I look forward to fighting not-fodder.
Zugzwang Member
The Pentagon
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I'd be a little stuck too, chrono: the major threats that were established have been dealt with, and I wouldn't feel comfortable introducing a new credible threat without GM approval. Probably my fault for killing three faunus turr-ists, but since they apparently have a negligible aura and they decided to get into a gunfight with Adam, whose whole shtick is shooting people, it seemed appropriate.
No posts in 3 days? Come on folks, get to it. It's lonely posting with just two other losers cool people.
RIP game?
RIP game?
@Kurai I'm done for now. I won't usually post so much. I badly needed a distraction from an essay.
I doubt I'll be posting before the next GM splurge. The newspaper is keeping me uncomfortably busy.
I doubt I'll be posting before the next GM splurge. The newspaper is keeping me uncomfortably busy.
Well it looks like Adam's going to be long-suffering in this RP.
He's been outflanked and surrounded by crazies.
He's been outflanked and surrounded by crazies.
Djura must have been "Next Poster", then. Adam followed close behind, fanning to the right and scraping his environs with his eyes, working hard to not activate his semblance out of paranoia. Djura entered the building first, and before Adam could enter, a shriek rang out, followed quickly by the ringing cracks of gunfire. Adam bolted through the door, triggering his semblance a moment before. His mind's eye showed him the three faunus that he would see in just under a second, arrayed on the upper floor of the lobby. He slipped back into reality and began aiming his rifle at where he knew the leftmost faunus would be. Taking cover behind a stone pillar, firing wildly at the desk behind which Djura crouched.
As he finally entered the lobby, Adam was nearly diving forward, halfway into throwing himself behind the desk he had seen, and as he squinted down the crude sights of his rifle, he found his pre-determined aim true. Thanking Fate for earplugs in such a confined space, he squeezed the trigger just as the faunus glanced at the new figure in the lobby, and the room was utterly filled with a cacophonous BANG.
Silently asking for Djura's forgiveness at his very-possibly popped eardrums, he only watched the pillar for long enough to confirm the telltale explosion of stone and paint, followed by the splash of blood and the mad gust of dust-caused wind. Fully into his dive now, Adam dropped his rifle and drew his revolver. He rolled into cover is a manner at least approaching gracefulness, thanking his aura from protecting his head-first landing, and finishing the roll, he shifted his aim to where he 'saw' the rightmost faunus, standing in the open brazenly firing his weapon with newly-increased fear. The much less ear-splitting revolver barked once, then twice, the faunus stumbling back, its head and chest broken beyond repair. Adam caught his breath, knowing that the third faunus would not stand up. Characteristically for amateurs, the faunus was taking cover, waiting for more experienced reinforcements. Unfortunately for Adam, and the proof of the final faunus' inexperience, he had mistaken cover for concealment, and had chosen a thin, decorative, wooden railing. Peeking in the future as he took aim, he saw a miss. Shifting his aim down slightly, he squeezed the revolver's trigger a third time, sending a cone of metal deep into the faunus' brain.
Revulsion hit Adam quickly, only his instincts pulling him to cover and drawing his rifle back into his hands. The first deaths always made him seize up. He desperately wished he were fighting Grimm.
Deftly reloading his revolver, Adam waited for the rest of the team to catch up, considering the situation under control. For the moment, at least. Adam had learned to not look farther forward than that.
As he finally entered the lobby, Adam was nearly diving forward, halfway into throwing himself behind the desk he had seen, and as he squinted down the crude sights of his rifle, he found his pre-determined aim true. Thanking Fate for earplugs in such a confined space, he squeezed the trigger just as the faunus glanced at the new figure in the lobby, and the room was utterly filled with a cacophonous BANG.
Silently asking for Djura's forgiveness at his very-possibly popped eardrums, he only watched the pillar for long enough to confirm the telltale explosion of stone and paint, followed by the splash of blood and the mad gust of dust-caused wind. Fully into his dive now, Adam dropped his rifle and drew his revolver. He rolled into cover is a manner at least approaching gracefulness, thanking his aura from protecting his head-first landing, and finishing the roll, he shifted his aim to where he 'saw' the rightmost faunus, standing in the open brazenly firing his weapon with newly-increased fear. The much less ear-splitting revolver barked once, then twice, the faunus stumbling back, its head and chest broken beyond repair. Adam caught his breath, knowing that the third faunus would not stand up. Characteristically for amateurs, the faunus was taking cover, waiting for more experienced reinforcements. Unfortunately for Adam, and the proof of the final faunus' inexperience, he had mistaken cover for concealment, and had chosen a thin, decorative, wooden railing. Peeking in the future as he took aim, he saw a miss. Shifting his aim down slightly, he squeezed the revolver's trigger a third time, sending a cone of metal deep into the faunus' brain.
Revulsion hit Adam quickly, only his instincts pulling him to cover and drawing his rifle back into his hands. The first deaths always made him seize up. He desperately wished he were fighting Grimm.
Deftly reloading his revolver, Adam waited for the rest of the team to catch up, considering the situation under control. For the moment, at least. Adam had learned to not look farther forward than that.
I might get another post in: I need something to distract me from history essays. If I do indeed post, it will not advance the narrative particularly far. I'll just liquefy some mooks and try to get some character shit in there.
Once again. There is a pitched battle outside. They are on as high alert as they can be. Just do your thing as quickly as possible and try and achieve the objective before they can regain the initiative.
Nested surprise is rarely a worthwhile endeavor. Capitalizing on disorganization and confusion is seldom not the correct course of action.
Nested surprise is rarely a worthwhile endeavor. Capitalizing on disorganization and confusion is seldom not the correct course of action.
Spoiler alert, Zesuko, the alarm is already set off. There is a pitched battle going on not thirty yards from the building.
