Post by Eric Lysander on May 19, 2014 7:56:05 GMT -6
[This takes place during the interval between Eric Lysander’s arrival at Cartagena Station and his first appearance at the bar.]
According to Esteban’s message, Eric was to meet him at a bar called the Abyssal Demon at the center of the station. Conveyance systems were in permanent disrepair so it would be a trek on foot the whole way. Eric decided on a non-direct route in case one of the locals might be tailing him. Or another of the new arrivals; his attempt at rejoining the Alliance revealed he was a person of interest to their intelligence division. Following him here would demonstrate a great interest indeed. The officer he spoke with had expressed concern that he would side with Commander Shepard and Cerberus or fall back to his old ways, maybe even start his own gang. There was no chance of that happening now; Eric had his fill of life under the thumbs of criminals.
Other than stares at his armor and gear from the assorted dregs and wastrels peppered about - and a brief scuffle between a batarian and a salarian – Eric made his way past the first couple of the station’s rings without drawing too much attention. When he entered the fourth ring he noticed someone behind him, too scraggy to be an Alliance spook. Eric switched direction to another access tube to shake his pursuer but ran across him again in the fifth ring. He spied the man’s hand come down from his ear - he may have called for backup. Eric tensed and quickly circumvented a large cart being pushed up the center of the passage to get further away from him. Three more men wearing secondhand, improvised armor approached him. Eric turned and went down another nearby access tunnel. The scraggy man passed by at the head of the tunnel.
They were corralling him.
Eric stepped in another path when he bumped into a large, barrel-chested man in a dark grey shirt, bandolier and combat boots. The man gripped Eric’s shoulders tightly and shoved him backwards into another two thugs. They held his shoulders while the rest of the barrel chest's gang swept in from all directions.
“Smitty sends eez regards!” exhaled the man in a thick Russian accent.
The Russian was strangely familiar to Eric but he could not place him as yet. The man to Eric’s left was a tan- skinned tough with a muscle shirt and black harness. To Eric’s right a pale man with stringy blond hair, cyber implants and wiring on the side of his crown and geth heads remade into shoulder guards on his trenchcoat. The others behind the Russian were a smattering of nationalities and disheveled arrayments headed up by a lean, ponytailed thug with two bowie knives sheathed under his arms. An intimidating group to be sure; the final evidence confirming a suspicion Eric had been nursing since first boarding the shuttle for Cartagena.
“So the shuttle pilot’s with you guys?” he said. “Isn’t a thousand creds a little cheap to kill a guy over?”
“There are-a but dree reasonz why anywhun wood com here,” proffered the Russian. “They are look-eeng to die… look-eeng to hide… or look-eeng for a job.”
Eric mocked his opponent’s accent. “What’s eet to jooh? You people should move along; I’m not worth the trouble. Tell Smitty no backsies on our deal.”
The Russian man raised his hands, flicking them towards the men on either side of Eric to release him. “I offer no trabul… I offer a job!”
“Thanks - already got one.” Eric tried to push past but was blocked by the barrel chested man.
“Smitty iz kunstantly look-eeng for new talunt. He likes whut he sees in yu… evan though you take back your monee...”
A magnetic mine that just attached itself to a well-used spacecraft should not leave a clean spot when removed. This was the second sign to Eric that something odd was afoot.
“That mine was staged, wasn’t it?”
“Da. Smart man,” the Russian confirmed. “Sometimes iz mine, sometimes power prublems, sometimes hijeckers or theeves. Most times we only get poosies we strip for useful teengs. On occashun… we find one with brainz… or ballz.”
“And you ‘invite’ ‘em inta your gang,” the N7 veteran smirked. “Quite the little setup Smitty and you guys got.”
The Russian turned his head and said something in his native language to the men behind him who laughed in response. Eric adjusted his stance, eyeing his Phalanx pistol and duffel bag.
“We do preety ghud. Wit you weel do betturh.” The Russian pointed a thumb at himself. “I am Trunayev.”
Eric went stiff for an instant, recognizing who this man was. He had not seen him for over twenty years and those years did not spare the man's physique. There was no mistaking the largely unchanged brown fade cut and beady grey eyes now.
Eric clapped Trunayev’s shoulder. “Well... Trunayev… thanks for the generous offer but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”
Trunayev’s expression darkened. “I’m afraid I must inseest dat you join us.”
