You clear your holster (Bulldog Arms SnapRelease - "We carry what counts!" runs aimlessly through your mind before you quash it and focus), as you kick free of your chair and snug up behind the balcony wall. [Stealth: 1,4. Critical fail, minor]
The juvegangers are also hastily abandoning positions at their table - to line the wall and cheer. The smarter ones zip up their ballistic hoodies.
You flick the fire selector to semiauto, then look down the front site and frame the front right quarter of the oncoming Toyo-Chev between the rear posts. You don't feel the trigger break but the 9mm recoils - and again and again. It sounds like loud clapping - your Vindicator's got a good suppressor. [Handgun: 32, 25, 18]
There is a loud crash of metal into metal from the street and gunfire. Lots of gunfire, popping and cracking across the evening air.
Without checking to see if you hit or not or if Marks ate a tonne-plus of plastic and cheap Australian steel, you turn on your heel and crouch-shove your way through the chairs behind the juves.
A multiple-piercings ebony-eyed juve glances at you. You can see little red anarchy symbols bouncing back and forth in his Kendachi cybereyes. When the digital A's hit the edge of the eyeball, exclamation marks go off. Ah, fashion.
"Fucking Corpos. Only thing worse than badges, " you say, putting what you hope is just the right amount of disdain in your voice. [Fast Talk: 14. Luck point to make 15]
The juve's eyes light up.
"Corpos? Corpos? CORPOS!" Drawing a Budgetarms Fashiongun, (complete with red LEDs along the top of the barrel), he immediately fires at what you hope are the attackers. Encouraged, the other juves do the same, whooping for good measure.
You hit the far end of the balcony, stay crouched for a slow 5 count - One...Two...the shooting from below stops. So does your heart. It resumes, along with a sharper, louder report, 7.62 or better. Four seconds...Five...you glance over quickly to assess the drop (Awareness: 19] then vault over the edge and land-roll in the alleyway beside the rink [Athletics 30]. Still crouched, you sprint up the street along the edge of the University lands.
To your left and behind you, [Awareness: 20] the Toyo-Chev has stopped after ramming the rear section of the cruiser, spinning it so it now provides some handy cover for the two cops exchanging fire with the hit team in the Lux. A body sprawls out of the Chev's driver door, blood covering the head and outflung arm lying on the road. More blood in the seat. A woman lies behind the Chev, crawling weakly away as the juvegangers enthusiastically pepper her with shots. She jerks as they hit her but keeps crawling.
The Lux team pours fire into the cruiser, popping up to shoot in groups of two and three as they alternate loading. One of them lies against the dented and pocked rear door of the Lux facing the patrol car, holding their neck as blood spurts between their fingers under the full-face helmet. The rest, behind the Lux, came rigged for the job, in a mix of hard armour under their urban flash clothes and carrying suppressed carbines and SMGs. A borg with a full face plate that looks like a devil duck blazes away in long bursts with an M-7A machine-gun, hacking away at the armour on the NCPD patrol car, showering the officers in chunks of glass.
The NCPD officers are both bleeding, with Marks half-sitting, half kneeling in a slowly growing pool of greasy crimson as his partner gets a self-compressing pressure wrap on Marks' upper leg. He occasionally pops up awkwardly (causing her to curse him) to return fire with his Ronin, with little noticeable effect.
You skid to a halt behind a graffiti-blasted but bulletproof NC Transit stop. You quickly palm a stun minigrenade and throw it, hard, [Athletics: 22] towards the crew gathered behind the Lux, then cover your eyes and ears.
You're a good 15-20 meters behind the Lux, but even so, the noise and light from the little grenade is astonishing. Outdoors, in close proximity, it disorients. Indoors, it disables. You swap mags to AP by feel (Handgun: 22].
You open your eyes. Three of the Lux shooters are just fine, stun-protected. Two of them are about to spot you. You take a half-breath and flip the selector to (B)urst. [Handgun: 31, 26 including Ambush and 3r bonus] Your first rounds hit the skinny guy with the M-95A just under his chinstrap, knocking him back and collapsing him to the ground. The second burst is a little high on the woman who is trying to bring her HK 10mm around to bear on you, catching her at the bottom of the visor, fracturing it and sending shards of visor into her chin, jaw and mouth. She reels back, choking on teeth and blood, going into shock.
The third, the Borg with the SAW, spots you and puts a long burst in your direction, [Rifle: 14], the rounds striking sparks from the pavement near you. You spit out grit and your return fire [Handgun: 22] smashes his faceplate, scraping off the yellow-ochre enamel, but the AP rounds fail to penetrate [Damage: 5]. Your final burst goes wide, shattering a PanSeiko display across the intersection. [Handgun: 17]
The cops take this opportunity to swap to armour-piercing rounds themselves, concentrating fire on one of the disoriented shooters. She's hit with multiple rounds and drops spreadeagled to the street, relaxing into death. The fifth Lux attacker shakes his head clear and then fires over the hood of the car using a COT smart system, putting a tight burst into the already dented front plate of Marks' partner. She, too, slumps to the ground, rifle clattering as she lets it go. Marks drops back below the cruiser to tend to her, raising his visor and beginning CPR. The juvegangers, all five of them, shoot at the guy with the COT smartgun. He curses, then tilts his head as if listening to something.
The big cyborg with the damn machine-gun turns his back on you, walking around the front of the Lux as he drops his drum mag and swaps to a fresh one. He raises the M-7 to his shoulder, raking the patio above and sending the juvegangers diving for cover.
The last attacker rolls to his feet and pulls open the driver's door on the Lux.
