Occasionally, there are things that are insufferable. Being forced to book a public phasecraft for transit in order to keep a low profile can be managed. Tempering the nearby ceaseless yapping of a Duality corporate shill is only annoying. Having your craft fail a phase shift is only jarring, and hell, even being boarded and robbed by ruffians can be merely considered a major inconvenience if you're in the right mindset. Wasting a bottle of Gilded Lake, however? Insufferable.
Stephen Dawker had been pretending to peruse a print out on recent developments in olfactory-modifying implants in his reserved row in the front of the craft. He was going to try to blend into the background until confronted by whatever force had halted their progress, then reveal himself and his stature with confidence that his name would be enough to ensure his own safety. He even imagined he might share the bottle of Gilded Lake with the bandits or pirates or slave-traders or whoever they may be as they discussed cordially whom to contact for ransom. However, the growing insecurity in his mind centered around that very fact, the other end of the transaction would probably end up being the Duality corporation, and once he was back in their hands his future would not be so agreeable.
Regardless, when the cretins who had begun to crowd the front of the craft began talking about their own plans for Dawker's alcohol, he had finally become fed up with the situation.
"You imbeciles are going to fight them off with bottles?" he cried as he jumped from his seat and pushed past the marshal into the cabin area. "You might as well throw your own crap at them, it'd suit you people just as well!"
"And yes I am a neuroscientist, and I'm also an infinitely better doctor than any backwater M.D. you have crawling around on this piece of trash. Additionally, if you're all so keen on having your bodies riddled with holes that you actually plan to fight them, I'd suggest you come up with a more comprehensive plan than "break things over their heads"," he poured forth in a demanding tone. He then turned to the rest of the passengers hurrying to the back and yelled, "Which of you ingrates happens to be carrying conventional weapons? And no, your in-flight beverage doesn't count!"
Cutter turns his back on the cockpit and makes his way back to his seat to get his belongings. Having a feeling that he will need them. Once he gets to his seat he notices the sick man that was next to him isn't there anymore. Discarding the useless knowledge from his head, he opens the overhead compartment and grabs his pouch and re-attaches it to his belt on his right hip.. He then opens it and removes a pistol which is in a holster. He attaches the holster to his belt on his left hip. He then checks his boot near his ankle and is sastisfied to still feel his knife there. He reaches again up to compartment and removes, what he likes to call, his "bat". Essential an over sized maul, the "bat" is a weapon that few men can use. Weighing 45 pounds, it's weight is one that not many can lift with ease let alone use it as a weapon. It was custom made for Cutter. It's length, at five foot six inches, is just a foot less than Cutters height. It is Cutter's most cherished possession.
Strapping the "bat" to the custom made holster on his back, he makes his way back towards the cockpit. He notices some of glances at his new "friend" poking out over the top of his head. He stops at the doorway and asks, "So what's the plan, th-" He is cut off by the outburst of the doctor.
Edcrab, I decided that a "basic" two handed weapon didn't fit Cutter very well. Knowing his back story and his size, I felt it more suiting to give him a more custom made weapon. If you think this may be a bit too over-powered let me know and I'll modify it.
As Cutter walks by, I say to my dear seatmate, who lets out a squeak. "That's an awful big weapon for fighting in close, hm? I can see this going pretty well."
Casually, Dustin stands up and look over towards the Marshal. "Say... you going to do something about this? Your coachers are trying to play roles in "Live Easy" or something... no games here, ne?"
Dustin then takes a closer look at the individuals up front, attempting to pull whatever information he can find about them via Gibson based off facial recognition, or ID signature.
Calming down from his initial ferocity, Stephen was caught off guard upon seeing Cutter. He stumbled a few steps backwards into an orderly he had been disregarding, but then cocked a smile. "Would you look at that, as if we needed further proof that this ship was full of neanderthals. Luckily we won't have to be content to fight them off with glass-wear, behemoth here has brought a big stick!"
"Making makeshift weapons out of broken glass for civilians hardly seems like a bad idea for a distraction when we have big guys like him on board ."
"Why go through the trouble of handing out the bottles? We could just hand this one a chandelier!" Stephen gestured to Cutter incredulously.
"Though, on second thought, if you all really were so insane as to try to take this situation into your own hands, there might be hope for you yet." Stephen's hostile disposition began to melt away as he dug into pocket and produced his MediStat. He wondered if any of the other passengers might have some abilities to contribute that they might not have been immediately willing to share.
