Greg looks around the room, stopping at each in turn. Each a proven dedicated member and follower of the Humanis Policlub of many years.
"We have to do something to those God Damned spawn of the Devil and his Wife, three times cursed orks. Just because they are holed up down in that slag pit, does not mean we let them have an easier time than such scum as they are, should have. “Greg takes some rapid breaths, removing spittle off his lips.
“Fungitech is even hiring some the drek heads as non menial labor!!! Who the drek does Fungitech think they are, drek them and their mushrooms. I would not even let my dog drink their mushroom derived pig swill of a beer.�Greg’s eyes focus again.
“Candy Arsed Lone Star will not go down and bust heads, says the Corporation is not paid to go down there.� Greg uses a handkerchief to wipe his sweating unibrow. “I think they are scared of the drek head mages and their so called Uber spirits.� He meets each one’s eyes, in turn, pausing briefly then on to the next.
“So do you all have the Balls and Grit to go do some cleaning up, even if the drek heads have a spirit to two?� Smiling broadly as he finishes, waiting for the reaction.
“Hell Drekking Yes, Screw those Drekking Orks� Echoes around the room for several minutes.
In the midst of yells and cheers, a crash is heard in the back of the room.
“How the Drek did that get in here!!! It’s a Drekking Ork sneaking in using that Drekking magics."
The ork figure dressed in stealth suit is surrounded quickly.
“Don’t kill it yet, I have some questions to ask it a few times.� Greg smiles broadly.
“Go Drek yourself in Fungitek beer, Breeder.�A deep voice coming from the ork figure says.
“Come Closer I want to know you all better.�
“Get back something is wrong!!�
An Explosion rocks the room as the ork head explodes, scattering bloody debris in a large area.
In another location far removed from the surface.
“Most unfortunate he got caught, but he took a few with him. The information he provided will be of great Value to us in the near future. We can expect more raids into our Ork Underground.� Mama Growby turns off the Simsense recording of the event, takes off the Trod Net.
“We will need some more supplies than we normally do, do we have the teams to acquire such?�
“Yes we do, shall I send the word for a Gathering?�Ivan the Breaker looks eager for the expected answer.
“As was said in long ago television.�Mama Growby smiles showing her tusks proudly “Make It So�
“By your Command� Ivan the Breaker looks unfocused.
Your Comm Links receive a message. <<<Meeting at Busta Kaps, 07:15 am, dress accordingly.>>>
Full Version: IC: Ork Underground Needs Runners
St. Juste's house, 6 am
The beep of the commlink's alarm clock resonated from the empty basement walls, making St. Juste twitch on the worn-out mattres.
He patted around until he grabbed a hold of the item, glancing at the fading display through beady eyes.
He sat up reluctantly, his foot hitting an empty bottle of Orkstaff XXX.
Why do jobs always have to start like this?
As he looked around, he saw a hand full of huddled figures spread out over the room, asleep on dusty, cigarette-burned carpets, in an old reclining chair or on the bare floor, using their jackets as pillows.
Fun times.
The guy next to St. Juste, an unkempt, skinny human with cobalt-blue spikes that where crooked from sleeping on them at the right side of his head, but still pointed as if he had smeared cement in them on the other, blinked and looked up at him.
Work to do, work to do. Told you yesterday, remember?, St. Juste said drowsily while he got up.
In fact, he didn't recall having told the kid that he'd have to get up early for the job, or talking to him at all.
For all he knew, the guy might have arrived at the party after St. Juste had alread gotten to bed in the basement, which might explain why he just stared at St. Juste in confusion and fell aslepp again.
The ogre checked wether he'd have to change his clothes, shrugged at the smell of stale smoke and beer and looked through the crates in the corner.
Is that...eh...accordingly? he asked, directed at no one in particular, while holding up a faded Casualties shirt.
_______________________
10 minutes later
St. juste stepped down into the basement, walked up to a closet in the corner and paused briefly to look into a stained mirror on the wall.
He appeared tired, his eyes slightly bloodshot.
He cursed himself for having to cast that stupid spell twice.
Hopefully, the additional edge it would give him in case of trouble would make up for that.
But at least he had finally opted for some decent -and unworn-, well-fitting clothes, wearing a dark-red shirt and black pants under his trusted old armor jacket.
A woolen, grey flatcap covered his head and he carefully adjusted it, critically looking at his reflection.
Even though he wasn't that tall, the mirror wasn't hung high enough for his face, so he bend backwards a little, raising his eyebrows, inspecting his two short, broad tusks and feeling his heavy, protruding chin that gave him a grim, rugged and determined look (well, at least he had been told so).
Could need a shave...well, enough money left to buy some new blades.
But more of that certainly wouldn't hurt...the house won't fix itself.
Trés chic.
Let's go! he said to himself, walking over into the corner of the cellar.
He opened the door of the old closet, reached behind a moth-eaten navy coat and pressed his thumb up against the maglock hidden there.
He stepped inside, opening the secret exit, closing the door behind him and entered the Ork Underground.
The beep of the commlink's alarm clock resonated from the empty basement walls, making St. Juste twitch on the worn-out mattres.
He patted around until he grabbed a hold of the item, glancing at the fading display through beady eyes.
He sat up reluctantly, his foot hitting an empty bottle of Orkstaff XXX.
Why do jobs always have to start like this?
As he looked around, he saw a hand full of huddled figures spread out over the room, asleep on dusty, cigarette-burned carpets, in an old reclining chair or on the bare floor, using their jackets as pillows.
Fun times.
The guy next to St. Juste, an unkempt, skinny human with cobalt-blue spikes that where crooked from sleeping on them at the right side of his head, but still pointed as if he had smeared cement in them on the other, blinked and looked up at him.
Work to do, work to do. Told you yesterday, remember?, St. Juste said drowsily while he got up.
In fact, he didn't recall having told the kid that he'd have to get up early for the job, or talking to him at all.
For all he knew, the guy might have arrived at the party after St. Juste had alread gotten to bed in the basement, which might explain why he just stared at St. Juste in confusion and fell aslepp again.
The ogre checked wether he'd have to change his clothes, shrugged at the smell of stale smoke and beer and looked through the crates in the corner.
Is that...eh...accordingly? he asked, directed at no one in particular, while holding up a faded Casualties shirt.
_______________________
10 minutes later
St. juste stepped down into the basement, walked up to a closet in the corner and paused briefly to look into a stained mirror on the wall.
He appeared tired, his eyes slightly bloodshot.
He cursed himself for having to cast that stupid spell twice.
Hopefully, the additional edge it would give him in case of trouble would make up for that.
But at least he had finally opted for some decent -and unworn-, well-fitting clothes, wearing a dark-red shirt and black pants under his trusted old armor jacket.
A woolen, grey flatcap covered his head and he carefully adjusted it, critically looking at his reflection.
Even though he wasn't that tall, the mirror wasn't hung high enough for his face, so he bend backwards a little, raising his eyebrows, inspecting his two short, broad tusks and feeling his heavy, protruding chin that gave him a grim, rugged and determined look (well, at least he had been told so).
Could need a shave...well, enough money left to buy some new blades.
But more of that certainly wouldn't hurt...the house won't fix itself.
Trés chic.
Let's go! he said to himself, walking over into the corner of the cellar.
He opened the door of the old closet, reached behind a moth-eaten navy coat and pressed his thumb up against the maglock hidden there.
He stepped inside, opening the secret exit, closing the door behind him and entered the Ork Underground.
[ Spoiler ]
starting cash, i think.
Dancer's apartment, April 1st, 2071, 4:00 AM
The dark grey predawn broods over the decaying neighborhood, abandoned factories and leaning tenements on the outskirts of Tacoma. In a crumbling brownstone of cramped efficiency apartments, a young orkish woman curled up on a futon shifts and stirs before blinking slowly into wakefulness.
Dancer yawns and stretches, absently brushing her tousled bangs away from her eyes before squeezing into the cramped bathroom cubicle to make herself presentable. She finds the lukewarm trickle from the porta-shower distinctly unsatisfying, but at least she remembered to fill the plastic bag last night, during the rationed time for water service.
This truly is wretched. Maybe tomorrow I'll treat myself to a pay shower at Karl's Coffins. I just need to pick a time when there aren't as many lowlifes hanging out there.
The small apartment is surprisingly clean, but bare, almost spartan, with only a few homey touches, such as a poster for the latest Black Anna action trid on the wall. But it's her place, a small island of privacy for a woman who spends most of her time immersed in the bustling life of the metroplex.
As she walks back into the main area, she sees her commlink blinking, a reminder of yesterday morning's message. It was a terse one, but she could read behind the lines. A job. Which is good. Money hasn't been too tight, but it hasn't been coming in that much recently, either.
Carefully considering her wardrobe, she decides that while she wants to look tough, she's still dressing for a meet, not the job. So she doesn't need her full armor - the stylish black jacket should do fine, with black jeans, a studded synthleather belt, and asskicking boots. And a midriff-baring top of a shimmering metallic fabric, to add a hint of allure, and soften the hard monochrome look a bit.
Not to mention, it will go with her gun. She snorts. Accessorising for my gun. Only at Busta Kaps.
She inspects her Colt pistol, making sure it is clean and in good working order before returning it to its concealable holster. Never hurts to be prepared, and the last thing you want to do is show up at Busta Kaps looking like you don't know how to take care of your gun.
Re-opening the folding door to the bathroom cubicle, she appraises herself in one of the few luxuries in this place, the full-length mirror. She is petite but well-proportioned, with short, artfully mussed hair and long, unruly bangs that bring out her startling green eyes. Her outfit gives the effect she wants, practical and professional but still with a dash of style. She nods approvingly at her reflection. She looks good. She damn well better. It's her job to look good.
After carefully re-locking all of the deadbolts on her door, she walks out of the brownstone with a cocky bounce to her step, getting into character. She breaks it to cheerfully greet one of her neighbors, an elderly man sitting on the front steps. He responds by raising the bottle he's drinking from in an ironic salute.
Headed for an alleyway between two abandoned factories, she takes a short flight of steps down, then goes through the security signs and countersigns to get through this particular entrance to the Ork Underground. She'll be there in plenty of time. In fact, she'll be able to get a rat skewer from a vendor before heading there. It's been a while since she's had the rat - it's pretty tasty, if it's cooked right.
The dark grey predawn broods over the decaying neighborhood, abandoned factories and leaning tenements on the outskirts of Tacoma. In a crumbling brownstone of cramped efficiency apartments, a young orkish woman curled up on a futon shifts and stirs before blinking slowly into wakefulness.
Dancer yawns and stretches, absently brushing her tousled bangs away from her eyes before squeezing into the cramped bathroom cubicle to make herself presentable. She finds the lukewarm trickle from the porta-shower distinctly unsatisfying, but at least she remembered to fill the plastic bag last night, during the rationed time for water service.
This truly is wretched. Maybe tomorrow I'll treat myself to a pay shower at Karl's Coffins. I just need to pick a time when there aren't as many lowlifes hanging out there.
The small apartment is surprisingly clean, but bare, almost spartan, with only a few homey touches, such as a poster for the latest Black Anna action trid on the wall. But it's her place, a small island of privacy for a woman who spends most of her time immersed in the bustling life of the metroplex.
As she walks back into the main area, she sees her commlink blinking, a reminder of yesterday morning's message. It was a terse one, but she could read behind the lines. A job. Which is good. Money hasn't been too tight, but it hasn't been coming in that much recently, either.
Carefully considering her wardrobe, she decides that while she wants to look tough, she's still dressing for a meet, not the job. So she doesn't need her full armor - the stylish black jacket should do fine, with black jeans, a studded synthleather belt, and asskicking boots. And a midriff-baring top of a shimmering metallic fabric, to add a hint of allure, and soften the hard monochrome look a bit.
Not to mention, it will go with her gun. She snorts. Accessorising for my gun. Only at Busta Kaps.
She inspects her Colt pistol, making sure it is clean and in good working order before returning it to its concealable holster. Never hurts to be prepared, and the last thing you want to do is show up at Busta Kaps looking like you don't know how to take care of your gun.
Re-opening the folding door to the bathroom cubicle, she appraises herself in one of the few luxuries in this place, the full-length mirror. She is petite but well-proportioned, with short, artfully mussed hair and long, unruly bangs that bring out her startling green eyes. Her outfit gives the effect she wants, practical and professional but still with a dash of style. She nods approvingly at her reflection. She looks good. She damn well better. It's her job to look good.
After carefully re-locking all of the deadbolts on her door, she walks out of the brownstone with a cocky bounce to her step, getting into character. She breaks it to cheerfully greet one of her neighbors, an elderly man sitting on the front steps. He responds by raising the bottle he's drinking from in an ironic salute.
