TWO WEEKS LATER

Bekenstein, the human's Illium as the asari say, towered over the once agricultural soil; casting its light across the landscape. It was a symbol of humanity's firm foot into the galactic trade with luxuries that beckoned all species. Its large towers stretched into the air and glinted like a real-life Emerald city. Much like the fairytale, the city's bright exterior hid the tycoons flaunting their wealth and power. Some achieved through aggressive business tactics. Others from deceit and blackmail. A place where the suicide rate, be it confirmed or presumed, was higher than any other world. And in one part of the city, where the spotlights danced rays of white beams into the sky, the best and worst gathered in a glittering showcase that could rival an opening film debut.

The lights illuminated the streets as scores of people walked towards the West Highland Hall. The architecture exhumed wealth. It spanned a quarter mile of elaborate stone walls and marble columns harking back to Earth's late 19th century. Unfortunately, the integrated blue neon and glowing, floating orbs diffused the illusion. The clientele arriving in their private skycars certainly didn't represent "respected" dignitaries. A human playboy with an asari on each arm. A formally dressed asari with a human woman around each arm. A famous hanar actor with a female drell and an asari wrapped in tentacles. At the very least, it was cosmopolitan.

An extended limo landed gracefully at the edge of the red carpet. Its tinted windows obscured any onlooker to the driver or its chauffeured passenger. The extra-long door automatically slid open and black leather boots touched the fabric. When the guest completely exited the vehicle, his long black coat fell to his calves. Suited black pants held his form. An ivory colored dress shirt with a high stand-up collar accompanied the outfit; complementing the white embroidery outlining the satin black lapels of his frock coat. He breathed in the cool, brisk air. Real air; not filtered oxygen from ships and stations. Faint hints of natural vapor left his mouth as opposed to the clouds of tobacco floating around him. His footsteps were planted if not militaristic as he approached the security check.

"Pardon me, sir. May you please remove your sidearm?"

The young security clerk met the hawk-like stare of the guest and swallowed the lump that had built in his throat. With a blink of his eyes, the guest calmly produced a long custom pistol and placed it on the table. It wouldn't fold into itself like most pistols would. It was a solid piece of engineering. The slide spanned the barrel to the end of the grip which swept back like an old LeMat revolver. On that slide, the name Arondight was engraved in elegant cursive. It's stainless steel frame glinted in the light and grabbed a few glances of envious patrons. Custom weapons, tailored suits, trophy wives or husbands; most people of this caliber preferred showing off everything. However, the emphasis was on show. Rarely did someone even know how to handle something like a firearm properly. Usually most employed their security drones to do the grunt work. What made the pistol so alluring was the obvious fact that, though cleaned and polished, it showed signs of extensive use. The slight wear on the edge of the slide from repeatedly entering and exiting a holster. The finish that had lost its luster close to the thermal port ejector. It was a very telling glimpse of his reputation.

The guard raised his omni-tool from head to toe of the new guest. No buzzes or alarms occurred during the scan.

"Thank you. You may take back your pistol, Mister…"

"Gunn," he said with an iron voice, "Solomon Gunn."

"Yes, um…enjoy your time, Mister Gunn."

"I'm certain I will," Gunn, better known as Brandon Davis, said before walking into the event.

It's coming.