|
 The concussion grenades detonate in tandem, twin shockwaves and cracks of skull-splitting noise sending pirates scrambling in disarray. Cort and the mercenaries seize the moment, vaulting their cover and surging forward in a rain of plasma bolts. Taking a moment to ensure all goes well in your other theaters, you follow up behind. The mercenaries surge up to the upper level, blasts and shouts echoing out of the stairwell in a deafening riot. As you cross the main floor, nimbly skipping past debris, the dead, and the nearly-so, something in Crossbones's view catches your attention.  Crossbones has made it to the security office unmolested, but as it rounds the corner, you see a hulking Ankrozon hybrid just outside the door. Its broad, shaggy back is turned, and it seems to be shambling away from your drone's location, but is doing so very slowly. A. Wait for the pirate to move on, then complete the objective. B. Waste no time, and launch a surprise attack on the pirate. That matter addressed, you spring up the stairs in two bounds, just in time to see things begin to unravel.  In the bare moments since the mercenaries stormed the upper level, they have laid low no fewer than six opponents, some still twitching feebly as they messily expire. Suddenly, a pirate heretofore unseen drops from the smoke-shrouded ceiling, landing in a crouch, and in the same smooth motion igniting twin thermablades through Trant's torso. Even as the team scrambles to respond, you see a distortion behind VN-Cort. Like a digital artifact, another pirate fades into resolution, bringing up a flechette carbine even as she sheds her cloaking field. You raise your pulser, and the commandos train their weapons, but the pirate pulls Cort into a clinch, using the mercenary's body as a shield.  As the mercs hesitate, and Trant screeches his last moments of life away through boiling insides, the pirate plants the barrel of her carbine snugly against Cort's breastplate and pulls the trigger. As the moment shatters, the twin-bladed pirate scissors her blazing swords through Trant's body, sizzling segments of Yaguzi flesh tumbling away as she moves toward Navisar in a whirling cyclone of coherent plasma. Enraged and leaderless, the remaining mercs fire wildly, which the handful of remaining pirates are all too happy to reciprocate, and chaos quickly reigns. You attempt to track the stealth pirate, but even as Hardjack fires a rocket-dart, she vanishes, obfuscated by smoke and technology. A stray plasma blast splashes across your shield, from which side you couldn't say, and you flinch violently. C. Locate the stealth pirate before she can wreak any more havoc. D. Prioritize the twin-bladed pirate, lethal area-denial given flesh. E. Zero every pirate up here, collateral damage be krumped. F. Take advantage of the chaos to disengage and rush to Voulge's office while so many combatants are occupied.
|
#
?
Oct 20, 2016 18:19
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 26, 2024 22:56 |
|
|
F, SOS: Save Our Skin. They're meat shields, if they all kill each other the better.
|
|
#
?
Oct 21, 2016 01:10
|
|
|
E
|
|
#
?
Oct 26, 2016 18:03
|
|
|
B F Leave the drone in combat though. Not Alex fucked around with this message at 04:19 on Oct 27, 2016 |
|
#
?
Oct 26, 2016 19:32
|
|
|
BC
|
|
#
?
Oct 26, 2016 20:57
|
|
|
B F
|
|
#
?
