Fedol "Smythe" Russell's Story

Enter Smythe


Smythe was new to the vast metropolis of Wing City, but his unfamiliarity with the vibrant locale was not an impediment to his ability to do his job; the anonymity offered by being just another face in a swirling mass of faces helped him avoid notice. Smythe was self-employed, a thieving, conning hustler who wasn't afraid of getting is hands dirty if there was a big enough pay off. He wasn't out to make trouble for others, he just didn't give shit if he did. Past experiences had caused the average looking human male to view everything with an eye for what he could take away from a given situation, and to consider what he stood to lose if he just took it. Most of the time, he didn't take unnecessary risks. There was too much of a chance of going to jail or of getting hurt - even killed - when he was careless.
However, Smythe was in "Hipsterville;" he was aware the area was called that in part because of his attentive ear for conversations transpiring in his midst, and in part because of all the hipsters. Hipsters everywhere, as far as his eyes could see, walking about, being "hip." Trying to look hip, mostly. Most hipsters, in Smythe's opinion, were shallow people too obsessed with looking cool, and not able to truly be themselves. There are exceptions to every rule. However, they are the called exceptions because they are not the norm. Smythe had found a goldmine, a whole neighborhood full of people who craved attention and tended to be unable to look deeper into things, unable to see that at his core, he was no good.
Smythe sat at a small table situated within a fenced in patio of a cafe, ostensibly drinking his black espresso out of a dainty cup because he enjoyed the outdoors and the atmosphere of the neighborhood. Smythe, who had almost as many alias as he had outfits, was just basking in the sheer scope of the economic gains he could achieve in Hipsterville, practically salivating over the easy money he saw being spent like it had no value. Smythe had enough credits on the chip in his pocket to afford a cheap hotel in a bad neighborhood for a week or so, a little liquor, a pizza, and if he was lucky, a pack of smokes. As he sat, silently observing the potential marks who didn't even notice the small, quiet, unobtrusive Smythe, he saw the oh so cool spend hundreds on shit they wouldn't even like a day or two later. Inside he was filled with jealousy, greed, hate even. Outside, he just sat almost perfectly still and he smiled, not at them, but to himself.
"Soon, what's theirs will be mine, and I won't let anyone take it from me." He promised himself, careful to think it but not to say it. Smythe took a sip of the sweet, dark, strong coffee. He lit one of his last cigarettes, and wasn't worried about getting his next pack. He was sure that the good people of Hipsterville would be happy to help him out.

After a span of several hours, at roughly one in the morning...

Fedol Russell, who thought of himself as "Smythe" even if only a handful of people knew the name sat awake in the bed of a pretty young woman he'd met that evening while having dinner with some of the locals of Hipsterville. As Smythe had suspected, the ones who he ended up spending time with were all too happy to buy him a juicy, rare steak and a few beers for nothing more than the price of an interesting conversation laced with well-placed compliments, guilt-trips and other social jabs that left them all thinking Smythe was just too cool. He ended up leaving the restaurant with the emo babe who was fast asleep beside him because he could tell from her body language that she was shy, lonely, and randy enough to take him home. They had sex for a few hours, long enough to put her out for the rest of the night, long enough for Smythe to know that she wouldn't notice if he left the bed. With strong, gentle hands he eased her arm and leg off of his chest and thigh, then slid effortlessly out of the silky sheets onto the carpeted floor. Naked, he moved through the darkness of the bedroom until he found his baggy jeans and boxers. He put them on silently, then did the same with his socks which were in a remote corner of the room. Next, his reversible, sporty hoody, which was blue on the outside and black on the inside. He put it on black-side out, pulled the deep hood over his hood, and starting checking out the bedroom for valuables.
With a tiny penlight in hand, he started rummaging through the dresser that sat opposite the bed, digging with practiced grace and near total noiselessness through the articles of clothing. There wasn't anything to be found there but provocative underwear and tasteless band tees. He kept moving, searching every inch of the bedroom for things he could get a few credits for. There was of course, the woman's - whatever her name was - purse in the smallish kitchen which no doubt contained a fashionable comm-link, a datapad, her credstick. There was the personal computer in the living room with a sizable holographic display, but that was too bulky and awkward to just carry out of the apartment. Smythe couldn't find anything worth taking from the bedroom, not even any cigarettes! That was frustrating, but it also fed his money-hunger, his lust for more. He moved into the living room, and this time he was far from disappointed. The woman was the scattered-brained type, and he was able to find enough of her personal financial information on the expensive cherry-colored oak desk to take here for everything she had.
In no time at all, he had discovered her savings account, which contained roughly three thousand credits. He had a dummy account with a bank that didn't ask any questions so long as you didn't bounce checks on another continent of Terra, and sent all her funds to said account. Having divested her savings account of every last credit, he closed her account, and removed the hard drive from the PC. This he took to the bathroom, and after wiping it clean of finger prints, dropped it in the toilet. Returning to the living room, he picked up the keyboard and took it with him to the table where she - what was her name? - had put her purse, and emptied it on the carpeted floor slowly and fairly quietly even. Her took her credstick, her datapad, her commlink, and the fruity chewing gum from the carpet, pocketing them after deactivating the electronics to prevent a global positioning device installed in them to be activated to find him. Only then did he pocket the gear. Smythe had lots of pockets, a fair number sewn into his clothing by his own hands, all the better to steal things with. He had been as careful as possible not to touch anything which the pigs could get a print off of without wiping it off, a compulsion of his. Before he left the cozy, dark little apartment, he did a mental inventory of everything he could remember touching. The only thing he could think of that he hadn't wiped off was the woman, and she had cleaned herself up good afterwards before falling asleep in the big warm bed next to Smythe.
Fedol looked back toward the bedroom with the keyboard held in the crook of his arm, looked at the pale faced beauty who lay there asleep. He almost went back to the bedroom for another helping. Instead, he went out the front door, and out into the night.