Headed for an alleyway between two abandoned factories, she takes a short flight of steps down, then goes through the security signs and countersigns to get through this particular entrance to the Ork Underground. She'll be there in plenty of time. In fact, she'll be able to get a rat skewer from a vendor before heading there. It's been a while since she's had the rat - it's pretty tasty, if it's cooked right.
[ Spoiler ]
A dimly lit cavern.
The bundle of rags piled haphazardly in the centre of the circle of candles chirped briefly.
As the imaginary observers eyes become accustomed to the flickering light and the gloom the animation of the pile becomes apparent.
No pile of discarded clothes and junk this but a person, crouched, almost motionless on the bare cavern floor. That glint, two shining eyes fixed upon a tiny crystal clutched in it's filthy claw-like hand.
Long minutes passed, the filthy little ragamuffin barely even breathed and then suddenly it tucked the little gemstone into the dark recesses of it's 'clothing' and began to pat itself down. Slowly, laconically it searched it's garments before finally discovering the source of the chirping, a cheap second hand comm-link. It glanced at the message and then leapt suddenly to it's feet in a state of some agitation.
It hurried from the circle and ducked through a, previously unnoticed, gap in the rock wall of the cavern. The tunnel was low but the figure walked with a peculiar stoop that gave it plenty of room to half run, half crawl along the smooth-walled passageway. After a few dozen winding yards it opened out into a much larger cavern lit with dozens of children's night-lights. The 50ft high walls were encrusted with thousands of the crystals the figure had been so fascinated by in the first cavern and the tiny lights caused them to shimmer and glitter like millions of stars.
The figure ignored this beautiful display and hustled about 30 meters across the cavern floor to a point about half way along where crude stone steps appeared to be carved from the living rock. It traversed them two at a time to reach another passageway near the roof of the cavern.
As it stepped inside, the walls of the passageway inexplicably began to ooze together behind it, melting together and closing the entrance to the cavern off with a wall of smooth rock.
Our imaginary observer is too slow and is trapped inside the cave with the twinkling Milky-Way embedded in it's walls. Then the lights go out and darkness engulfs it.
Another dimly lit cavern.
Scab hurries into the series of caves that form his living quarters, not that he does much living in them, a fair amount of sleeping but not much else. Passing straight through the bedroom he enters what passes for a bathroom. Steam rises gently from a pool of water at least 20 meters in diameter at the bottom of a short flight of stone steps.
Scab grabs a small hand-towel from a niche in the rock as he scuttles down the steps and when he reaches the bottom he unzips the filthy jumpsuit he is wearing and lets it fall to the ground before walking gingerly down the last few steps that lead down into the water.
He submerges briefly and when he resurfaces the water has washed away some of the grime and slicked his hair against his skull sufficiently for his metatype to finally become apparent. The short, stooped filthy urchin is clearly an adolescent Elf.
He scrubs at his face and hands with the small cloth until it is a dirty brown colour as he stands, submerged almost to the chest, in the piping hot water. He is swiftly satisfied and climbs back up the steps to a small platform at the edge of the pool. The stone here is warm under his feet and he lets himself drip for a few moments. Then he reaches into an alcove in one wall and retrieves a pair of tongs which he uses to slide aside a stone hatch set in the other. He reaches into the compartment and retrieves an old tatty bathrobe that is nicely warm from the searing hot rock inside the alcove.
As he wraps himself in it he shivers with delight.
Mmmmm, Geothermal energy for the win.
He shakes the water from his hair before grabbing his jumpsuit from the floor and hugging it to himself as he ascends the steps again.
Ten minutes later he is fully dressed again and promoted from filthy urchin to emo teen at best.
He reads the message for the fiftieth time. His heart beats faster, he's pretty sure he knows who Ivan the Breaker is which means this could be the start of something big, the big break he's been waiting for his whole life.
But why Busta Kap's? How am I supposed to dress appropriately there of all places?
Then his eye settles on the big lump of Quartz sitting on his bookshelf and an idea begins to germinate.
Five minutes later he was holding a massive pistol made from Basalt and Quartz. A useless sculpture that weighed nearly 3 kilos but it was Bling, yeah baby it was Rad!
He covered his bases with an Air Spirit that could throw bolts of lightning should the need to prove his 'cred' arise.
He strapped the ridiculous fake to his thigh and then strolled through the wall in the direction of the bar.
The bundle of rags piled haphazardly in the centre of the circle of candles chirped briefly.
As the imaginary observers eyes become accustomed to the flickering light and the gloom the animation of the pile becomes apparent.
No pile of discarded clothes and junk this but a person, crouched, almost motionless on the bare cavern floor. That glint, two shining eyes fixed upon a tiny crystal clutched in it's filthy claw-like hand.
Long minutes passed, the filthy little ragamuffin barely even breathed and then suddenly it tucked the little gemstone into the dark recesses of it's 'clothing' and began to pat itself down. Slowly, laconically it searched it's garments before finally discovering the source of the chirping, a cheap second hand comm-link. It glanced at the message and then leapt suddenly to it's feet in a state of some agitation.
It hurried from the circle and ducked through a, previously unnoticed, gap in the rock wall of the cavern. The tunnel was low but the figure walked with a peculiar stoop that gave it plenty of room to half run, half crawl along the smooth-walled passageway. After a few dozen winding yards it opened out into a much larger cavern lit with dozens of children's night-lights. The 50ft high walls were encrusted with thousands of the crystals the figure had been so fascinated by in the first cavern and the tiny lights caused them to shimmer and glitter like millions of stars.
The figure ignored this beautiful display and hustled about 30 meters across the cavern floor to a point about half way along where crude stone steps appeared to be carved from the living rock. It traversed them two at a time to reach another passageway near the roof of the cavern.
As it stepped inside, the walls of the passageway inexplicably began to ooze together behind it, melting together and closing the entrance to the cavern off with a wall of smooth rock.
Our imaginary observer is too slow and is trapped inside the cave with the twinkling Milky-Way embedded in it's walls. Then the lights go out and darkness engulfs it.
Another dimly lit cavern.
Scab hurries into the series of caves that form his living quarters, not that he does much living in them, a fair amount of sleeping but not much else. Passing straight through the bedroom he enters what passes for a bathroom. Steam rises gently from a pool of water at least 20 meters in diameter at the bottom of a short flight of stone steps.
Scab grabs a small hand-towel from a niche in the rock as he scuttles down the steps and when he reaches the bottom he unzips the filthy jumpsuit he is wearing and lets it fall to the ground before walking gingerly down the last few steps that lead down into the water.
He submerges briefly and when he resurfaces the water has washed away some of the grime and slicked his hair against his skull sufficiently for his metatype to finally become apparent. The short, stooped filthy urchin is clearly an adolescent Elf.
He scrubs at his face and hands with the small cloth until it is a dirty brown colour as he stands, submerged almost to the chest, in the piping hot water. He is swiftly satisfied and climbs back up the steps to a small platform at the edge of the pool. The stone here is warm under his feet and he lets himself drip for a few moments. Then he reaches into an alcove in one wall and retrieves a pair of tongs which he uses to slide aside a stone hatch set in the other. He reaches into the compartment and retrieves an old tatty bathrobe that is nicely warm from the searing hot rock inside the alcove.
As he wraps himself in it he shivers with delight.
Mmmmm, Geothermal energy for the win.
He shakes the water from his hair before grabbing his jumpsuit from the floor and hugging it to himself as he ascends the steps again.
Ten minutes later he is fully dressed again and promoted from filthy urchin to emo teen at best.
He reads the message for the fiftieth time. His heart beats faster, he's pretty sure he knows who Ivan the Breaker is which means this could be the start of something big, the big break he's been waiting for his whole life.
But why Busta Kap's? How am I supposed to dress appropriately there of all places?
Then his eye settles on the big lump of Quartz sitting on his bookshelf and an idea begins to germinate.
Five minutes later he was holding a massive pistol made from Basalt and Quartz. A useless sculpture that weighed nearly 3 kilos but it was Bling, yeah baby it was Rad!
He covered his bases with an Air Spirit that could throw bolts of lightning should the need to prove his 'cred' arise.
He strapped the ridiculous fake to his thigh and then strolled through the wall in the direction of the bar.
April 1, 2071 04:00AM; Glitch's Dojo (formerly Rocky's Gym) - Ork Underground (near Give Us Your Quarters Laundromat and Arcade), Seattle
Simon "Glitch" Wellington;PAN=hidden[LTG - via satellite uplink] SIN=Conner Gates
In the warm glow of a small night light, Glitch practiced his katas. The studio apartment, nestled discretely above the old boxing gym, was filled with moving shadows as he performed the exercises. The morning ritual served to keep him in shape, and limber while it freed his mind from the stresses and strains of everyday life, at least for a little while. The life of a hacker did not lend itself readily to physical fitness, but Glitch reveled in the relative idiosyncrasy of martial arts. And since he hardly ever slept, four in the morning was as good a time as any to practice karate.
Glitch was a young ork, though you could hardly tell by looking at him. His delicate features hid his true nature as a metahuman. He has a slight robustness about him to make his stand out from your average human. Slightly pointed ears, and slightly enlarged lower canines were the only other visible tells to his ork heritage, but they were most often overlooked by casual observers.
He finished the workout in relative silence, careful not to awaken the half-dozen neighborhood kids who had crashed at his pad. Many of them had rough times at home, and he'd rather that they stayed here, than be out on the street getting into mischief... or worse.
Molly, a 15 year-old human-looking ork girl from down the block, stirred for a moment, but settled into a more comfortable position and continued her slumber on the puffy couch she had claimed the night before. Glitch and Molly had a lot in common: while Glitch's father had demeaned him for not being "ork" enough, Molly's father took his displeasure out on her physically for the same reason.
"Poor kid," Glitch thought.
Glitch grabbed some clothes from the closet, and snuck downstairs to use the shower in the locker room. He kept the gym pristine, being a bit of a neat freak, so it was not much drop-off from his own shower upstairs. Plus the foot of concrete over his head would keep the noise from waking up his houseguests. As some of the noise included karaoke practice, he was sure his guests would thank him for his thoughtfulness had they known.
The water worked today, and was nice and hot for once. Glitch was glad for it, as he liberally lathered up, washing away the sweat and fatigue from his body. He was just drying off when the message arrived on his comm.
<<Meeting at Busta Kaps, 07:15 am, dress accordingly.>>>
"I wonder what this is all about?
Glitch quickly got dressed, and went upstairs. He was attired in his standard cargo pants, t-shirt and high-top sneakers. He crossed the room, and curled up in the old recliner next to Molly's couch, and slipped in VR. He began searching the Matrix for all the information he could find on Busta Kaps and Ivan.
Simon "Glitch" Wellington;PAN=hidden[LTG - via satellite uplink] SIN=Conner Gates
In the warm glow of a small night light, Glitch practiced his katas. The studio apartment, nestled discretely above the old boxing gym, was filled with moving shadows as he performed the exercises. The morning ritual served to keep him in shape, and limber while it freed his mind from the stresses and strains of everyday life, at least for a little while. The life of a hacker did not lend itself readily to physical fitness, but Glitch reveled in the relative idiosyncrasy of martial arts. And since he hardly ever slept, four in the morning was as good a time as any to practice karate.
Glitch was a young ork, though you could hardly tell by looking at him. His delicate features hid his true nature as a metahuman. He has a slight robustness about him to make his stand out from your average human. Slightly pointed ears, and slightly enlarged lower canines were the only other visible tells to his ork heritage, but they were most often overlooked by casual observers.
He finished the workout in relative silence, careful not to awaken the half-dozen neighborhood kids who had crashed at his pad. Many of them had rough times at home, and he'd rather that they stayed here, than be out on the street getting into mischief... or worse.
Molly, a 15 year-old human-looking ork girl from down the block, stirred for a moment, but settled into a more comfortable position and continued her slumber on the puffy couch she had claimed the night before. Glitch and Molly had a lot in common: while Glitch's father had demeaned him for not being "ork" enough, Molly's father took his displeasure out on her physically for the same reason.
"Poor kid," Glitch thought.
Glitch grabbed some clothes from the closet, and snuck downstairs to use the shower in the locker room. He kept the gym pristine, being a bit of a neat freak, so it was not much drop-off from his own shower upstairs. Plus the foot of concrete over his head would keep the noise from waking up his houseguests. As some of the noise included karaoke practice, he was sure his guests would thank him for his thoughtfulness had they known.
The water worked today, and was nice and hot for once. Glitch was glad for it, as he liberally lathered up, washing away the sweat and fatigue from his body. He was just drying off when the message arrived on his comm.
<<Meeting at Busta Kaps, 07:15 am, dress accordingly.>>>
"I wonder what this is all about?