Eric rotated his neck about. “And I inseest that you de-seest. You have no idea who you’re messin' with.”
There were sounds of an omni-tool being activated from Eric’s right. The pale wirehead had his device ready, possibly to overload or short out any weapons Eric may draw. Trunayev dipped his chin at his subordinate and had the others in the group make room.
“I see why Smitty likes you. I’ll geev you fighting chance, soldier man.” The Russian cracked his knuckles with gusto. “I will enjoy putteeng you in your place!”
Trunayev laughed heartily and boasted to his sneering gang in Russian as they awaited the pummeling of the arrogant upstart.
“<Soldier man will go down like poor old Nyshka!>”
Eric’s head cocked. “Nyshka, da?” He then added in perfect Russian “<I once knew a man named Nyshka back in Chicago.>”
Truneyev began having trouble keeping his jaw closed.
Eric continued. “<Nyshka Veruchaeni. He dealt in death but he dealt fairly. Never greedy or covetous, never questioned or betrayed a client… and then he was betrayed by one close to him.>"
The burly Russian’s face went red and beaded with sweat. A growing unease pervaded the other gang members who were never told exactly how the formerly powerful weapons dealer met his end, with good reason.
“<This traitor ran like a coward rather than face justice. They turned the city end over end but no one ever learned what became of him or the property he stole… until now.>
The toughs now seemed split between their sergeant and the man in silver armor.
Eric reverted to English. “So… you came here to hide… didn’t you, friend?” He prodded more since his nervous opponent could only twitch his lips in rebuttal. “Still don’t recognize me? Always loved stuff that went ‘boom’ and the stuff that could bring it. Nyshka always had the best toys… I only wanted a peek at them…”
A light came on. Years ago, Truneyev had come across two youths stumbling about by the garage of the erstwhile weapons dealer. Rather than sound an alert or kill them, he let them go since one was a trusted friend of one of his employer's clients.
“… Serge’s leetul friend…? Lysandoor…?”
Eric cocked his head again. “Awww, he still remembers me!”
The gang stood transfixed as their sergeant's hands wadded into tight, convulsing balls that slowly rose up to his shoulders. Truneyev cursed himself for his past oversight that returned to dishonor him before his subordinates. This oversight would be redressed.
“<Now I’ll do… what I should have done when I spotted your skinny ass long ago!>" Truneyev stormed forward with a fist primed for a right cross.
Eric dipped down, extending his right leg to trip up the geth-shouldered tech behind him while simultaneously grabbing Truneyev’s pectorals.
Squeezing and twisting them. Hard.
After following up with a backhanded fist to his remaining escort Eric blew through the confused rabble further towards the station’s center. Truneyev screamed out in his native tongue for the others to give chase while he stood behind squatting down, massaging his injuries, breathing and whimpering through clenched teeth.
Eric's ran towards a grated bridge over a sewage gulley, duffel bag swept behind as he flashed a quick look behind him. Turning back to the bridge, a silver flicker whipped towards him. Instinctively Eric swung his bag around and caught a bowie knife in its side. The ponytailed gang member from before stood at the center of the bridge twirling his remaining knife all about him in a display of dexterity and speed as Eric's hand gripped the handle of his pistol.
"I'll cut you down before you can even draw, stranger," he boasted.
Footfalls clanged behind the man in silver armor. The ponytail hurled his knife. Eric spun to one side as he dropped down, reducing his surface area such that the knife sailed past his chest and embedded itself into the chest of the thug behind him. The ponytail pulled a spare blade and raised it up. Eric moved in fast, holding the knife man's wrist aloft as he planted a solid knee into his gut. Still holding the wrist, Eric brought his assailant's neck down on one of the bridge's metal side railings crushing his windpipe. The knife man's grip loosened and Eric claimed the blade for himself, quickly jamming it into the gut of another oncoming gang member and hurling him over the side into the gulley before running off again.
Eric weaved into and through tubing and conduits. Pushing into a small dank clearing, Eric paused, caught a breath and pulled his gun.
"Hey, Soldier Man!"
Eric head whipped up. The gang's pale blond tech was crouched in the rafters with his omni-tool deployed. A command acknowledgement beep was heard.
"Game over!"
The omni-tool started flickering rapidly. The tech quickly danced his fingers about it trying to regain control. The corruption quickly spread from his tool to his implants. The tech screeched and twitched in pain.
