|
Not Alex posted: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. Good catch. Also was Tone watching that?
|
#
?
Nov 16, 2016 04:48
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 24, 2024 13:32 |
|
|
Not Alex posted: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. Or Voulge. Midas doesn't have to be behind everything.
|
|
#
?
Nov 16, 2016 14:48
|
|
|
Green Intern posted:Or Voulge. Midas doesn't have to be behind everything.
|
|
#
?
Nov 16, 2016 22:34
|
|
|
 A groan shudders through the deck under your feet as the final docking clamp releases, and all of the undersea of Gigas stretches open before The Fluke. The rest of the crew is gathered on the bridge for the launch, but you've lingered behind in the corner of the cargo compartment you've designated the drone bay, ostensibly to assuage your anxiety with some last minute checks. As Tone maneuvers the sub free of Thoon’s proximity with deft application of the maneuvering thrusters, you reach into Hardjack’s storage compartment and pull out a bottle. Needle teeth peek in a grin as you lovingly examine… A. A fluted bottle of dark, velvety Ranender dueling wine. You’ll never forget your first encounter with Ramadi Kinu, that fateful back-cycle when she engaged your mark in a drinking contest…to the death. B. A geometric bottle of thick, syrupy eclipse-mark brandy. Not the bottle you stole from the Dean’s office; you and Vare polished that off in the immediate aftermath of the break-in, but an identical vintage, acquired at great effort. C. An unmarked bottle of questionable Verokani infra-hooch. The rota have likely not improved the vintage, but it is a keepsake from your very first major theft, back when Midas was still Uncle Poole. D. A lo-G bottle, a bulb really, of the old spacers’ standby, Jag. According to Kamula, who’d know, many a mercenary company has opened or closed a risky op sharing round an eye-opening bulb of the spicy, bracing liqueur. E. A seemingly empty bottle, but actually one filled with frozen xhif. As soon as you open its pressure-flask, the contents will begin to sublimate, making consumption of this ethereal vintage a rare and time-sensitive affair. When you head to the bridge to assume your station, you… F. Bring the bottle along to share with the crew; let’s kick this thing off the right way. G Tuck it back away; this will be a good way to celebrate a successful mission.  The cycle begins to turn as you jet free of Thoon and break for open ocean. The wan sunset glow of Ge filters down through the planet’s icy crust in soft, varicolored ribbons, caught by the great crystalline helices that embrace the deep geothermal vents and scattered into a lightshow of impeccably structured chaos. “Doesn’t get old,” Ramadi muses. You half turn to see the Raq approaching the viewport, fitting a tap to her narcojet. “No,” you agree. “It’s funny, though.” “Aye, Skipper,” replies Ramadi dryly. “Optics are hysterical.” “No,” you sigh. “It’s the fact that here we are, diving headfirst into a forbidden abyss, and this is the safest I’ve felt in a while. Back on Thoon, if you could see outside the window, there was a statistically significant chance that outside would decide to become inside with the slightest provocation.” “That’s still an option,” Ramadi notes, loading a cartridge with a hand-printed label. “Only given the prevailing realities of it, we’re a long scan more likely to explode first.” The Raq bends one eyestalk toward you as she ignites the catalyzer, pupil flattening with amusement. “Given the option, I’d option the hydro…But we’ve strolled this conversational promenade a time or twelve before, chel?” “If the source of our impending demise is a well-worn lane, it’s only because it scarcely fails to be topical,” you counter, pointing to the narcojet. “And are you really going to jet that on this sub?” “Spec the pirates perpetrated worse,” Ramadi says, as the narcojet’s emitter begins to crackle with ionization. “Bear in mind, I was the one hygienated the scrubber meshes.” “You’re trying to tell me Vrade bought us torpedoes, but wouldn’t spring to have the life-supports cleaned?” Ramadi takes an exploratory puff on the tap, letting the smoke trickle from her bronchoids before she gives a small twist to the device’s choke. “Would have,” she remarks. “But I do prefer to grasp a good spec of the systems I intend to be taxing. Wouldn’t do to smoke a cap of something that’ll shock the algae, poz?” The Raq takes another draw, and, apparently finding the mix satisfactory, offers you the ‘jet. “Fancy increasing your number of observable colors by eight to twelve percent, Skip?” Jet that? H. Poz. I. Neg. “Keep an eye or two on Midas,” you suggest a few centis later, as Ramadi exhales a plume of lavender-colored smoke into an exhaust vent. “He’s being…” “…being Poole Midas? Beggars credulity, Skipper.” “I just want to be sure,” you mutter, glancing conspiratorially around the compartment. “I’m just saying…” “You’re not actually just saying anything, is the thing,” Ramadi points out, punctuating with a waggle of the narcojet. What are you just saying? (Select all that apply) J. Just what you said; you want Ramadi to keep an eye on Midas. K. Ramadi will discreetly go over the sub and look for any sabotage. L. Regal will take out some insurance, by trapping a few of the sub’s systems. M. [Nanosynthesis] You’re going to trick Midas into ingesting some of your microdrones; just enough to camp out on his aorta, just in case.
