The tall, thin quarian coughed, reflexively bringing a fist to the voicebox of his mask. The line was long - he was lucky to have the patience of an elcor. Asad rolled his shoulders subtly, easing the tense muscles. He'd been standing for a long time, periodically shuffling forward a few steps as the line edged forwards. There were people of all sorts here - old, young, tall, short. He saw kids with guns jostling for their turns, ragged humans with fierce eyes, stern turians who looked to have a bevy of chips on their shoulders, lithe asari who carried themselves with confidence, scarred krogans with shrapnel-damaged crests . . . the scum of the galaxy in one convenient location. It was a far cry from the Migrant Fleet - the Admiralty Board would never have tolerated this kind of a gathering. It was oddly exciting - Asad smiled beneath his mask.<br/><br/>Perhaps it was the self-awareness with which he carried himself, perhaps it was the fact that he was a quarian, perhaps it was the rifle slung across his back - whatever the case, the line gave Asad a wide enough berth to provide him with some metaphorical breathing room. He shifted position a little, looking ahead at the thinning line. His time was coming close. Ahead of him, a krogan and an asari seemed to be arguing, and it was holding the line up. He stepped forward, earning a hostile glance from the scar-faced human in front of him. Asad glared back at him, the ambient light just enough to illuminate faint hints of his eyes and nose past his mask. He was taller than the man, and he would have wagered that he was as strong - but getting into a fight here would stall the line and ran the risk of getting him injured. As appealing as the thought of a little excitement was, this particular hive of scum and villainy didn't strike Asad as an ideal place to recuperate from a broken limb or internal bleeding - or worse.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>