Omega's Child

(Khentu Emrys)

Location: Afterlife District, Omega

The Salarian hacker flexed his long fingers, glancing around before settling his attention on me. "Ready, Ken?"

I made one last check of my own, then nodded. "Let's do it."

Barco and I moved to the aircar, and the alien moved underneath it with a fluid agility that would have turned the best human contortionist green with envy.

"Sometime this shift, frog-man," I muttered.

"Eight seconds," came the terse reply.

"Make it five," I hissed back. "We're standing out here with our asses in the wind."

"Large target, then."

I growled at the Salarian's attempt at humor, but before I could make a witty response, the doors of the aircar clicked green and hissed open. I dove into the driver's seat, while the salarian seemingly poured himself into the passenger side.

"Ken?" Came the worried voice of Wasilla M'taza, the third member of this little enterprise. "The fast the better here."

"Three seconds," I answered. "On your left."

The side door of the aircar opened, and an Asari dove from her place on the street into the vehicle.

"How's it going, Barco?" She asked, working her legs around to try and sit normally.

"Disabling tracking beacon…and explosive charges," The Salarian answered.

"The what?" We both asked, aghast.

Barco shrugged. "Apparently the owner of this aircar very much did not want it stolen. Or at least, wished to ensure that its theft would be the last act of lesser-skilled perpetrators."

"Please tell me that you've disabled them," I stated slowly, half-looking left and right for a place to dive out of the vehicle.

"Done…. And done." He nodded sharply, "Punch it."

I did, the engine roaring to life as I hauled back on the controls. As soon as we were clear of the platform I banked left, moving our newest vehicle into the traffic heading down into the lower levels of Omega.

"Oh goddess, there's booze back here!" The sound of several panels being shoved back revealed Wasilla investigating the rest of our acquisitions. "Serrice Ice? Athame's sword, this stuff is stupid expensive, even at Afterlife!"

"Save it," I stated hurriedly. "We'll sell it to Tyco at the Pyramid. He'll give us a fair price for it."

Wasilla let out a disappointed groan, but I heard her put it away all the same. Two flasks were handed up to us, filled with some kind of Batarian whiskey, from the cheap smell.

"To us!" The young maiden crowed, as Barco and I took the them. While he swigged and coughed, I clicked the destination into the nav-com, and leaned back in the seat, drink in hand. "Another heist, another payday!"

"To us," I repeated, clinking flasks with my two companions. "Another successful day on Omega."

The Doru district on Omega was actually one of the nicer levels to be on, at least by Omega's standards. Especially the upper levels with the core stretching out above, actual buildings looming high. But the squalid expanse of metal and rust still stood in stark contrast to the comparatively-glamorous aura of the Afterlife District we had just left. Neon signs glimmered and flickered, advertising wares of every kind: red sand, white demon, black dust, whatever drugs you needed or wanted.

Our destination, however, had no sign above the door. If you knew Jordan Powell's place, there was no need for one, and those who did not know him had no business coming in off the street.

I guided the aircar down through a hole cut into the structure's roof, which let us set down in the middle of a giant workshop. Several workers stood by, cutting torches and angle grinders in hand, foretelling the fate of the beautiful vehicle I was driving.

A pang of regret flickered across my mind, but that was life on Omega. Another day, another vehicle. Tomorrow it might be a garbage hauler, or parts of it might be sold back to the very suckers we had stolen it from. There was a beautiful symmetry about it, I determined.

"Powers o' darkness!" The elderly man marveled as my crew and I threw open the doors and exited the vehicle, Wasilla now with a large duffle-bag, I noticed. "A Ciranor 3000! Nary see such glitz on Omega, indeed ya don't. She'll fetch a roight proper price, indeed she will, sah. Where'dya nick'er?"

"Some asshole outside of Afterlife," I answered, watching Barco transfer the full read-out to the mechanics, the explosive device highlighted in red. "A paranoid asshole, by the looks of it."

"Apparently not paranoid enough," Old Jordan chuckled. "Me lads will have her cut down to size, right enough."

"Eight thousand sound about right?" I asked, looking up and down the vehicle with a theatrical eye of examination.

Now Jordan Powell's face fell, as if he'd just snorted a shard of glass in his line of dust. "Hmmm," he hummed, much longer than needed, "Right dicey to shift, this fancy stuff though, no mistake. Gonna cost sommat extry, that is. 'Fraid three is the best I can do, young master."

"Are you kidding?" I huffed, "Your face said it all when we pulled up: People are gonna stumble over each other to get a piece of this beauty. It'll move three times as fast. Seven-seven-five is the minimum I'd accept for such a treasure."

