---CONTINUING TRANSMISSION---

---BLACK PLAGUE, PT II---

COLOSSEUM STATION
COLOSSEUM SYSTEM, NOVA-VERSE
1042 HOURS, MAY 7, 3961 A.D.

A very, VERY tired Leon Roderick made his way to the Colosseum Bar, after surviving what could've only been described as Hell on Earth. He wasn't sure himself how he managed to get off the planet, but all that mattered is that it was now in perpetual lockdown. For all intents and purposes, the planet never existed, as far as the Bureau was concerned.

Walking into the bar, he made note of several characters, but one in particular caught his eye.

Hang on, is that...

“HELLO, MR. RODERICK,” the unmistakable Death said.
“Yeah...hi, Death,” Leon replied, walking almost zombie-like up to the bar. “Gimme some Saalian Brandy – I need something to take the edge off.”
“AS YOU WISH,” the Reaper replied, procuring a bottle of the hard liquor. “I AM TERRIBLY SORRY ABOUT YOUR LOSS, AS AN ASIDE.”
“Don't remind me,” he responded, pouring a bit into a shot glass.

He threw his head back and downed the amber liquid. It wasn't scumble, but it still burned his throat all the same, causing him to cough. Anything to push the memories back, though, he welcomed.

LEON (slightly drunk): “Yeah...*coughs*...Now THAT'S the stuff!”
DEATH: “WHAT DO YOU PLAN TO DO, NOW?”
LEON: “Well...”

Leon stopped himself. What WAS he going to do? His family – the only thing he lived for – was gone, and he wouldn't know where to look for work unless it came up and slapped him in the face.

Said slap was about to come soon.

DEATH: “PERHAPS I COULD MAKE A SUGGESTION?”
LEON: “I suppose.”

On cue, Death procured a piece of paper from a ball of flame, placed it on the bar, and slid it towards Leon. It read, scribbled in pen:

“Go to the outfitters. Ask for someone named Sergei Gurevich. They'll take it from there.”

The scrap disappeared in another ball of flame, from which a small lizard hopped out, wearing a tux. Said lizard then danced a little jig while whistling on a recorder, jumped off the bar, and ran out the door.

LEON: “Well...THAT was interesting. The outfitters, you say?”
DEATH: “I NEVER SAID THAT. UNDERSTOOD?”
LEON: “Uh...yeah. Sure.”

Leon took the hint, left his drink (getting drunk wasn't the way to go about solving one's problems, anyway), and left the bar. As he trudged along, a few insectoid-like creatures passed by him – not to mention some worms, it appeared, a few robed men like those he saw on Acre, some Feddies, Aurorans, and even the odd Polaris here and there.

Just another typical day aboard the station, he thought to himself.

At last, he made it to the outfitters. A small bell dinged as he opened the door.

“Can I help you, sir?” the clerk asked.
“Uh, no thanks – just looking for someone,” Leon replied.
“Alright, then.”

The clerk resumed reading the paper – something about a tournament was on the front page, but Leon didn't have time to browse. The long shelves of weapons, armor, reactors, et cetera, were a bit overwhelming – the fact he'd have to search for his contact made this a bit more...problematic.

LEON: “Er...excuse me...sir?”
CLERK: “Mm-hmm?”
LEON: “Perhaps you could help?”

The clerk folded his paper, placing it on the table. “We-alll,” he drawled, “I don't see why not. Who you looking for?”
“Someone named 'Sergei Gurevich'...you heard of him?”
The clerk scoffed. “Sergei, eh? Stops by fairly frequently, actually. Try aisle seven – he's usually looking for parts.”
“Thanks very much.”
“Don't mention it,” the clerk replied, a warm smile on his face.

Leon soon made off towards the aforementioned aisle. As he trudged off, the clerk procured a small, stopwatch-like device.

“02396 – you're up.”
“Da. Acknowledged, comrade,” a voice replied, in a thick Russian accent.

Leon eventually found aisle seven – after about 30 seconds of navigating the maze-like outfitters. “Parts” indeed – they reached 30 feet to the ceiling overhead. In the middle, a stout, bearded man, looking to be in his 40s, was standing by a dolly with all manner of ship paraphernalia – cables, computer parts, the odd gizmo here and there, placed rather neatly on his cart. Most other shoppers would've just thrown it on and let the workers sort out the ordering later.

“Prokl'anite eto! (Damn it!)” he cursed. “Do these imbeciles not carry a single fusial converter?!”

Leon, with a face half of terror, half of confusion, was unsure what to say. He most certainly had found Sergei, but the Russian's current mood made Leon hesitant about speaking up – Sergei didn't look much taller than 6 feet, but he definitely looked like he could easily beat Leon in a fistfight.

Leon was spared the need to speak up, though – Sergei noticed Leon as he turned back to his cart.

