#threads | li.kevin

[soncfthewitch]

closed starter for @tigerincahoots

The last, wet gurgle faded as he twisted the blade, feeling the resistance give way. The batarian's eyes widened, shock and pain flickering before dulling. He slid the blade free from the throat, the warm and sticky blood coating his hand. Just another sodding mess to clean up. Omega was full of them—dimly lit backrooms splattered with what was left of dodgy dealings turned deadly.

He looked over the room, cold eyes taking in the bodies scattered across the floor through the tinted visor of his Phantom suit. Five dead—the aftermath of a swift, brutal ambush. One still clutched his rifle, finger frozen on the trigger, armor bearing the scorch marks where his own panicked spray of bullets had ricocheted off the assassin's barrier.

Another sprawled near an overturned table, throat precisely opened where the cloaked blade had caught him mid-turn, his shotgun discharged uselessly into the ceiling. The krogan mercenary had taken three direct hits from the palm blaster before going down, his redundant nervous system finally overloaded by the concentrated dark energy bursts. Two turian veterans lay crumpled where they'd tried to flank—their military training had almost been enough. Almost.

The batarian enforcer had been the last to fall, the closest to raising the alarm. He'd managed to spot the telltale shimmer of the tactical cloak, but recognition came too late to save him.

The room told the story in vivid detail: scorch marks traced erratic patterns on the walls from panicked shots, chairs thrown aside in desperate attempts at cover, datapads crushed under scrambling boots. The acrid smell of ozone from mass effect fields lingered beneath the copper tang of blood. His tactical cloak and modified Phantom loadout had given him the crucial advantage—they never saw him coming until it was too late. Just another example of why Cerberus invested so heavily in their assassination programs.

His hand twitched. A flicker of—what? Confusion? He flexed his fingers, pushing the fleeting sensation aside. The headaches were getting worse, but now wasn't the time. The mission came first. Cerberus had hardwired that priority into him, even if he couldn't quite remember how.

Focus, mate. Gotta stage this right.

He moved methodically, dragging the corpses into the shadows. Couldn't have the target stroll in and spook. It needed to look like business as usual—just another routine meeting. A few empty chairs, a bottle on the table, half-finished cigars in the ashtray. Everything needed to scream normal, right up until it wasn't.

The buzz of his comm snapped him back. “Sitrep, Agent Shishi.”

“Room's clear,” he said, voice crackling through the helmet’s modulator. He adjusted his stance, back straightening. “Ready to bag the package.”

“Affirmative. Maintain position. Target inbound, ETA five minutes.”

Five minutes. He checked the palm blaster—full charge. Blue-white energy rippled across the emitters built into his gauntlet, the weapon humming softly as the capacitors cycled. Plenty of time, still, to find the best angle. His visor flickered, tactical grids overlaying his vision: structural weak points, ricochet paths, estimated target trajectory. It painted the kill shot in clean lines, and every movement was calculated.

A textbook assassination. Just like old times.

But something gnawed at the back of his mind. The face in the mission dossier... it seemed familiar. The name, too. Kevin Deaver. It tugged at his memory. Something deep and unsettling. Recognition crawled under his skin. An itch he couldn't scratch.

The door lock chirped, the panel shifting from red to green. He tensed, breath slowing, falling into the rhythm Cerberus had drilled into him. In, out, in... hold. The door slid open. Showtime.

He moved swiftly, armor melding into the darkness, tech embedded in his suit flickering softly like embers in the dark. The palm blaster barked twice, the flashes briefly igniting the room's edges, casting jagged shadows. Two shots, precise and lethal, the shockwaves pressing against his ears, leaving a sharp ringing in their wake.

[soncfthewitch]

Pain lanced through his skull as consciousness returned. His implanted VI initiated its scan.

[System Status: Optimal]

[Memory Containment: Stable]

[Initiating routine scan...]

The first memory broke through without warning, sharp as a blade between his ribs. Head cracking against grating, mouth filling with blood. Purple biotic energy rippled off the Justicar's armor as she advanced, each step measured, precise. No mercy in those eyes.

[WARNING: Memory breach detected]

[Initiating standard containment procedures]

His VI's familiar snark cut through the clinical warnings.