We went back and forth, as we both knew we would, but this was the time-honored tradition of bitching and haggling. I got to hear about his sick cousins that we both knew didn't exist, but they brought the price of the stolen vehicle down another two thousand anyways. He got to listen about the dangers of grabbing a car from near Afterlife, which he didn't really give a shit about, but it kept the price a bit high anyway.

Much time and talking later, the three of us were exiting the non-descript warehouse, five thousand and ninety-three credits the richer.

"Barco, your share," I stated, wiring twenty-five hundred of the credits to his Omni-Tool.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Ken," He stated, and then slunk off into the shadows of the nearby alleyway. He vanished almost at once, off to... wherever the hell he went in-between jobs.

"And mine?" Wasilla asked, her arm going to her hip.

"Thousand credits," I answered, already sending the amount to her account in turn.

"Hey now," She chuckled, but a chill had seeped into the back of her words. "You said we'd split the other half of the haul, 50/50."

"You're carrying the duffel bag with all the booze," I replied. "That's at least worth another five hundred and you know it."

"This bag was just sitting in the back," She protested. "The money is for…"

I cut her off. "'Fifty/fifty of all loot,' were my precise words, if my memory serves me right."

Sighing, she slung the bag off her shoulder and handed it to me. "Fine. Take the fucking bag and give me my damn credits."

I sent her the extra cash to make up for it. The Asari double-checked her own Omni-Tool, relaxed, and then gave me a disarming grin.

"You need an extra gun on another job, you know where to find me," Wass called out behind her, making sure her hips sashayed with every step. "Or you know, if you're looking for a good time!"

"In your dreams!" I called out, and chuckled when she sent a rude gesture my way. I still watched her go, I mean, come on, and only bent over to pick up the bag once her ass was too far away to watch.

A cool voice spoke as I did, "You should have your servants speak to you with more respect."

All the mirth and merriment of the moment vanished in an instant, replaced with irritation and dread as I straightened, the bag's shoulder strap over my back, and turned to face my half-brother.

Ptolemy was the only biotic in our family, which in this case served to make him the biggest asshole. Like me, he was of medium build and height, and we both kept our hair shaved down to the scalp. We both had inherited our father's strong jaw and brown eyes, but his skin was several shades paler than my darker tones, the legacy of his mother.

"First of all," I said, beginning the count with my middle finger to emphasize how valuable I found his opinions, "they are my friends, not my servants, but it doesn't surprise me that that concept eludes you. Second, bowing and scraping just isn't my style: you're the one Dad is grooming to be Pharaoh, after all. And then you can have everyone kowtow to you while you wear the double-crown for all I care. Third, don't think I didn't notice you waited to speak up until her ass was out of sight."

The grunt I received in answer showed his own opinion of my answer, but Ptolemy fell in step with me as we made our way down the street.

"Khentu," He began speaking again, emphasizing the 'h' in my full name just to annoy me.

"Tol," I interrupted, using his nickname to annoy him in turn.

"...Father sent me looking for you," He continued as if I hadn't said anything. "He expected you at least three hours ago."

"Well pardon me for not rushing through a job just for the convenience of Dad's schedule," I answered.

The two of us continued in silence as we came onto the main street. It would not do for everyone in Little Egypt to see the boss' sons bickering and arguing. Ordinarily, two well-dressed individuals moving through the crowded streets would have been the instant target of a dozen pickpockets, at the very least, followed by beggars and would-be muggers. But even if they didn't recognize our faces, and everyone in this neighborhood did, the white arrows tattooed on our foreheads told everyone that we were members of the Arrows of Knesset.

The quality and detail of said tattoos also told of our rank in the organization. Most of the initiates off the street were lucky to afford anything other than a red-hot brand scorching the arrow-shape on their foreheads.

After a short walk, the giant black sign of the Pyramid Club hove into view. It wasn't the largest bar in our area, or even the fanciest, but the firing slits on the walls and the steel shutters revealed exactly why it served as the HQ of the Arrows of Knesset. The doormen moved aside, the backs of their hands pressing against their foreheads in respect. Ptolemy made the briefest of nods, while I rolled my eyes at the useless obeisance. People either respected you or they didn't. Making them salute you every time they saw you served nothing, in my opinion.

We moved through the mess of tables and dancers towards the area at the back. A giant of a man, his skin even darker than mine, stood to his feet.

"Nobu," Ptolemy nodded at the man. "Is Father in?"

