flirting with madness was one thing;

Albert straightened himself in the uncomfortable seat, coughing slightly in the humid and dusty air.

Worth it if he can find a lead, but there’s a look of mild annoyance on his face.

The asari-human agrarian colony of Asteria was normally a place of little significance. Much like its encompassing arid, sulphurous deserts, it was empty from the minds of most. While still housing a sizeable population of over 188 million people, little ever happened on Asteria.

Alliance Detective Albert Rosgaard arrived on the 2nd April 2185 (gregorian calendar), after a small, though mostly concealed and private, dispute - between local asari and human governing bodies on a matter of funding; which resulted in the death of a senior asari official and three missing Alliance Corporals.

Media was silent…

The capital city of Blackdamp was a labyrinthine place home to the novelty of underground pedestrian tunnels and particularly seedy cafés and bars. Albert sat lonesomely at the bar of a ‘tunnel pub’. The frequent of a precise group of agricultural workers known for certain vices hushed-up by the authorities wishing to keep their, and the planet’s, relative anonymity.

The air was stifling and perceptively thin. Rude chatter and gruff male bravado was the primary impression given from the sordid den. The asari preferred slightly brighter places here.

The patrons were mostly metaphorical clones of each other. Hard and greasy working men speaking loudly and all of the same thing. One inhabitant caught Albert’s inquiring eye, nonetheless. A shady, hooded figure also sat alone at a round corner table -tucked in an alcove. He set down his drink and sauntered over to the illusive figure. He was likely the only person in the establishment recognising who or what the person was.

He brings his glass to his lips, eyes scanning the room as he drinks from it. There are no particularly suspicious characters here, not from what he can see. Just workers, rough people. Typical crowd. Sal had come here originally to see if he could grab a fresh trail, see if his target had been here. A couple drinks in and he would’ve began asking questions.

But his amber eyes catch on to a figure making his way over and anxiousness washes over him. Salaais hoped to he wouldn’t draw too much attention to himself, yet it seems that hope was wasted energy. It’s an inevitability given he’s a drell, he knows it. And one that stands out in crowds due to his colorful scales.

He always did go better with Rakhana’s scenery.

Sal draws the glass away and sighs through his nostrils, an uncomfortable intake of air comes after(the area is humid enough to cause an awful pressure, but he endures it). “Being in filth is my entire life’s story in three words.” He says with a small smile as he pushes his glass more to the center of the table. “I’m looking for someone, came to see if I could learn anything here. They're in big trouble..." He stares closely at the other man, examining his body language and general appearance. He's not sure what to make of what he gathers.

    Cracks a big stupid grin.

 It’s a good thing he has said germ shield in question, considering the grouchy, almost pouty look he’s currently sporting.

“They were always called terrorists. Anything that isn’t the Alliance’s doing is called fucking terrorism, these days.”

             Not many aliens Mason experienced (well, the definition of alien in his eye) showed any sort of positive feelings toward humanity. They always felt superior, forcing a complex that he refused to allow. Sal, so far, seemed different. He seemed neutral. It didn’t bug him.