Urdnot Thrak: Neighborhood Improvement Project
Mar 5, 2017 4:06:28 GMT -6
Eric Lysander and Joe Fischer like this
Post by Urdnot Thrak on Mar 5, 2017 4:06:28 GMT -6
Thrak hated Omega. The place was filthy, and everything smelled. There was always someone waiting around the next corner to kill you for no more reason than to steal what meager possessions you had. Not that he minded the violence; that was his favorite part of the station. No, what Thrak hated was that these aliens, who had perfectly good homeworlds and colonies, would choose to live like they were stuck on Tuchanka. To him, it felt like an insult to the krogan, for those with easy access to better to choose a life like this.
He again grunted with displeasure, as he wound through the rancid streets with his newly-purchased bottle of ryncol to the cheap room he had rented out until another contract came his way. As much as he hated the place, it was easier to live on than the Citadel or Illium. Both places had too many rules for his liking, and the security at both ports always seemed to be watching him. And they required sophisticated "manners." People there did battle with words. Maybe that worked for Wrex, but Thrak was just a grunt and content to be one.
Over the past couple centuries, Thrak had built a name for himself as one of the go-to mercenaries when a person wanted their problems steamrolled over. The upgrades to his armor's tech armor, enabling him to utilize it as a riot shield, greatly helped with that. Most battles were pretty simple. Charge in, wait behind his shield until his enemy had to reload, then shoot them in the face with his shotgun. Unless the damn thing overheated or something. Then he just beat them to a bloody pulp with the stock. Or headbutted them. Or stomped them. Most aliens were just so squishy, there were dozens, maybe even hundreds of ways to end a fight.
When Thrak ended fights, it was always a final solution. One thing Tuchanka had taught him was that mercy was like not shooting a wild varen. You might get to see something beautiful up close, but it would bite your ass the moment you turned around.
"Thrak!" a deep, gravely, obviously-krogan voice called from behind him.
He stopped in his tracks, suddenly noticing that there were none of the usual beggars, thieves, or lowlifes huddled in the dark corners of the street. Damn, he chastised himself, I forgot this place was JUST LIKE Tuchanka.
He turned around, finding a krogan maybe one or two hundred years his senior, outfitted in Warlord battle armor with a hump just about half again as big as it should have been. It almost made Thrak laugh out loud; it was like, oh, what was it like? A batarian man stuffing socks in his crotch, Thrak guessed, having heard the expression somewhere. It was the man's weaponry and bearing that kept him from laughing, though. A massive war hammer in his fist and a hardened stance and expression told Thrak that this was a battlemaster. A true battlemaster.
"What do you want, Old Timer?"
"My name's Weyrloc Groam!"
"Good for you! How many times do you have to repeat that each day to keep from forgetting?" Thrak joked. He knew he should have paid the man more respect; he had a reputation as one of Weyrloc's top fighters. He was not just a member of the Blood Pack, but he was actually sent out by the clan to conduct business off-world. Every krogan knew that an ambassador had to represent the strength of his people, and Thrak knew that Weyrloc was by no means a weak clan.
"You killed my son, two years ago today! I've come to settle the score!"
Thrak shrugged. "Nothing personal. Can't even remember what job I was on two years ago today. Shame. If I'd known, it would have been very personal. Weyrloc is a bunch of damned pyjacks with your heads crammed so far up your asses that you can't see the galaxy changing around you!"
The other man bared his teeth in a menacing smile, as his fist clenched harder around the hammer.
Thrak was glad he was wearing his armor and had his guns at hand. He might have let his guard down some, but he would never have let himself go out in Omega without his gear.
"Where's your krantt, Old Man?" he demanded.
"I don't need a krantt for this," the krogan growled.
"Too bad," Thrak said, knowing he was walking a fine line between provoking the man into being mad enough to make a mistake and pushing him into a full-out bloodrage that would make him ten times more difficult to deal with, "this station smells too much like a salarian's cloaca. I was hoping to clear that smell out a bit."
When the other krogan flicked on his tech armor and charged straight at Thrak, hammer raised in preparation to end the battle with the first stroke, the younger krogan knew he had accidentally crossed the line. Thrak was barely able to activate his tech armor before the Groam closed the distance. Only a last-moment sidestep saved Thrak from a premature death. It did not, however, save the wall of the building next to him. He emptied his shotgun into the other man's side until it was on the verge of overheating. The other krogan's armor overloaded, causing Thrak to stumble back.
The exchange repeated itself time and again, the other krogan hefting his hammer for the death-blow and Thrak barely evading. Sometimes, Thrak would manage to do so with a skilled side-step. Sometimes, he would deflect the hammer just a foot or so to the side with a biotic push or pull. Occasionally, he would empty his shotgun into the other man until his clip overheated, but either Groam's tech armor or shields consistently deflected the worst of it. Slowly, though, both were taking some damage. A few of Thrak's shots managed to get through. That did little, though, between heavy armor, redundant organs, medigel, and rapid regeneration on the other man's part. The other krogan managed to land several punches, elbows, and headbutts, though those were equally ineffective.