"For you!" Eric called out. "You're not the first asshole to try n' hack my armor! Ask your little parrots; they're the reason I had countermeasures installed!"
The geth head-shouldered wirehead squirmed and squealed upright, losing his balance and dropped down on the deck before Eric with a sickening crack of vertebrae. One less gang member to deal with, Eric bolted away with Phalanx still in hand.
Eric came up on a narrow corridor leading to the next-to-final ring of the station. Another voice called out to him.
"Your luck is running out, Soldier Man!"
Eric grasped the hilt of his pistol by his head. "Check the score, dickhead! You're down by five!"
"Four!" the voice corrected. "You only wounded Truneyev's pride!"
"Yeah..? Well tell 'em to show his fat ass so I can finish the job!" Eric scrutinized the shadows of the tubing and paneling all around, trying to get a fix.
"It is you that will be finished, friend! Here is your... burn notice...!"
The air before Eric suddenly heat up, engulfed in orange and yellow plumes. He barely rolled to nearby cover shielding his face with his arms. He peered around the corner and spotted the man in the black harness and muscle shirt brandishing a flamethrower.
"Where is that confidence now, ha?" he declared, aiming his weapon and patting his harness. "Barriers work better against bullets than flame!"
So they do, thought Eric noting a useful detail about where his attacker stood.
He jumped out from cover and landed on his side, taking a shot with his Phalanx. The muscle shirted man winced despite himself but kept his aim. The pipe above him spewed a harmless cloud of steam as he squeezed on the trigger.
"You missed..."
Eric cringed and tensed before the flamethrower let loose another fireball. But instead of forward, the licking tongues of flame tasted the steam cloud and then fed on it voraciously, engulfing the thug as he screamed. Eric stood up and went to find a way around running into still another of Truneyev's gang who snatched Eric's pistol. The man in silver armor promptly knocked him to the ground.
"Nico's dead!" the pistol thief cried out, curling into a ball as Eric wrestled him.
(We're ready here - lure him in!) came Truneyev's voice over his earpiece.
"Truneyev! He's-"
(Lead him to us!)
Eric managed to get his Phalanx back with one hand while his other hand got caught and then freed from the thief's belt. Eric allowed himself to be elbowed away, the thief scampering off. Upright again, he realized that the thief still managed to nick something as his omni-tool flashed to life.
His duffel bag.
The thief showed up at the interlock as he was instructed. Truneyev and the last of his gang were waiting, dug in with weapons at the ready for the brash N7 commando. Truneyev pulled the thief to one side and took the duffel bag from him, the thief huffing and heaving about his narrow escape. Without warning a high-pitched beep sounded. Truneyev tossed the bag at the thief's head.
"Idiot-e! He rigged da bag! Get reed ofit!"
The thief quickly listened to and patted the bag. As one of the passengers on Eric's shuttle, he saw it was the only luggage he had with him. It was a long trip to Cartagena Station and Smitty only provided the comfort of toilet facilities. Eric surely knew about where he was headed. Why sacrifice the comforts he brought with him?
As the thief listened with Truneyev it dawned on them that the noise was not coming from Eric's bag. The burly Russian took it back and spun his subordinate around. Looking to the thief's belt he found something that normally was not present. Truneyev hoisted him up by the same belt to hurl him out a passageway.
"GRE-NAAAA-!!!"
The explosion that blossomed in the room was not of smoke and flame. Everyone's vision was bleached out in white accompanied with a high tinny noise. Truneyev stumbled around, dizzy from the detonated flash-bang. As his hearing started to return he thought he could hear gunfire from a solitary weapon: the distinct punching scream of a Phalanx pumping out round after round. The shots stopped and the feel of a hot steel ring burned into his crown. The white faded to shapes and colors again. Truneyev dared not move an inch.
At the other end of the Phalanx and the extended arm that wielded it stood Eric Lysander, not happy at all with his welcome to Cartagena Station. The Russian's eyes looked him up and down as he waited for the inevitable.
“Little Lysander’s allll grown up… and he’s nobody's bitch...!" Eric thrust forth his other arm. "Bag!”
Truneyev cautiously draped the duffel bag strap over it. Eric slung it over his shoulder, gun still dug into the gang sergeant's skull.
"... you've won, my friend," goaded Truneyev. "Kill me... avenge Nyshka..."
