Vol swiveled in his chair, deliberately turning it so the back was faced toward the entrance, as a pair of muted [i]thump[/i]s sounded from beyond the door.  Yesss, a good businessman [i]knew[/i] how to conduct a meeting of this sort.  He addressed his secretary without looking at her.

"[i]*Hfffffffff*[/i] ...Mz Short, take a note, if you would... Should there be any survivors out there.... " 

The locks disengaged and the blast doors slid open.  

"...[i]Fire[/i] them."

Beyond the doors, the red carpet extended far longer than it needed to, sprawling past racks of weapons and explosives toward the volus's monolithic desk, ringed by its holographic monitors and climbing profit margins.  Vol's lean, pallid secretary stood to one side, dataslate in one hand, omniblade hovering over the other, watching the newcomers critically, the hairs on the back of her neck already beginning to stand on end.  Above it all, behind the arms dealer's dark throne, hung a gigantic portrait of Vol himself standing on a craggy battlefield, holding a Protectorate flag and standing dramatically at the head of an army of Council races, beckoning them onward and pointing toward the threatening silhouette of a landed Reaper.  An inspirational piece, he'd thought upon having it commissioned.  Probably how it would have happened, had he been there at the time.  He'd approached Martinez to paint some of the others, of course -- she would have been cheaper -- but negotiations had soured when she hadn't been able to stop laughing.  Well, they would see who was laughing now!

The enormous chair slowly wheeled around to face the newcomers as they approached, the volus's claws steepled ominously in front of him.

"Ahh, Mz Rayana," he announced, smoothly, turning his attentions to the Asari, "[i]*Hfssssssst*[/i] ...what a pleasant surprise.  Have you come to reconsider my offer of [i]employment?[/i]  I may not know what Aria [i]has[/i] on you, my dear, but you and I both know that she won't be running this station forever."  

Vol pretended to notice the Dashers for the first time.  Abrax and Martinez were positively glowing in the aftermath of combat, and there of course was that meddling anarchist [i]Zik[/i], grinning as though having the time of his mercifully brief existence and flicking his ocular membranes back and forth at Vol the way an Earth-clan might waggle his eyebrows.  If Vol's suit could have vented steam, it would have.

"[i]Ahh,[/i] but I see you've brought guests!" The volus spread his stubby arms wide, his voice dripping with sarcasm.  A pair of Batarian mass accelerator turrets whined with an industrial chorus as they unfolded from the walls, training their barrels on the Dashers.  "[i]*Hffffft*[/i]  ...May I offer you some refreshments?  Cigars?  Perhaps a new shotgun for Abrax?  I'm sure you'll find my [i]revised prices[/i] reasonable, [i]hm hm hm![/i]" 

The beady lenses regarded them all in turn, the gun turrets shifting minutely as they recalibrated with each tiny movement.  The diminutive arms dealer continued.

"Yeesss, how [i]wonderful[/i] to see the Dash-clan all back together again.  How [i]quickly[/i] the old habits reassert themselves.  Ohh, yes; Callaway reappears mysteriously and you all fall into his lap, as though nothing ever happened!"  Vol leaned forward and thumped the table, lurching to his feet.  "But it [i]did[/i] happen!  I suppose he was let go for "good behavior," hnnnmmm?...  [i]*...Hfffsscht*[/i]  ...Perhaps [i]you[/i] don't see what's going on here, but Omus Vol is nobody's fool!" he punctuated the statement by thumping one hand repeatedly against the chest of his pressure suit and puffing up as much as the heavy rig actually allowed him to.

"Well?...  [i]*pfffsssst*[/i]  ...Why have you come here, [i]hmmn?[/i]  What could [i]you[/i] possibly have to say to [i]me?[/i]"