Snippet #2550298

Kosak set four cases on the table in the armory, and opened each one gingerly to make a final check of their contents.

His submachine gun and pistol were both pristine; he had gone over each what seemed like dozens of times before departing for the Skylian Queen, making sure that every component worked to perfection. Kosak eyed the guns carefully, making one final check for any blemishes or irregularities. Seeing none, he stashed the weapons in the appropriate slot in his equipment locker.

He took more time in scrutinizing his armor. The chalky white and cerulean blue of the paint job was faded and dull, and scratches and dents littered its surface, but, in Kosak’s eyes it, too, was in peak condition. The armor had been standard issue equipment for the Blue Suns mercenary group before the Reaper War. Though not particularly unique or noteworthy, it had been kept in Kosak’s family for four generations; it was symbol enough that the Nor’amon family was of a high tier. Batarians had a characteristic obsession with social class, and with most of his race scattered about ruins and refugee camps, that meant that those with any degree of power—mercenaries, soldiers, police—were of great importance.

Kosak ran his fingers along the armor, feeling its grooves and oscillations, recalling the memories it had given him. Operating within batarian communities had offered him certain freedoms, not least of which was the ability to choose his own wardrobe. The tight, chafing uniforms worn by most officers had never appealed to him; luckily, working undercover meant that he could spend more time in his own familiar armor. As he spent more and more time in the ghettos, Kosak had tweaked the armor more and more to fit in—he had personally installed the retractable blades that were nestled within the gauntlets, shoulders, and chestpiece, a hallmark of the batarian military—but he had never gone so far as to renew its colors. The armor had been emblazoned with the insignia of the Blue Suns when his great-grandfather had received it, and when his grandfather had died in it, and when his father had worn it into battle, and when it had been passed onto Kosak himself; the armor's aesthetic was as ingrained in Kosak's mind as its wearers were. He had no desire toss aside that history so quickly.

Remember the past, adapt for the future. An appropriate mantra, Kosak thought, considering what he wanted for his people.

Making his way to the crew deck, he found himself awed by the elegance of the frigate’s design. Most of his life had been spent on the Citadel, save for a few scant interplanetary trips aboard small freighters. The tightness didn’t bother him—his apartment on the Citadel was smaller than the ship’s armory—so much as the motion did; even despite the inertial dampeners, Kosak swore he could feel the ship moving, inch by inch. He felt nauseated just thinking about it.

He dropped his bag onto the nearest bunk as soon as he entered the crew’s quarters, and began a brief check of his scant possessions. Nothing seemed to be missing—though there was little to go missing in the first place. Kosak’s life had been consumed by C-Sec, and so save for clothing and a few precious trinkets, he owned little more than his weapons and armor.

As he neared the middle of the bundle, Kosak slid his hand into the surreptitious side pocket of the bag. His hand closed around the handle of the object concealed within, and, pulling it out for a brief examination, he found that the object--a dirk with a curved, razor-sharp blade--was intact. The blade sung in a soothing hum as he slowly flicked it through the air. Daggers and swords, he knew, were old-fashioned weapons, inefficient in an age when one could just as easily hurl enemies with biotics or incapacitate them with tech armor. Kosak had learned all too well, however, that a seemingly archaic weapon was an unnoticeable weapon, and that an unnoticeable weapon was a deadly weapon. He had no idea what he might come across, or where, and he certainly didn't intend on leaving himself vulnerable to some of the crew; nobody would pay mind to a simple dagger. Ancient as it might have been, it was the thing Kosak intended to sleep beside each night.

Coming to the very bottom of his bag, he smiled slightly at the sight of the few objects he had packed thoughtfully: books. Kosak was a voracious reader, and wanted to consume as much as he could in what little time he had. He had been careful in selecting the literature to bring with him on the mission—there was no way of knowing how long he would be, or what situations would call for which literary insight. It had been narrowed down to just three selections: The Life and Times of Grothan Pazness, a batarian autobiography; War and Peace, a human-written classic; and Ad Astra: The Story of the SSV Normandy, an asari-written compilation that collected interviews, essays, and narratives related to the titular spacecraft and its crew.

Sliding his possessions into whatever niche he could find, Kosak hurriedly began to redress himself. As he reentered the elevator on the way to the conference room, he wondered, absently, whether uniforms would become mandatory for the crew. An involuntary grimace came across him at the thought of it--he couldn't help but find a return to tight, chafing clothes as regressive.