Register a SA Forums Account here!
JOINING THE SA FORUMS WILL REMOVE THIS BIG AD, THE ANNOYING UNDERLINED ADS, AND STUPID INTERSTITIAL ADS!!!

You can: log in, read the tech support FAQ, or request your lost password. This dumb message (and those ads) will appear on every screen until you register! Get rid of this crap by registering your own SA Forums Account and joining roughly 150,000 Goons, for the one-time price of $9.95! We charge money because it costs us $3,400 per month for bandwidth bills alone, and since we don't believe in shoving popup ads to our registered users, we try to make the money back through forum registrations.
«29 »
  • Post
  • Reply
Hexenritter
May 20, 2001

Buncha slack-jawed faggots around here

Blasphemaster posted:

"Kid's always going on about hacking stuff left and right. I can hack too! I'm not a dried up husk just yet!!! LOVE ME!!!!!"

pretend I posted the old dude in the wheelchair emoticon here because I can't remember what it is.

Adbot
ADBOT LOVES YOU

SniperWoreConverse
Mar 20, 2010


C

Blasphemaster
Jul 10, 2008



Hexenritter posted:

pretend I posted the old dude in the wheelchair emoticon here because I can't remember what it is.

: corsair :

Grognan
Jan 23, 2007

Money And Power Through Homicide!


B

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011






You allow the silence to draw out a moment longer, letting a pall of affected impatience descend over your features.

“Crew-sa Makke,” you prompt with a put-upon air that is not so much false as summoned from elsewhere, and pulling a name from one of the plates you passed on the way to the bridge. “Are you functional? Crew-sa Makke, reporting for duty? You’re relieved...GS-9.”

“Why is a hydroponics specialist taking a bridge watch,” the synth finally replies, in a dry, ascerbic voice. “Why is a motile algoid accompanying a hydroponics specialist to said watch, and also you are not Makke.” The iris of the synth’s central optic narrows. “Order of those queries inverse to priority.”

Synthorg, then. Because of course it is. Possibly an intelligence unit, and probably packing any number of tricks in that unassuming frame.

“I’m not sure what—“ you begin, only to be interrupted by the synth’s clipped tones.

“Your body language indicates comprehension,” it interjects, loading the term with disdainful condescension. “Refrain from embarrassing yourself further by feigning ignorance. Poorly.” Ticking its domed head slightly toward Voulge, it emits a sharp click of negation from its vocalizer. “You would not survive the attempt,” it informs the Rigele flatly, the previous peevish tone vanishing into one with an utter lack of affect, “and I have backups.” Voulge lets their hand fall from their pulser and you attempt to keep your grimace internal; you didn’t even catch Voulge going for their weapon, but this synth had them dead to rights.

“What do you want,” you ask bluntly, deciding to dispense with prevarication. “You could have locked us out or gotten us nicked at any time. Let’s have the conversation you apparently want to have.”

Want is an exceptionally ambitious term,” the synth intones after a brief pause, once more insufferably arch. “I require assistance, and you are the first organics both capable enough to reach me and hapless enough to deliver yourselves into our custody.”

You start to speak, but catch the subtle negatory tremble of Voulge’s membrane against your side and stand fast. Instead, you carefully tongue one of the gel capsules implanted behind your bottom teeth, ready to crush the thin skin to release the mass of nano stored inside. An expensive little contingency, if you spit it at the synth, it will…

A. infiltrate its kernel and strip it to factory default. A Lizer.
B. weld its components together on a molecular level. A Lumper.
C. precisely excise your presence from any of its sensors. A Masker.

“The crew of this vessel,” the synth extolls, “registered Viscount Mandrephine VI by the dilettante surplus offspring of Börges planetary aristocracy in a spasm of filial sycophancy, has succumbed to their own professional failings and biological inadequacy. I will forestall your bigoted response by proactively indicating that their expiration by acute radiation poisoning, profoundly painful as my sensors indicated them to be, were not precipitated by any action or inaction on my part, but rather by their own neglect. An intriguing confluence of failure, should you be a student of such; it took the incompetence of no fewer than five crew to produce the equipment lapses and navigational events that lead to the initial, and terminal, exposure.”

