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 Gigas is a beautiful world. Her surface of silicate rock and water ice glimmers under the magenta light of a brown dwarf, but her true treasures lie beneath that icy shell. A great subsurface ocean stretches from the craggy bottom of the ice crust to the unfathomable depths of the world. Powerful geothermal vents spew plumes of boiling minerals dozens of miles towards the surface; the particulates that fall from the clouds accumulating in great, spiraling lattices that embrace the plumes in gleaming crystalline helices, rich with mineral wealth.  Gigas is a beautiful world.  Thoon, however, is a poo poo-hole. Clinging to the underside of the ice crust like a parasite, it is a collection of ancient industrial and habitation modules that were out of date when they were first installed. The continued existence of the unlawful facility is due to an uneasy détente with the mining cartels and native clans, based largely upon graft and laziness; one that could be shattered in an instant. A wretched assembly of wildcat prospectors, dispossessed beings, and rootless outlaws desperately scrabble for their meager livelihoods inside her leaking, groaning environs, doing their best to avoid thinking of the sub-substandard hulls and seals that are the only things between them and millions of exaliters of alien water.  The Plume Skate is about as reputable an establishment as can be found on a crush hazard like Thoon. The owner, a Rigele named Vrade, prides himself on running a shop where the only corpses are those he permits. His well-paid crew of murderers both keeps the more unsavory elements of the station at bay and frees Habstack East 3 of the most hot-headed and least intelligent of the criminal element. Your work has found you a frequent patron of the Skate of late; the wall of meat and knives at the door knows your face, and you’ve even gotten used to the constant whiff of deck sealant and worm sweat that pervades the place. Your work…what is that, exactly? A. Trade. I am the local agent of an off-world mercantile interest, here to secure “expedited commerce” with the “independent traders” of Thoon. +You have a broad proficiency with languages and cultures, some natural, most from your extensive cache of skillsofts. -Your physiology has never been very compatible with even the safest augments, and you are dependent on expensive anti-rejection drugs. +/-Your line of company credit is respectable, but you’d better keep the receipts. B. War. Recruiters for the mercenary outfits frequent the Skate during their time on Gigas, and I’ve been trying to catch the eye of a likely employer. +You have old comrades scattered around the Hegemony -But also enemies. +/-You’ve Seen Some poo poo, which cuts both ways. C. Desperation. I’m at the end of my rope. The last of my rapidly dwindling money has gone into Krade’s moldy pocket while I look for work; something, anything, to turn my life around. +You have a hungry edge that makes you quick to learn just about anything. -But you’re broke and reeking of desperation. +/- You’re hard to kill and easy to overlook. Like a vac-roach. D. Family. I’m the black ovid of Gigas’ planetary aristocracy, and I’ve uncovered a family secret that could have repercussions on the other side of the Hegemony. The smuggler I'm meeting knows something, and I need to decide if he’s someone to deal with, or to silence. +Manipulation is your birthright. In utero genetic manipulation, synthetic pheremone implants, and exhaustive childhood decorum training give you a distinctly unfair advantage in dealing with other beings. -While you’re better than them, you unfortunately know it, and they know you know. +/- Your family has clout, but they just don’t like you very much. Ah, of course! Because you are ____________, E. Ursa Thorn F. Fury Praxis G. Genera Tel H. Vazra Bard I. Mercy Hondo J. Livia Dynast K. Lotus Nergal L. Kai Garand M. Regal Kore N. Dane Halcyon O. Somebody Else (write-in) ____________ of action! P. Man Q. Woman R. Uplifted Troodon Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at 21:22 on Nov 8, 2017 |
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Mar 22, 2016 21:40
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 Current Platinum Hyperducats: 1 Table of Contents 1.Prologue: In which our primary actors find themselves in a bind, a fateful deal is struck, and a face is punched. 2.Mission 1: In which the crew takes on a corrupt officer, ducats rule the world, and two wrongs make a right. Ish. 3.Mission 2: In which Regal finds herself behind the 8-ball, an old friend resurfaces, and someone will die! 4. Mission 3: In which the crew takes on a perilous escort mission, fart jokes are inevitable, and Regal masters a new skill. Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at 22:00 on Apr 18, 2017 |
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Mar 22, 2016 21:41
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Erb Primer - Entry 1: VASSAL SPECIES Erb Primer - Entry 2: ERB WEAPONS AND TECHNOLOGY 
Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at 15:55 on Oct 3, 2016 |
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Mar 22, 2016 21:41
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CEQ!
