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((Taking place in the Dividing Line universe. Inspired by Mass Effect 2. Written in large parts to the music of Scar Symmetry.))
Step 1: Establishing a base (Below)
Step 2: Assembling a team (here)
Grover's Haven. Formerly “City Station Glory” of the Terra Prime Directorate. Now, a hive of villainy. 4 million people live on it... and about a dozen of them are the rich sons of bitches that run the whole place. They call themselves The Oligarchy. The people call them either “devils” or “bosses.”
Next to the humans, a relatively recently discovered alien race forms the largest populus of Grover's Haven: Xyranocapra or Xyr for short, native to Xyran in the next solar system. The humans, as always, were quick to put a tag on them: Goatlings. They do sport the horizontally slitted eyes, a wiry physique and a fierce territorial streak... oh, and hooves. The most notable of their features, however, is that they have evolved four eyes, all in a row, for better overview. Their stubborn behavior and (generally) lackluster intelligence coupled with their relatively small size make them both popular victims and cannon fodder for the gangs and mercenary groups that disgrace the streets of Grover's Haven.
Gear balls his fist as he passes a pack of them – or are they called herds? Flocks? - collecting protection money from a bartender for Starquake, one of the biggest gangs of mercenaries on all of Grover's Haven. Their armor is DIY – shreds of steel held together by wires and studs – and they finger their Shredder Rifles with an eager look in their eyes. Gear sneers. The Alliance has outlawed these guns and their ammo consisting out of sharp metal shards pressed into a cartridge, but some companies – especially the Marsora ones – don't give a fuck about what the Alliance says. Neither does Gear, actually, and that's precisely the reason why he came to Haven in the first place: Hoping to find the freedom that the Directorate has taken from him. The head honchos have long given up on this city carved into an asteroid and orbiting somewhere in the habitable zone of the Meneta System. Gear was hoping to find a job as a mechanic, something peaceful to spend the middle and end act of his life in. Instead he's been living inside an abandoned steel container full of spare mech parts ever since his ship was stolen, and his credits are running low. Either he's going to have to join a gang soon or...
To anybody looking on Gear must be a fearful sight to behold. Clad in a plain green overall reminiscent of prisoner's clothing, he towers at almost seven feet. A cigar butt is slowly chewed on as he thinks, and his wrinkled forehead slightly extends into his hairline – clearly visible as his hair is sheared precisely to 3 mm or 0.12 inches, just like his beard. His right eye is a cybernetic prosthesis – a ball of steel and glass, showing off the intricate mechanisms working inside as he focuses briefly on a Garikian hooker wearing little more than a transparent, albeit shaded, full body stocking. As his right hand rises to snip away the cigar butt, one can see that it, too, is a structure of synthetic weave and polished steel, a tool of skill and utter destruction.
“Why the fuck should I pay you anything?” the female bartender says in a fit of courage as she crosses her arms. “Every week I'm stuffing credits down Maldun's greedy maw, and I still got robbed yesterday. Where were YOU, huh? Probably gang banging a hooker because you couldn't all afford her.” One of the Xyr bleats and raises his rifle, and the black woman spreads her arms. “Now what, huh? You gonna splatter my brains all over this heap of junk that used to be a bar? Go right ahead! DO IT,” she screeches. “This shit isn't worth living for anyway!”
The Goatling aims at her, and the shot is heard ringing throughout the quarter.
The other Xyr spin around as their leader's head explodes, splattering the bartender in gore. Gear finds himself stared at by 16 eyes, worth four Xyranocapra. Five more shots in the old-fashioned big caliber six-shooter he carries. No other ammo. He's won worse fights.
Shot five pierces through the upper arm of a Xyr as Gear runs towards a low wall serving as a guard rail. The hooved alien baas in agony as it drops its gun, a three-fingered hand pressed against the shot wound, and makes off down the street. In the moment Gear presses himself against the wall in a crouch, several metal shards fly over his head and get stuck in a shop's window across the street. By now the screams settle in, but Gear can not, must not pay attention to them. In one move he spins himself upwards, towards the Xyr.
Shot four whizzes past the ears of one of them. Shot three tears open that Goatling's jugular and sends him to the ground, his life quickly leaving him in a crimson spray. Gear dives into cover again, but the HUD tells him that he's taken a hit to the shoulder. Luckily its the mechanic one. With whispered curses he starts plucking shards out of the weave. It'll close in time. No wires hit. Nothing important.
The remaining two Xyr start moving in. They're flanking him. Smarter sons of bitches than he thought. Two shots left. They have to strike true – at close range the Shredder Rifles are going to tear him to pieces. Sweat runs down his neck and tickles his nerves. His hair stands on end as he swivels upwards once more. Shot two tears through the gut of the Xyr to his left. The one on the right bleats in horror as he aims with the Shredder – and a click announces that the weapon has decided to choose this moment to run out of ammo.
