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Toughy posted:Changing from A to C, with end goal of bio replacement
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Sep 27, 2017 23:50
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Changing from A to C
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Sep 28, 2017 02:15
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C, and eventually the bioreplacement (if he wants it)
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Sep 28, 2017 17:58
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 “It’s not a solution,” you muse, “but even a partial refit would remove the software conflicts and reduce the strain on your body.” “What are you thinking,” Kamula rasps with his steady calm masking underlying doubt. “Replacing all your standard augs with bespoke Erbtech versions,” you explain, “but leaving your meat intact. Not just limbs; I'm talking pulmo-rig, nephritic grid, hemogenic mods, all that. Supplement that with a nano-cleanse to chelate most of the toxins you've got stacked up in there, and maybe we can tamp this garbage fire.” “I live in that garbage fire,” Kamula replies laconically. “You'll still need aftercare,” you continue, “but less so than a standard aug-job, and definitely less than what we're working with now. And down the line, if you'd rather do some cultured bioware replacements...we can talk about that, too.” Kamula is silent save for the whirring of servos and the rattling hiss of his pulmo-rig, and spends a long moment staring at the spidery flexion of his detached hand. “We're on a tight timeframe,” he finally responds, “but if I can tough it out for this krumping op, I'll hop up on the service rack myself.” "Fair enough," you declare.  The holo-vid runs its course, and the painstakingly fabricated image of Cousin Sitorio flickers and vanishes. Even with the sources provided by Taliro and your own considerable technical skill, you can't help but be impressed by the forgery job Midas pulled off. The old man doesn't seem to have lost a step; if you didn't know better, you'd have been just as fooled by the faux-Sitorio as the Gresatrine official opposite you seems to be. The representative, or rather, the creaking old Alecton encounter suit rigged for remote operation that the representative is running, clicks its chelicerae thoughtfully. You imagine the Gresatrine don't have too many meetings with outsiders if the vessel they use for such contacts is subject to such neglect. “Convenient data,” hisses the mechanized voice from vents behind the armor's temporal plates. “Unlikely to be delivered out of a sense of...civic responsibility.” There is no emotion to be read in the rig's asymmetrical optics, but you can't help but read in a measure of wry disdain. “No pretense,” you admit, placing your palms flat on the table. “I represent a party very interested in the grav-plate contract. Prefect Cremanter, we believe that this recording amply demonstrates Sitorio's unsuitability as a business partner, and would put ourselves forward as a more desirable option.” “Your...arrival did not go unnoticed,” the Prefect intones. You detect a significant signal lag in the armor's operation; almost thirty microticks. A sign of great distance, you wonder, or of radiological interference. Possibly both. “Your vessel is...of unique livery. We are not a people...welcoming of mystery.” “The fact that we're having this meet suggests you found something to assuage your wariness,” you note, “if not pique your curiosity.” “Curiosity...is not a feature of our mental architecture,” the Cremanter asserts. “Rather, it was Ropilionitalicon Hemamikalitaliros XV who interceded on your behalf, staking his good density on your behavior.” Interesting...so then Taliro knew about your presence on Gresater immediately; your encounter was certainly no accident. “Then I won't attempt to prevail on an absent impulse,” you reply. “Instead, allow me to assure you that you'll find no greater enemy of the O-Barvanja Syndicate that the crew of Breaker-of-Chains. Setting aside the admittedly significant tech we can provide in exchange for your own inestimable gravitic expertise, we have every intent of using what we gain here to strike the crocs a crippling blow." “Dense words,” the Prefect's rig replies after a moment of anxious lag, “pleasant to perceive. You can prove such a claim?” You take a moment to pretend to be ambivalent, before leaning in conspiratorially. “Would having the coordinates of the Matriarchal Conclave be sufficient,” you utter, with an expression that indicates lacto-gel wouldn't melt in your mouth. Prefect Cremanter is completely still for so long that you begin to wonder if they lost connection to the rig. Finally, the armor's manipulators give a restless wriggle, and produce a crypt-chip from a newly-formed recess in the table. “Factor Ravantid has agreed to receive your suit,” Cremanter intones. “You will be required to project telepresence via drone provided by us, and to disable any external communications while so linked. Your linkage with the drone will be proctored by an authorized representative, who will also assure the required comms silence is maintained. Any attempts to tamper with the connection, or to express via any method any details of your interaction with Factor Ravantid before the interaction is concluded, will be met with immediate termination of negotiations, and incarceration pending exile from Gresater. “Do you assent to these terms?” You blink. Submit your response...
