@Atrophy I'm not saying that liking pineapple pizza is a predictor of being a terrible person, but I'm strongly suggesting that it does.
Admiral Moskau Member
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In
𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay
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4 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
In
𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay
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4 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Hyper-rough rough draft below. Still wrapping up some stuff (chiefly augmentations, but assume there will be many), but wanted to see if there was some early feedback (or thoughts like "Moskau, this IC information is hyper-lame and you suck"):
"Ah, a worthy challenge," the Mister who was dueling Z-Grip snarled out. "I’ve always wanted to kill me a Stationari. Let’s see if you’re made of stainless steel, indeed."
Z-Grip made no attempt to reply, but simply offered the slightest of nods of her masked head. There was no need for words, not when blood, the purest of all ink, was being spilled.
Carefully watching her foe before moving to attack she saw all that she needed to see. The disinfectant worshiping pirates had misunderstood. They were wrong. A warrior was clean only through the purity of their soul and the bravery of their deeds. What use was perfect hygiene and starched white shirts that blazed with the fury of one thousand suns if one did not have honor? All the detergent in the world could not remove the stain of dishonor. There was only one thing that could cleanse the spirit of impurity. Only one all purpose cleaner that could eat through the thick grease of cowardice. Death. A clean death, an honorable death in battle was the only way to scrub upwards to the very heavens.
Focused on her chosen opponent, Z-Grip almost didn't see the trio of speckless scoundrels that had moved to flank her in time. She dodged, ducking low and shifting her weight in an unexpected fashion. Simple enough for a penja. Inhuman to a common criminal. She felt a rush of air as the plastic staff of a giant toilet brush chased after her. The bristles were still wet and she could smell the blood that stained them. Avoiding the follow-up swing of the prodigious pole arm, Z-Grip leapt to follow the motion of the toilet bowl ocean so to speak. Cutting inside the swing of the privy pirate, Z-Grip stepped inside the guard of the amateur warrior. Delivering a swift elbow to his bald face, Z-Grip grabbed hold of his neck, spinning the laboratory lush to face his cleaner comrades before she drove her sword neatly through his chest.
"You are without honor," Z-Grip said venomously as she used the dying washroom warrior as a shield to keep his raging ruffian allies at bay. The three remaining solvent scoundrels circled her like goldfish eyeing fish flakes in the water. Perfectly polished plastic crossbows pointed at her, following her as the pirates waited for the perfect opportunity to strike.
"We do not believe in your penshido nonsense. To wipe your ink stains in tribute to the Clean One will be our honor."
"Brushido," Z-Grip corrected as she narrowed her eyes. "I will consign your corrupted souls to the deepest pits of the abyss in remembrance of the great Sword Saint Keanu, the most excellent of warriors."
"Corrupted? If we are corrupted, then, you are a demon of filth to us. Let us see if you’ll allow us to whet our rust-proof teeth on you."
"A thousand paper cuts upon your houses," Z-Grip said as she tossed the limp form of the now dead pirate at the closet crossbowman. Using the momentum of his body, she dove forward into a roll. She heard the unmistakable thwack of string on hardened plastic as one of the cleaner pirates fired a bolt at her. She had been faster she knew, as the bolt sailed past her. Rising swiftly, the penja launched a sharpened pen at the other, further away, crossbow wielding detergent devil as he struggled to place his simple cross-hairs over her ever-shifting form. Z-Grip didn't have time to see if she had hit her mark. The stainless steel plunger that arced towards her head forced her to parry with her own blade lest she be smashed into smithereens. Dancing out of range of the cleaning agent criminal, Z-Grip took a moment to eye her handiwork. The pirate crossbowman she had hit with her throwing pen lay on the deck clutching his throat. Gurgling desperately as he drowned in his own blood.
The pirate with the plunger roared in maddening fury,"Don’t worry, I’ll only kill 99% of you.!"
