[b]Location:[/b] [indent][b]Raygon 8 - Leisure District, aka. New Macau.[/b][/indent] [indent][b]BT-Block K221-008-002 “Bolt Avenue” - Nearest security office: 147m.[/b][/indent] [indent][i]Security and safety brought to you by Gala-Grid©™ - the galactic standard.[/i][/indent] [img]https://cdnb.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/001/145/041/large/daniel-mcgowan-danmc-slagtown-02.jpg?1440997191[/img] [b]Subject:[/b] [indent][b]George Christian Wellsley, aka. G.C. Willy.[/b][/indent] [indent][b]Age: 27 cycles around Raygon 0.[/b][/indent] [indent][b]Residence: BT-Block L102-071-010, “Moonlit Gardens” flat 10.[/b][/indent] [indent][b]Occupation: Drone Mechanic.[/b][/indent] [hider=Post Theme] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ux47IkkhGjY]Welcome to Raygon[/url] [/hider] So I ended up taking the job, after all. Shit, I couldn’t believe it either, honestly - not at first. Lil’ ol’ Wellsley, about to take on a motherfucking Gala-Grid drone security station. [i]Fuck,[/i] why am I doing this?! The debt’s already settled - they called this morning. I haven’t seen Shawn’s guards at all - I’m not being followed. Is it greed? It’s greed, isn’t it? Christ, George, why’re you like this? Is it just to see if you can do it at this point? Are you really that curious? Alright, alright - calm down, G.C.. Pray to God that you’re not rusty. You’ve got this. You’ve totally got this. George knuckled his way through the dark, passing behind some sleeping Raygonian bums. A distant cackle broke through the soundscape and George dove for cover. “Won again, bitches!” the voice continued to a choir of groans. George permitted himself a peek out of the shadows. There, across the street, in the light of an exhausted LED, a Qurok, Raygonian and Putt sat playing some kind of game - George couldn’t quite make it out. To his chagrin, though, he noticed that the way to the drone station was opposite of the group - worse yet, they were sitting in an open street. His eyes scanned the area in desperate search of some manner of cover. The shadows could do, perhaps. “Bah! Ourm, you’re cheating!” The putt put a hand on his chest and gasped. “Now, now - I’m a businessman, mr. Hippi, but cheat? You’re woundin’ me, man.” The Raygonian presumably known as Mr. Hippi’s fist hammered the tabletop. “I JUST drew that card! How do you have it?” Ourm shrugged. “I didn’t do anything, though! Jerry, did you see me do anything?” The Qurok growled a deep ‘no’. The Putt gestured to him. “See?” “Shut up, Jerry, you’re losing anyway!” ‘Oh’, was all the response Jerry could muster, looking somberly down at his cards. All of a sudden, there came the bang of metal. All three of them turned towards the sound. “Who’s there?” Mr. Hippi spat. He rose from his chair and grabbed a bat he had hidden under the table; Ourm unholstered a rusty pistol; Jerry flexed and unflexed his fingers, on which he clearly had been wearing knuckle irons. “Come on out!” Mr. Hippi called again and golfed a rusty can into a distant wall. “Under there,” Ourm snapped and fired a shot. It ricocheted off the reinforced concrete behind a pile of garbage and scrap, illiciting a panicked ‘ook’. A shadow knuckled its way out from behind the garbage, tailed by a few more shots. “A god damn Simmie, holy moley.” “You’re a shit fucking shot, Ourm,” Mr. Hippi muttered. “Hey, it’s not like I use this thing that often.” They looked at one another. “Should we go after it?” Ourm asked. ‘Hungry,’ Jerry growled. “Yeah, I’m with Jerry on this one, and you have all our money. I could go for a bite or two.” “Jesus, guys, we’re not actually going to eat him?” “No, jackass, we’re robbing him so we can get something to eat, duh!” Jerry hung his head. ‘Oh.’ Both Ourm and Mr. Hippi frowned at him. “Alright, calm down, big guy. HappyBurger will have to do, alright? We, we don’t eat people.” ‘Ok…’ “Well, should we, y’know, give chase?” “Yeah, sure.” [hr] George had no idea how long he had been running - all he knew was that he had already passed the drone station by a long shot. He’d have to go back, and that meant sneaking past his pursuers. Christ, today of all days. Would they believe him if he said he had no money? Doubt they would. “Come ooooout! My boys are starving, man - have some compassion and give us your money. We’ll tone down the pain if you do it right now. The longer you wait, though…” Another clang as a brick struck the very same garbage container George was hiding behind, causing him to freeze up. “... The worse it’ll be for you.” The rip of thin plastic and subsequent cacophony of diverse falling garbage filled the soundscape, followed by two groans and a sigh. “God damn it, Jerry, look what you’ve done to yourself!” ‘Bag was older than I thought…’ “That’s always the case, though,” Ourm explained. “Nobody double bags down here. Jesus Christ, you smell even worse now.” “We’ll pitch in. Get you a shower later, okay? This monkey better be fucking loaded.” George’s quivering hands slowly reached down into his pocket, from where they extracted a butterfly knife. As quietly as he could, he locked it into blade mode and drew a number of panicked gasps through his teeth, praying to whatever deity was out there that they wouldn’t hear his heart jumping out of his chest. “Oh shit.” George held his breath. “Yo, what’s up?” “Sshh! Bobby incomin’.” George’s eyes widened. “A bobby? Fuck, of course it’d show up right now. A’ight, spread out, look busy.” The rustle of plastic and floored garbage indicated his three pursuers went to hide or disguise themselves as upstanding citizens not in the middle of robbing someone. Sure enough, the rustling was soon drowned out by the slow, metallic clanks of robotic feet stepping through the street. Some more fierce whispering jumped between the three, sounding specifically aimed at the Qurok for some reason. “CITIZEN. IDENTIFY YOURSELF.” Oh, that was why. “Uhm,” Jerry rumbled. “J-Jerry Lokamopolous Ruip III - citizen number, uh… “ “JERRY LOKAMOPOLOUS RUIP ONE-ONE-ONE. CITIZEN NUMBER: BTC-051-143-223-768-132. RESIDENCE: BT-BLOCK Y001-902-333. OCCUPATION: UNEMPLOYED--” “Don’t have to rub it in…” “CRIMINAL RECORD: [list] [*] THEFT: 65 REPORTED CASES. [*] ASSAULT: 13 REPORTED CASES. [*] MURDER: 4 REPORTED CASES. [/list] CURRENT ACTIVITY: LOITERING ON PRIVATE PROPERTY.” “Private?” George swallowed and looked around. As far as he could see, there weren’t any signs denoting property ownership. As quietly as he could, he opened his wristband panel, immediately breaking the quiet soundscape in the otherwise largely empty street with deafening ads. He tried as quickly as he could to close the screen down again, but the ads naturally had blockers over the exit buttons for the first five seconds of playing. “SOUND DETECTED. CITIZEN BTC-051-143-223-768-132, DO YOU HAVE ACCOMPLICES?” Jerry swallowed. “Nah, must be the ape.” In the distance, George could hear one of Jerry’s friends hushing violently. “ELABORATE.” “Chasing an ape,” Jerry muttered. George suddenly noticed a scramble of plastic nearby. “‘CHASING AN APE’ NOTED IN CONFESSION. VIOLATION OF PRIVATE CITIZEN NAP ADDED TO LIST OF CRIMES. YOUR PUNISHMENT FOR TRANSGRESSING ON PRIVATE PROPERTY IS--” “Wait, whose property is this?!” came suddenly Ourm’s voice in protest. “CURRENT LOCATION: BT-BLOCK K221-015-004 “LIPGLOSS LANE”. OWNER: MAGNIFICO COSMETICS INCORPORATED. CITIZEN, IDENTIFY YOURSELF…” Meanwhile, George was growing increasingly wary of the approaching sound. He tried to slide further away along the garbage contained, but shortly thereafter, he saw a thick fist grab onto the side of the contained. It pulled to itself a fat, grinning face with tiny, beady eyes. “Hello, little monkey,” Mr. Hippi murmured sadistically. George choked on a scream and picked up a nearby clump of hardened sludge, chucking it at Mr. Hippi’s face. The Raygonian couldn’t dodge in time and snarled. “UGH! Fuck, you’re fucking DEAD!” Mr. Hippi roared and began clawing his way towards George through the piles of garbage around them. George, meanwhile tried desperately to scramble to his feet, but found his tracks frozen by the approaching clanks of metal. “COMMOTION DETECTED. EVERYONE - REMAIN CALM.” A red-coated robot fist the size of George’s whole torso grabbed the garbage contained and turned it over, revealing the [url=https://cdnb.