- Location
- Fort Worth, TX
[x] "Hachi, quit the bullshit."
Riders in the Sky: A 22nd-Century Space Opera
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Original Sci-Fi Action
- Location
- Just passing through.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[x] "Oh yeah." (sarcastic)
Cold Open III. 10:39 P.M., Friday, June 17, 2163. Krasnoyarsk, Siberian Federation, Earth.
- Location
- United States
"Oh yeah," you said. Great. What kind of insane shit is Hachi gonna pump you full of now? Not even worth asking anymore.
"Lovely," they replied, disregarding your tone. You felt the autoinjector below your left scapula pop into first stage. "One gram, twelve-minute half-life, Vintovka's DNA off that straw we lifted. Brazilian cops use it, call it Sabujo."
"What's that mean?"
"Scenthound, I think, or bloodhound, something," said Hachi. That gave you some notion. "Ready?"
"Shit, I guess so." You exhaled and tried to relax your left side.
"Three, two, one" – thump. You hissed. It's like getting hit with a paintball. "Okay," said Hachi, "says successful deployment. Breathe deep and blink a lot."
You did as they said. Your mouth tasted funny. As your flitting eyelids double-timed the strobe lights, you looked around for any changes. "Aha," you said aloud.
Coming from the direction of the dancefloor was a lazy string of impossibly-fluorescent blue smoke, curling and wafting toward you as if someone with a lit cigarette was walking up. It passed right through the bodies of clubbers, ignoring waving glowsticks and hands in the air, creeping closer and closer before stopping just shy of your nose.
Your braincase squealed with feedback for a second as you re-patched Hachi: "Okay," you said, "I think it's working. Follow the glowing steam?"
"Sweet!" cried Hachi. "That's so cool. And yes."
"Got it. I'm goin' in."
[] Head for the dancefloor; hide in plain sight.
[] Look for something sneakier.
"Lovely," they replied, disregarding your tone. You felt the autoinjector below your left scapula pop into first stage. "One gram, twelve-minute half-life, Vintovka's DNA off that straw we lifted. Brazilian cops use it, call it Sabujo."
"What's that mean?"
"Scenthound, I think, or bloodhound, something," said Hachi. That gave you some notion. "Ready?"
"Shit, I guess so." You exhaled and tried to relax your left side.
"Three, two, one" – thump. You hissed. It's like getting hit with a paintball. "Okay," said Hachi, "says successful deployment. Breathe deep and blink a lot."
You did as they said. Your mouth tasted funny. As your flitting eyelids double-timed the strobe lights, you looked around for any changes. "Aha," you said aloud.
Coming from the direction of the dancefloor was a lazy string of impossibly-fluorescent blue smoke, curling and wafting toward you as if someone with a lit cigarette was walking up. It passed right through the bodies of clubbers, ignoring waving glowsticks and hands in the air, creeping closer and closer before stopping just shy of your nose.
Your braincase squealed with feedback for a second as you re-patched Hachi: "Okay," you said, "I think it's working. Follow the glowing steam?"
"Sweet!" cried Hachi. "That's so cool. And yes."
"Got it. I'm goin' in."
[] Head for the dancefloor; hide in plain sight.
[] Look for something sneakier.
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[X] Head for the dancefloor; hide in plain sight.
- Location
- Fort Worth, TX
[X] Look for something sneakier.
Cold Open IV. 10:41 P.M., Friday, June 17, 2163. Krasnoyarsk, Siberian Federation, Earth.
- Location
- United States
It's bumping. Everybody's on something and if they're not on something they're off the vodka; they dance manically to the throbbing beat. The Sabujo scent trail leads across the dance floor. You begin to half-heartedly dance along and shoulder-bump your way through the mass. Some of the most drugged-out stare daggers at you. "Izvenite, izvenite," you say clumsily as you try and roll through them. You make it to the back wall, as the trail leads upstairs. A couple fierce-looking guys with face tats and skullplates stand watch, dressed up like biznesmeni. That is to say: mobsters.
"Hachi, there's security. I'm tryin' to get upstairs. Fuck is this guy?"
"I don't fuckin' know, man, like, bought off some MVD guys, pissed off the Guoanbu, I dunno." You can hear them pitter-pattering on a keyboard, even when they're in your skull. "Heh, upstairs, eh? Private room, prob with a hooker LOL. There's escort ads sent from their connection."
"Good! Pants down, literally. You're on the smart speakers?" Kid can do whatever he wants with civvy stuff, by and large.
"Yeah, and the lights, and the AI DJ, yeah, basically, their shit sucked. Only thing I couldn't get were the cameras."
[] "Fuck up the music. Play some mic feedback or something, I'll turn off my ears."
[] "Kill the lights."
"Hachi, there's security. I'm tryin' to get upstairs. Fuck is this guy?"
"I don't fuckin' know, man, like, bought off some MVD guys, pissed off the Guoanbu, I dunno." You can hear them pitter-pattering on a keyboard, even when they're in your skull. "Heh, upstairs, eh? Private room, prob with a hooker LOL. There's escort ads sent from their connection."
"Good! Pants down, literally. You're on the smart speakers?" Kid can do whatever he wants with civvy stuff, by and large.
"Yeah, and the lights, and the AI DJ, yeah, basically, their shit sucked. Only thing I couldn't get were the cameras."
[] "Fuck up the music. Play some mic feedback or something, I'll turn off my ears."
[] "Kill the lights."
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Cold Open V.
- Location
- United States
"Ha! Cool," says Hachi, "deafen those aurals."
You do; you hear absolutely nothing. But everybody else heard something. Everybody doubles over or starts jumping in place; a few stimmed up guys even start fighting. The biznesmeni are clutching at their skullplates, quite literally trying to crank down their low-grade aurals, tapping frantically on their temples. Not much time.
From nothing comes Hachi: "Okay, what if I told you I'm playing a long-tone fart at like, jet turbine decibels?" Of course the kid is gonna mention jet turbines, the nerd. "That shit was loud."
You're fixated on the writhing mobsters. "Yeah, okay, yeah, lemme focus," you say.
Might be time to go loud. If Vintovka literally has his pants down...
[] Autoinject serum adrenaline and bust some heads with those in-built knuckles.
[] Whip out your pistol and wreak some havoc.
[] Spring with your exo-boots and run right through them.
You do; you hear absolutely nothing. But everybody else heard something. Everybody doubles over or starts jumping in place; a few stimmed up guys even start fighting. The biznesmeni are clutching at their skullplates, quite literally trying to crank down their low-grade aurals, tapping frantically on their temples. Not much time.
From nothing comes Hachi: "Okay, what if I told you I'm playing a long-tone fart at like, jet turbine decibels?" Of course the kid is gonna mention jet turbines, the nerd. "That shit was loud."
You're fixated on the writhing mobsters. "Yeah, okay, yeah, lemme focus," you say.
Might be time to go loud. If Vintovka literally has his pants down...
[] Autoinject serum adrenaline and bust some heads with those in-built knuckles.
[] Whip out your pistol and wreak some havoc.
[] Spring with your exo-boots and run right through them.