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Oct 4, 2017 18:14
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YOLO
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Oct 4, 2017 19:21
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I may need to open communications to my ship if our conversation requires me to requisition information I do not have immediately available. If this is acceptable then I have no issue with your terms.
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Oct 4, 2017 21:21
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Blasphemaster posted:I may need to open communications to my ship if our conversation requires me to requisition information I do not have immediately available. If this is acceptable then I have no issue with your terms. sounds good to me
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Oct 6, 2017 00:02
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“Do you assent to these terms,” Prefect Cremanter asks gravely. You blink. “Our conversation may require information I don't have immediately available,” you hedge. “I may need to open communications to my ship if that is the case.” The creaking Alecton rig is still and silent for a long moment, and in the abiding silence you hear the faintest of crackles from the servo of one of its mandibles. Wiring's worn you note to yourself. When was the last time they serviced this heap? “You may raise the issue with Factor Ravantid should it arise, with no guarantee. It would be more appropriate, Commander, to enter negotiations with full autonomy of decision, and all relevant data already on person.” The rig has no affect, but you can still hear the cool scorn edging its words. “In that case,” you respond smoothly, betraying no umbrage at the rebuke, “I assent.” “The simulation crypt is this way,” Cremanter declares, heaving its bulk away from the desk in a ripple of sliding segments. “When you are prepared, we will begin.”  “So I told the kid,” Midas says, throwing back the last swallow of his xil anderac, “it's not stealing if they ask you to take it.” Taliro claps his manipulators together, eyes flickering in glee. “Such a caper is the equal of Mind Masters of Terakine,” he warbles as Midas leans back with a grin and Voulge shakes their head. “Even...though I dare much, Doom Cycle III? Though glad to be back among my Collective, the color of such tales is much missed. The prevailing storytelling mode among my people is one of succinctness.” “Wouldn't expect that,” Midas responds, topping off his glass. “Isn't your language all long-winded and mash-togethery?” “Agglutinative,” Voulge provides. “That's what I said.” “Only in purely auditory mode,” Echo chimes in through the table's audio interface. “Sevasto language normally comprises not only phonemes, but an intricate nonverbal display as well as the emission of specifically-chained carbon compounds. Barring those, verbal periphrase is required to insert missing context.” “Yeah, thanks for that,” Midas responds, “but--” “--According to my research on the matter, the most desirable Sevasto narrative is one that can be expressed in a single unit of communication, that being defined as an unbroken emission of sonic, chemical, and kinetic data. Rather than weigh down the essential narrative with unnecessary linguistic baggage, the raconteur assembles a single, immaculately precise word/gesture/odor to encapsulate the experience.” “Your table is very familiar with my people,” Taliro observes, mystified. “Don't mind Echo,” Midas replies dismissively. “She used to be a dinosaur, but now she's a bunch of sapient noodles crammed into a drone chassis.” “Savagely reductive,” Voulge says, with perhaps a hint of approval. “Echo Four, do you intend to take that from a--” “Kore to all hands,” Regal's voice breaks in over crew comms. “I've made contact with the Gresatrine authority, but I'll need to go off-comm for the duration of negotations.” ”You think that's a good idea, Kore,” rasps Kamula's voice over the link. ”I'm not especialy enamored of it,” Regal replies, ”Neg. Still, those are the terms. I'm standing Warclade Kros nearby should things decide to escalate in an untoward direction. Echo, you've got control authorization for Hardjack and Crossbones while I'm offline.” “In the meantime,” Vare offers, “my planetary scans have turned up some very interesting isotopes that could be useful for our fabricators. I was going to head to the Resource Extraction Commission and see about scoring permission to drop a few discreet harvesters, rake in some exotic feedstocks.” “Exotic you say,” Taliro perks up immediately, earflaps fluttering. “Please, allow me to accompany you!” Vare looks to the enthusiastic Sevasto with confused dismay, then sweeps her gaze across the other crew members, who shrug with varying degrees of helplessness. “That's not really what I mean by exoti...” She trails off, before simply bolting the dregs of her beverage and standing away from the table. “You know what? Not important. Let's roll, Taliro.” “As it happens,” Midas drawls, pouring another splash of anderac over perfectly tetrahedral ice-III, “I got a bite on some of the feelers I set out in the, ah...freelance mercantile community. Thought I'd nip down to the docks and see what's fallen off a freighter today.” Looking to Voulge, he hoists his