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Mar 22, 2016 21:51
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C sounds the most compelling. M, a name like Regal Kore will make people think we have the heart of a king, whether or not we actually do. R, I don't know what Troodons are but they sound more interesting than humans.
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Mar 23, 2016 03:36
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C for good times with crazy schemes. O Ramadi Kinu. Q Whatever that is, we should be that teal dude toking up in the foreground. Being a brightly colored stoner who's on hard times because people think we're threatening them when we introduce ourselves is just what this needs to get off to a true SA start.
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Mar 23, 2016 04:37
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D because we have plenty of violence-oriented CYOAs, R because porpoise isn't an option
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Mar 23, 2016 05:06
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Blasphemaster posted:C for good times with crazy schemes. Let's get stupid, stupids.
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Mar 23, 2016 18:14
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HBar posted:C sounds the most compelling. These are all great reasons.
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Mar 23, 2016 18:50
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HBar posted:C sounds the most compelling. I was just going to randomly choose a name, for that question, so let's go with this! Always go with the unfamiliar choice, I guess!
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Mar 23, 2016 20:14
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HBar posted:C sounds the most compelling. Yep, I'm down with these.
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Mar 23, 2016 23:52
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C O - Rogal Dorn because I think it's funnier and close to M R
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Mar 24, 2016 02:49
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HiHo ChiRho posted:C  fellow 40K addict
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Mar 24, 2016 03:11
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C M R
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Mar 24, 2016 04:23
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 The teal-fleshed amphibian takes a long pull from the narcotap, triple eyestalks stretching with languid pleasure. One bulbous, bloodshot eyeball wanders in your direction as twin plumes of intoxicating smoke belch from the fleshy tubes flanking her jaw. “Passably prime,” she burbles, offering you the tap. “Alpha decay’s a little rough. You gonna jet this?” A. Smoke spice every cycle. Maybe it’ll take your mind off the fact that you’re totally screwed. B. Now isn’t the time; your lives are in imminent peril! Ramadi weaves her eyestalks in mild reproach, croaking out a short cough. “You worry too much Reeg,” she says, reclaiming the tap. “We’re not even screwed.” “We are precisely screwed,” you retort, tail lashing with agitation, “Vrade is going to stack my bones in an alphabetical pile!” “You skeletoids and your bones. It’s not crucial.” “You only say that because you have a mantle! I need those bones to live!” Ramadi takes another puff in lieu of response, giving your panting time to slow. “Freaking out gives you cloaca cancer, Reeg,” she offers placidly, pointing to the narcotap. “Like, I’m pretty sure at least half of this alleged Parangan Pulse-ray is just Klerium-146 with blue dye in, but you don’t see me freaking out. Besides, he’ll show. If anything had happened, we’d have heard about it by now.” “Which only leaves the inevitable conclusion that he skipped station with the goods,” you declare with an edge in your voice. “We’re 50K in the hole to a gelatinous psychopath, and our only chance at making good on that just hitched a ride on a tramp freighter to the twelfth moon of gently caress-knows! We scraped together the last of our credit, the last of our trust, the last of our hope. Threw them into this job, put it all on the line, and now our esteemed partner, the honorable Poole Midas, has thrown us to the matron-blazing worms!” Your pulse pounds in your head. The humid, choking environs of the Plume Skate’s taproom contract to a pinpoint, and your limbs grow leaden. You’re