It could be said, in a surreptitious whisper, that Omus Vol was compensating for something.

His office was huge.  His desk was huge.  The chair behind it was huge, a plush leather monolith mounted on a wide platform obviously designed to place its diminutive occupant above the eye level of most species, and the whole thing was surrounded by a towering half-circle of glowing holographic monitors; most of them displaying (huge) inventory and profit returns, a smaller bank showing the flickering feeds of illicit surveillance cameras Vol had ordered set up around the station.  A thin, expensive red carpet lined the long, grueling, utterly needless distance to the desk from the main door, and lit merchandise racks and exaggerated portraits of the Volus himself flanked the walls every step of the way.  

But whatever that "something" being compensated for was, it sure as hell wasn't Vol's bank account.  T'Loak may have been running the show -- "for now," as Omus liked to say -- but Omega was balanced comfortably in a state of very lucrative cold war, and the Volus's digital coffers were overflowing.  

The cut-price crime lord himself now reclined in his oversized leather business throne, looking over his imports as a skinny, hard-bitten looking human woman in a black polysuit went through his schedule.

"...so, after that, we have a meeting set up with some Blood Pack representatives. They're passing it off as a standard deal, but our mole says they're planning to hit the Blue Suns hard over a contract dispute, and word is they're gonna be buying big."

"Ahh, yes, yessss... [i]*hssfftt*[/i] ...Good customers.  Give them the [i]preferred client[/i] discount."

"The seventy-five percent markup?"

"Mnyesss." Vol sat forward, rubbing his armored hands together, "And see to it that the Blue Suns... [i]*ffssssst*[/i] ...are informed we're having a sale on improved shielding this week, [i]hm hm hm![/i]"

The woman nodded and withdrew, making a note on her dataslate.  Vol jammed a lit cigar against his mouthpiece, sucking thinly through the valve.

"Myes, good business."

The arms dealer leaned back in his enormous chair, rotating idly to regard the curved wall of monitors.  He took another drag on the cigar, chortling quietly as he surveyed his dominion.  Yess, there were the Blood Pack now, chasing down that fleeing mantis...  There a Sur-clan, hacking into an Eclipse terminal...  Ahh, there was that ingratiating (yet [i]enticing[/i], in a Matron-I'd Like-to-Fondle way) [i]narc[/i] Trishar Rayana, and next to her...

The crime lord's smug laughter turned abruptly to a smoky fit of coughing, valves whining as his suit attempted to compensate the gas flow.  He stood, hands thumping onto the table.

"Im-[i]possible![/i]" he wheezed. "Him?  [i]Here?[/i]"

But there was no mistaking it.  It was him -- the first of the Dash-clan.  That same cocky self-assurance.  That same waste-eating grin.  That irritating Earth-clan [i]hair.[/i]

Omus hammered a button, still choking and wheezing, buzzing one of his underlings into the office; a Turian encased in battle-singed mantis armor.

"You there! ...[i]*tsssssssh*[/i]..." Vol's stubby arm jabbed repeatedly toward the monitor bank, "I want this man [i]apprehended.[/i]  Forthwith!  ...[i]*hfffff*[/i] ...Send some [i]Vorcha[/i] to bring him here at once."

The Turian scratched the back of his helmet on idle reflex.  

"Vorcha, boss?"

Omus steepled his fingers, "[i]*hsst*[/i] Yessss."

"I, uh, don't think we got any Vorcha"

"Then [i]find[/i] me some!" demanded the Volus, pounding one porcine fist against the desktop. "What do I... [i]*fffft*[/i] ...[i]pay[/i] you for??" 

A hurled paperweight banged against the door as it hissed shut, the Turian beating a hasty retreat.  Omus's beady glowing lenses glared after him a moment before slowly turning back to stare up at the monitor bank, and the digital mirth of Declan Calaway.

"Yess, some things are simply said [i]better[/i] with Vorcha.  ...Ohh, Declan." Vol leaned in close, the face of his pressure-suit lit with the orange glow of the holo-screen.  "[i]*hssssht*[/i] ...You shouldn't have come back.  Before, I was merely the learner..."

The would-be kingpin sucked another trickle of cigar smoke through his respirator valve.

"...But now [i]I[/i] am the mast--"

The Volus broke off as the office resounded with yet another noisy fit of coughing.