[Oh, memory containment - because THAT's worked so well before]

The next memory hit harder: His knuckles split open against the training dummy. Again. Again. Blood on white padding. His arm faltered for a moment, a sharp breath escaping him as pain shot through his bones. The instructor stood over him, eyes cold, arms crossed as he observed every strike. His voice cut through the haze: "Perfection requires sacrifice—"

[ERROR: Multiple containment failures]

[Processing power at 43%]

Rain on the windows. His mother's voice rising from below, Mandarin cutting through the air. But something's wrong - cigarette smoke where incense should be—

[SYSTEM INTEGRITY: Critical]

["Critical" is such a dramatic word. I prefer "enthusiastically reorganizing"]

[Like calling a hole in the hull a "minor atmospheric inconvenience"]

[At this rate we'll need to rename "containment" to "politely requesting memories behave themselves"]

[Oh look, there goes another one. Shall I start a tally?]

The bass from Afterlife pounded through the metal walls, each beat hammering fresh spikes of pain through his skull. His body felt wrong, constrained by a uniform he didn't recognize. It was heavier than the familiar, streamlined Alliance gear, with a rough texture that chafed at every movement. Blood trickled down his wrists where the restraints cut deep, pooling warm in his palms.

Through blurred vision, he made out shapes in Afterlife's purple glow. He was slumped against the bar, the metal edge digging into his back, legs splayed awkwardly on the floor like a discarded puppet. The acrid smell of spent thermal clips filled his lungs, their casings scattered where shooters had fallen. Black scorch marks traced violent paths up the walls. A chair lay broken nearby, metal frame crumpled from impact.

His fingers found something embedded in his gauntlet. Cerberus tech. The distinctive hum made him want to tear the suit off, strip away every piece of unfamiliar hardware they'd grafted onto him. His mind offered nothing useful - morning report, standard briefing, static.

Movement in the shadows. Kevin stood watching him, muscles tensed for action. He was positioned precisely seven meters away, just outside optimal biotic throw range. His eyes flickered with something—doubt, recognition, or maybe fear. Something in that careful stance made Li's chest tighten—was his old friend's hand rested on his sidearm, at the ready?

"What-" He choked on blood, and tried again. "What's going on?"

HE WAS EXPECTING THIS. People sent after him to take his life – whether they were Cerberus agents or mercenaries looking for quick credits. The first would be more challenging but not by much. The mercenaries would be cannon fodder to him. Regardless – there was someone there. Wanting to end his life because some megalomaniac had offered either quite the amount of credits for his head or new and never seen before implants. They had to be human. The Illusive Man would never afford to hire aliens to get the job done because he view every other species that wasn’t human as nothing more than trash. Disposable tools that should be under his boot, ready to be crushed at any given moment.

AND THE ASSASSIN?

DEFINITELY NOT A MERCENARY. His aim was far better than most and the precision of his movements was almost like he could tell where he would be. What his next move was. Which made Kevin realize who was after him. Cerberus. No one else would be so well trained to track him down and make an almost successfully attempt on his life. And not any common thug who knew his way around blasters, either. This one was trained. The same train that he had received when he joined Cerberus. All the same regime, the same morals, the same goals. Beaten down and risen again to become better and better at each exercise until they could perform an assassination without even blinking an eye. This shit was a problem….

BUT IT WAS ALSO AN OPENING. Having received the same exact training and knowing what to look out for, predicting movements was easy. The assassin would have a tactical cloak to conceal it. Trained eyes checked from behind the table he was using as an impromptu shield to search for the opening he needed. Where are you, you little bitch?. THERE. The distortion of the shield was activated and pinpointed the area where the assassin was. A chair was thrown as a diversion only for the sidearm to be discharged against the culprit. Not that he expected it to be easy but he needed the assassin to lower his guard. Who was the man behind the mask? Which one of his former Cerberus companions had the Illusive Man persuaded to send against him?

