Terminal Member
Rancorous Narrative Proxy
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Bio
I have been writing as a hobby for longer than you have been alive. I have been a regular member and roleplayer of no less than fourteen different online forums during that time (including the old RPG), five six eight of which no longer exist.
I was previously a regular on the Homestuck forums, but I became so sick of thread turnover there that I asked around and eventually found the Guild. Since joining, I have exclusively only participated in Advanced RPs. Before Mahz gave NRPs their own subforum, I used to be an NRP regular in the Advanced Subforum. I am a Guildfall survivor, and know/regularly write with a few others.
If you ask anybody who has written with me in previous RPs, they should tell you that I have a generally open schedule, I post regularly and in a timely fashion, and I never drop an RP once I join unless the thread dies. Some of them may tell you that I have extensive expertise within the realms of Biology, Psychology, and Physics, which I will make no effort to validate since there is no way I can provide hard proof of aforementioned alleged expertise to anybody over the internet (though I am happy to try and answer any questions you send my way).
My favorite fandom is the Myst franchise, which seemingly nobody other than me has ever heard of.
I was a Contest Moderator for the Writing Contests Subforum for just a little bit over two years. I wrote the Moderation Policy for that subforum and I ran a contest called the Twelve Labours; you can still go there and see all of them and the entries people wrote for them in the Contests Section and the Victory Archives.
I have been quadruple secret banned from the guild discord. That is not a joke.
I was previously a regular on the Homestuck forums, but I became so sick of thread turnover there that I asked around and eventually found the Guild. Since joining, I have exclusively only participated in Advanced RPs. Before Mahz gave NRPs their own subforum, I used to be an NRP regular in the Advanced Subforum. I am a Guildfall survivor, and know/regularly write with a few others.
If you ask anybody who has written with me in previous RPs, they should tell you that I have a generally open schedule, I post regularly and in a timely fashion, and I never drop an RP once I join unless the thread dies. Some of them may tell you that I have extensive expertise within the realms of Biology, Psychology, and Physics, which I will make no effort to validate since there is no way I can provide hard proof of aforementioned alleged expertise to anybody over the internet (though I am happy to try and answer any questions you send my way).
My favorite fandom is the Myst franchise, which seemingly nobody other than me has ever heard of.
I was a Contest Moderator for the Writing Contests Subforum for just a little bit over two years. I wrote the Moderation Policy for that subforum and I ran a contest called the Twelve Labours; you can still go there and see all of them and the entries people wrote for them in the Contests Section and the Victory Archives.
I have been quadruple secret banned from the guild discord. That is not a joke.
Most Recent Posts
Sawn off shotgun and a five-shooter, right (It always bothered me that Vegas revolvers usually only had five cylinders)? That's not an unusual loadout for caravan merchants or town regulars in a place like Primm.
%20unknown1%20as%20Marco%27s%20gunman.jpg)
He's covered in filth, he's wearing rags, he appears sunburnt - he is virtually indistinguishable from a settler. :P
I did check the description for his clothes as well, but other than the tactical vest it seems pretty regular. I suppose the picture itself may have biased my conclusion though. It just went with the mental picture I already had drawn up.
What is he supposed to look like, if not a settler? A Brahmin Baron? A High-Roller? What impression do you have in mind when you think of him?
Behind the opaque goggles, Poe's eyebrows raised as the elevator disgorged three people - a tribal, a filthy looking settler, and a nightkin. Poe had traveled halfway across the wasteland from St. Louis, but even he had only ever seen one before. He had heard more about them than he had seen of them, and apparently even the best of them could be highly erratic.
That was fine with him. He liked erratic.
Poe got up from the couch and hefted the baseball bat over his shoulder, taking a few steps away from the table before looking up and speaking.
"Hey you, big and blue." He called up to Scraps. "You can keep the grenade, but can you send down the boy? He agreed to let me beat him to death. Just push him over the railing, a'right?" An easy, if wicked rictus grin was stretched across his face as he spoke. "As for the rest of you motes, get down here. Tenpenny and House will be along in a while and you lot are organized into what is commonly referred to as a target rich environment."
That was fine with him. He liked erratic.