glass with an oddly musical clatter of ice. “Care to accomplice?” “As you are unto a child, and must be supervised at all times,” the wry Rigele replies, “we would be glad to chaperone.” Midas gives Voulge a flat, unreadable look, then grins faintly. “K,” Vare transmits, “what are you going to be up to? Need company?” “Neg,” Kamula responds tersely. “Got business. Done soon.” “Right,” Vare replies, flummoxed. “Uh, have fun?” “I shall remain onboard Breaker-of-Chains,” Echo Four intones, “and monitor proceedings from there. If drone support is required, simply communicate your need, and I shall attempt to meet it.” Her drone presence, the former Scuzzy Jr., rises on a near-silent whisper of repulsors. “Additionally,” Echo amends, in as close to sotto voce as the hardware allows, “Griswold has mentioned that Pilot Tone and his family have been attempting to utilize fabricator cycles to customize their living area with...mixed results. I suspect I shall be busy in a concilliatory capacity.” ”Poz,” Regal replies finally. ”Hopefully, this shouldn't take more than two, three decis. I reserved that compartment and bar service for the rest of the cycle, so everyone meet up there when you're done. If you need extra ticks, by Grife and Fury, call in. I don't want to have Crow and the Murder Bird All-Stars jump in hot just because you got absorbed in the local color and forgot to report.” Please SELECT a POV for the next segment: Regal, negotiating with Factor Gravantid for the advanced grav-plates. Vare and Taliro, acquiring exotic feedstock for Breaker's fabricators. Midas and Voulge, meeting with black market contacts. Kamula, conducting...business. Echo and Tone, better homes and burrows.
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Nov 1, 2017 18:35
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Echo and Tone  Failing that, World's Greatest Killborg
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Nov 1, 2017 19:24
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Volmarias posted:Echo and Tone Sounds good to me, I am curious to see the results of Tone's remodeling. Also I am ecstatic that this thread lives.
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Nov 1, 2017 22:41
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go team K
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Nov 1, 2017 22:58
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Echo and Tone sound like a side that hasn't gotten much attention
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Nov 2, 2017 00:02
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Definitely Echo and Tone.
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Nov 2, 2017 03:30
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Echoing Echo and Tone. The other things might be more important but the team can handle them and this is more fun.
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Nov 2, 2017 04:01
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 Your remote vessel nestles into its base with a satisfying click, spidery tracers of lime-colored light etching its chassis as it syncs with Breaker-of-Chains' power and data network. The feeling of restored connectivity and function, so difficult to explain to organic beings, washes through your net with an almost overwhelming wave of mingled relief and giddiness. The euphoric sensation of coming back to Breaker almost makes you happy for the time spent confined in that meager drone. Almost. You were instrumental in the creation of Breaker from the wreckage of S̶áu͢͝-̵̧Ŗ̡r̡͟t̀͟, ; if not mother, at least midwife. You’d expected, after Breaker was calved, to have your neural capsule installed in her systems. Instead, you are an outsider, barred from that perfect intimacy you experienced at the moment of her birth and banished to a reconnaissance chassis. Even interlinked as you are now, there is still a barrier, a lag so minuscule as to be imperceptible to organic processes, that separates you from true unity. The drone shell is a tight fit, as well; even with most of your physical person installed instead in its recharging base, every scrad of free space within the drone is occupied by either you or your power-hungry mobile emitter. You project your presence through Breaker’s internal emitters, stretching your holographic limbs luxuriously, if unnecessarily. Perfect, you observe, an immaculate representation of your organic frame in its prime. You recall when Regal Kore had addressed the space and power concerns of the large and power-intensive Erbtech mobile emitter by suggesting you make use of the drone chassis’ conventional holographic projector instead; you imagine yourself interacting with the crew as a stationary flicker of green light with mingled amusement and horror. Free of your hovering tether, you take your time heading to the bridge, alternately walking, drifting, and blinking from compartment to compartment.  