"Killing a traitor like you," Eric snorted. "Is an act of mercy." His gun came down from Truneyev's forehead but still pointed in his direction. "No, I'll let you live... explain to Smitty how you lost his entire gang to a Chicago street rat!"
Truneyev chuckled slightly. "Yooh... man of morel-itee... look around youh..." His grey beads darted left and right over the bodies that littered the interlock. "They were once ordeenary peepul, lust... no hope, notheeng left... they did not chooze dis life, it choze them..." Eyes back on Eric. "... it could hev been youh amung them..."
"There's always a choice," countered Eric. "They could've fought back or put themselves outta their misery... but they chose... to follow you... maybe I did do 'em a favor. You're not getting the same courtesy-"
(Shoot the fat bastard already!)
Truneyev's glance went to his left arm. Eric permitted him to raise it as the Russian's omni-tool activated and displayed the holographic image of Smitty, who had been monitoring the entire fiasco.
“Once a snitch, always a snitch – eh, Truneyev?” cracked Eric.
Truneyev acknowledged his superior. ".. B-Boss?"
('less yoo got unudda gun you can yank outta yer asscrack, we're through!) growled Smitty.
Truneyev escaped Earth with a small cache of weapons pilfered from Nyshka Veruchanei's stocks and used them to barter and fight his way across the galaxy, the last and best to secure a place at Smitty's side.
(And you... funny man! I'm not done wit you!)
"Oh, I think we're done," smiled Eric.
The image of Smitty held up a very familiar device. (Nice try...! It's my mine; think I dunno howda disable m'own shit?!)
Eric smile faded to a look of defeat. "... fuck..."
Truneyev pleaded for mercy, switching between English and Russian. But true to his word Smitty would not be swayed.
(Keep whinin'... I'm aimin'! I'll take what 'im owed outta yer charred remains...! Yer both fucked!)
Eric put on a defiant face. “Hit me with your best shot!”
Smitty's beard parted to display a rotted smile before cutting the transmission. Eric was blocked by a still-pleading Truneyev.
"Please! Lysandoor! Friend! Do not leev me! Show mer-"
Of the options Eric had left none of them involved dragging along a turncoat from the old neighborhood that wanted to end him. Eric clipped his spent Phalanx on his leg again as he looked upon the floor.
Upon the perforated cranium of Nyshka Veruchanei's former lieutenant.
"<Nyshka sends his regards!>" said the N7 commando before running off with his duffel bag to the Abyssal Demon.
Cartagena Station in his sights, Smitty's shuttle deployed an intimidating rail gun from its underbelly. One of Truneyev's last gifts to the shuttle pilot and pirate leader. Smitty picked up the fading traces of his sergeant's life signs on his scanners along with a electrical trace nearby making its way to the heart of the station. Smitty made a last adjustment on the pitch and yaw of his spacecraft before arming the rail gun.
"Nowhere ta run ta, shitbird... no-wheres ta hiiiide!"
The holographic display showed the weapon was at half charge. Another five seconds and it would be ready to fire. Smitty lined up a shot at the center of the station.
"Bye-bye, funny man... I get the last laugh-"
The readout in front of Smitty flashed red as klaxons sounded: *** WARNING: MULTIPLE WEAPONS LOCKS DETECTED - INCOMING ORDNANCE ***
Smitty's crusted head jerked up in time to see one of the aged missiles floating about near Cartagena flying towards the main viewport with all speed...
On the trip to the station Eric Lysander was queuing up his omni-tool scanners to get reads on some of the undetonated weapons at his destination. For a demo expert like him it was either heaven or hell. His calibration tests however yielded another curious find that was confirmed by a clandestine tour of the shuttle while the other passengers slept: a rather expensive rail gun in the lower hold out of keeping with the rest of the run down ship. When the shuttle emerged from the mass relay Eric found it strange that the weapon was not used to clear a path when Smitty triggered his magnetic mine "audition". So when Eric came back aboard after disarming it - removing it from a mechanically reversible hull plate- he made a brief stop by a power trunk to splice in one of the ghost transponders he brought with him, originally intended to throw of Alliance Intelligence from any transmissions he made. And there it remained, unpowered until the rail gun was brought on line, Smitty fooled and emboldened by Eric's feint of the rearmed mine.
Placed under the wing where it could be found easily...
"Dohhhhh... crap..."