Glitch quickly got dressed, and went upstairs. He was attired in his standard cargo pants, t-shirt and high-top sneakers. He crossed the room, and curled up in the old recliner next to Molly's couch, and slipped in VR. He began searching the Matrix for all the information he could find on Busta Kaps and Ivan.
[ Spoiler ]
Poor Seaman Hostel 06:10
Beep
Beep
Beep
Beep
"YOU STUPID TROG! ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE! IT'S NOT EVEN LIGHT OUT!"
At his roommates shout, Mongol sat bolt upright in his bunk, smashing his head against the mattress above him as he scrambled to wake up. It felt like he'd just fallen asleep a few minutes ago. The first couple weeks in Seattle have been hell trying to get any sort of rest. Back home an engine in the distance always woke him up, especially if it was coming closer. Here in Seattle though the streets were always busy... There was just so much noise it was unbelievable. The nightmares didn't help either.
Beep
Fully awake now Mongol fumbled with his comlink, pressing the accept button and squinting to read the tiny text that displayed across the screen. Grinning to himself Oh! A job... Busta Kaps... Hopefully I can find the place...
Ducking back into his bed and retrieving his pistol from under his pillow, Mongol stuffed it into the duffel bag containing his other possessions which he tossed over his shoulder as he left the room and walking into the hostel's communal bathroom.
Turning on the flickering florescent lights in the bathroom Mongol contemplated himself in the mirror for a moment tugging any loose hairs back into place in his topknot, before selecting a shower stall and turning the water on. The hot water wasn't turned on yet, but the icy shock helped wake him up anyhow. After toweling off, he rooted through his bag and put on a relatively a clean pair of combat pants, his good ones, Aztech jungle issue (which is why they never got worn), stuffing his Predator into the waistband. He also found his Combat Inc. sweatshirt and pulled it over his head. It was cold and rainy last night, probably going to be the same this morning. He also put on his MET 2000 surplus combat jacket, rapping his knuckles against the plate over his heart for luck and contemplates his glasses for a moment before stuffing them into his jacket pocket deciding it was better to be able to see the ground in font of him rather than rather than any help his smartlink would provide. As a final touch he brings his medallion to his lips muttering "Keep an eye on me ai ren" before leaveing the hostel just as dawn is beginning to turn the sky a uniform steel grey.
Pulling his jacket tight against the chill Mongol begins walking towards the section of the docks that he knows provides an entrance to the Underground. Nodding politely to a fellow ork emptying dumpsters along the way he reaches the the Bickson building, made famous by the Night of Rage. After a few minutes of banging on the bars a troll emerges and eyes Mongol suspiciously. Pursing his lips Mongol tries to emulate the actor from an Orksploitation sim he saw last night and says.
"Hoi Chummer! Can ya open da gate? I gots a meet at Busta Kaps dat I needs ta get ta yo!" He also raises his fist in a gesture that the sim suggested was a greeting among Orks and Trolls in Seattle.
Rolling his eyes the troll says in Orzet "You tryin' to be a fucking comedian? Frag off!"
Surprised at the rebuff, Mongol shakes his head and replies in Orzet "No... no comedian... I'm sorry. I am new to Seattle." pushing his comlink through the bars of the gate "See, I need to meet someone named Ivan for work at Busta Kaps. This is the only way into the underground I know. I came through two days ago with MilSpec."
shaking his head slightly the troll mutters "God damn tourists" to himself before opening the gate and letting Mongol in. After an awkward moment Mongol finally asks.
"Um... could you please give me directions?"
"Fucking hell! Don't you know anything? Just a second. As the troll disappears down a darkened passageway Mongol calls after him
"I'm sorry... I don't know the city very well yet."
After a moment the troll re-emerges, a sleepy eyed looking youngster in toe, probably his kid by the looks of it. "Twenty nuyen and Trent'll show you the way. OK?"
"Yes, good twenty nuyen!" Mongol fumbles with his comlink for a moment, laboriously punching in the funds transfer and drawing incredulous looks from both father and son. His money's good though so after the the transfer is accepted Trent begins sullenly guiding Mongol through the twisting passageways of the Ork Underground. "Say, you know this place well. Mind telling me where some of the other tunnels go? I'll give you an extra ten nuyen."
At the mention of money for himself, the young troll perks up considerably "You bet your hoop I can." for the remainder of the walk Trent chatters incessantly pointing out various shops, services and other bits of information that Mongol carefully commits to memory. Trent makes sure to point out a small electronics shop where Mongol can "Get some dreck for his link"
Arriving at Busta Kaps Mongol pays the kid another ten nuyen and enters the bar ordering himself a soykaf and sitting down to wait. Hopefully this Ivan character knows how to recognize him.
As his drink arrives, Mongol's eyes stray to the Trid Screen flickering above the bar and is caught like a moth in the a flame. He sees a heavy pickup truck speeding over an open plain and watches as a machine gun in the back roars to life. In the distance he sees a collection of tents and makeshift shelters that are its target as small figures race towards their bikes. The screen flashes and suddenly he's looking through his eyes as explosions tear through his camp. Pulling the bolt on his rifle he begins firing at oncoming headlights... Only the real hardboys use headlights. Just as suddenly an explosion rips through his vision and he feels the barstool begin to sway beneath his feet. Coming to his senses, adrenalin pumping through his veins he clutches at the steaming mug and takes a shuddering gulp, not noticing that it burned the roof of his mouth. Averting his eyes from the set, which is thankfully on mute he stares at a stain by his hand until he calms down.
Beep
Beep
Beep
Beep
"YOU STUPID TROG! ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE! IT'S NOT EVEN LIGHT OUT!"
At his roommates shout, Mongol sat bolt upright in his bunk, smashing his head against the mattress above him as he scrambled to wake up. It felt like he'd just fallen asleep a few minutes ago. The first couple weeks in Seattle have been hell trying to get any sort of rest. Back home an engine in the distance always woke him up, especially if it was coming closer. Here in Seattle though the streets were always busy... There was just so much noise it was unbelievable. The nightmares didn't help either.
Beep
Fully awake now Mongol fumbled with his comlink, pressing the accept button and squinting to read the tiny text that displayed across the screen. Grinning to himself Oh! A job... Busta Kaps... Hopefully I can find the place...
Ducking back into his bed and retrieving his pistol from under his pillow, Mongol stuffed it into the duffel bag containing his other possessions which he tossed over his shoulder as he left the room and walking into the hostel's communal bathroom.
Turning on the flickering florescent lights in the bathroom Mongol contemplated himself in the mirror for a moment tugging any loose hairs back into place in his topknot, before selecting a shower stall and turning the water on. The hot water wasn't turned on yet, but the icy shock helped wake him up anyhow. After toweling off, he rooted through his bag and put on a relatively a clean pair of combat pants, his good ones, Aztech jungle issue (which is why they never got worn), stuffing his Predator into the waistband. He also found his Combat Inc. sweatshirt and pulled it over his head. It was cold and rainy last night, probably going to be the same this morning. He also put on his MET 2000 surplus combat jacket, rapping his knuckles against the plate over his heart for luck and contemplates his glasses for a moment before stuffing them into his jacket pocket deciding it was better to be able to see the ground in font of him rather than rather than any help his smartlink would provide. As a final touch he brings his medallion to his lips muttering "Keep an eye on me ai ren" before leaveing the hostel just as dawn is beginning to turn the sky a uniform steel grey.
Pulling his jacket tight against the chill Mongol begins walking towards the section of the docks that he knows provides an entrance to the Underground. Nodding politely to a fellow ork emptying dumpsters along the way he reaches the the Bickson building, made famous by the Night of Rage. After a few minutes of banging on the bars a troll emerges and eyes Mongol suspiciously. Pursing his lips Mongol tries to emulate the actor from an Orksploitation sim he saw last night and says.
"Hoi Chummer! Can ya open da gate? I gots a meet at Busta Kaps dat I needs ta get ta yo!" He also raises his fist in a gesture that the sim suggested was a greeting among Orks and Trolls in Seattle.
Rolling his eyes the troll says in Orzet "You tryin' to be a fucking comedian? Frag off!"
Surprised at the rebuff, Mongol shakes his head and replies in Orzet "No... no comedian... I'm sorry. I am new to Seattle." pushing his comlink through the bars of the gate "See, I need to meet someone named Ivan for work at Busta Kaps. This is the only way into the underground I know. I came through two days ago with MilSpec."
shaking his head slightly the troll mutters "God damn tourists" to himself before opening the gate and letting Mongol in. After an awkward moment Mongol finally asks.
"Um... could you please give me directions?"
"Fucking hell! Don't you know anything? Just a second. As the troll disappears down a darkened passageway Mongol calls after him
"I'm sorry... I don't know the city very well yet."
After a moment the troll re-emerges, a sleepy eyed looking youngster in toe, probably his kid by the looks of it. "Twenty nuyen and Trent'll show you the way. OK?"
"Yes, good twenty nuyen!" Mongol fumbles with his comlink for a moment, laboriously punching in the funds transfer and drawing incredulous looks from both father and son. His money's good though so after the the transfer is accepted Trent begins sullenly guiding Mongol through the twisting passageways of the Ork Underground. "Say, you know this place well. Mind telling me where some of the other tunnels go? I'll give you an extra ten nuyen."
At the mention of money for himself, the young troll perks up considerably "You bet your hoop I can." for the remainder of the walk Trent chatters incessantly pointing out various shops, services and other bits of information that Mongol carefully commits to memory. Trent makes sure to point out a small electronics shop where Mongol can "Get some dreck for his link"
Arriving at Busta Kaps Mongol pays the kid another ten nuyen and enters the bar ordering himself a soykaf and sitting down to wait. Hopefully this Ivan character knows how to recognize him.
As his drink arrives, Mongol's eyes stray to the Trid Screen flickering above the bar and is caught like a moth in the a flame. He sees a heavy pickup truck speeding over an open plain and watches as a machine gun in the back roars to life. In the distance he sees a collection of tents and makeshift shelters that are its target as small figures race towards their bikes. The screen flashes and suddenly he's looking through his eyes as explosions tear through his camp. Pulling the bolt on his rifle he begins firing at oncoming headlights... Only the real hardboys use headlights. Just as suddenly an explosion rips through his vision and he feels the barstool begin to sway beneath his feet. Coming to his senses, adrenalin pumping through his veins he clutches at the steaming mug and takes a shuddering gulp, not noticing that it burned the roof of his mouth. Averting his eyes from the set, which is thankfully on mute he stares at a stain by his hand until he calms down.
[ Spoiler ]
Spike's Apartment, 6:00 AM
Spike tossed and turned in her sleep. In her dream she found herself falling through a rapidly thinning hole, until finally she landed on a large field of marshmellows. She always hated this dream. Some might have thought it was because of the marshmellows, but they were wrong. It was, in fact, because they were fat free. As Spike cursed the dessert gods, her alarm clock blared next to her ear on the bedside table. A loud gunshot and a curse later, she was awake and sans one alarm clock. She rose out of bed like a very angry ghost and a new clock was fished from a shopping bag and placed on the table, the old one thrown into a trashcan. It seems this is a habit that dies hard.
She headed into the small bathroom, the dusty and cracked mirror only barely checked as she stepped into the shower. The shower wasn't always warm, and sometimes it wasn't even water, but she enjoyed her early morning showers and she'd be damned if she'd ever be called smelly. When she was finished, about ten minutes later, she stepped out of the bathroom to discover that she had a message on her cheap little commlink. "A job, hm? Great. Glad I got up early.." She smirks a little and heads over to the closet. The doors slide open a little squeakily, but what it reveals always warms her heart. The black and red armor that she wore was fantastic, and was only a little bit worn. She pulled her gun out of the holster hanging on the floor and raised it to eye level, sighting down the barrel. "Always gotta dress fashionably when you go out.." she muttered to herself, strapping on what gear she could make an excuse for before heading to the door of her apartment.
Walking the streets of the underground wasn't an easy thing... if you were a human, or worse, a leaf muncher. For Spike, though, it was second nature. She'd been living here for a while now, and knew many of the people on her 'street' by first name. She waved to one of the neighbors in her little apartment complex, a man by the name of Gusto. He was an okay guy, as long as you didn't try and discuss his hygiene. It was something of legend around here, but if you mentioned it, he tended to take it a little too personal. She kept her distance from anyone who looked like tourists. They'd start nagging you about directions and she really hated that. What did she look like, a tour guide? No matter, she had a job today, and that meant Real Meat Taco Tuesday was just around the corner.
Spike tossed and turned in her sleep. In her dream she found herself falling through a rapidly thinning hole, until finally she landed on a large field of marshmellows. She always hated this dream. Some might have thought it was because of the marshmellows, but they were wrong. It was, in fact, because they were fat free. As Spike cursed the dessert gods, her alarm clock blared next to her ear on the bedside table. A loud gunshot and a curse later, she was awake and sans one alarm clock. She rose out of bed like a very angry ghost and a new clock was fished from a shopping bag and placed on the table, the old one thrown into a trashcan. It seems this is a habit that dies hard.
