Echelon Database, Subject 14-A: Operative Theseus, AKA Lucian Willis. Identification confirmed. You have been asked to verify that all records are correct. Once you have verified that all records are correct, please terminate this connection. You will not be allowed to delete these records.

Name: Jake “Lucian” Willis

Call Sign: Theseus

Race: Human

Age: 27

Personnel Description and Medical Report:


(ignore the jacket and the wings and stuff, just the face and the hair. I'll specify everything else in character when required)

On many occasions, Operative Theseus has been profiled as cold, haughty, and impersonal. A powerful biotic, he is also an addict to the ocular drug “Hex,” which has known to enhance his performance to unsustainable levels in many aspects, including reflexes and biotic prowess, while simultaneously degrading upper brain functions. This drug has already begun causing tissue damage to the area around his biotic amp (interfaced near the top of his neck, directly into the brainstem), and if the Operative continues use, he will most likely face severe neurological decay at a young age. This decay may manifest itself as Alzheimer's Disease, brain tumors, or partial or full body paralysis.

Armor:


Weapons:
M-3 Predator Pistol
M-4 Shuriken SMG

Operative Theseus has been shown on most occasions to prefer the Predator Pistol and Shuriken Submachinegun over any heavier arsenal, instead relying on his own biotics or prepared explosives for tasks that require more firepower.

Specialty: Biotic; Adept

Role: Cell Operative, Shock Trooper

Powers: Physics mastery (pull, throw, lash, lift, etc. - not singularity) Warp, Shockwave

Homeworld: Earth

Background History: Unknown. Born “illegally” on Earth, without any I.D. Number associated with his name. From what the Operative has chosen to share, he was born in a less-developed area on Earth, most likely somewhere in Southern America or Africa. This would account for his biotic abilities, as such areas are often unregulated with their use of Eezo, increasing his mother's chances of exposure to it prior to his birth. Theseus left Earth and traveled around the galaxy by stowing away on everything from cargo ships to prison transports. He eventually found his way to Omega, where he was noticed by a cell Director after a confrontation with Aria T'Loak

(copout time – I don't feel like writing about his early life. It's boring and unnecessary and will not affect anything I write about in any way)

Recent History: Just under a year ago, Operative Theseus was first sighted in Omega, having had a run in with a local gang. From intel gathered, it has been deduced that Theseus was buying Hex from them, and a poor product resulted in blindness and cataracts in his left eye. The confrontation turned explosive after a trio of Krogan mercenaries with a fondness for grenades decided his attitude wasn't worth the credits he was giving them.

After the confrontation, he was captured by Aria, having been found passed out near the scene, apparently overdosing on Hex stolen from the now defunct dealer. Once he was awake, he was brought before her and made a business offer as an enforcer for her security force, which he accepted. For the following weeks he acted as her agent, dealing with any unwanted or unruly criminal activity on the station. After a particularly impressive showdown, he was contacted by a Director and made an offer – Living expenses paid, including addictions, and an upfront surgery to restore his full vision, in exchange for his skillset in preparing for and fighting Legion.

(Recent history will also function as a writing prompt – check that for more detail).

Background: Hex is a recent hyper-enhancement drug developed on contract by an Asari medical corporation. The goal of the Hex project was a drug designed to improve the already-legendary performance of Asari Commandos in stressful situations. The project was ultimately scrapped – the drug caused a plethora of problems in almost every scenario, not the least of which was addiction, and side effects included decay of higher brain function while the drug was active, increased aggression, and for long term usage, extreme neural decay. Before the project was scrapped, however, the prototype serums were illegally sold to street gangs and criminal syndicates by shortsighted doctors, who in turn produced it to enhance the performance of their own soldiers. The drug has since begun to be sold on the streets, primarily to former soldiers, but is available to anyone who has the knowledge to track down a dealer.

Usage: One of the most jarring issues with Hex was it's method of administration – ocular injection. In medical tests, advanced injectors were used that allowed a syringe needle to be quickly punched in through an eyelid (or, in some trials, the side of the skull) and into the eye at the push of a button. The drug was then dispensed, and the needle withdrawn in the space of a second, causing minimal pain. Such injectors are expensive and in limited supply, however, and as such, on the street traditional needles are more often used. A user usually injects the drug themselves by jabbing the syringe into their own eye, a painful and stressful procedure that discourages many first-time users.