The Halaisi shook again. It was becoming apparent that their attackers were closing the distance.
All eyes- at least, those eyes that knew where to look- focused on the hulking great hatchway that was the small ship's only airlock.
"Our scanner's picking them up now," the co-pilot announced. "Either they've got a scrambler unit, or someone else is jamming us- but they're minutes away from docking."
"Which means we're minutes away from sealing this door and leaving you people to yourselves," the pilot said firmly. "Hebb? Either you can stay out there and gibber about Bob being a plant, or you can come back in here and not die."
Unsurprisingly, the trainee decided to return to the relative safety of the cabin.
Dustin leans against his chair as the ship shakes. Noticing all the other passengers are safely stowed away, he sighs.
"Hm. There any chance that I can borrow a gun from someone? I missed the trip to the back. I've always wanted to pretend to be a hero - should be fun, ne?"
He pulls out an imaginary gun and points it around. "Pew! PEW! PEW!, na!"
tastydonuts on
“I used to draw, hard to admit that I used to draw...”
"You guys feel free to keep bickering, please. Maybe it'll confound and distract the raiders. I'm going to take cover at the back." Terrence reaches into his jacket and pulls out his small pistol. It's more of a noisemaker than a serious weapon, but it's helped him get out of a few scrapes before. "I'll try not to shoot any of you, but no promises."
"Old man..." Dustin frowned and put away his imaginary gun, then placed both his hands on the back of his head.
Sure, Imogen was a gun, but a single shot could very easily punch a hole through his mark and into the ship's hull with its armor piercing rounds. That was a claim that the clunkers the others seemed to be brandishing couldn't make. It wasn't even a matter of missing, he felt. Plus, random pirates were hardly worth being embraced by Imogen's love.
"Guess I'll just stand around and watch, or maybe use some bottles?" he rolls his eyes. "I'm sure you have a backup gun, you Marshals always do, see?"
tastydonuts on
“I used to draw, hard to admit that I used to draw...”
"Thanks big guy!" Dustin takes the gun into his hand, allowing his grip to dip slightly, as if he were expecting it to be much lighter. It was a clunker all right. Ugly and inefficient. He examines it inquisitively, and feigning ignorance after a few moments of hesitation, he asks...
"How do you turn this thing on?"
tastydonuts on
“I used to draw, hard to admit that I used to draw...”
Ugh. Maybe I should use Imogen after all Dustin thinks to himself as he eyes the switch on the top of the gun. Holding it in one hand, he flips it. The gun purrs to life as Dustin catches the all too familiar faint smell of burnt air. It's even got a physical trigger, oi ne...
Holding the gun out with his finger clearly off the trigger he moves around while looking through its sight."Yer' goin down pardner!" he exclaims in a cheesy accent, as if this were some sort of old-fashioned vid show. "PEW! PEW! PEW!"
"This'll be just like the time these guys tried to rob my friends' flat! We really showed them! PEW! PEW!" It wasn't truly a lie. The guys in this story were hired mercenaries, and his friend was a potential researcher. Dustin's boss hired the goons to attack the researcher while Dustin was there. The mercs were to use weapons that were conveniently defective, and the property of a rival company. Naturally, he would be safer in the fold.
As he moved the gun around making shooting sounds, the Gibson added the gun's profile and traits into its assisted aiming protocol. He would have to do without recoil compensation (OCC: if any), and he set his HUD's profile to assume it was 6 rounds. He checked his tracker wetware to verify it was working just fine, and a slight overlay of the most likely layout of the ship hopped into his HUD. It would have been lovely to have been able to patch into the ship's security readouts to track the positions of everyone, but he didn't have the support for such things, and he surely wasn't going to play his hand and ask about such things.
"Man. They don't know what they're in for, right big guy?" Dustin grins excitedly, almost childlike.
"OH wait! Shouldn't we all move into some kinda positions and take cover and all? Like that one vid with the guys... you know... I mean, we're all just standing around! I'll wait in the back, see!"
tastydonuts on
“I used to draw, hard to admit that I used to draw...”
"No!" Cutter says firmly. "Blocking the airlock with luggage is not a good idea. We do not know who these people are or what they want. Chances are they will expect little resistance if any. This is, afterall, a civilian ship. If the airlock is blocked, they will be alerted and become more hostile. We want to surprise them with an ambush." He has a look on his face that clearly gets the message accross that we have no time to argue and must act now.