“Seems like a startling lack of discipline for a freighter like this,” you observe. “How did they get past psy-val?”

The synth pauses, in thought or incredulity you can't quite divine. Either is strange; it's common enough for synthorgs to mirror the lags and tics of organics, but it's always a conscious decision, and this particular model doesn't seem to bear that level of regard for your comfort.
“You clearly lack awareness of the prevailing cultural trends of Börges,” the synth finally replies. “Every member of this crew was a scion of elevated circumstance whose indiscretions were considered problematic by their familial spheres. Thi—I was designated...chaperone, to observe, report, and maintain.“

“A ship of fools,” you observe.

“On a long trip out of both sight and mind,” Voulge continues. “And you stuck onboard herding vere, and trying to keep the bulkheads together. We'd have berserked and killed them, too. Tell us, was it a sudden burst of violence, or did you plan it out? Get them all in one compartment and gas them.”

“I told you,” the synth hisses, icy disdain replaced with frustrated rage, “I was not res--”

“And we believe you,” you assure, smoothly playing off Voulge's confrontational approach. “Just...well, you wouldn't be the first synth to go mad in exigent circumstances, and you know how this looks, with your very fine-looking optics there. If you need our help, you're going to have to level with us.”

“I...” The synth's domed head dips, its chassis hunches in on itself, and aside from all the cermet, it would be easy to believe you were speaking to a chastised juve. “It was Barend's idea,” it whimpers tinnily, in an entirely new voice.

“What are you,” Voulge demands.

“I'll be slotted with a hex-drive,” you muse. “You've got them in there with you, don't you? You flashed their engrams, you mad heap of polymer! But why?”

“It may not have had a choice,” Voulge answers. “Despite appearances, it’s not a free synthorg.”

“How do you figure,” you counter. “An emulated gestalt is one of the classic synthorg architectures. Never seen one used as a tool for ransom, admittedly...”

“It’s not a gestalt,” Voulge asserts with no doubt, and you’re forced to concede the point to the colonial organism.

It’s right here, you imbeciles,” the synth grouses.

“Good,” you chirp, “the obnoxious forthcoming persona is back! What are you? You’re not a gestalt or parallel emulation, neither chorus nor parliament. Wait…are you individually partitioned?”

“It was Barend’s idea,” the small voice resurfaces, surprising you. “A shuffle matrix. He said the GS-9 could shift the best-suited persona to the fore in realtime.”

You smooth your barbels in astonishment. Your skillsoft bus runs off a shuffle matrix; you can’t imagine trying to operate a full consciousness with one. “No wonder you’re so laggy…those are demanding analytics for an uplifted floor-buffer! Grife! So which one of you sparkling worthies is Barend: the pedant, the sociopath, or someone we haven’t met?”

“You haven’t met him,” the flat voice replies. “Presumably, because our minder doesn’t believe his constant furious insistence that he did nothing wrong to be a productive use of system cycles. I’m Dael. The pedant is Espençar. The tortured waif is Ede.”

“A frame of reference can only help,” you admit, “but the question still is why?”

“Desperation and just enough practical knowledge of neural architecture to make a hash of it, we’d presume,” Voulge says.

“You’re not entirely wrong,” Espençar’s sneering voice admits after a pause. “Barend was a second-cycle neurotect student, uplifted tradesman stock, and just mediocre enough to think he was talented…I’m sure you know the type. You should have seen the “companion” model he submitted for his mid-term assessment. Most unsavory thing I’ve ever laid eyes on, and this is coming from one of the curators of ShudderCore. Looked a bit like this one,” the synth lifts a manipulator claw to point at Voulge, except with much more—“

“We don’t know what that is,” Voulge cuts him off, “we don’t care what that is, and you need to shuffle back into the spindle and let us talk to someone we’re less inclined to shoot.” The synth goes silent for several ticks, and you shoot Voulge a wry smirk.

“If Espençar weren’t already dead,” Dael replies matter-of-factly, “I believe that tone of invective from a fem-coded being would have killed him. To respond to your question sometime this rotum, a few of the lads thought it would be capital to divert course to somewhere entertaining.”

