Starlance

The Marauders (2018)

What are we waiting for? General IRL stuff or something/someone specific?

The Tower Chapter 1: A New Dawn

Once she was in the clear and back in her own skin, she retraced her path back, stopping by the donut shop she passed earlier as she almost surely wouldn’t be back in time for the hotel’s breakfast. A few hours after her foray into the Starlight apartment complex, Tamara was back in her hotel room with her feet on the table and a donut in her hand, finishing up the Charity donations misappropriation story and getting it ready to be filed. She tried to imagine the expression on Mr. Church’s face when the guard told him someone’s made off with such question-raising pictures, and the image warmed her heart. Those photos alone could’ve caused quite the headache, but combined with the materials her colleague originally working on this had gathered over the past eight months before gallbladder surgery complications put him out of work, she imagined the fallout from this would be much worse. Even if it would be at least a week before the story got published, she couldn’t think of any excuse Church could cook up that would hold any water. Human beings generally did not take kindly to someone messing with their money.

With this sudden, though far from unwelcome bit of work out of the way, she could redirect her focus back to the reason she was back in this city. Of course finding Parahumans and getting them to talk to her to get their side of things wouldn’t be as easy as opening a shitty lock and getting past a blinded mall cop, since parahumans were all either in a para camp, blissfully unaware of their state or hiding it like she was. Sure, there was the Church of Para, but if even half of what she could dig up about it was true, she’d feel safer punching a bear while wrapped in bacon than intentionally contacting that group.

Fortunately, there were other vectors of approach. She opened a different browser with several recent articles related to parahumans. Increase in funding for para camps, a couple of muggings and robberies, a blown up donut shop… Unfortunately, it wasn’t much to go on, and spread out all across the city. With a sigh, she opened another tab, looking for rental vehicles. Probably a motorbike to get through heavy traffic more easily. She turned the TV on to provide some background noise, currently showing some wannabe comedy so awful one could sprain forehead muscles from cringing.

Minutes later, the room fell into silence. At first she thought the programme interruption was due to a malfunction or an emergency broadcast, but then the same happened to her computer. ”Co do cholery?” Tam jumped in her seat when the voice spoke, standing up as quickly as she was able to and turned around to face the empty room. To placate her panic, she started a full system scan with her laptop’s antivirus, switched off the TV, retrieved her equipment, sidearm and backpack from the bedroom and headed out, double-checking that the door was locked. She had places to be and questions to ask. As always, she stopped by the reception desk to greet the person working there. The hotel employees thought she was just being nice. They’d be surprised if they knew.

The Tower Chapter 1: A New Dawn

Tamara

Tamara Jankowski

Age: 28
Born: 4th January 2021; Appleton, WI

---

appearance

Height: 181 cm
Weight: 73 kg
Voice: Stana Katic (Catherine Beckett, Castle)

---

Classification: Gamma 2
Ability: Polymorphism
Tamara has the ability to alter her body to match that of another human, mimicking their appearance, voice and physical attributes. Although the transformation is painless and takes mere seconds, Tam first has to “read” a person she wishes to mimic (Sight-based process, a few seconds suffice. It’s possible for her to read targets off of images or video, but not holograms due to their low quality.) prior to doing so. She can revert to her normal state at will without the need to read her own appearance off anything, and will also revert back if she falls asleep or loses consciousness.

Reading a new person overwrites the one she read previously. Tamara cannot replicate scent or memories of events and experiences, only know-how, and the overall mass of her body can only increase or decrease by about twenty kilograms. When mimicking another Parahuman, she will not gain access to their powers. Moreso, not only will the mimicry copy the target’s current ailments, she will always retain her current sickness’ or injuries, such as her limp and far-sightedness. Tamara cannot copy clothing or jewellery, forcing her to layer up or carry spares with her. Her attire can be damaged if she takes on the appearance of someone too big for what she’s wearing.

---

Skills:

• Information - Where would any journalist be without their sources? As the workaholic she is, Tamara has amassed an extensive list of people across the United States she can reach out to when she needs information or advice. Failing that, she’s no stranger to spending eight hours in a library or archive, driven by copious amounts of caffeinated beverages.
• Intellect - While by no means a genius in any field, her brain can nonetheless work in high gear. An analytical mind, the ability to improvise, a knack for languages, sharp wit and good memory can go a long way.