SERGEI: “Da? You need something?”
LEON (nervous): “Ah...Sergei Gurevich, is it?”
SERGEI: “Da, I am he. Now, you have something to ask? Speak up! Quickly! Davai! (Give!)”
LEON: “Well, uh...I'm Leon Roderick...I heard you were offering some work?”

The bearded man's expression changed quickly. “Ah, you here about job? Good, good! Is hard to find willing men these days, comrade.”
“So, when do I start?” Leon asked.
“Whoa-ho-ho!” he stated, with a hearty laugh. “Let us not go for the whole hog at once, as is said, comrade. You still need to properly apply, yes?”
“Er...well...yeah, I guess so.”

Sergei grabbed his cart, and walked toward Leon. “Let me see here...” he began, pulling out a small datapad. “How does 10 o'clock tomorrow morning sound? Should give enough time to properly prepare, da?”
“Sounds good,” Leon replied. “I guess I'll see you then.”
“Da. Do svidanya!”

Suddenly, Leon realized something – he was strapped for cash, and he had no place to stay tonight.

LEON: “Say, Sergei...do you know someplace I could stay tonight? Preferably someplace cheap, if possible...”
SERGEI: “Wha? You have no place to stay? Ho, ho! Why did you not say so before, comrade? Come! You sleep aboard my ship tonight!”

Leon blushed. “Sergei, you offer is very kind, but-”
“Bah! Such nonsense!” he scoffed. “At least come have dinner with me! Is not much, but better than most other places aboard here, I assure you, comrade.”

Leon's stomach suddenly growled in protest. He hadn't eaten for a couple hours – or a couple days, rather, if one were to discount the god-awful rations he had aboard the frigate leaving Acre, and a proper meal sounded very attractive to him, now.

LEON: “Well...alright. I guess you talked me into it.”
SERGEI: “Ha ha! Good, good! Come, let's be off, shall we?”

After Sergei had paid for his merchandise (an astronomical amount – Leon was amazed the credstick he tossed the clerk paid for it in full, even saying “keep change” to him), they both made for his ship. Thankfully, Leon didn't have to carry any of it – a small, boxy service droid did the job for him.

SERGEI: “Careful, Natalya – those parts did not come cheap.”
NATALYA: [Yes, sir.]
SERGEI: “So, Leon – how is it you came to be here?”

Leon suddenly looked away, eyes downcast.

LEON: “I'd...rather not talk about it.”
SERGEI: “Hmm...I can tell is troubling tale.”
LEON: “Come again?”
SERGEI: “Your expression, comrade – I can see it in your eyes that what you went through is a tale of great sorrow – perhaps loss of wife?”
LEON: “That's...amazing! How did you do that?”
SERGEI: “Eh, is a learned ability. Short version is 'I can just tell.' Comes from many years experience.”
LEON: “I bet.”

They continued on, moving through crowds. Natalya, not wanting to drop anything, elevated herself so that she floated above the heads of the two companions.

There was something about Sergei that nagged at Leon – but what, he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It almost seemed like Sergei knew what Leon was thinking, probably a result of his talent, but the fact he called out the death of his wife seemed too coincidental to be a lucky guess. But, the Universe was a big place, and much stranger things had already happened over the course of the past few days.

“Ah!” Sergei chimed in. “There she is!”

Leon looked up to see a (unrecognizable) Maskirovka IPV-1 Corvette. The sleek, white body of the craft dwarfed a few Vipers and Valkyries nearby.

“That's your ship?” Leon asked, incredulously.
“Da, she is my baby,” Sergei affirmed. “She is Star of Moscow – a craft I built myself, comrade. Is mainly why you don't see others like it – because she's the only one like her!”

Leon just gazed in wonder at the metallic beauty. The ship's profile definitely stood out from the other ships, and he thought to himself that the ship likely didn't just turn heads – a few necks must've been broken in the process, as well.

“Well, no time to stand,” Sergei said. “Come! Let us eat!”

The dining hall was ornately furnished – most of the furniture was beautifully hewn from cherry, and the cushy, leather chairs were a considerable change from the hard, metal seats he had been accommodated to. The Star felt less like a ship than it did a palace, with marble tiling, chandeliers, and the odd statue now and again. No wonder Sergei treated the price of the parts like they were chump change – the man had to be among the rankings of Castellans or some other royalty.

“So...what you think?” Sergei inquired.
“I'm still trying to decide what to marvel at first,” Leon replied.
“Oh, ha ha ha!” Sergei laughed, heartily. “I suppose I was a bit enthusiastic when I built her, comrade – only finest money could buy would do! But enough about the furnishings – let us eat!”

The crew was enjoying themselves as they ate, conversations cropping up here and there. Leon and Sergei sat at a separate table, which included some of the officers of the Star. Oddly, everyone seemed to have roughly equal treatment aboard this ship – even the cabins of most of the crew were spared no expense. Leon took some meat from the platter that was offered to him, as well as some dark red-colored soup that smelled simply wonderful.

