Nicholas Schuster
Regular
DECEASED
"Blakists are like a virus. And WE are the cure."
Posts: 139
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Post by Nicholas Schuster on Aug 3, 2005 17:50:54 GMT -5
""Man I think you have had enough. I think you need to go rest some."
Thorn's concern set me off, and I began yelling unintelligably. I could barely sit up straight. So I decided to stand, but I crashed to the floor as I did so. My glasses skittered across the floor, and slid under the bar. I didn't care. I squinted through the asthigmatism and alcohol-induced blurriness, and frowned.
"Had ENOUGH? H-h-had...had ENOUGH? I'll TELL you who's had enough. ME! I'VE HAD ENOUGH!!"
I staggered across the dining area, eliciting a sea of stares as I headed for the door. I didn't know where I was going. I just wanted to get away from here.
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MechWarrior Alex Thorn
Regular
LEGIONNAIRES
"I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat." - Winston Churchill
Posts: 176
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Post by MechWarrior Alex Thorn on Aug 3, 2005 19:13:51 GMT -5
I silently watched as Schuster stumbled out the door babling. I looked around as the people stared. I looked back to the bartender and paid the man. I walked out of the bar wanting some fresh air.
As I stepped out into the night the coolness of the air was inviting. I nonchalantly walked down the street in the direction of the base. I was in no hurry to get back. I enjoyed the scenery. Luckily for me I had not pushed the liquor so I was still sober.
Soon I reached the base and walked into my quaters. I set my things down and walked over to the bunk. I sat down hard letting out a sigh. It was time for some rest. I laid down and fell into a light sleep.
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Post by Captain Benjamin Maxwell on Aug 3, 2005 19:44:14 GMT -5
=MESSAGEBEG=
"Captain Maxwell, I have been imprisoned for drinking please come bail me out... If you get this message, I'm... I'm sorry I broke the law... I never told you I was only 20... I'm sorry, please don't... Your time is up, please end the..."
=MESSAGEEND= Sender: Lourde, Wedge
I snapped my comm unit closed and cursed under my breath. Hobson looked at me questioningly.
"I need two Longinus Battle Armor units prepped and ready to deploy. MechWarrior Lourde has gotten himself into a bit of a jam. Have the Armors meet me in the vehicle bay."
Hobson grinned at me sloppily, and opened his comm unit.
"Quahh...wuahhrtermaster...be a dear and see if you can't round up two Armors. Cap'n needs an escort into town."
The comm unit barked with a string of expletives from the Quartermaster. Apparently, being called 'dear' didn't sit well with him.
"Thanks, Yeoman. Have fun." I smiled, and clapped him on the shoulder. Hobson saluted jauntily, and turned his attention back toward the holoscreens as I headed for the door.
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Post by Lance Commander William Rhodes on Aug 3, 2005 20:12:21 GMT -5
William was dreaming of Kathil...again. All around him his homeworld was in flames as mechs bearing the fist of House Steiner and the Sunburst of House Davion clashed amid the burning wreckage that had once been the Yare Industries relay station. Broken mechs were littered across the ground like twisted giant rag dolls. Spent shell casing and impact craters were everywhere and the air was filled with tracers and the smoking contrails of rockets. A thick pall of black smoke hovered over the battlefield like a funeral shroud.
Jennifer...where are you...
Wake up Rhodes! You're drowning in your own drool.
Whaaa? I lifted my bleary head from the table and blinked my eyes to clear my vision. I was still in the Cantina, having passed out for a few minutes from overindulgence.
Where's Jessica and Bekker?
The Doc wasn't feeling well and went back to her quarters. Bekker gave her an escort I realized it was Yeoman Hobson who was taking, with one eye on the holo-vid mech games.
You missed a lot while you were snoring...Wedge got carded and is in the slammer...the Cap'n went to bail him out.
How bout another drink Sleeping Beauty? asked the bartender with an ugly smirk on his face.
No thanks, I think I'll just go for a glass of water right now.
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Post by Gen Miyamoto on Aug 3, 2005 22:58:39 GMT -5
The night was going along smoothly, and the room had an air of drunkeness. I sat minding my own buisness at the bar and nursing a glass of pineapple rum. Three engineers from a local logistical company had been loudly blowing of steam down the bar. Suddenly a mug of what I would have guessed to be piss, if not for the corresponding stain on the engineer's furry maw, flew down the bar narrowly missing me and clattering mercilessly into my beverage. On cue a storm of howeling laughter began as the cronies cheered their idiocy.