---

Weaknesses:

• Combat - Though she carries a sidearm where concealed carry is permitted, or some other self defense tool where it is not, she’s mostly useless in a straight-up fight, being forced to rely on her surroundings with escape still the preferred method. That being said, she’s a decent enough shot for a civilian.
• Mobility impairment - A shrapnel from mortar fire claimed bits of the bones in her right ankle. Despite bone implants, Tamara still walks with a noticeable limp and can’t run as fast as a healthy leg would allow.

---

History

A sixth-generation Polish American, Tamara lived a middle class life in good, or at least decent schools. She grew up close to a news station, where both her parents worked as technicians, which greatly influenced her. Soon, she accumulated stacks and gigabytes of articles and interviews with accomplished journalists, and before long was studying journalism at Wisconsin Madison university, getting an internship at the Wisconsin Center for Investigative Journalism.

Once she graduated, she got a chance to accompany a freelance group of experienced reporters covering the reignited civil war in Mali. Unfortunately for her and the small team, the local government intentionally sent them to one of the most volatile sectors so their propagandists could portray the rebels as more evil for shooting journalists. Thankfully, the experience of the group and its sole guard, a retired VDV, kept them all alive. Although the footage she and the team shot brought them some recognition, her brief stint as a war correspondent left the young graduate more than a little shaken up, disillusioned and permanently limping due to an injured ankle.

While recovering at home, Tamara contacted the Wisconsin Center for Investigative Journalism again and started working for them. Her name became known throughout Wisconsin in 2047, when she and one other journalist followed a trail of unnecessary spending from the reconstruction of Austin Straubel Int’l Airport all the way to Green Bay’s mayor, making them indirectly responsible for the premature end of her term in office. This accomplishment led to her switching from the Wisconsin to the country-encompassing Center for Investigative Reporting based in Emeryville, CA. The Straubel Int’l investigation was the first time she ran across the words “Lorne Corporation”, one of the overpaid parties supplying construction equipment, in relation to her work, but paid them no attention since getting paid more than your stuff is worth is not a crime.

In 2049, Tamara was tasked to look into alleged tax evasion by several members of Lorne board of directors. She had been in Marlon for three months at the time of the explosion, finishing up research into the allegations that were either about as real as Atlantis or hidden so well she couldn’t even find scraps and was set to head back home a few days later when The Tower blew up.

Tamara was fortunate enough to be in her hotel room when her mutations manifested the following night. She was reading an article about the Tolmachevy sisters and thought what she would give to live a single day of their high life. Much to her horror, her body began to lose form, like a chocolate figure someone left in their car on a hot day, eventually mimicking the article’s photo of one of the twins.

The next day, she lied her way past the maid, claiming the explosion caused her nightmares about Mali to explain the horrified screams her neighbor complained about. In truth, she hadn’t slept a minute that night. It took her hours to calm down, make sure she wasn’t dreaming and become herself again, figuratively and literally speaking. Once she got back home, she took out as much of her vacation as she could, claiming she needed time to sort out some personal issues, which was a monumental understatement.

Once she came to terms with her new self, she spent the rest of her vacation experimenting in her apartment, learning what she could and couldn’t do while keeping a lid on the whole thing, at first out of irrational fear for her life and later out of a justified fear for her freedom.

When the hubris died down a little, questions began to grow in her mind like mushrooms after rain. What on Earth was Lorne doing there that, when something went wrong, caused such varied mutations in Humans? Why only in Humans? Why did whatever was going on there go wrong, and how? And in a dark corner of her mind, where the most insane and paranoid neurons lay gathered, an almost impossible, yet frightening question surfaced: Given some of the previous questions, was it an accident at all?

---

Sample post

On a night like this, even the native Wisconsinite felt the damp cold despite a coat, gloves and a warm cap, and the streets were void of pedestrians. Outside a donut shop, a police officer and another man were leaning against the wall, taking cover from the rain. “García, you know the worst thing about this bucket?” the cop complained loudly to the civilian while tapping his helmet.
“No idea, Abe. Helmet hair?” the other guessed.
“It allows the smell to get in, but doesn’t let the donuts follow! It’s torture...” he was still droning on when she shmabled past far enough for the rain to drown him out. Tamara had to chuckle at the sound of the deep, booming voice of the cop’s voice filter complaining about not being able to pig out on duty. She paused and turned her head to take a better look at them, looking the civvie over before continuing on her way. Before long, she reached her destination for the night - an apartment complex in the good part of town. No Hilton, but still a step up from the rest of the suburbs. A whisper on the street, or rather in her workmail, told tales of a charity owner’s private retreat worth a considerable amount of money more than the humble non-profiteer he presented himself as should afford.

