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Re: REKT: BTE Mission 2: Fuhodo Station

#122
[IC]Saoirse[/IC]
Oh come on Bob not now
If Bob has his tantrum I turn to him and say
"Bob, please, would there be any way to give you ice cream here I would have done it already, but they don't seem to have any on the station. We'll just have to hope there'll be some in the new supplies we're buying. It's fine to be upset at that, but it's not fine at all at all to shout at people, they can't help it either!"
Last edited by Dinosawer on Thu Jun 06, 2019 1:08 am, edited 1 time in total.
Warning: do not ask about physics unless you really want to know about physics.
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Re: REKT: BTE Mission 2: Fuhodo Station

#123
((So I have summer school now. \o/ I'll still be able to participate in ReKT, I just completely missed the past two days :/))
Killshot wrote:
Tue Jun 04, 2019 10:53 pm
I would suggest we gather information about the perks they offer, as well as the restrictions placed on those who sign up.
If nothing else it will give us a good idea of what work we can expect elsewhere."
"Right, yeah, let's do that. But we're heading to grab a stiff drink right after this, as Bill suggested. If I have to look at even one form, I'll put an entire clip through the clerk."
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Re: REKT: BTE Mission 2: Fuhodo Station

#124
Enter the bureaucratic booth with Brom and Gene
Don't really say anything to the person staffing the place unless directly asked something
if I am asked for info:
-Give them my (cover) identity (if I am directly asked about my name and such)
-If asked about the name of our group, respond "C'mon, this ain't a movie, just type us in as one o' them fancy serial key numbers y'all love to use in these places."
-if asked for the ship we came with, respond "The Lat'texo", having practiced pronouncing the name.
-if asked for anything else, respond impatiently "Hey, y'all want my favorite color, too? Why the hell is any o' this shit important to you?"
if I am handed a form at any point:
-if it requires anything more than the barest effort to fill, flip out and retort "Oh, fukc no! I've got better shit to do than this! Aren't you the one that's s'posed to be fillin' out this crap? The fukc do they pay you for?"
Look annoyed throughout the whole endeavor
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Re: REKT: BTE Mission 2: Fuhodo Station

#125
Spoiler:      SHOW
TotallyNotHuman wrote:
Wed Jun 05, 2019 9:36 am
Killshot wrote:
Tue Jun 04, 2019 10:53 pm
I would suggest we gather information about the perks they offer, as well as the restrictions placed on those who sign up.
If nothing else it will give us a good idea of what work we can expect elsewhere."
"Right, yeah, let's do that. But we're heading to grab a stiff drink right after this, as Bill suggested. If I have to look at even one form, I'll put an entire clip through the clerk."
"That's the beauty of my plan!
No forms necessary! All we're really doing is collecting information.
Just allow me to do the talking, and we'll have Bill sipping whiskey before you know it!"


March proudly into Mercenary Registration with my head held high.
Locate a mercenary that isn't currently occupied, and approach them.
Attempt to be a little quieter than normal to avoid bothering those who may be concentrating on paperwork.

"Greetings fellow mercenary! I am Connley Mckale, professional sharpshooter, master tactician, and brilliant leader.
But please, call me Killshot; everyone does.

My team and I are looking to find work while we're here, and we have some questions about how the mercenary business is run on this station.
Could you explain the requirements for registration? As well as the perks that come with registration?
And further, I am interested in knowing what work is prohibited here. Wouldn't want to go around doing something illegal after all.
We're not looking to register at this moment, merely to obtain information about how everything works.
I've promised my team a round of drinks for our success during our last mission, so I won't take up too much of your time."