I quickly turned to glare at the responsible party to be greeted by jeering "You've done it now"s and "uh oh, fly boy got wet"s. I mouthed a little unpleasantness back at them which prompted the eager to fight drunkards to hover around me, bringing swift silence and tension to the room.
I'd seen enough bar fights to know that letting them surround me and trying to play "I don't want any trouble" was the number one way to get a bottle broken over your head, I decided to take a little premptive action. As the shortest of the three rounded to come behind me I quickly lifted the stool I sat on and swept it into his legs, causing him to fold like laundry. I threw the meager amount of rum in the face of one brawler with my right hand, and having released the chair I promtly slugged the last fellow in the nose.
What would ensue was pandimonium.
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Post by Lance Commander William Rhodes on Aug 4, 2005 10:36:25 GMT -5
Well lads and lasses, I'm gonna turn in before I make anymore speeches.
This statement brought a round of applause from the bar patrons as William headed for the door. He paused at the threshold and turned for one last statement
Per Victoria Vadum Nos Praemium!
He shouted the unit's motto eliciting drunken cheers from his fellow Legionnaires.
Returning to his modest room in Site 187, he glanced around at some of his random possessions: a holo-pic of his parents (now deceased), a tattered copy of Shakespeare's The Tempest (a love of the works of the Great Bard had been instilled in him by his mother who had named her son after him), and an old model of a Rifleman he had built as a kid fashioned after the mech of legendary Solaris champion Gray Norton.
From a drawer, he removed a letter he had read a thousand times or more, still smelling of her perfume. He held the faded paper in his hands with his eyes closed for he had long since memorized the short fateful lines.
William,
So it's come to this? Once lovers...now enemies. How can you remain with those fools in the Militia and support that little toad Victor? Katrina Steiner-Davion is the true Archon-Princess of the Federated-Commonwealth!
Well, I guess you've made your choice and I've made mine. I still love you, Will, but if I see you on the battlefield...
Jennifer
William fell asleep with the letter still clutched in his hand.
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Leonard De Franco
Recruit
Don't fear your death, fear what you're actions will bring you beyond your death.
Posts: 1
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Post by Leonard De Franco on Sept 20, 2005 0:06:01 GMT -5
I sat quietly in the corner of the bar. Dispossession had made me bitter, sullen and uncertain of my future.
Another drink sir?
I looked up in a half daze. Part of it was the alcohol, but mostly it was my own emotions beginning to cloud my thoughts.
Umm, yeah. Whiskey Sour, and go easy on the Sour.
Put it on your tab?
Sure, I'll pay it later.
My drink came quickly. Faster than I thought it would, but I never remembered the server leaving my side after taking my order. I downed the drink and leaned back on the chair and closed my eyes. Looking for something to anchor my mind before I began to lose it.
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AeroJock Tom Kazansky
Regular
LEGIONNAIRES
I put my bullets into the target as if I placed them there by hand.
Posts: 8
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Post by AeroJock Tom Kazansky on Sept 30, 2005 18:28:04 GMT -5
The DropShip flight was a peaceful, albeit cramped one. I had booked passage on an aging Union class vessel—this one still used the inadequate ventilation system. Not only that, but I had purchased an economy class ticket; they should have called it cattle class. I was surrounded by putrid smelling lowlifes and their little brats ran about the halls unchecked. I shared my cabin with a snoring obese man who seemed to live off of cheap beer, occasionally passing out on the floor before he reached the bunk; I made sure he was on bottom. As we made the jump to Sheratan my cabin mate had a bout of space sickness—it truly was unfortunate considering that the ship was not under thrust when attached to the DropShip for our room became filled with the results of the man’s Transit Disorientation Syndrome. I spent the next four days as we burned towards Sheratan catching naps in the ship’s lower class lounge and trying to rid myself of my room’s stench in the communal showers. The ships landing struts unfolding was perhaps the most welcome sound I had heard in months.
We landed in Gellen’s Height’s SpacePort—they were all the same. Having almost no money I rented a room at in a cheap motel on the outskirts of the main city. Renting the cheapest vehicle I could find, I made my way out to Site 187, the home of the Legionnaires. Pulling up to main gate I was admitted by the guard and directed towards a reception area. As I exited my vehicle I noticed that the base was almost completely silent—the main body of the mercenaries had to be off on some assignment—hopefully they’d get back soon. Making my way through the reception doors I was greeted by a leggy secretary—I bet that the officers had her ‘file their documents’ quite often.
“Welcome to Site 187, what can I do for your Mr…”
“Kazansky,” I said, “but you can call me Tom. About what you can do for me…” There were several things which I could think of—but I held my tongue—at the moment she was my only ticket and I wasn’t quite sure how’d she’d take it. “…I’m a qualified AeroSpace pilot—do you have any openings?”