Nobu nodded, stepping aside to allow us to pass, and following us into the back room of the club. A half-dozen figures, all of them human, lounged here and there, some of them drinking, some of them smoking, and others cleaning an assortment of weapons.

"Haty-a," Nobu boomed out, bringing his own hand to his forehead. "Your sons return."

At first glance, Mentu Emrys was not a tall or imposing man. In fact, Ptolemy and I were both already taller than him. But the scarred visage and glass eye, the old bastard was too cheap to get a prosthetic, showed the countless fights he'd been through to get to where he was. And the other Arrows respected him for it to the point where when he rose to his feet, they all did the same.

"Ahhh… Ptolemy, well done," he murmured, and then cast his one good eye on me. "Where the fuck have you been?"

I placed the bag on the nearby table. "Doing a job in the Upper levels. Took longer than expected."

"Successful?"

I shot him a look and simply brought up my Omni-Tool, sending him a copy of the transfer of credits to one of the Arrow's many accounts. He grunted in not-quite satisfaction at the numbers he saw, and then that one eye narrowed.

"You still use that blue whore and the frog?"

Irritation surged through me, but I merely blinked and then nodded in answer.

"They're too fucking expensive," my father growled. "They demand the lion's share of any profit to be gained from your little… jobs. Should take our own people to do it."

"Show me one of our people who is as skilled a hacker as Barco and I will," I shrugged. "And Wasilla is the best shot south of Fumi."

"Both of them contract out to the Eclipse regularly," A silky smooth voice stated. "Dangerous to trust such two-faced Outsiders."

At nearly twenty years younger than my dad, Hatshepsut was his latest obsession: a pair of tits dark enough, and with a name Egyptian enough, to be exotic. The odds were hundred to one that her birth name was not Hatshepsut, but when a whore sets out to seduce the boss of a proto-Egyptian gang, you call yourself whatever you think will work. She had literally slept her way to the top, but you couldn't argue with results: at the top she sat now.

"News flash: so do fucking we, Hattie," I retorted, throwing myself down in a chair. "Welcome to fucking Omega."

"Enough," Dad cut off whatever clever remark his latest bitch had been about to throw back at me. "Gather round, all of you."

The group shifted and moved to take their seats around the long table that filled the room. Ptolemy and I on his immediate right, his whore on his left, and the other big names in the gang taking the rest of the chairs.

"I bring this Meeting of the Elder Arrows to order," Dad intoned, "Amun-Ra bear witness to our words and deeds."

All of us clapped our hands at the words in the usual response. I had stopped believing in Amun-Ra when I was eight, but traditions were traditions.

Prayer complete, Father glanced at the largest man present, "First up: Nobu, what is the report on Tuhi?"

The giant leaned forward. "Alpha Bern states that the Talons have moved up in force. They have taken the Jaleh Market and Dice Dens."

Growls and murmurs ran around the table.

"Tarak may have been a squint, but at least he and the Blue Suns served to keep these fuckers down where they belonged," hissed Rashid, a thin man with a wiry beard far too large for his face. "With them gone…"

"True." Ivan Asimov was a broad-shouldered, muscled Beckenstein-Russian only slightly smaller than Nobu, a mirror opposite to Rashid. "A year ago, Talons nobodies on Omega. Now, Talons threat to even White Tigers."

The rest of us nodded, however unwillingly. With open season being declared on the Blue Suns Corporation last year, every wannabe with a gun had gone after them here on Omega, especially after Aria had executed Tarak in the middle of Afterlife.

The exact ins and outs of why Jona Sederis and Aria T'Loak decided to turn on the Blue Suns was unknown to the majority of us commoners on Omega. Rumors abounded of plots, conspiracies, and hidden agendas, but one thing everyone agreed on: they must have broken the One Rule of Omega: Don't Fuck with Aria.

Now, the larger gangs like the Brotherhood, the Eclipse, and the Blood Pack were muscling in on the territory of the once-mighty PMC, like varren on a fresh kill: eager to divide, and quick to fight over any disputes.

"Do we have any leads on who their new leader is, now that Old Marius has croaked?" asked Michael O'Shea, twirling his absurdly-long combat knife in his free hand. O'Shea was the only human here who had actually been to Earth, which granted him hero worship among many of the lower ranks and initiates, and made him a close confidant of my father.

All eyes turned to Hattie, who worked her hands nervously though her voice remained even. "We know she's another Turian. Our contacts tell us that the Talons call her 'Red.' But that's likely just because of the tribal markings on her face. Don't have any leads on her actual name yet."