Holding watch on the Bridge, you find not Tone Tonez, but one of his mates, Wane, who idly keeps an eye on the monitors while deftly operating the control orb of an aesthetiBee with her nimble fingers. The tiny remote glows brightly as it crawls across the female Vordubiri's face, leaving a slowly fading tracery of bioluminescent pigment in its path. A handful of the Tonez whelps also scurry about the Bridge, all variably engaged in the eating of, scrounging for, or crying about, food. “Ki Zuze,” you greet Wane beTonez, “Otye?” “Bu Lunge,” Wane replies absently, putting a finishing flourish on a floral design on her face before looking up at you. “May we speaks...speak Parlance,” she asks, nose twitching amiably. “For education of our smalls.” “Of course,” you reply. “Though it is my understanding that exposing your young to anything save Vordubs before they mature is somewhat unconventional.” “Unconventional warren,” Wane replies. “We make...certain allowances.” One of the whelps, perched atop the chair, suddenly glares down at one of its siblings and hisses with needled baby teeth bared, its squishy pink mass tensing for a leap. “Have you had any difficulties setting up your quarters,” you inquire; Griswold has been complaining to you incessantly, but you elect to let Wane explain instead. The whelp pounces. Wane's whiskers droop for a moment. “Vordubiri lived upon ships verylong,” she explains, reaching up without looking to catch the jumping, snapping whelp, scooping it into her lap without any pause in her speech, “but always...making do. Building warren in available space...Cargo containers, surplus junks. On Breakers, we have full control...accesses to fabricator. Overwhelming, a bit, the many options?” “I hear that you filled your entire compartment with structural foam and dug tunnels in it,” you offer neutrally. Griswold, however, had quite a bit to say on the matter, and her exquisitely intricate language left no doubt as to her precise feelings on the matter. “Poz,” Wane agrees, stroking her whelp's hairless pink skin until its hisses turn to tiny snores. “Difficulty in achieving proper composition, however. Any building material winds up in small's mouth. Lack of toxicity not enough...needs basic nutritional value to keep smalls from starving with a bellyful of foam-dirt, but not such good as making it a preference to real foods.” “Adulterate it with a non-toxic, but disagreeable flavor agent, perhaps,” you suggest. “Thought of this,” she replies. “Smalls...Hm. Smalls indiscriminate, largely. For something tastes bad to them...must taste very bad. Then smalls become agitated. Undesirable, poz?” Even as Wane comments, a heretofore unnoticed whelp scurries from the shadows in an attempt to sink its tiny teeth into your (holographic) ankle. As its jaws clamp down on only light and air, it lets out a plaintive squeak, curling itself into a protective ball. “I'm not an exo-nutritionist,” you admit, stepping away from the quivering juve-ball out of courtesy, if not necessity. “However, I certainly know a thing or 46 thousand about the link between provisioning and morale. I can work up a few suggestions, if it would not be presumptuous, and forward it to Tone Tonez.” “Send to meeeeeeee,” she warbles suddenly as the sleeping whelp decides to nibble her leg in its slumber. “Apologies. Send to me, not Tone. Tone has well-meanings, but serves better as Things-Mover than Foods-Maker." Her placid mien slips for a moment into a brief grimace. "Much better. Nave serves as Musuyinge for warren; constructs our dietaries plan. But Nave somewhat...sensitive about foots steppings. Send to me, I will...suitably pose suggestions.” “Certainly,” you affirm, swallowing your amusement at Tonez domestic politics. “What about--” Even as you speak, you suddenly notice the remote feeds for Hardjack and Crossbones go dark. “A moment,” you bid Wane, “please.” You did not panic when S̶áu͢͝-̵̧Ŗ̡r̡͟t̀͟, came under attack from a literally unfathomable enemy, and the godlike alien captain abandoned you to your fate. You did not panic when you were marooned at the bottom of a planetary ocean for all time, beyond the assistance of your patrons. You did not panic when your eagerness to iconnect with living beings and escape your unspeakable isolation nearly led the first people you'd seen in a thousand rota to their deaths. You do not panic now. Inspection quickly tells you that the feeds from the two drones are still active; they have merely been plunged into darkness. A swift scan shows that the habitation module in which they, and most of your crew are currently located, has lost power. This has crucial implications for life support and radiation shielding, and you immediately reach out over the squadlink. There is no response. “Wane,” you speak calmly to the Vordubiri, who has become visibly concerned in your several ticks of silence, “an issue has arisen. It would be helpful if you would return to your quarters and remain there with your family unit until the matter can be resolved.” Black button eyes wide and dewy, Wane ducks her head in a faint nod before taking a few moments to collect her stray whelps into a squirming pink ball and scurrying off the Bridge. “Tone Tonez,” you hail over onboard comms, “report to the Bridge.” "Poz," comes the bleary and distracted-sounding voice of the pilot after a moment, "on my ways." In the meantime, you send Hardjack and Crossbones to search for your crew or any sign of what has happened in the module. Their searchlights snap on, beams sweeping across the darkened compartments as the drones stir into motion. 1. Echo Four is remote and helpless in a way that is unfamiliar to her, and she doesn't like it. Does she give Tone the Bridge, return to her drone body, and disembark to handle matters “in person”? 2. Hardjack is already debarked, and is now being used to search for answers and crewmembers. Should Hardjack preferentially seek out the last known whereabouts of one of the crew specifically? 3. Crossbones is already debarked, and is now being used to search for answers and crewmembers. Should Crossbones preferentially seek out the last known whereabouts of one of the crew specifically? For reference for 2 and 3: Regal was in the Administrative Annex. Vare and Taliro were at the Resource Extraction Commission. Midas and Voulge were on the Docks. Kamula was in an unknown location.