"Oh man. I gotta record this!" Dustin says as he pulls out his little PDA and then straps it onto his hand. The Gibson registers and primes Imogen, just in case.
"So Dustin, why didn't you make the signing?" He says, in a pitch that horribly resembles a female's voice. "Well ma'am, I was saving my civilian craft against some raiders after it broke down! And I got it on vid, see! Was I crazy? Na, headlines alone made it worth the risk!"
He then pumps his arm into the air, and takes up a defensive position behind some seats, getting into a position that one would see in a vid show. It always amazed Dustin how this was the one thing they got right. Ideally the raiders would be using "ship-safe" weaponry, which meant his chair could maybe take a few hits. As the Gibson adjusted his body's chemical balance for combat, his vision blurred and then focused with newfound clarity.
A song popped into his head, and he began to hum it as he waited.
tastydonuts on
“I used to draw, hard to admit that I used to draw...”
Looking to the pilot, Cutter asks, "So how does the airlock open? Do you have to open it so they will have to use tools to break through? Or is there a way to open it from the outside?"
From behind the meagre cover afforded by the coach seats Terrence watches the one-man show. It's the same guy who had been exchanging words with the marshal earlier. It's more than a little terrifying to think that that guy is the second most sensible person here.
Where's Cutter? he wonders.
"Psst!" He tries to get the other man's attention. "Hey, you! The big fellow, Cutter, where is he?"
"I'm assuming they're going to force the airlock somehow," the pilot said dismissively. "A linkbreaker or similar device to destroy the magnetic seal without damaging the ship."
"Or they'll just hack our computer-" began the co-pilot.
"Either way," the pilot continued, "we'll be closing this door now."
"Good luck," said the co-pilot. "Honest to god, she might think you're a bunch of crazy idiot civs, but I-"
"SHARD members aren't really civillians, Troy. It'll be their own damn fault."
The door quickly slid shut, with echoing finality.
Dustin turns, and waves the gun casually around. His finger still hasn't touched the trigger, fortunately. "Big guy...? ne... ne..." he then shrugs, and points his PDA device, and coincidently the gun directly at Terrence. "I don't know. SO! What's your name, smile for the camera!"
tastydonuts on
“I used to draw, hard to admit that I used to draw...”
Everything gets more dangerous faster than expected. It's not the first time though and Terrence knows what to do.
"Hey, now. I'm not the story here. You and I both know the real celebrities are going to appear in the airlock very soon. You need to point your camera that way, and make sure you've aimed well. It would be a shame if you didn't get the best shots possible."
Telepathy (Suggestion) check to make Dustin "point that thing someplace else" 1d20 + 6 (Willpower): 15
Cutter glances over towards the direction of the airlock. Something catches his attention and he walks back towards the economy section of the ship. He notices the two talkative fellows facing one another, Dustin has Cutter's gun pointed at Terrence.
What is this guy doing? Doesn't he know they've not boarded the ship?
"Uhhh... hey guy. Sorry, I don't know you're name. But that guy you have the gun pointed at isn't the enemy, he's another passenger."
Dustin feels a familiar sensation as someone attempts to suggest to him to point his gun elsewhere. There was no thought in his next action, his instinct doing what came naturally:
"ERROR: Firing core offline. Reserve core direct fire disabled."
The HUD informs him that Imogen hadn't been charged, fortunately for everybody involved. Dustin allows the suggestion to take hold, it was only natural for someone to feel scared by the way he was acting. Even though this was an affront to him, shooting this fellow wouldn't help their situation at all. He attempted to feel out the source, hiding the feeling of sheer revulsion at having been, defiled by whomever this person was.
Turning the gun towards the airlock, he says in a upbeat tone "Yea Big guy, we're ready steady, ne?"
Despite the charade he frequently deployed, Dustin was a man with truly impressive senses, and it wasn't too much of a feat for him to put two and two together and realise that Terrence had tried to affect him. Him. The man must've been some sort of psionor.
Terrence
If you pass an Intelligence check, DC10, you realise that Dustin's psionic defences are more trained than natural. If you pass a Willpower check, DC20, you also gain an insight into his "real" personality.
Realizing his assumption about Terrence was correct, Dustin turns his attention to the task at hand. Imogen's firing core silently charges up, and as he starts humming that song again. He moves the camera around, not pointing it at anybody else this time.
While he does this he queries his implant for more information on this "Terrence" fellow. The potential had been confirmed, but what was he doing on this ship? A "ready" indicator informed him that Imogen was up and running now, her ammo level appearing beside Cutter's ammo level in his mental hud. Things were starting to get really interesting.