She headed into the small bathroom, the dusty and cracked mirror only barely checked as she stepped into the shower. The shower wasn't always warm, and sometimes it wasn't even water, but she enjoyed her early morning showers and she'd be damned if she'd ever be called smelly. When she was finished, about ten minutes later, she stepped out of the bathroom to discover that she had a message on her cheap little commlink. "A job, hm? Great. Glad I got up early.." She smirks a little and heads over to the closet. The doors slide open a little squeakily, but what it reveals always warms her heart. The black and red armor that she wore was fantastic, and was only a little bit worn. She pulled her gun out of the holster hanging on the floor and raised it to eye level, sighting down the barrel. "Always gotta dress fashionably when you go out.." she muttered to herself, strapping on what gear she could make an excuse for before heading to the door of her apartment.
Walking the streets of the underground wasn't an easy thing... if you were a human, or worse, a leaf muncher. For Spike, though, it was second nature. She'd been living here for a while now, and knew many of the people on her 'street' by first name. She waved to one of the neighbors in her little apartment complex, a man by the name of Gusto. He was an okay guy, as long as you didn't try and discuss his hygiene. It was something of legend around here, but if you mentioned it, he tended to take it a little too personal. She kept her distance from anyone who looked like tourists. They'd start nagging you about directions and she really hated that. What did she look like, a tour guide? No matter, she had a job today, and that meant Real Meat Taco Tuesday was just around the corner.
April 1, 2071 04:45AM; Glitch's Dojo (formerly Rocky's Gym) - Ork Underground (near Give Us Your Quarters Laundromat and Arcade), Seattle
Simon "Glitch" Wellington;PAN=hidden[LTG - via satellite uplink] SIN=Conner Gates
Glitch pondered over the data he had gathered on both the meeeting site and their prospective Johnson. Ivan the Breaker sounded like his sort of person... and Busta Kaps... well a bar where the bouncer frisks you to make sure you have enough firepower?
Priceless.
<<@Team [Glitch] Let me know who's going to Busta Kaps and I'll set us all up in a secure comm network. >>
Simon "Glitch" Wellington;PAN=hidden[LTG - via satellite uplink] SIN=Conner Gates
Glitch pondered over the data he had gathered on both the meeeting site and their prospective Johnson. Ivan the Breaker sounded like his sort of person... and Busta Kaps... well a bar where the bouncer frisks you to make sure you have enough firepower?
Priceless.
<<@Team [Glitch] Let me know who's going to Busta Kaps and I'll set us all up in a secure comm network. >>
March 31st, 2071, 6:45 am
St. Juste shook his head in annoyal.
Where's my mind? Should've checked the date before going out...i really should cut down on the hurlg...
He walked back into his room, the smell of old booze and sweat sickening him.
His guests where still there and hadn't moved an inch.
He sat down on his bed, took a sip from the mug of soykaff he had bought on the way and searched for his tobacco.
Absent minded, he rolled a cigarette and checked the screen of his comlink.
Plenty of time before sunrise...maybe i should get some more sleep before i start preparing.
___________________________________________________
St. Justes room, at sunrise
Beams of sunlight formed parallelograms on the concrete walls, dust dancing over an arrangement of dried leaves, carved granite blocks and circles drawn with chalk.
St. Juste had arranged the summoning circles in the middle of his room, under the curious and slightly scared eyes of his visitors, who seemed to be unsure wether he was preparing for some newagey morning prayer or human sacrifice.
Three of them where left, the guy with the spikes, a slightly chubby ork girl with carefully filed, small round tusks and a wire-thin human, at probably 21 years the oldest of the group, with parted hair, incredibly nerdy, large horn-rimmed glasses and a torn shirt from Psychotrope Brainfry, a local electrocrust band.
That'll do, the druid mentioned, looking over the arrangement.
Will do for what? the guy with the blue spikes asked.
Calling in...how do you say? Backup.
St. Juste closed his eyes, raising his hands, feeling the rich, ambient mana spiraling in and washing over him, channeled and synchronized with his aura by the attunement of this place.
He opened his eyes, saw the characteristic flickering in the air before him and smiled.
What's...
St. Juste interrupted the question by snapping his fingers.
Within a second, the flickering expanded to a sudden blur and transformed into a vaguely humanoid shape, a crooked, bent-over being made of twigs, brambles and bark, covered in the mosses, lichen and fungi native to the Ork Underground.
Bright, yellow embers glew where its eyes should have been and it emitted the chlorophyll scent of freshly mowed lawn.
Unsurprisingly, the jaws of his guests dropped in an instant.
The being completely ignored them and spoke to St. Juste, in a voice like the rustling of the wind in the treetops :
You know how busy the way here is at that time of day? Is this going to be a way to keep me working here for as long as you can?
Actually...i'm afraid it is.
Sorry for that, it may even take longer than until sunset.
But...wait, i have offerings for you!
He stepped over to the crates and reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a grease-stained bag from a local bakery, and put three dumplings in a small copper bowl before the spirit.
The creature bent over it, scrutinizing the sacrifice with painfully slow motions, but not touching it.
If you want to, go upstairs and get yourself some breakfast from Shingles, this'll take some time., St. Juste said.
Is that the guy who looks like a dinosaur?
Yes, that's him.
Fun place you got here.
St. Juste turned towards the spirit again, while his guests left the room, looking over their shoulders in a mixture of bewilderment and disbelief.
The druid sat down on his mattres and lit up another cigarette.
The spirit turned over, making a creaking noise while the embers he had for eyes brightened and widened.
FIRE?
Don't worry, this would hardly hurt you.
Now, what do you think?
Wanna stay in Seattle for some time?
I think we have important work to do, taking care of the land and its people.
You mortals have strange ways.
Let me contemplate this
It's not that you would get nothing in return.
I could greatly increase your powers.
They continued like this for the next 4 hours, the spirit often sitting there without making a sound for minutes, pondering the druids suggestions.
In the end, he agreed and St. Juste agregated a large sphere of ambient mana around the spirit, who imediately started growing to trollish proportions.
The cavern plants on its barky skin started growing, withered, crumbled and grew again, over and over.
Then it is sealed, the creature said, i grant you 6 wishes, to be called for as long as you live on in this world.
St. Juste nodded and suddenly felt how he grew incredibly tired and fatigued, his head hurting, sweat breaking on his forehead.
He decided to take more rest until afternoon, spending the rest of the day with work in the garden.
___________________________________
April 1st, 6 am
The alarm clock rung again, making St. Juste literally jump out of bed, which reminded him that the sustaining focus still increased his reflexes.
He went to the bathroom, washing himself with rainwater they had collected on one of the days when it was less acidic then usual, put on yesterday's clothes again, grabbed his comlink and some other gear and left for Busta Cap's.
St. Juste shook his head in annoyal.
Where's my mind? Should've checked the date before going out...i really should cut down on the hurlg...
He walked back into his room, the smell of old booze and sweat sickening him.
His guests where still there and hadn't moved an inch.
He sat down on his bed, took a sip from the mug of soykaff he had bought on the way and searched for his tobacco.
Absent minded, he rolled a cigarette and checked the screen of his comlink.
Plenty of time before sunrise...maybe i should get some more sleep before i start preparing.
___________________________________________________
St. Justes room, at sunrise
Beams of sunlight formed parallelograms on the concrete walls, dust dancing over an arrangement of dried leaves, carved granite blocks and circles drawn with chalk.
St. Juste had arranged the summoning circles in the middle of his room, under the curious and slightly scared eyes of his visitors, who seemed to be unsure wether he was preparing for some newagey morning prayer or human sacrifice.
Three of them where left, the guy with the spikes, a slightly chubby ork girl with carefully filed, small round tusks and a wire-thin human, at probably 21 years the oldest of the group, with parted hair, incredibly nerdy, large horn-rimmed glasses and a torn shirt from Psychotrope Brainfry, a local electrocrust band.
That'll do, the druid mentioned, looking over the arrangement.
Will do for what? the guy with the blue spikes asked.
Calling in...how do you say? Backup.
St. Juste closed his eyes, raising his hands, feeling the rich, ambient mana spiraling in and washing over him, channeled and synchronized with his aura by the attunement of this place.
He opened his eyes, saw the characteristic flickering in the air before him and smiled.
What's...
St. Juste interrupted the question by snapping his fingers.
Within a second, the flickering expanded to a sudden blur and transformed into a vaguely humanoid shape, a crooked, bent-over being made of twigs, brambles and bark, covered in the mosses, lichen and fungi native to the Ork Underground.
Bright, yellow embers glew where its eyes should have been and it emitted the chlorophyll scent of freshly mowed lawn.
Unsurprisingly, the jaws of his guests dropped in an instant.
The being completely ignored them and spoke to St. Juste, in a voice like the rustling of the wind in the treetops :
You know how busy the way here is at that time of day? Is this going to be a way to keep me working here for as long as you can?
Actually...i'm afraid it is.
Sorry for that, it may even take longer than until sunset.
But...wait, i have offerings for you!
He stepped over to the crates and reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a grease-stained bag from a local bakery, and put three dumplings in a small copper bowl before the spirit.
The creature bent over it, scrutinizing the sacrifice with painfully slow motions, but not touching it.
If you want to, go upstairs and get yourself some breakfast from Shingles, this'll take some time., St. Juste said.
Is that the guy who looks like a dinosaur?
Yes, that's him.
Fun place you got here.
St. Juste turned towards the spirit again, while his guests left the room, looking over their shoulders in a mixture of bewilderment and disbelief.
The druid sat down on his mattres and lit up another cigarette.
The spirit turned over, making a creaking noise while the embers he had for eyes brightened and widened.
FIRE?
Don't worry, this would hardly hurt you.
Now, what do you think?
Wanna stay in Seattle for some time?
I think we have important work to do, taking care of the land and its people.
You mortals have strange ways.
Let me contemplate this
It's not that you would get nothing in return.
I could greatly increase your powers.
They continued like this for the next 4 hours, the spirit often sitting there without making a sound for minutes, pondering the druids suggestions.
In the end, he agreed and St. Juste agregated a large sphere of ambient mana around the spirit, who imediately started growing to trollish proportions.
The cavern plants on its barky skin started growing, withered, crumbled and grew again, over and over.
Then it is sealed, the creature said, i grant you 6 wishes, to be called for as long as you live on in this world.
St. Juste nodded and suddenly felt how he grew incredibly tired and fatigued, his head hurting, sweat breaking on his forehead.
He decided to take more rest until afternoon, spending the rest of the day with work in the garden.
___________________________________
April 1st, 6 am
The alarm clock rung again, making St. Juste literally jump out of bed, which reminded him that the sustaining focus still increased his reflexes.
He went to the bathroom, washing himself with rainwater they had collected on one of the days when it was less acidic then usual, put on yesterday's clothes again, grabbed his comlink and some other gear and left for Busta Cap's.
[ Spoiler ]
06:55 April 1, --Busta-Kaps, Ork Underground--
Mongol: PAN Broadcasting [LTG, whatever's closest] SIN Lee-Han, ships deckmate, arrival in the Seattle Metroplex logged at 04:20 March 15th, immigration visa, greencard in good order.
It's obvious to anyone who more than casually scans Mongol's comlink that he is doing nothing to hide his identity... weird.
As he waits Mongol's mind flashes back over the past couple weeks. He was beginning to wonder if he'd make a mistake coming here. Everything was so different. He had to get away from Mongolia though... Too many memories. He also knew what the Networks would do to him if they ever caught him. Those damn 'contacts' made sure every single god damn tribe KNEW beyond a shadow of a doubt what happened to anyone who crossed them. Shaking his head and taking another sip of his coffee he gave himself a little pep talk in his head.
[i]Ok Mongol. You can do this. Sure this place is nine different kinds of fucked up, but hell, home was worse. Ai-Ren is with you, so is the rest of the tribe. You're still a fragging shark wherever you go. You'll show Seattle what a real Mongolian can do. First order of business though, gotta get some better gear.[i]
As Mongol composes himself he glances up at the bartender again and it occurs to him to tell the bartender who he's here to meet. They probably know each other. He speaks in an unusual vernacular of Orzit, no longer trying to sound like he understands Seattle's culture. After his experience with the Troll at the docks there was no point in trying to fit in. Might as well be himself.
Hey town-man. I gotta meet with another rider named Ivan, mind pointin him out to me when he rolls in? Don't suppose you know what the skrag on him is? Good guy? Keep his word?
Mongol: PAN Broadcasting [LTG, whatever's closest] SIN Lee-Han, ships deckmate, arrival in the Seattle Metroplex logged at 04:20 March 15th, immigration visa, greencard in good order.