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Nov 7, 2017 17:37
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1, I can see Echo Four feeling pretty much duty-bound to take care of this personally. That pic of Wane and brood is great, especially the bitey one
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Nov 7, 2017 19:32
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1, yes, 2, Kamula
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Nov 7, 2017 20:33
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1. Yes. 2&3. Send Alerts to our dudes that stuff is going on with OUR GODDAMN SHIP and anything they didn't specifically set out to do is secondary to securing OUR GODDAMN SHIP. They can use their individual judgement to determine if they want to drop their current task and head back to secure the perimeter and batten the space hatches and such. Tone has the cutest kids. So adorable what with the biting and such. 
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Nov 8, 2017 05:36
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Blasphemaster posted:2&3. Send Alerts to our dudes that stuff is going on with OUR GODDAMN SHIP and anything they didn't specifically set out to do is secondary to securing OUR GODDAMN SHIP. They can use their individual judgement to determine if they want to drop their current task and head back to secure the perimeter and batten the space hatches and such.[/b] You are currently unable to reach any crewmembers not on the ship.
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Nov 8, 2017 15:12
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1, Yes, 2, Kamula
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Nov 8, 2017 15:46
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big bag of nacho cheese posted:You are currently unable to reach any crewmembers not on the ship. Hmm. Then if they come across one of them the messaged should be relayed then I suppose.
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Nov 8, 2017 16:14
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   Tone Tonez "Tone Tonez, report to the Bridge." You awaken with a start, the bracing air currents of the broken canyon lands of Vordubis replaced with the warm closeness of your warren. ”Neete gese,” you cry reflexively, before recovering the presence of mind to key your comm. “On my ways,” you slur, scratching at the fine hairs beneath your auricular shell. A sleepy whelp, disturbed by your movement and voice, raises its head and wails sleepily before collapsing back onto the cushion. A chorus of chirps and howls respond, sounding through the warren’s tunnels. Blinking the blurry caul from your eyes, you look up to see Nave, glaring eloquently down her nose at you. ”Enja twala ki'kise Bridgende,” you explain carefully, easing up off the blankets and casting about for your shipsuit. Nave crosses her arms, teeth clicking behind closed lips as she glances at the whelp snoring gently by your feet. “I needs to go to the Bridge,” you repeat in Parlance, your eyes tense with the effort of keeping them completely motionless. Any eye movement, you are well aware, will be construed as an eye-roll, and will immediately set off a fight. “Echos Four calls.” Nave says nothing, simply sighing before turning back to her data surface and beginning to edit much louder than is strictly necessary. Sealing the wrists of your shipsuit, you begin to offer parting affection to your mate, but quickly think better of it. You leave your quarters quickly enough to seem diligent, but hopefully not so quickly that Nave will accuse you later of “storming out”. You do not succeed.  “Tone Tonez, you have the conn,” Echo Four declares, before you can even fully enter the hatch. “I,” you sputter, “thanks you?” “We have lost contact with our crew,” Echo explains. “The entire habitation module appears to have lost power, which includes the gravitic regulators and radiation shields. As this moon is currently under acceleration, our crew has increased gravity to worry about. If that weren't sufficient, severe radiation spikes are interfering with sensors and communication. I am debarking to attempt to make contact with our crew; in the meantime, I’ve slaved the Motes to the sensor station, and would suggest that you continue to search for anything anomalous outside the facility. Should you discover anything, contact me.” “Yous said of communications blackouts,” you protest, shifting from foot to foot and sniffing in confusion. “Won’t the radiations blocks my call?” “No,” Echo declares simply, leaving you more confused than ever. Perhaps seeing your whiskers tremble in dismay, the hologram flares her nostrils and adds, “the secondary cortex