She walked back a couple blocks and disappeared into the alley, loitering in the darkness to let her eyes adjust. She expected the back entrance to be secured, but with a Master Lock mechanical five digit code lock they might as well have left the door open. The young woman sighed. She’d asked an associate of hers to figure out a way to bypass an electronic lock she expected to find and now owed him a bottle of Żubrówka for nothing.

Tamara pulled down her balaclava, which had until now been rolled up to look like a cap, braced her cane against the door and knelt down beside the lock. Pulling on the shackle, she got a shim between the lock body and one of the code wheels, turning the wheel one position at a time until she found the ‘true’ gate for that wheel, repeating the process for the other four. The lock clicked open without a hitch. ”1-8-6-4-7” she muttered under her breath as she closed the door behind her, the padlock in her pocket.

The door led into a garage belonging to the apartment building. Closing her left eye, she retrieved a flashlight and walked along the parking row until she found what she was looking for: a parking space with a sign announcing it was reserved for one ‘Leonard Church’. Parked there stood a white generation 10 Impala with mismatching driver’s door and front left quarter panel. Tamara snapped a few photos where the sign and the vehicle’s shoddy repair and license plate were visible to identify it was indeed the car Church publicly used. Something caught her eye in the adjacent parking space. It, too, was reserved for Church, and housed a vehicle covered with a tarp. Overcome by curiosity, Tamara pulled down the tarp, revealing a 2009 Bentley Continental GT. ”Someone has taste here. And undisclosed income.” she muttered as she took pictures.
“Which is none of your goddamned business!” a voice thundered behind her. She spun around, coming face to face with a security guard. They were about 10 meters apart and the guard was already reaching for something on his belt.

Immediately backpedalling, she shone the flashlight directly at the guard’s head to blind him before shutting it off and plunging the garage into darkness. Unless his eyes were somehow augmented, he should be unable to see anything at all for a few minutes in the darkness. Meanwhile, Tamara closed her right eye and opened her left one, which was still adapted to darkness and hurried out of the garage before the guard could recover or turn the lights on. She burst into a service room, taking an immediate left to hide behind a large AC unit. Good thing she thought to take a dose of painkillers before she came here, which let her put a little bit of extra strain on her ankle.

The guard stormed into the room, cursing her and her family several generations both past and future as he fumbled for his flashlight. Tamara waited for him to pass, holding her cane like a baseball bat. Once he passed, she swung at the back of the poor sod’s knees, uttering a hasty ”Sorry!” as she pushed him on the floor with the cane and took off in the opposite direction, slamming the door shut behind her. A few seconds after she secured it with the lock she pawned off the back door, furious banging from the other side reminded her to expedite her exit.

The guard rushed out the front door onto the street, looking for any sign of the intruder. Spotting a figure across the street, he drew his baton. “You there, HALT!”
The hispanic male turned to the guard with his hands up and a surprised expression.
“Hey, pal, have you seen a chick in a black coat, maybe with a balaclava?” the guard inquired. The civilian nodded, pointing in the direction of the industrial quarter “She went that way, seemed in a hurry.” The guard took off in pursuit, confident he could catch up to the limping intruder while the man continued down the opposite direction.

Some time later in a different part of town, the man pulled out a black coat and a cane disassembled into two pieces out of his backpack as he turned back into a woman, sporting a smug grin.

The Tower Chapter 1: A New Dawn

Tamara

Tamara Jankowski

Age: 28
Born: 4th January 2021; Appleton, WI

---

appearance

Height: 181 cm
Weight: 73 kg
Voice: Stana Katic (Catherine Beckett, Castle)

---

Classification: Gamma 2
Ability: Polymorphism
Tamara has the ability to alter her body to match that of another human, mimicking their appearance, voice and physical attributes. Although the transformation is painless and takes mere seconds, Tam first has to “read” a person she wishes to mimic (Sight-based process, a few seconds suffice. It’s possible for her to read targets off of images or video, but not holograms due to their low quality.) prior to doing so. She can revert to her normal state at will without the need to read her own appearance off anything, and will also revert back if she falls asleep or loses consciousness.