Smythe Goes To the Undermarket, Part 1

Fedol "Smythe" Russell walked at a pace meant to speak of confidence while not attracting attention through the Undermarket; the dilapidation, danger and degradation evident everywhere made Smythe feel right at home, which was exciting but also somewhat uncomfortable. "Home" had never been a safe environment, and the Undermarket was far from safe as well. The drugs sold on every corner tended to be cut with poisonous substances, the whores walking the streets were often as not diseased, the thieves were daring, and the gangsters were all ready to fight or kill over any perceived insult. Even though Smythe was well aware of the overwhelming majority of potential dangers surrounding him, inundating the streets like some insidious plague, he didn't have eyes in the back of his head. If he actually turned to look behind him, he might appear fearful, and the animalistic crooks watching all around looked for fear. If someone was afraid, they had something to lose, and if they were scared to lose it, it could be taken. In reality, Smythe wasn't all that intimidated, more wary than actually anxious. He had his right hand in his pocket, fingers wrapped around his small but powerful blaster; if anyone gave him a reason, they'd be introduced to his pistol just before they departed the land of the living. Better them than Smythe.
Smythe, like everybody else moving through the Undermarket, was there to do some business. A contact who had in fact encouraged Smythe to leave his home world for Terra and the gem that was Wing City had gave him the location of a well-reputed fence, one "Mr. Johnson." Smythe had the knick-knacks he had taken from the girl from Hipsterville and wanted to unload them before they became a liability. It was about three in the morning, and from what his contact had told him, Mr. Johnson was always open for business. Smythe lit a king-sized cigarette and inhaled deeply without breaking stride. Rounding a corner occupied by whores shaking their stuff at him without looking too long at them or saying a word, he hit the block wherein awaited Mr. Johnson's front, a warehouse which ostensibly received and held exotic foods from all over. The basement below the warehouse, which was only accessible via a heavy plasteel blast-door which could withstand damn near anything, was where Mr. Johnson bought and sold anything illegal he could turn a profit off of. Smythe found it easily enough, and stood before it until the well-camouflaged camera scanned him and a speaker too tiny to see whispered,
"State your business."
"Smythe, friend of Fat Lou's. Here to see Mr. Johnson."
After a minute or so, the blast door opened. Smythe walked down a short flight of stairs into a medium sized, non-descript foyer, and standing right in the center of it was the biggest and baddest looking orc Smythe had ever seen. The green-skin held a vicious looking two-handed vibro-ax, wore fatigues beneath heavy blast armor, his ritually scarred face full of hope that Smythe was dumb enough to try something.
"No weapons allowed in Mr. Johnson's. Surrender any weapons you are carrying, and they will be held here until you are finished." Said the orc in simple but surprisingly refined common. Smythe nodded in agreement,and slowly withdrew his blaster from his pocket, handing it over.
"Now the knife in your boot." Said the orc, glaring daggers at Smythe with a fierce half-smile. They must have scanned me when I came in the door. Smart. Smythe nodded again, this time out of respect, and slowly took the vibro-knife out of his boot, presenting it to the orc with the blade pointing back toward himself. The orc took the blade and stared at it a moment with a strange, almost loving glint in his eye.
"A good knife. Well-balanced, well-maintained, very sharp. Has it spilled blood?" The orc didn't look away from the blade until he asked the question, then looked directly into Smythe's eyes with his own bloodshot black orbs. Smythe just smiled crookedly.
"Can I see Mr. Johnson now?"
The orc smiled and laughed boisterously, then went to the next blast door and punched in a code to open it. It hissed open, and the orc stood just to the side of it, no longer seeming too concerned about Smythe. His job was done. Smythe strode into the large, open chamber, his eyes swiveling about with equal parts wonder, money-lust, and caution. There were more guards standing at attention at strategically chosen posts all throughout the rows of merchandise, all armed to the teeth and covered in custom blast armor. Some wore full-helmets that concealed their faces, others just wore sunglasses to keep it unclear as to just what they were looking at at any given time. They said nothing, just watched, impassive as statues and as imposing as mountains. Smythe didn't give them reason to so much as look at him with suspicion, knowing professionals when he saw them. These men and women would shoot first and then shoot again until he stopped twitching if he caused trouble.

Fenrias Halvard leaned against the entrance to a darkened alley. He watched the happenings of the Undermarket with keen eyes from the shadows as he searched for a potential mark or client.

Remy "Gambit" LeBeau straightened his coat as he noticed several suspicious patrons entering the market. This place had sure become popular since it was confirmed to have existed... damn those pesky news reporters! Wing City had always been a place of change, but... his precious respite!

Finishing up his transaction with the final vendor he'd come here to see, Gambit then began to make his way back towards his age-old home.