housed in my remote member is effectively contiguous with my primary neural capsule onboard Breaker. I truly do not have time to explain; if you care to learn more, query Griswold about Non-Locality Jumpers later.” You nod with confidence you do not feel, and turn to the sensor station. “Not rated on this stations,” you mutter softly, “you must to deploying now?” “I’ve already deployed,” Echo replies, passing one holographic hand through her torso with a crackle of scattered light. “And don’t worry about the sensors…just operate the Motes. You think you can fly 64 drones in formation?” You don’t miss the sparkle in Echo’s eye as she asks that leading question, but you quickly forget in favor of poring over the operating functions of the Mote cloud. “Poz,” you affirm absently as you spread your hands over the control surface, feeling more in your element. “Best at movings. You goes.”  Echo Four You access a map of the facility even as you race down the gangway, scattering confused spacers in the wake of your up-throttled repulsors. You intend to leave Crossbones where it is, in Refreshment Station A-45, in order to make contact with any crew members who make it to the rendezvous point. That leaves you and Hardjack to comb the rest of the module. You briefly consider whom to seek out first, before settling on Kamula K. The others are theoretically in known locations, and can either stay put or return to the rendezvous as appropriate to their emergent circumstances. Kamula’s whereabouts, however, are not known, and his skills might unfortunately prove useful.  You set Hardjack on a search pattern to find Kamula (or anyone else). The drone's repulsors labor slightly under the increased gravity, but are more equal to the task than an organic operative would be. As Hardjack drifts through corridor, its targeting selector suddenly flashes Friendly green on a collapsed being crumpled against one wall. “Medic,” croaks a labored voice from the armored (and, by your scanners, armed) figure. “You...you're a medical unit...right? Is there...anyone there? Need...help...” The being sags against the wall, clutching a most unwholesomely flexed leg in its gauntlet, and pants raggedly into its respirator. "Can't...need to get to my ship before...the rads..." The being is wracked with a particularly nasty coughing fit, spraying the interior of its visor with droplets of dark fluid. Hardjack has medical functions, but this being is an unknown, and time may be of the essence. 1. Do you admit to being a sapient pilot controlling Hardjack, or allow the being to believe that Hardjack is running autonomously? 2. Do you attempt to render medical aid to the being?  Tone Tonez The Mote plotters prove easier to wrangle than your offspring, that much is certain. When Echo doesn't contact you immediately, you occupy yourself by spending a reasonable amount of time putting them through their paces, experimenting with formations and distribution. It occurs to you how useful this sort of tool could be for planning excavations; you make a note to ask Regal about the possibility of some kind of burrowing variant, perhaps with ultrasonic emitters. Your mind wanders to a possible business model; hyper-crowded Vordubis could use hyper-mobile, hyper-precise surveyors to support the constant need for new construction. Just as you are beginning to decide which to do first: design your logo or tell Nave you're investing your crewshare in the enterprise, you are jerked from your reverie by a sudden contact from the Motes. A small team of pressure-suited beings appears to be approaching the Resource Extraction Commission from outside. The sentry platforms, evidently suffering the same power failure as the rest of the bloc, pay the team no mind as they plant what appears to be a potent demolition charge on the outer structure. Hopping in alarm, you quickly contact Echo Four. A team of Sevasto, possibly linked with the power failure, and almost certainly linked with Taliro, is currently about to blast their way into what maps indicate is the vault of the Resource Extraction Commission (the last known whereabouts of Vare and Taliro). 3. Where does Echo Four (in her recon frame) go? Does she continue looking for Kamula, rush to find Vare, go outside to attempt to intercept the Sevasto operatives, or something else? 4. Does Echo retask any of your current assets (Hardjack, Crossbones, Tone) away from their current tasks?  Outlaws of Thoon Kid's Korner! Something's sure got old Tone riled up! Complete the picture to find out what he sees! There could be a shiny Platinum Hyperducat in it for you! Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at 18:47 on Nov 10, 2017 |
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Nov 9, 2017 22:56
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1. No. We don't know the factions of this place. Don't get us entangled. 2. Slap-patch job to prevent bleeding out or whatever. 3. Find Vare and coordinate regarding them saboteur folks. 4. Continue as planned. Oh man. I'm so bad with image editing software but I have ideas. - Advertisement for undetectable subversion of your mate's henpecking tendencies at a crazy affordable rate. - "Hang in there" poster featuring several baby space weasels in a chain hanging from a warren hole, stuck together through bites, various sticky stuff etc.