never going to make it out of here alive. Your crest prickles with every tick of your internal chrono, counting out the meager remainder of your existence. Someone across the room chuckles at something, and you just know they’re talking about you. The door lurks teasingly out of reach, the harsh exterior lights pooling through promising a neon heaven forever beyond your grasp. Dimly you notice one of Ramadi’s eyestalks stretching out of the alcove toward the next booth, and you follow her gaze just in time to see a Khaldean swivel its head and train its reddening visor on you. It bares fangs gleaming with UV scrimshaw, shifting its considerable cybernetic bulk out of its alcove with alien grace. Ramadi simply shrugs around a snoutful of smoke, and you briefly envy her besotted ease as the ferocious cyborg stalks toward your booth.  The tattoo of its metallic claws ticking on the deck playing sends icy needles up your spine, snapping you free of your paralyzed dread and bringing a clarity to your thoughts. The shadow of the Khaldean falls over the pair of you; and you’re out of time. “Regal Kore,” it hisses with a voice like poorly-sealed pneumatics. It’s not a question. Your anxiously writhing tail grows suddenly still, and your predator’s pupils dilate. What do? C. Hold your ground. Maintain, as Ramadi would say. The 3-meter cybernetic killing machine might not be here to hurt you; maybe it just needs a light? D. Run! Khaldean are big, and unless it wants to start shooting into the crowd, you’re confident you can lose it. You’re not sure Ramadi will be able to keep up, though, necessitating the two of you splitting up. E. As (D), but cause a distraction first. This is probably the best chance of you and Ramadi both getting out together, but the stoned Raq will still be a hindrance, and Vrade probably won’t appreciate you making a mess of his place. F. As (E), but my brilliant idea for the distraction is ___________! G. When the going gets tough, the tough get stabby. Admittedly, it outweighs you by a couple hundred kilos, and Ramadi’s primary combat skill is being moderately poisonous, but a few cycles back you had the second claw on each foot replaced with a makeshift plasma cutter. Slash the bastard somewhere it’s still made of meat, and (D) like hell! Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at 21:26 on Nov 8, 2017 |
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Mar 24, 2016 04:33
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##Vote A. Smoke spice every cycle. Maybe it’ll take your mind off the fact that you’re totally screwed. C. Hold your ground. Maintain, as Ramadi would say. The 3-meter cybernetic killing machine might not be here to hurt you; maybe it just needs a light? "Uh, uh...can I, uh help yoooooouuuu?" Outrail fucked around with this message at 04:40 on Mar 24, 2016 |
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Mar 24, 2016 04:38
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##vote A. C. Nice design on the murder cyborg weasel.
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Mar 24, 2016 05:22
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##vote B. C. Our arms are so cool.
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Mar 24, 2016 15:06
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B C
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Mar 24, 2016 19:01
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##vote B. C.
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Mar 24, 2016 23:07
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You force yourself to take a deep breath. Maintain, Kore, you chide yourself, maintain. You don't need to run; that's Ramadi's spice-smoke talking. Klerium isotopes have always made you a little jumpy. If you run, Vrade knows you're up to something, and they stack your meat on the floor. You can't stab your way out of this; even if you somehow kill this tall shot of hydro here, Khaldeans have that whole cybernetic reincarnation thing going on; he's just going to come back and kill you harder. Take it down a click. Work the angles. Peering up at the Khaldean, you force your jaw to unlock and speak. Time to work those angles. “Uh...can I, uh help you?” comes a croaky reply from your over-tensed throat. Nailed it. For a moment, the only sounds are the moist flexion of Ramadi's eyestalks, and the smooth whirring of the Khaldean's synthetic workings. Then, the cyborg leans in, visor shutter narrowing. “Message,” it hisses, “From the Midas.” You hear a crackle from within the Khaldean's jaw, and suddenly a flickering hologram of Poole Midas materializes from an emitter in the cyborg's arm.  “Hoy Blue and Bluer. Poole here. Look, ladies, sorry to leave you this dab of vexation, but things got a little torchy, and it was skate or sizzle. The goods are safe, and I'm...safe-ish. Pardon the messenger; CII-Batruzii here owed me a solid from a past life. Look, assuming you're in that worm's cloaca Vrade calls a bar, you need to scoot your ambulators thence. Go to the place we met that guy that time. With the bottles? We'll re-unionize and scan the prospectives therefrom. Until such time, worthy comrades.” The hologram dematerializes as the Khaldean gives a slight jerk of its head. A snarl, no less threatening for being nearly silent, escapes its lips as it points a tapered claw in your direction. “Message,” it hisses again, “From me. Tell the Midas. Next time I see him...” an unmistakable gesture completes the utterance, talon dragged across throat. With that, the cyborg whirls and stalks into the smoky gloom. For a moment, neither you nor Ramadi speak. You sit, peering at one another, as the heady mix of mammalian musk and machine lubricant the Khaldean left in its wake slowly fades into memory. Your partner take a long, thoughtful drag on her narcotap. What now? A. Regal: “Hokay. So. We do what the floating head says. Glide out of here, casual-like, and head to the rendezvous. Easy as falling out an airlock.” B. Ramadi: “Nah, man. Nah. Man. The whole scenario is like...refulgent of setup. So we get in front of it. Go to Vrade...nah, hear me out, Reeg. Go to Vrade, jettison the whole sordid tale, and let them mop up the assorted tears and organs. It'll be Poole's bones with neatly printed labels on, not yours.” C. Regal: “When did you become the suspicious one? If you're that twanged about it, we do it careful. Check the place out. Maybe lay in some gear or backup, if we can find it.” D. Ramadi: “We could always go get your new shiny boyfriend, see if he can help; he didn't parse as all that graciously-oriented toward Poole.” E. Random Passerby: “Neg, you've got it all wrong. See, what you do is _______...” Okay, that scans, that scans. But what was Poole talking about, with the bottles? F. That time those crates of Denuvian Solarine “fell off a freighter.” Expensive stuff, and you had to stash them behind an old dioxide scrubber array while you sorted out buyers. G. That time you were running from the Halcyon Cartel's goons, and hid in a storage room. You didn't know until later that it was full of bottles of military-grade fuel accellerant. With bad seals. H. That time you were staking out a truly skittery mark, and were stuck in an abandoned container recycling node with Ramadi for 36 hours. You learned a lot about the Raq excretory system that day. Too a lot. I. That one time, you know...it's on the tip of my tongue. When we ______? Matters resolved, the two of you rise (or lurch, in Ramadi's case,) from the booth. Your partner exhales another double payload of smoke, and offers you the tap.  “One more for posteriors?” J. Why not? Looks like we're not going to die this exact second. K. Not now, it makes me all glitchy. Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at 21:27 on Nov 8, 2017 |
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Mar 25, 2016 02:46
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##vote A. H. J.
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Mar 25, 2016 03:34
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##vote C. H. K. That conversational vote progression was slick as hell. Bravo.
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Mar 25, 2016 04:52
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Not Alex posted:That conversational vote progression was slick as hell. Bravo. QFT. Very slick style you've got so far. I was all "WUT?...OH!"  ## vote C. H. J. C is for caution. H is for "Holy Hell! Do you gits survive off air scrubber leavings from the gymn or something?!" J is for...help me out here, goons.
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Mar 25, 2016 05:37
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All I know is smoke spice every cycle
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Mar 25, 2016 07:19
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##Vote D G J Worm up with the scary psychopath, cool adventures! Unstable explosives and drugs are a great combo.
