res photo of you guys drinking at the bar with this? For advertisement purposes. We had Eightball and his floozy in a couple weeks ago, did something awesome for our revenue."

Dwick blinked, took another swig of lye ryncol…swallowed…and then gasped with laughter.

“HhhhhhhhAW! So DIS is da dump ‘ee was talkin’ ‘bout!” he shouted, grinning. “Sure, bitch, you sign dat fucker an’ I’ll even shove a pyjak down ‘is facehole fer ya!”

"LADY. LADY. NOT BITCH. NOT BITCH."

Silel's mouth was halfway open by the time Terrorbyte corrected her. She gave the volus a long, hard stare, then looked back to Dwick and jabbed a finger in his chest, leaning up on her tiptoes so as to appear more intimidating.

"Your lil friend has it right, shitheel. This isn't a dump, and I'm not a bitch - get it straight, and we can keep doin' business together." That said, she settled back down and continued to read the datapad. "We're one step below the Afterlife, and that's only for, uh, the obvious reasons. You wanna' go somewhere and not get your throat slit, this is the place to be. ... well, most of the time, as far as the throat-slitting goes."

The human chewed idly on a nail and scrolled down the pad's contents.

"Hey, Sugar? Get the volus a little refreshment, will ya? My tab." A hum escaped her as she squinted further at the text. Wait a minute... "Okay, you see this line here, about how 15% of my profits go to you for the next five years? Yeah, not happening. I'm just going to delete that and pretend it didn't happen. Lessee... yeah, your staff doesn't get to 'use' the girls when they want, either, they're not prostitutes... okay, I'm just gong to rewrite this whole last page. What the hell is the 'Edict of Payment'?"

"The solemn edict of *hsssk* payment? It's, uh, look, that's *hsssk* just something an, uh, intern *hsssk* put in. Ignore that. Probably failed the bar *hsssk* anyways. Look, let me just... strike that out... there. How about *hsssk* that? We'll need to get it notarized, of *hsssk* course. Do you... have a notary?"

There was a hopeful lilt in Terrorbyte's voice. Mainly because he had hired a notary just in case this kind of thing happened. No one underestimates a volus when it comes to money or paperwork. No one.

“Bahhhh. Yer bartender’ll be a perfectly good b—”

He paused, and cleared his throat.

“…woman…”

The word sounded foreign in his throat, like he had to shape every syllable. The resulting, unaccented word thus sounded absolutely wrong coming out of the krogan.

“…fer da job.” He cleared his throat. “…Ennyway. We got a deal here, you wanna check dat thing out more, or ya wan’ us ter see if da other boozehounds on dis here station wan’ in?”

He took another swig as he waited for the answer, watching her with one beady red eye.

If they went to the other "boozehounds", they wouldn't get as good a promotion, and Silel knew it. She smiled impishly at Dwick, allowing Terrorbyte to make his alterations and remove the phrase she'd found, and took a sip from her beverage.

"One more glance, for safe measure - and no, I don't have a notary, but if you're doing anything with this paperwork, I will be present for it." Silel scrolled through the document one more time. Once she was convinced everything was tight and dandy, she snagged the tablet pen from the side of the datapad and scrawled an elaborate signature at the bottom. "You got yourself a deal, boys. I'd say drinks are on us tonight, but I know how much a krogan can pack away, so - you and your crew all get one round on us.

We square?"

Terrorbyte looked at the contract and gave it one last go-over. He nodded at Dwick.

Dwick looked from Silel to Terrorbyte…and grinned.

“’Sec,” he said, hefting his tonnage up - his seat, while specially designed for people of…krogan stature, nonetheless creaked happily the moment he did so. He then briskly strode over to the door, slapped it open, and shouted at the crew busy outside.

“HEY! ASSHATS! HURRY DA GODDAMN FUCK UP! BAR HERE’S ON’Y OFFERIN’ FREE DRINKS FER US FER DA NEXT HOUR!”

As the noise suddenly doubled in intensity, he strode back to the bar and leaned on it, grinning. “Should on’y take three hours, now. Gimme a refill here, will ya? Heh heh heh.”

Oh.

Oh, this was cute. Dwick thought he was going to one-up her. Silel smiled again, then - heels, minidress, and all - climbed up onto a stool, up, up onto the top of the bar, cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled,

"THE NEXT HOUR, ASSUMING YOU NURSE YOUR DRINK LIKE THE PUSSIES YOU ARE! One round free, two if you treat Sugar Sweet here like the goddess she is!... and if you help me down like a proper gentleman."

The blonde gave a playful wink, the likes of which summoned at least five men to help her. As she accepted the aid, she looked to Dwick and Terrorbyte and said, "Don't try pulling anything on me, alright, cuties? We're in business, but I'm no fool, and neither are you."

From behind the curtain, Kirok watched. The time... was now.

Making sure to keep in the darker, more purple-lit areas of the club, Kirok snuck near where Dwick, Sil, and the kickball were haggling. As he got closer, he brought out his claymore shotgun - the same big-ass cannon he used in the hospital, the same one he used to kill all those technicians - unbuckling it, expanding it out, making sure it was loaded and ready to fire. Closer, closer, the krogan snuck, until he was within range...

And then, he intentionally dropped it near Dwick.

"Think y'dropped somethin', hoss," he said before sneaking back towards the dressing room.

"Hrm?"

Dwick looked around the bar, wondering where that voice came from. It sounded oddly familiar. Neurons struggled to synapse, bringing up images of…of…Noveria?

Vague, crayon-like images flashed in Dwick’s brain as he struggled to remember. There was…something…some big battle, maybe? Some dickless krogan? How the hell did that end, anyway? He couldn’t remember any snapping bone – either his or his opponents—

“Bahhhhh.”

Dwick bent over to pick up the shotgun and, realizing he didn’t have the flexibility to do that, shook his head and put his ryncol down before squatting to properly pick up that shotgun before throwing it at an unsuspecting intern. The intern yelped, being thrown a fully-functioning shotgun.

“HEY! GET DAT INTO PROPS AN’ CLEAN DAT SHIT! CAN’T DO ‘KATANABOY’ WITH A DIRTY KATANA!”

“U-u-u-u-uh, right away, Mr. Dwick, sir!”

The intern scurried out of sight, face white as a sheet.

Dwick cleared his throat and throttled the rest of his ryncol before shoving the mug down the counter, calling Sugar as he did so. ”Hey! Extra tip if you get dat all da way ter da fuckin’ top!”

And so was the lone parcel that began this whole crazy series of random events forgotten in the nook where it had been deposited, until the Yum Pockets within began to go sour and spread their lovely aroma of decay and metabolized additives into their immediate vicinity.

Dish served cold is best not left to warm up on its own.