Looking at me now with much less interest—perhaps she’d thought I was looking to hire the mercenaries…that I wasn’t just some merc looking for a job—she indicated with her hand towards a stack of forms on a table.
“These are the recruitment forms—fill them out and leave them on the table when you’re done. By the way, the Captain handles all recruitment personally so you’ll have to wait until the main body of the Legionnaires is back.” She said as she walked from the room—obviously going to file her nails or something. I caught a look of her ‘filing cabinet’ as she left—damn it was going to be good working here.
Before I returned to my motel I headed over to what seemed to serve as the base’s entertainment facility—a cantina of some sort. The Cantina had obviously seen better days—or had it?... one couldn’t really tell if this grim came with the place. The bar was nearly deserted save for a few astechs who seemed content to sit amongst themselves, nursing their drinks. Feeling adventurous I sat down at the bar, tapping on the tarred wood for attention. Lazily, after several seconds of tapping, the barkeep came over, his tattoos stretched over his skin—he’d obviously got them when he was lighter.
“About damn time…” I muttered.
“What did you say?”
“Inferno, SRM-6.”
The bartender grabbed an obviously unwashed glass from the counter, dumping its previous contents and filling it with various liquids. Handing me a matchbook and the drink the bartender went back to doing whatever bartenders did. Igniting the match, I touched it to the surface of the liquid, setting it ablaze. I looked at my chronometer, counting away the seconds before I should consume the liquid. Most patrons would have blown out the burning drink and then let it sit—but that wasn’t the way I did things. Grabbing the still burning drink I began to gulp, extinguishing the flame with air from my nostrils. Having finished the drink I threw a few C-Bills on the table—they probably weren’t enough to cover the drink, let alone tip—and made my way back to the motel. Hopefully I’d see the thrust column of a descending DropShip heralding the return of the Legionnaires soon—I was itching to burn through the atmosphere as soon as possible.
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Post by Lance Commander William Rhodes on Oct 6, 2005 18:13:54 GMT -5
The tacky neo-western ambiance of the Cantina always brought a smile to William's lips. It was good to be back at a place where people weren't shooting at you all the time, though the Cantina had seen more than its fair share of bar scraps. Every once and awhile you would find somebody's tooth underneath a table or catch the faded stain of dried blood on the dirty walls. Still it beat the battlefields of Ares and Valasha for safety.
Rubbing his still sore shoulder, William sauntered over to an empty table and ordered a bottle of Timbiqui Dark from a passing droid. He sighed with pleasure as the cool brew slid smoothly down his parched throat. Despite the fact that he was off duty, William was determined not to overindulge after what happened last time.
I don't think this crowd is in the mood to hear any long winded speeches or Shakespearean quotes.
William had brought a small leather satchel with him and inside was Thorn's Desert Eagle with the magazine removed and the slide locked back into the safe position. He was hoping Alex would show up tonight so he could return it to him.
Right now the bar was full of local techs and base support personnel. He was the only MechWarrior present, but hopefully some more of the gang would arrive soon. It was a rare night that at least a few of the Legionnaires' Mech jockeys didn't show up at the Cantina. Until then, William sat back to enjoy his drink.
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Post by Lance Commander William Rhodes on Oct 6, 2005 18:29:29 GMT -5
William was still enjoying his beer, when one of the bar patrons turned on the holo-viewer in the corner. The local news anchor, Chris Zondervan, was prattling on about something or another, flashing his oh-so-fake smile at the camera for the benefit of the viewers.
Man, I can't stand that guy. He reminds me of a used car salesman.
Suddenly William realised that Zondervan wasn't talking about the usual local drek of some celebrity sleeping with another celebrity. The screen bore an image of the Gellen's Heights HPG station in flames as fire crews worked to get the blaze under control and rescue the survivors.
That doesn't look good. I guess we won't be getting any offworld mail for a while.
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Morgan Blake
Logistics Coordinator
LEGIONNAIRES - Elite
Posts: 122
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Post by Morgan Blake on Oct 7, 2005 2:34:37 GMT -5
Aliesha and I entered the Cantina at 20:00 as we had planned. We walked into a room of noise, smoke, hushed conversations and loud laughter. There were scantiliy clad barmaids and eager patrons for them to serve. If you were not used to it, it was like walking into an alien universe that hit you with the force of a brick wall. I had been to places like this many times before, I had practically grown up in one. I wasn't so sure about Aliesha but I knew her clan training would kick in if nothing else and she would be more alert to any change than if in the middle of an empty desert with a still wind.
