Scott Ryder stood outside the doors, an assault rifle held in each hand. He'd braced the butt of each weapon against a hip to help stabilize the weapons, fully aware that his aim was going to be non-existent with this method.
But he wasn't going for accuracy. He was going for quantity.
How did it come to this? The thought flitted into this mind, only to be squashed by an anvil of bitterness. It was a stupid question. He was here because of his fricking family. Enough said.
He stepped forward. The doors slid open.
Sloane Kelly looked surprised to see him. So did her retinue of armed thugs. That struck him as odd, because honestly, they should have seen this coming. It wasn't like he kept his intentions secret since he'd been exiled to the toxic world of Kadara.
"Ryder?" Sloane's hand dropped to the pistol holstered to her thigh. Her eyes narrowed. All around her, thugs raised their weapons.
"Wrong," Scott snarled. "I'm no Ryder."
And then he opened fire.
It was kind of funny, he thought, how such a moment could be so quiet. Gunfire spat back and forth, people yelled or cried out in pain, explosions rocked the room as grenades were tossed about– yet all he heard was silence.
Chaos surrounded him, death clung to him, yet there was only a grim resignation to be found. He'd made his peace with what he had to do. And the fact he'd probably not survive this stunt – he accepted that, too.
Bullets tore past his shield, punched through his hardsuit, flinging him around. He half fell, half knelt behind a heavy crate. His own blood splattered the floor beneath him, but he barely noticed. There was only the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.
One of the rifles slipped from his hand as his entire arm went numb and his fingers lax. He tossed the other assault rifle aside. It was useless now, anyway.
With his one still-functioning hand, he pulled out a sonic grenade and tossed it over the crate. The worst of the blast was absorbed by his cover, but it still left his ears ringing. He scrambled out on his knees, grabbing for his M-3 Predator pistol. He wasn't a good shot left-handed, but that didn't matter.
Scott leaned past the crate. Three people were still standing. One of them was Sloane Kelly. All of them had their hands over their ears, jaws clenched against the disorienting blast. Perfect. He took shaky aim and fired 6 times.
All three of them dropped like rocks, but Sloane Kelly wasn't out of the fight. She writhed on the ground and twisted towards him, a gun grasped in one hand. She snarled, blood staining her lips. "I should have killed you the second you landed on Kadara."