It's obvious to anyone who more than casually scans Mongol's comlink that he is doing nothing to hide his identity... weird.
As he waits Mongol's mind flashes back over the past couple weeks. He was beginning to wonder if he'd make a mistake coming here. Everything was so different. He had to get away from Mongolia though... Too many memories. He also knew what the Networks would do to him if they ever caught him. Those damn 'contacts' made sure every single god damn tribe KNEW beyond a shadow of a doubt what happened to anyone who crossed them. Shaking his head and taking another sip of his coffee he gave himself a little pep talk in his head.
[i]Ok Mongol. You can do this. Sure this place is nine different kinds of fucked up, but hell, home was worse. Ai-Ren is with you, so is the rest of the tribe. You're still a fragging shark wherever you go. You'll show Seattle what a real Mongolian can do. First order of business though, gotta get some better gear.[i]
As Mongol composes himself he glances up at the bartender again and it occurs to him to tell the bartender who he's here to meet. They probably know each other. He speaks in an unusual vernacular of Orzit, no longer trying to sound like he understands Seattle's culture. After his experience with the Troll at the docks there was no point in trying to fit in. Might as well be himself.
Hey town-man. I gotta meet with another rider named Ivan, mind pointin him out to me when he rolls in? Don't suppose you know what the skrag on him is? Good guy? Keep his word?
[ Spoiler ]
06:55 April 1, --Busta-Kaps, Ork Underground-
After the bouncer checks you over for weapons, he lets you enter the place. Off to one side you notice a locker filled with various weapons from light pistols to shotguns, each is clean and in a slot/rack.
The bartender wipes his brow of sweat with is left hand. Is this guy for real? Too clumsy approach for any group that I have heard of. Is his linguasoft that bad or is he not used to speaking much? Hmm I will play this straight until more is known of him.
Sure you can have a drink here Omae, How about a Tabasco Ale, a nice liter would wet your lips abit, and some habanero seasoned devil rat on a stick too. You look thirsty and hungry. Have a seat where ever you can. Smiles broadly showing his tusks.
<<<<{encrypted message[@Wing Ding (Berk) See what you can find on this one in front of me now, asking about a meet with Breaker, also let me know if he really is this "innocent".] end encrypted message}>>>>
After the bouncer checks you over for weapons, he lets you enter the place. Off to one side you notice a locker filled with various weapons from light pistols to shotguns, each is clean and in a slot/rack.
The bartender wipes his brow of sweat with is left hand. Is this guy for real? Too clumsy approach for any group that I have heard of. Is his linguasoft that bad or is he not used to speaking much? Hmm I will play this straight until more is known of him.
Sure you can have a drink here Omae, How about a Tabasco Ale, a nice liter would wet your lips abit, and some habanero seasoned devil rat on a stick too. You look thirsty and hungry. Have a seat where ever you can. Smiles broadly showing his tusks.
<<<<{encrypted message[@Wing Ding (Berk) See what you can find on this one in front of me now, asking about a meet with Breaker, also let me know if he really is this "innocent".] end encrypted message}>>>>
6:57 am, Busta-Kaps, OU
The bouncer looked down on St. Juste, raising an eyebrow after the patdwon.
What, no guns? You sure you wanna go in there naked?
The druid snapped his fingers, pointing at the spirit that appeared out of thin air.
Well, some people can take care of themselves without guns.
What's that? A halloween decoration? Here, better take these.
He handed St. Juste a Colt ASP and an old Ares Predator I, than waved him through.
After putting the guns in his pockets and letting the spirit disappear again, the frenchman moved up to the bar, ordering a coffee and asking the bartender if he knew where to find Ivan the Breaker.
The bouncer looked down on St. Juste, raising an eyebrow after the patdwon.
What, no guns? You sure you wanna go in there naked?
The druid snapped his fingers, pointing at the spirit that appeared out of thin air.
Well, some people can take care of themselves without guns.
What's that? A halloween decoration? Here, better take these.
He handed St. Juste a Colt ASP and an old Ares Predator I, than waved him through.
After putting the guns in his pockets and letting the spirit disappear again, the frenchman moved up to the bar, ordering a coffee and asking the bartender if he knew where to find Ivan the Breaker.
6:59 AM, Busta-Kaps, OU
As the bouncer looked over Spike, she opens her coat slightly to reveal the rather large gun inside. He gave her a grin and nodded.
Welcome back, Spike. Here on a job?
Spike raised an eyebrow at him curiously and gave him a wry grin.
What, a girl can't come in for a drink anymore?
The bouncer grinned again and waved her through.
Never see you in here before ten AM is all..
Spike made her way over to the bar and ordered something cheap and nasty; she always liked the end the night with a good drink, and start it with a bad one.
As the bouncer looked over Spike, she opens her coat slightly to reveal the rather large gun inside. He gave her a grin and nodded.
Welcome back, Spike. Here on a job?
Spike raised an eyebrow at him curiously and gave him a wry grin.
What, a girl can't come in for a drink anymore?
The bouncer grinned again and waved her through.
Never see you in here before ten AM is all..
Spike made her way over to the bar and ordered something cheap and nasty; she always liked the end the night with a good drink, and start it with a bad one.
7:00 am, Busta-Kaps, OU
Scab sucked air between his teeth as he Assensed the Invoked Plant Spirit.
Damn, there's a guy who'd be good in a fight.
Abandoning any plans to impress the doorman with magic he made his way to the bar.
Skraa, chummer. Ivan's expecting me. If this piece isn't good enough, better give me a loaner with the safety on.
The young boy, indicated the gigantic, but obviously fake, pistol strapped to his leg before sniffing loudly and wiping his nose on his sleeve.
Scab sucked air between his teeth as he Assensed the Invoked Plant Spirit.
Damn, there's a guy who'd be good in a fight.
Abandoning any plans to impress the doorman with magic he made his way to the bar.
Skraa, chummer. Ivan's expecting me. If this piece isn't good enough, better give me a loaner with the safety on.
The young boy, indicated the gigantic, but obviously fake, pistol strapped to his leg before sniffing loudly and wiping his nose on his sleeve.
April 1, 2071 07:02AM; Busta Kaps- Ork Underground
Simon "Glitch" Wellington;PAN=broadcasting[LTG] SIN=Conner Gates
It took Glitch a while to walk to the bar from his apartment. The maps were a little spotty, but he only got lot one time. He was greeted by a rather gruff ork bouncer at the door of the establishment..
"Hoi there... um chummer... oh, I thought you waz a breeder. Sorry," the bouncer said, nearly mistaking Glitch for a human.
"Not a problem. Happens all the time," Glitch replied, matter of factly.
He showed the bouncer his Colt Manhunter, avoiding the usualy pat down. The bouncer waived him through, but made him take a second pistol for "protection". As he entered the bar he noticed Spike at the bar. He ordered one of those caffeinated energy drinks with a double shot of rot gut in it, and took a quick sip. It was quite nasty and sent shivers down his spine.
"Smooooth! ... Good morning, Spike. Nice place, huh?
Simon "Glitch" Wellington;PAN=broadcasting[LTG] SIN=Conner Gates
It took Glitch a while to walk to the bar from his apartment. The maps were a little spotty, but he only got lot one time. He was greeted by a rather gruff ork bouncer at the door of the establishment..
"Hoi there... um chummer... oh, I thought you waz a breeder. Sorry," the bouncer said, nearly mistaking Glitch for a human.
"Not a problem. Happens all the time," Glitch replied, matter of factly.
He showed the bouncer his Colt Manhunter, avoiding the usualy pat down. The bouncer waived him through, but made him take a second pistol for "protection". As he entered the bar he noticed Spike at the bar. He ordered one of those caffeinated energy drinks with a double shot of rot gut in it, and took a quick sip. It was quite nasty and sent shivers down his spine.
"Smooooth! ... Good morning, Spike. Nice place, huh?
Mojo's workshop March 31st, 2071, 7:37 PM
Hunched over one of the many workshop's table, his giant frame on a crooked rusty stool, Moe's big fat fingers were busy shifting through a box containing various gears. Here and there on the used polished wooden table, various springs, gear trains and balance wheels were spilled over, making a sort of organized mess only Moe could come to grasp with. Using a pair of pliers, and with something that could have been a sort of giggle of joy, the deformed troll took a bronze age looking gear from the box, setting on the table and inspecting it with his one good eye. As he sniffed heavily, working back into his nose a rather unpleasant glob of snot, he wiped the bit of drool that was running down the corner of his mouth. A long time ago, after his jaw had been once again broken by one of his father's drunken fit, it hadn't reset itself properly, leaving Moe with a grotesque under bite. It made it difficult to swallow, and chewing hard stuff was even more of a hassle. Never the less, Moe, or Mojo like most people called him, felt rather happy at this present moment in time. While digging through old boxes of “junk� someone from the neighborhood had brought him, after he had fixed up their overflowing toilet, the big troll had been thrilled beyond belief to find thousands and thousands of broken watches. As a matter of fact, not one of them still had all of it's pieces, and most of them were beyond salvage. But, by breaking them down into individual components, and after pulling out some files from the Matrix, Mojo had started to teach himself watchmaking. Sure, not a single reasonable person was going to buy a watch from him... But then again, Mojo wasn't really planing on selling them. He just liked the way they ticked. He just liked the way their gears turned with a precision that was almost impossible to attain in nature.
All around him, in a virtual world that existed only through the image display monocle that hung in front of his meat eye, AR windows with the sound muted showcased various science, history and nature channels. Usually, Mojo would let them ramble on with the content of their shows, but tonight, a bout of Schubert had taken hold of him. The hautbois' sound danced and bounced off the walls of his workshop, masking the hissing of the steam that would come out once in a while from the pipes that ran along all the walls and ceiling.
Cradling the tiny gear in his three fingered left hand, Mojo slid off the stool. With an extremely pronounced limp, he heaved his large distorted frame over toward another table, where a partially assembled pocket watch waited for it's last cog. Soon, he would breath life into yet another machine. On a wooden board, two dozen of watches were already hung on simple screws, each ticking in concert with the others. With a wince of pain he was now more than accustomed to, Mojo pulled himself onto another stool, grabbing on another pair of fine precision pliers to insert the gear. Ten years ago, when Mojo was now about as big as his father, he had mistakenly gathered some courage, and decided to leave home. When his father had finally caught him, the beating he had taken had left him within a mere inch of his life. His right leg had been shattered numerous places, and most of his ribs had been either broken clean or cracked. Yet, Mojo had survived. But he had never truly recovered; with time, the limp had only gotten to a point where he was now accustomed to it.
Closing the back of the bronze colored pocket watch, Mojo giggled with pleasure as he wounded it back to life. It ticked. Mojo was happy. Maybe Dancer would like it.
April 1, 2071 07:07AM; Busta Kaps- Ork Underground
Mojo readjusted the dirtied yellow hood of the poncho he was wearing. Under the hood that rested on the flat top of his head, oily and scarce black hair stuck to his skull like grime to his work boots. A dark blue scarf went around his jaw, covering his crooked mouth and broken tusk, coming to stop just under his round and skewed nose. Mojo was, to be polite, very unpleasant to look at. Sporting one yellowed meat eye, with it's bright red veins looking as if they were about to burst, and one obvious cyber one, it was a little disconcerting when he looked over at you... which he usually avoided doing. Sniffing loudly, Mojo began to shuffle his feet forward, making his way toward the bar. The different tools that were either looped to the faded orange coveralls he wore under his poncho, or just shoved in pockets, clinked and tinked with every single unbalanced looking step he took. The large lump Mojo wore under his back's skin pushed his body in a forward hunch, putting one of his shoulders much higher than the other, and twisting his neck and head sideways in a painful looking way. Overall, Quasimodo would have had more chances at scoring with a deaf, dumb and blind chick than Mojo would.
When he arrived at the Bar's door, he made a loud sniff, keeping his head low to avoid any eye contact with the doorman. He stop dead in his track, apparently waiting for the man to let him throught... yet he made no move to go inside himself.
Hunched over one of the many workshop's table, his giant frame on a crooked rusty stool, Moe's big fat fingers were busy shifting through a box containing various gears. Here and there on the used polished wooden table, various springs, gear trains and balance wheels were spilled over, making a sort of organized mess only Moe could come to grasp with. Using a pair of pliers, and with something that could have been a sort of giggle of joy, the deformed troll took a bronze age looking gear from the box, setting on the table and inspecting it with his one good eye. As he sniffed heavily, working back into his nose a rather unpleasant glob of snot, he wiped the bit of drool that was running down the corner of his mouth. A long time ago, after his jaw had been once again broken by one of his father's drunken fit, it hadn't reset itself properly, leaving Moe with a grotesque under bite. It made it difficult to swallow, and chewing hard stuff was even more of a hassle. Never the less, Moe, or Mojo like most people called him, felt rather happy at this present moment in time. While digging through old boxes of “junk� someone from the neighborhood had brought him, after he had fixed up their overflowing toilet, the big troll had been thrilled beyond belief to find thousands and thousands of broken watches. As a matter of fact, not one of them still had all of it's pieces, and most of them were beyond salvage. But, by breaking them down into individual components, and after pulling out some files from the Matrix, Mojo had started to teach himself watchmaking. Sure, not a single reasonable person was going to buy a watch from him... But then again, Mojo wasn't really planing on selling them. He just liked the way they ticked. He just liked the way their gears turned with a precision that was almost impossible to attain in nature.