In multiple bursts of light, shrapnel and shockwaves, the criminal career of Smitty and the Crimson Scythe were brought to an end.
According to Esteban’s message, Eric was to meet him at a bar called the Abyssal Demon at the center of the station. Conveyance systems were in permanent disrepair so it would be a trek on foot the whole way. Eric decided on a non-direct route in case one of the locals might be tailing him. Or another of the new arrivals; his attempt at rejoining the Alliance revealed he was a person of interest to their intelligence division. Following him here would demonstrate a great interest indeed. The officer he spoke with had expressed concern that he would side with Commander Shepard and Cerberus or fall back to his old ways, maybe even start his own gang. There was no chance of that happening now; Eric had his fill of life under the thumbs of criminals.
Other than stares at his armor and gear from the assorted dregs and wastrels peppered about - and a brief scuffle between a batarian and a salarian – Eric made his way past the first couple of the station’s rings without drawing too much attention. When he entered the fourth ring he noticed someone behind him, too scraggy to be an Alliance spook. Eric switched direction to another access tube to shake his pursuer but ran across him again in the fifth ring. He spied the man’s hand come down from his ear - he may have called for backup. Eric tensed and quickly circumvented a large cart being pushed up the center of the passage to get further away from him. Three more men wearing secondhand, improvised armor approached him. Eric turned and went down another nearby access tunnel. The scraggy man passed by at the head of the tunnel.
They were corralling him.
Eric stepped in another path when he bumped into a large, barrel-chested man in a dark grey shirt, bandolier and combat boots. The man gripped Eric’s shoulders tightly and shoved him backwards into another two thugs. They held his shoulders while the rest of the barrel chest's gang swept in from all directions.
“Smitty sends eez regards!” exhaled the man in a thick Russian accent.
The Russian was strangely familiar to Eric but he could not place him as yet. The man to Eric’s left was a tan- skinned tough with a muscle shirt and black harness. To Eric’s right a pale man with stringy blond hair, cyber implants and wiring on the side of his crown and geth heads remade into shoulder guards on his trenchcoat. The others behind the Russian were a smattering of nationalities and disheveled arrayments headed up by a lean, ponytailed thug with two bowie knives sheathed under his arms. An intimidating group to be sure; the final evidence confirming a suspicion Eric had been nursing since first boarding the shuttle for Cartagena.
“So the shuttle pilot’s with you guys?” he said. “Isn’t a thousand creds a little cheap to kill a guy over?”
“There are-a but dree reasonz why anywhun wood com here,” proffered the Russian. “They are look-eeng to die… look-eeng to hide… or look-eeng for a job.”
Eric mocked his opponent’s accent. “What’s eet to jooh? You people should move along; I’m not worth the trouble. Tell Smitty no backsies on our deal.”
The Russian man raised his hands, flicking them towards the men on either side of Eric to release him. “I offer no trabul… I offer a job!”
“Thanks - already got one.” Eric tried to push past but was blocked by the barrel chested man.
“Smitty iz kunstantly look-eeng for new talunt. He likes whut he sees in yu… evan though you take back your monee...”
A magnetic mine that just attached itself to a well-used spacecraft should not leave a clean spot when removed. This was the second sign to Eric that something odd was afoot.
“That mine was staged, wasn’t it?”
“Da. Smart man,” the Russian confirmed. “Sometimes iz mine, sometimes power prublems, sometimes hijeckers or theeves. Most times we only get poosies we strip for useful teengs. On occashun… we find one with brainz… or ballz.”
“And you ‘invite’ ‘em inta your gang,” the N7 veteran smirked. “Quite the little setup Smitty and you guys got.”
The Russian turned his head and said something in his native language to the men behind him who laughed in response. Eric adjusted his stance, eyeing his Phalanx pistol and duffel bag.
“We do preety ghud. Wit you weel do betturh.” The Russian pointed a thumb at himself. “I am Trunayev.”
Eric went stiff for an instant, recognizing who this man was. He had not seen him for over twenty years and those years did not spare the man's physique. There was no mistaking the largely unchanged brown fade cut and beady grey eyes now.
Eric clapped Trunayev’s shoulder. “Well... Trunayev… thanks for the generous offer but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”
Trunayev’s expression darkened. “I’m afraid I must inseest dat you join us.”
Eric rotated his neck about. “And I inseest that you de-seest. You have no idea who you’re messin' with.”