"Come on! Dun, dun! Let's go! Dun dun dun! It's tiiiiiiime for the big show, na na na na na~" he speak-sings the chorus, then breaks back into huming.
tastydonuts on
“I used to draw, hard to admit that I used to draw...”
Terrence hits a wall. It's obviously a wall. This man is not who he's pretending to be. He's a special brand of crazy, not just some shrill corporate shill. More than that, Terrence can't know, but he's definitely interested. And, in a way, more worried now than when the gun was pointed at him. Those types never like being probed. He considers apologizing, but the man's looking away already and this isn't the time or the place. Also, what the hell, he pointed the gun at me first, that bastard. Just where does he get off anyway?
"Hey, Cutter, thanks." Terrence calls out. His presence probably didn't make much of a difference, but the support is appreciated. "I'll watch your back."
Stephen rechecked his MediStat, then pushed past Cutter and Dustin and pulled Terrence, somewhat forcefully aside to the next aisle over. Whispering hurriedly, he addressed Terrence "I don't know whether you're an empath, a telepath, or one of those god-awful telekenetics, but I know you can help more than the rest of these idiots. If you can, in some manner, make whoever comes through that door just a little more off-guard, then I think our little ambush might just work."
Then, turning to Cutter, "Hey big guy, you look like just the sort of person who wants to stand directly in the line of fire! Why don't you stand between the aisles in front of the airlock? Look innocent, too, maybe conceal that tree-branch a little."
"As for the rest of you rabble, I propose we all huddle up behind the seats here real good. Let's make the first person they see the cyclopean terror here, and if I have any authority on matters of intelligence, " glancing at Terrence, "which I certainly have, they'll be dumber than your average pirate and we'll be able to take them by surprise."
With that he dropped below the nearest seat and wrestled his own small "Duality quality self defense device" from his bag. Slightly emasculating, but on the whole practical, he began charging the first shot, as he eased his back into the seat and attempted to conceal himself from the direction of the airlock.
The Halaisi shudders and there's a sinister clanking noise as the raider's finally dock. Moments later blue sparks begin bleeding from the edges of the airlock: the pilot was right, the attackers are attempting to break the magnetic seal with some sort of device. But from the slow progress of the unidentified glow as it circumnavigates the hatch, they were still at least two minutes from breaching.
The marshal stands with his back against the economy department's wall, pistol at the ready. He seems slightly bemused by the amount of activity, and he's clearly not interested in any plans the group might be formulating.
Terrence isn't quite sure if he should bless or curse his luck. On the one hand, there sure are a lot of interesting people here. On the other, a lot of them seem to be jackasses. He also might die.
That last part weighs most heavily on his mind right now. He waits a little while, watching the glowing point trace a crude oval in the airlock, leaving an orange, then black trail in its wake. Once it forms a hemisphere, he figures he's waited long enough and concentrates. There are many presences, but he knows which ones to ignore. Blocking those out, he concentrates on the area behind the airlock.
Empathic Sense check to see how many raiders there are near the airlock: 1d20 + 6 (Willpower) + 2 (Sense): 12
Perhaps it's due to the various emotions emanating from the maintenance unit and its scared inhabitants, perhaps it’s due to the sheer amount of mental interference from some of the bizarre characters near him- or perhaps Terrence is simply off form. He knows he can do better than this.
But even at the lowest extreme of his ability, he senses that there are three people directly behind the hatch: all three are base-human males, all three have no psionic potential to speak of, and all three are eager, arrogant, deeply unpleasant people.
"Listen, there are at least three guys right at the door." Terrence announces - but not too loud - to everyone in the cabin. "There are probably more, but I can't get a good read. We'll all find out soon enough I guess."
Before anyone can give him more instructions he adds, "Yes, I'm going to do what I can to help us catch them off guard. I need to concentrate, so please try not to make too much noise."
Telepathy (Suggestion) "This is gonna be a fuckin' cakewalk, man. Probably won't even need our guns." 1d20 + 6 (Willpower): 20 Now that's more like it
Terrence can't be sure, but he has the strong impression that his suggestion was readily accepted. Their minds feel more self-assured than ever. Indeed, they even seem to be slowing down their cutting of the door- there's little urgency to their actions anymore.
Pride comes before a fall, as they say... or at least before having your head cracked by a hulking great brute with a maul.
