I mean... am I a total d!@k if I say yeah? :D
You're fine. I'll find something else simultaneously Victorian-sounding and menacing :^P
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You're fine. I'll find something else simultaneously Victorian-sounding and menacing :^P
A dozen black boots clambered up the stairs, echoing in every direction. At a glance, Sam saw that they had dozens of flights to climb. Sam had opted to wear American-style jungle boots, flexible and inexpensively-made of canvas and rubber; he picked ones without a steel plate in the sole. One after the other, the stairs flew past underfoot. Boy, was he glad that had opted to sacrifice a little durability in exchange for flexible soles; pounding past all these concrete stairs in steel-toes would have his dogs barking in no time flat.
He checked his watch, worn with the face on the inside of his right wrist - near the lacquered wooden grip of his Noble-Arm revolver. Eleven minutes since they entered the building; with the gunships backed off and one of the guards from the patio running off alive, something bad was bound to come soon. Sam was something of a worry-wart. As if on cue, shouts in Cambodian echoed from below them, and loud cracks from rifles and pistols about eight stories down thundered up to them, and little chips of cinderblock fell on Sam's nose as bullets hit the wall in their vicinity. Crazy acoustics; that actually made the ear not covered by his headset smart a little. No more quietly, he sent a dozen of the 19th-century's most cutting edge leaden slugs down at them, rapid fire. A little trick he had learned from American cowboy movies: he kept the trigger squeezed while slamming back the hammer again and again with his free hand. Visually impressive as it was, it wasn't hardly accurate, and was rather hard on the ears.
This'll be a whole lot louder, he thought, holstering his revolver while the two Philippine soldiers in the back of the line cracked off a few bursts down the stairwell. One hand pulled out a little foam earplug for his uncovered right ear, and the other pulled out a grenade from his chest rig. Off the top of his head, he didn't remember the exact model, but it was smooth and cylindrical, not the pineapple-looking type from moves or cartoons. He pulled out the pin and released the spoon, bellowing out in English as the device ticked away, "Fire in the hole!" He dropped the little thing of the side of the stairs and took a step back from the railing. The vibrations from the subsequent blast emanated off of every concrete surface around him. After a brief pause, the gunfire from below did not resume. He couldn't know whether or not he had timed it such that it was right next to the enemy when it exploded, but what's that English expression about "close enough still counts with horseshoes and hand grenades?"
He turned to continue moving up the stairs, but the bulky pointman didn't budge. Momentarily rattled by the blast- maybe - or any number of other things; Sam didn't judge. A pretty harmless moment to choke, all things considered. He rested a hand on the stout man's neck, and mentally willed a surge of adrenaline and testosterone to flow. "You've got this." The man nodded his head and surged on up the stairs, Sam and the rest close behind.
He checked his watch, worn with the face on the inside of his right wrist - near the lacquered wooden grip of his Noble-Arm revolver. Eleven minutes since they entered the building; with the gunships backed off and one of the guards from the patio running off alive, something bad was bound to come soon. Sam was something of a worry-wart. As if on cue, shouts in Cambodian echoed from below them, and loud cracks from rifles and pistols about eight stories down thundered up to them, and little chips of cinderblock fell on Sam's nose as bullets hit the wall in their vicinity. Crazy acoustics; that actually made the ear not covered by his headset smart a little. No more quietly, he sent a dozen of the 19th-century's most cutting edge leaden slugs down at them, rapid fire. A little trick he had learned from American cowboy movies: he kept the trigger squeezed while slamming back the hammer again and again with his free hand. Visually impressive as it was, it wasn't hardly accurate, and was rather hard on the ears.
This'll be a whole lot louder, he thought, holstering his revolver while the two Philippine soldiers in the back of the line cracked off a few bursts down the stairwell. One hand pulled out a little foam earplug for his uncovered right ear, and the other pulled out a grenade from his chest rig. Off the top of his head, he didn't remember the exact model, but it was smooth and cylindrical, not the pineapple-looking type from moves or cartoons. He pulled out the pin and released the spoon, bellowing out in English as the device ticked away, "Fire in the hole!" He dropped the little thing of the side of the stairs and took a step back from the railing. The vibrations from the subsequent blast emanated off of every concrete surface around him. After a brief pause, the gunfire from below did not resume. He couldn't know whether or not he had timed it such that it was right next to the enemy when it exploded, but what's that English expression about "close enough still counts with horseshoes and hand grenades?"
He turned to continue moving up the stairs, but the bulky pointman didn't budge. Momentarily rattled by the blast- maybe - or any number of other things; Sam didn't judge. A pretty harmless moment to choke, all things considered. He rested a hand on the stout man's neck, and mentally willed a surge of adrenaline and testosterone to flow. "You've got this." The man nodded his head and surged on up the stairs, Sam and the rest close behind.
for the big bad guy, would a name like Randall P. Cockburn, be too over-the-top?