Effects: Once the drug is in the bloodstream, it has several profound effects on the user's body. Healing and cell-repair is enhanced for a brief period of time after the drug has been taken (resulting in the healing of the ocular wound, as well as any other cuts or abrasions), and in high doses, has been recorded to heal something as large as a superficial gunshot wound or the tip of a missing finger.

The user's reflexes, strength, stamina and other abilities are enhanced to superhuman levels while the drug is active in the body, and similar to a Krogan blood-rage, the user loses most of their ability to feel pain. Hex is unique in that it also enhances biotic abilities, allowing for feats that could exhaust a normal soldier in seconds. While Hex is active, the user loses most higher brain function and the ability to think critically, reduced to a rampaging beast for the duration of the drug. This uncounterable side effect is the primary reason why the drug was never introduced into the Asari military, as in a unit that specializes in surgical strikes, turning your soldiers into wild animals with guns would be counterproductive. Most skills that are learned to an instinctual level are retained – the ability to speak short sentences, the ability to shoot a gun, the ability to tell enemy from ally, most notably.

If the drug is not budgeted over a long period of time, most bodies quickly build up an immunity to most of it's effects. Unlike a traditional drug or painkiller, it can't be used every night over the course of a week – to do so would render it effectively worthless after a few days. Instead, users resist their addictions for a few days at a time, and usually find themselves taking Hex two to three times a week, at most.

Depending on the dosage, the strength of Hex varies wildly and randomly – a large dose could have an extremely huge impact on the user for less than 5 minutes, or burn slowly over the course of an hour or more. A smaller dose doesn't usually enhance the user for more than 10 minutes at a time. At the end of the duration, the user is often exhausted to the point of passing out, though this effect is much less present at smaller doses.

–

Day 0

The electronic disco of one of Omega's dozens of seedy clubs pounded dully against the walls of Lucian's sanctuary, a tiny, 2 room maintenance-room-turned-apartment next door. Dirty flatware and cutlery were piled high on the single counter that functioned as a kitchen, non-disposable and intended to be washed, but instead encrusted with rotting week-old leftovers. The only light in the room was from a bare bulb jutting out from the steel paneled wall, providing just enough vision to see the floor, but allowing enough darkness to hide the accumulated grease, dust and other scum that covered everything.

Lucian sat on the only piece of furniture in the room, a single small couch, pressed up against the wall to face the dirty counter. On a table in front of him were his only worthwhile possessions. A disassembled submachinegun littered a third of the space, taken apart to replace it's heat exchanges. A still-fully-assembled heavy pistol was set near the edge, as if it were meant to be picked back up again in the near future. An out-of-date console and datapad for extranet access made up the remainder of the space, but for three syringes. The one on the left, a bright yellow striped with black, and the longest of the three – a suppressant, in case of a biotic flare up. The one in the middle, a bright red, it's needle less than an inch long – a single dose of Hex. And the one on the right, a bright blue, with a red cross in the center of it – the now universal symbol for a strong painkiller.

The former commando was hunched over in what passed for his dayclothes, a black jacket, white shirt, black pants, all unwashed to match his greasy hair and pale face. He'd mugged 4 different people to pay for the 3 syringes in front of him. But tonight, it would be worth it.

The left syringe was first, the inhibitor – that he placed carefully against a vein in his arm, sliding only the tip in to dispense the drug. That was easy.

The right one was next – the painkiller. He'd need it. Uncapping it, he jabbed in straight into his chest, a searing pain like being pierced by a sword spreading through him and then fading as it filtered into his bloodstream. Sweet relief... he thought. His thoughts and troubles no longer seemed quite so present. It was easy to see why people were addicted to that stuff. In an unconcerned tangent, he wondered if he was too.

The middle was last – an ominous, bloody red, completely unmarked except for a serial number for whoever manufactured the syringe. This he took his time with – no matter how many times he did it, what came next always unnerved him. He took a deep breath. He could feel the medications keeping his alarm in check, but still felt tinges of panic. His left hand went to his left eyelid, keeping the area around his eye in check while the right slowly raised the needle.