|
|
#
?
Nov 17, 2016 16:45
|
|
|
E G I K And it bears repeating what a rich and wonderful writing style you have. From the characters to the setting, the whole thing lives and breathes. Not Alex fucked around with this message at 18:32 on Nov 17, 2016 |
|
#
?
Nov 17, 2016 16:59
|
|
|
Looks like you accidentally voted both options for the second question, and no option for the first. Also, thanks, I'm glad you're enjoying it! I know my prose tends toward the purple (at least by commercial terms), but if I wanted to crank out dry text, I'd have been a technical writer. It's good for DMing D&D games, at least.
|
|
#
?
Nov 17, 2016 17:17
|
|
|
EGHK because there is always time for  space weed
|
|
#
?
Nov 17, 2016 17:49
|
|
|
D F I M
|
|
#
?
Nov 17, 2016 17:51
|
|
|
D F I K Share some traditional spirits, as we can always get some fancy stuff after a successful op. Keep a slightly clear head. Take prudent steps to counter anything Poole might do without becoming a monster.
|
|
#
?
Nov 17, 2016 17:54
|
|
|
D F I M
|
|
#
?
Nov 17, 2016 18:01
|
|
|
Green Intern posted:D Sure But remember we're heading into the abyss, becoming a monster is always on the table.
|
|
#
?
Nov 17, 2016 18:05
|
|
|
1. D, Jag and I'm not biased in this matter at all. 2. F. Share the spirit and get things kicked off right. 3. I. Promise to share one after the op, with all our weird multitasking drone poo poo sobriety unfortunately is a good idea when going into danger for us now. 4. K. It's the sort of thing he'd do if he wanted the entire score for himself. Take the goods and leave us dead in the water for a time. I imagine he'd do it at the end of the op, he probably doesn't want to kill us.
|
|
#
?
Nov 17, 2016 19:56
|
|
|
AGIJM
|
|
#
?
Nov 18, 2016 00:48
|
|
|
EGIK
|
|
#
?
Nov 18, 2016 02:12
|
|
|
 “To the Fluke,” you declare, hoisting the bulb, “deep may she dive.” You take a long pull from the nipple, blinking back tears at the spicy burn of the jag. The heat soon gentles as it migrates downward, settling in your chest and radiating an invigorating warmth through your body. You pass the bulb to Kamula, who takes it with a nod of thanks. "The first sip of jag I ever had was when I mustered out with the Sector Rangers on my first...and last patrol. Never did take a sip of jag without losing mates or a body part in short order. I'll be damned if I don't love the krumping stuff, though." Saluting with the bulb, Kamula knocks back a healthy gulp. The cyborg grins like he’s meeting an old friend, and passes the jag along to Ramadi. "Regale us, Kinu." The Raq accepts it graciously, and gestures broadly with the bulb. "When you've stepped over so many people to get where you are," she begins, looking pensively at the bulb," there's nothing for it but to go for it. And Prophets forgive us for dirty feet," she adds, then squeezes a healthy stream of jag down her gullet. Whistling through her bronchoids in satisfaction, she quickly tosses the bulb across the bridge to a surprised Midas, who leaps out of his chair and snatches it out of the air in a frantic grab. Shooting a scowl at Ramadi, he smoothly recovers, placing one boot up on his chair rakishly and raising the bulb. "To age and treachery," Midas toasts, giving you a meaningful glance, "may you live twice as long to become half as crooked.” The old swindler takes what looks like a long drink, but that you know from long experience is merely a judicious sip. You begin to regret not slipping a few microdrones into the bulb, but the moment is soon past, and the jag passed on to Voulge. The Rigele takes the jag, and looks around the bridge at the assembled crew. “It took some convincing for Uncle Vrade to sign us onto this endeavor,” they state. “But we have never been so pleased to have our initial assessment be in error. To sure things…and other such fantasies.” Tone reaches up and takes the bulb with both hands, and clears his throat. “Stately galleons there are,” he recites in a clear voice, “Laden deep with wealth untold; Treasure caches from afar, Ancient relics in their hold; May they find a lucky star, Captains staunch, and spacers bold, Not a plasma storm to bar, Not a breach of vacuum cold Til safe harbor they shall win— Thus may all your ships come in!” As the crew stares at the little Vordubiri pilot in surprise, Tone simply shrugs and suckles from the bulb. Whiskers trembling and a gleam in his button eyes, he says nothing as he passes the jag on to Vare. “Tone took mine,” Vare remarks to a light smattering of laughter, then locks eyes with you. “To old friends,” she toasts, “to new horizons, and to a drokk-load of loot!” The crew gives a chorus of approval as Vare upends the bulb, squeezing the last measures of jag into her jaws.  