Oct 26, 2016 23:00
|
|
|
 At Crossbones's approach, the hulking pirate spins ponderously, but its tail whips about with surprising speed. Where a purestrain Ankrozon would have a bony club, this hybrid has some kind of pulsating bulb. The bulb contracts, spraying a fan of sticky webbing toward the Crossbones, who simultaneously opens up with its plasma projector, burning away the sticky mass before it can come near it. With a whine of repulsors, Crossbones lurches forward, its cermet saw articulating out to the attack. The pirate fires a series of bursts from its rifle, the plasma scorching Crossbones's plating but dealing no lethal damage. As the drone's saw swings down, the pirate hops backward, trembling the deck as it narrowly avoids the whirling composite disc. Crossbones raises the nozzle of its plasma projector again, but the pirate swiftly smashes the hardened stock of its rifle into the drone's side, spinning it far enough that the fan of superheated gas only washes over the wall, the panels blistering and warping. As Crossbones rights itself, the pirate smashes its rifle-butt into the drone's central optics, and your view whites out for a moment, before returning fuzzy and distorted.  Cursing to yourself, you try another approach. Crossbones levels its plasma projector one more time, but not at the pirate. Instead, the drone backpedals, aiming its weapon at the deck as it goes. Clicking its mandibles with sinister relish, the pirate tenses its columnar legs and leaps for Crossbones. The drone fires, plasma spray covering the floor. The pirate lands, bringing its rifle down in a ferocious swing, but its legs break through heat-weakened decks, and it roars in rage and agony as it sinks up to its hips in burning, melted gridplast. As the glyst hybrid struggles in vain to extricate itself, Crossbones advances, bringing down its saw with finality.  "Regal," Vare breaks in insistently. "Already on my way," you reply curtly. You break from the fracas, your slow-slung, serpentine body gliding through the smoke as you dash free. Let Midas's mercs deal with the pirates if they can; you've got more mission-critical matters to deal with. Leaving Hardjack behind for support, you leave the shouts and small arms fire behind, making a hard line for Voulge's office. On your way, you take a momentary glance at how your crewmates are progressing.  Ramadi seems to have things well in hand. Her Raq partisans seem to have dealt with the local resistance, and based on the grisly sights you've seen through Ramadi's link, you couldn't have wished that treatment on a nicer sac of sleebs. The Raq are currently sacking the underground clinic with vigor, seizing anything they can carry on stolen sleds and smashing or burning down the rest.  Meanwhile, on the Deepdweller's bridge, Kamula faces off with the pirate captain, Deuce Rakanda. The cyborg, lancejet and thermablade at hand, circles opposite the pirate leader, who hefts a formidable impact mattock with practiced ease. One the one hand, you'd expected Rakanda to be here at the Skate, but you can't say you're entirely sorry to delegate tangling with him to Kamula. Kamula shifts a foot, holding his blade parallel to the ground and eying his foe over the blazing plane. Rakanda subtly turns the handgrips of his impact mattock, a weaponized mining implement little more than a kinetic dynamo wired to a telescoping cermet shaft and a choke, and the head of the weapon thrums with menace. The pirate maintains a side-on stance, keeping a wide swath of his armored cloak between himself and the cyborg's lancejet. For a long moment, the two simply circle one another, silence broken only by the crackle and hum of their respective weapons, and the faint, electronic breath of the bridge instruments.  Tucked away behind a control bank, Tone snuffles slightly, and the noise is like a starting cap. Kamula fires, and in the same instant, both combatants surge forward. At such close range, the micro-rocket drive in Kamula's dart does not have time to engage, but the lancejet provides for such situations with a magnetic accelerator, which boosts the payload to ballistic velocity. The round slams into Rakanda's shoulder as the pirate charges, disintegrating into countless fragments as it breaks on the cloak, inertia diffused across the garment's surface area. The shot doesn't break the pirate's charge, and he brings the mattock around in a lateral blow at chest level. Kamula dodges nimbly back, the weapon's head whistling narrowly by as the cyborg dances back in to slash with his thermablade, but Rakanda twists the mattock's grip, engaging a module that reverses the significant kinetic energy stored in the head, sending the weapon rocketing back in a merciless and unexpected backswing. Kamula cannot evade the entirety of the blow; his side is clipped by the mattock and sent spinning to the decks in a pained three-point stance. Wounded but ever-ready, Kamula fires off another shot from the hip as he falls, this one aimed at a knee momentarily unprotected by the cloak. The pirate's knee is armored, but not sufficiently to stop the armor-piercing dart. The explosive warhead detonates, taking most of Rakanda's knee with it in a cloud of shrapnel and gore. Kamula seizes the moment and surges upward from the decks, closing within the range of the mattock and sliding his thermablade into Rakanda's chest and out the pirate's back. The two men's bodies are locked together for a lingering moment, before Rakanda twists his flexible neck and sinks jagged fangs into Kamula's shoulder. Bionics squeal and flesh tears. Kamula gives a strangled scream, kicking Rakanda away, and the pirate sags heavily against a control panel, clutching his chest and wheezing morbidly. Kamula staggers back, blade arm hanging limp and raises his sidearm.  "Tell me how this one tastes, sweetheart," he growls, and pulls the trigger.  As you approach Voulge's office, you peer around the corner to get a better look. Two pirates look on indolently as two others attack the door with cutting tools. They seem to have already burned off the locking mechanism, and having been unable to breach it that way, are now instead running their cutters around the entirety of the hatch's perimeter, a job that is roughly three-quarters complete. Glad for once in this drokk-funnel of an assault to receive a simple obstacle, you pounce.  The alleged sentries are first, and they pay dearly for their lack of awareness. You fire an uncontested burst from your pulser into the farthest pirate's unprotected face, even as you ignite your foot-torches and 'climb' the nearer pirate's back from ankle to shoulders. The two pirates on the door spin as their comrades' smoking bodies slump to the decks, but they are too late. Both receive a burst of plasma for their trouble, and collapse unmoving against the wall.  You receive a welcome ping as Crossbones, having reached its destination, links up with the security node. Favoring no one in particular with a flashy spin of your pulser (you probably wouldn't have tried if anyone were watching), you mentally lift the lockdown and access anti-intrusion controls. As you eye the complex turret IFF protocols, you can't help but admire Vrade's thoroughness; you have an incredible amount of granular control, and you use it, keying the auto-turret targeting to Glyst genetics. All over the Skate, you hear servos whine as panels slide aside, admitting the turrets that drop from the ceiling. You can't help but smile as you hear the reciprocating lasers begin to fire throughout the joint and you see targeting solutions resolve in a scroll down your visor, but your expression quickly freezes on your face as you see the nearest turret bear down on you...  And fire directly over your shoulder in a blinding flash. The stealth pirate spins as the sizzling bolts of coherent light lance into her torso, twirling to the ground in an unintentional flourish of cape. Rubbing your cheek, where you can still feel the heat of the passing beams, you step forward to prod the fallen hybrid with your talons. Pulser pointed and ready for treachery, you find the pirate quite dead, as suggested by the newly acquired cluster of smoking holes decorating her chest. Shrugging, you crouch down to unbuckle the stealth field generator from her harness; no point letting some flash-thirsty merc walk off with it. You'll work out what to do with it later; for now, you turn to Voulge's door. "Vare," you subvocalize, "have you been able to raise Voulge?" "Poz," Vare confirms, "patching you through." "Voulge," you hail, "you integral in there?" "Kore," Voulge replies. "We are. We assume we have you to thank for the restored administrative functions?" "That and all the stacks of pirate meat lying around," you sniff with distaste. "Qwags did a real number on this hatch though; any idea how I'm supposed to get you out of there?"  "Extensive damage," dictates Voulge, scanning a scriv as they pace the main floor. "But nothing irreplaceable." "Does that sentiment extend to your clientele," you ask grimly, prodding the remains of a Skate patron and recoiling as a spurt of noxious fluids bubbles forth. "Of course," Voulge replies crisply. "We will, of course, have to scan the deceased and contact their next of kin." "I don't envy you that," you comment. "No," Voulge agrees. "The bereaved are not typically eager to reconcile their loved one's debts without ample coaxing. Tedious." "Thank you," you say wryly. "For a moment, I forgot who I was talking to." "Kid," comes Midas's voice from across the room, "glad to see you in one...well, with all the pieces you started this slot-cluster with, anyway." You look over, and see the old swindler helping himself to one of the intact bottles from a bev-station. "You will be debited for that," Voulge comments, not looking up from their scriv. "How's our ship," Midas continues, heedless of the Rigele's comment. "Kamula K and the Moldy Bunch come through?" "We've got her," you confirm. "And with a neat little bounty from the Varstene Merchant-Marine in the doing." "I assume you told them the ship was destroyed while bringing Rakanda to justice," Midas asks, taking a long sip of something amber and smoothing his barbels. "I wasn't dug out of a core sample last cycle," you reply tartly. "And here I thought all my lessons had fallen on deaf membranes." "K is fine, by the way," you offer, "because I know you were concerned." "Never a doubt in my mind, Kid. Never a doubt." 1. What do you want to do with the stealth field generator? Bear in mind that without the hybrid pirate's genetic modifications, the module will be less effective. A. Leave it as-is. This will allow anyone on the team, save you or Tone, to wear it. B. Rig it for yourself. This will preclude anyone else wearing it, but with work, your nanites can simulate the pirate's biomods to a certain degree, increasing the module's effectiveness. C. Rig it for Tone. This will preclude anyone else from wearing it. D. Sell it. Vrade can very easily find you a buyer on short notice. E. Give it to someone (specify). F. Set it aside to install into your cyberframe. 2. You are within the projected launch window for the operation to the Erb Wreck. G. Launch now. Kamula is injured to some extent, but he seems (and claims to be) good to go. H. Voulge projects you can wait another two cycles without adversely affecting your chances. Take it to recuperate and regrouperate. 3. Any final actions before launching the op?
|
|
#
?