Wait until the mercenary is finished explaining things, then get up to leave.
"Thanks for the help; I appreciate it!
If there's anything we can do for you, let us know.
We always repay our debts!"/u]
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Re: REKT: BTE Mission 2: Fuhodo Station

#126
Dinosawer wrote:
Wed Jun 05, 2019 6:06 am
[IC]Saoirse[/IC]
I
"Bob, please, would there be any way to give you ice cream here I would have done it already, but they doesn't seem to have any on the station. We'll just have to hope there'll be some in the new supplies we're buying. It's fine to be upset at that, but it's not fine at all at all to shout at people, they can't help it either!"
Calm down (a little)
Pout
"If Saoirse-Boss can no give Bob ice-cream then Saoirse-Boss no is boss at all"
"Bob will find new Boss"

Walk out angrily in a random direction
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Idiots. Idiots everywhere. ~Dr. Cha0zz
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Re: REKT: BTE Mission 2: Fuhodo Station

#127
Cha0zz wrote:
Thu Jun 06, 2019 1:04 am
Calm down (a little)
Pout
"If Saoirse-Boss can no give Bob ice-cream then Saoirse-Boss no is boss at all"
"Bob will find new Boss"

Walk out angrily in a random direction
Wait, what?! The entire situation is enough to make me want to scream. "Bob, wait-" i start, but I don't really know how to get him to stay, and my mind isn't really on ice cream right now.

Oh, fukc it! The rest of us are trying to stay alive here. If Bob wants to leave Frank behind to possibly die so he can get fukcing ice cream, he can!
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Re: REKT: BTE Mission 2: Fuhodo Station

#130
Turn 5
  In the communications station, Saoirse and Caleb wait patiently for the clerk to finish its calculations. Bob, on the other hand, does not wait quite so patiently. "BOB WANT ICE CREAM" he shouts. "BOB WANT ICE CREAM NOW!" Saoirse had promised him ice cream back on the Nemesis, and it was only fair that she followed through on her promise. Was she just patronizing him? Did she use that as a way to placate him? False promises of a cold and creamy treat? All he wanted was a big bowl of ice cream with chocolate sauce. Was that too much to ask?
  "Bob, please," Saoirse pleads. She's trying to keep her voice down, but feeling increasingly stressed by the whole situation. "Would there be any way to give you ice cream here, I would have done it already, but they don't seem to have any on the station. We'll just have to hope there'll be some in the new supplies we're buying. It's fine to be upset at that, but it's not fine at all at all to shout at people, they can't help it either!"


  Frank looks at the monster above him, its wide face sculpted in a permanent scowl. He pauses - hesitates. The alien watches him, waiting for a response; the crimson eyes narrow into slits. Frank takes a step back at this in apprehension. He has to try reasoning with this creature, he feels. "I have business with the employee that came through here. I have to clear up a possible misunderstanding."
  "That's not what he said," the beast mutters loudly, indicating behind him with a deliberate flick of his head in that direction. "Get out. Or I'll get you out."


  Bob quiets down as Saoirse tries to calm him, but looks disgruntled and dissatisfied. The trio hear someone talking loudly from the back room; Saoirse calls out, "Frank, what are you doing back there? Can't you go to the loo later?"
  Folding his arms, Bob scoffs. Saoirse just told him it was "not fine at all" to shout at people, and now look at her. "If Saoirse-Boss can no give Bob ice-cream, then Saoirse-Boss no is boss at all."
  Ignoring Bob's statement, Saoirse looks back at the clerk with a sweet, apologetic smile as she tries to smooth it over. "Sorry about all this..."
  The alien behind the counter looks up briefly, and then back down, continuing to mumble numbers under its breath as it sorts through data on its computer. When it notices Saoirse staring out of the corner of its eyes, it glances up and gives Saoirse a smile. "I'm almost done. I just want to be sure I'm offering you the cheapest prices we have. It's part of the Kelzzide promise."
  Saoirse looks away awkwardly when the plodus glances in her direction, and then does a double-take: her eyes sweep over the room behind her. Something feels... off, for lack of a better way to put it She ponders over this for a moment, ignoring Bob's mumbling, and then, suddenly, she realizes exactly why she feels this way:
  All the other patrons have disappeared. The store is empty.