There were sounds of an omni-tool being activated from Eric’s right. The pale wirehead had his device ready, possibly to overload or short out any weapons Eric may draw. Trunayev dipped his chin at his subordinate and had the others in the group make room.
“I see why Smitty likes you. I’ll geev you fighting chance, soldier man.” The Russian cracked his knuckles with gusto. “I will enjoy putteeng you in your place!”
Trunayev laughed heartily and boasted to his sneering gang in Russian as they awaited the pummeling of the arrogant upstart.
“<Soldier man will go down like poor old Nyshka!>”
Eric’s head cocked. “Nyshka, da?” He then added in perfect Russian “<I once knew a man named Nyshka back in Chicago.>”
Truneyev began having trouble keeping his jaw closed.
Eric continued. “<Nyshka Veruchaeni. He dealt in death but he dealt fairly. Never greedy or covetous, never questioned or betrayed a client… and then he was betrayed by one close to him.>"
The burly Russian’s face went red and beaded with sweat. A growing unease pervaded the other gang members who were never told exactly how the formerly powerful weapons dealer met his end, with good reason.
“<This traitor ran like a coward rather than face justice. They turned the city end over end but no one ever learned what became of him or the property he stole… until now.>
The toughs now seemed split between their sergeant and the man in silver armor.
Eric reverted to English. “So… you came here to hide… didn’t you, friend?” He prodded more since his nervous opponent could only twitch his lips in rebuttal. “Still don’t recognize me? Always loved stuff that went ‘boom’ and the stuff that could bring it. Nyshka always had the best toys… I only wanted a peek at them…”
A light came on. Years ago, Truneyev had come across two youths stumbling about by the garage of the erstwhile weapons dealer. Rather than sound an alert or kill them, he let them go since one was a trusted friend of one of his employer's clients.
“… Serge’s leetul friend…? Lysandoor…?”
Eric cocked his head again. “Awww, he still remembers me!”
The gang stood transfixed as their sergeant's hands wadded into tight, convulsing balls that slowly rose up to his shoulders. Truneyev cursed himself for his past oversight that returned to dishonor him before his subordinates. This oversight would be redressed.
“<Now I’ll do… what I should have done when I spotted your skinny ass long ago!>" Truneyev stormed forward with a fist primed for a right cross.
Eric dipped down, extending his right leg to trip up the geth-shouldered tech behind him while simultaneously grabbing Truneyev’s pectorals.
Squeezing and twisting them. Hard.
After following up with a backhanded fist to his remaining escort Eric blew through the confused rabble further towards the station’s center. Truneyev screamed out in his native tongue for the others to give chase while he stood behind squatting down, massaging his injuries, breathing and whimpering through clenched teeth.
Eric's ran towards a grated bridge over a sewage gulley, duffel bag swept behind as he flashed a quick look behind him. Turning back to the bridge, a silver flicker whipped towards him. Instinctively Eric swung his bag around and caught a bowie knife in its side. The ponytailed gang member from before stood at the center of the bridge twirling his remaining knife all about him in a display of dexterity and speed as Eric's hand gripped the handle of his pistol.
"I'll cut you down before you can even draw, stranger," he boasted.
Footfalls clanged behind the man in silver armor. The ponytail hurled his knife. Eric spun to one side as he dropped down, reducing his surface area such that the knife sailed past his chest and embedded itself into the chest of the thug behind him. The ponytail pulled a spare blade and raised it up. Eric moved in fast, holding the knife man's wrist aloft as he planted a solid knee into his gut. Still holding the wrist, Eric brought his assailant's neck down on one of the bridge's metal side railings crushing his windpipe. The knife man's grip loosened and Eric claimed the blade for himself, quickly jamming it into the gut of another oncoming gang member and hurling him over the side into the gulley before running off again.
Eric weaved into and through tubing and conduits. Pushing into a small dank clearing, Eric paused, caught a breath and pulled his gun.
"Hey, Soldier Man!"
Eric head whipped up. The gang's pale blond tech was crouched in the rafters with his omni-tool deployed. A command acknowledgement beep was heard.
"Game over!"
The omni-tool started flickering rapidly. The tech quickly danced his fingers about it trying to regain control. The corruption quickly spread from his tool to his implants. The tech screeched and twitched in pain.
"For you!" Eric called out. "You're not the first asshole to try n' hack my armor! Ask your little parrots; they're the reason I had countermeasures installed!"