Oct 28, 2016 20:32
|
|
|
1. A We know a certain Raq who could use this best. 2. H Need our people ship-shape for our ship shenanigans. 3. Can we put a bomb in Midas' skull? Only half joking.
|
|
#
?
Oct 28, 2016 21:24
|
|
|
FH See if we can obtain some portable containment cells/stasis thingies for any volatile stuff we may find.
|
|
#
?
Oct 29, 2016 00:20
|
|
|
FH
|
|
#
?
Oct 29, 2016 15:20
|
|
|
We are closing on a new house today, so expect update delays this week!
|
|
#
?
Oct 31, 2016 14:26
|
|
|
big bag of nacho cheese posted:We are closing on a new house today, so expect update delays this week! Wonderful news!!!! Congratulations!!!!
|
|
#
?
Oct 31, 2016 20:44
|
|
|
 With the move-in stress about 80% resolved, I can get back to work on updates. It's still pretty busy here, and it'll take a few days for the art to catch up with the writing (the text tends to get pretty far ahead when I'm not updating), so in the meantime I'll trickle out pieces of the next update as I get them complete. I wouldn't prefer to push content without choices, but I'd rather get things moving again!  "That's surprisingly elegant," Vare comments, snapping you out of your intent scrutiny of the cyberframe schematics. "Which," you ask numbly, grinding metal palms into gritty eyes. You take a moment to glance at the chrono on your visor, and note that you've been at this for better than a quarter cycle. "The...inside parts," Vare replies. "Or, rather, the lack thereof. I'm no cyberneticist, but I've seen how many linkages go into a full exo. That just looks like an empty shell." "Right," you say, rotating and dragging a component on the display. "There's a nano-reactive coating on the inside." "You're telling me that the entire inside of this thing is one big neuro-contact? I don't think they make tubes of jack paste that big..." "Yes, well, no...Sort of?" Vare gives the barest of smiles and waves for you to continue. "There are no discrete linkages," you state. "The entire interior surface is doped with a nano-reactive compound. If what I'm seeing is correct, the operator is intended to wear a mono-layer of nanites under the suit...a full-body interface; like a capacitive bodyglove for an armor suit, but far more advanced." "So where does one procure something like that," Vare inquires, rotating her rings thoughtfully. "One does not," you answer flatly. "This is one of several reasons that this suit is impossible. It's not even the most problematic." "Dare I ask?" "The power demands," you sigh. "Best as I can tell, the physical laws of the universe preclude the operation of this suit. Even if we disabled 90% of the systems, it would be, at best, immobile." "So I take that to mean this is...an Elder Thing," Vare surmises.  "Give the lady a lotto-cert," you confirm. "There are components here I recognize...like this, here." You point, and Vare stretches her neck over your shoulder to look more closely. You become very aware of her chest pressing into your back, the heady heat of her skin, the faint spice of the lave-dust she prefers. "T-this," you continue, with only a minor bobble, "where a resistor would be? I know that's Erbtech. It makes me think that with access to the right fabrication protocols and exotic matter, we could actually do something with this." "Something to look forward to, then," she purrs, tilting her head slightly to look you in the eye. Your ability to concentrate is being steadily degraded, and you're finding it more and more difficult to care. "Does that mean you actually have some free time, now?" "I...need to..." Vare leans in, and you feel a giddy thrill in the line of heat receptors in your jaw as she gently rubs her cheek against yours. "...containment vessels...pick up..." "Voulge can do that," Vare murmurs. you start to protest, to turn, but you feel her tail twined around your legs, pinning you in place. "Tone is running pre-launch checks," she explains breathily. "K is calibrating weapons. Midas is helping Voulge with outfitting. You...don't need to do anything." Her claws are threaded through your crest, tugging your head back with gentle insistence. "I..." "You what," she dares you. 
|
|
#
?