Slowly, it pressed inward, what would normally be a arching, screaming sword of pain reduced to a dull throb. His thumb found it's way to the plunger, and the Hex found it's way into his bloodstream. He withdrew the needle and set it down on the table, in a neat line, next to the others. Just like they were before, but uncapped, their metal needles tinged red instead of grey.

Lucian sat, patiently, waiting for the drug to take effect. He tapped his foot. He was thinking of taking a short run after it hit, just around the club. It hadn't been that big of a dose, just enough to satisfy the craving. The last time he'd had a hit had been almost exactly a week ago. He hadn't been lucky enough to find painkillers then. He'd nearly ripped his apartment apart before he was able to take the syringe out of his eye. He'd run for almost a mile up and down the avenue in front of his apartment after that. The high after his eye had healed, all that pain disappearing, had been incredible.

One minute. Then another 30 seconds. He stared at the center of the table, at the red syringe. It'd never taken this long before. Another minute. He could feel his eye continue to throb, the pain ever-slightly increasing as the painkillers hit their peak and began their slow regression. He began to get worried, spikes of worry that told him he should be even more worried than he was, except for the meds keeping him in check.

His last conscious thought was him hoping he hadn't gotten a bad doseage.

–

Day 1

“AAAAAAARGH!”

Lucian awoke to a headsplitting pain, the galaxy's worst migraine, and it was immediately intensified by the pain from his eye. Every heartbeat the pain spiked, his partially-healed wound screaming at him for some sort of relief. He could feel a dull ache from where he'd stabbed himself in the chest as well, though it was nothing worse than what was happening inside his skull.

“AAAAAAARGH!”

He screeched again, his hands going to the top of his skull. He was dimly aware that he'd rolled off his sofa, gasping and writhing on the floor, hoping, praying to every god he knew of in the universe, that the pain would go away. It was too much. It was unbearable. He couldn't think about anything but pain. He couldn't feel anything but pain.

He slowly felt himself contract into a fetal position, and one of his hands left his skull for the table.

Throb

He'd found the grip of his pistol, but couldn't get a hold on it. It fell to the floor.

Throb

He frantically scurried his hand around until it finally knocked against something metal. He grabbed and yanked, and the table overturned. He'd found the leg.

Throb

Finally, the gritty, processed metal of his Predator met his palm. He knocked it against the side of his head in his haste. The muscles in his arm tensed and untensed with each heartbeat, his fingers tightening and loosening around the stock.

Throb

This was it. He pressed the cold metal against the side of his head. A red haze of pain covered his vision. In the back of his mind, an animal instinct told him that He. Was. Dead. This was faster. This was easier. And it sure was a lot less painful.

His last thought before pulling the trigger was the question all men ask themselves before they die: what next?

Throb

Throb

…

Throb

He pulled it again. Nothing. And again. His head still screamed at him. Wildly, he wondered if he'd died already, and he was in his own private hell.

Throb

...

Throb

He brought the hilt down towards his eyes. That's all it was. The hilt. He'd knocked over the table. He'd found the hilt of his disassembled submachinegun. He had no idea where his pistol was. That had been his only way out.

He set it down next to him, losing the energy to throw it. He stared at it on the floor. The pain had begun subsiding, he was able to think a little clearer now. He wondered if it'd ever go away.

Throb

–

Four and a half hours. Every second a year, every minute an eternity. That's how long it took Lucian to uncurl his legs from his chest, and his hands from his head. He was shivering, paler than death, unable to do anything besides crawl. He could feel a puddle of saliva against the side of his face from where he'd been drooling. He was pretty sure his nose was bleeding. He needed water.

He crawled across his unwashed floor, dragged himself up against the side of the counter and yanked a glass from the tiny pile of clean dishes. The ones next to it toppled to the floor, clattering and rolling around, their plastic frames too hard to break against the steel. His faucet spat water into the cup at his prompting, stuff that, if he was in the right mind, he wouldn't have drank unless there was a gun to his head. He quaffed it down in seconds, and went back for more. Then a third glass, then a fourth.

