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The next gear (No porn, some violence) Updated: 25 May


Rule 34

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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!
 
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Rule 34

Rule 34

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Re: The next gear (No porn, some violence)

Because I got a message if it's okay to post comments here - yes, you may. I will link further chapters in the opening post, just like I did with my Dragon Age fanfiction. I figure this story will be somewhat like a Space Western, with little to no space faring involved.
I've originally planned for this to be turned into a PBP, but the system is still in a very early stage - and given my inability to complete anything it will probably stay that way for a while.
EDIT: I realize some of you may get confused by the races and other stuff I mentioned, so I'm gonna go ahead and link you to the database of the original The Dividing Line RP.
 
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dmronny

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Re: The next gear (No porn, some violence)

Ah, never thought of linking the chapters like that. Not a bad idea really.

Anyways like I said it really drew me in very well, especially since I'm not a big sci-fi fan. Very well-thought out story, and I loved the humorous bits. Still break out laughing every time I read the Xyr speaking at the end of it.
 

Chibichibi

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Re: The next gear (No porn, some violence)

Rule, have I mentioned lately that I love you?

SPACE WESTERN <333
 

SiphonTalvesh

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Re: The next gear (No porn, some violence)

Very very nice, thanks for the heads up that this was here Rule. Oh and if you like, you can use Draven or the Ingrali in this later on, however right now your doing just fine without them :)
 
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Rule 34

Rule 34

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Re: The next gear (No porn, some violence)

Well, I don't think the Oligarchy is nearly big enough of a threat to draw interest from the Ingrali. Other forces however...

Step 2: Assemble a team

Near the bottom of the enormous funnel that Grover's Haven is built into, past even the enormous generators that keep the asteroid rotating and as such provide gravity, lies the Mikaelson Institute for Development and Advanced Science. The owner, Mikaelson Corporation, employed a majority of the space station's populace... until they packed up their business and moved the hell out of the Juris sector after the Alliance discovered some of their more questionable projects. Grover's Haven fell into anarchy, and within it, The Oligarchy rose to power. They now reside within the once abandoned MIDAS tower.

Oligarch Maldun Orurog paces back and forth inside his office. The morbidly obese Marsora (even more obese than a Marsora normally is) wears a bright yellow robe with gold embroidery, which falls over the AntiGrav generator that keeps his legless body afloat. His turtle-like beak clicks nervously as he mumbles to himself. Breaks-Walls, the head ram of his Xyr squads, has informed Maldun that some stranger has stirred up trouble in Devros' Quarter near the scrapyard. He took out half a squad with little problem and then finished the other half when they came looking. Apparently the peasants support the stranger...

Maldun snaps out of his thoughts as he notices his secretary, a human called Andrei... Andrei something, standing in the door. “Oligarch Orurog,” the man says quietly in his strange accent, “there is a problem.” With these ominous words, Andrei enters the office. “Do you remember the shipment of P.O.L.L. components we snatched from the Telarin? Somehow they were made aware of their location. And they are moving against us. They have sent one of them to investigate.” Maldun tilts his head and regards Andrei with a questioning look. “One of them? What could one Telarin possibly do? Are they not the MOST ADVANCED race in the galaxy?” He dramatically throws his hands in the air and turns towards the large window behind him. “And yet they come with one man? Find him.” He spins around. “Kill him.”

~~~

The components of the P.O.L.L. rifle slowly stop spinning, and the deathly hum that accompanies it dies. Noumenon lowers the high-tech weapon and studies the charred remains of his attackers. They are wearing a certain signet on their armor... a short check with his HUD confirms his suspicions. The Marsora sign of wealth in front of a sphere with a crack in it, surrounded by four stars – a lucky number for the Marsora. The very same symbol was found on the malfunctioning ship near the Telarin transporter that these guys have cracked open.

The human dictionary offers “SCUMBAGS” as the closest translation to Noumenon's remark in his own tongue, a sound somewhere between dolphin and whale. The Telarin straightens his digitigrade legs and inspects himself for damage. No, the completely black combat armor has not even suffered a scratch. As the Telarin moves into the shadows, only a white symbol glows where his right eye should be. The Greek symbol of Omega.

~~~

“Gotta say,” Gear says as he eyes the same Garikian hooker from earlier today. “You're the best candidate yet. At least you didn't shoot yourself into the foot,” he adds with a thumb towards a scraggly human that currently gets said foot treated by Thara. The bartender raises her head and snorts into his direction. “So, uh, did you serve the Imperium before your time in... the service industry?” The hooker – she introduced herself with Anahut – has at least had the decency to throw some kind of robe over her curves, clad only in shaded body stocking. Still, her nipples keep finding their way out of it to give him a glance. Gear suspects she does it on purpose.

“Oh, aye,” she answers as she straightens her shoulders, causing her cleavage to jiggle hypnotically. “I served in the 3rd Imperial Flotilla under General Major Strrrat during the First War. Afterwards, I was hired by MIDAS as a security officer. I hit a streak of bad luck after they packed up.” Gear manages to keep a straight face. Calling forced prostitution for the Oligarchy a streak of bad luck is an understatement if he ever heard one. “What's your specialization, then? Wait - sniper,” he guesses. Anahut smiles and runs a hand along her curves. “Oh no, sir. I was handling the big calibers, and I dare say I'm still pretty damn good at it.” Gear can't help but swallow. “I, uh, I can imagine that. I guess I could use somebody with a bit of experience. Why don't you head over to Hiram Thick-Skull and see if he has anything that suits you?”