Nov 8, 2016 16:04
|
|
|
 "You're going to wear a rut in the deck," comments Vare sleepily, neck snaking up from behind a pile of bunched cushions. Cocking her head, she eyes you with mild admonishment. "You're not in that wreck yet," she continues, "so come be with me." "It's not the op," you muse, staring into your glass as you rattle the ice. "Not exactly...It's what comes after. We're not delivering parcels or knocking over slavers this time; this changes everything." "You're fighting the next war before shots are even fired in this one," Vare chides, not without affection. "You elevate obsession to a fine art, Re-sa. But allow me to suggest that what comes after does not necessarily follow." You run a claw gingerly across the rim of your glass. "How do you mean," you ask flatly, your racing mind already concocting a thousand answers, each more dread-inducing than the last. "Stop that," Vare barks, as if your thought process were entirely audible. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to wallow in anxiety while someone is talking?" She is silent for a moment, and when you do not reply, she continues with a nod. "My point is this: If the take from this job is half what we think it will be, you'll have enough to buy a ticket half-past anywhere, and set yourself up comfortably in the doing. So why stay?" "I mean," you murmur, "I couldn't just leave. There are complications to--" "Get out of your head and stop equivocating," Vare snaps, more seriously. "You don't have any dependents, no death marks, no crushing debts. You barely have friends, and you sleep above a bar. Nothing is keeping you in this drokk-funnel except, what, momentum? A barnacle fetish? Please, tell me, Regal. Would you really rather claw your way to the top of this pile of rotting scrab carcasses than get out clean?" "It's not that simple," you protest. "It's easy for you to say we should just pick up and leave, with your licensed genome and your advanced degree, but these are our lives. We don't have your options; not all of us are just slumming it down here." That didn't come out how you wanted at all. For some reason, your very compelling position refuses to be articulated by your traitorous tongue; something about Vare just gums up the works. Inside, you curse yourself vigorously for trotting out the old bio-class argument with so little provocation, but outwardly you simply stare at your drink in sullen paralysis. Vare's silence is pointed as she rises from the bed. She doesn't look at you as she collects and dons her bangles, and though you scream at yourself to say something as she crosses to the door, you just can't. When she does finally direct her gaze your way, the pity in her eyes mirrors the self-pity boiling away inside your head in a way you can't say you like at all. "It's exactly that simple, Regal," she declares over her shoulder, stopping in the door. "See you on the sub." A. Lash out and say something scathing, that you'll regret almost immediately. Then go on a bender until Voulge pours you into the sub at launch time. B. Remain frozen in anxiety until she leaves, then take it out on inanimate objects in a self-pitying tantrum. Sleep and avoid sapient contact until launch time. C. Say something. Stop her. Try to work this out in a mature manner before you sabotage yourself any further. (Would that you could...this option is not a guaranteed success.)
|
|
#
?
Nov 8, 2016 17:56
|
|
|
A. Stick to what we're good at.
|
|
#
?
Nov 8, 2016 18:07
|
|
|
C Be mature and think about it. We are good at obsessing, why not obsessed over her proposal. Arkanomen fucked around with this message at 07:20 on Nov 9, 2016 |
|
#
?
Nov 8, 2016 19:21
|
|
|
C "You've got a point, but the op isn't over yet. We'll talk about this after we're safe and paid"
|
|
#
?
Nov 8, 2016 19:40
|
|
|
B
|
|
#
?
Nov 8, 2016 21:15
|
|
|
C I demand more potential happiness for our protagonist!
|
|
#
?
Nov 8, 2016 21:58
|
|
|
It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do Anything
|
|
#
?
Nov 8, 2016 22:10
|
|
|
I'm pretty sure Regal has lost everything at least once before during this thread. Also hooray, a three-way tie.
|
|
#
?
Nov 8, 2016 22:25
|
|
|
And look how far it's gotten us from where we were
|
|
#
?
Nov 8, 2016 22:33
|
|
|
C
|
|
#
?
Nov 8, 2016 22:51
|
|
|
C. Too drunk on election night to decide what Regal should say but I hope it's good.
|
|
#
?
Nov 9, 2016 01:42
|
|
|
C Space-Christ, girly. How do we plan to function in polite society when the nearest thing to it we've seen is a slaver queen trying to buy us off while plotting our murders? We know how to function here. One step at a time.
|
|
#
?
Nov 9, 2016 06:17
|
|
|
You fucks realize that C is a write in vote?
|
|
#
?
Nov 9, 2016 06:48
|
|
|
Yep and I like any of the other people's write ins, not being to picky.
|
|
#
?
Nov 9, 2016 06:50
|
|
|
B.
|
|
#
?
