Adrian slowly starts to wake up in the pitch blackness of his apartment. He is immediately assaulted by a crippling hangover and literally rolls himself out of bed onto the floor and crawls to the door into his living room, hitting the light as he stands up and puts a hand to his splitting head in a futile attempt to ease the headache and to shield his eyes from the sudden blindingly bright light. After a minute or two of letting his eyes adjust to the light he looked around the room, he still had trouble remembering the night before. There were no ugly females in his bed, so that was a step in the right direction. There didn't appear to be any dried blood on his shirt on the ground or on the pants that he still seemed to be wearing. These were also good signs. There was a spilled bottle of clear liquor on the floor, looked like it had been half full before most of the rest of it was spilled into his red carpet. A small amount remained at the bottom of the bottle and Adrian picked it up and gulped the rest of it down like it was water, it was little more than a couple shots really, his headache fading to a noticeable degree though not entirely.<br/><br/>He stumbled into his living room, empty bottle in hand, and hit the lights to look around. Nothing seemed jumbled or toppled over, so he was guessing he hadn't brought any guests home or if he had they had been incredibly polite ones, quite the rarity on Omega. There was another bottle, this one empty, sitting on his coffee table.<i><span style="color: red">God damn, must've really been in the drinking mood last night...</span></i>He thought to himself as he set the bottle he was holding down next to the other. He then stumbled his way into the bathroom and roughly pulled the medicine cabinet open, withdrawing a bottle of mild painkillers.<i><span style="color: red">I should really stop drinking so much.</span></i>He finished the thought with a small laugh which caused his headache to worsen for a moment, inducing a sharp wince. Adrian dumped a few of the pills into his hand and then closed the bottle and threw it back into the cabinet and slammed the cabinet shut.<br/><br/>After he had made his way into the kitchen he grabbed himself a bottle of water and took the painkillers, hoping that they would be able to take the last edge off his headache. He gave his apartment another once-over while he waited for the painkillers to kick in, searching for some sort of hint as to what it was he had been doing last night. He remembered that the night started with him getting a bottle of Tequila that had been brought all the way from Earth, and that he drank the entire bottle with a few acquaintances. However after that the entire night goes fuzzy. Obviously he had ditched the Tequila bottle before coming back to the apartment, as it was nowhere to be seen, and he had moved on to cheaper alcohol. There was no vomit anywhere in the apartment, which was a mixed blessing and a curse.<i><span style="color: red">If I'd puked I probably wouldn't feel like death warmed over right about now...</span></i>He ditched looking for any more clues as to what he had done and decided it would be best to just take a shower, wash the smell of alcohol off of him and get some fresh clothes.<br/><br/>He took off what little clothes he still had on while making his way to the bathroom, simply loosening his pants a bit and pushing his underwear down a bit with them and then lazily walking the rest of the way out of them, nimbly undoing the knife still strapped to his leg with a toe and leaving it with the pants. That way he didn't have to bend over, which would no doubt only make his headache worse. He turned on the hot water and evened out the temperature a bit with a little bit of cold and then stepped in, letting the water wash away all the alcohol laden sweat from the night before. The water also woke him up and refreshed him, allowing him to think much more clearly. He was still not sure what he did last night, but at least now he could figure out what it was he needed to do today. Something in his mind nagged at him telling him there was something important to do today.<br/><br/>As he worked some shampoo into his hair he tried thinking deeply on what it was he needed to do. It involved money, possibly a job...<i><span style="color: red">Oh shit, right, that mercenary job.</span></i>At that thought he gave a small sigh and stopped shampooing his hair, letting it get washed out by the hot water,<i><span style="color: red">Fuck, I hate merc jobs. And this one sounds kinda shady from the start. Maybe I won't go, not like I can't make the money elsewhere...</span></i>Adrian let his head sit underneath the water for some time, thinking on what he should do. He could really use the money, but on the other hand the risk inherent in mercenary jobs was usually the sort that was difficult to avoid. People usually weren't afraid to throw mercs into a meat grinder if that was what they had in mind and that was one of the reasons why Adrian had quit the profession. But the reward for this job was very nice, and he had a feeling that if he passed it up he would probably hate himself for it.<i><span style="color: red">Fuck it, I'll do it.</span></i>With that thought he picked up the soap and began cleaning up the rest of his body.<br/><br/>After a half an hour or so of just sitting under the stream of steaming hot water he stepped out from the shower, fresh and clean and no longer smelling like a distillery. His headache was now completely gone and he felt nicely clearheaded. He had a feeling that he would need it for today, though he wasn't quite sure why. In his own experience the day you got the job was usually the least exciting one. As he combed out his hair and stared at himself in the mirror he thought about what he would likely have to deal with today. With a job like this there was bound to be a large crowd but he was confident enough that his reputation would be enough to make him stand out in the crowd. It wasn't as though he was known for being a master assassin or unstoppable commando, but generally anyone who had lived in Omega for as long as he had and not gotten killed, turned into a shell of a being or left altogether had some serious balls and a decent amount of skill in his line of work. Hitmen that weren't skilled got themselves killed in very short order, and while he could say the same about mercenaries he knew that even the most skilled mercenaries can get thrown into situations where no one could possibly survive.