Sergeant Howard David Thatcher pushed through the small crowd in front of Chora's Den, listening to the pumping bass of the music inside. He gently nudged a salarian aside, wondering why he was doing this in the first place. The assignment was to get some information. A volus was at the popular club, who was "in the know" about a weapons deal going down in the Lower Wards.
Thatcher was there to learn what he could. Reaching the bouncer, he looked at the Krogan. The sergeant was an intimidating man, six-and-a-half feet tall, about 200 pounds with a light brown crew cut, but the Krogan wasn't scared. "Gonna let me in?" The Krogan growled something under his breath, and nodded his head.
Howard stepped in, and approached the bar. He ordered a drink, and looked around. The usual crowd, a small bachelor party in a corner, a turian getting a private dance, another on the far side of the room with an asari on each arm. He noticed three human girls sitting at a table, drinking and laughing. What the hell would they be doing here? He payed no attention and took a sip from his drink, the slight burn of brandy tingling his throat.
"Greetings, Earth-clan." Thatcher turned, spying a volus on his way to the bar. He struggled to get on the stool. "Ah, here we are. Sergeant Thatcher I presume?" Thatcher eyed him, he was unusually large, with a primary olive drab color to his suit. "The very same. Sel Korrun?"
" I see you already know who I am," the volus replied, "good to know C-Sec isn't entirely useless." The sergeant squinted his eyes in slight distaste at the volus' comment. "Well... You got my information?" The volus looked around cautiously, "Do you have my money?" The sergeant finished his drink in a long gulp. Wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, "3,000. In your account already."
The volus, obviously not believing him, checked on the transaction with his omnitool. "Alright, it's done. Now, if you'll excuse me." The volus hopped down to the floor and turned to leave. Thatcher turned to catch the volus, but felt a nudge in his back. The deep voice of a Krogan calmly informed him, "Pull any stunts and I'll splatter your intestines on the bartender. You're going to leave the club, and head to the back alley. Try to run away and we will get you."
Howard turned and said to the frog-like alien, "Lemme pay and I'll be right out." The Krogan chuckled, "A comedian! Hah," then he became serious again, "Don't be long." The brute turned, and left.
After a few minutes, the sergeant exited the gentleman's club, and walked to the alley as instructed. He noticed the Krogan leaning up against a wall by a door on the left, one foot on the wall, with his arms crossed. "In here C-Sec." The Krogan opened the door, and led the sergeant inside.
Sel was sitting at a table inside, in a specially made chair, and gestured for the officer to sit. "Please, Sergeant Thatcher, have a seat." The sergeant hesitantly obliged, keeping an eye on the volus the whole time, with the Krogan bodyguard sitting on a couch behind the stocky alien. "I apologize for my behavior in Chora's Den. There are some people who do not really enjoy my company and would rather have me dead."
He leaned back, looking at the bodyguard, "That's why I had to hire Maur here." The Krogan nodded. He seemed to be much calmer in the red light of the small room. "Anyways, back to business. You want to know about a weapons deal, correct?" The sergeant nodded. "They'll be in a warehouse on Zakera Ward tomorrow. The buyer will be a human, you'll know him when you see him. He's purchasing assault rifles and shotguns for somewhere around a half a million credits. High-end, lots of them. You'll need to be quick, the salarians selling them won't stick around to get arrested."
Thatcher inquired, "Is that all I get?" "That's all I know," the volus replied, "if I learn more, I'll let you know." Howard stood, thanked the volus for his time and cooperation, and left. Traveling down the alley, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned, "Who's there?" Then he fell, a bullet hole in his forehead. A salarian stood over the body of the murdered C-Sec officer, blood pooling on the ground of the dim alley, a smoking pistol in one hand. He nodded his head to