"Come on! Dun, dun! Let's go! Dun dun dun! It's tiiiiiiime for the big show, na na na na na~" Dustin repeats the chorus to the song as it ends. Knowing the time would be soon, he adjusts his position so that he has a good line of fire on the airlock.
He feels that familiar feeling in his gut. The moments just before a fray. His glances over at the marshal, and then at Cutter. They both seem to be ready. The little details of the room come to his attention, the heights of the chairs, the positions of the people. Things were going to get ugly pretty quickly.
tastydonuts on
“I used to draw, hard to admit that I used to draw...”
"Hey, I'm nervous. Have you ever done this before? We all might just die here. So just let me be, ne?" Dustin casts a sharp glance over at Alliah.
"Plus you don't even have a gun out, see! Why didn't you just go back there in the shelter like everybody else?" Dustin looks at her for a second, then turns his attention back towards the aforementioned potential death approaching . "Oh yea... Being out here is typical of you people, keh."
tastydonuts on
“I used to draw, hard to admit that I used to draw...”
Cyril hastily and unexpectedly rushes out of the cabin over to the his seat in the 7th row. As he does so he pulls a filmy like substance from under his shirt over his hands- it appears to be some sort of armor. He keeps his eyes on the intended entry point of the raiders, as he removes of a briefcase from the upper-head storage.
He jaunts back to the cabin and loosens up something around his neck on his way there. Once in the cabin he hastily crotches down in a near by corner and disassembles (either through force or careful pressing of buttons) parts of his briefcase to form a thin long-blade.
Hardly paying attention to those around him, he systematically pulls from under his shirt collar more filmy substance (with what appears to be connected goggles and breathing device *or to the normal eyes appears to be parts of a gas mask*) and pulls it over his head .
Now Looking somewhat Alien except for his crimson red suit, Cyril turns to the nearby crew and points to his mask. Nonchalantly he says
"Just in case I get blood on me..."
He stands up, and twirls his neck quickly before situated himself near the cabin door- blade in his right hand.
Stephen sighed as he pressed his back harder against the seat. The Duality shill's incessant singing did very little to alleviate his nerves. The thought made him recall his MediStat reading, and it unsettled him a little. It's not uncommon for Duality spokespeople to have neural implants for the purpose of pulling up catalogs. The thought was actually one Stephen found a little humorous; how very like Duality to physically replace an employee's brain matter with their own merchandise. However the MediStat indicated that the shill's implant was in use when he had been looking at Stephen. It was a bit of paranoia on his part, he was sure, but he figured it would be worth his while to take precautions around anyone working for Duality. He fiddled with his MediStat and set it to record any peculiar activity. It would be tough deducing anything once the situation got chaotic, but he could mull over the results later.
Which reminded him, again, of his situation. He slipped the device back into his pocket and clasped both hands around the stun gun, just in time to see Cyril position himself.
"Well," Stephen muttered to himself, "guess cyclops isn't the strangest looking one here."
"Hey, I'm nervous. Have you ever done this before? We all might just die here. So just let me be, ne?" Dustin casts a sharp glance over at Alliah.
"Plus you don't even have a gun out, see! Why didn't you just go back there in the shelter like everybody else?" Dustin looks at her for a second, then turns his attention back towards the aforementioned potential death approaching . "Oh yea... Being out here is typical of you people, keh."
Posts
Stephen Dawker had been pretending to peruse a print out on recent developments in olfactory-modifying implants in his reserved row in the front of the craft. He was going to try to blend into the background until confronted by whatever force had halted their progress, then reveal himself and his stature with confidence that his name would be enough to ensure his own safety. He even imagined he might share the bottle of Gilded Lake with the bandits or pirates or slave-traders or whoever they may be as they discussed cordially whom to contact for ransom. However, the growing insecurity in his mind centered around that very fact, the other end of the transaction would probably end up being the Duality corporation, and once he was back in their hands his future would not be so agreeable.
Regardless, when the cretins who had begun to crowd the front of the craft began talking about their own plans for Dawker's alcohol, he had finally become fed up with the situation.
"You imbeciles are going to fight them off with bottles?" he cried as he jumped from his seat and pushed past the marshal into the cabin area. "You might as well throw your own crap at them, it'd suit you people just as well!"
