ChronicleMan
rush99999
SmileyForTheCam
Bacon
XxFellsingxX
SphincterSphinx
angelsgrief
meri
op2024
Guardian Angel HarukiRory's ears twinged to the wasp-like chorus of the approaching engines. It didn't take him long to realize what bothered him about it; there weren't many reasons a large group of people might approach a settlement from multiple directions, and the likelihood that at least a dozen vehicles would just happen to converge on their location--all at the same time--was about as high as the number of chips in his pocket.
His immediate response was to eat faster. Manners had the time and their place, but in situations like this animal need took priority. A couple of the other patrons nearby gave him looks that mixed confusion with disgust as he bent down with his nose almost in the plate and shoveled food in his mouth. Rory ignored them--and by the time he started licking his plate clean, the dead man laying in front of the little waystation's gate had given them something else to focus on, anyway.
{{ threat analysis: nearby gunfire. acoustic analysis indicates pistol-caliber rounds. length of burst and cyclic rate suggest a submachine gun. }}
Rory dropped the tin plate--now clean of any scrap of edible substance--on the counter and just about fell off his stool, reaching for his backpack. He had removed his battered flak vest when he sat down--the vest was heavy, he had been hot, and Sully's Rest had seemed like a safe enough place for him to dispense with it for the length of a meal.
"Things can never just be nice," he muttered to himself as pulled the vest over his head.
{{ threat analysis: given the distance of the gunfire and the caliber of the weapon, the threat to you is minimal, Lieutenant. }}
Rory had just managed to secure the vest's buckles when the gunfire began in earnest. "~Threat analysis is minimal,~" he said in a mocking singsong, as the bullets whizzed overhead.
He had been in gunfights before. Once or twice. If you counted a few shots fired back and forth before both groups retreated a gunfight.
This was a different thing entirely. There was no one to shoot at, for one thing. Between the sound of the engines surrounding them and the hail of bullets criss-crossing the air it was more like being attacked by a host of angry, deadly insects.
Rory scooted along the ground, dragging his backpack with him as he into an interior corner of the diner and began looking around.
Options. He needed options. A way to escape--if that was still possible--or at least a way to mount an effective resistance if it wasn't. Safety was found in numbers. If he could identify the right people, get them pointed in the right direction...
His immediate response was to eat faster. Manners had the time and their place, but in situations like this animal need took priority. A couple of the other patrons nearby gave him looks that mixed confusion with disgust as he bent down with his nose almost in the plate and shoveled food in his mouth. Rory ignored them--and by the time he started licking his plate clean, the dead man laying in front of the little waystation's gate had given them something else to focus on, anyway.
{{ threat analysis: nearby gunfire. acoustic analysis indicates pistol-caliber rounds. length of burst and cyclic rate suggest a submachine gun. }}
Rory dropped the tin plate--now clean of any scrap of edible substance--on the counter and just about fell off his stool, reaching for his backpack. He had removed his battered flak vest when he sat down--the vest was heavy, he had been hot, and Sully's Rest had seemed like a safe enough place for him to dispense with it for the length of a meal.
"Things can never just be nice," he muttered to himself as pulled the vest over his head.
{{ threat analysis: given the distance of the gunfire and the caliber of the weapon, the threat to you is minimal, Lieutenant. }}
Rory had just managed to secure the vest's buckles when the gunfire began in earnest. "~Threat analysis is minimal,~" he said in a mocking singsong, as the bullets whizzed overhead.
He had been in gunfights before. Once or twice. If you counted a few shots fired back and forth before both groups retreated a gunfight.
This was a different thing entirely. There was no one to shoot at, for one thing. Between the sound of the engines surrounding them and the hail of bullets criss-crossing the air it was more like being attacked by a host of angry, deadly insects.
Rory scooted along the ground, dragging his backpack with him as he into an interior corner of the diner and began looking around.
Options. He needed options. A way to escape--if that was still possible--or at least a way to mount an effective resistance if it wasn't. Safety was found in numbers. If he could identify the right people, get them pointed in the right direction...