Finally, his thirst stated, he sat back against the cupboards beneath the sink. He was a little more collected now, the pain reduced back down to a moderate headache, his eye still throbbing, but feeling a bit more like a black eye and a bit less like a bullet wound. The worst part was over, hopefully. The area in front of his couch was a mess, the table askew, machine gun parts lying everywhere. He could see already that his extranet terminal was broken beyond repair, the cheap plastic of it's casing lying in a dozen different pieces around a bundle of wires and circuits that had been it's core. He finally saw his pistol, and realized with conflicted feelings that it had been within his reach when he was looking for it – only a few more inches of searching and he would've found it.

At his feet was the red syringe. The source of all his pain. He picked it up and stared at it. The bloody end of it had since dried, forming a thin crust of a coating. He threw it towards the other end of the room, and it clattered to the floor.

He closed his eyes and listened to the pounding of the next-door's music. That's when it hit him. A spike of panic, a sheer drop of emotion that made him feel like he was plummeting down out of Omega itself.

Frantically, he waved his hand in front of his face. He blinked his left eye. He felt a thin crust, like a dried tear, break away from the surface, and it started to itch. He waved his hand again, frantically, desperately, hoping that something would change, but no. He'd lost all vision from his left eye.

He scrambled up and immediately doubled over from the sudden action. He hadn't eaten in a day and a half, at least, but he felt like the water he'd just drank was going to come back up his throat. He hurried over to his “bathroom”, nothing more than a rusted showerhead, a toilet, a mirror and an open pipe to the nearest sewer. He looked at himself in the mirror, taking a moment to register what he saw.

His hair was a disgusting, untamed mess, like he'd dumped it in a sewer pipe and left it there to dry. His face was a pale white, contrasting starkly with the his black hair. Dried blood caked the area below his nose and around his lips. He was right about the nosebleed. A thinner streak ran down from his left eye, which was what truly haunted him.

The wound was small, but something in the drug had completely changed the appearance of his eyeball. He could see the dark mark where the needle had gone in, right in the center of his iris. Around it, his eye was laced with white cataracts. His eyes were natively a light blue color, but his left eye was completely devoid of it, instead almost purely white, but for the outline of the center. He had no idea what had caused that. He'd seen eye wounds before, some under these very same circumstances – the eye just didn't heal properly, and another dose fixed it. This was nothing like that.

He took deep breaths. He went back to the other room. He sat down on the couch, then got back up and righted the table. He was feeling a bit better – much better, actually, considering how terrible he'd felt only a few hours prior. He could already feel the memory of the pain fading, and he was glad. He'd always wondered how Salarians or Drell dealt with being able to remember pain like that. If he was able to remember it that well... he had no idea what he'd end up doing to himself to forget.

As he continued taking stock of himself, he decisively told himself that he was going to take revenge on that dealer if it was the last thing he did. He was going to find him, and kill him slowly. He was going to take every bit of Hex he had, and never pay for the damn stuff again.

He sat over his table for awhile like this, tired already, but afraid to lay down to sleep. He didn't want to wake up to another massive pain. So instead, he just kept thinking, contemplating this and that, and started adjusting to having only one functional eye. His depth perception was a little off, but familiar surroundings helped.

Finally, exhausted, he fell to sleep.

–

Day 2

Lucian awoke to the aching growl of his empty stomach, and fished around his pockets for his credit chit. The balance display glared at him, a red LED number 4. That was it. 4 credits.

He had ramen noodles for breakfast, from a food vendor half a block away. The gruel barely qualified as food. The noodles were sticky, stretchy and hard to chew, like eating a rubber band dipped in cheap glue. A few bits of a pink meat that the vendor advertised as beef were thrown on top, which were promptly thrown in the trash can. Lucian was an addict, but not stupid enough to trust any meat on Omega. It was more than likely varren, which was mostly harmless when cooked, but a few lower gangs had been making business off of selling Vorcha meat. They'd find some homeless wretch, off him, cut him up into little pieces, and sell him to anyone that was buying, usually lying about what it was they were trading. Aside from tasting disgusting, the meat was toxic to everyone but Elcor and Turians.

The neighborhood around Lucian's apartment was hardly a step up from his apartment itself. It was one of the sections of the station that was abandoned every 25 or 30 years, and then restarted the next time some small-time gang needed a place to hide out. The last time it had shut down, the head of faculty had just decided not to see that electricity, air or gravity was provided after he left. A few days of scrambling around in the dark, and almost all the residents ended up suffocating.