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Mar 25, 2016 21:51
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##vote C H K
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Mar 26, 2016 14:42
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 Ramadi Kinu is many things. Lacksidasical in her approach to all things. Unreliable for extended tasks. Oddly moist to the touch. But the lady knows her spice. 2 Centicycles Later... “This is it?” Ramadi peers dubiously at the panoply of second-hand, aged, and otherwise distressed gear laid out on the top of your bunk. “After buying into this deal, which you turned us onto, by the way, this is all I could beg, borrow, and steal on such short notice.” You turn your best wounded being gaze on your amphibious friend and purr, “so I wish my finest and most loyal associate could show a little support in this, our time of need.” “This is it!” cheers Ramadi by way of correction. “Woo! Party.” Select one ally and one piece of gear  A. Kamula K , a washed-out merc who got most of himself shot off in various campaigns. You helped him get through a psychotic break caused by poorly-integrated cybernetics without zeroing anyone or himself. He's all but unemployable, and is inclined to do some bodyguarding for you for a share of the take. B. Lleris Ludomart, a former slaver, though she prefers the term “trafficker,” which really isn't any better. An excellent people-mover and general smuggler. Why would she want to help you? You rescued her sister from her old boss, at great detriment to yourself. She'll help you out gratis, but she and Ramadi have never gotten along. C. Van Vardo, an apprentice loadmaster to whom Ramadi sells spice when they're on-station. You suspect more, but Ramadi insists it's “only hand stuff”. They knows their way around cargos, and might be able to spot any subterfuge on that end. The less you know of how Ramadi's going to pay them, the better. D. Actually, Ramadi's idea about the Khaldean is looking better and better. See if you can get hold of CII-Batruzii. E. A makeshift recon drone you pieced together out of scraps and goodwill. Sound and video, and a remote range of about 50m on a good day. F. An autodoc! Unfortunately, the automatic functions are stuck on Rigele physiology, and the computer only speaks Rannusan. G. A warbler. A child's toy, really, but you could probably rig it to sing garbled alien creche-rhymes at 120 dB if you tried. H. A sonic disruptor chassis. There are no working parts inside this highly-illegal anti-armor weapon, but they don't have to know that. I. A crude energy shield. You scavenged part of the blaster-baffle netting out of a wrecked suit of riot armor and hooked it up to a small power supply. It might stop one shot, if you're lucky. Ramadi could wear it under her clothes, but it'd look pretty obvious on you. J. Mr. Just-in-Case. A one-shot pulse blaster; it's got an effective range of about 2 meters, and it'll basically destroy itself while firing, but it might make the difference. 2 More Centicycles Later...  The recycling node ceased to be such long ago, after it became too expensive to guard the facility or to repair the servbots the locals insisted on scavenging for parts. Arming the bots just gave the locals weapons, complicating the matter further. So it sits, slowly blanketed by enroaching umber mold, a haven for spicers, fugitives, and low-rent adulterers. “You know I couldn't look you in the eye for the better part of a rota after that stakeout,” you quietly comment as you creep across the post-industrial graveyard toward the node's unassuming foamcrete shell. “And every time I smell pickles, I shudder.” “If I'd known we'd be there that long, Reeg, I'd have forgone the second bottle of shimmerswig. Entirely chel, though; we all know your private-water smells like freshly-baked buns and income equality.” Ramadi makes a semi-obscene gesture you've always been jealous of, being held back as you are by all those pesky bones. “A true statement,” you nod sagely. “Also, this place looks clear enough. But to assuage your not-at-all-spice-related paranoia, I could take a closer look.” K. Ramadi: “Sounds like the thing. Do that troodontid runny-jumpy deal, have a brisk little spot of reconnaissance, and enlighten we poor spongy-limbed peasants as to the scene revealed thereby.” L. Regal: “Just because I don't squish when I walk doesn't mean you have to be a cloaca about it. We'll all go. When everything's legit, there's no risk, but if there's trouble, we shouldn't split up.” You nod briskly in satisfaction. M Ramadi: “Well, since you've got it all worked out so straight and spangly. But, hypothetically, what if we...____________?” Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at 21:28 on Nov 8, 2017 |
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Mar 26, 2016 18:33
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1. A. A potential lifesaver, loyal to us without hating Ramadi, and the most interesting character. 2. E. The drone is useful, versatile, and has the potential to last a long time. 3. L. If Poole wanted us dead or captured, the Khaldean could have done that. Don't start this deal on the wrong foot.
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Mar 26, 2016 19:17
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D G K Violent thing and loud thing sounds good to me.
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Mar 26, 2016 19:26
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HBar posted:1. A. A potential lifesaver, loyal to us without hating Ramadi, and the most interesting character. This.