Reading a new person overwrites the one she read previously. Tamara cannot replicate scent or memories of events and experiences, only know-how, and the overall mass of her body can only increase or decrease by about twenty kilograms. When mimicking another Parahuman, she will not gain access to their powers. Moreso, not only will the mimicry copy the target’s current ailments, she will always retain her current sickness’ or injuries, such as her limp and far-sightedness. Tamara cannot copy clothing or jewellery, forcing her to layer up or carry spares with her. Her attire can be damaged if she takes on the appearance of someone too big for what she’s wearing.

---

Skills:

• Information - Where would any journalist be without their sources? As the workaholic she is, Tamara has amassed an extensive list of people across the United States she can reach out to when she needs information or advice. Failing that, she’s no stranger to spending eight hours in a library or archive, driven by copious amounts of caffeinated beverages.
• Intellect - While by no means a genius in any field, her brain can nonetheless work in high gear. An analytical mind, the ability to improvise, a knack for languages, sharp wit and good memory can go a long way.

---

Weaknesses:

• Combat - Though she carries a sidearm where concealed carry is permitted, or some other self defense tool where it is not, she’s mostly useless in a straight-up fight, being forced to rely on her surroundings with escape still the preferred method. That being said, she’s a decent enough shot for a civilian.
• Mobility impairment - A shrapnel from mortar fire claimed bits of the bones in her right ankle. Despite bone implants, Tamara still walks with a noticeable limp and can’t run as fast as a healthy leg would allow.

---

History

A sixth-generation Polish American, Tamara lived a middle class life in good, or at least decent schools. She grew up close to a news station, where both her parents worked as technicians, which greatly influenced her. Soon, she accumulated stacks and gigabytes of articles and interviews with accomplished journalists, and before long was studying journalism at Wisconsin Madison university, getting an internship at the Wisconsin Center for Investigative Journalism.

Once she graduated, she got a chance to accompany a freelance group of experienced reporters covering the reignited civil war in Mali. Unfortunately for her and the small team, the local government intentionally sent them to one of the most volatile sectors so their propagandists could portray the rebels as more evil for shooting journalists. Thankfully, the experience of the group and its sole guard, a retired VDV, kept them all alive. Although the footage she and the team shot brought them some recognition, her brief stint as a war correspondent left the young graduate more than a little shaken up, disillusioned and permanently limping due to an injured ankle.

While recovering at home, Tamara contacted the Wisconsin Center for Investigative Journalism again and started working for them. Her name became known throughout Wisconsin in 2047, when she and one other journalist followed a trail of unnecessary spending from the reconstruction of Austin Straubel Int’l Airport all the way to Green Bay’s mayor, making them indirectly responsible for the premature end of her term in office. This accomplishment led to her switching from the Wisconsin to the country-encompassing Center for Investigative Reporting based in Emeryville, CA. The Straubel Int’l investigation was the first time she ran across the words “Lorne Corporation”, one of the overpaid parties supplying construction equipment, in relation to her work, but paid them no attention since getting paid more than your stuff is worth is not a crime.

In 2049, Tamara was tasked to look into alleged tax evasion by several members of Lorne board of directors. She had been in Marlon for three months at the time of the explosion, finishing up research into the allegations that were either about as real as Atlantis or hidden so well she couldn’t even find scraps and was set to head back home a few days later when The Tower blew up.

Tamara was fortunate enough to be in her hotel room when her mutations manifested the following night. She was reading an article about the Tolmachevy sisters and thought what she would give to live a single day of their high life. Much to her horror, her body began to lose form, like a chocolate figure someone left in their car on a hot day, eventually mimicking the article’s photo of one of the twins.

The next day, she lied her way past the maid, claiming the explosion caused her nightmares about Mali to explain the horrified screams her neighbor complained about. In truth, she hadn’t slept a minute that night. It took her hours to calm down, make sure she wasn’t dreaming and become herself again, figuratively and literally speaking. Once she got back home, she took out as much of her vacation as she could, claiming she needed time to sort out some personal issues, which was a monumental understatement.

Once she came to terms with her new self, she spent the rest of her vacation experimenting in her apartment, learning what she could and couldn’t do while keeping a lid on the whole thing, at first out of irrational fear for her life and later out of a justified fear for her freedom.