  In persistent desperation, refusing to back down, Frank asks, "I don't have any intention to harm any of the staff... Is there really no way we can keep this from blowing up?"
  The huge alien pauses, regarding Frank seriously for a moment. Somewhere behind them, a door opens and closes along the back wall. Neither of the two figures move a muscle, until finally the creature closes his eyes with a sharp exhale.
  The janitor feels a glimmer of hope. "Well?" But the creature makes no response; he doesn't even move.
  Suddenly, the crimson eyes flash open; a massive arm shoots outwards, the thick fingers spread wide to grab - Frank manages to dodge, but only barely; the fingers brush against his chest. Whipping out a tranquilizer, he tries to stab the creature in the upper arm, but the tip of the bolt splinters among the spikes against the tough, chitinous skin. The eyes flare with fury - those dark, deep-set eyes.
  Frank's heart races; he's made a terrible mistake.
  The other arm flashes into view, fist clenched for what would surely be a killing blow. By some stroke of luck, Frank rolls away from it and the titan's fist crashes into the wall instead, tearing the metal and sending spare parts tumbling as the nearby shelves twist and crumple.
  Before Frank can even get back to his feet, the beast is already upon him.

  
  Saoirse nudges Caleb gently. When she has his attention, she motions silently around the room, mouthing, Where are all the people?
  "I have your results," the clerk interrupts with a patient smile; the two inmates face the alien. "I'll have to route your message through a number of different stations, but the cheapest price I can provide is 4392 plat per two earth minutes of holovideo. That should be enough to reach New Dublin, and they should send it freely from there."
  Before the girl can answer, Bob gives a loud harrumph and turns away, leaving the room. He's had enough of Saoirse's shit.
  "Bob, wait!" she calls out. "Bob, don't! It's not safe!"
  The plodus completely ignores these developments; the fronds on its face wave gently. "Would you like me to open a booth for you?"
  Saoirse is torn; as Bob disappears from view, she glances back at the clerk, and then at Caleb as he grabs her shoulder, shaking to get her attention. She turns to look; Caleb looks quite alarmed. And then she hears it: loud crashes and clattering noises from the back. The sound of combat. Someone just knocked something over - and they hear it repeat itself again... and then again.
  The two inmates hasten towards the door, as behind them, the plodus flattens itself to the ground, hiding beneath its flat, canoe-like shell. Caleb reaches it first, flinging it open, just in time to see Frank crash bodily against the shelving on the left side of the entrance aisle, close to the door, and tumble to the floor with a groan. The ex-soldier looks up; he sees the wralk moving forwards, one heavy step at a time; it picks up a piece of machinery to use as a makeshift club. Acting purely on reflex, Caleb draws his electrorifle and fires. The alien tenses, shuddering from electricity; the weapon falls from his hand.
  "Caleb," Saoirse whispers, as Frank, groaning, gets back to his feet. She whips out Spoon, her trusty battlestaff, and begins twirling it in her hands defensively, facing away from the door. "Caleb, we have a problem..."
  Slowly, the soldier turns around. "Oh, frak," he whispers.
  The room is filling with law enforcement. They're dashing into cover behind booths, weapons out - a large squad of at least nine, and quite probably more hiding out of view.


