Vol watched, slowly grinding out his cigar, his pressure-mask expressionless as his Vorcha welcome wagon was scorched, pulped and perforated by the enthusiasm of the suddenly-reformed Dashers.  The lug, the lush and the loner, all together again, and all tearing through his carefully-laid plan like pyjaks through a food crate.  Now everyone BUT Callaway would be heading toward his inner sanctum.  The situation had spiraled out of all proportion.  And it was all because of...

[i][b]"ZIK!"[/b][/i] bellowed Vol, wheezing and thumping one metal fist against the desk as a familiar shape cartwheeled across the camera's field of view, grinning maniacally.

[hr]

A pair of seasoned thugs, one human, one Turian, glanced back toward the sealed door as they lounged against the alcoves to either side.  The black marketeer's muffled rage continued to sound distantly through the blast shields.

"He sounds mad." crackled the human's voice from behind his helmet. "You think this Zik is gonna launch a counterstrike?"

"Nawww, there ain't no such guy." offered the Turian, smoothly.

"What, for real?"

"Yeah, yeah." he gestured vaguely. "It's some Volus thing, like if I was to say to you, uhhhh, [i]'the Devil made me do it'[/i] or something.  Like, there's no literal actual human Devil, it's just a thing you say when things go wrong.  Specter of bad luck, wrench in the works, you get the picture."

"Seems pretty worked up over a specter."

"Listen, I've heard the boss blame 'Zik' for everything from a reactor overload to not enough blue ice in his Matra Colada.  It's a fairy tale, like Kalros, or Josef Stalin."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

"...Those were both real, though."

"What?"

"Kalros and Stalin were both real."

"Get outta here."

"Telling you, man.  Seen the vids."

"...Huh."

Both men stood up a little straighter, shifting their grip on their guns and watching the dim corridors with sudden unease.