A grin spreads on Gear's face. It's not a good grin. Not the grin you show your friends. It's a promise of death. In one move the human jumps the low wall and charges the Xyr. The little runt is fumbling with the pack of cartridges that is strapped to his thigh. Load. Load. Load. With a look towards Gear and a horrified baa he jams them into the weapons. Yes! The Xyr raises his head along with the rifle... and stares down Gear's barrel. Shot one pulverizes his brain.
~~~
With a satisfied grunt Gear ejects the empty shells from the cylinder. Not since the First War has he felt this alive... Ah yeah, the Frontschwein days. The most hard boiled sons of bitches to ever serve on a Directorate ship. The term itself is... Gear wrinkles his head. German, he thinks. With a grin on his face he turns around, still lost in memories to the glory days – and misses the fist aimed at his face.
“You stupid son OF A BITCH!” The bartender stands before him, shaking her fist. Gear can't really tell if she's angry because he stirred up trouble or because she hurt her hand on his partially metal jaw. Massaging this very object (the jaw, not her hand), he says the first words since this whole mess started. “You're welcome,” he murmurs as he slowly regains composure. “Welcome? Fuck YOU,” she spits. “You know what the Quakes do with guys that kill their grunts? They're going to flatten the whole quarter for losing this patrol!” “I can protect you,” Gear murmurs as he runs his fingers over the jaw hinge. This girl really packs a punch. She also packs some junk in the trunk, he notices as his right eye does a quick scan of her form. Really curvy. He'd tap that.
“You? Psh,” she snorts. “YOU are going to protect us? All by yourself? For free?” “I never said that,” Gear replies as he builds himself up to full height. “But hey, my rates are lower than the Quakes'... and if you let me stay in a room here somewhere I'm always around to kick some ass.” The bartender is about to snap back, but a third voice interrupts her. “Shi-i-it, if you're not taking that offer, Thara-a-a, I-i-i sure as death wi-i-ill.”
They both turn their head – and lower it to stare at the elderly Xyranocapra that stands before them. He smiles and reaches out his three-fingered paw. “Gree-e-etings. My name is Hi-i-iram. I-i-i run that gunshop over the-e-ere,” he bleats in a surprisingly deep and raspy voice. “I-i-if you do decide to sta-a-ay around, I wi-i-ill hook you u-u-up for free-e-e.”
Sweet! Free guns!
Step 1: Establishing a base (Below)
Step 2: Assembling a team (here)
Grover's Haven. Formerly “City Station Glory” of the Terra Prime Directorate. Now, a hive of villainy. 4 million people live on it... and about a dozen of them are the rich sons of bitches that run the whole place. They call themselves The Oligarchy. The people call them either “devils” or “bosses.”
Next to the humans, a relatively recently discovered alien race forms the largest populus of Grover's Haven: Xyranocapra or Xyr for short, native to Xyran in the next solar system. The humans, as always, were quick to put a tag on them: Goatlings. They do sport the horizontally slitted eyes, a wiry physique and a fierce territorial streak... oh, and hooves. The most notable of their features, however, is that they have evolved four eyes, all in a row, for better overview. Their stubborn behavior and (generally) lackluster intelligence coupled with their relatively small size make them both popular victims and cannon fodder for the gangs and mercenary groups that disgrace the streets of Grover's Haven.
Gear balls his fist as he passes a pack of them – or are they called herds? Flocks? - collecting protection money from a bartender for Starquake, one of the biggest gangs of mercenaries on all of Grover's Haven. Their armor is DIY – shreds of steel held together by wires and studs – and they finger their Shredder Rifles with an eager look in their eyes. Gear sneers. The Alliance has outlawed these guns and their ammo consisting out of sharp metal shards pressed into a cartridge, but some companies – especially the Marsora ones – don't give a fuck about what the Alliance says. Neither does Gear, actually, and that's precisely the reason why he came to Haven in the first place: Hoping to find the freedom that the Directorate has taken from him. The head honchos have long given up on this city carved into an asteroid and orbiting somewhere in the habitable zone of the Meneta System. Gear was hoping to find a job as a mechanic, something peaceful to spend the middle and end act of his life in. Instead he's been living inside an abandoned steel container full of spare mech parts ever since his ship was stolen, and his credits are running low. Either he's going to have to join a gang soon or...
To anybody looking on Gear must be a fearful sight to behold. Clad in a plain green overall reminiscent of prisoner's clothing, he towers at almost seven feet. A cigar butt is slowly chewed on as he thinks, and his wrinkled forehead slightly extends into his hairline – clearly visible as his hair is sheared precisely to 3 mm or 0.12 inches, just like his beard. His right eye is a cybernetic prosthesis – a ball of steel and glass, showing off the intricate mechanisms working inside as he focuses briefly on a Garikian hooker wearing little more than a transparent, albeit shaded, full body stocking. As his right hand rises to snip away the cigar butt, one can see that it, too, is a structure of synthetic weave and polished steel, a tool of skill and utter destruction.