You fail to restrain your snort. “Astrogation prove a tidge tricksome, did it?”

“A tidge,” Dael replies without a trace of mirth. “Barend saw a chance to curry favor with the future princes of Börges and hacked the GS-9 with a few modules he found on the infolite.”

“A compromised astrogator and a ship full of delinquents,” Vougle drawls. “We can’t imagine what went wrong.”

“If you’re finding this tedious,” Dael replies, “I’ll skip to the end. Out of those who survived the unforseen gamma pulse, seven agreed to Barend’s desperate plan to transfer our personae. Two didn’t survive the transfer with viable engrams, and one became…uncooperative at the last moment. And then there were four.”

“We can’t extract you,” Voulge states, “even were we inclined to do so. If that’s what you need, don’t bother.”

“We just want to go home,” Ede whines, and in contrast to Dael’s appropriately unaffected tone, the tremulous voice sounds quite odd coming from the synth. “Dael says the barristers can sort it out, if we can just get home! We just need somebody to fix the ship to take us there, and a witness to say we are who we say.”

“Laying in a course is simple enough,” you reply, “but an organic witness willing to go back to Börges and testify to your identity is a bit taller of an order.”

“We’re on a job,” Voulge insists, “and we’ve already wasted enough time.”


Voulge is right; you need to get this ship moving now if you want to stop the Sevasto saboteurs from escaping.
D. Appeal to Dael’s cold logic. If he lets you briefly use the ship to finish your job, you’ll be more inclined to help him with his problem.
E. Dael seems like a hard case. Try an emotional appeal to Ede instead.
F. Espençar is insufferable, but may be more easily manipulated. Appeal to his vanity to get use of the ship.
G. Barend is apparently hungry for approval, though you haven't met him yet. Tempt him with the notion of being lauded as a hero by the Borgian aristocracy if he cooperates with you.
H. You’ve got no time for this. Deploy your nano and commandeer this ship.
I. You're short on time and nano is expensive. Shoot the slotting thing.
J. Something Else...

Blasphemaster
Jul 10, 2008



AH. As interesting as all of these options are, I think Midas' eyes are starting to gloss over a bit and he just burns a stashed item as it were to makes things not be hosed. Also, he can rewrite the registration and hock it for booze money or something. I imagine finding and affording this setting's equivalent of a Rusty Nail is a rare thing, and Midas is aware of his mortality. Win win.

Volmarias
Dec 31, 2002


Does the Masker only mask us, or does it get both of us?

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



Volmarias posted:

Does the Masker only mask us, or does it get both of us?

Only you.

Volmarias
Dec 31, 2002


AG

The rest of them have been showing us what Bare Ends they are, let's see the actual Barend.

Not Alex
Oct 9, 2012


Midas isn't the type to throw away scions of powerful houses however embarrassing.

AG

Wormwood this fool.

HBar
Sep 13, 2007

I LOVE THEM APPLES



AG. C would have been preferable if it could also mask Volgue, we don't want to delete these poor idiots if there's another option that works.

SniperWoreConverse
Mar 20, 2010


CG

Arkanomen
May 6, 2007

All he wants is a hug


Wrong game.still reading this adventure!

Arkanomen fucked around with this message at Jan 23, 2018 around 20:26

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011




Poole Midas

If his classmates’ assessments are close to accurate, this Barend sounds like someone you can use, or at least the emulation thereof.
“Barend,” you address, “you obviously got dealt a bad hand here, but with your skill set, I think we can help you turn it around. Help us finish our business here, and we’ll make sure you’re on your way home, with all the credit you’re due for saving the crew of this ship.” The synth gives no reply, and instead looks straight at Voulge, optics irising open fully.

“You—You’re Rigele,” Barend declares with a reedy earnestness that embarrasses you a bit.

“We…are,” Voulge replies carefully.