  Outside, Bob walks slowly down the main boulevard, muttering to himself as he weaves his way between the busy aliens. Many of them stare at him suspiciously as they brush past, carefully avoiding him, but Bob takes no notice; he's too busy thinking. He's going to need a new boss, and new squadmates. Nobody really treated him like a boss in the end, they only pretended to. They promised him things just to placate him and treated him patronizingly. Bob deserves better than that. Bob deserves... ice cream. Ice cream is better than Saoirse. Ice cream never patronized anyone.
  Suddenly, Bob halts; he hears shouting behind him in some alien tongue. He can't understand the words. Turning, he sees a group of mercenaries - real ones - running towards him with their guns drawn. Frightened pedestrians shout and struggle to get out of their way. "STOP!" one of them calls, a good 75 meters away. "DON'T MOVE!" Bob looks; he sees the guns, sees the hostile looks on the mens faces. There's too many of them for Bob to fight, and they don't look like they have ice cream - or plan to give it to him, either.

~~~

  Ice cream is, in fact, quite scarce on the station, even though Ishmael doesn't know it. He stands in the doorway to a bar - The Last Ponderance - and tries in vain to find any Galactic Standard on the cheap chalk-drawn menu above the barkeep. The security guard he'd met outside had given him directions here - "A quiet bar", he had promised - and it definitely fit that expectation. Hardly anyone is here but the barkeep, a number of near-silent heavy drinkers at the bar itself tapping at cheap PDAs, and a few small groups sitting at the old wall-booths around the sparsely-decorated room, talking in low voices among themselves.
  The barkeep - surely not the owner - is a wide, sour-looking alien with four arms, four eyes, and four times the temperament of someone who just rolled out of bed. He watches Ishmael as he comes in, sauntering up to the bar and removing his helmet. "Hrmmm?" the barkeep grunts; his upper lip raises and wrinkles at the edges in a vaguely disconcerting manner.
  "I'd like a drink," Ishmael says, sensing that the grunt was an unspoken question. "Beer, if you have any. Or something beer-like. Strong, with a pleasant flavor."
  "Hrmmmm.." the alien grunts again. "Two." Then, without bothering to explain, he turns and begins putting something together; his arms move as though each has a mind of its own, one grabbing a glass, another opening a door and another pulling out a bottle while his fourth grabs a cheap plastic coaster from a dirty stack. Ishmael pulls himself away from this spectacle and fishes out a two-cred chip, setting it on the countertop. The barkeep takes it without a word and pushes Ishmael's beer to a gentle stop in front of him. "Is 'Grishka's Jor'ka'," the barkeep says by way of identification, and turns away to wash some dishes.
  Taking a breath, Ishmael takes an apprehensive sip from his mug. It tastes fine enough - warm, with a good smoky flavor. It tastes almost faintly of something like caramel, but with a bit of a pungent undertaste. Overall, it's good. Ishmael drinks again - a longer draught this time - and takes a good look at his surroundings.
  If ever there was a place to do shady business, this would be it. The lights are dim and seem to intentionally avoid the booths at the edges of the room, leaving them in shadows. A skull and crossbones adorns the left wall - the skull of some alien beast, most like, with a long snout, tusks, and two pairs of forward-set eyes. A large, flat, rusty model of an alien warship adorns the wall on the right. A soft music permeates the air - something alien, humming and chirping, just barely loud enough to drown out conversations coming from the edges of the tavern.
  "Hovis ognan," a large alien three stools down grunts, sliding his empty glass towards the barkeep. The barkeep grunts and gets him a new mug, filling it with the same rapidity he employed for Ishmael - even despite the fact that this mug is a few times larger.
  Ishmael has no idea where his teammates are, or why the FSM would send him to a place like this. Or where he should go from here.
  On the other hand, he seems to be doing a pretty good job of avoiding unwanted attention. Or any attention, really.