The geth head-shouldered wirehead squirmed and squealed upright, losing his balance and dropped down on the deck before Eric with a sickening crack of vertebrae. One less gang member to deal with, Eric bolted away with Phalanx still in hand.
Eric came up on a narrow corridor leading to the next-to-final ring of the station. Another voice called out to him.
"Your luck is running out, Soldier Man!"
Eric grasped the hilt of his pistol by his head. "Check the score, dickhead! You're down by five!"
"Four!" the voice corrected. "You only wounded Truneyev's pride!"
"Yeah..? Well tell 'em to show his fat ass so I can finish the job!" Eric scrutinized the shadows of the tubing and paneling all around, trying to get a fix.
"It is you that will be finished, friend! Here is your... burn notice...!"
The air before Eric suddenly heat up, engulfed in orange and yellow plumes. He barely rolled to nearby cover shielding his face with his arms. He peered around the corner and spotted the man in the black harness and muscle shirt brandishing a flamethrower.
"Where is that confidence now, ha?" he declared, aiming his weapon and patting his harness. "Barriers work better against bullets than flame!"
So they do, thought Eric noting a useful detail about where his attacker stood.
He jumped out from cover and landed on his side, taking a shot with his Phalanx. The muscle shirted man winced despite himself but kept his aim. The pipe above him spewed a harmless cloud of steam as he squeezed on the trigger.
"You missed..."
Eric cringed and tensed before the flamethrower let loose another fireball. But instead of forward, the licking tongues of flame tasted the steam cloud and then fed on it voraciously, engulfing the thug as he screamed. Eric stood up and went to find a way around running into still another of Truneyev's gang who snatched Eric's pistol. The man in silver armor promptly knocked him to the ground.
"Nico's dead!" the pistol thief cried out, curling into a ball as Eric wrestled him.
(We're ready here - lure him in!) came Truneyev's voice over his earpiece.
"Truneyev! He's-"
(Lead him to us!)
Eric managed to get his Phalanx back with one hand while his other hand got caught and then freed from the thief's belt. Eric allowed himself to be elbowed away, the thief scampering off. Upright again, he realized that the thief still managed to nick something as his omni-tool flashed to life.
His duffel bag.
The thief showed up at the interlock as he was instructed. Truneyev and the last of his gang were waiting, dug in with weapons at the ready for the brash N7 commando. Truneyev pulled the thief to one side and took the duffel bag from him, the thief huffing and heaving about his narrow escape. Without warning a high-pitched beep sounded. Truneyev tossed the bag at the thief's head.
"Idiot-e! He rigged da bag! Get reed ofit!"
The thief quickly listened to and patted the bag. As one of the passengers on Eric's shuttle, he saw it was the only luggage he had with him. It was a long trip to Cartagena Station and Smitty only provided the comfort of toilet facilities. Eric surely knew about where he was headed. Why sacrifice the comforts he brought with him?
As the thief listened with Truneyev it dawned on them that the noise was not coming from Eric's bag. The burly Russian took it back and spun his subordinate around. Looking to the thief's belt he found something that normally was not present. Truneyev hoisted him up by the same belt to hurl him out a passageway.
"GRE-NAAAA-!!!"
The explosion that blossomed in the room was not of smoke and flame. Everyone's vision was bleached out in white accompanied with a high tinny noise. Truneyev stumbled around, dizzy from the detonated flash-bang. As his hearing started to return he thought he could hear gunfire from a solitary weapon: the distinct punching scream of a Phalanx pumping out round after round. The shots stopped and the feel of a hot steel ring burned into his crown. The white faded to shapes and colors again. Truneyev dared not move an inch.
At the other end of the Phalanx and the extended arm that wielded it stood Eric Lysander, not happy at all with his welcome to Cartagena Station. The Russian's eyes looked him up and down as he waited for the inevitable.
“Little Lysander’s allll grown up… and he’s nobody's bitch...!" Eric thrust forth his other arm. "Bag!”
Truneyev cautiously draped the duffel bag strap over it. Eric slung it over his shoulder, gun still dug into the gang sergeant's skull.
"... you've won, my friend," goaded Truneyev. "Kill me... avenge Nyshka..."