AND THERE THEY STOOD. Face to face – both weapons aiming at the other in one of those stand-offs that occasional passed as a movie on television. Both of them trained assassins and both of them hesitating to take the shot. Not that Kevin WANTED to hesitate. It was either him or the assassin – but something was amiss. Something about the other man looked familiar but also odd? What methods had the Illusive Man used to take control? Cybernetic implants? Brainwash? Nothing was too much for the man who sought to use Reaper technology to put the humans first and foremost in the entire galaxy.

THE ASSASSIN’S WEAPON WAS DISCHARGED… but against the wall. Something was not right – as Kevin frowned at the sight of the man before him, clearly struggling against something. Mind control? Had he been conditioned to act the way he was now? Regardless, once the assassin grunted and lost conscious for whatever reason, Kevin approached him with due caution, his weapon still aiming at the other man’s head. One movement and he would blow the bastard’s brains out and splatter them all across the floor. But who was the one sent after him? Kevin crouches by the unconscious body, fingers slowly moving to remove the visor over the assassin’s eyes. BENNETT? His jaw clenches at the same time as his fingers. They trained together. They were… friends… if such a thing was even allowed within the Cerberus ranks… And he was sent to take him down?

”MOTHERFUCKER.” Shaking his head, Kevin pulls away his sidearm and rubs the bridge of his nose. Miranda would need to know about this. But he also couldn’t let Bennett go, not when he could still be under the influence of whatever the Illusive Man had done to him. He needed to bid him down. Keep him secure until his conscience returns and see what answers he could get from him. Maybe there was a way to revert whatever it had been done to him. A good kid – so eager to prove himself and every bit of talent as an assassin could be. Of course, the Illusive Man would send one of his best to take him out. Motherfucker. With a clicking sound from his tongue, the next action was to bind Bennett. Tie him to a chair, remove his weapons and now….? WAIT. Wait for him to wake up. Wait for him to have some answers… Wait to see whether or not he would have to put down a man he had once called friend down like a stray dog.

”HOW ABOUT YOU WAKE UP NOW?” They were still in Omega. Lots of prying eyes and knives in the dark. The location was secure but… for how long? “Sooner you tell me why the Illusive Man sent you to kill me and what he did to you, the sooner we can get out of this shit hole.” Fuck’s sake – he REALLY hated Omega.

[soncfthewitch]

The target moved faster than expected, throwing himself sideways before the first burst left the palm blaster. Shishi's eyes widened in surprise, a split-second hesitation breaking his usual rhythm. The movement was too fast, too precise—an instinct that felt almost practiced. He could feel the adrenaline spike as he recalibrated, trying to catch up to the unexpected maneuver. Both shots scorched the wall where Kevin's head had been moments before. The dossier had understated his capabilities—this wasn't the movement of a standard operative. This was Cerberus training, high-level.

Shishi tracked the target's trajectory, compensating for the roll that carried him behind an overturned table. His tactical visor highlighted the structural weak points, calculating angles of penetration. The palm blaster hummed as it cycled for another burst.

Something about the target's stance—

Pain lanced behind Shishi's eyes, sharp and relentless, like a vice tightening around his skull. His hand twitched, muscles betraying the iron discipline he had been trained to maintain. The targeting overlay flickered, lines of code fracturing under the weight of his faltering control. The pain was blurring the mission, tugging at the edges of his mind, pushing memories to the forefront where they didn't belong.

Focus. He had to focus, but every heartbeat pounded against his temples, threatening to crack the fragile balance between assassin and something... someone else. Focus.

He pushed the disorientation aside, circling to get a better angle. The target was good, keeping the table between them while working his way toward better cover. Each movement was precise and economical. Professional.

Another spike of pain. Images flashed—training simulations, shared meals in dimly lit mess halls, laughter echoing in the confined quarters of a ship. Kevin's smile, the easy camaraderie they shared during endless drills, the way they used to spar until exhaustion left them both sprawled on the training mats, catching their breath—

No. The mission. Focus on the mission.

Shishi activated his tactical cloak, the suit's systems humming as they bent light around him. Three steps would put him in position for a clean shot. Two steps—

The target moved first, launching a chair through the space where Shishi's cloak created the faintest distortion. It was as if Kevin knew what to look for, his eyes scanning for the telltale shimmer of cloaking tech. Pure instinct saved him, barrier flaring as he dodged, but the movement cost him his cloak. Revealed, he barely managed to deflect the follow-up shot from the target's sidearm.

