Name

Posted on Wed Aug 20th, 2014 @ 4:04am by
Edited on on Wed Aug 20th, 2014 @ 12:13pm

Mission: Vagrants, Vagabonds, and Thieves
Location: Unknown
Timeline: Current

The weapon was very old. It didn't fire phased energy, but rather solid rounds loaded into a chamber from a clip in the grip.

The sound of the slide being pulled back caused the shivering man to flinch. “You know what the problem with young people is?” A male voice asked the question. He held the weapon in his hand, staring at it for a moment. “They don't understand just how final everything really is.” He pointed the gun at the back of the shivering man and pulled the trigger. The back of the shivering man's skull warped and caved in, and the bullet erupted from his nasal area, taking most of the side of his face off as it did. A peppermint swirl of brain, bone, flesh and blood decorated the floor and wall.

The man who held the gun set it down on the desk and casually rubbed at his wrist. “They think they are all the hero.” He looked at the silent figure standing across the room. “No one is the hero, Bram.”

Ibraham Stern felt his left eye twitch slightly as he silently watched Nemon Gantek do what Nemon Gantek always did – be an utter asshole. The shivering man he had just killed had, in desperation born out of hunger and fear, attempted to rob a shipment of pressed latinum. Clearly it didn't work out for him. Stern forced himself to look at the dead man – blood ran freely out of what was left of his nose and face, and the one eye he had left, bloodshot and puffy, was empty and void. Fear was still written across the dead man's face, but, Stern thought, at least he wasn't afraid anymore.

He wasn't anything anymore.

Stern looked up at Nemon. “What was his name?”

Nemon sighed. His narrow, too-handsome features were cold in the harsh white artificial light. He wore a fine suit which was now flecked with tiny specks of blood, and he dabbed at the side of his face gently with a white vizzicloth. “Oh, who cares?” he said. “For that matter, who the hell knows?” He shrugged absently. “I've stopped trying to keep track.”

“You kept track?”

Nemon chuckled. “No,” he admitted. “I suppose I never did.” He nudged the dead man's body with a leather shoe-clad foot. “They are all just meat anyway, cursed with a mind that was never intended to be used for anything.” He stared at the mangled face, glee written across his own. “Destiny has no plan for them,” he said.

A moment of silence passed between the two figures. Nemon looked up at Stern. “Go on, Bram,” he said, his tone mocking. “Say it. You always do.”

“I'm going to-”

“-kill you one day,” Nemon finished.

Stern narrowed his eyes. “I need a ship.”

Nemon sighed. “Always with business.” He pulled out a datapadd and tossed it at Stern, who didn't bother trying to catch it. It clattered across the floor, and Nemon stared at Stern blankly. “You are so damn difficult, you know it?”

Stern just stared. Nemon shrugged. “The Captain owes me. Owes me too much, in all honesty. I agreed to wipe a few debts if he'd transport you where you were going. He was all too eager to please, it seemed.”

Stern started to turn to go, but he paused. Nemon Gantek. He let the name hang in his mind for a moment.

Nemon Gantek was an unjoined Trill, but more than that he was an underworld shark. He had his hand in all sorts of seedy and vile things, from the buying and selling of children, to brutal business practices that often left his business partners dead and gone, never to be seen or heard from again. The man was a lowlife. Stern had, during his time as an Intelligence Operative, used him from time to time over the years. He had been able to get Stern into places that no one else ever could. The man had been a valuable asset.

The sleek, semi-shiny black type II phaser, originally constructed in 2287, appeared in Stern's hand. The movement was faster than Nemon, who had already begun to reach for the handgun on his desk. Stern didn't hesitate; the blue beam from the ancient phaser erupted and lanced across the room. It didn't hit the handgun, but instead hit Nemon's hand. It dissolved in a puff of red haze. Nemon's black eyes went completely wide as he stared down at the empty space that had, only moments before, been his hand. He screamed.

Stern was on him, sweeping his feet out from under him. Nemon hit the ground with a loud crack, and stared up, dazed. Stern put his boot on Nemon's face and twisted his head so he was staring at the dead man. “He deserved more than that,” Stern said. “He deserved to have his name remembered. Sadly, at least for a little while, people will remember yours. But after a bit of time has gone by, no one is going to give a shit that you are dead, Nemon.”

Nemon only then truly realized what was happening. “B.. Bram,” he managed. “You can't be serious! I'm still-”

Even set to stun, the type II phaser of the 2287 design was extremely lethal. Years before, as a gift at a promotion, Ibraham's mentor and friend, Admiral Charles Heyworth, had gifted him with a finely maintained and lovingly cared-for pair of them, and Stern had cherished them, displaying them on his desk for many years. When the Dominion War happened, Stern immediately took them into the field with him. He had carried them with him ever since.

Stern moved his boot and fired at Nemon. His head popped, the heat rippling through his flesh and melting his bone. The death, Stern thought, was far too quick and merciful. He instantly regretted killing Nemon with the phaser as he looked up and eyed the handgun.

He stepped over the corpse and scooped up the datapadd that Nemon had tossed at him. The name was not one he had heard before, but he wasn't worried. A little research would give him more details on Andrew Sage.

Until then, Stern decided a few stiff drinks were in order. He looked at the man that Nemon had killed.

After I give him a proper burial, he decided.

–

Ibraham Stern
Intelligence Officer, Infiltration Specialist