Poe got up from the couch and hefted the baseball bat over his shoulder, taking a few steps away from the table before looking up and speaking.
"Hey you, big and blue." He called up to Scraps. "You can keep the grenade, but can you send down the boy? He agreed to let me beat him to death. Just push him over the railing, a'right?" An easy, if wicked rictus grin was stretched across his face as he spoke. "As for the rest of you motes, get down here. Tenpenny and House will be along in a while and you lot are organized into what is commonly referred to as a target rich environment."
Daemyn Sterk said
Hey, I edited Sabin's appearance a bit and added an image if anyone would like to check it out. Haha.
QUICK POST!
POE NEEDS TO FIND OUT IF SCRAPS PUSHED SABIN OFF THE BALCONY! :D
Also I would prefer not to post myself until Sabin has reacted to the abrupt appearance of about half a dozen other people on the Balcony. '-'
WittyReference said
My Nightkin just stole BoomBoom's toy, I'm sure Dallas is gonna be needed in the impending temper tantrum just fine :p
While the basic value of disposable weapons including grenades was artifically inflated, they still aren't really worth throwing fits over. They're fairly common. :P
Besides, he has like eight more anyway. He won't even mind it missing.
Bonus points if you just shoved Sinda off the balcony. '-'
Sabin said "Nice prank there, friend! Almost fooled me there!"
"Oh goddamnit is EVERYBODY joining this stupid job going to see through that?" Poe growled, baring his teeth in a light hiss as he glared up at Sabin.
Sabin said "Oops..."
While Poe wasn't quite as perceptive as Sniper Hawk Sabin, he was still a rather impressive Monocled Falcon himself - and unlike Sabin, he had more than two decades of experience handling explosives. He wasn't fooled for an instant. He mentally counted down to five, coolly sitting in place.
"You're still alive." He said flatly. "This punchline sucks. Your jokes suck. YOU suck. But hey, we're three for three with the not being fooled by childishly toying with deadly weapons, come on down and join the club. Next you can shoot yourself with an empty rifle and then I can 'pretend' to beat you to death with a baseball bat, we'll make a grand ol' time of it." Poe unslung the aforementioned baseball bat from his travel pack and lay it across the table, his rictus grin slowly spreading again as he leered eerily at Sabin with his obscured eyes.
Poe just really wants to see somebody dive/fall over that balcony. :/
I'm going to respond and then leave it at that, let others catch up. Shouldn't get too far ahead of ourselves.
I'm going to respond and then leave it at that, let others catch up. Shouldn't get too far ahead of ourselves.
Poe: Demonstrate your only icebreaker.
Sterk: I would have asked if you wanted to collab, but with Dallas in the room we'd also need Neon, and I'm fairly sure they are out for their night/day/whatever.
Sterk: I would have asked if you wanted to collab, but with Dallas in the room we'd also need Neon, and I'm fairly sure they are out for their night/day/whatever.
Poe glanced with a smile up at the new figure on the balcony...and then frowned with intense disappointment when he saw it was an NCR prat. Not even a Ranger or one of the rare elites wearing powered armor, this shitstain looked young and nervous and fresh out of training.
'The question is, was that training any good? Poe mused to himself. Moments passed and his wicked rictus grin returned full force as he leered at Sabin.
"Hey little mote..." He began, before reaching into his pocket and retrieving the grenade again, with the loose spare pin from before still looped around his thumb. He then held his hand up, pulling the exact same stunt he had with Dallas earlier, 'pulling' the already loose pin from the grenade.
"Special delivery!" Poe lobbed the grenade up through the air in a perfect trajectory to collide with Sabin's chest. There was no actual threat, since the grenade's real pin hadn't been pulled, but it was down to the trooper's perception versus how unnerved he might have become whether or not he reacted to what was for all intents and purposes an explosive weapon flying in his direction on a collision course.
'The question is, was that training any good? Poe mused to himself. Moments passed and his wicked rictus grin returned full force as he leered at Sabin.
"Hey little mote..." He began, before reaching into his pocket and retrieving the grenade again, with the loose spare pin from before still looped around his thumb. He then held his hand up, pulling the exact same stunt he had with Dallas earlier, 'pulling' the already loose pin from the grenade.