Tiny apartments like Lucian's lined the main corridors, in some places 3 or 4 doors high and only reachable by a ladder. Here and there were bars and little businesses, each one sold out to a different group of thugs. The docking area on the floor didn't work, so the only way to get on a ship was to head up several hundred feet to one of the main levels, most likely by climbing up an elevator shaft if the elevators weren't working on that particular day. It truly was the lowest of the low places in the Galaxy.

A few whores eyed him from a street corner, most likely wondering how they could get their hands on his jacket, which was probably worth more than what he paid for his apartment each month. He didn't know, he'd stolen it from a department store window the last time he'd been on a more civilized world. He'd been tempted to try something here, but crime was more difficult on Omega. If you walked into a store and took something, the owner wouldn't think twice about gunning you down in the street. Lucian had heard stories of an Elcor near Aria's club that had been known to tie people to walls and rip them apart with his own strength, like a horse.

He felt a bit nauseous as he sat back down in his apartment, probably from the ramen, since the withdraw symptoms from not having any real Hex for the last week had subsided, mostly. He was well conditioned to going a few days without it, it was only when it got to be 2-3 weeks or more that he started getting really bad. Shakes, sweating, fever, vomiting, the whole cast. The last time he'd tried to break himself, he'd gone through withdraw for 2 weeks and was still going strong by the time he found a syringe. He'd gunned a buyer down in the street for it, taken it right in an alley. Hadn't bothered to move the body. Not his proudest moment.

Carefully, he gathered up his Shuriken SMG parts and put them back together. He still hadn't found a new set of heat exchanges, but it would be good for a couple of shots before frying the clip. Only as a last resort, he decided as the last piece clicked back into place. He had a sentimental attachment to his guns. He'd owned them for longer than he'd owned just about anything else, and didn't like damaging them.

After this, he checked his kinetic barrier's status on his omni-tool. The piece of crap hadn't been state of the art 30 years ago, but it would work for a shot or two, if things got messy. He just hoped nobody ended up throwing any grenades.

With two guns on his belt, a stomach full of bad food and nothing else left to do, Lucian locked up his apartment and headed for the elevators. The dealer he was looking for would be up one floor, in the back room of a nightclub. The password was “Nassana.” Unfortunately, the elevators weren't working. The doors slid open to reveal a dark, empty shaft, a ladder glinting at Lucian from the opposite side, a six foot gap between him and it. He listened carefully to make sure that the elevator had, in fact, stopped working, and heard nothing to indicate otherwise, before snaking his way out into the shaft. Crisscrossing support beams were on the walls, allowing him to climb up and down on the level like a monkey, jumping from an area where he relied entirely on his feet, to where he was dangling by his fingertips, before finally making contact with the ladder. The doors behind him slid shut automatically a moment later, cutting off his only source of light.

The upper floor was more of the same, but with a tricky component of him having to pry open the doors from the inside while pressing his chest against them. He managed, and stepped out onto the dingy street that was more-or-less identical to the one he had just left. The population majority was still Batarian, there were still dried bloodstains on the streets.

The Voyeur was virtually identical to the club on the other side of Lucian's wall, but for the patrons and employees – his floor's club mostly sponsored human and asari dancers, and attracted the according crowds. This club, however, featured batarians, turians and the occasional drell. The nonhuman patronage was dramatically higher.

The bouncer outside of the back room was a krogan, roughly seven feet tall, probably weighed eight times what Lucian did. He was wearing full body armor except for his face, which was covered only by his expression of pure boredom. “Password?” He asked dully. He had a shotgun in his hands, but it didn't look as though it was well maintained. He was all intimidation, no backup. At least, in terms of a krogan – there were a lot of ways krogans killed people, and most of them didn't involve guns.

“Nassana.”

The door slid open at the krogan's command. “Go in.”

The back of the club took a different tone than the front. The music was a softer tone than the pounding beats of the front bar, and there were fewer dancers. There were more humans here, most wearing scarred body armor and carrying big guns, many of them well over the average life expectancy of an Omega resident. Only a few dancers were present, most of them carrying drinks or offering private shows. The room was lit better as well, a solid red light allowing the members to see each other's faces, while lengthening the shadows that weren't extinguished. It was a different kind of dangerous than the front room. Here, you were less likely to end up dead on the street, and more likely to disappear into deep space when someone wanted you gone.

