Where the hell was he? Oh, right. 

The Vorcha’s eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room instantly, the mines of his past far darker than this mere lodging. It was a tiny and cramped domicile but he wouldn’t have it any other way. It was of the perfect size for him to curl up for sleep and write on his computer, and naught more was needed. He couldn’t fathom why other races seemed to enjoy living space so much larger than themselves. A bedroom was a room for a bed, it wasn’t a place you should be able to run about wasting time with nonsense that wasn’t using the bed. For all the hatred his kin received for supposedly being irredeemable savages, it sure seemed that the other races were far more disorderly and illogical in their processes than his kinsmen were. Perhaps in their long lives they would lose sight of what was truly important. It certainly seemed that they were far more wasteful of their years than the Vorcha. Indeed from his experience the fact Iryk’s species lived a mere twenty years on average didn’t stop them from leading lives as full and experienced as others. After all, it would explain how his kinsmen born but a single solar cycle ago were still more than capable of making veteran Citadel race marines wet themselves. 

Moving his body out of his nigh spherical shape Iryk turned to his computer, reviewing the works on it. It was… a manifesto of sorts, he supposed. It wasn’t consistent in tense or exact subject or mood but he felt he had to write it. Even now just past the very door of his room was the exact reason why. His kinsmen were happy where they were of course, but they lived ignoble lives. Like greedy carrion they picked on the not yet fallen, on the weak and desperate and poor. It wasn’t of course always violent, not all Vorchas were pirates and raiders. But those that weren’t did not overcome this status. Few trusted Vorcha enough to expect any of them to do anything civil and professional and thus the few who tried would get turned away and be left only the option joining the same life of piracy they had tried to avoid. While the vengeance upon the other peoples of the galaxy that this entailed did broadly appeal to Iryk, he knew it was a small victory on the backdrop of the everlasting defeats. 

Organic work, that was the term that had so enamoured him. Where liberation by everlasting violence had failed, it could be created from the ground by labours. It would take much effort, but just as he had ascended from mere slave, to pirate, to respectable mercenary, so too could his brothers and sisters become merchants, scientists and leaders. If anything, the fast reproductive cycle of the Vorcha would allow them in the future to become the dominant race of the galaxy, a population boom that would see them become the archetypical race of the Milky Way. But there were many steps on the road to this bright future and his job now was to record them all. 

Perhaps one day when he had enough money he would return to this… hospice of his race when he had earned enough money and take it over. From there he would naturally groom the youngest present into embodying the legacy that he wanted. Though he knew he couldn’t convince everyone present of his dream he knew he only had to convince someone strong enough in both mind and body to make all others submit to it. The Vorcha would be uplifted whether they liked it or not.

A notification was received, and checking it Iryk giggled happily. The Caelestis had docked, and his new job was starting soon. It was good work, reliable and well paying. Perhaps more importantly the contract was far less dangerous than his previous job cutting throats in the night for people that wanted to settle a score. No longer would Alliance troops be eternally chasing him, this was something resembling a real position. After paying for his stay and giving a few kind words to the owner of the establishment, Iryk was soon on his way out and heading towards the docks of Omega. 

Omega was a diverse place, perhaps the most diverse in the galaxy. But nevertheless he stood out. Bulky almost as a krogan, yet hardly taller than a volus he was black. Not the black of some batarians or turians or humans, it was the true black of light no more; as if a shadow was walking. He wondered if the Captain of the vessel would rescind her cosmopolitan tolerance of a Vorcha once she saw exactly what she was paying for. After all, there were no unions on Omega he could go cry to if he felt an injustice was done. But then again, he supposed that anyone who got to be a Captain would more likely have done all their homework than not. Well, if not then there were other ways he could get his due. However until such treachery did indeed happen there was no point imagining the retribution it would prompt of him. 

As he stood before the vessel in the dock, it was less impressive than he had hoped but it was still a decent looking ship. He knew he would make his living space in the Engine rooms of course given that he had little patience for common dormitories and they were usually too roomy for him anyway, but over all he reckoned it would not be a bad experience. He would be more than happy to ply his trade of violence in the voyage, but likewise he would be just as glad to have a peaceful time wherein he could focus on completing his magnum opus document. 

Others seemed to be interested to the Caelestis as he headed to board it, the crew he would be surrounded by seemingly a rather diverse one. Momentarily he was reminded of his now so distant past, but he shook the unproductive thoughts out of his head. Going into character as Iryk the Butcher from Iryk the Pensman, he stepped aboard the ship that would entail a most unforeseen experience.