Suffice to say - the player got bored mid-planning session, and went to 'scout' alone. And by scout, I mean waltz into the small wooded campus surrounding the place, get himself detected by dogs, thereby flagging local security, then continuing with his scouting mission by taking a leisurely swim in the pond in back of the building. Meanwhile, security called Lonestar being as they didn't want to die anytime soon and couldn't quite pin down where the guy who took out the dogs was... He singlehandedly turned an insanely simple cake-walk first mission into something where only pure luck of the dice got him out alive. And unfortunately - Mr.' "I'm gonna solo it" didn't even get what they were hired to get. Much to the open amusement of the local media on reporting the story of "The Amazing Whiff".
So. One of my more sensible players happened to be in an amusing mood, and I received this in-character email not much later....
QUOTE
From: hannibal.lecher@yahoo.com
To: captain.chaos@freeworld.net
Subject: Re: Dividends
As promised, amigo. Enjoy, and, uh, spread the word
- The Mole
- - -
It all began so simply: a crew, hired to do a job. A man, his past unknown even to himself, would come to find his destiny in Denver.
-= The Tale of the Amazing Whiff =-
Our story begins with an innocent soul, beset by amnesia, sociopathy, and possibly leukemia. A tormented heart, his gun his only ally, friend, and sometime lover. Who is this man? Not even he can say for sure. But one thing is certain: his name will enter into legend.
Once he can remember what it is.
I met this man as all great men are met: amidst a flurry of violence, panic and police action. Our fates swiftly intertwined by the thoughtless actions of others, we came to travel together through a maze of fear and darkness, emerging at last with what little remained of our sanity. Sanity we brought as offering to the strange confluence of surreality that is Denver.
All I know of this man I have had to guess, for words are rarely forthcoming, and confessions few. From what my keen eyes have gathered, he appears to be of Asian blood, perchance descended from the noble samurai of old, a hard-wired ronin, safeguarding us from the shadowy shogunate lording over the underworld.
Then again, he may also be French.
We came into Denver for a prize, the proverbial pot of gold. What we found, was a fortress. Unassailable, ever ready to repel, it would be a fool's errand in the best of hands. My team and I needed a plan.
It was then that our soon-to-be-notorious friend slipped from the room, his mind no doubt a-whirl with questions none saw fit to answer. What was he? Why was he here? What was the point of all this reckless wrongdoing? And what in the hell did they put on his salad the night before?
Eager to pin his mind on more finite worries, he set out boldly, alone, to surveil. Like a shadow on the night, he slipped through the city, onto the ground of our coveted castle and into the dark waters besides.
There he lay in wait, his mind unveiling intricate plans untold, each more mind-bendingly ingenius than the one that came before it. It was in this state, this maelstrom of unfettered brilliance, that he was spotted.
One might expect an ordinary man in this situation, submerged in a lake with a single dog at its edge, to flee. But The Whiff is no ordinary man. Nay, he may not be a man at all.
So he stayed on, leading dog after dog to its hasty demise on top of its fallen comrades, laid bare under the night sky as a warning to all that the lake was angry. But soon, in the hour that followed, metal men, who know no fear, approached the lake, and they were not so easily overcome.
Surrounded now, The Whiff knew there was only one way to escape. Using the might of explosives and an almost rudimentary knowledge of high school physics, he was hurled aloft, himself the salvo of a massive hydronic blast, like the laterally-aimed Coke bottles of yore.
With only seconds to act, this human rocket plucked from his hips the faithful lead-spewing companions to whom all his dark secrets were known, and deftly managed to shoot the side of a four-story building without missing once.
Crashing through the shattered glass, he wasted no time in crossing the floor to the object of his desire, and blowing it up, narrowly avoiding security and an almost certain death at the hands of a mob of overworked supergeeks and their mechanized company expenses on wheels.
Nothing could stop The Whiff! Treasure in hand, he scaled the lobby decoration, past the pink azalea turrets and the heat-seeking fountain-mounted flechette batteries. He dashed into the open, leaving the hapless Lone Star strike force to fumble over themselves aimlessly like a band of one-legged platypi.