The Fluke continues her descent, guided by the expert (if tiny) hands of Tone Tonez, who navigates the currents and seamounts with ease, even as the light filtering down from above grows ever more dim. Before long, the sub is cruising through all but total darkness, the only illumination coming from the luminescent lifeforms that inhabit these middle depths. More than once, you see the merciless ecosystem of deep Gigas playing out its violent performance, and are increasingly glad of the sturdy cermet bulkheads protecting you not only from the great crushing volume of seawater, but the fierce beings that reside therein. “Chops incoming,” Tone chirps over the intercom, “please to hold onto somethings.” Tone’s warning is entirely overstated, as you feel only a weak shudder as the sub dips into a stream of warmer water and begins to glide with the heavy current. You feel a distinct, but largely indescribable change in the background noise surrounding you, and find yourself wishing you possessed the poetic language to properly articulate it. You glance over to Vare, and are unsurprised to see her tapping away on her scriv, wistful concentration on her furrowed brow. You decide against interrupting, and instead look to the viewport, where something is developing. Midas and Ramadi are peering into the all-enveloping darkness at a patch of less dark that you’re not entirely certain isn’t just a stimulus-starved brain’s trick of the dark. But as you approach, the black is broken by what begins as a colorful smear, but quickly grows into a large, glowing cloud reaching out to envelop the sub. As the Fluke plows heedlessly on, hundreds of writhing, fleshy masses, no larger than your hand, but crowded with squirming tendrils, slide across the viewport in a manner that forces you to imagine a glassy squeak. Each tendril bears lines of photoactive pores that flash in distracting, head-muddling patterns, and you find the swarm’s combined effect quite disorienting.  “Shred-stars,” Midas murmurs, but his voice betrays avarice rather than discomfort. You begin to ask the source of the name, but then you see the countless chunks and flakes of flesh floating through the swarm. The half-fleshless skull of some enormous sea creature bumps into the view screen before bouncing back into the dark, and you recoil. “Make a note for later, Kid,” Midas nudges you. “Shred-star limbs are worth a tidy bit of fancy to your priest-caste Oogreb.” You pull away from Midas, eyeing the predatory swarm with a mild nausea. Ramadi notices your distaste, and leans in. “Skipper doesn’t typically go in for…tentacle stuff,” she notes with an accompanying gesture. “We didn’t take you for squeamish, Kore,” Voulge observes, looking up briefly from their calculations. “That’s not what—“ you begin, before Ramadi breaks in. “I’ve tried to broaden her horizons on more than one occasion,” she interrupts, “but it’s not a rational aversion.” She looks over to Voulge, and gives the Rigele a conspiratorial look and wriggly hand motion. “Skeletoids,” she says, “am I right?” “I'm going to check on the drones,” you sigh with disgust, leaving the laughter of the crew behind you.  With the slightest lurch, the sub exits the warm band of current, leaving the swarm behind and once more plunging into a desert stretch of lifeless black. You feel a momentary relief as the disorienting lightshow fades, a cool, almost meditative calm, but as you stare into the deep, dispassionate void, you find that calm fleeing your ever-grasping mind, replaced with a profound unease. In the black mirror before you, you can see the almost invisible geometric traceries of nano-assemblers as they march across your retina on their inscrutable tasks, and you feel a lurch of panic in your gut as you think back to the time you lost control of your minuscule legion. All your life, you’ve fought for agency, against loss of control. You’ve grasped and scrabbled, climbed over those just as desperate but slightly less capable. And now, you’re one slip away from becoming the kind of thing they quarantine planets against. The prizes concealed by the wreckage of the Erb starship could make you stronger still, and without the control to manage it…Maybe it would be better if that ship were your tomb. A touch on your shoulder tears you from your dark reverie, and you whip your neck around painfully. Vare starts, but doesn’t pull back.  “Kindly refrain from staring longingly into the black, Re-sa,” she chides, but her tone is gentle as she lays the length of her tail comfortingly along yours. “You’ve got a classic temperament for void psychosis, and I don’t want to have to put two hot loads of plasma in your skull.” Her voice is completely earnest, but you see a hint of laughter in her eyes. “Should I find it reassuring that you’re willing to zero me out if I drop my yoke,” you muse, “because oddly enough, I do.” “Well,” Vare admits, “if we’re sharing our defects, the fact that the water pressure outside our hull would convert us to a ragged smear of meat paste before the term ragged smear of meat paste could fully form in our minds? I find it a bit…exciting.” “Not that strange,” you reply. “This whole thing is pretty exciting.” “No,” Vare corrects, flexing her tail against yours. “Not exciting. Exciting.” “Oh,” you breathe. “Oh.” You turn to look more deeply into Vare’s eyes, and lean in until your snouts barely brush. “You’re…” you whisper huskily. “I’m what,” Vare murmurs in her throat.  “Bent,” you declare, giving a swift nip to the tip of Vare’s snout. “Deeply and incurably bent.” “You,” Vare shrieks, tensing for a pounce, when suddenly Tone’s voice breaks through over the intercom. “Crews to bridge, please,” Tone calls. “Approaching trenches.” Vare gives you a smoky looks that promises later, and stalks out of the room. You take a moment to catch your breath, then follow.  An eerie tone fills the bridge, and you recognize the vermiform triskelion of the General Synod hovering ethereally on the holodisplay. The tone is followed by a message in six languages, four of which you recognize: You are entering a proscribed area. Vessels guilty of trespass will be assayed as hostile. You are warned. The tone and message repeat, but Voulge reaches over to the comms console and fades the signal out. “We are warned,” they repeat dryly. “It will be difficult to feign ignorance of the Interdiction Zone once we’re in the trench. We also don’t know what to expect once we’re inside; the Gigantes are intensely private. We currently project an 82% chance of security measures, either autonomous or non.” “Options,” you prompt. “In short,” Voulge replies, “either we run the trench and risk local entanglements, or we skim until we’re on top of the site.” “I assume that latter comes with some flavor of downside,” Midas interjects, “as you’re posing it as a choice.” “Correct,” Voulge confirms. “Pilot Tonez tells us that there is a powerful cross-current across the mouth of the trench. He assures us he can navigate the flow, but our speed and maneuverability will be drastically reduced, should we encounter…resistance.” How now, Skipper? A. Enter the trench now. B. Skim the mouth until you get closer to the crash site.
|
|
#
?
Nov 18, 2016 22:41
|
|
|
It's a risk, but I'd prefer to skim and slip in quickly rather than brute force our way in. If we spend a lot of time avoiding countermeasures we might get ID'd or reinforcements may arrive, and both of those things are problematic.
|
|
#
?
Nov 18, 2016 22:59
|
|
|
Skim it for now
|
|
#
?
Nov 18, 2016 23:06
|
|
|
Skimming sounds good. Tone doing a sea poem with perfect grammar is just so  .
|
|
#
?
Nov 19, 2016 00:52
|
|
|
Deadmeat5150 posted:Skim it for now Skimming some off the top is always an idea.
|
|
#
?
Nov 19, 2016 01:33
|
|
|
Skimming beats a throwdown with transsapient dream police.
|
|
#
?
Nov 19, 2016 01:44
|
|
|
I KNOW THAT SYMBOL IA HASTUR IA CARCOSA THE VOID CALLS A
|
|
#
?
Nov 19, 2016 02:22
|
|
|
Blasphemaster posted:Skimming sounds good. Yeah that poem was beautiful, and Tone delivering it made it "totes adorbs", I believe the kids are saying these days. Also, while I am but a faithful and loyal meatsack beneath the terrible gaze of the One Who Shall Not Be Named, skimming sounds like the better option for now.
|
|
#
?