All around him, in a virtual world that existed only through the image display monocle that hung in front of his meat eye, AR windows with the sound muted showcased various science, history and nature channels. Usually, Mojo would let them ramble on with the content of their shows, but tonight, a bout of Schubert had taken hold of him. The hautbois' sound danced and bounced off the walls of his workshop, masking the hissing of the steam that would come out once in a while from the pipes that ran along all the walls and ceiling.
Cradling the tiny gear in his three fingered left hand, Mojo slid off the stool. With an extremely pronounced limp, he heaved his large distorted frame over toward another table, where a partially assembled pocket watch waited for it's last cog. Soon, he would breath life into yet another machine. On a wooden board, two dozen of watches were already hung on simple screws, each ticking in concert with the others. With a wince of pain he was now more than accustomed to, Mojo pulled himself onto another stool, grabbing on another pair of fine precision pliers to insert the gear. Ten years ago, when Mojo was now about as big as his father, he had mistakenly gathered some courage, and decided to leave home. When his father had finally caught him, the beating he had taken had left him within a mere inch of his life. His right leg had been shattered numerous places, and most of his ribs had been either broken clean or cracked. Yet, Mojo had survived. But he had never truly recovered; with time, the limp had only gotten to a point where he was now accustomed to it.
Closing the back of the bronze colored pocket watch, Mojo giggled with pleasure as he wounded it back to life. It ticked. Mojo was happy. Maybe Dancer would like it.
April 1, 2071 07:07AM; Busta Kaps- Ork Underground
Mojo readjusted the dirtied yellow hood of the poncho he was wearing. Under the hood that rested on the flat top of his head, oily and scarce black hair stuck to his skull like grime to his work boots. A dark blue scarf went around his jaw, covering his crooked mouth and broken tusk, coming to stop just under his round and skewed nose. Mojo was, to be polite, very unpleasant to look at. Sporting one yellowed meat eye, with it's bright red veins looking as if they were about to burst, and one obvious cyber one, it was a little disconcerting when he looked over at you... which he usually avoided doing. Sniffing loudly, Mojo began to shuffle his feet forward, making his way toward the bar. The different tools that were either looped to the faded orange coveralls he wore under his poncho, or just shoved in pockets, clinked and tinked with every single unbalanced looking step he took. The large lump Mojo wore under his back's skin pushed his body in a forward hunch, putting one of his shoulders much higher than the other, and twisting his neck and head sideways in a painful looking way. Overall, Quasimodo would have had more chances at scoring with a deaf, dumb and blind chick than Mojo would.
When he arrived at the Bar's door, he made a loud sniff, keeping his head low to avoid any eye contact with the doorman. He stop dead in his track, apparently waiting for the man to let him throught... yet he made no move to go inside himself.
[ Spoiler ]
Busta Kaps - Ork Underground, April 1st, 2071, 7:03 AM
Dancer walks confidently to her destination, cheerfully greeting people she knows. She may not live here now, but she was born here, and she still visits fairly regularly.
At the door, she shows her piece to the bouncer, who eyes her appreciatively.
"Aww, and I was lookin' forward to friskin you," he smirks. "Nice gun, but better grab another one from the bin, so ya got the two minimum."
She grins impishly, then shrugs and grabs a well-used Colt L36, putting it in her jacket pocket.
She walks over to the bar, where she sees several of the team already gathered, and orders a beer. "Well, looks like the whole crew's just about here. I assume the rest of you get a commcall from Ivan, too?"
She takes a sip from her beer. "About the only one missing is... Moe... aw crap. I better keep an eye out for the big guy."
She heads back to hover near the entranceway, where she sees Moe standing there hesitantly, obviously too shy to face the bouncer at the door.
First she addresses the bouncer. "Hey, that's Moe. It's okay, he's with us..."
Then she heads out to lead Moe in, a solicitous hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Moe, glad you could make it, big guy. This is the place. Now, I know you don't like guns, Moe, but you have to have guns to get in here. It's okay, it's okay, you don't have to touch them. I'll just grab two of these little ones, and put them in these pockets in your poncho, and I'll take them out later, okay?"
Dancer walks confidently to her destination, cheerfully greeting people she knows. She may not live here now, but she was born here, and she still visits fairly regularly.
At the door, she shows her piece to the bouncer, who eyes her appreciatively.
"Aww, and I was lookin' forward to friskin you," he smirks. "Nice gun, but better grab another one from the bin, so ya got the two minimum."
She grins impishly, then shrugs and grabs a well-used Colt L36, putting it in her jacket pocket.
She walks over to the bar, where she sees several of the team already gathered, and orders a beer. "Well, looks like the whole crew's just about here. I assume the rest of you get a commcall from Ivan, too?"
She takes a sip from her beer. "About the only one missing is... Moe... aw crap. I better keep an eye out for the big guy."
She heads back to hover near the entranceway, where she sees Moe standing there hesitantly, obviously too shy to face the bouncer at the door.
First she addresses the bouncer. "Hey, that's Moe. It's okay, he's with us..."
Then she heads out to lead Moe in, a solicitous hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Moe, glad you could make it, big guy. This is the place. Now, I know you don't like guns, Moe, but you have to have guns to get in here. It's okay, it's okay, you don't have to touch them. I'll just grab two of these little ones, and put them in these pockets in your poncho, and I'll take them out later, okay?"
[ Spoiler ]
"Well, looks like the whole crew's just about here. I assume the rest of you get a commcall from Ivan, too?"
St. Juste smiled reluctantly over a sip of coffee.
Should have ordered a beer, too...well, later.
Oh, yes.
Name's St. Juste.
So you guys worked together before?
St. Juste smiled reluctantly over a sip of coffee.
Should have ordered a beer, too...well, later.
Oh, yes.
Name's St. Juste.
So you guys worked together before?
Dancer allows an expression of slight startlement to flit over her features, and St. Juste sees her eyes flick to him, then to a massive ork who looks like a Mongol, then questioningly to the female satyr with cyberarms.
"Yes... we have. Expanding the crew a bit, Spike? Or did Ivan invite them?"
She turns back to St. Juste, introducing him to the others. "That's Spike, she's one of the co-founders of the group. The other one is kind of laid up now. And that's Scab, and Glitch. And I'm Dancer." She nods as he introduces himself.
She takes a sip from her beer, then continues talking. "About the only one missing is... Moe... aw crap. I better keep an eye out for the big guy." With an apologetic expression, she excuses herself to head back towards the entrance. And she hadn't had a chance to ask that other ork if he was here for the meet or not.
"Yes... we have. Expanding the crew a bit, Spike? Or did Ivan invite them?"
She turns back to St. Juste, introducing him to the others. "That's Spike, she's one of the co-founders of the group. The other one is kind of laid up now. And that's Scab, and Glitch. And I'm Dancer." She nods as he introduces himself.
She takes a sip from her beer, then continues talking. "About the only one missing is... Moe... aw crap. I better keep an eye out for the big guy." With an apologetic expression, she excuses herself to head back towards the entrance. And she hadn't had a chance to ask that other ork if he was here for the meet or not.
Spike looks over St. Juste for a moment before answering Dancer's question.
Nope. Just got a call from ol' Ivan and since I generally swing by here my mornings, I figured it wouldn't hurt to show. This guy, dunno him. Always glad to meet such a .. strapping.. lad, though.
She gives him a slight grin, marred by tusks, and takes a sip of her beer. She extends her hand to Juste, meaning to shake it with one of her rather strong cyberarms.
Name's Spike, at least, that's what everyone's always called me. You got a name, or should we just call you Sir?
Her grip is firm, but not hand crushingly so.
Nope. Just got a call from ol' Ivan and since I generally swing by here my mornings, I figured it wouldn't hurt to show. This guy, dunno him. Always glad to meet such a .. strapping.. lad, though.
She gives him a slight grin, marred by tusks, and takes a sip of her beer. She extends her hand to Juste, meaning to shake it with one of her rather strong cyberarms.
Name's Spike, at least, that's what everyone's always called me. You got a name, or should we just call you Sir?
Her grip is firm, but not hand crushingly so.
Scab perked up at the mention of Mojo. He really liked the old Troll. If anyone fit the accolade Trog it was Mojo which made him one of the guys in Scab's eyes, even if he was a Mundane. He'd even helped him excavate the access ramp he used to bring vehicles to the surface world. Scab had learned everything he knew about structurally sound tunneling from the old Trog.
The little urchin had been sat in a corner booth with his knees drawn up to his chest, he might have been unnoticed or ignored had Dancer not pointed him out. Those with a keen ear might have noticed him muttering to himself under his breath, those with augmentation would have been able to hear a seemingly random stream of English and Sperethiel flitting between crazed internal monologue and just cussing and nonsense.
Now he rose and approached the bar and, in guttural English, ordered another soft drink for himself and a can of SURGE, an energy drink targeted at the Orc and Troll Metatypes, for Mojo.
The little urchin had been sat in a corner booth with his knees drawn up to his chest, he might have been unnoticed or ignored had Dancer not pointed him out. Those with a keen ear might have noticed him muttering to himself under his breath, those with augmentation would have been able to hear a seemingly random stream of English and Sperethiel flitting between crazed internal monologue and just cussing and nonsense.
Now he rose and approached the bar and, in guttural English, ordered another soft drink for himself and a can of SURGE, an energy drink targeted at the Orc and Troll Metatypes, for Mojo.
Mongol clears his throat and speaks in the same unusual dialect of Orzit that he spoke to the bartender with.
"Yes... I am new. I believe people are calling me Mongol. He shrugs slightly, and looks rather bemused I was sent a message to meet this Ivan... Do I understand you are from the same tribe? (he uses a word that sounds vaguely like gang, or tribe, but it's inflected as though he is referring to an extended family) Ivan, he is your raid leader?
Anyone who's familiar with the Desert Wars in Mongolia will likely understand his accent, or at least be able to recognize it.
"Yes... I am new. I believe people are calling me Mongol. He shrugs slightly, and looks rather bemused I was sent a message to meet this Ivan... Do I understand you are from the same tribe? (he uses a word that sounds vaguely like gang, or tribe, but it's inflected as though he is referring to an extended family) Ivan, he is your raid leader?
Anyone who's familiar with the Desert Wars in Mongolia will likely understand his accent, or at least be able to recognize it.
Without turning around the dirty little elf at the bar answers the big Mongolian in slightly lisping but otherwise perfect Or'zet.
Skraa cerri. We're just a bunch of turgan gloku, Mongol. Our Egrandu is the Doc but he ain't here since the breeders put the hurt on him. Ivan's just a job prospect. I hear he might be close to some of the big Raid Leaders down here though so there might be some big yerz in it for us.
Skraa cerri. We're just a bunch of turgan gloku, Mongol. Our Egrandu is the Doc but he ain't here since the breeders put the hurt on him. Ivan's just a job prospect. I hear he might be close to some of the big Raid Leaders down here though so there might be some big yerz in it for us.
April 1, 2071 07:07AM; Busta Kaps- Ork Underground
The Bouncer looks Mojo over. "Skraa, brother if wish to enter here I must check to see if you have enough weapons. The hurlg served inside is high quality."
He smiles at Dancer's putting some weapons into his poncho. "That will work for the rules, go on in."
The Bouncer looks Mojo over. "Skraa, brother if wish to enter here I must check to see if you have enough weapons. The hurlg served inside is high quality."
He smiles at Dancer's putting some weapons into his poncho. "That will work for the rules, go on in."
April 1, 2071 07:07AM; Busta Kaps- Ork Underground
Simon "Glitch" Wellington;PAN=broadcasting[LTG] SIN=Conner Gates
Glitch greeted the newcomers, St.Juste and Mongol with his simple, "I'm Glitch. pleased to meet you."
Simon "Glitch" Wellington;PAN=broadcasting[LTG] SIN=Conner Gates
Glitch greeted the newcomers, St.Juste and Mongol with his simple, "I'm Glitch. pleased to meet you."