"Special delivery!" Poe lobbed the grenade up through the air in a perfect trajectory to collide with Sabin's chest. There was no actual threat, since the grenade's real pin hadn't been pulled, but it was down to the trooper's perception versus how unnerved he might have become whether or not he reacted to what was for all intents and purposes an explosive weapon flying in his direction on a collision course.
Five days ago
NCR Mojave Outpost
The road to New Vegas was, in the words of one Sergeant Kilborn, 'not safe.' Raiders were actually the least of your worries, on a good day. Most of the major caravan routes through the area moseyed along giant fire-breathing ant nests, giant super-wrestler geckos (also fire breathing) regularly went hunting and made nests around old-world traffic jams, Cazadores made nests at most local water sources, giant radscorpions were more common than bloatflies, and if you saw any kind of old quarry you had a two in three chance it was filled with Deathclaws. Each vicious mutated creature was more horrible and apparently bulletproof than the last, and the only real safe road to Vegas ran from the Mojave Outpost, through Nipton, Novac and the 188 trading post. Deviation from the well-trodden path was ill advised - even with their numbers freed up now that Caesar's Legion had been pushed back, the NCR still had problems securing the roads from trouble.
"So until the road clears up, I cannot guarantee your safety sir." Sgt. Kilborn said to the latest prospector from the South in a well-practiced segue. "We have storage units available for anything you're carrying, and you're welcome to stay at the bar until we give you the all clear. I really wouldn't recommend chancing it. The roads just aren't safe."
The man he was speaking to was perhaps of Asian descent and bore gaunt face, with skin pulled tight over jutting bones. He had a pointed and long, slicked back mane of dark hair and had a small, pointed beard jutting down from his chin. He was dressed like any other wasteland mercenary cruiser, with a pair of thick goggles with opaque lens masking his eyes as he gave the NCR Sergeant a rictus grin.
"Safe isn't where I aim to be, little mote."
888888888888
Three Days Ago
Novac
No-bark Noonan's curious existence in Novac had not changed much since the Courier had passed through. If anything, the REPcon incident, the nasty business with Jeane, and the reactivation of Helios One had fueled his paranoid mind with even more imagined truths, becoming ever more suspicious of outsiders ("Spies for the Illuminati army! They may look just like you and me, but they're actually machines that steal skins and souls from the destitute!") and more intrusive into the lives of his neighbor. In essence, he had graduated from minor nuisance to mild irritant.
One day, when he had been pawing at the wall of the Dino Deelite motel looking for the secret combination of bricks to tap in order to open the passageway to Veritac Alley when he happened to spy a stranger, purchasing sundry goods from Ada Straus...and he spied the butcher of a doctor supplying the black haired man with sugar bombs.
"Now you hold on just a darn minute there! Don't let that quack pull the wool over your eyes!" No-bark boomed as he rushed over to them. "You damned fool, don't you know the government puts mind-controlling chemicals like fluoride and alum in cereals? They're always prayin' on children what with their pheromone-coated toys and demons inside cameras to tell them what to do! I know 'cause of the devil who came through here way back, driving iron chariots with one!"
Ada sighed in an exasperated fashion as the stranger's head inexorably turned to leer at No-bark with a rictus grin and opaque goggles, the dark lens showing only Noolan's reflection. After a brief pause, he asked a strange question.
"Did the devil wave spotted flags or pictures around?"
"Yes! Yes he did!" No-bark gasped with amazement. "You must have seen him too! It 'twas a mite confusing since I may have been having spasms at the time, but he had a bunch of planks what with glowing moon rocks on them that he used to drive the demons on!"
"We're a bit far West for that. Devils like that usually stick up to the Northeast." The stranger said conversationally as he handed Ada a few caps, the amused smile not leaving his face. The wasteland doctor was now looking at both of them like they had Pitt Plague. "Don't worry about the cereal though, little ember. It's all part of the movement. Keep it on the down low."
No-bark's eyes widened in comprehension, and he simply tapped the side of his nose knowingly in response.
888888888888
Two Days Ago
188 Trading Post
"I'm only selling to big fish, dirtlicker. NCR and caravans only, and while you're about as fucking ugly as a pack brahmin, you aren't a caravan."