"That balcony there." Sam leaned past the pilot and pointed to a small patio on the fifth floor of the office building. From there, they could ascend the building and clear the roof. The gunships above and in front of them drew fire as his helicopter diverted off the river, toward their entry point. The rest of the group circled back, along the east bank of the Mekong. They would be able to land near the conference center once they cleared off the Cambodians on the roof.
The balcony was on opposite side of the office building from the besieged conference center, and thus lightly guarded. On a more normal day, Sam mused, a handful of accountants, secretaries, and IT guys would be out at the tables enjoying a lunch break right about now. Sam wondered briefly if the corporate lunch break was as filled with political intrigue and status games as the lunche period in school; a few stray tracers whizzed past the craft and broke his reverie. Ah yes, lightly guarded, but not unguarded. He lilted casually into his headset in Indonesian, "Gunship 3, could I get a little suppressive fire on the fifth floor balcony? Thank you." The reply was not long in coming.
Sam had, especially while a jobless homebody before getting his noble arm, devoted a lot of time to indulging niche interests and absorbing trivia. One semi-common obsession he did not pursue, however, was military vehicles and ordinance. There are many folks who, shown a grainy, black-and-white photograph of some military hardware, could tell you what tank it is, designed by whom, built by which factory, who was using it in that photo, and so on and so forth. Sam wasn't one of those people, so all he could appreciate about the gunship - and its machine gun that proceeded to pepper the patio with bullets - was that it was effective. One Cambodian dropped, the other scrambled through the shattered glass door into the building.
The helicopter sallied up to the balcony and Sam hopped out with the five other operators - three Indonesians and two Filipinos. Two moved to secure the doorway and another knelt by the downed Cambodian. After a quick assessment he looked at Sam and the team leader and shook his head. As if to underscore the urgency of their task, a cacophony overhead prompted Sam to look and see a damaged gunship spiraling toward the riverbank. They formed up and made their way inside.
Sam was second in line, revolver drawn and tuned-in on his headset to developments on the ground. As an arms master, he had some extra durability that a normal human wouldn't, but prudence dictated he wear the same helmet and vest that the other five operators wore. Due to the nature of his powers, though, he had the sleeves of his grey jumpsuit rolled up and wasn't wearing gloves. They needed skin contact to work, after all. In front of him was bulky point man with rifle, and behind him was the team leader - a Javanese man with a thin build - and the medic. Behind them were two more men with submachineguns.
Following the signs in the hallways, they went to the right, then the left, straight past a bunch of copy machines in a narrow hallway, and then right again to a stairway on the east side of the building. Sam couldn't read the Cambodian text, but among the parts in English he saw "NO ROOF ACCESS." He briefly conferred with the team leader in Indonesian. "These stairs won't connect with the roof, but we can probably find access on whatever floor they let off. The lanky Jakartan nodded agreement, "Yeah, lets keep the momentum going and get off this floor before the Cambodians respond." Sam patted twice on the pointman's padded shoulder, and the broad man slammed open the stairway door, with prejudice.
The balcony was on opposite side of the office building from the besieged conference center, and thus lightly guarded. On a more normal day, Sam mused, a handful of accountants, secretaries, and IT guys would be out at the tables enjoying a lunch break right about now. Sam wondered briefly if the corporate lunch break was as filled with political intrigue and status games as the lunche period in school; a few stray tracers whizzed past the craft and broke his reverie. Ah yes, lightly guarded, but not unguarded. He lilted casually into his headset in Indonesian, "Gunship 3, could I get a little suppressive fire on the fifth floor balcony? Thank you." The reply was not long in coming.
Sam had, especially while a jobless homebody before getting his noble arm, devoted a lot of time to indulging niche interests and absorbing trivia. One semi-common obsession he did not pursue, however, was military vehicles and ordinance. There are many folks who, shown a grainy, black-and-white photograph of some military hardware, could tell you what tank it is, designed by whom, built by which factory, who was using it in that photo, and so on and so forth. Sam wasn't one of those people, so all he could appreciate about the gunship - and its machine gun that proceeded to pepper the patio with bullets - was that it was effective. One Cambodian dropped, the other scrambled through the shattered glass door into the building.
The helicopter sallied up to the balcony and Sam hopped out with the five other operators - three Indonesians and two Filipinos. Two moved to secure the doorway and another knelt by the downed Cambodian. After a quick assessment he looked at Sam and the team leader and shook his head. As if to underscore the urgency of their task, a cacophony overhead prompted Sam to look and see a damaged gunship spiraling toward the riverbank. They formed up and made their way inside.