“Why the fuck should I pay you anything?” the female bartender says in a fit of courage as she crosses her arms. “Every week I'm stuffing credits down Maldun's greedy maw, and I still got robbed yesterday. Where were YOU, huh? Probably gang banging a hooker because you couldn't all afford her.” One of the Xyr bleats and raises his rifle, and the black woman spreads her arms. “Now what, huh? You gonna splatter my brains all over this heap of junk that used to be a bar? Go right ahead! DO IT,” she screeches. “This shit isn't worth living for anyway!”
The Goatling aims at her, and the shot is heard ringing throughout the quarter.
The other Xyr spin around as their leader's head explodes, splattering the bartender in gore. Gear finds himself stared at by 16 eyes, worth four Xyranocapra. Five more shots in the old-fashioned big caliber six-shooter he carries. No other ammo. He's won worse fights.
Shot five pierces through the upper arm of a Xyr as Gear runs towards a low wall serving as a guard rail. The hooved alien baas in agony as it drops its gun, a three-fingered hand pressed against the shot wound, and makes off down the street. In the moment Gear presses himself against the wall in a crouch, several metal shards fly over his head and get stuck in a shop's window across the street. By now the screams settle in, but Gear can not, must not pay attention to them. In one move he spins himself upwards, towards the Xyr.
Shot four whizzes past the ears of one of them. Shot three tears open that Goatling's jugular and sends him to the ground, his life quickly leaving him in a crimson spray. Gear dives into cover again, but the HUD tells him that he's taken a hit to the shoulder. Luckily its the mechanic one. With whispered curses he starts plucking shards out of the weave. It'll close in time. No wires hit. Nothing important.
The remaining two Xyr start moving in. They're flanking him. Smarter sons of bitches than he thought. Two shots left. They have to strike true – at close range the Shredder Rifles are going to tear him to pieces. Sweat runs down his neck and tickles his nerves. His hair stands on end as he swivels upwards once more. Shot two tears through the gut of the Xyr to his left. The one on the right bleats in horror as he aims with the Shredder – and a click announces that the weapon has decided to choose this moment to run out of ammo.
A grin spreads on Gear's face. It's not a good grin. Not the grin you show your friends. It's a promise of death. In one move the human jumps the low wall and charges the Xyr. The little runt is fumbling with the pack of cartridges that is strapped to his thigh. Load. Load. Load. With a look towards Gear and a horrified baa he jams them into the weapons. Yes! The Xyr raises his head along with the rifle... and stares down Gear's barrel. Shot one pulverizes his brain.
~~~
With a satisfied grunt Gear ejects the empty shells from the cylinder. Not since the First War has he felt this alive... Ah yeah, the Frontschwein days. The most hard boiled sons of bitches to ever serve on a Directorate ship. The term itself is... Gear wrinkles his head. German, he thinks. With a grin on his face he turns around, still lost in memories to the glory days – and misses the fist aimed at his face.
“You stupid son OF A BITCH!” The bartender stands before him, shaking her fist. Gear can't really tell if she's angry because he stirred up trouble or because she hurt her hand on his partially metal jaw. Massaging this very object (the jaw, not her hand), he says the first words since this whole mess started. “You're welcome,” he murmurs as he slowly regains composure. “Welcome? Fuck YOU,” she spits. “You know what the Quakes do with guys that kill their grunts? They're going to flatten the whole quarter for losing this patrol!” “I can protect you,” Gear murmurs as he runs his fingers over the jaw hinge. This girl really packs a punch. She also packs some junk in the trunk, he notices as his right eye does a quick scan of her form. Really curvy. He'd tap that.
“You? Psh,” she snorts. “YOU are going to protect us? All by yourself? For free?” “I never said that,” Gear replies as he builds himself up to full height. “But hey, my rates are lower than the Quakes'... and if you let me stay in a room here somewhere I'm always around to kick some ass.” The bartender is about to snap back, but a third voice interrupts her. “Shi-i-it, if you're not taking that offer, Thara-a-a, I-i-i sure as death wi-i-ill.”
They both turn their head – and lower it to stare at the elderly Xyranocapra that stands before them. He smiles and reaches out his three-fingered paw. “Gree-e-etings. My name is Hi-i-iram. I-i-i run that gunshop over the-e-ere,” he bleats in a surprisingly deep and raspy voice. “I-i-if you do decide to sta-a-ay around, I wi-i-ill hook you u-u-up for free-e-e.”
Sweet! Free guns!
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