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Mar 26, 2016 20:41
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Slightly Earlier... Kamula K has a voice that gravel one day aspires to be. “I owe you, Regal, that's why I'm to drop into this without payment upfront.” The cyborg slides the barrel of a flechette burster back into the housing in his wrist with a smooth click and peers up with his single organic eye. “I want you to know, it's not about the money...But I sure as drokk need that money.” “Believe me, as a being what isn't inclined to being turned inside-out by an angry Rigele, I get that. And if it happens that we find need of your...more active services, we'll stay out of the way and let you work.” “That puts you ahead of half the vac-brained marks I've had, but this is different. If we're cod-deep in an ambush, you're going to need me as tactical lead, not just a krumping beatstick. Follow my lead; if those burners on your feet aren't just for show, you may need to do a bit of the lifting yourself. Not as if the Raq is worth drokk in a fight.” You start to object, but can't find fault with the merc's frank assessment. “I see you reckon me. I point out a qwag what needs slotting, you slot said qwag with crumping alacrity. Then maybe we'll all get out with our cache intact.” Now... “Boss has the right of it,” growls Kamula. “all ladies to the krumping ball.” “And me without my pinafore,” Ramadi drawls. You move briskly, sticking to cover wherever possible, approaching the building from the side. Kamula points up, to a second-story landing with a utility hatch next to a viewport, and begins to clamber up the conduits and uneven surfaces of the wall. Ramadi does likewise, her undulating caterpillar fingers bringing her to the top with ease. Taking one last look around, you coil your legs and nimbly spring from an upturned waste hopper, to a stack of corroded shipping containers, to the landing, beating your two companions. Creeping forward to the viewport, you press against the wall and peer into the gloom.  Inside, brandishing a pulser and looking entirely comfortable, is your partner, Poole Midas, having what looks like a spirited and friendly palaver with a gang of Bar-Yen. The massive purple gangsters seem similarly at ease, despite or perhaps because of being heavily armed themselves. “Bar-Yen are the most hierarchical qwags you're like to meet,” Kamula whispers hoarsely, “so let me rush the leader. The rest will well drokk themselves trying to intercept me, and you can evacuate their skulls with relative krumping impunity.” “Eh...how about we find out what's the deal, first,” you rasp. “I brought a little something for that very thing...” Fortunately, your foresight has provided you the means to decipher this worrisome development. Slotting your recon drone's remote viewer into one of the auxiliary ports in your forearm, you reach into the drone's chassis and power it on. The little machine's inner workings crackle distressingly for a moment, before its indicator light glows a healthy green. “Alright little spark,” you croon encouragingly as you prize open a vent grate and shepherd the tiny floating orb inside, “lets get a listen at what's going on, shall we?” In response, the drone turns and gives you what you programmed to be a saucy wink, but Ramadi claims is more of a sarcastic squint, then quietly putters into the dark. Hunkering down over your wristlink, you observe the drone's perceptions. “...and while why the formidable Clan Uvol would want this shipment is a shining certainty, it does set one's mind to spinning as to why the Praxis Cartel's finest enforcer would be involved in such a matter. Seems, one might say, against their interests. Unless...” A ripple of discontent flashes through the assembled Bar-Yen, then breaks into action, as gangsters' weapons train on Poole. Poole, for his part, seems unperturbed, lazily waving his pulser and rolling his eyes. “Stop,” comes a mechanically distorted voice from the cloaked figure. The Bar-Yen jerk back as if leashed, their sensor clusters throbbing with obvious reluctance and anger. Poole smirks and draws breath to speak, but is cut off by the voice. “That was directed to you, as well, Midas. Your mouth seems to be doing its best to write off the rest of your sorry carcass.” “Fury...Can I call you Fury? Please. We've been over this. Should I fail to report in--” The figure steps forward, cutting off Poole's comment. “It will be because you made one ill-conceived bluff too many,” it declares, light gleaming red from the visor of its combat helmet. “I'm not certain these friends of yours even exist. A slimy narcissist like you – you don't have friends. No one would go to the decks for the likes of you, Poole Midas. And when I put you down, no one will even blink.” Poole goggles, for once lost for words. Things look to be heating up... A. Ramadi: “I'm interested to see where this is going; wish I'd popped some endomaize...” B. Kamula: “It's your boy about to get popped...Time to make an entrance.” C. Regal: “Right, we need to get in there, but let's play chel, and see if we can't resolve this without any...popping.” That's what you're doing, but what are you thinking? D. Whatever else Poole is, he's our friend. He landed in a bad spot, and he's trying to stall to give us time to intervene. E. I doubt he actively set us up. He may have slightly rolled over on us to save his own skin, and I can understand that. I may be salty about it, but we'll get past it. It's complicated. F. This whole thing is a double-cross that got away from him. Krump this guy; Kamula can have his share. G. I may have smoked too much or too little spice, and I'm not sure what to make of this whole thing. Reply hazy, ask again later. H. Well, see, ____________________________. Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at 21:30 on Nov 8, 2017 |
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Mar 28, 2016 19:13
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Does our droneymabob have any capabilities other than recon? Comms, graspers etc?