In truth, the buildings of the neighborhood were taking the brunt of the damage. Several were missing walls throughout most of the first floor. Pipes under the floor were ruptured, spraying water and sewage into the street.
Finally, both of them broke from each other for a moment.
"Getting tired, Old Timer?" Thrak asked, gaining a moment to catch his breath.
The older krogan laughed dementedly. Then he pulled out something Thrak recognized all too well. A grenade launcher.
Thrak dove to the side just as the first round sailed past, taking out yet another wall. He knew his tech armor or barrier ability could probably tank one of the shots, but it would leave him vulnerable. Then he got an idea. It was risky, but sooner or later he would die to the battle-master's superior armaments and preparation.
He was familiar with that model of grenade launcher. It carried a dozen projectiles. Slowly, as Thrak kept running, luring the other man after him, the buildings were filled with more and more gigantic holes. Now it's really looking like Tuchanka.
When one of the grenades hit near him, he let his tech armor fail, instead activating his barrier. A few more grenades, and he was stumbling all over the place, his plan getting far too real. The last grenade in the launcher hit him almost dead-on, sending him flying through a wall and into the living room of what appeared in the blur of motion to be a volus family.
His biotic barrier reinforcing his shield had failed... as had the shields themselves, and he was flat on his back. Barely a moment later, when he opened his eyes, the other krogan was standing over him, once again wielding the hammer. This time, he did not have his tech armor on, though.
"For Draak!" he yelled, bringing the hammer down in an arc for Thrak's head as hard as he could.
At the last instant, Thrak flicked on the special modification to his tech armor. His shield came to life, and he angled it just enough to send it off to his side. When the other krogan stumbled, landing on top of Thrak, the younger krogan smiled up at him dementedly. "Say 'hi' to the bastard for me."
Thrak pulled the trigger to the shotgun that he had taken the oportunity to place directly against the skin of the other man's head. The mostly-empty mass of flesh and bone exploded, and Thrak pushed the bulk of a man off himself. With effort, feeling the aching in his bones, he rose to his feet.
The volus family was staring at him with wide eyes, as he reached into the hump of the other man's armor and pulled out a large sack full of credits, gold, jewels, and other valuables. Thrak laughed. "I knew your hump wasn't that big, damned idiot!"
"Can we get some of that?" a masculine-sounding volus asked.
"Why?" Thrak questioned, stuffing the back back into the hump. The man's armor was better than Thrak's own too, and it looked like it would be a close fit.
The volus wordlessly motioned to the missing wall.
Thrak looked at it with mock confusion. "But I did all the work."
With that, he grabbed the man's hammer in one hand and the corpse in the other, before heading off towards an armor-smith he knew who would be able to fit the armor to him and would not ask too much more for scooping the ruins of the previous owner out. Just like on Tuchanka, no questions asked was the rule of Omega. Well, that and "Don't fuck with Aria."
He again grunted with displeasure, as he wound through the rancid streets with his newly-purchased bottle of ryncol to the cheap room he had rented out until another contract came his way. As much as he hated the place, it was easier to live on than the Citadel or Illium. Both places had too many rules for his liking, and the security at both ports always seemed to be watching him. And they required sophisticated "manners." People there did battle with words. Maybe that worked for Wrex, but Thrak was just a grunt and content to be one.
Over the past couple centuries, Thrak had built a name for himself as one of the go-to mercenaries when a person wanted their problems steamrolled over. The upgrades to his armor's tech armor, enabling him to utilize it as a riot shield, greatly helped with that. Most battles were pretty simple. Charge in, wait behind his shield until his enemy had to reload, then shoot them in the face with his shotgun. Unless the damn thing overheated or something. Then he just beat them to a bloody pulp with the stock. Or headbutted them. Or stomped them. Most aliens were just so squishy, there were dozens, maybe even hundreds of ways to end a fight.
When Thrak ended fights, it was always a final solution. One thing Tuchanka had taught him was that mercy was like not shooting a wild varen. You might get to see something beautiful up close, but it would bite your ass the moment you turned around.
"Thrak!" a deep, gravely, obviously-krogan voice called from behind him.
He stopped in his tracks, suddenly noticing that there were none of the usual beggars, thieves, or lowlifes huddled in the dark corners of the street. Damn, he chastised himself, I forgot this place was JUST LIKE Tuchanka.
He turned around, finding a krogan maybe one or two hundred years his senior, outfitted in Warlord battle armor with a hump just about half again as big as it should have been. It almost made Thrak laugh out loud; it was like, oh, what was it like? A batarian man stuffing socks in his crotch, Thrak guessed, having heard the expression somewhere. It was the man's weaponry and bearing that kept him from laughing, though. A massive war hammer in his fist and a hardened stance and expression told Thrak that this was a battlemaster. A true battlemaster.
"What do you want, Old Timer?"
"My name's Weyrloc Groam!"
"Good for you! How many times do you have to repeat that each day to keep from forgetting?" Thrak joked. He knew he should have paid the man more respect; he had a reputation as one of Weyrloc's top fighters. He was not just a member of the Blood Pack, but he was actually sent out by the clan to conduct business off-world. Every krogan knew that an ambassador had to represent the strength of his people, and Thrak knew that Weyrloc was by no means a weak clan.