Zipping away in his patented red lambougini, The Whiff disappeared like a streak in the night, chasing the horizon onward towards dawn. Will we ever see him again? None of us yet know. But one thing is for sure:
He's going to be pissed when he sees what's on that CD...
To: captain.chaos@freeworld.net
Subject: Re: Dividends
As promised, amigo. Enjoy, and, uh, spread the word
- The Mole
- - -
It all began so simply: a crew, hired to do a job. A man, his past unknown even to himself, would come to find his destiny in Denver.
-= The Tale of the Amazing Whiff =-
Our story begins with an innocent soul, beset by amnesia, sociopathy, and possibly leukemia. A tormented heart, his gun his only ally, friend, and sometime lover. Who is this man? Not even he can say for sure. But one thing is certain: his name will enter into legend.
Once he can remember what it is.
I met this man as all great men are met: amidst a flurry of violence, panic and police action. Our fates swiftly intertwined by the thoughtless actions of others, we came to travel together through a maze of fear and darkness, emerging at last with what little remained of our sanity. Sanity we brought as offering to the strange confluence of surreality that is Denver.
All I know of this man I have had to guess, for words are rarely forthcoming, and confessions few. From what my keen eyes have gathered, he appears to be of Asian blood, perchance descended from the noble samurai of old, a hard-wired ronin, safeguarding us from the shadowy shogunate lording over the underworld.
Then again, he may also be French.
We came into Denver for a prize, the proverbial pot of gold. What we found, was a fortress. Unassailable, ever ready to repel, it would be a fool's errand in the best of hands. My team and I needed a plan.
It was then that our soon-to-be-notorious friend slipped from the room, his mind no doubt a-whirl with questions none saw fit to answer. What was he? Why was he here? What was the point of all this reckless wrongdoing? And what in the hell did they put on his salad the night before?
Eager to pin his mind on more finite worries, he set out boldly, alone, to surveil. Like a shadow on the night, he slipped through the city, onto the ground of our coveted castle and into the dark waters besides.
There he lay in wait, his mind unveiling intricate plans untold, each more mind-bendingly ingenius than the one that came before it. It was in this state, this maelstrom of unfettered brilliance, that he was spotted.
One might expect an ordinary man in this situation, submerged in a lake with a single dog at its edge, to flee. But The Whiff is no ordinary man. Nay, he may not be a man at all.
So he stayed on, leading dog after dog to its hasty demise on top of its fallen comrades, laid bare under the night sky as a warning to all that the lake was angry. But soon, in the hour that followed, metal men, who know no fear, approached the lake, and they were not so easily overcome.
Surrounded now, The Whiff knew there was only one way to escape. Using the might of explosives and an almost rudimentary knowledge of high school physics, he was hurled aloft, himself the salvo of a massive hydronic blast, like the laterally-aimed Coke bottles of yore.
With only seconds to act, this human rocket plucked from his hips the faithful lead-spewing companions to whom all his dark secrets were known, and deftly managed to shoot the side of a four-story building without missing once.
Crashing through the shattered glass, he wasted no time in crossing the floor to the object of his desire, and blowing it up, narrowly avoiding security and an almost certain death at the hands of a mob of overworked supergeeks and their mechanized company expenses on wheels.
Nothing could stop The Whiff! Treasure in hand, he scaled the lobby decoration, past the pink azalea turrets and the heat-seeking fountain-mounted flechette batteries. He dashed into the open, leaving the hapless Lone Star strike force to fumble over themselves aimlessly like a band of one-legged platypi.
Zipping away in his patented red lambougini, The Whiff disappeared like a streak in the night, chasing the horizon onward towards dawn. Will we ever see him again? None of us yet know. But one thing is for sure:
He's going to be pissed when he sees what's on that CD...
... and The Amazing Whiff even had the audacity to call it a "fortress". I'll show him a fortress - they're wanting to take on the Glamis Castle mission from Big D's will next...