Asad's eyes narrowed steadily through the speech. Either the turian was crazy - which was distinctly possible, maybe even probable - or he was desperate. Asad's mind raced. A million creds . . . what he could have done with a million creds. He could be a warlord, a private investor, a hedonist . . . anything he wanted to be. It was an impossible sum of money for so simple a job, though he noted that the job was hardly an easy one. He'd shot people before - turians, humans, salarians, volus, even a hanar once, and that one had been pretty bloody challenging. But this, this was ridiculous - one of the most powerful men in Omega, and therefore one of the most powerful private individuals in the galaxy. It would be a challenge, needless to say.<br/><br/>And it was a challenge he relished, incidentally - the chance to become utterly immortalised in legend - the chance to seal his name forever as an assassin and a soldier of fortune. The thought of the riches he'd accrue and the renown he's earn was something that practically made him water at the mouth. It was almost too much . . . he had to be the one. One shot, one kill - it all seemed so simple. His mind raced with schemes, concepts of how he was going to do it. He could team up with somebody - a million each for the kill - or he could go it alone. The act was so simple, but the target was so important. Now that the call had been given, word would spread, and Ren Kalga would seal himself behind an army of mercenaries and top-quality protection. It would be hard, and Asad was doubtful that he alone could crack them. Archangel had done it - but Archangel was just that, an avenging angel, and his loss had removed the single biggest threat in the galaxy to organised crime.<br/><br/>Asad nodded to himself, clenching his hands into fists for a moment, as he looked up at the turian. He'd need resources, he'd need people, and he'd need a plan. None of those came easily, especially not to a penniless quarian of all people, but he relished the challenge. It gave him purpose, a reason to strive to succeed, and the promise of a hefty reward in the end. He licked his lips beneath his mask, smiling privately as he watched the speaker, and as he heard the cries of the crowd around him. He was silent, focused, and intense in a moment of great clamour - hopefully that singled him out as a promising agent. Either he'd make some friends, bargain for a few favours, and find a way to succeed . . . or he'd mold himself into a scalpel - a precision instrument of lethal ability.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>