Busta Kaps - Ork Underground, April 1st, 2071, 7:09 AM
Dancer walks back to the bar with Moe. Looks like someone already got a drink for the big guy. A soft smile flits briefly across her face. For all of her surface charm, Dancer is slow to get truly close to people. But she's starting to warm up to this motley band of runners. They're a nice, close-knit group.
But now they might be working with two strangers. She catches a snatches of Or'zet as she hears Scab talking to the massive ork. So both of the newcomers are here to talk to Ivan, too, looks like. She sits back down, attentive to the swirl of conversation, but not interrupting it yet.
Ivan is likely to show up soon. It's almost a pity - she wouldn't mind some time to find out what the new guys bring to the table. Hopefully the meet will give them at least a general idea.
Dancer walks back to the bar with Moe. Looks like someone already got a drink for the big guy. A soft smile flits briefly across her face. For all of her surface charm, Dancer is slow to get truly close to people. But she's starting to warm up to this motley band of runners. They're a nice, close-knit group.
But now they might be working with two strangers. She catches a snatches of Or'zet as she hears Scab talking to the massive ork. So both of the newcomers are here to talk to Ivan, too, looks like. She sits back down, attentive to the swirl of conversation, but not interrupting it yet.
Ivan is likely to show up soon. It's almost a pity - she wouldn't mind some time to find out what the new guys bring to the table. Hopefully the meet will give them at least a general idea.
Busta Kaps - Ork Underground, April 1st, 2071, 7:09 AM
As you all enter your comm links bring up a AR display
<<<Welcome to Busta Kaps, one of the finest shooting gallery saloons you will ever see. Please note the image being sent to you, it displays the vacant tables, booths and Hogan's Alley slots.
Please observe the rules of a "Armed Society is a Polite Society". Personal disputes have places for them to be worked out. Any disputes spilling out of said places will meet the wrong end of many firearms. Please be ware of where you point that Thing.
After you have chosen your seating or slot, please touch the icons you see displayed for Beer, Mead, Wine, Spirits(Alcoholic Kind) and Ammunition. If you wish a slot in Hogan's Alley select the icon for that and then chose which one meets your skill and fancy. Betting of such is encouraged.
Contests in the Hogan's Alley are available and the scores can be seen by touching this icon.
Thank your for coming to this establishment.>>>
As you all enter your comm links bring up a AR display
<<<Welcome to Busta Kaps, one of the finest shooting gallery saloons you will ever see. Please note the image being sent to you, it displays the vacant tables, booths and Hogan's Alley slots.
Please observe the rules of a "Armed Society is a Polite Society". Personal disputes have places for them to be worked out. Any disputes spilling out of said places will meet the wrong end of many firearms. Please be ware of where you point that Thing.
After you have chosen your seating or slot, please touch the icons you see displayed for Beer, Mead, Wine, Spirits(Alcoholic Kind) and Ammunition. If you wish a slot in Hogan's Alley select the icon for that and then chose which one meets your skill and fancy. Betting of such is encouraged.
Contests in the Hogan's Alley are available and the scores can be seen by touching this icon.
Thank your for coming to this establishment.>>>
Busta Kaps - Ork Underground, April 1st, 2071, 7:11 AM
As Dancer walks back to the bar with Moe, she is grateful for the noise suppression - the firing range already seems to be making Moe nervous enough. She leads Moe over to where his drink is, next to Scab and Mongol, a hardened warrior if she's ever seen one.
She wonders how the massive ork sees the group. Spike certainly looks tough, but the rest - a dirty elven urchin, an unassuming human-looking ork, a deformed-looking troll, and... her.
she knows that she doesn't look like more than eye candy, a petite, attractive woman with a deceptively innocent face. Sometimes, though, those familiar with violence will note the subtle signs that she is something else. Little movements, or something about her poise, hint that she is more dangerous than she appears to be.
She takes her own seat next to Spike and St. Juste. "So, Mr. Juste, what is your specialty?" she asks diffidently. She's normally not so direct, but Ivan will probably be here shortly, and she would like at least a general idea of what roles the two newcomers are going to fill.
As Dancer walks back to the bar with Moe, she is grateful for the noise suppression - the firing range already seems to be making Moe nervous enough. She leads Moe over to where his drink is, next to Scab and Mongol, a hardened warrior if she's ever seen one.
She wonders how the massive ork sees the group. Spike certainly looks tough, but the rest - a dirty elven urchin, an unassuming human-looking ork, a deformed-looking troll, and... her.
she knows that she doesn't look like more than eye candy, a petite, attractive woman with a deceptively innocent face. Sometimes, though, those familiar with violence will note the subtle signs that she is something else. Little movements, or something about her poise, hint that she is more dangerous than she appears to be.
She takes her own seat next to Spike and St. Juste. "So, Mr. Juste, what is your specialty?" she asks diffidently. She's normally not so direct, but Ivan will probably be here shortly, and she would like at least a general idea of what roles the two newcomers are going to fill.
Busta Kaps, Ork Undeground, April 1st, 2071, 7:11 AM
My specialty? Well, magic, mostly.
I'm a druid. That's a bit like the shamans you have over here, but...with less drumming and more mistletoes.
St. Juste winked and paused for a moment, looking for the right words to go into further detail.
Scouting on the astral plane, casting all kinds of spells, calling spirits, augmenting their powers.
I also can...read the past out of items, so to say.
Like, i find something someone's lost on the street, pick it up and can see the person it belonged to.
Or touch the gun with which someone was shot and can see how it happened.
He leaned back, taking another sip of soykaff.
So, Dancer...you're the group's leader, i suppose?
My specialty? Well, magic, mostly.
I'm a druid. That's a bit like the shamans you have over here, but...with less drumming and more mistletoes.
St. Juste winked and paused for a moment, looking for the right words to go into further detail.
Scouting on the astral plane, casting all kinds of spells, calling spirits, augmenting their powers.
I also can...read the past out of items, so to say.
Like, i find something someone's lost on the street, pick it up and can see the person it belonged to.
Or touch the gun with which someone was shot and can see how it happened.
He leaned back, taking another sip of soykaff.
So, Dancer...you're the group's leader, i suppose?
Busta Kaps - Ork Underground, April 1st, 2071, 7:12 AM
Dancer waves her hands deprecatingly.
"Oh no, no, Spike's our field leader. I'm more of the group's negotiator. I make sure we get paid what we're worth, keep things running smoothly when we're having shady dealings with unfriendly types, and sometimes I can get people to open up to me, when we need to know something. When negotiations get physical, though, I can, too, whether it's with a gun or my fists. I'm an adept, so I can do a lot of things that you would only expect from a really tweaked vatjob."
Dancer waves her hands deprecatingly.
"Oh no, no, Spike's our field leader. I'm more of the group's negotiator. I make sure we get paid what we're worth, keep things running smoothly when we're having shady dealings with unfriendly types, and sometimes I can get people to open up to me, when we need to know something. When negotiations get physical, though, I can, too, whether it's with a gun or my fists. I'm an adept, so I can do a lot of things that you would only expect from a really tweaked vatjob."
Busta Kaps - Ork Underground, April 1st, 2071, 7:13 AM
Those with Comm Links will see the following AR Message linked to the SIN or Fake SIN your comm link is using.
<<<Thank your for waiting and booking your time in Hogan's Alley Team Competition Grand Event, your slot is 13, please stop by our Ammunition Supply Bar before you begin your match. Running out of ammunition does not gain your team any points.
Your slot 13 opens in 2 minutes please prepare yourself and your team, others are in line waiting.
Have Fun, Be Fast and Be On Target.>>>
In the AR display you see the last slot highlighted in brilliant green, and flashing.
Those with Comm Links will see the following AR Message linked to the SIN or Fake SIN your comm link is using.
<<<Thank your for waiting and booking your time in Hogan's Alley Team Competition Grand Event, your slot is 13, please stop by our Ammunition Supply Bar before you begin your match. Running out of ammunition does not gain your team any points.
Your slot 13 opens in 2 minutes please prepare yourself and your team, others are in line waiting.
Have Fun, Be Fast and Be On Target.>>>
In the AR display you see the last slot highlighted in brilliant green, and flashing.
Busta Kaps - Ork Underground, April 1st, 2071, 7:13 AM
He raised one of his eyebrows.
The negotiator?
Well, i'm sure you can handle that well.
An AR message popped up to his right.
He tapped it with his gloved hand, his smile widening.
Looks like we're good to go.
Time to finish our drinks, i'd say.
He poured down the rest of his coffee, the sugar coming through strongly in the last sip.
Blech...should have ordered a beer instead...
He raised one of his eyebrows.
The negotiator?
Well, i'm sure you can handle that well.
An AR message popped up to his right.
He tapped it with his gloved hand, his smile widening.
Looks like we're good to go.
Time to finish our drinks, i'd say.
He poured down the rest of his coffee, the sugar coming through strongly in the last sip.
Blech...should have ordered a beer instead...
Busta Kaps - Ork Underground, April 1st, 2071, 7:13 AM
Dancer puts on a pair of mirrorshades when her commlink pings, then frowns minutely at the message.
"It must be the meet, but it's an awkward way to do it."
Leaving her half-empty beer stein at the bar, she assists Spike in making sure that everyone else is headed towards the slot pointed to by the AR arrows, with a stopover at the ammo bar. She sees that someone seems to be cluing Mongol in already, so she coaxes Moe along, while silently seething. Outwardly, however, she still looks unruffled.
Of all the stupid...!
Obviously this Ivan doesn't know their team very well. Hopefully he didn't compound his folly by signing all of them up to shoot. She is fairly confident in her own shooting skills, but she'll forfeit the event - and tear a few strips out of Ivan's hide - before she'll let Scab or Moe get publicly humiliated.
Dancer puts on a pair of mirrorshades when her commlink pings, then frowns minutely at the message.
"It must be the meet, but it's an awkward way to do it."
Leaving her half-empty beer stein at the bar, she assists Spike in making sure that everyone else is headed towards the slot pointed to by the AR arrows, with a stopover at the ammo bar. She sees that someone seems to be cluing Mongol in already, so she coaxes Moe along, while silently seething. Outwardly, however, she still looks unruffled.
Of all the stupid...!
Obviously this Ivan doesn't know their team very well. Hopefully he didn't compound his folly by signing all of them up to shoot. She is fairly confident in her own shooting skills, but she'll forfeit the event - and tear a few strips out of Ivan's hide - before she'll let Scab or Moe get publicly humiliated.
April 1, 2071 07:13AM; Busta Kaps- Ork Underground
Simon "Glitch" Wellington;PAN=broadcasting[LTG] SIN=Conner Gates
"Cool! Let's shoot."
Glitch goes over to the ammo bar and loads up on rounds for his Manhunter. He takes only one maagazine for the over-sized revolver they gave him as a backup piece.
Simon "Glitch" Wellington;PAN=broadcasting[LTG] SIN=Conner Gates
"Cool! Let's shoot."
Glitch goes over to the ammo bar and loads up on rounds for his Manhunter. He takes only one maagazine for the over-sized revolver they gave him as a backup piece.
April 1, 2071 07:13AM; Busta Kaps- Ork Underground
Scab finishes his drink and stands.
Come on then Mojo, let's get this charade over with.
He heads through to the shooting gallery, mumbling and swearing under his breath in Sperethiel.
Scab finishes his drink and stands.
Come on then Mojo, let's get this charade over with.
He heads through to the shooting gallery, mumbling and swearing under his breath in Sperethiel.
April 1, 2071 07:14AM; Busta Kaps- Ork Underground
St. Juste looked slightly confused.
Wait, we're actually supposed to go to that shooting contest?
Damn...
It seemed like he had expected this to be some kind of code for "time to meet up with Mr. Johnson" and was found quite startled, looking down puzzled on the guns they had handed him.
I hope i don't accidentally kill anybody...
He started loading the Colt ASP, as he was afraid he would cause the automatic one to jam.
St. Juste looked slightly confused.
Wait, we're actually supposed to go to that shooting contest?
Damn...
It seemed like he had expected this to be some kind of code for "time to meet up with Mr. Johnson" and was found quite startled, looking down puzzled on the guns they had handed him.
I hope i don't accidentally kill anybody...
He started loading the Colt ASP, as he was afraid he would cause the automatic one to jam.
April 1, 2070 7:14 Busta-Kaps --Ork Underground--
When someone tells Mongol what's going on, he cocks his head to the side slightly, a confused expression on his face.
"So we are shooting at targets? For fun? Why? We are not children. It is a waste of ammunition to shoot at something that does not shoot back. I suppose if that is what Ivan wants however..." he shrugs.
I suppose ammunition is cheap here.
Mongol walks up to the bar and signs out a battered looking AK 98, and 2 clips of ammunition. As he sits down at the table again he actually begins field stripping the rifle, quickly checking over the parts before reassembling it. He nods with approval as he slaps the bolt back into place and loads a clip.