~~~

  Someone much worse at avoiding attention is Brom. Fortunately, there is no longer a Brom to be seen aboard the station; there is only a Killshot, his co-captain Billy the Butcher, and their trusty butler, Hammerhead. One of these does not seem particularly keen at doing something that might attract attention.
  "Are we really doin' this?" the Butcher asks incredulously. "I fukcin' hate this kind o' goddamn pen pushers!"
  Hammerhead points out, logically, that it's a sensible idea. "You want coin for booze or not? I don't care much for bloody unions either, but hooking up with 'em pretty much guarantees coin, and I'm itching for a proper brew."
  "Chump change is what we'll get," Billy retorts. "I know these types. They expect you to be their bloody errand boy, n' try n' rip you off n' get out of payin' their share by speakin' how you broke some mumbo-jumbo hogwash contract stribulation!" He spits the words out with a fair degree of vehement disdain.
  Killshot shrugs. "Should they lack work suitable for mercenaries of our exquisite caliber, we can always look elsewhere."
  The Butcher shakes his head. "Screw this place. Let's go check the waterin' holes first." He starts walking towards the elevator ahead, on the right side of the large open area filled with various ammo vendors. When it becomes quite clear that the others aren't following him, he shouts: "Oh come-the-fukc-on, you really want to be fillin' forms 'till the sun goes out for some floor-sweeper work!? Least we could do is have a bloody drink before we do that crap!"
  "Let's stop in briefly to see how they operate. Briefly," Killshot adds reassuringly. "Then we'll head to the nearest bar of respectable quality. What do you say, Bill?"
  The mercenaries argue for a little while longer. Billy Butcher strongly detests the idea of doing anything at all related to "hogwash contract stribulations" but, after Killshot manages to win Hammerhead over to his side, Billy relents, and the little group heads into the Merc Registration Department.
  It turns out to be a rather official, bureaucratic looking place, stiff and stuffy to the core. Mercenaries go up to the front, take a number for their group, downloads a copy of the paperwork, and then sits down to fill it out and wait to be called up. It's a fairly old system, but one that works slowly enough for any white-collar bureaucrat to be satisfied. Billy the Butcher eyes one of the mercs scrolling though the pages and pages of paperwork and grumbles, but Killshot walks up to another that just seems to be sitting there and introduces himself. "How do you do, fellow mercenary! I am Connley Mckale, professional sharpshooter, master tactician, and brilliant leader."
  The merc, an old grubby alien with large fish-like eyes, grunts. "Join the club," he mutters sardonically in Galactic. "What do you want?"
  "Could you explain the requirements for registration? As well as the perks that come with registration? And further, I am interested in knowing what work is prohibited here."
  Folding his arms, the merc grunts. "Nothing's prohibited," he says; he makes a fairly disgusting noise with his throat and flicks a forked tongue. "You midworld? Nobody gives a shit out here. Requirements are some form of valid ID. Perks are being able to access merc-only bars here on Fuhodo, access the merc-only hotels, and take merc jobs and bounties." He points behind Killshot; Killshot and the others turn and look and see a large interactive board of merc jobs. A few mercs stand in front of it, alternatively tapping at it, and their PDAs.
  "Could we take those bounties without being registered?" Gene asks curiously.
  "Legally? No."
  "... Illegally?"
  "Yeah, if you want to die," the merc chuckles. "Mercs can kill anyone that unlawfully engages in bounty activity. Then they take your bounty. I'd do it too." The alien shifts in his chair, licking his lips in an almost lustful manner. "Why? Did you take a bounty lately?" When Killshot's party answers in the negative, he looks considerably less interested. "That everything?"
  "I believe so," Killshot says, nodding. "Thanks for the help, I appreciate it. If there's anything we can do for you, let us know!"
  "Not bloody likely," the alien murmurs with another chuckle. He gives a backhanded wave to shoo the trio away, and they oblige, wandering outside, threading their way through a larger mercenary group on the way out.

  Outside in the hub area between the elevators and the Merc Department, the trio takes stock again. Drinks are obviously next on the list - much to Billy's pleasure, of course, and annoyance that they weren't there already.
  It's at this point that Billy the Butcher realizes he's holding something in his hand. When he opens his palm, he finds a crumbled slip of paper - one he's never seen before - and scrawled upon it is a message:

  You shits stand out like a baby at a strip club.