"You killed my son, two years ago today! I've come to settle the score!"
Thrak shrugged. "Nothing personal. Can't even remember what job I was on two years ago today. Shame. If I'd known, it would have been very personal. Weyrloc is a bunch of damned pyjacks with your heads crammed so far up your asses that you can't see the galaxy changing around you!"
The other man bared his teeth in a menacing smile, as his fist clenched harder around the hammer.
Thrak was glad he was wearing his armor and had his guns at hand. He might have let his guard down some, but he would never have let himself go out in Omega without his gear.
"Where's your krantt, Old Man?" he demanded.
"I don't need a krantt for this," the krogan growled.
"Too bad," Thrak said, knowing he was walking a fine line between provoking the man into being mad enough to make a mistake and pushing him into a full-out bloodrage that would make him ten times more difficult to deal with, "this station smells too much like a salarian's cloaca. I was hoping to clear that smell out a bit."
When the other krogan flicked on his tech armor and charged straight at Thrak, hammer raised in preparation to end the battle with the first stroke, the younger krogan knew he had accidentally crossed the line. Thrak was barely able to activate his tech armor before the Groam closed the distance. Only a last-moment sidestep saved Thrak from a premature death. It did not, however, save the wall of the building next to him. He emptied his shotgun into the other man's side until it was on the verge of overheating. The other krogan's armor overloaded, causing Thrak to stumble back.
The exchange repeated itself time and again, the other krogan hefting his hammer for the death-blow and Thrak barely evading. Sometimes, Thrak would manage to do so with a skilled side-step. Sometimes, he would deflect the hammer just a foot or so to the side with a biotic push or pull. Occasionally, he would empty his shotgun into the other man until his clip overheated, but either Groam's tech armor or shields consistently deflected the worst of it. Slowly, though, both were taking some damage. A few of Thrak's shots managed to get through. That did little, though, between heavy armor, redundant organs, medigel, and rapid regeneration on the other man's part. The other krogan managed to land several punches, elbows, and headbutts, though those were equally ineffective.
In truth, the buildings of the neighborhood were taking the brunt of the damage. Several were missing walls throughout most of the first floor. Pipes under the floor were ruptured, spraying water and sewage into the street.
Finally, both of them broke from each other for a moment.
"Getting tired, Old Timer?" Thrak asked, gaining a moment to catch his breath.
The older krogan laughed dementedly. Then he pulled out something Thrak recognized all too well. A grenade launcher.
Thrak dove to the side just as the first round sailed past, taking out yet another wall. He knew his tech armor or barrier ability could probably tank one of the shots, but it would leave him vulnerable. Then he got an idea. It was risky, but sooner or later he would die to the battle-master's superior armaments and preparation.
He was familiar with that model of grenade launcher. It carried a dozen projectiles. Slowly, as Thrak kept running, luring the other man after him, the buildings were filled with more and more gigantic holes. Now it's really looking like Tuchanka.
When one of the grenades hit near him, he let his tech armor fail, instead activating his barrier. A few more grenades, and he was stumbling all over the place, his plan getting far too real. The last grenade in the launcher hit him almost dead-on, sending him flying through a wall and into the living room of what appeared in the blur of motion to be a volus family.
His biotic barrier reinforcing his shield had failed... as had the shields themselves, and he was flat on his back. Barely a moment later, when he opened his eyes, the other krogan was standing over him, once again wielding the hammer. This time, he did not have his tech armor on, though.
"For Draak!" he yelled, bringing the hammer down in an arc for Thrak's head as hard as he could.
At the last instant, Thrak flicked on the special modification to his tech armor. His shield came to life, and he angled it just enough to send it off to his side. When the other krogan stumbled, landing on top of Thrak, the younger krogan smiled up at him dementedly. "Say 'hi' to the bastard for me."
Thrak pulled the trigger to the shotgun that he had taken the oportunity to place directly against the skin of the other man's head. The mostly-empty mass of flesh and bone exploded, and Thrak pushed the bulk of a man off himself. With effort, feeling the aching in his bones, he rose to his feet.
The volus family was staring at him with wide eyes, as he reached into the hump of the other man's armor and pulled out a large sack full of credits, gold, jewels, and other valuables. Thrak laughed. "I knew your hump wasn't that big, damned idiot!"
"Can we get some of that?" a masculine-sounding volus asked.
"Why?" Thrak questioned, stuffing the back back into the hump. The man's armor was better than Thrak's own too, and it looked like it would be a close fit.
The volus wordlessly motioned to the missing wall.
Thrak looked at it with mock confusion. "But I did all the work."
With that, he grabbed the man's hammer in one hand and the corpse in the other, before heading off towards an armor-smith he knew who would be able to fit the armor to him and would not ask too much more for scooping the ruins of the previous owner out. Just like on Tuchanka, no questions asked was the rule of Omega. Well, that and "Don't fuck with Aria."