Her dishonorable foe had responded as Z-Grip had hoped. He had foolishly let his anger overwhelm him. Z-Grip was rapidly losing interest. These were not the warriors she had hoped to encounter. They were not the foes she had hoped to kill. But no matter. She had a job to do. Mimicking the war dance of the fearsome Dire Ferret, Z-Grip dodged his blows through an increasingly frenzied series of sideways hops and backward flips. Closing in on an unexpected angle as she avoided she another masterful blow that should, should have smashed her shoulder into splinters, Z-Grip delivered an open handed strike to the nose of the bald braggart. Staggered, he swung wildly. Z-Grip did not need to expend much effort to avoid the blow. It was brutish and poor. It was panicked. Seizing the moment, the penja somersaulted forward, barreling through the plunger wielding pirate and lancing herself into the air. The clothed projectile that was penja smashed into the chest of the remaining cleaner crossbowman with both her feet, sending bald pirate and penja rolling across the deck. Z-Grip had expected this, in fact, she had intended it, while the cleaner crossbowman had not, and as such she had expertly controlled her roll while the pirate had tumbled heavily against the deck. Leaping to her feat, Z-Grip noted that one of his legs was now bent at an awkward angle. Delivering a swift kick to the temple of the struggling pirate, Z-Grip loomed over her downed foe, carefully watching the last pirate as he wiped his eyes and face clean of his own blood. His nose was broken and his shirt was now stained.
Offering yet another brief nod, Z-Grip stabbed her trusty Parker Duofold Prestige into the final crossbow cleaner as he attempted to groggily stand up on his shattered knee. There was no mercy for those who failed to fight with honor. She would not, no, she could not, allow them to spread their corruption. It was time to finish the false duel. She had amused herself enough.
Z-Grip took several steps towards the plunger pirate and in a supreme moment of arrogance, she wiped her cruel blade clean of blood and sheathed it across her back. Beneath her mask, the penja was smiling. She laughed at the coward that faced her. It would be justice to kill him. "I do not need a weapon to face the likes of you. A dishonorable coward reduced to piracy. A common criminal stained with the filth of his actions and reeking only of fear and his own dishonor."
Raising her hands in front of her, Z-Grip adopted a wide stance with her front foot turned slightly inward. The first stance of the Hidden Origami Dragon, it was an ideal posture for fighting on a ship that was rapidly falling apart. She would not slip and she would not stumble. She had wasted enough time with the bakagaijin, the cleaner pirate would die.
"Come, coward, and face a true origami warrior!" Z-Grip shouted, unmoved by the chaos unfolding around her.
The plunger pirate let out a final battle-cry as he charged,"He's so tough he cleans them all!"
It was over in an instant. Z-Grip shifted her weight as the steel plunger drove downwards towards her head. She guided the weapon gently to the side with the outside of her right arm, sliding her entire arm along the perfectly polished steel staff of the plunger as she flowed forward as if locked into a soft dance with the pirate. Turning her closed fist, Z-Grip smashed her thumb into the throat of the plunger pirate striking his windpipe. Dashing past his return blow, Z-Grip took several steps backwards, and then she waited. She waited as the plunger pirate tried to follow her. She watched as his face began to shift in color. She listened as he labored to brief. She saw as he dropped his plunger, stumbling wildly after her as he slowly suffocated. Wheezing the plunger pirate finally collapsed onto the deck, his perfectly polished forehead and meticulously shaved face having turned a deep purple.
The sound of wood splintering roused the penja from her post-duel thoughts and Z-Grip felt the doomed ship shuddered beneath her. She heard screaming. Pained whimpers and horrible screams as the acidic detergent of the deranged cleaners ate greedily at the flesh of the wounded, the dying, and the already dead.
Carnage surrounded the penja. The brave sailors of the S.S. Detergent were fighting a losing battle. They would not last much longer than their faithful ship. Z-Grip would have shed a single, profound tear at the beauty of it all. At the unbridled honor and bravery of the sadly incompetent sailors. But there was not time. She would mourn later. She would honor the proud warriors when she had claimed the heads of the befouled balding bastards that assailed her and her honorable companions.
The sail of the Detergent tore off its mast, riddled with burns, and cast itself upon the vessel like its shroud. The cleaners fell upon the dying like customers upon free samples, taking their quarry one body at a time. A sailor with half of his face melted off stared at the penja "Save yourself."
"A penja does not run from duty," Z-Grip replied handing the wounded sailor a spare blade that she carried. He would know what to do with it. She had offered him an honorable death, a way to end his suffering.
Without waiting the penja turned towards what remained of the cargo hold. She had a mission. She had a task. She had no more time to waste. The cargo hold would not last much longer. She had to improvise. Cutting down another cleaner pirate that blocked her path, Z-Grip grabbed hold of a length of rope that had once been the rigging and swung over the handrail of the dying ship. Moving with only the grace that a true penja could muster, Z-grip began to leap from broken board to broken board. She'd had enough time to study the ship before boarding, the location of the hold was obvious. She would simply find an alternative way to get there.