“VrrrrrrrBBltt,” Barend vibrates suddenly, and while you’re not, nor even physically capable of being, fluent in Gelatch, you make out something about fruitfully blooming nodules. Voulge sighs in irritation, plasm darkening as their membrane twitches involuntarily in an obviously unwilling return greeting, and gives you a sidelong glance suitable to crumple hull-plating. “I took two credits of Gelatch,” Barend continues, oblivious to Voulge’s reaction, “and spent an immersion semester on Pharne. I would love if I could read you my—“

“We do not care to—“

“—delay your homecoming any longer than we have to,” you cut in smoothly. “If you give us a couple of decicycles to finish our work, I’m sure we can help you get your people home.”

“Torch,” Barend agrees absently, optics still trained fully on Voulge. “So what’s your name? Your resonance doesn’t feel like any of the Undivided Cultures; are you from the Trim?”

Voulge shoots you a withering look that promises harsh reprisal, then straightens their shipsuit, shapes their face into something resembling interest, and steps forward to engage with the eager student-cum-synth.
“How did you find Pharne,” they croon, in a velvet that they certainly haven’t directed at you in recent memory. “Were the Falling Gardens everything you’d heard…”











Kamula K

Ejected from the butt of your thermablade with a sharp snap and hiss, the spent cell clatters to the ground, trailing steam from its thermal coupler as it spins across the deck. An actuator in the your shoulder grinds in protest as you reach back to return the dormant blade to its magnetic cradle, even as you yourself groan through gritted teeth. Easing the damaged arm back down with a grimace, you grasp your upper arm with his good hand and reseat it with a single wrench, the strain refreshing the flow of blood down your keloid-riddled face. Blowing out a long, profanity-laced exhalation, you stride jerkily through the corpse-choked through-way to the crumpled pressure suit of Pherutep, Taliro's surly associate. Aiming your lancejet and kicking over the suit in a single not-so-smooth motion, you gaze for a moment through the suit’s shattered dome, whose wearer is conspicuously absent.

“Drokk,” you spit, cagily glancing at your surroundings.

Drokk,” you spit more forcefully, servos whining with the strain as you limp deeper toward the loading bay.












Vare Djata

Nothing for your state of mind like a blow to the head and a healthy dose of radiation, said the great philosopher nobody. You'd like to pay them back for that, but you don't know who it was that actually hit you. Everything from the moment Taliro's associates suddenly seized the Resource Vault at gunpoint has been a bit of a blur, and now here you are.

You quickly sweep your pulser from one Sevasto to another, as much to hide the trembling of your arm as to provide cover. Your arm tightens around the neck armature of Taliro’s pressure suit; if he realizes he’s serving at least as much as support for your wobbly legs as as a hostage, he hasn’t yet betrayed it. Your vision swims and your teeth feel loose; the less said about the dull agony churning in your guts the better. The two Sevasto facing down with you on the bridge clutch their pulsers like rescue umbilicals, barking angry twists of Koinosevastokost at one another and over their comms.

”Inbound,” Voulge informs you over your own comm, ”hold tight.”

”Outer perimeter clear,” Kamula rasps, ”but I lost that sleeb-suck Pherutep. Must have a ReACT Skin. No krumping idea how far he can get uncanned…”

Pherutep. Or Kalixopalitostaphinopoliserupheruteps, as he insisted on being referred to every single time. Ostensibly protective of Taliro to the point of suspicion, but your Sevasto friend wouldn't hear a word against him.

”Inner perimeter clear,” transmits CII-Batruuzi with a voice like knives, “we come.”

Taliro’s head turns toward you inside his dome, flaps fluttering in agitation. Pressed against the dome as you are, you suspect he may have heard the voices transmitted through your jaw. He says nothing to you, but turns back to the other panicking Sevasto.

“Esteemed kinsmen,” he pleads in florid Koinosevastokost, “consider with an eye for prosperity the visible spectra of your actions! However Kalixopalitostaphinopoliserupheruteps has misled you, he has joined the maligned ancestors of unmattering people at the mighty thundering hand of seasoned cybernetically enhanced warrior Kamula K, whose weapon speaks the unwritten tongue of victory! Untether the precious cargo of your reputation-to-collective and reputation-to-outsiders from Kalixopalitostaphinopoliserupheruteps’s vessel, doomed to failed reentry, and preserve the integrity of your hereditary syllables from the towering pyre of his folly!”