The Dealer was at the very back of the room, sitting against the wall, one arm around an asari goddess in a skintight (but covering) latex suit, the other holding a datapad. He was a good looking guy in his early 40s, short hair, dark eyes, a peppering of facial hair. He was sitting in the curve of a circular couch, a table in front of him, and an identical piece of furniture faced him. A closed black duffel bag sat on the table in front of him, completely unmarked. He was surrounded by 6 or 8 others, sitting next to him, standing behind him, shifting in the darkest corners - either long time buyers, friends, or hired guns.

“Lucian.” The Dealer said coldly, setting down his datapad. “Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

“You can help me clarify something.” Lucian said, swinging himself over the back of the opposing couch and settling into a sitting position. “I bought a single syringe of Hex from you, 2 days ago. Do you remember?”

The Dealer smirked. “I do, as a matter of fact.” He drawled. “You came in here, having not bathed in weeks, with credits that the blood hadn't even dried on yet. To be honest, I was half expecting you to piss on my couch.”

Lucian took a short breath and smiled mockingly at the man. “Well, see, I took that syringe straight home and used it.”

“I see.” The Dealer said, and he sat up. “Nassana, why don't you go get us some drinks?” He patted his pretty girlfriend on the shoulder as she got up, staring coldly at the man she clearly despised. “Oh, do you want anything?” He asked Lucian absentmindedly. “It's on me.”

“Red Ale.” Lucian ordered to the asari as she walked around his sofa. She scowled at him. “As long as it's on you. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to show you what happened to me when I took your product.”

“This should be interesting.” The Dealer uttered, his last words. He turned to signal his bodyguards to ready their weapons, just in case. He looked back and found himself staring down the barrel of Lucian's pistol. His eyes widened, and Lucian took his shot.

A single bullet pierced through the Dealer's left eye and temple, the heat immediately cauterizing the wound as it exited through the back of his skull. His guards stared at him in shock as he went limp, before reaching for their weapons. Lucian was already in action, up and hooking the duffel bag off of the table before jumping back behind his couch. A moment later, bullets started peppering the furniture, the combined firepower of at least 6 different automatic rifles, pistols and submachine guns.

Lucian frantically unzipped the bag, looking for a syringe of Hex. The sofa had been armored, it would seem, for this very type of scenario – something he'd been betting on. But he wouldn't have that advantage for long.

He found it a moment later – the blood red syringe with a short needle. He uncapped it and plunged it into his left eye without a second thought, adrenaline flooding his senses from the firefight. The pain from the needle was a sharp outline in his face, and he pushed the plunger, dispensing the steroid.

The effects were immediate, and Lucian could tell right away he'd taken too large a dose. All the pain disappeared from his eye, and his senses accelerated - every second was a minute. He had a plan; pop out of cover, throw a shockwave. Run for the door while the thugs were distracted. Except... what was the first part of his plan?

The fire had stopped, momentarily. “Take cover! Grenade!”

Grenade! What did that mean? Lucian frantically searched for an answer as his rational thought began slipping away. He looked up to see a globe fly over his head – not a globe, 2 spheres, split down the center, an orange band of light splitting the two halves.

His mind was flooded with a single thought – Grenade! He lashed his hand out in a split second, and time slowed. He felt his arm tingle, glowing blue with biotic energy, all his concentration focused on that small device in front of him. He caught it with his biotics, left it to hover in midair, and instinctively tossed it back.

Someone screamed, and there was an explosion, a short burst of noise that made Lucian's ears ring. He stood up in a flurry of movement, casting a shockwave behind him, upending both of the partially destroyed couches, and scrambled for the door. His left hand was latched to the straps of the duffel bag as if they were his only lifeline. He looked back to see 5 people scrambling to their feet, and at least 1 body. The grenade had left a scorch mark where the table had been.

Lucian passed the bouncer on the way out, who stared disinterestedly at the desperate merc. If he wanted to, he thought dully, he could have stopped the man in the jacket in his tracks. But he didn't, instead following him with his eyes as he stumbled out the front door of the club. A few other men followed him. None of them gave the krogan a second glance.