- 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
Fifth Grade Fixer, Oliver
Before the shooting started, Oliver was squatting by his assortment of trophies, his hands idly holding and weighing each of them before, seemingly at random, chucking them out the window or shoving them into his bag. After a few minutes of this, he finally reaches the last of his collection. A pair of wings, massive in scale, tattered with numerous gashes that presumably came from his very own sword. Gingerly picking them up, Oliver considered them for a minute, stock still.
Wait. Something's up.
Suddenly dropping the wings, he turns towards the entrance. Michael or Chicago or whatever, was aiming at something out the window, that one robot from earlier was hopping into cover, and a green circular object was rolling into the room.
That, is a grenade.
A second passed, before Oliver dove out the way, rolling into cover right beside soldier-boy (@The Wanderer) just as the bullets started flying. Bracing against the surprisingly sturdy couch, he crouched, sword already shouldered ready to vault over toward the enemy. Any second now...
It has been 10 seconds. You do not know how long they are supposed to go on for until they blow, but you are sure that 10 seconds is too long.
Someone else must have handled it.
Smaller explosions resounded after, slightly further away from his current position. Peeking out, he saw Flynn shooting a gun by... singing at it. Whatever, he wasn't gonna question it. Glancing over to the entrance, his eye glowed a brilliant amber as the world around him slowed.
After a minute or so of observation from his perspective the world around him resumed it normal pace. Oliver's hand patted the back of Artyom's shoulder, "Nah, best if we just push through the new guys, shouldn't be too bad yeah? Just keep they're heads down with that laser gun of yours." Waiting for a second to ensure Artyom heard him, Oliver braces himself again, sword resting easily on his shoulder, before dashing over the couch. Within an eyeblink, he is on the Advent soldiers, the ones closest to the door suddenly falling into wet sticky halves as Oliver slows down, his augments beginning to cycle. Grabbing one of the soldiers with his off-hand, he bodily tosses them toward the others, using the spin from that maneuver to drop to a knee; dodging a stab from a soldier with a stun prod while also bisecting him at the waist. Standing back up, his augs complete their cycle, the world slowing down again just as the soldiers raise their guns toward him.
He didn't know why, but he was in a really good mood right now.
Say the line man.
Laughing heartily, he charged the poor motherfuckers, "FIXER, ON THE SCENE!"
TIME TO GET TO WORK.
Before the shooting started, Oliver was squatting by his assortment of trophies, his hands idly holding and weighing each of them before, seemingly at random, chucking them out the window or shoving them into his bag. After a few minutes of this, he finally reaches the last of his collection. A pair of wings, massive in scale, tattered with numerous gashes that presumably came from his very own sword. Gingerly picking them up, Oliver considered them for a minute, stock still.
Look, buddy, the only stuff we really needed to grab here's the dragon teeth. Most of this shit you could probably find in a pawnshop, and the rest is just goofy. Like, what the hell are we gonna do with a pair of wings?
WHAT FUCKING ELSE? SHOW EM OFF. HELL, THEY'RE PERFECTLY CLOAK SIZED AREN'T THEY? WE'LL USE THEM AS A CAPE.
That's... hmmmmm...
Need I remind the both of you that capes are not allowed under Downpour Office uniform policy. Besides, they are very impractical.
PRACTICAL SCHMRAPTICAL, CAPES ARE COOL AS FUCK.
While logically true, logistically, we still do not have the appropriate bag size or capacity to craft an effective cloak from these wings.
HRRRRRRRGH
WHAT FUCKING ELSE? SHOW EM OFF. HELL, THEY'RE PERFECTLY CLOAK SIZED AREN'T THEY? WE'LL USE THEM AS A CAPE.
That's... hmmmmm...
Need I remind the both of you that capes are not allowed under Downpour Office uniform policy. Besides, they are very impractical.
PRACTICAL SCHMRAPTICAL, CAPES ARE COOL AS FUCK.
While logically true, logistically, we still do not have the appropriate bag size or capacity to craft an effective cloak from these wings.
HRRRRRRRGH
Suddenly dropping the wings, he turns towards the entrance. Michael or Chicago or whatever, was aiming at something out the window, that one robot from earlier was hopping into cover, and a green circular object was rolling into the room.
That, is a grenade.
A second passed, before Oliver dove out the way, rolling into cover right beside soldier-boy (@The Wanderer) just as the bullets started flying. Bracing against the surprisingly sturdy couch, he crouched, sword already shouldered ready to vault over toward the enemy. Any second now...
It has been 10 seconds. You do not know how long they are supposed to go on for until they blow, but you are sure that 10 seconds is too long.
Someone else must have handled it.
Smaller explosions resounded after, slightly further away from his current position. Peeking out, he saw Flynn shooting a gun by... singing at it. Whatever, he wasn't gonna question it. Glancing over to the entrance, his eye glowed a brilliant amber as the world around him slowed.
The distance between us and the entrance is 20ft. The average rat, armed typically with a switchblade or equivalent, is fast enough to charge and kill an average Nest dweller armed with a pistol or equivalent. Although, this requires that the Nest dweller have their weapon holstered. Furthermore, the rat in question would usually not be a Fixer equipped with expensive augments.
The soldier besides you fires with practiced consistency, an angry war cry spilling from his lips. Words that he has said many times before. Behind you, Flynn and Chicago converse. The latter responds to the former in resignation. We're gonna have to push through.
GOOD. I WAS TIRED OF ALL THIS WAITING AROUND ANYWAY. GET IN THERE, MAKE EM BLEED, MAKE EM SCREAM.
Maybe do it with a war cry or something of your own? It's a fun little way of hyping yourself up, you know?
Something simple. The motto of the Zwei Association and Downpour Office would not work within this scenario.
The soldier besides you fires with practiced consistency, an angry war cry spilling from his lips. Words that he has said many times before. Behind you, Flynn and Chicago converse. The latter responds to the former in resignation. We're gonna have to push through.
GOOD. I WAS TIRED OF ALL THIS WAITING AROUND ANYWAY. GET IN THERE, MAKE EM BLEED, MAKE EM SCREAM.
Maybe do it with a war cry or something of your own? It's a fun little way of hyping yourself up, you know?
Something simple. The motto of the Zwei Association and Downpour Office would not work within this scenario.
He didn't know why, but he was in a really good mood right now.
Say the line man.
Laughing heartily, he charged the poor motherfuckers, "FIXER, ON THE SCENE!"
TIME TO GET TO WORK.
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