This bid for revenge was petty and unbecoming. A young Loral starting on his pilgrimage so many years ago would have been appalled by the extreme differences between then and now. He would have been ashamed to know the self-righteous Loral had stooped low enough to resort to needless torture and crime to get what he wanted. That, at the mere mention of being affiliated with Saime Industries, he was willing to commit atrocities for a petty vendetta. What was worse was the fact that he was just grasping at straws. People died looking for medical attention because he wanted closure. And for what? A bit of useless information and a few scrubbed bank accounts. He'd peddled them off to gangs and nameless mercenary bands who had a bone to pick with Saime, though it was useless and ended in failure more times than not. No one bothered to trace those transactions back to him because they either didn't survive the ordeal or it increased their need for vengeance. Mindless cretins.

Credits were credits.

Siame Industries certainly didn't hire idiots, which made a task like this a whole lot harder. One quarian, no matter his expertise, didn't quite have the potential to take down an army and he certainly wasn't fooling himself either. But, Saime, when they'd destroyed the small trade ship he'd made a home in, set Loral back years in his research. Alone without a ship, Loral had no way to get back on his feet aside from making money off of the info he'd garnered from time to time and the people who came in for actual medical attention. If Loral was anything, he was careful and he was stubborn, and any traces of—there was no use lying about it—murders he committed were taken care of with utmost efficiency. Call him paranoid, but Loral liked to keep what law enforcement there was on Cartegena off his back. Along with that, he continued his search for any incriminating info or any info that could get him closer to Siame. What he'd do when he got it he didn't quite know, but it had something to do with getting enough money or equipment and materials to get him back on track.

However, all that carefulness paid off. That, and being the sole survivor of a Saime Industries assault gave people the idea that he might be looking for some kind of pay back, or was at least upset enough to want to help someone enact revenge. Why else would he have responded to a call to arms of some sort. If one could regard a bunch of criminals and pirates gathering to take down a powerful and influential corporation as a call to arms. Loral couldn't complain, however, as this was exactly what he'd been hoping for, waiting for even.

[center][b][u]A Few Hours Prior to the Meeting[/u][/b][/center]

"You'll pay, or you can find another doctor to harass," the mechanized trill of a threatened quarian resounded in the small, makeshift clinic, "or I can just kill you, if that makes this easier,"

A chuckle followed and the batarian situated on the counter top hopped off. "How about you fix me up and I won't drag you off to mine for my people, puny quarian. You won't survive a day."

Loral made no sound, and simply took the gun he was holding and aimed it lower, a knife prepped in his other hand. The blade scraped along the edge of the table behind Loral, filling the room with an incessant screech. The batarian gritted his teeth every time metal hit metal. "Do we have a deal?" he growled and advanced, hands in a tight fist. Loral's jitters and need to move always gave people the impression that he was perpetually anxious and unsure of himself. He'd proven countless assailants wrong, and this man was no better.

Before the batarian could close the distance and act on his threat, Loral shot, the bullet lodging itself deep into the batarian's thigh. He cried out and collapsed, clutching his leg as the pain shot up his body. Eyes squeezed shut, he'd opened them to find the hazed figure of a quarian standing above him. Loral trained his gun on the batarian's head, allowing him to see clear down the barrel. The knife couldn't find a surface, but it was replaced by the clicking of the gun's safety. The batarian groaned in protest, but made no move to stop him as the pain overwhelmed him.

"I'll add that to your bill?" he said, "Or is the previous wound your limit. If so, I'm afraid I don't give handouts, especially not to people who threaten to sell me into slavery."

The batarian gave a pained nod. "You're scum."

"Is that a yes or a no?" he clicked the safety off his pistol one last time, waiting as the batarian was visibly struggling with the decision. If there was a race more prideful than the batarians, especially when it came to aliens, this was a prime example. This man was actually contemplating whether he'd rather die by the hands of an alien or have his life saved by one. Impatient, Loral gave off a warning shot, barely grazing the back of the man's head and then resumed his incessant click of the safety.

"Yes, yes," he said in desperation, taking a moment to curl further into the fetal position.

"Good." Loral gestured at the makeshift cot in the corner, "get on the bed; I have a meeting to get to in a few hours."

[center][b][u]Present - The Meeting[/u][/b][/center]

It was never a matter of whether or not Loral could hold his own in a fight—aside from the fact that he probably could give at least supporting fire, if not more—Loral had a set of skills that was useful to any type of crew, whether it was filled with a bunch of bloodthirsty krogans or biotically dominant, asari commandos. The fact that his prowess in a gunfight was at least on par with a colonial militiaman helped, if not a little. If they had an anatomy of any of the known species in the galaxy and provided their wound wasn't just a gaping hole in their stomach, then Loral could patch them up. That's where his expertise laid; it was at least enough to garner the attention of a small pirate gang looking for help. Whatever they wanted to call it didn't matter to Loral. A paycheck was a paycheck and he was certain he'd at least be safe from the heavy firefights, if not simply thrown in the medical bay for the eternity of the mission. The thought made him groan quietly as he made his way through Cartagena station. If there was anyone who wanted to find actual, solid ground it was probably Loral. Being cooped inside a space ship for the entirety of his life and then finding the pleasures of solid ground and wide open spaces gave Loral a small rush of excitement. The thought that this could be his chance excited him even more. But what reeled him in was the thought that he could get closure and possibly further his research—research he'd devoted his life to.

The batarian that sought him earlier had paid in full and promptly left without much fuss, obviously healed, though he left as if he'd suffered a worse injury than the one Loral physically gave him. Patching him up was simple, though his hands were still stained with the red of batarian blood. It was sterilized—he'd not have left if they weren't—but quarian suits tended to stain like any other fabric. In short, he'd not had time to wash it and it evidently irked him from the way he rubbed his hands together every two seconds. He sooner forgot about it than he realized and was scuttling through the station with his bloodstained hands near his helmet like he just regretted murdering someone. It gleaned more than a few concerned looks, though most people on the station tended to mind their own business, however odd it was to find a quarian running manically through a batarian controlled station.

Like every other person, he'd been given direction to the inn they were to meet at, which was a few floors below where he set up his small clinic. The neon sign that hung over the entrance was loud enough to grab Loral's attention the moment he turned the corner. Finding his way in, the receptionist pointed him in the direction he sought and gave him the room number. She seemed adamant enough about not wanting to know why that many people were gathering in said room and he'd made an effort not to push her further.

Stepping in, he almost regretted his decision enough to immediately walk out. The sight of these types of people rubbed Loral the wrong way; to think he was on their level was a mix of fright and excitement. Of course, he was a medical technician, so whether he was a criminal like them or not probably didn't matter. It was just a matter of whether or not he could do his job and whether or not he would do his job for these particular people. For Loral, the answer was yes. 

After the door slid shut behind him, Loral made for the nearest empty chair and kept to himself. There was no reason to talk, so he didn't, and rather resigned himself to observing everyone from behind his visor. Loral's visor was thick enough to keep what would be blatant staring concealed. His eyes fell on the hunched over turian who looked more out of place than he did, though he couldn't quite understand why. He didn't make a move to pry any further and simply averted his attention to who he assumed to be Tanya Carson and Kosso Irak, the two who'd assembled the motley crew, and waited as quietly as he could, though his hands found the table to his side to be too appealing. The tapping filled the room, though Loral took no notice.