"Killing a traitor like you," Eric snorted. "Is an act of mercy." His gun came down from Truneyev's forehead but still pointed in his direction. "No, I'll let you live... explain to Smitty how you lost his entire gang to a Chicago street rat!"
Truneyev chuckled slightly. "Yooh... man of morel-itee... look around youh..." His grey beads darted left and right over the bodies that littered the interlock. "They were once ordeenary peepul, lust... no hope, notheeng left... they did not chooze dis life, it choze them..." Eyes back on Eric. "... it could hev been youh amung them..."
"There's always a choice," countered Eric. "They could've fought back or put themselves outta their misery... but they chose... to follow you... maybe I did do 'em a favor. You're not getting the same courtesy-"
(Shoot the fat bastard already!)
Truneyev's glance went to his left arm. Eric permitted him to raise it as the Russian's omni-tool activated and displayed the holographic image of Smitty, who had been monitoring the entire fiasco.
“Once a snitch, always a snitch – eh, Truneyev?” cracked Eric.
Truneyev acknowledged his superior. ".. B-Boss?"
('less yoo got unudda gun you can yank outta yer asscrack, we're through!) growled Smitty.
Truneyev escaped Earth with a small cache of weapons pilfered from Nyshka Veruchanei's stocks and used them to barter and fight his way across the galaxy, the last and best to secure a place at Smitty's side.
(And you... funny man! I'm not done wit you!)
"Oh, I think we're done," smiled Eric.
The image of Smitty held up a very familiar device. (Nice try...! It's my mine; think I dunno howda disable m'own shit?!)
Eric smile faded to a look of defeat. "... fuck..."
Truneyev pleaded for mercy, switching between English and Russian. But true to his word Smitty would not be swayed.
(Keep whinin'... I'm aimin'! I'll take what 'im owed outta yer charred remains...! Yer both fucked!)
Eric put on a defiant face. “Hit me with your best shot!”
Smitty's beard parted to display a rotted smile before cutting the transmission. Eric was blocked by a still-pleading Truneyev.
"Please! Lysandoor! Friend! Do not leev me! Show mer-"
Of the options Eric had left none of them involved dragging along a turncoat from the old neighborhood that wanted to end him. Eric clipped his spent Phalanx on his leg again as he looked upon the floor.
Upon the perforated cranium of Nyshka Veruchanei's former lieutenant.
"<Nyshka sends his regards!>" said the N7 commando before running off with his duffel bag to the Abyssal Demon.
Cartagena Station in his sights, Smitty's shuttle deployed an intimidating rail gun from its underbelly. One of Truneyev's last gifts to the shuttle pilot and pirate leader. Smitty picked up the fading traces of his sergeant's life signs on his scanners along with a electrical trace nearby making its way to the heart of the station. Smitty made a last adjustment on the pitch and yaw of his spacecraft before arming the rail gun.
"Nowhere ta run ta, shitbird... no-wheres ta hiiiide!"
The holographic display showed the weapon was at half charge. Another five seconds and it would be ready to fire. Smitty lined up a shot at the center of the station.
"Bye-bye, funny man... I get the last laugh-"
The readout in front of Smitty flashed red as klaxons sounded: *** WARNING: MULTIPLE WEAPONS LOCKS DETECTED - INCOMING ORDNANCE ***
Smitty's crusted head jerked up in time to see one of the aged missiles floating about near Cartagena flying towards the main viewport with all speed...
On the trip to the station Eric Lysander was queuing up his omni-tool scanners to get reads on some of the undetonated weapons at his destination. For a demo expert like him it was either heaven or hell. His calibration tests however yielded another curious find that was confirmed by a clandestine tour of the shuttle while the other passengers slept: a rather expensive rail gun in the lower hold out of keeping with the rest of the run down ship. When the shuttle emerged from the mass relay Eric found it strange that the weapon was not used to clear a path when Smitty triggered his magnetic mine "audition". So when Eric came back aboard after disarming it - removing it from a mechanically reversible hull plate- he made a brief stop by a power trunk to splice in one of the ghost transponders he brought with him, originally intended to throw of Alliance Intelligence from any transmissions he made. And there it remained, unpowered until the rail gun was brought on line, Smitty fooled and emboldened by Eric's feint of the rearmed mine.
Placed under the wing where it could be found easily...
"Dohhhhh... crap..."
In multiple bursts of light, shrapnel and shockwaves, the criminal career of Smitty and the Crimson Scythe were brought to an end.