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/009/132/003/large/mathew-o-2.jpg?1517314475]Prrp & Sterlington Model 7B “Bobby” Peacekeeper Mech[/url] in all its frightening stature. Its thousand glass eyes analysed the scene, one Simmie holding a knife frozen in a crawling pose with a Raygonian grip about one of its feet. Mr. Hippi looked equally terrified. “ASSAULT DETECTED. CALCULATING PUNISHMENT.” “Jerry, help me!” Mr. Hippi squealed. The Qurok’s eyes darted around before he suddenly gave the robot a mighty push. The alien’s strength was actually considerable enough to cause the robot to stagger. However, the moment Jerry had shoved it, George saw that it dawned on his face what he had just done. “Jerry, what the fu--” was all Ourm managed to get out before both he and Jerry were immediately peppered to bloody mush by the Bobby’s shoulder-mounted machine gun. Mr. Hippi drew a hacking gasp. “G-guys?! GUYS?!” “ASSAULT ON OFFICER OF THE LAW - PUNISHMENT CALCULATED: EXECUTION.” The machine then turned back to George and Mr. Hippi, only - Mr. Hippi had gone over to check on the mutilated corpses with teary eyes. “CITIZEN, DO NOT MOVE. MOVING WILL BE CONSIDERED AN ATTEMPT TO FLEE THE CRIME SCENE.” “Fuck you, Bobby! You killed my, my… Oh, God…” George, meanwhile, tried to sneak its way up behind the Bobby. By now, the streets were slowly filling up with curious citizens looking for some entertainment. “EVERYONE - STAY BACK. TO INTERFERE WITH BUSINESS OF THE LAW IS PUNISHABLE BY DEATH,” the Bobby droned mercilessly and began stomping over to Mr. Hippi. However, just as it was about to take its first step, it stopped and droned some more, this stuff unintelligible. It stood frozen, and all the spectators eyed it curiously. Mr. Hippi mouthed some silent curses of disbelief. After a moment, a melody played. “REBOOT COMPLETE. ADMINISTRATIVE CONTROLS GIVEN TO: USERNAME_CAESAR.” George hopped out from behind the robot, holding a duct-taped and modified touch pad in his arms. He pointed at Mr. Hippi, whose eyes went wide with realisation, and screamed a loud “YAAAAH!” “AFFIRMATIVE,” went the Bobby and immediately reduced the Raygonian to a carcass with more holes than Federation Cheese. The crowds, understanding what had just happened, suddenly went screaming for the hills. George took a moment to realise what he had just done, before also realising the attention he had drawn to himself. Without a moment to lose, he knuckled his way back the way he came, his trusty Bobby following along faithfully. [hr] Technically, I did the job perfectly after that. Sure, the original plan was to -sneak- in and hack the place - knock out some circuits, fuck up the charging stations, same old, same old. Still, those three a-assholes put that plan in jeopardy. Like, fuck, I got seen - I’m fucking dead. I had the Bobby level everything - the station, every camera spot along the way. Fuck, was that the right thing to do? Have I drawn more attention to myself? For all they know, it could’a just been a Bobby that went rogue. Yeah, that’s right. Just a rampant Bobby. Happens all the time, right? Giant robot cops with machine guns and fists that could crush concrete blocks like fuckin’ pop rocks. I made sure to delete the OS, too - can’t be too careful. Anyway, jobs’ done, right? Better lay low until Shawn gets back to me.