He could see the target's face clearly now. Kevin Deaver. Former Cerberus operative. Current threat to be eliminated. Current—

—friend—

The pain exploded behind his eyes. His visor's display fragmented, tactical overlays splitting and reforming. The palm blaster whined as he hesitated, dark energy fluctuating.

The world tilted. His hand raised the palm blaster for a killing shot.

Recognition flickered in the target's eyes, and something in that gaze shattered Shishi's remaining control. The weapon discharged wild, energy bursting harmlessly against the wall as his vision blurred. Through the haze of conflicting memories, he barely registered the flash of movement to his left.

The impact came sharp at the base of his skull. His knees buckled as consciousness splintered, the cold floor rising to meet him as the room faded to black.

OMEGA WAS EVERY BIT OF A DUMP AS HE REMEMBERED. Aliens all bunched up together to give in to their most primal urges. Power. Credits. Reputation. The crime rate was controlled due to the IRON HAND of the Asari – Aria T’Loak – but that did not mean that the streets were safe. There was nowhere safe within Omega, blades and rifles hidden in the shadows at the hands of those seeking to make a name for themselves. It was a dump. But as lawless as that whole place was, there was no better location within the sector for shadow meetings. Everyone had something to HIDE. Everyone had something to GAIN. It was merely a fact of finding who had the information required and having it delivered for the right price – or the right PERSUASION. HE WAS THERE BECAUSE OF MIRANDA. After they defected Cerberus and joined with Commander Shepard –and UNOFFICIALLY with the Alliance, they both knew their heads needed to be kept down. The Illusive Man was not the forget and forgiving type. He had already sent assassins after both of them and they had failed their contracts. He couldn’t blame the man for wanting to tie loose ends. He would have done the same shit if he was in his position – but the difference was that he wasn’t a fucking LUNATIC that would do absolutely everything and anything to prove that HUMANITY deserved to be the supreme race in the fucking galaxy. IT WASN’T ALWAYS LIKE THAT. When he was recruited to join Cerberus, he really believed he was doing something good. The Council didn’t care about humans. The Asari were too superior to care, the Salarians couldn’t be bothered because they were technologically superior and the Turians still hated their asses for what had happened during the First Contact War. How could humans make a difference in the Galaxy when every other race kept belittling them and considered them savages and barbarians? So yes – he JOINED Cerberus. He trained under them, acquiring such a beautiful set of skills and earning himself such a reputation that Miranda Lawson wanted him to work alongside her and this Jacob guy. And he did. AND NOW HE WAS HERE. Back in Omega. He had heard from Miranda what had happened with the COLLECTORS. The true goal of the Illusive Man is revealed in the shape of an abomination. That wasn’t why he joined Cerberus. That wasn’t why he had given years of his life to accomplish. Subject himself to all those procedures and BRUTAL training regime only to end up enslaved by a megalomaniac freak. That was NOT why he joined. That was not the goal he wanted to accomplish. And so he was here now. Once again, back in Omega, searching for information on scattered Cerberus cells across the galaxy. Putting them down was a priority. Not due to some grudge against the Illusive Man or because it was the right thing to do. Definitely NOT

HE STEPS INTO THE ROOM WITH A CAREFUL STEP.  Blue eyes scanned every nook and cranny, quickly painting in his own mind all the ways someone could be ambushed there. He’s an ASSASSIN. That was what he was trained to do. Check all the weak spots within a location, things that he would use to assassinate someone as well as calculating any and all quick exits in case shit hit the fan. For some reason – his right hand itches and moves to the sidearm on his waist. Everything seems CLEAR but it’s almost… too clear. Staged. Something he would do if he wanted to take someone out as well. Maybe he’s being paranoid. Or maybe he’s being CAREFUL. Cerberus had sent others after him in the past and they weren’t known to give up. Miranda had gone into hiding to dodge the attempts on her life but he could not afford such luxury. Someone had to pick up the remnants. Someone needed to make Cerberus pay for what they had done. PARANOID OR CAREFUL?