"They take good care of their guns... I am ready."
When someone tells Mongol what's going on, he cocks his head to the side slightly, a confused expression on his face.
"So we are shooting at targets? For fun? Why? We are not children. It is a waste of ammunition to shoot at something that does not shoot back. I suppose if that is what Ivan wants however..." he shrugs.
I suppose ammunition is cheap here.
Mongol walks up to the bar and signs out a battered looking AK 98, and 2 clips of ammunition. As he sits down at the table again he actually begins field stripping the rifle, quickly checking over the parts before reassembling it. He nods with approval as he slaps the bolt back into place and loads a clip.
"They take good care of their guns... I am ready."
April 1, 2070 7:15 Busta-Kaps --Ork Underground--
So you're the guy who does the shooting...well, glad that's not my job. Usually, i just stick to hitting people with spells, but it looks like i have to try the old-fashioned way now.
Doesn't make sense to me, either.
Maybe our new boss wants to see how we perform in a firefight?
St. Juste shrugged and scratched his head through his flatcap, walking over to the shooting range.
Okay, let's see if i hit anything.
He put on a pair of ear protectors hanging at the side of his aisle, adjusted them and raised the revolver, trying to look halfway professional.
Then he opened up at the target, emptying the entire drum as fast as he could...and waited for the things to happen.
So you're the guy who does the shooting...well, glad that's not my job. Usually, i just stick to hitting people with spells, but it looks like i have to try the old-fashioned way now.
Doesn't make sense to me, either.
Maybe our new boss wants to see how we perform in a firefight?
St. Juste shrugged and scratched his head through his flatcap, walking over to the shooting range.
Okay, let's see if i hit anything.
He put on a pair of ear protectors hanging at the side of his aisle, adjusted them and raised the revolver, trying to look halfway professional.
Then he opened up at the target, emptying the entire drum as fast as he could...and waited for the things to happen.
[ Spoiler ]
:
Mongol nods slightly at St. Just's comment. He gestures towards a faded scar on his cheek, just below his right eye answering the implied question as to why he's ripping the gun apart.
"Yes. I learned the hard way to never fire a gun you don't know. I borrowed a rifle once... it was loaded with explosive ammunition. It jammed. The bolt POW!" he mimes hitting himself where the scar is. "Two inches lower... well I would not be as handsome. Two inches higher, and my corpse would be even less pretty."
Mongol watches St. Just's shot then racks back the bolt, steps up to the firing line beside him and aims two short controlled bursts at different targets.
"Yes. I learned the hard way to never fire a gun you don't know. I borrowed a rifle once... it was loaded with explosive ammunition. It jammed. The bolt POW!" he mimes hitting himself where the scar is. "Two inches lower... well I would not be as handsome. Two inches higher, and my corpse would be even less pretty."
Mongol watches St. Just's shot then racks back the bolt, steps up to the firing line beside him and aims two short controlled bursts at different targets.
[ Spoiler ]
April 1, 2071 07:15AM; Busta Kaps- Ork Underground
Simon "Glitch" Wellington;PAN=broadcasting[LTG] SIN=Conner Gates
Glitch walks over to the newcomers: Mongol aand St. Juste.
"Hey guys. Can I get your PAN addresses so I can add you to the team net, and send you some info? Ivan makes for some interesting reading..."
Simon "Glitch" Wellington;PAN=broadcasting[LTG] SIN=Conner Gates
Glitch walks over to the newcomers: Mongol aand St. Juste.
"Hey guys. Can I get your PAN addresses so I can add you to the team net, and send you some info? Ivan makes for some interesting reading..."
When Glitch asks about his PAN Mongol rests the rifle on the firing table, careful to point it downrange.
"Yes... of course. he pulls his comlink from his pocket and fiddles with it for a moment. "Umm... sorry... how do I do that?
"Yes... of course. he pulls his comlink from his pocket and fiddles with it for a moment. "Umm... sorry... how do I do that?
Glitch smiles and replies, "With your permission, I can just grab it through the Matrix. I was going to do it anyway, but I thought I'd ask first..."
"Yes. That would be good... I'm sorry. In my country we do not have the matrix. Maybe you can help me. Lots of stuff appears up when I put my glasses on. Back home it was just a target. Now there are pictures... one keeps saying I need a pill to... he lowers his voice and glances at Dancer to make sure she doesn't overhear "enlarge my manhood."
He then clears his throat after handing his comlink to Glitch and turns just in time to see St. Just finish emptying his gun. Walking over he smiles helpfully and says.
"Try to imagine where you want the bullet to go... Picture the hole in your enemy. Then squeeze the trigger. Don't pull it, or your barrel will rise before the bullet leaves. Then you will miss. Breath out when you shoot and imagine it is like a magic. It is good to know how to shoot. My brother had magic. sometimes guns are better."
He then clears his throat after handing his comlink to Glitch and turns just in time to see St. Just finish emptying his gun. Walking over he smiles helpfully and says.
"Try to imagine where you want the bullet to go... Picture the hole in your enemy. Then squeeze the trigger. Don't pull it, or your barrel will rise before the bullet leaves. Then you will miss. Breath out when you shoot and imagine it is like a magic. It is good to know how to shoot. My brother had magic. sometimes guns are better."
St. Juste giggled.
Oooh, don't worry about that.
That's just their way to tell you they want to robb you of your money.
He turned to Glitch.
Wait a moment...mmm, okay, here's my adress.
So you're our team's hacker?
Last one i worked with was one of those technomancer dudes.
Funny guy, could do absolutely mindblowing stunts with his drones, even though for my taste, he was a bit too obsessed with...spirits of the machine, so to say.
But then, i summoned spirits out of metro stations, shopping mall floors and potted plants in living rooms, so it's not that surprising that somebody does the same with his commlink, right?
Oooh, don't worry about that.
That's just their way to tell you they want to robb you of your money.
He turned to Glitch.
Wait a moment...mmm, okay, here's my adress.
So you're our team's hacker?
Last one i worked with was one of those technomancer dudes.
Funny guy, could do absolutely mindblowing stunts with his drones, even though for my taste, he was a bit too obsessed with...spirits of the machine, so to say.
But then, i summoned spirits out of metro stations, shopping mall floors and potted plants in living rooms, so it's not that surprising that somebody does the same with his commlink, right?
Busta Kaps - Ork Underground, April 1st, 2071, 7:18 AM
Dancer watches the others begin shooting with an internal fatalistic shrug. She tells Scab and Moe,
"You guys don't need to participate in this nonsense if you don't want to, and if Ivan has a problem with that, just send him my way."
Bringing her emotions back under cool control, Dancer steps up to the firing line after Mongol has taken his shots. Pretty good aim, although he seems to be treating it like a live fire exercise, rather than taking his time to line up a good shot. Not a bad approach, actually, but she'll be a bit more traditional.
She raises her pistol and carefully aims before firing each of her two shots. Hmmm. Placement a bit off with the second one, but overall, not too bad.
Dancer watches the others begin shooting with an internal fatalistic shrug. She tells Scab and Moe,
"You guys don't need to participate in this nonsense if you don't want to, and if Ivan has a problem with that, just send him my way."
Bringing her emotions back under cool control, Dancer steps up to the firing line after Mongol has taken his shots. Pretty good aim, although he seems to be treating it like a live fire exercise, rather than taking his time to line up a good shot. Not a bad approach, actually, but she'll be a bit more traditional.
She raises her pistol and carefully aims before firing each of her two shots. Hmmm. Placement a bit off with the second one, but overall, not too bad.
[ Spoiler ]
Busta Kaps - Ork Underground, April 1st, 2071, 7:18 AM
No, I'm game, stand aside.
Scab moves to the barrier at the start of the range and pulls the weapon provided him by the staff.
He aims, rotates his head, steadies his hand with the other and pulls the trigger.
Click.
Ha, forgot the safety.
Scab fiddles with the weapon for a second but as he sets up to aim it again the magazine slides out of the handle and falls to the floor.
Drek.
He picks up the mag and places it and the pistol on the shelf on the front of the barrier.
Fuck this. Lets rock.
He pulls the enormous lump of sculpted stone that has been taped to the leg of his jumpsuit and brings it up to shoulder level, pointed at the roof, drops his head and starts to sing.
Deep down in Louisiana close to New Orleans, way back up in the woods among the evergreens...
..go Johnny go go, go Johnny go go, go Johnny go go, ...
His head snaps up and the Pistol snaps out in a two-handed stance.
Johnny B Goode.
Several massive bolts of electricity arc from the front of the weapon and shoot down the range annihilating everything in their path. A peel of thunder rolls through the range and the smell of Ozone is overpowering.
He raises the pistol to point at the roof again.
That's more like it.
No, I'm game, stand aside.
Scab moves to the barrier at the start of the range and pulls the weapon provided him by the staff.
He aims, rotates his head, steadies his hand with the other and pulls the trigger.
Click.
Ha, forgot the safety.
Scab fiddles with the weapon for a second but as he sets up to aim it again the magazine slides out of the handle and falls to the floor.
[ Spoiler ]
Drek.
He picks up the mag and places it and the pistol on the shelf on the front of the barrier.
Fuck this. Lets rock.
He pulls the enormous lump of sculpted stone that has been taped to the leg of his jumpsuit and brings it up to shoulder level, pointed at the roof, drops his head and starts to sing.
Deep down in Louisiana close to New Orleans, way back up in the woods among the evergreens...
[ Spoiler ]
..go Johnny go go, go Johnny go go, go Johnny go go, ...
His head snaps up and the Pistol snaps out in a two-handed stance.
Johnny B Goode.
Several massive bolts of electricity arc from the front of the weapon and shoot down the range annihilating everything in their path. A peel of thunder rolls through the range and the smell of Ozone is overpowering.
He raises the pistol to point at the roof again.
That's more like it.
Busta Kaps - Ork Underground, April 1st, 2071, 7:19 AM
Dancer exchanges a rueful glance with Spike, but then a smile quirks the corner of her mouth despite herself - no, that's a lie - her control is better than that, but she doesn't bother exercising that control this time. Two (glances at St. Juste), no, make that three people who can hardly tell one end of a gun from the other, and the Johnson not only picks a meet at Busta Kaps, but signs them up for a target shooting contest.
Wonder if he wanted a train wreck, so he could try to bargain us down? Well, if he tries that, I'll turn the tactic around on him. Or maybe he's looking for loud - our team doesn't exactly blend into the crowd, even down here.
Dancer exchanges a rueful glance with Spike, but then a smile quirks the corner of her mouth despite herself - no, that's a lie - her control is better than that, but she doesn't bother exercising that control this time. Two (glances at St. Juste), no, make that three people who can hardly tell one end of a gun from the other, and the Johnson not only picks a meet at Busta Kaps, but signs them up for a target shooting contest.
Wonder if he wanted a train wreck, so he could try to bargain us down? Well, if he tries that, I'll turn the tactic around on him. Or maybe he's looking for loud - our team doesn't exactly blend into the crowd, even down here.
Busta Kaps - Ork Underground, April 1st, 2071, 7:19 AM
Spike's flashy display grabs Mongols attention and he finds himself grinning as the AR target is vaporized. He's wearing his glasses now, something Glitch did got the display to clear up.
"Skraa turgan! I can see why you do this. It is fun when they don't shoot back. I would not want to be on the end of that Spike!
It suddenly dawns on Mongol that this is the first time in weeks he has truly enjoyed himself. These people, as strange as they may be aren't all that different from the people in his former life.
Skraa Ai-Ren... You would be happy here too...
Spike's flashy display grabs Mongols attention and he finds himself grinning as the AR target is vaporized. He's wearing his glasses now, something Glitch did got the display to clear up.
[ Spoiler ]
"Skraa turgan! I can see why you do this. It is fun when they don't shoot back. I would not want to be on the end of that Spike!
It suddenly dawns on Mongol that this is the first time in weeks he has truly enjoyed himself. These people, as strange as they may be aren't all that different from the people in his former life.
Skraa Ai-Ren... You would be happy here too...
Busta Kaps - Ork Underground, April 1st, 2071, 7:19 AM
<<<<Team Slot 13 Use of Magics in the Range -1,000 points.!!! Continued used of same will result in further penalties and or sanctions.>>>
As you work you way down the range you see a Standing and Firing Target and next to the target is a doorway that is cracked open.
<<<<Team Slot 13 Use of Magics in the Range -1,000 points.!!! Continued used of same will result in further penalties and or sanctions.>>>
As you work you way down the range you see a Standing and Firing Target and next to the target is a doorway that is cracked open.
Mongol brings his rifle to bare on the target takes a bit more care in aiming before firing a burst towards it.
Striking the target dead center.
"That's a stupid rule!"
[ Spoiler ]
Striking the target dead center.
"That's a stupid rule!"
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