- Invitation Status
- Posting Speed
- Multiple posts per day
- 1-3 posts per day
- One post per day
- Online Availability
- 4:00 PM to 12:00 PM
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Fantasy (Both High and Low), Scifi and Cyberpunk
As Oliver attempted to help the magic-kid (@BlackRoseDova) drag an apparently not-so-dead-Alec (@Wade Von Doom), he would fail to notice the first explosion let off by David's (@The Wanderer) gun, which just so happened to save him from the crash of the incoming ship.
If Oliver could feel what was happening to him, he'd probably be pissing his pants, figuring out a way to reorient himself, catching himself on a large enough piece of debris or even a combination of the three.
But, he couldn't. So, as the chaos unfurled all around him, Oliver was launched around the room like a demented mannequin, his limbs flailing about as he tried to figure out what the hell was happening.
Then, his body landed hard on something, flipping him around once more before he crashed face down onto what seemed to be a new platform.
"Fuuucking shiiit, that sucked."
Flopping onto his back, Oliver extended his arms forward, looking them over for any signs of damage and getting reused to the action of moving his limbs in the direction that he wanted them to go. He'd continue this for the rest of his body, too focused on getting reacquainted with movement to notice the rain of equipment falling from the ceiling, or the accompanying duffel bag that just so happened to land on his face and flop onto his lap. Glancing down at it, he took a quick double take before making an appreciative hum as he recognized the scratched and worn material, as well as his name imprinted with sharpie on a raggedy old piece of duct tape.
Chuckling to himself, he got up and took a knee next to the bag. The damn thing was one of the first things he bought legitimately with the money he got from work, surviving beatings during courier jobs, and even some of the rougher street fights he'd been in. Helped a hell of a lot during those jobs too, mostly because of what was inside...
Unzipping the pack, Oliver gave off a slight sound of relief as he registered the things inside of it.
Knick-Knacks of all shapes and sizes, such as a torch lighter, his old Shanker, macabre trophies from the more important kills, smelling salts for his workmates, and his old Zwei badge were all accounted for. But those weren't what he was looking for. unzipping the bottom compartment of the bag, he gave a slight snicker as he reached in and pulled out various syringes, pill cases, and inhalers. As he inspected them for damage, they all appeared to be in perfect condition.
When you're working as a Fixer, you need a niche or a competitive advantage over your rivals, elsewise you lose business and shut down.
Downpour Office's advantage was good relationships with various pharmacies in the backstreets, which just so happened to include heavy discounts on their most prized and experimental combat drugs. These things weren't your run-of-the-mill steroids or adrenaline shots. These things were fucking Singularity byproduct that could make a Grade 9 Fixer comparable to the Red fucking Mist.
They were most definitely gonna be useful later if shit got dicey.
Placing them back inside, Oliver made sure that no one got a good sight of the goods, looking around and observing everyone around him. They probably didn't know how valuable this shit was, but you never know. As an afterthought, he also grabbed the salts. It'd probably help get the unconscious back onto their feet, specifically the white-clad girl (@Camleen).
Strapping the bag onto himself, he walked over to the girls (@BlackRoseDova, @Camleen), picking up a pretty nifty looking Shanker (Ebony Sword) from the pile of loot as he did so.
When he reaches the pair, he uncorks the bottle before placing it underneath the white-girl's nose, its chemical stench heavy to everyone except him.
If Oliver could feel what was happening to him, he'd probably be pissing his pants, figuring out a way to reorient himself, catching himself on a large enough piece of debris or even a combination of the three.
But, he couldn't. So, as the chaos unfurled all around him, Oliver was launched around the room like a demented mannequin, his limbs flailing about as he tried to figure out what the hell was happening.
Then, his body landed hard on something, flipping him around once more before he crashed face down onto what seemed to be a new platform.
"Fuuucking shiiit, that sucked."
Flopping onto his back, Oliver extended his arms forward, looking them over for any signs of damage and getting reused to the action of moving his limbs in the direction that he wanted them to go. He'd continue this for the rest of his body, too focused on getting reacquainted with movement to notice the rain of equipment falling from the ceiling, or the accompanying duffel bag that just so happened to land on his face and flop onto his lap. Glancing down at it, he took a quick double take before making an appreciative hum as he recognized the scratched and worn material, as well as his name imprinted with sharpie on a raggedy old piece of duct tape.
Chuckling to himself, he got up and took a knee next to the bag. The damn thing was one of the first things he bought legitimately with the money he got from work, surviving beatings during courier jobs, and even some of the rougher street fights he'd been in. Helped a hell of a lot during those jobs too, mostly because of what was inside...
Unzipping the pack, Oliver gave off a slight sound of relief as he registered the things inside of it.
Knick-Knacks of all shapes and sizes, such as a torch lighter, his old Shanker, macabre trophies from the more important kills, smelling salts for his workmates, and his old Zwei badge were all accounted for. But those weren't what he was looking for. unzipping the bottom compartment of the bag, he gave a slight snicker as he reached in and pulled out various syringes, pill cases, and inhalers. As he inspected them for damage, they all appeared to be in perfect condition.
When you're working as a Fixer, you need a niche or a competitive advantage over your rivals, elsewise you lose business and shut down.
Downpour Office's advantage was good relationships with various pharmacies in the backstreets, which just so happened to include heavy discounts on their most prized and experimental combat drugs. These things weren't your run-of-the-mill steroids or adrenaline shots. These things were fucking Singularity byproduct that could make a Grade 9 Fixer comparable to the Red fucking Mist.
They were most definitely gonna be useful later if shit got dicey.
Placing them back inside, Oliver made sure that no one got a good sight of the goods, looking around and observing everyone around him. They probably didn't know how valuable this shit was, but you never know. As an afterthought, he also grabbed the salts. It'd probably help get the unconscious back onto their feet, specifically the white-clad girl (@Camleen).
Strapping the bag onto himself, he walked over to the girls (@BlackRoseDova, @Camleen), picking up a pretty nifty looking Shanker (Ebony Sword) from the pile of loot as he did so.
When he reaches the pair, he uncorks the bottle before placing it underneath the white-girl's nose, its chemical stench heavy to everyone except him.
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