Nov 19, 2016 03:25
|
|
|
Tone is the best. Skim it
|
|
#
?
Nov 19, 2016 04:17
|
|
|
 Tone takes the Fluke on a weaving course over the mouth of the trench, attempting to use the strong cross-currents to his advantage when he can. At first, the ride is an intensely nerve-wracking one, but after a few knocks and bitten tongues, you eventually grow accustomed to the sudden swells of speed, occasional hard jolts, and the constant shaking and vibration. The interdiction warning continues to repeat on the holo-comms, but you quickly tune it out.  “Got something here, Kid,” calls Midas from the scanning station. “Survey probes, full spectrum. Looks like Cartel hardware.” “I take it they haven't seen us yet,” you reply, stepping briskly over to his station. “Not as yet,” Midas confirms. “Looks like most of their peekers are pointed down into the trench. They'll get a spec if we get too close, but I'm more rustled about that." He points to a remote blip on the corner of the display. As he zooms in, the contact resolves as a Praxis surveyor. “That's a model 6,” Vare notes, holding the bangles on her arm to prevent them rattling together from the sub's vibrations. “Full recovery capability and a rack of escort drones.” "I assume we can't count on any more help from Fury here," you inquire. "You know she's on the outs with her clan," Vare replies. "I know for all but certain that she's got snoopers on that surveyor, but we're not going to get any direct assists, neg." “They'll be moving in on the site soon,” adds Voulge. “Praxis exploitation of the wreck has always been a concern, and we initiated near the outside of our launch window.” “Soon is going to become now if they see us rooting around down here,” observes Midas with a scowl. “Then let's slotting well ensure that doesn't happen,” growls Kamula, checking over weapons systems on his console. “Easy, K,” you reply. “If we make this a hot shoot and they report in, we're all down the drokk-funnel.” “We possess the superior vessel,” Voulge notes, “But it is untested in current configuration. The question is not our capability to neutralize our opponent, but rather our capability to neutralize our opponent before they can tone home.” “So Kore throws sand in their krumping eyes,” rasps Kamula, “and we cave their krumping face in while they're staggering.” “Wouldn't say engagement is preferable, or even required,” drawls Midas. “Kid, if you can ghost us past, then there's nothing for Praxis to take issue with, is there?” Suddenly, the ship shudders violently, and you hear Tone grunt with effort as he steers the Fluke into a smoother channel. “Hard enough for good movings without being the sneaking-mans,” Tone chirps, nose wrinkled in intense concentration. “Could make faster movings, though...Fasters not problems.” A. Put on more speed and keep going foreward. If Praxis wants to make an issue of it, deal with it then, but don't do anything to instigate an incident. B. Keep going, but spoof the probes to avoid detection. This could start something with Praxis, but there's no harm if no one notices. C. Use the probes to relay a malicious program into the surveyor's systems. This is riskier than B, but will give you the upper hand if stealth fails. D. C, then launch an attack on the surveyor. This will have serious consequences if you fail to prevent the other sub from reporting the attack.
|
|
#
?
Nov 19, 2016 21:02
|
|
|
A Stay the course.
|
|
#
?
Nov 19, 2016 21:55
|
|
|
Deadmeat5150 posted:A We're a sneaky poo poo, lets keep being A sneaky poo poo.
|
|
#
?
Nov 19, 2016 22:41
|
|
|
Be sure. If Praxis & Co. catch on and bitch about it, roll our eyes and request that the backup not draw attention to everyone's meal ticket.
|
|
#
?
Nov 20, 2016 06:33
|
|
|
Outrail posted:We're a sneaky poo poo, lets keep being A sneaky poo poo. A isn't sneaky. It's run right past em and try and beat them to the wreck, hoping they don't call home or tattle to the gigantes. A is really risky in my eyes. D with the malware focused on loving their comm. I don't care if it's a fairer fight as long as we keep em quiet. Plus scragging communication will force their escort drones to fight independently.
|
|
#
?
Nov 20, 2016 18:37
|
|
|
Blasphemaster posted:Be sure. If Praxis & Co. catch on and bitch about it, roll our eyes and request that the backup not draw attention to everyone's meal ticket. I like this idea, it's both sneaky and manipulative.
|
|
#
?
Nov 23, 2016 04:11
|
|
|
This thread doesn't have enough participants. If someone can come up with a good banner I'll buy the display time.
|
|
#
?