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Mar 28, 2016 19:30
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Blasphemaster posted:Does our droneymabob have any capabilities other than recon? Comms, graspers etc? Comms: You have RF communication with the drone to its effective range, but in practice, you've noticed drop-outs start about 35m. You have used it as a signal repeater before, but this is again short-range. It has hard-wired ability to transmit an emergency-bands distress call. Appendages: You installed a simple, but elegant manipulator that folds away in the chassis. It's fragile, and it's weak, but fairly precise. It is equally proficient at turning screws and petting baby baykits. It also possesses a ventral grasper, that while intended for locking onto perches to save energy, can also be used to carry small loads. It can carry approximately 1kg without overly taxing its repulsors, and somewhere around 3kg before it drops out of the sky. You haven't tested this too rigorously, because it makes the most piteous boops and whistles when it's overtaxed. Repulsors: It can hover at a leisurely stroll without significant noise. If need be, it can fly at up to a brisk jog, with deficits to stealth. The most efficient operating height is within 7 meters of a surface, but the repulsors can hit a ceiling of about 20 meters before stalling out, at increased energy load. Power: Your drone's power cell is good for up to 36 hours of constant, average operation. Modularity: You put this thing together from scrap, and you left room to grow within the chassis, should additional capabilities become important to you in the future.
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Mar 28, 2016 19:57
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Xiphopagus posted:Kamula K has a voice that gravel one day aspires to be.  I think we should have the drone do some quick room scanning to see if there's anything we can exploit as far as bursting pipes with our guns to provide a blinding mist, other distracting things, etc. We don't have a gun, do we? We should probably let Kamula know this if so. If we don't have any respectable ranged weaponry, we should consider having Droney plug into the PA and blasts some Bar-Jen mating calls down the nearest corridor or something to distract the muscle.
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Mar 28, 2016 21:43
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"Work the angles, little guy..." Kamula is aware of your current weapon situation. You lack ranged options, but are capable in melee (if disinclined), and Ramadi may as well be a non-combatant. Kamula is made of guns and knives.
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Mar 28, 2016 23:18
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B & E: One of our favorite crimes.
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Mar 29, 2016 00:19
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1. C 2. H: The Bar-Yen are bad news and Poole is a slimy drokk for making underhanded promises about us, but it looks like they're the client for Poole's deal so we need them alive if we're going to get paid.
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Mar 29, 2016 01:21
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How well armored and how quiet is our drone? If we were to, oh I don't know, have it coast along the ceiling and drop a 1kg brick of plastic explosive into the midst of the muscle would it survive? How high is the ceiling?
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Mar 29, 2016 02:20
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Outrail posted:How well armored and how quiet is our drone? If we were to, oh I don't know, have it coast along the ceiling and drop a 1kg brick of plastic explosive into the midst of the muscle would it survive? How high is the ceiling? Your microdrone is not at all armored, but nearly silent (comparable to station noise) at low speed and altitude. Factoring in room size and the ramshackle condition of the building, detonating an explosive charge would almost certainly kill or maim everyone inside. Which is assuming you could secure such a thing without great difficulty; the outlaws of Thoon may be lax about weapons and equipment maintenance, but people who live in shoddy underwater deathtraps are understandably leery about explosives. Knowing Kamula, though, he could certainly have some shaped microgrenades or something tucked away somewhere. If so, he'd probably play that pretty close to the vest.
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Mar 29, 2016 12:02
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