Errol Vahn didn’t know where he was on the ship or how he was going to get out of this scenario, honestly he was aptly and painstakingly screwed. There was an ancient expression of his people to describe the situation he was in reflecting upon a creek without a paddle, of which fit his predicament exactly. Though he seriously doubted when it was created it would not have been used to describe being in the middle of nowhere with alien raiders violently usurping the crew that kept the ship together, if it was then ancient humans were frickin’ weird. Everything in the previous few hours outside of the ‘invasion’ had gone to plan and for a good while he thought things were going to be different this time around. But not anymore, things were not going to be different, in fact everything was pretty much the same... sort of. Errol had never been in a situation where he was on a ship under siege by raiding mercenaries, though he had been on the opposite end of the stick before when he was working for Graymane, of which the group had raided a Batarian vessel a few years back. Perhaps this was karma? But Errol didn't believe in karma, so maybe not.

It all had started when Errol Vahn had been approached by a man named Robert Calcowski, who apparently worked as a middleman for Errol’s own father—a father that he hadn’t seen in years and didn’t exactly have the fondest of memories for. ErdeCo had been the subject of corporate espionage and Errol was to stop the spy before he reached Feros to dispel ErdeCo secrets which basically was an implied assassination gig. Errol felt no loyalty for his father, but he felt his father’s wallet was offering him a way to get in the business and get a reputation excluding a failed PMC company on his resume so that was pretty stellar if you asked Errol himself. So he got aboard this starcraft with the knowledge that the corporate spy from ExoGeni was onboard and a little bit before things got hairy he had made sure that the spy was swiftly dealt with. It was the first death before the chaos and now Errol was regretting accepting the job from ErdeCo since it was likely he’d be killed by Vorcha before he could get paid for what he had successfully done. 

Why couldn’t things be simple?

“Why couldn’t these guys be somebody much more pleasant? Like the [i]Blue Suns[/i]?” 

Errol’s voice quipped under his breath as his back hugged a corridor wall amongst the dimly lit passageway. Errol had no clue if the Blood Pack had made off with whatever their gain was from attacking this murky starship, but he did particularly know that there were appropriately armed vorcha still looming around the occasional corner. Something of which he knew very well when he turned a corner several minutes ago and ended up barely scraping by. ‘Thank the lord for guns’ he had thought at the time as the most he came out with was a headache and some persistent claw marks on his right forearm that he had to almost waste the rest of his medi-gel supply on so it didn’t get infected by some nasty alien bacteria. The wound still ached like a fresh cut mended with salt, and Errol’s expression on his face as he traveled cautiously with his left hand gripping his Devlon Industries issued Stinger Handgun while his right hand pressed against the wall.

“I hate vorcha.” He muttered under his breath, “Such filthy, senseless, savage creatures…. like a doberman with the ability to wield a machine gun.”

As he clung to the corridors he began to ponder if there were any survivors—other than himself, of course—as if he could bunker down with a group of competent fellow underdogs than maybe they could push the vorcha out or alternatively not die before somesort of rescue operation came in. Now it was possible that rescue-ops were generally slim in space, especially with vessels like the one he was on, but there were people who walked the path of the savior. At this point Errol didn’t care how likely for a rescue detail to come as long as he got out of here without being in a body-bag. It was strange how he had chosen to come back to all of this—the shooting, the anxiety, the sporadic and likely chance of injury or death—yet even if this was a crappy scenario, at least it wasn’t as boring as Eden Prime. Nothing interesting ever happened on Eden Prime.

Errol carefully turned another corridor and in a few minutes found himself in a half-lit room, but it looked more like a field of debris and collapsed structures. By the carbon scarring Errol could maybe guess that the room had been hit by a vorcha strike team wielding explosive weapons that were pretty much thought of as rocket launchers. There was probably a lot of dead bodies about this area which certainly didn’t bode well for Errol’s likelihood of living to see his paycheck. However as he stopped to look over the debris-covered room he heard a bustle of movement—his eyes shot to the direction and that’s when he saw somebody, specifically a krogan. The krogan was underneath some debris but seemed to still be alive, which was not surprising to Errol—krogan were created as tanks by the universe. However, there was still a degree of uneasiness as he approached and while Errol was no bigot he had always had trouble as a kid with the alien races the humans found themselves in contact with. But even with those experiences he knew krogan’s were the biggest badasses in the entire galaxy (so much that the turians and salarians had to work together to put them down) so having somebody like that not dead would be beneficial to Errol’s particular plan of staying alive.

He took a deep breath.

“Look like you had a bad day, krogan.” he paused, “Look like all of us have had a bad day.”

“How can I get you out of there, so it doesn’t get any [i]worse[/i]?”