Nov 23, 2016 04:41
|
|
|
There's certainly enough fantastic artwork someone could mash into an animated banner
|
|
#
?
Nov 23, 2016 04:58
|
|
|
Deadlock resolved in favor of B “Holds on to cloacas,” growls Tone, but if your pilot was attempting to appear fierce, he failed to achieve the desired effect. The Fluke lurches forward as Tone opens the throttle, and you scramble to buckle yourself into a seat. As the Fluke speeds ahead, you fling handfuls of electronic garbage in the general direction of the probes, trying to pass off the Fluke as a passing mass of bioelectric sealife. As the sub skirts the sensor ranges of the probes, you keep the launch command on your attack protocols centered in your heads-up display. Your fingers cycle through command busses on the console in front of you in idle anxiety, just for something to do with themselves. That a chance encounter with a cartel surveyor could jeopardize the operation worries at your stomach like a half-starved scrab, and you glance over at Midas, who is silently glued to his own console. “Don’t keep me in suspense,” you growl. “Neg thusfar, Kid,” he replies with a calm at odds with his tensed shoulders. “Not so much as a saucy whistle.” “Any outbound transmissions,” you query Vare, still tersely, but with a gentler tone. “Nothing,” she replies. “If they know we’re here, they’re playing exceptionally coy about it.” You stay the course, crew sitting in tense silence except for Kamula, who seems bored and half-awake, though you know better. There is no response from the Praxis surveyor, and you skirt the periphery of her sensory bubble without so much as a blip on your screens. It is not until Tone cuts the throttle, however, that you relax incrementally. “Ready for final descents,” chirps the pilot. You begin to issue a command, but find that you’ve locked your jaw painfully. “All stations prepare for final approach,” you finally manage to utter. “Tone, let’s get deep.” Your stomach lurches as the Fluke suddenly dips down in the inky black water, and is swallowed by the yawning blacker maw of the undersea chasm. Apparently not willing to risk entanglements with the Gigantes, Tone plunges the sub at a precipitous angle and velocity, the walls of the trench blurring past you so close you feel you could reach out and touch them (if not for the manifold risk of crushing, drowning, freezing, then having your hand sheared off at the wrist). With great force of will, you drag your eyes from your impending destruction, and force them to watch your console. Neither Praxis nor Gigantes countermeasures await you; the waters seem...empty. Until you feel It.  The contact jolts your systems like an unexpected brush with an electrical transformer, and you feel a sudden presence in your secondary cortex and all linked systems. There is no malice, only a clinical and exceptionally thorough audit. You expect the intrinsic wrongness you've felt when exposed to the workings of other Elder species, but this contact feels strangely, disturbingly right. You're not sure what reconciliation entails, and would rather not find out, but it would seem, at least for now, as if your link to the Erb has proven your ticket into the wreck. “Midash,” you slur, reeling from the sudden high-powered shock to your cortex, “forward those guide coords to Tone.” “Coords?” Midas looks over to you with what seems like genuine concern. “You holding together over there, Kid? You're looking a little gill-rotted.” “The coords that--” You stop, realization dawning, just as the sub shudders. “Losted controls,” Tone chirps with alarm, tugging on an unresponsive maneuvering yoke with all the frantic strength his tiny hands can muster. “Targeting systems are krumped,” Kamula growls, “but I can still dumbfire. Concussion warheads armed.” “Chel,” you murmur, centering yourself. “Everybody chel! No shooting, no freaking. They're guiding us in. I think they just...welcomed me home.” For a long moment, silence reigns, as your crew looks at you with varying degrees of confusion and trepidation. Midas clicks his tongue with a grimace and pointedly turns to carefully regard his console. Ramadi's eyestalks squeak faintly. “Re-sa,” Vare says with concern, making it a question. “What,” Ramadi asks, “so did they scan the serial number off your cortex?” “That's...not actually too far off,” you admit. “Kamula, can you deploy the Motes when we get close enough?” “Re-sa,” Vare repeats with insistence. “Can do,” Kamula rasps reluctantly. “Nothing for the tick but to wait,” you say. “Re-sa,” Vare hisses, slapping her console. “It's fine,” you bark, eyes wide. “Smoke if you got 'em,” Ramadi pipes up.  