When the hubris died down a little, questions began to grow in her mind like mushrooms after rain. What on Earth was Lorne doing there that, when something went wrong, caused such varied mutations in Humans? Why only in Humans? Why did whatever was going on there go wrong, and how? And in a dark corner of her mind, where the most insane and paranoid neurons lay gathered, an almost impossible, yet frightening question surfaced: Given some of the previous questions, was it an accident at all?

---

Sample post

On a night like this, even the native Wisconsinite felt the damp cold despite a coat, gloves and a warm cap, and the streets were void of pedestrians. Outside a donut shop, a police officer and another man were leaning against the wall, taking cover from the rain. “García, you know the worst thing about this bucket?” the cop complained loudly to the civilian while tapping his helmet.
“No idea, Abe. Helmet hair?” the other guessed.
“It allows the smell to get in, but doesn’t let the donuts follow! It’s torture...” he was still droning on when she shmabled past far enough for the rain to drown him out. Tamara had to chuckle at the sound of the deep, booming voice of the cop’s voice filter complaining about not being able to pig out on duty. She paused and turned her head to take a better look at them, looking the civvie over before continuing on her way. Before long, she reached her destination for the night - an apartment complex in the good part of town. No Hilton, but still a step up from the rest of the suburbs. A whisper on the street, or rather in her workmail, told tales of a charity owner’s private retreat worth a considerable amount of money more than the humble non-profiteer he presented himself as should afford.

She walked back a couple blocks and disappeared into the alley, loitering in the darkness to let her eyes adjust. She expected the back entrance to be secured, but with a Master Lock mechanical five digit code lock they might as well have left the door open. The young woman sighed. She’d asked an associate of hers to figure out a way to bypass an electronic lock she expected to find and now owed him a bottle of Żubrówka for nothing.

Tamara pulled down her balaclava, which had until now been rolled up to look like a cap, braced her cane against the door and knelt down beside the lock. Pulling on the shackle, she got a shim between the lock body and one of the code wheels, turning the wheel one position at a time until she found the ‘true’ gate for that wheel, repeating the process for the other four. The lock clicked open without a hitch. ”1-8-6-4-7” she muttered under her breath as she closed the door behind her, the padlock in her pocket.

The door led into a garage belonging to the apartment building. Closing her left eye, she retrieved a flashlight and walked along the parking row until she found what she was looking for: a parking space with a sign announcing it was reserved for one ‘Leonard Church’. Parked there stood a white generation 10 Impala with mismatching driver’s door and front left quarter panel. Tamara snapped a few photos where the sign and the vehicle’s shoddy repair and license plate were visible to identify it was indeed the car Church publicly used. Something caught her eye in the adjacent parking space. It, too, was reserved for Church, and housed a vehicle covered with a tarp. Overcome by curiosity, Tamara pulled down the tarp, revealing a 2009 Bentley Continental GT. ”Someone has taste here. And undisclosed income.” she muttered as she took pictures.
“Which is none of your goddamned business!” a voice thundered behind her. She spun around, coming face to face with a security guard. They were about 10 meters apart and the guard was already reaching for something on his belt.

Immediately backpedalling, she shone the flashlight directly at the guard’s head to blind him before shutting it off and plunging the garage into darkness. Unless his eyes were somehow augmented, he should be unable to see anything at all for a few minutes in the darkness. Meanwhile, Tamara closed her right eye and opened her left one, which was still adapted to darkness and hurried out of the garage before the guard could recover or turn the lights on. She burst into a service room, taking an immediate left to hide behind a large AC unit. Good thing she thought to take adose of painkillers before she came here, which let her put a little bit of extra strain on her ankle.

The guard stormed into the room, cursing her and her family several generations both past and future as he fumbled for his flashlight. Tamara waited for him to pass, holding her cane like a baseball bat. Once he passed, she swung at the back of the poor sod’s knees, uttering a hasty ”Sorry!” as she pushed him on the floor with the cane and took off in the opposite direction, slamming the door shut behind her. A few seconds after she secured it with the lock she pawned off the back door, furious banging from the other side reminded her to expedite her exit.

The guard rushed out the front door onto the street, looking for any sign of the intruder. Spotting a figure across the street, he drew his baton. “You there, HALT!”
The hispanic male turned to the guard with his hands up and a surprised expression.
“Hey, pal, have you seen a chick in a black coat, maybe with a balaclava?” the guard inquired. The civilian nodded, pointing in the direction of the industrial quarter “She went that way, seemed in a hurry.” The guard took off in pursuit, confident he could catch up to the limping intruder while the man continued down the opposite direction.