Alexander was not at all impressed by the stranger. Mercenary trash like him was always coming and going, and they never had enough caps. He leaned against the wall, arms folded adamantly and his voice utterly deadpan - a demeanor he had spent years perfecting to offset and intimidate most of the garbage that blew through the underpass of the 188.
If he was surprised when the stranger, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat in a casual manner, started giving him a rictus grin smile, he didn't let it show. "So. You must be Alexander then. The Van Graffs talk an awful lot about you."
THAT got Alexander's attention. He narrowed his eyes and began to reach for his rifle. It wasn't the first time somebody had come after him - probably a hit from the Van Graffs, from what the asshead had said. He wasn't going to put up with that though, and although the mercenary had what looked to be a grenade launcher, it was slung securely across his travel pack. Alexander could level his rifle and blow a hole clean through the little shit before he even drew it halfway.
It WAS surprising when the mercenary took his right hand out of his coat pocket and pressed what appeared to be a tin grenade against Alexander's throat, thumb pressed against what had to be the arming button for the sensor module strapped to the side. Alexander froze.
"Not just the Van Graffs either. Not a whole lot of the people here like you much either. How would you care to bet that nobody would bat an eye if you came down with a congestion of explosive powder? Feel like gambling with your life?"
To his credit, Alexander recovered quickly and didn't balk. "You devious bastard...You do realize there's no way I'm letting you walk out of this alive, right? The second your arm pulls back I'm going to shoot your sorry ass. You can't set that thing off at this range without blowing off your arm."
The stranger 's rictus grin grew even wider.
"Was that a challenge, little mote? Because that sounded an awful lot like a challenge to me."
The Forecaster, who had been watching the scene unfold anxiously from his nest in the underpassage, did not need psychic powers to tell what was coming next and immediately ducked behind the nearest car wreck.
The improvised flashbang grenade went off as the mercenary released the arming switch, blinding and deafening both Alexander, his bodyguard, and everybody else in the underpassage...except for the man himself, with his goggles and their opaque, polarized lens.
Once everybody had recovered, the mercenary was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Alexander - although there was a suspicious scattering of smoldering ash piled against the wall he had been leaning against. When the Forecaster looked at the ashes, he shivered - even through the dampening effects of the psychic blocker he wore on his head, visions of fire and laughter lived in the darkness behind his eyes for a scant moment when he blinked.
Now
Freeside
Evan yelped as the stranger caught his sneaking hand trying to snatch something out of one of his coat pockets. "You really shouldn't stick your fingers in dangerous places." The man said with nasty smile. "You're liable to lose fingers that way."
"L...look, I'm real sorry mister, it's just I'm starving and thirsty and I don't have any caps and I don't know what else to do..." Evan started blubbering. It wasn't the first time he'd been caught pickpocketing, and on occasion he managed to escape unscathed by turning on the waterworks. Mostly he was beaten anyway, but either way it didn't hurt to try.
It looked like it had worked too, since the man's smile faded and turned into an appraising line. His eyes were hidden by the goggles he wore, but he was clearly thinking.
After a moment of silence, he let Evan go and set his travel pack on the ground. "Little boys like you should always be able to have something to cure what ails them. I'll give you a little something, and you'll never pick pockets again, alright?"
"I promise mister." Evan said dutifully as the man retrieved a cereal box of sugar bombs from his pack.
"No need to promise, little mote. I know." The man gave Evan another wicked grin as he handed over the box. Evan took it and immediately sprinted away with the prize and ducking into a nearby alley, barely able to believe his luck. Hopping into the safe confines of a dumpster to eat in peace, he pried open the top of the cereal box and squinted inside at the frag mine filling the space where there should have been chocolate frosted wheat.
The man whistled an eerie tune as a dull boom rocked through the alley Evan had run into a block away. The vagrant thugs who had been watching him from the sides of the street found immediate excuses to be elsewhere as he made the long walk across the stretch of street leading up to the strip gate. Approaching the barricade and the securitrons there, he slowed and his smile vanished as he stopped whistling and assumed a thoughtful expression, listening the the strange, garbled system messages the robots sent between each other. The Securitron Greeter rolled up to him and delivered its ultimatum.