"And yes I am a neuroscientist, and I'm also an infinitely better doctor than any backwater M.D. you have crawling around on this piece of trash. Additionally, if you're all so keen on having your bodies riddled with holes that you actually plan to fight them, I'd suggest you come up with a more comprehensive plan than "break things over their heads"," he poured forth in a demanding tone. He then turned to the rest of the passengers hurrying to the back and yelled, "Which of you ingrates happens to be carrying conventional weapons? And no, your in-flight beverage doesn't count!"
Cutter turns his back on the cockpit and makes his way back to his seat to get his belongings. Having a feeling that he will need them. Once he gets to his seat he notices the sick man that was next to him isn't there anymore. Discarding the useless knowledge from his head, he opens the overhead compartment and grabs his pouch and re-attaches it to his belt on his right hip.. He then opens it and removes a pistol which is in a holster. He attaches the holster to his belt on his left hip. He then checks his boot near his ankle and is sastisfied to still feel his knife there. He reaches again up to compartment and removes, what he likes to call, his "bat". Essential an over sized maul, the "bat" is a weapon that few men can use. Weighing 45 pounds, it's weight is one that not many can lift with ease let alone use it as a weapon. It was custom made for Cutter. It's length, at five foot six inches, is just a foot less than Cutters height. It is Cutter's most cherished possession.
Strapping the "bat" to the custom made holster on his back, he makes his way back towards the cockpit. He notices some of glances at his new "friend" poking out over the top of his head. He stops at the doorway and asks, "So what's the plan, th-" He is cut off by the outburst of the doctor.
"Making makeshift weapons out of broken glass for civilians hardly seems like a bad idea for a distraction when we have big guys like him on board ."
Cyril points to Cutter
Casually, Dustin stands up and look over towards the Marshal. "Say... you going to do something about this? Your coachers are trying to play roles in "Live Easy" or something... no games here, ne?"
Dustin then takes a closer look at the individuals up front, attempting to pull whatever information he can find about them via Gibson based off facial recognition, or ID signature.
Passenger Information Gather: 1d20+3 → [11,3] = (14)
"Making makeshift weapons out of broken glass for civilians hardly seems like a bad idea for a distraction when we have big guys like him on board ."
"Why go through the trouble of handing out the bottles? We could just hand this one a chandelier!" Stephen gestured to Cutter incredulously.
"Though, on second thought, if you all really were so insane as to try to take this situation into your own hands, there might be hope for you yet." Stephen's hostile disposition began to melt away as he dug into pocket and produced his MediStat. He wondered if any of the other passengers might have some abilities to contribute that they might not have been immediately willing to share.
Scan nearby passengers for psionic abilities and implants - 1d20 + 2(analysis) + 2(mind analysis) + 3(mental/physical analysis device) = 21
?
The Halaisi shook again. It was becoming apparent that their attackers were closing the distance.
All eyes- at least, those eyes that knew where to look- focused on the hulking great hatchway that was the small ship's only airlock.
"Our scanner's picking them up now," the co-pilot announced. "Either they've got a scrambler unit, or someone else is jamming us- but they're minutes away from docking."
"Which means we're minutes away from sealing this door and leaving you people to yourselves," the pilot said firmly. "Hebb? Either you can stay out there and gibber about Bob being a plant, or you can come back in here and not die."
Unsurprisingly, the trainee decided to return to the relative safety of the cabin.
"Hm. There any chance that I can borrow a gun from someone? I missed the trip to the back. I've always wanted to pretend to be a hero - should be fun, ne?"
He pulls out an imaginary gun and points it around. "Pew! PEW! PEW!, na!"
The marshal looks at him as if he's lost his mind. "What, isn't that 'Imogen' of yours good enough?"
Sure, Imogen was a gun, but a single shot could very easily punch a hole through his mark and into the ship's hull with its armor piercing rounds. That was a claim that the clunkers the others seemed to be brandishing couldn't make. It wasn't even a matter of missing, he felt. Plus, random pirates were hardly worth being embraced by Imogen's love.
"Guess I'll just stand around and watch, or maybe use some bottles?" he rolls his eyes. "I'm sure you have a backup gun, you Marshals always do, see?"
"I don't care for guns. I'm more comfortable swinging my 'bat'."
"How do you turn this thing on?"
Holding the gun out with his finger clearly off the trigger he moves around while looking through its sight."Yer' goin down pardner!" he exclaims in a cheesy accent, as if this were some sort of old-fashioned vid show. "PEW! PEW! PEW!"