In
𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay
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4 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
One HyperHuman Monk/Mad Scientist Doctor coming up.
In
𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 [Accepting 2nd Wave of Applications] - Cyberpunk Political Roleplay
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4 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
I know OOC is still in the works (no rush), but I think I've settle on writing Doctor HyperHuman Monk, master of medical science and augmentations.
In
𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 [Accepting 2nd Wave of Applications] - Cyberpunk Political Roleplay
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4 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
All the interest on my part.
I'll begin contemplating what or rather who I want to write, ASAP.
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Probs going for a character tied to the The HyperHuman Party (woman, machine, total party).
I'll begin contemplating what or rather who I want to write, ASAP.
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Probs going for a character tied to the The HyperHuman Party (woman, machine, total party).
In
[Deep Core, 6 ATC 4] Mission: Harvest Moon
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4 yrs ago
Forum: Star Wars Persistent Galaxy Roleplay
Lieutenant Satra Maral
975th Special Duties
975th Special Duties
Dropping down through the unremarkable maintenance hatch, Maral found herself in momentary darkness before her vision-enchantment flickered on and turned the world a subtle green.
Sergeant Foss had cut off power to the compartment the second they had latched onto the Republic cruiser. The Imperial pilot had been as good as promised. Better even. He had to be to be able to crash the boarding shuttle into a maneuvering enemy ship in a controlled manner. He had to be better than good to hit the bullseye and smash the reinforced boarding shuttle into the maintenance hatch that was located conveniently close to the bridge. The shuddering impact as they rammed into the Hammerhead and the timing of their approach made it unlikely that Republic spacers would suspect anything other than a downed boarding shuttle. Not that it mattered, they only needed a bit of time. Time that the mercenaries and the Sith warriors were buying them. Ship mounted plasma torches had made short work of the airlock and before the Republic soldiers knew what hit them, the 975th were on board.
The 975th were quiet ghosts that swept along the ship in unison. No pauses. No hesitation. No wasted movement. Each member of the unit knew when to move and what angles to cover as they bounded down the corridors, jumping from cover to cover. Their blackened heavy battle armor melted into the pitch black of the metal corridor. They wore no unit markings, no rank insignias, and no Imperial flags. Everything that they carried was common, high quality and expensive but not uncommonly rare. Operating on a tight deadline, the quartermasters had used all of their back channel contacts to ensure that the serial numbers of the fresh gear that the 975th sported could be easily traced back to a number of less than reputable weapon smugglers and mercenary outfits. The 975th looked like mercs, they looked like a kill squad. Exactly the sort of mercs that would be making some extra credits by running pirate jobs. Just the right type of psychopaths that would ever consider targeting a Repbulic Navy ship.
Maral didn't need to waste time on orders. They had drilled attacks like this a thousand times. They had died hundreds of times in the simulators. They had felt the painful electrical current of simulated injury and death as they made mistakes. But they had learned. They had perfected their movements. They no longer needed to think. They existed only in the moment. They reacted with the unthinking perfection of a killing machine. It bought them seconds, it bought them lives, and it kept the Jedi or Sith guessing. The mind without mind. The body without the emotion. Adrenaline and carefully curated reflexes acting in perfect harmony.
When words might have been needed, quick hand signals were flashed and tense moments passed in complete silence. Shouting across the corridor of a spaceship was a fast way to reveal your position and to swallow a grenade seasoned with blaster fire. Comms were an option, but comms could be intercepted, comms could be jammed, and comms could break down.
Contact with the enemy was inevitable and from the middle of the unit, Maral could see as the leading elements of the 975th rocketed to a halt. Through smoke she could see Repbulic personnel shouting as they rushed to set up a perimeter. They were combat troops. They were Republic Navy Marines. They were the real deal. But they hadn't seen them. They didn't know which direction they were being attacked from. They were searching for ghosts in the darkness.
Maral drew a long steadying breath and then the 975th opened up, unleashing a hail of accurate blaster fire at their unsuspecting foes. Blaster bolts cut through Transparisteel armor and the Republic Marines fell amid desperate shouts for back-up. The 975th didn't stop, but kept moving. One team of Imperial commandos suppressing the Republic marines, while another bounded forward. They had to be aggressive. They had to keep moving. To hesitate and to stop, was to die. If they were pinned down by the defenders it would only be a matter of time before they were overwhelmed by enemy numbers. They had to get close and they had to stay close. They were ready and the Republic Marines were not. They would not hesitate. They would not falter. They served the Empire. They served the Emperor. They were the spooks that did what had to be done without flash and without reward. They had a ship to cripple.