"Submit to a credit check or present your passport before proceeding to the gate. Trespassers will be shot."
"In a minute." The man said as he gave the looming Securitron a quick look-over. "I have a few questions first. Can you answer a few?"
"Proceed."
"I don't believe I've ever seen a robot like you before. What model are you?"
"I am a PDQ-88b Securitron, RobCo security model 2060-B. I was manufactured by RobCo in the year 2076."
"So you're a RobCo 'bot...I suppose that means you use termlink code then, and that garbled junk your friends are spewing is encrypted audio formatting?"
"The design specifications of Securitron models is classified to the general public."
"And that little spinning deal, I suppose that's a wireless comm. sensor?" The man asked, pointing the the rotating ring-shaped antenna on top of the greeter.
"The design specifications of Securitron models is classified to the general public." The greeter repeated flatly. The man gave the securitron a final lookover before finally responding.
"53l FD3 57R UC7."
The greeter Securitron promptly short circuited in a shower of sparks and fell to the ground, inactive.
"And that's why audio termlink input is classified as a design flaw." The man announced cheerily as one of the Securitrons by the gate rolled forward aggressively. The man simply looked at it with a waiting smile as its screen flickered from showing a gruff, cigar-chomping soldier to that of a cowboy.
"Son, Mr. House is not going to like that little wild west show stunt of yours at all if I reckon right. How about you run along to the ranch and stop making trouble with the local flavor? They're expecting you up in the lounge."
"About time. What does a guy need to do to get a little respect around here?" The man complained coyly as he sidled past Victor. "Don't let the brackets hit your asterisk on the way out, little mote."
888888888888
Dallas was notified of the new arrival in the penthouse by the whirring noise of the elevator ascending and the doors grinding open...and the obnoxious singing.
"I doooon't want to set the woooorld on fiiiiirerrrrr..." The man stepped out of the elevator with a spring in his step, spotted Dallas, and stopped. After a pause, he delivered an unsettling grin to the fair-haired man and leered straight into Dallas' eyes, opaque goggles giving nothing away.
"Hey there little pebble. Are you ready to shake, rattle and roll? Because let me tell you, your bones don't look like they've been dusted on the ground appropriately. I'm almost afraid you'll break like fine china once I push you over this balcony."
NCR Mojave Outpost
The road to New Vegas was, in the words of one Sergeant Kilborn, 'not safe.' Raiders were actually the least of your worries, on a good day. Most of the major caravan routes through the area moseyed along giant fire-breathing ant nests, giant super-wrestler geckos (also fire breathing) regularly went hunting and made nests around old-world traffic jams, Cazadores made nests at most local water sources, giant radscorpions were more common than bloatflies, and if you saw any kind of old quarry you had a two in three chance it was filled with Deathclaws. Each vicious mutated creature was more horrible and apparently bulletproof than the last, and the only real safe road to Vegas ran from the Mojave Outpost, through Nipton, Novac and the 188 trading post. Deviation from the well-trodden path was ill advised - even with their numbers freed up now that Caesar's Legion had been pushed back, the NCR still had problems securing the roads from trouble.
"So until the road clears up, I cannot guarantee your safety sir." Sgt. Kilborn said to the latest prospector from the South in a well-practiced segue. "We have storage units available for anything you're carrying, and you're welcome to stay at the bar until we give you the all clear. I really wouldn't recommend chancing it. The roads just aren't safe."
The man he was speaking to was perhaps of Asian descent and bore gaunt face, with skin pulled tight over jutting bones. He had a pointed and long, slicked back mane of dark hair and had a small, pointed beard jutting down from his chin. He was dressed like any other wasteland mercenary cruiser, with a pair of thick goggles with opaque lens masking his eyes as he gave the NCR Sergeant a rictus grin.
"Safe isn't where I aim to be, little mote."
Three Days Ago
Novac
No-bark Noonan's curious existence in Novac had not changed much since the Courier had passed through. If anything, the REPcon incident, the nasty business with Jeane, and the reactivation of Helios One had fueled his paranoid mind with even more imagined truths, becoming ever more suspicious of outsiders ("Spies for the Illuminati army! They may look just like you and me, but they're actually machines that steal skins and souls from the destitute!") and more intrusive into the lives of his neighbor. In essence, he had graduated from minor nuisance to mild irritant.