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Nov 10, 2017 00:36
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I'm still not at my computer or I'd try to come up with some pics but I like Blasphemaster's ideas, and also +1 to his plan. We don't know enough about the local factions to actively embroil ourselves in their conflicts.
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Nov 10, 2017 02:09
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Tone's honing his skills on the new flight simulator: Here's a template with a transparent screen:
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Nov 10, 2017 04:31
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1. no 2.yes 3.intercept the breachers while transmitting a warning (to our crew) if possible Grognan fucked around with this message at 05:58 on Nov 10, 2017 |
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Nov 10, 2017 05:48
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HBar posted:Here's a template with a transparent screen: Awesome, thanks. Added to the post.
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Nov 10, 2017 18:49
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1. Yes, so it makes sense when we ask him who he is and what happened. 2. Yes, as long as he keeps answering questions. 3. Plan Blasphemaster. 4. No, continue as planned Meanwhile Tone accidentally stumbles upon a private video cache: 
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Nov 11, 2017 16:15
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 pure filth!
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Nov 11, 2017 16:45
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HBar posted:Tone's honing his skills on the new flight simulator: Thanks to HBar for their contributions to the thread! For their participation in the challenge, they will be able to place a character of their own choice or creation into a future update. HBar, check your PMs for further details!Echo Four You judge it paramount that you reach Vare Djata, both to coordinate with her regarding the saboteurs and ascertain Taliro’s complicity in this event. You blaze through the complex, your repulsors casting an oblong globe of blue-white radiance upon the darkened interior. Now and then, you pass living beings strapped into the crash stations that deployed in most of the module’s compartments upon loss of grav-reg, some eyeing your remote warily as it rockets past, other lolling insensate in their webbing under the influence of powerful sedatives. As you travel, you continue your attempts to contact your crew, to no avail; your comms return only a wall of crackling static that ebbs and surges in waves. As you finally round a corner and approach the Resources Commission, you are greeted by an imprecatory shout and a hail of rapid pulser fire.  You narrowly avoid destruction, only your speed throwing you clear of the packets of searing plasma as you spin artlessly back behind the corner, your port vane dragging an ugly rent along the pleasant blue laminate on the wall. Reviewing your brief glimpse of the corridor ahead, you see that not only has a security bulkhead fallen over the hatch to the Commission facility, but the approach is guarded by a pair of stocky Drume mercenaries in pocked and carbon-scored combat armor, brandishing assault pulsers with great familiarity. The Drume seem entirely unperturbed by the increase in gravity: unsurprising given their planet of origin, which could charitably be called a crushing molten hell. Even if your maneuverability weren’t impaired by the moon’s acceleration, you feel, as a non-combat specialist in a recon frame, you would be outmatched by these combatants. You engage your stealth field, and consider how to proceed.  1. With your stealth capabilities, you can still disengage. A. Negative; engage the Drume. B. Fall back, exit the habitation module, and attempt to intercept the saboteurs from the moon’s surface. C. Fall back and seek out a different crew member instead: _______________. Questions 2 through 4 apply only if A was selected above. 2. While not as skilled as Regal Kore at electronic warfare, you are confident you could somewhat muddle your profile and vector in the Drume’s predictive targeting software. This would make you harder, but far from impossible to hit, but will take enough time for the Drume to potentially rush or unload ordnance at your position. Obscure Targeting, Y/N? 3. You will not have long to mount an effective offense before sustaining lethal pulser fire. A single attack with your laser could manifest in one of the following ways: D. A rapid burst would provide multiple strikes against tactical soft targets, but would be ineffective against armor. Select up to three (3) targets to fire on while maintaining an effectual level of power. E. A broad sweep would maximize exposure, but would lack precision or penetration. Select a line or arc to attack across. F. Drilling a single target with a focused beam would ensure penetration. Select one (1) target. 