50 meters forward. Left turn.
As they closed in on the embattled Republic Marines, the teams of Imperial commandos fluidly broke into pairs, finding new angles as they heaped intensifying fire onto the the Republic Marines. Burning flesh welcomed Maral as she followed the tide of advancing Imperial commandos. The welcome heavy thud of her disruptor rifle accompanied Maral with each leap forward. Aiming down the holographic targeting cross-hair projected across the inside of her combat helmet Maral took aim at the first officer that she could spot. His personal shield had kept him alive, but it gave him away. She aimed center mass, it was pointless to be fancy when you carried a disruptor rifle. Thunder raced down the corridor as she braced herself against a wall and fired. The arc of plasma smashed through the military shield and through the grayish Repbulic armor. Maral heard only a brief, maddened scream before the man disintegrated within his armor.
Stepping over the smouldering pile of armor, Maral kept pace with the rest of the 975th. They had no time to admire their handiwork as they finished off the last of the Republic Marines. They had to keep moving.
20 Meters. Hard right.
50 meters forward. Left turn. 20 Meters. Hard right. 34 meters forward. A final right. 45 meters to the blast doors. 20 more to the bridge.
The Imperial commandos raced down the corridors at a breakneck pace. The Imperial commandos of the 975th overwhelmed the confused units of Repbulic Navy specialists and technicians that they encountered as they advanced. Distracted by the mercenaries and Sith warriors, the Republic troopers had put up a pitiful fight against the unexpected foes. Maral didn't care. She wasn't adding notches to her weapon. She was winning a war. There was no time for mercy. The barrel of her disruptor rifle had begun to smoulder and she popped the red-orange barrel off with a deft movement of a hand. Ducking behind a metal column, she replaced it with a fresh barrel. She wouldn't need the rifle for much longer.
34 meters forward. A final right.
Taking the corner in pairs, Maral and the Imperial commandos of the 975th found themselves facing a heavy repeating blaster emplacement hastily assembled from metal crates and sheet metal. The fire that greeted them should have been overwhelming. It should have cost them a commando or perhaps even two. The Republic troopers should have made them pay for each step forward. But they didn't. They shot wide. They were slow. They were gasping for air. They were panicking. Taking cover, the Imperial commandos returned fire as they shifted closer. They were already dead. They all knew it. Anything they did would buy them time. Aggression was the only option. Maral watched with satisfaction as the closet Imperial commando lobbed a stun grenade over the makeshift barricade. Surging forward even before the grenade exploded, the 975th leaped over the piles of debris with salvo of blaster fire that cut into the writhing defenders.
Officers. Engineers. Technicians. They weren't combat soldiers. They had never been. The survivors dropped their weapons. Maral counted three of them. Survivors were unexpected, but they were useful. Especially the two officers.
45 meters to the blast doors. 5 more meters to the bridge.
"Password," Maral said nodding to one of the Imperial commandos who pressed the blade of his knife against the neck of the Republic naval officer.
"I don't know any passwords. I don't have the security clearance!"
"Last chance," Maral whispered as her sergeant drew blood. "You're the officer in charge of this section. You know the password."
"You can't expect me to divulge information that put Republic lives in danger-"
"Sergeant."
The Junior Lieutenant fell to the floor with a silent thud, drowning in her own blood. Maral turned to the warrant officer cowering next to her. "One chance, Senior Warrant Officer, you have one chance to live. You tell us the password, we bring you with us. You refuse, you die here. Drowning in your own blood, like the Junior Lieutenant."
The woman flinched as the Imperial commando guarding her stepped closer. Maral could see the panic in her eyes. The rapid breathing. The shudder that moved through her body. The commando kept her quiet with a simple gesture of his knife. Squeezing her eyes shut, the young specialist spoke just barely above a whisper, "Esk 7 7 9 2. That's the password. Please-"
Maral didn't need to give the order. Her soldiers knew. They were only leaving the ship with one prisoner. Stacking up on either sides of the blast door, the 975th wordlessly set up a perimeter as Sergeant Foss plugged into a nearby access panel.
Contact, a commando signaled as a squads worth of weapons pointed towards a new set of figures that moved down one of the adjoining corridors leading to the bridge.
SW PW Character: The Plant Bounty Hunter
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