Simple Unicycle@Tuxedo Fox
Carson shook his head, slinging his weapon over his shoulder. "No, man, I'm not one of them." He nodded at the Order troops who were scouring the building for any enemy survivors. Sharp cracks echoed when they found one, putting a bullet through their heads with as little thought as stepping on a radroach. "I was just passing through, looking for work, when some Marauders jumped me-those bastards killed most of my men and sunk our little boat. I only just made it to shore, and shit's been non stop ever since."
The major lit a cigar, peering at the newcomer. "So your Eyebot led you here?" He asked. "Yeah, the Mister Handy put out a distress call to all bots in the area. I guess that's why it rushed..." He trailed off as the Handy floated back in, carrying a tray with two fragile crystal flutes balancing on it. "Your Bordeaux, Monsieur." It informed the newcomer, giving him one and Carson the other. Carson was awkward with the delicate glass, sipping gingerly. But the wine tasted fine, washing some of the smoke from his throat.
"The name's Tom Carson." He went on after finishing his drink. "Headhunter and soldier for hire extraordinaire." He snorted at his irony, walking past the goggle-wearing newcomer and stopping in the rubble that had once been the rear of the building.
"Hell of a welcome." The major echoed the newcomer. "So what's your name, pal?" He asked , turning back to him. An idea was forming in his mind. "You say you own a boat? Does it have a radio on board?"
Crack. Another revolutionary had taken a round to the back of the head.
@Letter Bee
In the largest open square of the district Napoleon V was halfway through her speech, rousing up the crowd of dirty, impoverished people who had come to hear her. She was an imposing figure, sporting black riot armour and wielding a fine blade that she slashed through the air to give emphasis to her words. She wasn't classically beautiful; her nose was a little too long, her jaw slightly swollen like it had been punched recently. Her armour bore scorches and bullet impacts. But her eyes flashed with fiery fervour, entrancing those who listened.
"Mais nous, mes enfants, nous sommes le futur! Peu importe le nombre de sbires que le Roi nous envoi! Car le chair eat faible mais Notre foi est immortel!" (But we, my children, we are the future! It matters little how many henchmen the King throws at us! For though flesh is weak, our faith is immortal!)
Carson shook his head, slinging his weapon over his shoulder. "No, man, I'm not one of them." He nodded at the Order troops who were scouring the building for any enemy survivors. Sharp cracks echoed when they found one, putting a bullet through their heads with as little thought as stepping on a radroach. "I was just passing through, looking for work, when some Marauders jumped me-those bastards killed most of my men and sunk our little boat. I only just made it to shore, and shit's been non stop ever since."
The major lit a cigar, peering at the newcomer. "So your Eyebot led you here?" He asked. "Yeah, the Mister Handy put out a distress call to all bots in the area. I guess that's why it rushed..." He trailed off as the Handy floated back in, carrying a tray with two fragile crystal flutes balancing on it. "Your Bordeaux, Monsieur." It informed the newcomer, giving him one and Carson the other. Carson was awkward with the delicate glass, sipping gingerly. But the wine tasted fine, washing some of the smoke from his throat.
"The name's Tom Carson." He went on after finishing his drink. "Headhunter and soldier for hire extraordinaire." He snorted at his irony, walking past the goggle-wearing newcomer and stopping in the rubble that had once been the rear of the building.
"Hell of a welcome." The major echoed the newcomer. "So what's your name, pal?" He asked , turning back to him. An idea was forming in his mind. "You say you own a boat? Does it have a radio on board?"
Crack. Another revolutionary had taken a round to the back of the head.
@Letter Bee
In the largest open square of the district Napoleon V was halfway through her speech, rousing up the crowd of dirty, impoverished people who had come to hear her. She was an imposing figure, sporting black riot armour and wielding a fine blade that she slashed through the air to give emphasis to her words. She wasn't classically beautiful; her nose was a little too long, her jaw slightly swollen like it had been punched recently. Her armour bore scorches and bullet impacts. But her eyes flashed with fiery fervour, entrancing those who listened.
"Mais nous, mes enfants, nous sommes le futur! Peu importe le nombre de sbires que le Roi nous envoi! Car le chair eat faible mais Notre foi est immortel!" (But we, my children, we are the future! It matters little how many henchmen the King throws at us! For though flesh is weak, our faith is immortal!)