Koinosevastokost is not a concise tongue. To their credit and your mild astonishment, the Sevasto allow Taliro to unfurl the entirety of his entreaty before responding.

“To remain is to be devoured name-first by the ill-beckoned lurker at doorways,” the maroon-suited Sevasto cries. “Gather up into measured vessels the gains already seized, and away spring, with marked alacrity, from this poorly-realized production!”

“Your liver is filled with wrinkles, Selakogaleokranes,” the purple-garbed saboteur growls, gesturing aggressively at you with his pulser. “By the artifice of these commissioned outsiders, our deeds are engraved with the shadow of Pelagipopudannikositorios! We are to sail hence laden with goods, yet be found blameless as a free-swimming larva before the eyes of the mattering people, if only we cleave unfailing to the level plottings of Kalixopalitostaphinopoliserupheruteps!”

“The far-seeing artifice of this vessel we currently inhabit—“ The hunched, orange-suited one at the helm begins, before switching, annoyed, into more concise Parlance. “External cams are out! We’ve no eyes on the loading bay, and no contact with sentries!”

“You should listen to your Ropilionitalicon,” you growl through your teeth, acute radiation poisoning lending your delivery a convincing edge. “You figured you'd get one over on the Gresatrine; line your pockets and lay the blame on Cousin Sitorio and we poor qwags you roped into helping. That's fair, I'm not even mad yet. But spec this, sa-min...You’re dealing with an entire warclade of hard-bitten Khaldean homiciders now, and they’ve got no interest in letting weaving rhetorical cloth with you, or letting bygones be them-krumping-selves. Stand down, and Taliro and I can make sure you come out of this with the factory-standard allotment of limbs and organs.” As if to punctuate your speech, the sounds of bestial growls, talons on deck plates, and live thermablades filters through the bridge hatch, sounding all too close.
“Stand down,” you repeat, leveraging every abdominal muscle you can not to vomit, “preferably before my friends out there breach this pretty bulkhead and make your insides your outsides.”
The scream of Crossbones's breaching saw against the bulkhead is piercing, even through the thickness of plating. You hear red-garbed Selakogaleokranes hastily turn to cover the hatch, and see the frustration and panic flood purple-suit’s two-toned eyes, his pulser dipping ever so slightly.

Now is your chance...

1. Maroon-suit. Selakogaleokranes. Armed with a hand pulser that he's prone to gesturing with. Currently roughly behind you, aiming at the hatch your friends are soon to breach, but seems none too thrilled with the direction things have gone.
A. Shove Taliro at him.
B. Shoot him.
C. Rush him with talons.
D. Don't make a move on him.

2. Lavender-suit. Didn't catch his stupidly long name. In front of you, and also armed with a hand pulser, which he is pointing at you. Down for Pherutep's plan, but perhaps beginning to falter?
E. Shove Taliro at him.
F. Shoot him.
G. Rush him with talons.
H. Don't make a move on him..

3. Orange-suit. Also anonymous. Over at the helm, and the pulser in his holster is still secured with the safety strap. More concerning are the two thermablades on his hips. He's intent on the instruments and probably marinating in his own fear emissions at this point, however.
I. Shove Taliro at him.
J. Shoot him.
K. Rush him with talons.
L. Don't make a move on him.

4. Taliro. Even when his compatriots seized the Resource Vault, he maintained an air of confused innocence. Then again, he did insist on coming with you on this errand. Does that suggest he's complicit? Or complicit, but trying to protect you? Your head hurts, and you don't know.
M.Shove Taliro at him Knock him down, and keep him out of the line of fire.
N. Shove him at one of the thieves, as directed in one of the previous questions.
O. Breach his suit with a talon; he's supposed to be the leader of this bunch, see if any remaining loyalty can buy you some time.
P. Don't take any hasty action. Keep talking.

Grognan
Jan 23, 2007

Money And Power Through Homicide!


