[indent][right][indent][h3]𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗗𝗔𝗬[/h3][/INDENT][/right]𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗘𝗟𝗗𝗦 : 𝟬%
𝗦𝗨𝗜𝗧 𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗚𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗬 : 𝟱𝟬%
𝗘𝗡𝗩𝗜𝗥𝗢𝗦𝗨𝗜𝗧 𝗙𝗔𝗜𝗟𝗨𝗥𝗘 𝗜𝗠𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗡𝗧
𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚 : 𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗠 𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗥𝗚𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗬 𝗥𝗘𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗦 𝗜𝗠𝗠𝗘𝗗𝗜𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗟𝗬
𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚 : 𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗠 𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗥𝗚𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗬 𝗥𝗘𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗦 𝗜𝗠𝗠𝗘𝗗𝗜𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗟𝗬

[i]Keelah, so much death. The impenetrable smoke bombs and the roar of assault rifles, the kickback from her shotgun and the buzz of an successful electrocution-by-drone––none of it could disguise the sights and sounds of bodies hitting the ground, never to rise again.

One of their number cried for a medic, and Daro began to crawl along the side of cover (lest she lose her head to the sniper on the rooftops opposite their last stand). Her previously-pristine suit was coated in all sorts of fluids. Flammable liquids leftover from the traps. Orange, blue, red blood all the same, lurid and horrid on the fabric. She steeled her nerve, and rolled into cover just before the storm of bullets overcame her position.

It would end here. Two injections of numbing agents and adrenaline for her ally later and after sealing a large rift in her own suit with omnigel, her certainty was reinvigorated that one way or another, it would end. The fear of running from mercenaries, of looking of her shoulder, it would be done after this. If the spirits were merciful, the Blue Suns would turn tail and run as soon as Bertram was dead.[/i]

[color=#E02E2E]𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚 : 𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗠 𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗥𝗚𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗬 𝗥𝗘𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗦 𝗜𝗠𝗠𝗘𝗗𝗜𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗟𝗬[/color]

[i]Or perhaps it was a beginning instead?[/i]
[/indent]

[CENTER][COLOR=BLACK][SUP][SUB]██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████[/SUB][/SUP][/COLOR][/CENTER][indent][right][indent][h3]𝗦𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗟 𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗞𝗦 𝗔𝗚𝗢[/h3][/INDENT][/right]
[color=#E6CEC1]"Your suit's in better shape now, but the circulatory capacitor is going to fail within the next two months. Then you'll only have your back-up, and given you were just [i]shot[/i], I wouldn't risk it."[/color]

Daro's omni-tool clicked off just as the volus, a taxation officer by the name of Batnor Cal, lit up the room with the light blue display of his own. [color=gray]"It is appreciated, Migrant-clan. My suits last much longer with your tune-ups."[/color] Privately, the quarian reckoned that he ought to by more expensive envirosuits, the hardier kind, like her own, but then again, given that a single high-velocity round could ruin so many internal mechanisms and let the ammonia escape –– or, in her own case, let bacteria in –– the actual cost-effectiveness may have been in Cal's favor. [color=gray]"How much do I owe you?"[/color]

[color=#E6CEC1]"One thousand for the consultation and the meds."[/color] She should have become a mechanic instead for all the time she spent fixing up his outer shell of the years, but given it wasn't her specialty and more of a favour, Daro couldn't ever stomach the idea of overcharging him for a hobbyist's level of work. [color=#E6CEC1]"I'll give you the patch-job on the suit 50% off out of sheer amazement at the bullet which somehow missed every vital system in it [i]and[/i] only nicked your lung."[/color]

[color=gray]"A generous price."[/color] He scanned his credit chit and made the payment, and suddenly Daro could afford most of next month's supplies. In the dim light of the clinic, she could also see the volus waver, even though his mask, like her own, blocked all facial expression.

[color=#E6CEC1]"Something on my face?"[/color] Daro joked as she began to walk him out of the building. She picked up a bag of clinical waste to take down with her to save herself a second trip.