“My goodness...what is this?” Leon asked, after having tried some of the stew.
“Ah, a classic from Mother Russia, comrade – is called 'Borscht.' Here, try with some bread,” he stated, offering a hunk, “it tastes better still, I assure you,” he noted, with a sly wink.

Leon was overwhelmed by the stateliness of the ship. That meal had to have been the best he'd had...well, CERTAINLY in years, if not his whole life. Sergei and Leon were walking the halls as his host showed him around the ship. The only truly grimy place was the engineering section, but that was sort of expected. He also got to meet a bit of the crew, as well, though one of the officers, a Hiram Robinson, was the only “person” who made him uneasy – he was a werewolf, and considering what Leon had been through, he wasn't trusting of the wolf-man. Sergei assured him Hiram was actually the most social of the crew, but Leon knew to take his statement with a grain of salt.

SERGEI: “So, Comrade, you decided?”
LEON: “Wha?”
SERGEI: “Staying the night aboard my ship?”
LEON: “Well...are you sure you don't mind?”
SERGEI: “Nyet! Of course not! Is no trouble, really!”

Leon thought for a few moments. On the one hand, he didn't want to inconvenience this man any more than he had already, and he was sure he could find somewhere to stay. But on the other, Sergei was offering one of his cabins for free – cabins that would've put about half the suites in Las Vegas to shame.

“Well...alright. I suppose.”
“Ha ha! Good! Iverson!” he called out, clapping his hands.

Shortly thereafter, a butler, with a small mustache and looking to be in his 50s, appeared. “Yes, Mr. Gurevich?”
“Please show Mr. Roderick his room – he is guest for tonight, and wishes to apply for job tomorrow.”
The butler bowed deeply. “Absolutely, sir. Mr. Roderick – this way, if you please.”

Iverson showed Leon his room – one of the reserve crew cabins. A luxurious, quilted bed sat in the center, while a small vanity sat in the far corner of the room. An armoire stood on one side of the bed, and a drawer flanked the opposite side.

“Here is your key,” Iverson stated, handing him the card. “The shower is just around the corner, Mr. Roderick. Do you need anything else?”
“No, thank you. Thanks for the offer, though.”
Iverson bowed. “Well, then, enjoy your stay, Mr. Roderick.”

The door closed behind him, and since he didn't have much better to do, Leon decided to get ready for bed. It'd been days since he last slept, and tonight would be one of the best he'd had in his life.

Julianne...

Elsewhere, on board the Moscow...

Sergei walked to the bridge, being saluted by his fellow Imperials. He returned the salute to his comrades, sat in the captain's chair, and opened the communications link. The holographic projection showed a seated man, with brown, crew-cut hair, a trenchcoat, and shades.

AGENT: “Report.”
SERGEI: “I have made contact with Leon, and will be present tomorrow.”
AGENT: “He is the one from Acre, correct?”
SERGEI: “Da. Scent on him was unmistakable.”
AGENT: “Is he aware of his power?”
SERGEI: “Nyet. Likely has never had any triggers in his life. Infusion is likely needed.”
AGENT: “Very well. I shall bring 81205 and 9142 to be present at the meeting. Be ready.”
SERGEI: “Acknowledged. And 78124?”
AGENT: “Yes?”
SERGEI: “Any particular reason you've decided to dress like, uh...Wesker, I think it is?”
AGENT: “Hm hm hm. I thought I'd give the look a try.”
SERGEI: “Well, try to be on best behavior, da? We do not want Commander or rest of High Command getting wrong idea.”
AGENT: “Understood. 78124 out.”

Sergei terminated the communications link. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, he knew.
“A psyker completely unaware that he is one...heh. Should be interesting 'wake-up call,' as is said. Robinson?”
The wolf made his way over to Sergei. “Sir?”
“Make sure Mr. Roderick is well-guarded tomorrow – last thing we want is Akasi getting grimy paws on him.”
Hiram nodded. “Sir, yes sir.”

At a wave from the Russian's hand, Hiram took his leave, and left the command deck. Leon was in for a surprise, indeed...

---TRANSMISSION INTERRUPTED---

---

This was originally written about 2 months ago, but I only JUST got around to posting it. Sorry for taking so long. ^_^;;;

And so we discover the fate of Leon Roderick from Acre - he got off planet, and made his way to Colosseum station.

I had to use an online translator for some of Sergei's dialogue - as such, the translations may not be worded correctly.

And, yep, Death returns, if only briefly. =)

After seeing what Borscht really is, I have to admit - it actually sounds pretty good. Wikipedia states that it's often served with bread to dip in the stew.

When you see 78124's speech, try and picture that's Wesker himself speaking - I'm thinking of him having the same voice.

Discworld's Death © Terry Pratchett
Colosseum Station © its creator
Leon Roderick, The Empire, and all characters w/in © Me