"This'll be just like the time these guys tried to rob my friends' flat! We really showed them! PEW! PEW!" It wasn't truly a lie. The guys in this story were hired mercenaries, and his friend was a potential researcher. Dustin's boss hired the goons to attack the researcher while Dustin was there. The mercs were to use weapons that were conveniently defective, and the property of a rival company. Naturally, he would be safer in the fold.
As he moved the gun around making shooting sounds, the Gibson added the gun's profile and traits into its assisted aiming protocol. He would have to do without recoil compensation (OCC: if any), and he set his HUD's profile to assume it was 6 rounds. He checked his tracker wetware to verify it was working just fine, and a slight overlay of the most likely layout of the ship hopped into his HUD. It would have been lovely to have been able to patch into the ship's security readouts to track the positions of everyone, but he didn't have the support for such things, and he surely wasn't going to play his hand and ask about such things.
"Man. They don't know what they're in for, right big guy?" Dustin grins excitedly, almost childlike.
"OH wait! Shouldn't we all move into some kinda positions and take cover and all? Like that one vid with the guys... you know... I mean, we're all just standing around! I'll wait in the back, see!"
Oh god. We're screwed.
She turns to the co-pilot, who can't seem to take his eyes off of Dustin.
"Maybe we should think about setting up a barricade. We've got a minute or two to throw all the luggage we can against the airlock."
Alliah rummages in her own pack and pulls out a small, sad-looking photon pistol. She clicks the safety off and there is a faintly audible hum.
"So Dustin, why didn't you make the signing?" He says, in a pitch that horribly resembles a female's voice. "Well ma'am, I was saving my civilian craft against some raiders after it broke down! And I got it on vid, see! Was I crazy? Na, headlines alone made it worth the risk!"
He then pumps his arm into the air, and takes up a defensive position behind some seats, getting into a position that one would see in a vid show. It always amazed Dustin how this was the one thing they got right. Ideally the raiders would be using "ship-safe" weaponry, which meant his chair could maybe take a few hits. As the Gibson adjusted his body's chemical balance for combat, his vision blurred and then focused with newfound clarity.
A song popped into his head, and he began to hum it as he waited.
Where's Cutter? he wonders.
"Psst!" He tries to get the other man's attention. "Hey, you! The big fellow, Cutter, where is he?"
"I'm assuming they're going to force the airlock somehow," the pilot said dismissively. "A linkbreaker or similar device to destroy the magnetic seal without damaging the ship."
"Or they'll just hack our computer-" began the co-pilot.
"Either way," the pilot continued, "we'll be closing this door now."
"Good luck," said the co-pilot. "Honest to god, she might think you're a bunch of crazy idiot civs, but I-"
"SHARD members aren't really civillians, Troy. It'll be their own damn fault."
The door quickly slid shut, with echoing finality.
"Hey, now. I'm not the story here. You and I both know the real celebrities are going to appear in the airlock very soon. You need to point your camera that way, and make sure you've aimed well. It would be a shame if you didn't get the best shots possible."
What is this guy doing? Doesn't he know they've not boarded the ship?
"Uhhh... hey guy. Sorry, I don't know you're name. But that guy you have the gun pointed at isn't the enemy, he's another passenger."
"ERROR: Firing core offline. Reserve core direct fire disabled."
The HUD informs him that Imogen hadn't been charged, fortunately for everybody involved. Dustin allows the suggestion to take hold, it was only natural for someone to feel scared by the way he was acting. Even though this was an affront to him, shooting this fellow wouldn't help their situation at all. He attempted to feel out the source, hiding the feeling of sheer revulsion at having been, defiled by whomever this person was.
Turning the gun towards the airlock, he says in a upbeat tone "Yea Big guy, we're ready steady, ne?"
Searching for the psychic attacker: 1d20+7 → [9,7] = (16)
Despite the charade he frequently deployed, Dustin was a man with truly impressive senses, and it wasn't too much of a feat for him to put two and two together and realise that Terrence had tried to affect him. Him. The man must've been some sort of psionor.
Terrence
While he does this he queries his implant for more information on this "Terrence" fellow. The potential had been confirmed, but what was he doing on this ship? A "ready" indicator informed him that Imogen was up and running now, her ammo level appearing beside Cutter's ammo level in his mental hud. Things were starting to get really interesting.
"Come on! Dun, dun! Let's go! Dun dun dun! It's tiiiiiiime for the big show, na na na na na~" he speak-sings the chorus, then breaks back into huming.