[color=gray]"No,"[/color] Batnor Cal said with a distinct lack of amusement that was not uncharacteristic, though the extent of the seriousness in his tone left the quarian uneasy. [color=gray]"But you may wish to sleep with one eye open in the near future. Or, more practically, take a look into home defense."[/color]

[color=#E6CEC1]"Why?"[/color]

As if revealling such secrets was the equivalent of having his teeth pulled, the volus reluctantly answered, [color=gray]"Your information must have been sold on. [i]Someone[/i] is asking old patients of yours from the old place if they've – we've – had any contact since the takeover. I would not patronise you by suggesting you don't know who is behind it, but..."[/color]

[color=#E6CEC1]"No, I know it's them. It always is."[/color] Daro sighed, rubbing at her mask which did nothing to relieve the stress threatening to bubble over. [color=#E6CEC1]"I'm sorry you were put in that situation. Thank you for letting me know."[/color]

As they stood ready to part ways at the back entrance to the housing block, the volus reached up to pat her elbow awkwardly. [color=gray]"Not everyone is willing to give up your location, and those that would are not worth treating."[/color]

Daro smiled mirthlessly behind her mask, but bit her tongue rather than respond until he was walking away, [color=#E6CEC1]"Take care of yourself. Don't get shot!"[/color]

Patients were few and far between these days. She shook her head and hoisted up the bags to drag them forcefully towards the designated trash deposit. Hot steam billowed up from pipes that ran parallel to one another, stretching vertically as far as the eye could see. Daro's (new) clinic was situated on the sixth floor of a six-storey block, but the alleyway behind it was seldom used by the residents, despite being the drop-off point for utilities. She supposed that most of them just threw their refuse out the window and hoped for the best: that it didn't hit any skycars on its way down to the bottom of the asteroid. The quarian envied those able to do so, but running a clinic out of her home generated medical waste of the sort that identified the existence of a clinic being ran out of someone's home. It wouldn't be difficult to notice, and all it took was one person to let it slip to a friend of a friend, and then teh Blue Suns would be on her doorstep.

Though apparently, they already were.

There were only two people crazy enough for humanitarian projects on Omega, and the Salarian doctor who worked out of the slums recently left the station, or so the rumor mill informed her. That left Daro, an annoyance to someone important who paid the mercs protection money, hence the target on her back. Cutting up the medi-gel containers into tiny pieces and shredding identifying documents before sending them for incineration had worked so far, and Daro hoped that it would continue to do so, despite Batnor Cal's warning. Being run out of one clinic was bad enough; there was no need for a repeat of that in one lifetime.

As she shoved large sacks of wasted plastic into a garbage chute two sizes too small, she was reminded that some people in the galaxy could afford to pay people to do this. Not Quarians, of course, but Turians and Asari and Salarians... If she could pay her way on the Citadel, perhaps she could find work at Huerta Memorial.

Nah.

Her omnitool beeped in alarm, an automated response from one of the drones she kept at the entrances to the district. It caught most of the commuters, but it wasn't so sensitive as to tag them as a point of interest.

Other than the alleyway she was currently standing in, there was only one other possible route to reach the apartment building. A defensible position. It wasn't one she would have chosen herself while hunting for a new place to set up shop, if it hadn't been for a certain Turian friend's suggestion. (Though, in hindsight, the other option was eighteenth floor and had large windows made of stained glass instead of hard-wearing plastic –– not so practical.)

[color=#E6CEC1]"Well, what is it? Is it a threat? Blue Suns?"[/color] she asked the drone as the data transfer plodded along then critically failed in the last moments. [color=#E6CEC1]"Oh, that's not normal. I'll have to check your camera out."[/color] Motion detected, but no footage. She tutted. [color=#E6CEC1]"I bet it's Hazan either way, though it [i]is[/i] quite late for him to show up out of the blue."[/color]

[i]I wonder if something's happened.[/i][/indent]