"Keep working on it," Dad answered, reaching out and squeezing her hand. "To defeat your enemy, one must know your enemy."

I rolled my eyes. My father was the only one at the table who still believed that Hattie had any kind of intelligence network in place. The rest of us knew the more likely scenario was that she was fucking the White Tigers', Brotherhood's, and Eight-Zero Demons' intelligence operatives to learn what she could. But now was not the time to deliver my opinion on Hatshepsut's 'Intelligence gathering.'

"Timothy Hern is dead," Rashid reported in his turn, though his face didn't show any mourning for the moron's passing. "Talons pushed out the Cavern Dogs last night in a blitz, and he apparently tried to rob a gun-store up on Fumi to get some cash on his way out. The squint running the place gunned him down in the street."

"Idiot," Dad guffawed, along with the rest of us. "Who leads the Dogs now? Chang?"

Rashid shrugged, "If anybody can be said to be leading those whoresons."

"Get a message to her," Dad mused quietly. "Offer her a place here for her and her people."

Everyone shifted uncomfortably, darting nervous glances at one another.

"What place exactly is that, Haty'a?" Rashid asked warily, using my dad's title to mask doubt and suspicion.

"We can always use more rifles on the Cala Runs," Dad shrugged. "And the Warrens are mostly empty anyway, except for the squatters: mostly squints. If they can clear them out, they set up shop there."

The tension in the room relaxed as the Arrow commanders realized that the Cavern Dogs were not being given any of their territory. The migraine-inducing reports droned on and on, confirming what everyone in the room already knew: The Arrows of Knesset were strong in Little Egypt, but nowhere else on Doru. Nobody was going without, but we were dealing enough just drugs and slaves to keep all of our people fed, housed, and equipped, and that was pretty much it.

"Now with business out of the way, time for good news," my dad said finally. "Nasser is coming home."

Everyone in the room bolted upright. Pharaoh Nasser Emrys, Mentu's brother, was the leader and founder of the Blood Arrows, of whom the Arrows of Knesset were a sub-gang. Almost a full cycle ago, he had departed for the Pilgrimage to Earth, to worship at the Great Pyramids of Giza. If O'Shea was respected for visiting Earth, this pilgrimage would catapult Uncle Nasser into near-godhood for the religious die-hards in this little Proto-Egyptian cult.

Which, I supposed, was the entire point of him going in the first place. The fact that he lefthis gay lover Abdul Abbas in command of the Blood Arrows and not Father, his own flesh and blood, was a telling indicator that the relationship between the two brothers was probably more fucked than Ptolemy's and mine.

I mean, Ptolemy was a fucking asshole, but he was still my brother. I didn't think dad and Uncle even considered themselves related anymore, even if they were from the same parents.

"He will arrive at the docks in three shifts' time," Dad stated, and then his gaze turned to Ptolemy and myself. "You two will be there with a full honor-guard to greet him, as benefits our Pharaoh."

Ptolemy bowed low at our father's words. I opted to shrug and nod non-committedly at my dad.

"Is that all?" I asked. When no one answered with a negative, I stood to my feet, grabbing my bag.

"Yes, we'd hate to get in the way of your whoring and binging," my half-brother muttered, following me out of the room. "If you miss our Pharaoh's arrival, Father will be…"

"Our 'beloved Pharaoh' is a small-time gangster, Tol," I snapped. "Not a god, or a king, whatever he makes his title out to be."

"He will not thank you for pointing that out."

"I don't give a damn," I shrugged. "If you want to bend over backwards to please Father and Uncle Nasser, and all so you can be the sad little king of this sad little hill one day, you're welcome to it. Me? I just want off this miserable rock."

"Yes, what happened to that dream of running off and joining the Blue Suns?" Ptolemy snarked.

That was a low blow, but not untrue. I had saved up my share of jobs for two cycles, planning on buying myself some decent armor and weapons, and then joining the private military corporation in the hopes of getting off Omega. That of course was before they had gone to hell, with literally everyone in the galaxy going after them. And Ptolemy was determined to remind me of my nearly-fatal choice until my dying day, it seemed.

"You could carve out a future for yourself here, if you would only apply yourself," he continued, shifting to his 'I'm-the-older-brother-so-I-know-shit' tone. "Father would give you more responsibilities if only you would stop antagonizing him at every turn."

"Sounds like an excellent argument to keep on doing just that," I retorted. "You're the one who wants responsibility."

Ptolemy's eyes narrowed, and he stepped in front of me now to block my path.