If you ask me, since we're no longer able to insert by the roof, the best course of action would be to act as quickly as possible and extract the VIP, since stealth in a warzone the enemy are intimately familiar with and we have never seen would be a very risky and unwise proposition. Also, the VIP might be trying to escape soon, once he realizes that he is not going to win this fight, and any time we waste will make our jobs more difficult and place our comrades in more danger.
But, fuck, what do I know? The whole point of my post is that Adam's job is not to reason why: his is but to do and die.
If you ask me, since we're no longer able to insert by the roof, the best course of action would be to act as quickly as possible and extract the VIP, since stealth in a warzone the enemy are intimately familiar with and we have never seen would be a very risky and unwise proposition. Also, the VIP might be trying to escape soon, once he realizes that he is not going to win this fight, and any time we waste will make our jobs more difficult and place our comrades in more danger.
But, fuck, what do I know? The whole point of my post is that Adam's job is not to reason why: his is but to do and die.
All the business of war, and indeed all the business of life, is to endeavor to find out what you don’t know by what you do; that’s what I called “guessing what was at the other side of the hill”
-Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington
One, two, three, four, five, six. Close cylinder. Holster. Draw. Open Cylinder. Eject rounds. Catch rounds. Repeat faster. One, two, three, four, five, six…
Thus, Adam Sable kept himself busy on the flight. Headphones were in place, the tinny speakers doing little to benefit the fast-tempo music. He didn’t speak before a fight. Quiet contemplation of his role, of its intricacies and expectations was better for his performance. He listened to the briefing in silence, juggling a pair of flash grenades as he absorbed the information, and then repeated it to himself under his breath. After the briefing, if only to stop his fidgeting, he checked his gear. Chest rig in good order: grenades accounted for, two smoke, two flash, two frag, road flare stowed, knives and multitool secure. Hip holsters working properly, revolvers stowed. Rifle leaning, shining clean, against a bulkhead, its ammunition in his small satchel. Plate carrier donned.
Adam’s mind occasionally drifted from his objectives. Why were they being inserted from the air? Why were they landing, not dropping from the ship to the roof and environs? Why didn’t they have any sort of fire support? Why were they being chosen for this mission? What significance did this cell of ‘terrorists’ truly have?
With a will, he pushed the questions back. He would have time in the after-action report to wonder about such things. On assignment, those who let questions get in the way of orders were courting disaster, and Adam was not one to take such risks. The enlistee was not paid to guess at the far sides of hills.
They landed, and he learned the objective was on the top floor. He forcibly kept questions about parachutes out his mind. It was not difficult: they were overpowered along with his resolve by curiosity about the absurd-seeming mode of speech his commanding officer used. A grin formed: a memory of a comic book the man reminded him of. The grin turned to a frown as he realized just how foul a portent such a similarity could be.
Not having been informed that he was “Next Poster”, he waited for a member of their group to proceed. He trusted whichever teammate had been selected to lead the way would be a better choice than him, anyways. Absentmindedly, he fanned out slightly, pre-empting the request for skirmish line. He also began making note of cover options: the sounds of violence not far off finished his descent into fight mentality, and his drilled instincts took over. He thumbed the safety on his rifle and double-checked the chamber and magazine, keeping the weapon shouldered and ready despite its uncomfortable length. He memorized the order of rounds: red, green, blue, red, grey. Green in the chamber.
Quickly, he ran out of distractions. More quickly, he grew bored.
-Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington
One, two, three, four, five, six. Close cylinder. Holster. Draw. Open Cylinder. Eject rounds. Catch rounds. Repeat faster. One, two, three, four, five, six…
Thus, Adam Sable kept himself busy on the flight. Headphones were in place, the tinny speakers doing little to benefit the fast-tempo music. He didn’t speak before a fight. Quiet contemplation of his role, of its intricacies and expectations was better for his performance. He listened to the briefing in silence, juggling a pair of flash grenades as he absorbed the information, and then repeated it to himself under his breath. After the briefing, if only to stop his fidgeting, he checked his gear. Chest rig in good order: grenades accounted for, two smoke, two flash, two frag, road flare stowed, knives and multitool secure. Hip holsters working properly, revolvers stowed. Rifle leaning, shining clean, against a bulkhead, its ammunition in his small satchel. Plate carrier donned.
Adam’s mind occasionally drifted from his objectives. Why were they being inserted from the air? Why were they landing, not dropping from the ship to the roof and environs? Why didn’t they have any sort of fire support? Why were they being chosen for this mission? What significance did this cell of ‘terrorists’ truly have?
With a will, he pushed the questions back. He would have time in the after-action report to wonder about such things. On assignment, those who let questions get in the way of orders were courting disaster, and Adam was not one to take such risks. The enlistee was not paid to guess at the far sides of hills.
They landed, and he learned the objective was on the top floor. He forcibly kept questions about parachutes out his mind. It was not difficult: they were overpowered along with his resolve by curiosity about the absurd-seeming mode of speech his commanding officer used. A grin formed: a memory of a comic book the man reminded him of. The grin turned to a frown as he realized just how foul a portent such a similarity could be.
Not having been informed that he was “Next Poster”, he waited for a member of their group to proceed. He trusted whichever teammate had been selected to lead the way would be a better choice than him, anyways. Absentmindedly, he fanned out slightly, pre-empting the request for skirmish line. He also began making note of cover options: the sounds of violence not far off finished his descent into fight mentality, and his drilled instincts took over. He thumbed the safety on his rifle and double-checked the chamber and magazine, keeping the weapon shouldered and ready despite its uncomfortable length. He memorized the order of rounds: red, green, blue, red, grey. Green in the chamber.
Quickly, he ran out of distractions. More quickly, he grew bored.
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