You swear in Spanglish and wish Jackie were here.
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Other polls here. Character sheet here.
The juvegangers are also hastily abandoning positions at their table - to line the wall and cheer. The smarter ones zip up their ballistic hoodies.
You flick the fire selector to semiauto, then look down the front site and frame the front right quarter of the oncoming Toyo-Chev between the rear posts. You don't feel the trigger break but the 9mm recoils - and again and again. It sounds like loud clapping - your Vindicator's got a good suppressor. [Handgun: 32, 25, 18]
There is a loud crash of metal into metal from the street and gunfire. Lots of gunfire, popping and cracking across the evening air.
Without checking to see if you hit or not or if Marks ate a tonne-plus of plastic and cheap Australian steel, you turn on your heel and crouch-shove your way through the chairs behind the juves.
A multiple-piercings ebony-eyed juve glances at you. You can see little red anarchy symbols bouncing back and forth in his Kendachi cybereyes. When the digital A's hit the edge of the eyeball, exclamation marks go off. Ah, fashion.
"Fucking Corpos. Only thing worse than badges, " you say, putting what you hope is just the right amount of disdain in your voice. [Fast Talk: 14. Luck point to make 15]
The juve's eyes light up.
"Corpos? Corpos? CORPOS!" Drawing a Budgetarms Fashiongun, (complete with red LEDs along the top of the barrel), he immediately fires at what you hope are the attackers. Encouraged, the other juves do the same, whooping for good measure.
You hit the far end of the balcony, stay crouched for a slow 5 count - One...Two...the shooting from below stops. So does your heart. It resumes, along with a sharper, louder report, 7.62 or better. Four seconds...Five...you glance over quickly to assess the drop (Awareness: 19] then vault over the edge and land-roll in the alleyway beside the rink [Athletics 30]. Still crouched, you sprint up the street along the edge of the University lands.
To your left and behind you, [Awareness: 20] the Toyo-Chev has stopped after ramming the rear section of the cruiser, spinning it so it now provides some handy cover for the two cops exchanging fire with the hit team in the Lux. A body sprawls out of the Chev's driver door, blood covering the head and outflung arm lying on the road. More blood in the seat. A woman lies behind the Chev, crawling weakly away as the juvegangers enthusiastically pepper her with shots. She jerks as they hit her but keeps crawling.
The Lux team pours fire into the cruiser, popping up to shoot in groups of two and three as they alternate loading. One of them lies against the dented and pocked rear door of the Lux facing the patrol car, holding their neck as blood spurts between their fingers under the full-face helmet. The rest, behind the Lux, came rigged for the job, in a mix of hard armour under their urban flash clothes and carrying suppressed carbines and SMGs. A borg with a full face plate that looks like a devil duck blazes away in long bursts with an M-7A machine-gun, hacking away at the armour on the NCPD patrol car, showering the officers in chunks of glass.
The NCPD officers are both bleeding, with Marks half-sitting, half kneeling in a slowly growing pool of greasy crimson as his partner gets a self-compressing pressure wrap on Marks' upper leg. He occasionally pops up awkwardly (causing her to curse him) to return fire with his Ronin, with little noticeable effect.
You skid to a halt behind a graffiti-blasted but bulletproof NC Transit stop. You quickly palm a stun minigrenade and throw it, hard, [Athletics: 22] towards the crew gathered behind the Lux, then cover your eyes and ears.
You're a good 15-20 meters behind the Lux, but even so, the noise and light from the little grenade is astonishing. Outdoors, in close proximity, it disorients. Indoors, it disables. You swap mags to AP by feel (Handgun: 22].
You open your eyes. Three of the Lux shooters are just fine, stun-protected. Two of them are about to spot you. You take a half-breath and flip the selector to (B)urst. [Handgun: 31, 26 including Ambush and 3r bonus] Your first rounds hit the skinny guy with the M-95A just under his chinstrap, knocking him back and collapsing him to the ground. The second burst is a little high on the woman who is trying to bring her HK 10mm around to bear on you, catching her at the bottom of the visor, fracturing it and sending shards of visor into her chin, jaw and mouth. She reels back, choking on teeth and blood, going into shock.
The third, the Borg with the SAW, spots you and puts a long burst in your direction, [Rifle: 14], the rounds striking sparks from the pavement near you. You spit out grit and your return fire [Handgun: 22] smashes his faceplate, scraping off the yellow-ochre enamel, but the AP rounds fail to penetrate [Damage: 5]. Your final burst goes wide, shattering a PanSeiko display across the intersection. [Handgun: 17]
The cops take this opportunity to swap to armour-piercing rounds themselves, concentrating fire on one of the disoriented shooters. She's hit with multiple rounds and drops spreadeagled to the street, relaxing into death. The fifth Lux attacker shakes his head clear and then fires over the hood of the car using a COT smart system, putting a tight burst into the already dented front plate of Marks' partner. She, too, slumps to the ground, rifle clattering as she lets it go. Marks drops back below the cruiser to tend to her, raising his visor and beginning CPR. The juvegangers, all five of them, shoot at the guy with the COT smartgun. He curses, then tilts his head as if listening to something.
The big cyborg with the damn machine-gun turns his back on you, walking around the front of the Lux as he drops his drum mag and swaps to a fresh one. He raises the M-7 to his shoulder, raking the patio above and sending the juvegangers diving for cover.
The last attacker rolls to his feet and pulls open the driver's door on the Lux.
You swear in Spanglish and wish Jackie were here.
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Other polls here. Character sheet here.
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