One day, when he had been pawing at the wall of the Dino Deelite motel looking for the secret combination of bricks to tap in order to open the passageway to Veritac Alley when he happened to spy a stranger, purchasing sundry goods from Ada Straus...and he spied the butcher of a doctor supplying the black haired man with sugar bombs.
"Now you hold on just a darn minute there! Don't let that quack pull the wool over your eyes!" No-bark boomed as he rushed over to them. "You damned fool, don't you know the government puts mind-controlling chemicals like fluoride and alum in cereals? They're always prayin' on children what with their pheromone-coated toys and demons inside cameras to tell them what to do! I know 'cause of the devil who came through here way back, driving iron chariots with one!"
Ada sighed in an exasperated fashion as the stranger's head inexorably turned to leer at No-bark with a rictus grin and opaque goggles, the dark lens showing only Noolan's reflection. After a brief pause, he asked a strange question.
"Did the devil wave spotted flags or pictures around?"
"Yes! Yes he did!" No-bark gasped with amazement. "You must have seen him too! It 'twas a mite confusing since I may have been having spasms at the time, but he had a bunch of planks what with glowing moon rocks on them that he used to drive the demons on!"
"We're a bit far West for that. Devils like that usually stick up to the Northeast." The stranger said conversationally as he handed Ada a few caps, the amused smile not leaving his face. The wasteland doctor was now looking at both of them like they had Pitt Plague. "Don't worry about the cereal though, little ember. It's all part of the movement. Keep it on the down low."
No-bark's eyes widened in comprehension, and he simply tapped the side of his nose knowingly in response.
Two Days Ago
188 Trading Post
"I'm only selling to big fish, dirtlicker. NCR and caravans only, and while you're about as fucking ugly as a pack brahmin, you aren't a caravan."
Alexander was not at all impressed by the stranger. Mercenary trash like him was always coming and going, and they never had enough caps. He leaned against the wall, arms folded adamantly and his voice utterly deadpan - a demeanor he had spent years perfecting to offset and intimidate most of the garbage that blew through the underpass of the 188.
If he was surprised when the stranger, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat in a casual manner, started giving him a rictus grin smile, he didn't let it show. "So. You must be Alexander then. The Van Graffs talk an awful lot about you."
THAT got Alexander's attention. He narrowed his eyes and began to reach for his rifle. It wasn't the first time somebody had come after him - probably a hit from the Van Graffs, from what the asshead had said. He wasn't going to put up with that though, and although the mercenary had what looked to be a grenade launcher, it was slung securely across his travel pack. Alexander could level his rifle and blow a hole clean through the little shit before he even drew it halfway.
It WAS surprising when the mercenary took his right hand out of his coat pocket and pressed what appeared to be a tin grenade against Alexander's throat, thumb pressed against what had to be the arming button for the sensor module strapped to the side. Alexander froze.
"Not just the Van Graffs either. Not a whole lot of the people here like you much either. How would you care to bet that nobody would bat an eye if you came down with a congestion of explosive powder? Feel like gambling with your life?"
To his credit, Alexander recovered quickly and didn't balk. "You devious bastard...You do realize there's no way I'm letting you walk out of this alive, right? The second your arm pulls back I'm going to shoot your sorry ass. You can't set that thing off at this range without blowing off your arm."
The stranger 's rictus grin grew even wider.
"Was that a challenge, little mote? Because that sounded an awful lot like a challenge to me."
The Forecaster, who had been watching the scene unfold anxiously from his nest in the underpassage, did not need psychic powers to tell what was coming next and immediately ducked behind the nearest car wreck.
The improvised flashbang grenade went off as the mercenary released the arming switch, blinding and deafening both Alexander, his bodyguard, and everybody else in the underpassage...except for the man himself, with his goggles and their opaque, polarized lens.
Once everybody had recovered, the mercenary was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Alexander - although there was a suspicious scattering of smoldering ash piled against the wall he had been leaning against. When the Forecaster looked at the ashes, he shivered - even through the dampening effects of the psychic blocker he wore on his head, visions of fire and laughter lived in the darkness behind his eyes for a scant moment when he blinked.
