The front door of the warehouse rose open with a mechanical hiss. Twenty two figures stepped through, clad in various sets of battle armor. Each one had the insignia of their gang, the Void Angels painted across the chest plate of their armor. Each of their strides were filled with a joyous confidence from an operation gone splendidly. The interior of the warehouse was dotted with crates, tables and chairs as well as other markers of life. A makeshift shooting range had been set up in one of the corners, the wall down range painted with figures and dotted with impact points from where training shots had been unloaded onto the surface. Emptied thermal clips littered the floor as they dotted the metallic ground around the range. Through a doorway to the side a bar had been set up, the wall behind the counter loaded with bottles of liquor from different origins and worlds. This was not the only hideout for the group, but it was their headquarters. Their insignia was spray painted on the wall, below the windows of the leader's office and quarters. "Excellent work, my friends. Tomorrow we will kill even more of those Blood Pack bastards. Tonight we celebrate, each and every one of you he earned it. I want you to think of every single one of our people those animals killed, we avenged them today." The leader exclaimed, raising a fist as his assembled followers cheered raucously. As the warehouse was filled with celebrating gang members Callan went the opposite way, tired from a brutal but successful battle against a more powerful mercenary company. One of his lieutenants, Larsius Oroso tried to wave him over to join the celebration. The scarred Turian was headed into the bar along with a group of other members. Callan smirked the invitation off, then pressed his palm against the reader next to the door to his private area. The metal door slid open with a positive beep then closed as quickly as the tattooed biotic ascended the staircase. Drunken celebration wasn't for him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd partook in such a thing since he'd arrived on Omega. He wasn't a joyless man, Callan did feel pride over his smaller but skilled battalion of mercenaries beating a more illustrious gang but he knew it was not the end of the conflict. As he reached the top of the stairs he stepped through another doorway into his office. Callan walked over towards the tinted windows at the front of his office then folded his arms as he looked upon the wider view of the headquarters which his upper level office gave him. The gangleader rolled his eyes at the sight of a group of scantily clad asari being lead through the front door. Dancers, probably requested in from one of the scummy little nightclubs nearby. He did not particularly want strangers to be brought into their hideout, but he'd let it slip this time. His gang's morale was high and he knew well enough to not bring it down. They'd lost eighteen men in the strike, sacrifices were needed in such a dangerous business. He made it a personal policy to never get too close to any of his underlings, a decision made partly out of pragmatism but also a deeper fear which he kept pushing deeper and deeper. He was not heartless, he did care for the fallen but in a place like Omega it was wisest to appear to brush off these thoughts. It was a wicked place, but one ideal for his goals. The credits flowed easily here and power shifts were common. The Void Angels were rising, he'd even heard of Aria T'Loak having noticed them from her power position in Afterlife. They'd have to be careful to not step on her toes but thankfully for them she ignored the gang wars as long as they didn't dare to cross her. He shifted back towards the desk in his barren office, void of much furniture or decorations aside from his desk, a table with some chairs and an old couch. Callan didn't particularly care, it was rare anyone other than him came into this office. Occasionally he'd call up some his higher up soldiers to go over things but beyond that he was really the only one who ever was in here. Callan grasped the bottle of whiskey on left side of his desk, an aged handle from decades ago. He twisted the cap off with a blink, then poured himself a short glass of the strong liquor. The biotic leaned against his desk as he took a long sip, his mind going to past times. His memory was frequently haunted by Cerberus, the horror they inflicted upon him, the death he'd brought in their name. It shook his dreams in his sleep every single time. Callan wondered what they'd think of him now, rising to power in a far different lifestyle. His heart still tinged with a want for vengeance, once he'd risen further and further to where this station shook under his fist he'd take the fight to the Illusive Man. Callan would strangle the breath from that wretched man's throat. Perhaps then he'd finally not feel so broken and haunted. He closed his eyes as he envisioned it, then finished the rest of the glass with a powerful gulp. The biotic shifted behind his desk, then retrieved a datapad from one of the cabinets. As he flicked it on and began to go over the inventory displayed on it the sounds of celebration echoed outside his office.