Well, that is one, Gear notes as his mechanic eye stays on Anahut's swaying rear as she heads out and across the street to the Xyr weapon dealer. One in the entire god damn quarter that knows which end of the gun you're supposed to point at the enemy. This is no way to put together a mercenary gang that's worth a damn – and offers better prices than Starquake. And doesn't steal and rape and-

The hair in the back of Gear's neck rises – which is a feat for hair that's only 3 mm long. A soldier that feels this tickling at the base of his neck either has damn good reflexes... or he meets an unexpected death. Gear neglected listening to the signal once, and it cost him half his body. Not again. The veteran spins around with an outstretched arm to club that son of a bitch that got behind him. His good eye registers a black armor before the opponent bends out of the way of the savage blow. The omega sign stares at him for a moment.

~~~

Anahut hums the Imperial Hymn as she crosses the street. The weight of her acquisition pulls on the leather strip it hangs from. The Garikian looks down on herself and smiles. A black bandolier, complete with ammunition, is slung across her chest, forming an eye-catcher of a bra. A second bandolier serves as a fitting panty. The corresponding pistols nestle up against her thigh like eager lovers. She does know somebody else she wouldn't mind nuzzling up to her...

Her sexy thoughts are shattered like the window that Gear is flung through, clutching his opponent in a bear hug. As they hit the ground, Gear releases his opponent and rolls back on his feet – so does the black clad Telarin, for that is what Anahut identifies it as. They both draw at the same time and fire at point blank range – and the bullets collide in mid-air. A one-in-a-million hit. They waste no time admiring it though. Gear jumps to the left behind a fruit stand, emptying his revolver at the Telarin, who retaliates in kind. His projectiles get stuck in the oranges that cover Gear's head, and one of them rolls down the pile and lands before his feet. Interestingly enough it doesn't seem to be a bullet of any kind, but some kind of shard – thin as a needle, but reflecting the light like a crystal.

Anahut has taken cover behind a building's corner and has readied her Trivolvers – three-chamber revolvers of Garikian making with one hell of a caliber. She can't in good conscience start using the baby on her back lest she'd tear the quarter to pieces... With a grim look forming underneath her body stocking she spins around the corner – and faces the Telarin, his outlandish weapon pointed right at her face. Anahut's mind, convinced she's going to kick the bucket, registers the detail of the gun in great detail – or rather the part of his combat armor, as she realizes. Only a short muzzle potrudes from the underside of the black gauntlet's wrist, while a strange grey crystal sticks out of its upside. The other hand, with a similar construction, points at Gear, who stands only a few feet away, his own revolver raised halfway.

The Telarin speaks – or rather the translation module of his GravSuit speaks. “This has been enough.” He turns his head towards Gear. “Your skill is... acceptable. I was worried you would get in my way during my mission. Instead, I find myself impressed. Lower your weapons, and I will lower mine.”

~~~

“I am of the Omega strain,” Noumenon explains. Gear's eyebrows rise, and Anahut shifts uncomfortably on her chair in the bar they have returned to. “There were rumors about your type in the Imperial Flotilla. You're the Telarin's commando troops, right?” Noumenon tilts his head for a moment, thinking before answering. “Incorrect. Commando troops are merely trained for their missions. We are quite literally made for them. Our entire being is shaped for our purpose. Our hearts can take more strain, our brains analyze quicker, our aim is steadier. We are equipped with the latest technology the Multitudes can provide-” “And a big scoop of self esteem,” Gear snorts. Truth be told, he's more intimidated by the armor of Noumenon than his antics. The sleek black design and this helmet... A plain black mass, no visor, no breathing holes, nothing. Only this omega symbol right over the eye. Effective. “So – what mission ARE you currently on?” He leans forward slightly. “You wouldn't come in here if you didn't need some help with it, right?”

The Telarin bows his head in affirmation. “Correct. The Oligarchy has stolen from the Telarin, and the Veda dictates that our technology may not fall into the hands of races with an inferior level of progress. I am here to rectify this. Unfortunately,” his emotionless voice adds, “I encountered several squads of Starquake relatively soon after my arrival, and they are now aware of my presence and, to an extent, of my abilities. This negates my original plan of covert advance and requires a more direct approach.”

So we're FINALLY getting somewhere. For somebody who's supposed to be effective, this guy sure beats around the bush a lot, Gear thinks to himself. “So this is where we come in?” “Correct,” the Telarin confirms. Gear looks over to Anahut. That's not close to the original plan. “We, uh, we had something more complex in mind. If we're killing off the Oligarchy NOW, somebody else is going to take over.” “Social improvement? Stability? Increase in individual and communal wealth? Formation of a democracy?” He's kind of taking the fun out of it, Gear thinks with a sigh as he nods. “That's about right.”
The Telarin ponders for several long moments before rising. “While this sounds... aggravatingly slow, it may bring down the Oligarchy more effectively than to simply cut off the head. As this will prevent further actions against the Multitudes...” Noumenon reaches out his alien hand, “I consider it acceptable to serve under you until their reign is broken.”

Pretentious ass, Gear thinks as he accepts the handshake.
 
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