  Then, on the back:

  The Last Ponderance
  Back left table


~~~

  Sukava and Vynkor stare at the ugly little alien that's sat itself down at the table. They exchange glances; they're thinking the same thing. Sukava draws a line across her neck and softly pats her sword. Vynkor shakes her head, mouthing "No", and pulls out her laser pistol. Sukava frowns, shrugs, and softly, stealthily, walks behind Vynkor.
  Vynkor is doing an excellent job of creeping up on the alien, who is happily (stupidly) munching his food. As she gets closer, she slows down to be even quieter; it's practically impossible to hear her. Sukava, behind Vynkor, does not slow down, and subsequently bumps into her. This produces a very audible "Oof!"
  And the alien, of course, immediately turns around to see who else is in the room.
  This is probably the worst thing it could have done.
  Having lost any element of surprise, Vynkor and Sukava attack wildly. Vynkor begins firing at the alien in the throat, burning out holes - some of the shots miss and hit its face and chest. Sukava shouts and pulls out her electron sword, stabbing it over and over while Vynkor continues to shoot. Eventually, the two settle down, panting, and realize that their little alien friend is very, very dead. One of its arms have been almost completely removed (and the cut is pretty messy), there's dozens of cuts, gashes, and stab wounds across its torso, and there's dark alien blood all over the place.
  "So, uh," Sukava says, calming herself down. "Nice job."
  "Thanks," Vynkor nods, swallowing. "You too."
  "Right, so... Search it," Sukava says, putting her sword away. Then she goes off to look at the door the alien came through.
  Vynkor kneels down in the growing puddle of blood and searches the alien, getting blood all over her gloves as she does so. She finds 25 plat and a keychip of some kind in the thing's pockets, as well as a tiny pocket-PDA. She pockets these and searches a second time, just to be sure that's everything.
  The room the alien came from seems to be a sort of "toolshed". There are some basic repair tools in here, hanging on pegs protruding from the walls. (Sukava doesn't recognize any of them, or have any idea how they work.) There are also a set of cabinets containing some fairly common things like bolts, wiring, and... napkins. It seems eating out here isn't a very unusual thing for a mechanic to do. There's even a fairly deep rubbish container at one side. Looking inside, Sukava sees it seems to empty into some kind of chute after it closes.
  At the back of the little room there's another door that, like the main one, is locked shut. However, this one is actually thin enough to potentially destroy.
  Sukava wanders back out just as Vynkor (now covered in blood) is finishing up her search, and the two take stock of the situation and area. The hangar itself is empty, but another ship could quite easily land in it at any time. If that's the case, some workers will probably enter well before it lands, to help unload it - at least, if transportation of goods works anything like it does on other planets. There's no reason to think it wouldn't. If that's the case, the two had probably better get moving quickly. At least they're alone and there won't be any further resistance. For now.
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Re: REKT: BTE Mission 2: Fuhodo Station

#131
Note wrote:
Thu Jun 06, 2019 3:07 pm
  You shits stand out like a baby at a strip club.

  Then, on the back:

  The Last Ponderance
  Back left table
Do a rather big double take at the note, befuddled
Quickly regain my composure, pocket the note before anyone else sees and turn to the others, jovially:


"A'ight, we have places to be goin', fellers! As I said, screw that shit -"

Gesturing at the admin booth

"Just so happens, n' as I wanted to say, but Conley kept interruptin' me, I know just the fine establishment we could go to. Well, as fine as it gets in a place like this. Come on, I wait a lil' more n' I'll turn into sand, I swear!"

Lead the others towards the elevator
Enter the elevator
Go up to floor 3, chosen at random
Say to the others:


"Man, hope the floor's right, ain't been here in some time!"

if there's a non-squid besides us in the elevator, casually ask:

"Hey, Ponderance, floor 3, right?"

if the response is negative, go to the floor that the bystander instructed me
After getting off the elevator, go intently in a random direction, as if I know just where I'm headed, and look for the Ponderance
if I am unsuccessful in finding it, say:


"What the... I swear it was here! Must've moved or somethin'."

Ask a random passerby:

"Hey, the Ponderance moved? If they closed, I ain't comin' to this damn station ever again, only good establishment closin' down! Where's a man s'posed to rest!?"

Once someone gives me directions, follow them

Throughout the turn, standard self-defense actions apply (it's redundant to retype them every time, but basically - defend myself if attacked, find cover if fired upon, use the plasma baton against melee threats, don't exceed my max non-penalized uses)
Last edited by Hapchazzard on Sat Jun 08, 2019 6:13 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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