"One of these days, you're going to have to grow up, little brother."

I shoved past him without answering, heading towards the bar.

"Tyco!" I called out, holding up my recently-acquired bottle of Serrice Ice Brandy, "Interested in this beauty, perhaps?"

The obese bartender smiled as I approached, but then his face grew calculating as he raised an eyebrow.

"Anybody can fill a Serrice bottle with their own swill," he stated evenly.

I grabbed my chest in mock hurt and put on my best shocked face.

"I'm wounded, wounded I tell you, that you would even think such a thing of one of your best friends!" I groaned. I reached over and undid the top of the bottle, putting a finger over the top of the bottle as I turned it on it side to get a splash of the liquid on my finger, which I then rubbed on the back of his outstretched hand.

"Here," I crooned, "Take a whiff of this, and your nose and tongue will curse you for ever touching another liquor."

The man gave the dab of liquid a preemptive sniff, and then his eyes went wide. Whatever the man's other faults (which were many) he had a good nose for booze.

"Where in Set's name…?" he asked breathlessly, now staring at the bottle with a lustful expression.

I now moved the bottle away from the massive hand that groped clumsily.

"Ahh, now," I waggled my finger, "The story is extra. The bottle… well, I'd say that was worth… what, eight hundred credits?"

Carefully-calculated outrage appeared on the barkeep's face.

"On the karking Citadel, maybe," he huffed, and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Maybe I'd give you ninety-five for it. And that's just because I like you."

I grinned broadly.

And let the haggling begin…

That particular round of haggling went better for me than the one with Powell, mostly on account that I had more of an opportunity to walk away from the deal. The fat fuck wanted the bottle, and we both knew he was going to pay through the nose rather than see it walk out his front door. We eventually settled, and I threw the duffle bag of other miscellaneous alcohols in, sight unseen. Seven hundred credits and a bottle of Noveria Prime richer, I exited the club and made my way down the street.

My destination was a brightly-lit establishment with the emblem of an old-fashioned hourglass tumbling and turning. Stepping inside, the din and smell of the street vanished, replaced by rhythmic pounding of tribal-drums and a hint of lavender in the air.

"Hello, Auntie," I called out.

The dark-skinned, ample-bosomed woman who turned at my call and flashed a smile wasn't my real aunt, of course, but that was what everyone called her in Little Egypt. People told me that she and my dad had been an item before I was even born, but I had never pressed for details on my dad's sexual history, or hers. She had a reputation of taking care of her girls, and there were stories passed around the gossip wheel of the horrors suffered by those who mistreated them. Those stories, however, were notably less horrific than the fates of those who tried to cheat her out of her due, or who came up light when the prescribed time ran out.

Whatever the truth of the rumors, it could not be denied that Auntie ran the Sands of Time brothel like fine-oiled machine.

Much better than my father runs this gang, I noted with no small degree of satisfaction.

"Hale up, Khentu, my lovely, wah'gwaan?"

"Eire ting Iyree, Auntie," I replied in the same sing-song accent, enjoying a hug and a kiss on the cheek from the older woman. Then she stepped back and cast a critical eye over me from head to toe.

"Obeah, child, when you eat last?"

I laughed at her concern and gave her another peck on the check.

"Some food would be welcome, Auntie. Usual fare is fine, nothing fancy."

"Kiss me back side, Khentu Emrys, as if there be anything but best here," she patted my cheek in a mock slap.

"Had a good day today, Auntie," I stated, flashing the chits from Tyco. "I'll take a room, a meal… and some company would not go amiss."

Auntie flashed a hand over the chits, checking their value with a practiced and discerning eye. Then the smile came again, and she clapped her hands twice. Two girls, both of them human, materialized from seemingly thin air, their beaded dresses leaving little to the imagination. I winked and grinned back at her, and then threw an arm around each of them, moving down the narrow hallway to one of the many apartments the building housed.

Welcome to fucking Omega.

Author's Note:

Hello once again, everyone! Once again, we find ourselves in the universe of Mass Effect! Katkiller-V is kind enough to be my beta-reader/editor, and to let us play in his Another Realm universe. If you haven't read his stories, I can highly recommend them!

If you have read them, this story is set right as Kean and Co. come to Omega in Another Realm: Ronin. The story will run parallel to the main AR story, but being a small gang, we are very unlikely to meet any of the Silver Blades, other than maybe small cameos.

Please leave your reviews/comments/suggestions/constructive criticisms!

ROCK ON, EVERYBODY! EE-RAH!

Tusken1602