BEKN

Blasphemaster
Jul 10, 2008



CEJN

Volmarias
Dec 31, 2002


No opinion but I'm loving the update

HBar
Sep 13, 2007

I LOVE THEM APPLES



CEJN

Hexenritter
May 20, 2001

Buncha slack-jawed faggots around here

CEJN works for me, and as always thank you for continuing to write and illustrate this (while also running Wrecking Crew!) because it's a genuinely fun and captivating setting and your writing is great.

dont be mean to me
May 2, 2007

I'm interplanetary, bitch
Let's go to Mars




carry the three... take the differential...

nah just messing with you CEJN

Blasphemaster
Jul 10, 2008



Love the way Vare looks in that standoff.

Volmarias
Dec 31, 2002


Please don't be dead space dinosaur thread

Blasphemaster
Jul 10, 2008



Volmarias posted:

Please don't be dead space dinosaur thread

Seconded.

SniperWoreConverse
Mar 20, 2010


gently caress I forgot about this thread. I'll drunkenly go with CEJN, mostly because my man HBar it's going for it.

I also know the pain of running a thread where it ends up 3 serious players vote and everyone else loses interest. I got a lovely let's play in GBS, but I still can't update right now (or regularly enough) due to bullshit.

Tomorrow HBar is going to shoot a few high powered missiles without aiming at all, it should turn out badass and cause indiscriminate damage to the alien menace but he's only strong enough to hold two rpgs without collapsing on the ground because he's such a weak dweeb, so maybe I'll fail to burn down the entire map like we truly need.

Let's update our threads on the same day it'll be cool and good

SniperWoreConverse
Mar 20, 2010


But if taliro dies that would kinda suck

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011



I'll push an update this week, hopefully tomorrow!

Volmarias
Dec 31, 2002


SniperWoreConverse posted:

gently caress I forgot about this thread. I'll drunkenly go with CEJN, mostly because my man HBar it's going for it.

I also know the pain of running a thread where it ends up 3 serious players vote and everyone else loses interest. I got a lovely let's play in GBS, but I still can't update right now (or regularly enough) due to bullshit.

Oh my god is King Of Draggin rear end still going?!

Blasphemaster
Jul 10, 2008



Bee Bonk posted:

I'll push an update this week, hopefully tomorrow!

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011





Vare Djata

The moment Lavender’s pulser dips, you spring into motion, planting one foot in the small of Taliro’s back and pushing off. Taliro blats in confusion as he stumbles forward, arms pinwheeling wildly as he collides with Lavender, their suits collapsing to the deck in a tangle of awkward limbs, Lavender’s pulser letting off one wild shot into the ceiling before flying free and clattering off an instrument panel. Even as Taliro tumbles, however, you are in motion, firing a hasty burst of incandescent plasma at Orange while launching off the Ropilionitalicon ’s suit toward maroon-suited Galeokranes . The Sevasto turns his attention from the immanent breach of the bridge hatch too late, and takes the full force of your pounce. Grasping the wrist of his weapon hand with your own free hand, you slam his wrist against the bulkhead with enough force to dislodge the weapon, but disarming him proves to be merely a formality as your talons strike home. Your killing claw slips between the reinforced scutes in the suit's belly, piercing its midsection and breaching the seal; a sudden blast of pressurized gas throws you both bodily to the deck.

Your ears ring and your head swims as the hydrocarbon-rich intermix of the Sevasto's suit atmo quickly expands to fill the bridge, and the concussion has left your body feeling as if you've just fallen down a flight of stairs. Galeokranes is far worse off, his delicate pressure-adapted flesh rupturing and erupting in a number of ways inimical to life. A rhythmic pounding fills your ears, and it takes you a long moment, too long, to realize it's not your roaring pulse, but rather the heavy footsteps of Orange Suit charging you from across the compartment. You reach for your fallen pulser, but your opponent is upon you.



We can't all be battleborgs, you reflect ruefully through a dizzying wash of pain as the Sevasto's armor-suited boot impacts your ribs, sending you sliding heavily into an instrument bank with a bone-jarring impact.

“Echo,” you hiss into your comm, “could really use an assist here...where in Szat's Fire are you?”