Willpower: 18
Terrence hits a wall. It's obviously a wall. This man is not who he's pretending to be. He's a special brand of crazy, not just some shrill corporate shill. More than that, Terrence can't know, but he's definitely interested. And, in a way, more worried now than when the gun was pointed at him. Those types never like being probed. He considers apologizing, but the man's looking away already and this isn't the time or the place. Also, what the hell, he pointed the gun at me first, that bastard. Just where does he get off anyway?
"Hey, Cutter, thanks." Terrence calls out. His presence probably didn't make much of a difference, but the support is appreciated. "I'll watch your back."
Then, turning to Cutter, "Hey big guy, you look like just the sort of person who wants to stand directly in the line of fire! Why don't you stand between the aisles in front of the airlock? Look innocent, too, maybe conceal that tree-branch a little."
"As for the rest of you rabble, I propose we all huddle up behind the seats here real good. Let's make the first person they see the cyclopean terror here, and if I have any authority on matters of intelligence, " glancing at Terrence, "which I certainly have, they'll be dumber than your average pirate and we'll be able to take them by surprise."
With that he dropped below the nearest seat and wrestled his own small "Duality quality self defense device" from his bag. Slightly emasculating, but on the whole practical, he began charging the first shot, as he eased his back into the seat and attempted to conceal himself from the direction of the airlock.
The Halaisi shudders and there's a sinister clanking noise as the raider's finally dock. Moments later blue sparks begin bleeding from the edges of the airlock: the pilot was right, the attackers are attempting to break the magnetic seal with some sort of device. But from the slow progress of the unidentified glow as it circumnavigates the hatch, they were still at least two minutes from breaching.
The marshal stands with his back against the economy department's wall, pistol at the ready. He seems slightly bemused by the amount of activity, and he's clearly not interested in any plans the group might be formulating.
She can't help but wonder at the coincidental appearance of raiders right in the midst of a political hijacking, though.
That last part weighs most heavily on his mind right now. He waits a little while, watching the glowing point trace a crude oval in the airlock, leaving an orange, then black trail in its wake. Once it forms a hemisphere, he figures he's waited long enough and concentrates. There are many presences, but he knows which ones to ignore. Blocking those out, he concentrates on the area behind the airlock.
Perhaps it's due to the various emotions emanating from the maintenance unit and its scared inhabitants, perhaps it’s due to the sheer amount of mental interference from some of the bizarre characters near him- or perhaps Terrence is simply off form. He knows he can do better than this.
But even at the lowest extreme of his ability, he senses that there are three people directly behind the hatch: all three are base-human males, all three have no psionic potential to speak of, and all three are eager, arrogant, deeply unpleasant people.
Before anyone can give him more instructions he adds, "Yes, I'm going to do what I can to help us catch them off guard. I need to concentrate, so please try not to make too much noise."
Terrence can't be sure, but he has the strong impression that his suggestion was readily accepted. Their minds feel more self-assured than ever. Indeed, they even seem to be slowing down their cutting of the door- there's little urgency to their actions anymore.
Pride comes before a fall, as they say... or at least before having your head cracked by a hulking great brute with a maul.
He feels that familiar feeling in his gut. The moments just before a fray. His glances over at the marshal, and then at Cutter. They both seem to be ready. The little details of the room come to his attention, the heights of the chairs, the positions of the people. Things were going to get ugly pretty quickly.
"Plus you don't even have a gun out, see! Why didn't you just go back there in the shelter like everybody else?" Dustin looks at her for a second, then turns his attention back towards the aforementioned potential death approaching . "Oh yea... Being out here is typical of you people, keh."
He jaunts back to the cabin and loosens up something around his neck on his way there. Once in the cabin he hastily crotches down in a near by corner and disassembles (either through force or careful pressing of buttons) parts of his briefcase to form a thin long-blade.
Hardly paying attention to those around him, he systematically pulls from under his shirt collar more filmy substance (with what appears to be connected goggles and breathing device *or to the normal eyes appears to be parts of a gas mask*) and pulls it over his head .
Now Looking somewhat Alien except for his crimson red suit, Cyril turns to the nearby crew and points to his mask. Nonchalantly he says
"Just in case I get blood on me..."
He stands up, and twirls his neck quickly before situated himself near the cabin door- blade in his right hand.
Which reminded him, again, of his situation. He slipped the device back into his pocket and clasped both hands around the stun gun, just in time to see Cyril position himself.
"Well," Stephen muttered to himself, "guess cyclops isn't the strangest looking one here."
"Hi. You're still talking."