Some time later in a different part of town, the man pulled out a black coat and a cane disassembled into two pieces out of his backpack as he turned back into a woman, sporting a smug grin.

EDIT: Addressed the issue of clothing. Changes marked in red.

The Tower Chapter 1: A New Dawn

Heyo. Don't think there's any shapeshifting here, so now it is. (Unless shot down by the powers that be, of course.)

EDIT: Picture of the Robotic Enforcement Unit appears to be broken.

The Tower - Dystopian Super power RP

Got room for more?

You are Cordially Invited...[Closed until zelta 02]

So...

The Marauders (2018)

As a mostly non-drinker, writing a hammered/hungover character is interesting. Like a steakhouse chef writing a vegan cookbook.

Also, I improvised due to the lack of information about the Monroe, so if the ability to use any inert gas as fuel is a problem just shout and I'll scrap that line.

The Marauders (2018)

”And I can only assume you weren’t paying attention.” She shot back at Yas. ”And if you start poking around in here, your room’s air con will mysteriously stop working.” she stated semi-seriously at the thought of Rendyl reading her mind, tapping her forehead to indicate what she meant.

As the doctor stood up to leave, Astrid thought to check the time. ”As fun as this was, I better get going too before the witch’s sorcery makes me do something worth spacing myself over. Tango, keep the ship from exploding while I’m ince- incape- in… you know what I mean.” the engineer growled as she collected her winnings, unsure of whether she’s actually gained anything or not, and shambled away. Her unsteady gait wouldn’t look out of place in a zombie flick. She was such a lightweight

---

Much later...

---

The awakening was almost as unpleasant as waking up after her capture, only then it was ‘just’ the psychological distress of her situation. But right now, her head seemed to hate her and her throat, drier than the Atacama desert, seemed to disapprove of her actions the previous night. Cracking her eye open, she found a thermos on her nightstand with a note ‘For morning’ propped up against it. How her drunken self managed to fit two languages into that note was beyond hungover, and likely even sober Astrid’s ability to understand. She took a large gulp without sparing it a thought and spat it out immediately after as the thermos turned out to contain rum. Drunk Astrid was such an asshole.

As she grabbed her earpiece and started pulling herself together, testing the limits of how quickly she could move her head without it trying to turn itself inside out, her mind began to wander. So far her isolationist mindset was working - she coped with Anderson’s death much better than most. But Humans were still pack animals. She’d only been on the Monroe for a month, and while the scars of her last ship were still fresh, she wondered how long it would take before it would drive her insane. Even if she spent a good chunk of it - at least as far as she recalled - trading semi serious insults with Josk, she had to admit, despite currently feeling like shit, that last night was fun. Except she couldn’t find her gloves. And shirt.

Ten minutes and some witch's concoction administered by Tango later, she was on her feet and cleaning up the remaining damage. Starting with breakfast was probably a good idea, but Astrid wasn’t at all sure she could keep any food down. As she was still quite irritable from the effects of the previous night, the ship got many unflattering and usually undeserved names whenever a difficulty presented itself. It was shortly after one such difficulty was encountered, just as Astrid was swearing to rearrange the teeth of the person who thought positioning the door panel power supply cable in a way that she had to take out the door motor to get to it was a good idea with a two inch wrench, when the cap made his inquiry.

”Not so loud, pleasethankyou.” she whined at the captain as she turned the volume of her earpiece WAY down, ”We’re at... 31% capacity.” she confirmed via a datapad linked to the ship’s OS to act as a terminal, ”Worst comes to worst we can skirt the atmosphere of any gas giant to resupply a small amount. Helium isn’t as good a propellant as Xenon, but it would do, it's just less power efficient. Rest of the crew still standing?”

You are Cordially Invited...[Closed until zelta 02]

Interesting idea, using your surroundings like that. Shooting pressurized pipes or tanks might not be smart in normal circumstances, but if it's do or die I supoose that could work.

Also, upon seeing the word "military", I assumed trained forces (what the 1st OOC post describes as "security guard"), not militia. My head automatically went "military > security guards" and didn't bother to check, so good job spotting/remembering that.