Ever since he was young, Elijah always had a strong sense of justice. Now, that sense had helped, and yet also harmed him for all his life. It helped by not letting him get corrupted by horrible people, criminal or otherwise. It harmed him by seeing almost everything in a black and white perspective. That’s how he got through life for quite a while. But, as they say, everything changes. Nothing’s definite. Eli always had trouble accepting that. It seems that life had finally had enough though, and needed him to change. I suppose that’s why he was chosen to infiltrate a thieves guild.

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It wasn’t the best start to a Wednesday, having to get up at 5 in the morning to respond to a urgent distress call from Epsilon Sector’s Bank. In fact, Elijah didn’t think any day could start well like that. The frantic search for his badge and gun didn’t help either. After he finally found them, he had to scarf down black toast and run out the door, not caring that he had left his door unlocked. Whatever. No one lived in his area thought he had anything good. They were right.

He eventually got to his car and started it. The all too-familiar rumble of the ancient engine, coupled with the worrying clanking from the hood reminded him that he really needed to take it in to a shop. This thing wasn’t getting any better. The jet wheels slowly burned into life, and the car slowly rose up to about 8 feet off the ground. He sighed with resignation as the radio blared trashy grunge music. Elijah set the autopilot to take him to the ES Bank and lied back. It was going to be a long day.

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After a few minutes, the car slowed down as he opened his eyes. He had arrived at the bank, and as the car lowered down next to the police blockade that had formed around the bank, he checked his gun and pinned his chrome badge onto his shirt. He got out of the car walked over to the acting officer, Mark Poole.

“How’s it looking, Mark?” Elijah asked, as Poole turned to face him. 

“Hey Eli, not good.” he replied with annoyance in his voice. “We’re guessing 4 or 5 guys, armed with BlasTech.”

Eli winced internally. BlasTech was evil. They had been created specifically to induce pain. The way the bolts were calibrated was to a specific temperature that was almost, but not quite fatal unless you were hit several times. It was a favored torture device by several domestic and national terrorist groups for interrogation purposes. It was seen as a war crime, as well.

“They got hostages?“ he asked, hoping he’d say no. He hated dealing with hostages. Thankfully, he wasn’t a negotiator, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have to deal with civilians anyway. Negotiations rarely worked.

“Yep, at least 6, so far. “ Poole replied.

Figures, Eli thought. There were always hostages.

“What's the plan, then?” he asked.

Poole glanced back at the bank with an angry face. From Eli’s position, they could see no one through the thick windows, and the double doors were shut.

“Same as usual, I suppose. We send in the HN, and hope it all works out.”

Elijah nodded, and strode over to the arms truck. The negotiations likely wouldn’t work, and he would need to be ready for action. He clipped on the strongest jacket available, a DragonScale vest, and returned to Poole. By the time he returned, the HN had been sent over, and was currently a few meters in front of the blockade. Multiple armed officers covered him as he calmly walked toward the building, stopping at about halfway.

“Hello, hello? I’m here to talk.” announced Morris, the negotiator.

There was no response. Morris waited patiently for a moment, before speaking again.

“I really don’t want any problems, I just want to speak to y-”

But his request was cut off by a sudden blam as the banks doors busted open. Out came a man in a grey vest, with a disfigured face, and a BlasTech machine gun. He had a certain scar on his face, a long one, on his right cheek. A scar that had been on the face of the Galactic Federation of Justice’s most wanted list for 4 years.

Pollux Schrader.

Elijah yelled for Morris to get back, that there was no point in negotiating with this man. Morris tried to turn back and get to the blockade. But he was too late, and the scream of bullets filled the air. The negotiator fell to the ground, dead.  

The time for negotiating was over.