Nov 9, 2016 08:55
|
|
|
Grognan posted:You fucks realize that C is a write in vote? It doesn't say write-in, and I just witnessed my country elect a racist rapist to President, so I don't even give a gently caress anymore.
|
|
#
?
Nov 9, 2016 12:41
|
|
|
C is not a mandatory write-in; I try to specify those. Write-ins (writes-in?) are quite welcome, however, and may help your chances.
|
|
#
?
Nov 9, 2016 14:45
|
|
|
C: Make a minor concession that we'll consider our options once the job is done.
|
|
#
?
Nov 9, 2016 23:01
|
|
|
 "There is simply no licensed germ-line of that name," the Adjunct Gene Librarian lilts, eyeing you with forbearance, but incrementally increasing distaste. "And yes, I factored in approximately four hundred and eighty six thousand linguistic variations and allowed for phonemic drift to a factor of twelve kilotrands. It does not exist." "Obviously it exists," you protest, "I'm standing in front of you!" The librarian clears her throat tersely at your outburst, brushing invisible dirt from the back of her hand. "I hardly expect you sprung fully-formed from a clot of protoplasm in a tide pool," she clarifies. "Merely that you were not begotten through certified means." "I'm..." "An unhygienic line," she whispers, "I'm afraid so." The look on her eyes is a combination of pity and disgust, barely held in check by the icy membrane of her professional mien. She continues, but her words do not penetrate the wave of adolescent angst that surges to swallow you. The literature she offers you finds its way to the bin, and you somehow find yourself on the quad, staring at the purpling sky.  Your friend, Vare Djata comes trotting across the quad from the astrophysics center, tilting her neck in greeting. "How'd it g--" she begins, stopping short as she sees your state. "Regal, what happened?" "Aberrant," you barely manage to choke, digging your talons into the soft turf. "Re-sa, no," she cries, pulling you into the embrace of her arms and tail. "It's nothing. It doesn't matter." "You know better," you hiss through teeth gritted against racking sobs. "It just confirms what the profs all suspected. I'm not some lost scion. I'm a genetic accident, no better than Uncle Poole. Worse...at least he had the decency to hide his disgrace out on the Verge." "That's not who you are," Vare soothes, rubbing her neck against yours. "You're not any worse than them, just because their creche was league-certified twelve ways to spinward." "The entire right-thinking population of the Hegemony would beg to differ," you reply bitterly. "I looked down on him, you know? Really laid into him before I left. Called him aberrant and worse. He just took it..." "And worse, you say," Vare muses, teeth peeking in a wry grin. "Regal. I realize you're going through a lot, but you're going to have to put your meltdown on hold for a second while I imagine the look Poole Midas's smug face when you called him a Spill."  You start to pull away, trying your best to be angry, but Vare hugs you close, closing her eyes with relish. "Shh, Re-sa," she croons, swaying with you, "let me savor it." You laugh. You can't help it. And once the dam breaks, you can't stop it.  "It's exactly that simple, Regal. See you on the sub..." The glass trembles in the steely grip of your bionic hand, but just before the vessel shatters, you relax. A chuckle bubbles up from your throat, and Vare stops, turning to look at you with mystified concern. “That's fair,” you admit, mostly just to stall Vare a moment longer. “Look, I've got...a lot of things to think about.” “If there's one thing you could stand to do less of,” Vare replies dubiously, “it's think about things.” “Okay,” you sigh, “but it's...What you're proposing...it's a big adjustment. I basically went straight from gutter scav, to expelled from university, to gangster. My experience with polite society is...limited. Can we just get through this op first, and spec our vector then?” Vare is quiet for a moment, thoughtful. Then her gaze softens, and she nods. “Just...try to relax, Re-sa? Or if it helps you to focus on the job, then do that. Don't drill yourself any deeper into this pit of yours. We'll talk about this after.”  “That’s a lot of repulsors,” you comment with dread, running a hand over the bulky curve of one in a line of hi-P encounter suits. Your suit is sleeker than Kamula’s, and less bristling with weaponry, but you’d still find it all but completely immobile out of the water. You briefly entertain a mental image of yourself, sealed in this hulking, vaguely Troodontid coffin, careening off the walls of the bay as you pulse your repulsors in a futile attempt at balance. “Not too different from Micro-G engagement,” Kamula rasps. “Except there’s an up and down, and you won’t spin off into krumping forever if you miss a grab.” “Yeah,” you groan, “it’s not as if I’m trained in micro-G engagement, either.” “Look,” grunts Kamula as he seats a heavy cermet cowl over one of the suits’ chassis, “you’ve got the spatial chops for drone rigging; you’ll do fine.” The cyborg stares at one of the suits hardpoints for a long moment, then scans the array of gear splayed out over the bay with increasing agitation. “Of course they don’t unlock the slotting mag rail, what kind of krumping show are we running…” “Problems, K?” “Appreciate it if you could grab me another AX3 Decoupler out of the engie station,” Kamula growls. “Unless you’d rather we just shoot bad language at any boregaunts we see.” “Poz,” you reply easily, electing not to inquire after boregaunts for the moment, “stand a tick.” Talons ticking, you make your way up the cargo ramp into the hold, picking your way through the crates clogging the ventral maintenance access, and palming the access panel to the engineering compartment.  The hatch rejects your authorization the first time, and when it finally slides open, you see Midas and Voulge standing inside the compartment, both intently perusing their scrivs. “Hoy,” you greet, bemused. “Everything strapped down and topped off in here?” “Everything seems in order in this station,” Voulge replies, chin raised sternly. “Yes.” The Rigele brushes past you into the corridor, and you neglect to draw attention to the slight disarray of their normally impeccable clothing. You look back with eloquent silence at Midas, who shrugs eloquently and passes you the magnetic toolkit he detaches from the bulkhead.  “Don’t tell me you uninstalled all the weapons,” you scowl. Tone Tonez, standing in the weapons station's chair to look over its back, blinks his shiny button eyes, unperturbed. “Negz,” he chirps, smoothing his whiskers. “Negz. Pirates always over-gunned. Nacelles full with guns, forward instruments clusters full with guns, imagine lavatory auxiliary torpedo storage. Just…evened out payloads. Better for movings.” “You checked with K, I assume?” “K’s ideas,” Tone confirms. “Solds extras for better instruments, reactor retunes.” “And for a few extra toys for himself, perhaps?” “K’s ideas,” Tone states. “Send me the manifest,” you say. “I want to make sure we didn’t replace the escape pods with stunt-foils.” “Poz,” Tone squeaks, tapping at a display with tiny pink fingers. “You has it.”  The inside of the sub having become a hive of last minute activity, you take a moment for a calming stroll around the docking bay. You look over your new vessel with an appreciation tempered by the anxiety you are trying so diligently to tamp down, as well as your distaste for the outlandish pirate markings scrawled over the fuselage. “You'll have time to get it repainted after,” comes Vare's voice from nowhere, and you barely stop yourself from leaping up onto a crate in your startle. “Unwrinkle your lobes,” she continues, “unless you want to end up a wizened husk before your time.” “I tried,” you reply, “but I couldn't get the thermal creaser all the way up my nose.” “What you can do,” Vare says, “is forge us a new name for the transponder. Unless you'd really like to carry on being the Flesh Reaper.” “Could be awkward,” you agree. “Could be,” Vare says. “What if someone were to come to you with a question about reaping? Better not to misrepresent ourselves...” NAME YOUR SUB!
|
|
#
?
Nov 14, 2016 23:29
|
|
|
The Fluke
|
|
#
?
Nov 15, 2016 02:21
|
|
|
HBar posted:The Fluke Nice
|
|
#
?
Nov 15, 2016 02:30
|
|
|
Rama After our best friend, as a way to help atone for us basically murdering a bunch of her people.
|
|
#
?
Nov 15, 2016 04:55
|
|
|
HBar posted:The Fluke I think we got it in one here, folks.
|
|
#
?
Nov 15, 2016 05:00
|
|
|
HBar posted:The Fluke Too good
|
|
#
?
Nov 15, 2016 14:58
|
|
|
Agreed.
|
|
#
?
Nov 15, 2016 17:23
|
|
|
Definitely liking The Fluke. Also, quote:“Send me the manifest,” you say. “I want to make sure we didn’t replace the escape pods with stunt-foils.” 
|
|
#
?
Nov 16, 2016 02:46
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 26, 2024 22:56 |
|
|
Speaking of also, did anyone notice that the door didn't respond to us when we walked in on the jello makeout session? Midas has some overrides installed for sure.
|
|
#
?
Nov 16, 2016 04:42
|
|