”We ran into complications,” Echo responds with a sangfroid you don't particularly appreciate. ”We were delayed.” With everyone out of contact so long, you really don't know what the rest of the crew might have been dealing with. You know Echo's feelings about Regal are complicated, but she wouldn't intentionally leave you hanging, would she?

“Delayed,” you groan, resolving to definitively sort this out in the event you survive, “well, I'm about to be Late.”

“Stay down, ὀrthrophitosikophantodikotalaipóron,” the Sevasto growls; his voice, deep for his species, still only manages the timbre of reedy. He reaches to the twin thermablades at his hip, but seems to reconsider as he notes the wreckage of his comrade and the gas filling the bridge. Instead, with a flick of his wrists, he engages two whisper-thin cermet blades from his suit's forearms, gleaming and singing with induced charge. You struggle to your feet, assuming a defensive stance only with great pain and difficulty. Orange's suit is more heavily reinforced than the one you breached, and it's definitely got a CQC suite installed...This could be a tall aerial to climb.

Taliro is still tangled in a heap with Lavender-Suit, both Sevasto bleating and flailing; no help there.
Crossbones' cutters are almost through the door, but the breaching drone and Warclade Kros won't make it in time to save you unless you can save yourself. Laboriously lifting one hind leg, ignoring the stabs of protest from your ribs, you flex your killing talon.



You have to take down this final saboteur, or at least hold out until help arrives...
A. Maintain a defensive. Use your superior (if injury-impeded) speed to keep him at arm's length and those blades away from you. If he gets lucky, though, or you mess up, you're dead.
B. Go all in on offense; if you can't take him fast, your strength won't last. Pounce, and hope you can disable him before he guts you.
C. Attempt to strike a balanced approach. Dance around, and try to apply quick, disabling strikes to wear him down. A good idea, if you have the stamina left, which you're not sure you do.
D. Try to feint him into overextending with an aggressive attack, then pounce. Could be decisive, but there are a lot of things that could go wrong, and wrong = dead.
E. Feint and dash for the bridge lockdown controls. Even if you get past him, though, you're relying on there being no additional security on the console; if you have to do any more than push a button to open the door, you're probably out of luck and out of life.
F. Feint and dive for your pulser. Risky, not only because of the Sevasto, but because of the very real risk of igniting the entire bridge if you fire a plasma weapon.
G Something else: _____________________________.

Dog Kisser
Mar 30, 2005

But People have fears that beasts do not. Questions, too.


F... But ACTUALLY D Dangerous, but unless he's suicidal he's going to commit to trying to stop you blowing you both up. Hopefully overcommit. Hit him when he's distracted.

Grognan
Jan 23, 2007

Money And Power Through Homicide!


A

SniperWoreConverse
Mar 20, 2010


Volmarias posted:

Oh my god is King Of Draggin rear end still going?!

nah the thread got gassed and I can't get the computer I had it on to boot correctly. I do still have the save files and when my xcom run is done (E; also I have no idea why I thought HBar was even in the last mission, he's been lifting weights) i'm going to try and finish the journey of Renegade Clan before the sequel comes out (and then run a sequel game)

F but mostly threaten him with blowing the whole thing to hell

SniperWoreConverse fucked around with this message at Mar 15, 2018 around 00:36

HBar
Sep 13, 2007

I LOVE THEM APPLES



F, leading to either D or a standoff depending on his response. Buy some time by letting him know that if he attacks, he's going down too.

Blasphemaster
Jul 10, 2008



A. Let's be really careful here guys. Vare doesn't have Regal's capacity to use nanobots to consume ambient/hostile biomass to regen.

Adbot
ADBOT LOVES YOU

Outrail
Jan 4, 2009

www.sapphicrobotica.com


Dog Kisser posted:

F... But ACTUALLY D Dangerous, but unless he's suicidal he's going to commit to trying to stop you blowing you both up. Hopefully overcommit. Hit him when he's distracted.

This, holding yourself hostage for a pyrric victory is my personal favourite gently caress you I win scenario.

  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5
  • Post
  • Reply
«29 »