<br/><br/>He flashed back on his last mission as a professional mercenary and set down his comb, his hair already combed out anyways, and ran a finger over the scar on his hip and then the one on his stomach, just under his breastbone. He said he'd never go back to mercenary work after that, though he'd already broken that rule a few times when money had gotten short and there wasn't any other work out there available to him. One more time likely wouldn't get him killed, right? He knew how hollow that was, there really was no promise that he would come out of this alive. But then again most of his jobs were that way, and this one paid incredibly well. He just hoped that the risks involved wouldn't make him wish he'd never accepted the job in the first place.<br/><br/>Adrian dismissed the thoughts and made his way back into his bedroom and opened a small closet that contained three plain black jumpsuits, his armor and his weapons. All of them were kept incredibly clean and well maintained, it was obvious that he took pride in his equipment. He grabbed one of the jumpsuits and threw it onto his bed while he pulled open a drawer full of underwear and put on a pair. After his underwear were on he slipped into the jumpsuit and zipped it up, taking a long look at his other closet which contained all of his normal clothing. He wasn't sure if the job he was taking would allow for him to come back for the clothes or if they would want him to immediately go somewhere. Perhaps packing a change would be a decent idea. He picked out two sets of clothing, one casual and one formal, and after folding them up he placed them in a vacuum packer. He had found it to be indispensable for carrying around clothing, as it compressed the two full sets of clothes into a small plastic bag about a half inch thick and roughly the same length as his forearm. He'd easily be able to put it inside one of the storage compartments in his armor, especially if he folded it. His leather jacket required another bag of its own, and even when compressed it was still about an inch thick. That one would need to go in the storage compartment on his leg.<br/><br/>With everything that needed to be packed Adrian suited up with his armor, taking his time to make sure that everything was properly secured before placing his packed clothing into the storage compartment on his left arm and right leg. After that he went back into the living room and picked up his knife from inside his pants that were still laying on the floor and then fixed it to his lower left leg. Once the knife was in place he put his guns onto their respective magnetic rails, the Vindicator into the rail over his right shoulder, the Tempest on his left hip and the Carnifex on his right. He left his hair hanging down, since he still wasn't sure if he would be needing to do anything today or not, and made sure to put a handful of hair ties into one of the storage compartments on his armor. If he did need to do something it only took him a moment to tie his hair back anyways. He then grabbed his helmet and held it under his left arm as he made his way out of the apartment, locking the door behind him, and to the warehouse where this job was supposed to be hiring.<br/><br/>The walk to the warehouse was largely uneventful. He got a few long stares from various unsavory types, probably trying to figure out if he was worth trying to mug or not, but most of them turned away as soon as they noticed his familiar face. A group of Batarians had tried robbing him a few months back, a bad idea on their part. None of them lived through the experience. Since then he hadn't had to deal with any attempted muggings, he guessed the word had gotten around or something. He had no doubt that eventually someone would get up the balls and stupidity to try it again though, they always did.<br/><br/>When he arrived at the warehouse he wasn't exactly surprised by the number of people that had shown up but it still impressed him regardless. Many of them were stupid youngsters much like he had been, just wanting some of that money and to try their hand at being a mercenary. Though he had a strong feeling that, unlike him, these youngsters likely wouldn't be fortunate enough to live through the experience. He strong armed his way through the crowd and on his way to the door he got a few greetings from others in the crowd. Some of them were from mercenaries he had worked with in his younger days, some from more recent jobs and others that he didn't even remember at all.<i><span style="color: red">I wonder if they're just trying to act like the others in the crowd or have I really met them? Or has my reputation preceded me?</span></i>It wouldn't be the first time for the latter, but Adrian didn't dwell on it for long and just continued making his way through the crowd.<br/><br/>He didn't like crowds, especially not ones with so many armed people as this one. Too many variables to worry about, too much risk. It would be very easy for someone to pull a gun on someone else over a minor dispute and start up a firefight of cataclysmic proportion. He didn't bother with the line to get in, he didn't have the time to waste in waiting through it, and simply made his way to the guards at the front door of the warehouse. He thought he recognized one of them, perhaps had done a job with him in the past, but he wasn't entirely sure. He gave the guard a quick nod in greeting, "<span style="color: red">Here for the job, I'd rather not wait with the rest of these assholes. Mind waving me through?</span>" The guard looked at Adrian for a long moment and then responded with a voice that also seemed familiar to him, seems he was right, "Go right on in, Gerolt." The guard made a small motion for him to go in and Adrian went in without any further words.<br/><br/>It was certainly a warehouse, there was no mistaking that, but Adrian could tell the place had been worked on recently. There were many shining new surfaces, something that generally wasn't seen in Omega unless somebody paid for it. Whoever owned this place had a plan for it, and he wasn't quite sure of what to make of it. The other mercenaries that had gotten in here were certainly a motley crew, some of them looked experienced and more than capable of handling themselves while others looked highly inexperienced and more likely to just shoot themselves in the foot than kill an enemy. The guards must not have been very picky about who they let in, which was rather strange considering the price on this job. Something was starting to creep up Adrian's spine telling him there was something wrong as he took up a spot leaning against a crate off to the side of the group of mercenaries, away from everyone else. He was quite obviously keeping an eye on his surroundings and had a very focused look on his face.<i><span style="color: red">I'm not sure if I like this...</span></i><div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>