Sam was second in line, revolver drawn and tuned-in on his headset to developments on the ground. As an arms master, he had some extra durability that a normal human wouldn't, but prudence dictated he wear the same helmet and vest that the other five operators wore. Due to the nature of his powers, though, he had the sleeves of his grey jumpsuit rolled up and wasn't wearing gloves. They needed skin contact to work, after all. In front of him was bulky point man with rifle, and behind him was the team leader - a Javanese man with a thin build - and the medic. Behind them were two more men with submachineguns.
Following the signs in the hallways, they went to the right, then the left, straight past a bunch of copy machines in a narrow hallway, and then right again to a stairway on the east side of the building. Sam couldn't read the Cambodian text, but among the parts in English he saw "NO ROOF ACCESS." He briefly conferred with the team leader in Indonesian. "These stairs won't connect with the roof, but we can probably find access on whatever floor they let off. The lanky Jakartan nodded agreement, "Yeah, lets keep the momentum going and get off this floor before the Cambodians respond." Sam patted twice on the pointman's padded shoulder, and the broad man slammed open the stairway door, with prejudice.
As I've mentioned in the interest thread and elsewhere, I'm amenable to running the bad guy town tycoon, and the leader of the plucky camp of hard-up settlers. That still sound fine?
As the lead helicopter skimmed low along the Mekong, Sam held a finger to his headset and called back to Robert in English "Sewojo here. We're almost within sight of the conference center. I wish I could say we'd be there momentarily, but- " Sam grunted and gripped the railing as the helicopter banked sharply; a rocket-propelled grenade hit the water just a little behind where the helicopter was before. It probably made a very satisfying "PLOP" sound but, alas, this was drawned out by the helicopter's rotors and the intermittent machine-gun fire. "But the Cambodians started getting very unfriendly about halfway up our cruise of the Mekong. Clearing a path for evacuation with minimal collateral damage will be complicated."
He took his finger off the transmitter and in a fast, but smooth and unhurried, motion drew his weapon out of his armpit holster with the freed hand and squeezed off two shots. They caught the helmeted head of a Cambodian, firing the top-mounted gun of an APC chasing them down a road along the Mekong. The gunner jerked back and disappeared into the vehicle. From this distance, he couldn't know the exact effects his shots had, but he figured it gave him a moment to finish his conversation. He holstered his revolver and resumed speaking with a finger on the headset. "There's an office bulding on the west bank of the Mekong they're using as a firing position. To get that dealt with, we'll need to get a team up to the building. If you can draw some fire off of us, that'll help; if not, we'll do our best anyways. Sewojo out."
@DammitVictor
He took his finger off the transmitter and in a fast, but smooth and unhurried, motion drew his weapon out of his armpit holster with the freed hand and squeezed off two shots. They caught the helmeted head of a Cambodian, firing the top-mounted gun of an APC chasing them down a road along the Mekong. The gunner jerked back and disappeared into the vehicle. From this distance, he couldn't know the exact effects his shots had, but he figured it gave him a moment to finish his conversation. He holstered his revolver and resumed speaking with a finger on the headset. "There's an office bulding on the west bank of the Mekong they're using as a firing position. To get that dealt with, we'll need to get a team up to the building. If you can draw some fire off of us, that'll help; if not, we'll do our best anyways. Sewojo out."
@DammitVictor
Well, I don't have as much experience with collaborative fiction, but it would seem that selling people on the RP is contingent on having the RP defined. Now, I love outlines, you seem to be a bit more of a "panster"; and that's cool. I'm sure we can find a happy medium: Even if the path we ultimately take is wildly different from what we planned, I want to have a plan to start with in some capacity.
ok, I am content to start up a thread for OOC, IC, and Characters... but I'm not convinced there's enough interest yet.
In that case, would you like to workshop the concept a little more before we "go to print," as it were? I can whip up a google doc or something like that, if you like. As long as we're waiting, no harm in brainstorming.
This still on your agenda?
Should have recalled the Pale Rider motif. I love that picture. But it has been a very long week, and honestly, I thought of stealing / finding clothing a la Postman.
If you wanted to go with my suggestion of falling out with the Tycoon and left for dead, the desire for him to make a new persona - impelled by guilt and anger - just makes sense. Additionally, if you wanted someone to fill the role of the rescuer who saved the Repentant after he was left for dead, I could step in. Maybe as a permanent companion, or as a temporary mentor character who runs his course in the "Prologue" which sets up the Repentant and his collision course with the Tycoon. In either case, as my main "good guy," I'd offer to act as the leader of the community in the process of being railroaded out by the Tycoon. Hard-working, tough, but not experienced as a fighter; A a little older and a widower, serves as sort of the "camp dad" for all the other residents.
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