4. If you survive the initial exchange, a second laser attack might be possible before taking cover again, if increasingly risky. Specifying using the options for 3 above, do you wish to attack a second time?  Hardjack Opening communications with the spacer just increases the likelihood that you’ll get drawn into something else to delay you on your search for your crew, but you feel obligated to at least prevent them from bleeding out in a corridor. With that in mind, you forgo speaking to the being, in favor of Hardjack’s preprogrammed medical response script. “You are in need of medical attention,” Hardjack declares in a drawling baritone, its smoothness reducing but not eliminating its artificiality. “Do you consent to intervention?” The being hisses in response, tilting its splattered visor to look at the drone. “A k-krump…ing b-bot,” a visor-distorted voice replies, stilted and tight with pain. “Poz…just stim me!” “Consent recorded,” Hardjack confirms, as an array of medical probes swings up from beneath its body. “Stimulants are not recommended. Please remain still as we attempt to stop your bleeding. Would you like an analgesic?” The spacer lets out a frustrated noise somewhere between a growl and a whine, and leans heavily on the wall in an abortive attempt to stand. “Please remain calm and still,” Hardjack intones soothingly, laying down a bed of sonorous, down-tempo background music. “Pain management will improve your--” “Bite your p-pain majjmit,” the being slurs. “P-pop me a hemo-plug and stim...s-stim me 'til I can walk...I need to get to my kkkkrumping...they're gonna take m'krumping sh-ship!” Hardjack slides an injector prode through the med-port in the spacer's suit, and the patient shivers violently as the potent coagulant goes to work. “Stimulants are not rec--” “Just...krumping doooo it, you qw-qwag-biting excuse f...f...for an autodoc!” 5.The spacer is no longer in danger of bleeding to death, but is still debilitated and in poor health in potentially dangerous circumstances. G. Accede to the patient's wishes, given the indigent circumstances, and get them walking. H. Continue to attempt the conservative medical intervention (and inane scripted chatter) prescribed in the script. I. Withdraw, citing a triage protocol that requires you to seek out more critically wounded patients. J. Drop the facade and speak to the spacer directly. K. Just leave. Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at 05:04 on Nov 15, 2017 |
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Nov 14, 2017 23:02
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1. B. These are experienced mercenaries with combat armor and likely a natural resistance to heat and energy. Our little laser attacks aren't going to cut it, literally. 5. G/J Plan Outrail HBar fucked around with this message at 01:14 on Nov 16, 2017 |
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Nov 15, 2017 04:51
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BJs always ends in a messy but satisfying manner.
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Nov 15, 2017 06:23
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B G/J *bzzzt*[manual override]*click* "Oh, hello! This is drone tech D4487, I am very busy right now, this drone will leave in 20 seconds, tell me very quickly exactly what happened and I'll give you the drug combination of your choice. 18 seconds remaining." Outrail fucked around with this message at 22:05 on Nov 15, 2017 |
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Nov 15, 2017 22:02
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Outrail posted:G/J *bzzzt*[manual override]*click* "Oh, hello! This is drone tech D4487, I am very busy right now, this drone will leave in 20 seconds, tell me very quickly exactly what happened and I'll give you the drug combination of your choice. 18 seconds remaining."[/b]
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Nov 16, 2017 01:14
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Outrail posted:B Agreed
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Nov 16, 2017 15:01
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Outrail posted:B Fiiiiine.
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Nov 16, 2017 17:31
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dang, how did I not see this thread yetOutrail posted:B same
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Nov 17, 2017 16:43
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also how do you sleebs call yourselves goons? V disappointed that nobody posted anything like this:
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Nov 18, 2017 09:59
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SniperWoreConverse posted:also how do you sleebs call yourselves goons? V disappointed that nobody posted anything like this: 
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Nov 18, 2017 17:02
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SniperWoreConverse posted:also how do you sleebs call yourselves goons? V disappointed that nobody posted anything like this: "Theys should sending poets."
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Nov 18, 2017 19:36
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