The moments tick by like cycles as the Fluke is impelled by alien forces into the frigid, lightless depths. The bridge is silent save the constant breath of equipment, the thrum of the reactor though the decks, and the crackle of Ramadi's narcojet. Always during your blind descent, the presence of the Erb system is a beacon in your synthetic undermind, an unknowable stimulus you seek to grow toward. Several times you notice your crew looking at you; Vare's gaze particularly heavy with worry and doubt, but your thoughts are too roiled with mission figures and alien impulses to respond effectively. “We're here,” you whisper after a while, a moment before Midas informs the crew of an approaching signal, unknown and wholly anomalous. “Deploy Motes,” you command. “Aye,” growls Kamula, as dozens of the tiny probe drones scatter from their racks in the ventral foil and slowly scatter into a globular pattern around the wreck. An image gradually begins to form, a cyclopean hulk of fused polyhedra and ragged tentacular appendages, a skeletal behemoth nestled down into the mud and silt of countless ages. The entire craft glows under the scanners of the motes, lending an eldritch beauty to an otherwise lightless undersea desert. The few living organisms at this unspeakable depth bend their blind, sessile polyps toward the wreck, as if nurtured by the unfathomable alien radiations spilling from the corpse. Ramadi gives a chorused whistle, giving voice to the awed appreciation of the crew. “Pilot,” says Voulge, “we had intended to post Fluke at a safe distance and approach via encounter suit, did we not?” “Still no controls,” protests Tone. “Can spins around with atittudes thrusters, no more!” “Our gracious hosts,” Kamula rasps, “seem to have another slotting idea.”  Even as the cyborg speaks, a pentagonal face on one of what you can only call modules, begins to drag itself open. The surface appears to peel away toward the corners, in just the way starship architecture doesn't. Suppressing a shudder of mixed excitement and dread, you stand to regard the crew with a cool you certainly don't feel. “We should suit up regardless,” you declare. “I have a feeling we're going to be...accomodated, but I'm not staking our lives on the continued goodwill of an inscrutable alien intelligence.” “Can't run our E-Rigs in the dry,” growls Kamula. “Not unless you task the krumping drones to push us around.” “Respirators and vac-skins, then,” you amend. “Might keep us alive a tick or three if someone gets stuffy and decides to open a window.” “We feel it worthwhile to reconsider our deployment plot,” Voulge contributes, “given the change of circumstances.” “Poz,” you agree, but all eyes are on the viewports as Fluke is drawn into the waiting opening, swallowed by the colossal mass. Review your deployment Kamula will enter the wreck as combat specialist. A. Confirm. B. Assign new role: __________. Midas will enter the wreck as survey specialist. C. Confirm. D. Assign new role: __________. Ramadi will enter the wreck as an intrusion specialist. E. Confirm. F. Assign new role: __________. Regal will enter the wreck as op lead and drone support. G. Confirm. H. Assign new role: __________. Tone will maintain the sub in readiness for vehicle support or a quick egress. I. Confirm. J. Assign new role: __________. Vare will remain networked on the sub, monitoring transmissions and coordinating ground teams. K. Confirm. L. Assign new role: __________. Voulge will remain networked on the sub, running tactical assessments. M. Confirm. N. Assign new role: __________.
|
|
#
?
Dec 2, 2016 16:40
|
|
|
Looks like everyone's already doing what suits them best. It's questionable how useful Tone would be on the sub if we can't control it here, but he wouldn't be a big asset in any other role either. Confirm all.
|
|
#
?
Dec 3, 2016 04:24
|
|
|
Confirm All Looks like everyone is in their best role.
|
|
#
?
Dec 3, 2016 06:46
|
|
|
Confirm all. The target environment may be friendlier than expected, but we have a solid plan so lets stick go it.
|
|
#
?
Dec 3, 2016 07:05
|
|
|
1. C 2. O 3. N 4. F 5. I 6. R 7. M
|
|
#
?
Dec 3, 2016 08:14
|
|
|
Blasphemaster posted:Confirm all. Ya
|
|
#
?
Dec 4, 2016 17:13
|
|
|
Confirm all.
|
|
#
?
Dec 6, 2016 03:52
|
|
|
Also confirm
|
|
#
?
Dec 8, 2016 01:28
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 24, 2024 13:32 |
|
|
Just touching base from an undisclosed location deep in the woods of Oklahoma to say that this isn't dead... Was working 18 hour days for most of December, and am now on a family vacation, mostly off the grid. Outlaws of Thoon will return, either shortly before or after the new year. Happy holidays, and thanks for reading!
|
|
#
?
Dec 25, 2016 02:37
|
|