Now
Freeside
Evan yelped as the stranger caught his sneaking hand trying to snatch something out of one of his coat pockets. "You really shouldn't stick your fingers in dangerous places." The man said with nasty smile. "You're liable to lose fingers that way."
"L...look, I'm real sorry mister, it's just I'm starving and thirsty and I don't have any caps and I don't know what else to do..." Evan started blubbering. It wasn't the first time he'd been caught pickpocketing, and on occasion he managed to escape unscathed by turning on the waterworks. Mostly he was beaten anyway, but either way it didn't hurt to try.
It looked like it had worked too, since the man's smile faded and turned into an appraising line. His eyes were hidden by the goggles he wore, but he was clearly thinking.
After a moment of silence, he let Evan go and set his travel pack on the ground. "Little boys like you should always be able to have something to cure what ails them. I'll give you a little something, and you'll never pick pockets again, alright?"
"I promise mister." Evan said dutifully as the man retrieved a cereal box of sugar bombs from his pack.
"No need to promise, little mote. I know." The man gave Evan another wicked grin as he handed over the box. Evan took it and immediately sprinted away with the prize and ducking into a nearby alley, barely able to believe his luck. Hopping into the safe confines of a dumpster to eat in peace, he pried open the top of the cereal box and squinted inside at the frag mine filling the space where there should have been chocolate frosted wheat.
The man whistled an eerie tune as a dull boom rocked through the alley Evan had run into a block away. The vagrant thugs who had been watching him from the sides of the street found immediate excuses to be elsewhere as he made the long walk across the stretch of street leading up to the strip gate. Approaching the barricade and the securitrons there, he slowed and his smile vanished as he stopped whistling and assumed a thoughtful expression, listening the the strange, garbled system messages the robots sent between each other. The Securitron Greeter rolled up to him and delivered its ultimatum.
"Submit to a credit check or present your passport before proceeding to the gate. Trespassers will be shot."
"In a minute." The man said as he gave the looming Securitron a quick look-over. "I have a few questions first. Can you answer a few?"
"Proceed."
"I don't believe I've ever seen a robot like you before. What model are you?"
"I am a PDQ-88b Securitron, RobCo security model 2060-B. I was manufactured by RobCo in the year 2076."
"So you're a RobCo 'bot...I suppose that means you use termlink code then, and that garbled junk your friends are spewing is encrypted audio formatting?"
"The design specifications of Securitron models is classified to the general public."
"And that little spinning deal, I suppose that's a wireless comm. sensor?" The man asked, pointing the the rotating ring-shaped antenna on top of the greeter.
"The design specifications of Securitron models is classified to the general public." The greeter repeated flatly. The man gave the securitron a final lookover before finally responding.
"53l FD3 57R UC7."
The greeter Securitron promptly short circuited in a shower of sparks and fell to the ground, inactive.
"And that's why audio termlink input is classified as a design flaw." The man announced cheerily as one of the Securitrons by the gate rolled forward aggressively. The man simply looked at it with a waiting smile as its screen flickered from showing a gruff, cigar-chomping soldier to that of a cowboy.
"Son, Mr. House is not going to like that little wild west show stunt of yours at all if I reckon right. How about you run along to the ranch and stop making trouble with the local flavor? They're expecting you up in the lounge."
"About time. What does a guy need to do to get a little respect around here?" The man complained coyly as he sidled past Victor. "Don't let the brackets hit your asterisk on the way out, little mote."
Dallas was notified of the new arrival in the penthouse by the whirring noise of the elevator ascending and the doors grinding open...and the obnoxious singing.
"I doooon't want to set the woooorld on fiiiiirerrrrr..." The man stepped out of the elevator with a spring in his step, spotted Dallas, and stopped. After a pause, he delivered an unsettling grin to the fair-haired man and leered straight into Dallas' eyes, opaque goggles giving nothing away.
"Hey there little pebble. Are you ready to shake, rattle and roll? Because let me tell you, your bones don't look like they've been dusted on the ground appropriately. I'm almost afraid you'll break like fine china once I push you over this balcony."
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