I had decided to wear my tagelmoust, the desert dwealer's head covering. Not because I wanted to hide my face, though that was certainly an advantage. But because it would make me easily recognisable to the dealer, if as I suspected he had spied on ourselves and our cargo the day we had arrived.
As we walked towards the back of the room to find a private booth, one with high dividers between the booths on either side so as to make eavesdropping harder, we walked past one of the Legionnaires' mechwarriors. I think it was Rhodes. I nodded in acknowledgement but his attention was fixed on the holoviewer and what ever was being broadcast there.
Taking our seats at an empty booth, I turned to the nearest holoviewer, curious as to what had so held Rhodes' attention.
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Morgan Blake
Logistics Coordinator
LEGIONNAIRES - Elite
Posts: 122
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Post by Morgan Blake on Oct 7, 2005 3:04:08 GMT -5
The holoviewer was playing a repeat of the news broadcast regarding the HPG station.
"Exactly the reason I have come to you with my proposition."
A non descript man of average height in dark clothing was standing at the head of our bench, motioning to the holoviewer with a pointing of one thumb.
"I see both of you are quite fast, exactly what I am looking for." He held both his hands up as he took a step back from the table. The size of his pupils and a single bead of sweat rolling down his face giving away his sudden fear.
In the dim light offered by the cantina you could just make out the barrel of Aliesha's pistol following the man's kidneys. The shot wouldn't have killed him instantly but it wasn't meant to. Dead men give up no secrets. Similarly my knife had punctured his clothing to find the soft skin underneath. Nestling there with a slight caress, ready to be thrust up under his ribs and plunged deep into his heart. A final twisting motion at the end of the thrust would fill his heart with air and kill him instantly. Sometimes not knowing the answer was better than being dead.
I motioned for him to grab a chair from one of the empty tables and sit at the head of our bench. This way, he could only ever focus on one of us at a time, leaving the other scrutinise him. It also meant that any move towards either of us, would leave him vulnerable to the other and any new comers, would be coming at his back.
Once seated he started.
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Post by Bounty Hunter Sam Grisham on Oct 7, 2005 14:59:45 GMT -5
The strong stench of rotting cork and freshly lit tobacco rushed up my nose, causing me to frown. This appeared to be the place I needed to be. I just needed to I.D him, capture him and claim my reward… then I would be up to my neck in beautiful women and all the drinks I could buy. Looking around, I witnessed an obese man fall over in his drunken stupor as a group of his friends laughed hysterically in their equally intoxicated demeanour.
“Fair enough…” I muttered under my breath, realising that this was ’the’ bar for mercenaries of this calibre…
I walked down the old styled wooden steps that creaked and groaned under that strain of my body. I almost felt worried; perhaps I had brought too many firearms… I soon dismissed this thought and walked into the growing fog that was The Cantina.
I walked straight up to the bar, locking eyes with the bar tender as he dealt with an order for another customer. Sitting several seats away from me was a stern looking gentleman. He stared at the recently switched-on holo-viewer with a slight look of shock on his face. As the bar tender sat the customer’s beer down next to him, images of death flickered across the viewer. Apparently one Gellen’s Height’s HPG station was ablaze.
“Geez…” was all I could mutter. “When will kids learn that matches are for adults only…” I smirked as I muttered my joke. As long as it didn’t affect me, I didn’t care. Maybe it was a terrorist incident? Or perhaps an electrical fire? It didn’t matter as long as it didn’t interfere with me directly.
The bar tender drew himself away from the holo-viewer, tisking at the scenes of destruction as he took the time to ask what I wanted to drink.
“Fuckin’ shame, ain’t it?” he said, leaning his large frame against the bar table whilst staring at the screen.
“News reck-uns it ain’t no ee’lectricul fault! Some uv the witness’s say it was an EX-plosion!” he said in his thick, indescribable accent. After lowering his arms which he used to exaggerate the “EX-plosion!”, he then placed both of his hands, palms flat, on the bar table.
“So, strange‘a, what’ll it be?!” he said, licking at his thick black moustache, as sweat trickled down from his bald head.
“Whiskey …” I said, giving a quick glance around. “… and 100 credits for a little information…” I muttered, making sure no one else heard.
“Oh aye?” he said, turning around to pour the drink from a fresh bottle. He poured the drink into a triple measure shot glass before turning around and leaning forward.
“And what iz it you’ll be a-needin to know, stranger?” he said, I large grin spreading across his gumming mouth.
“I’m looking for this gentleman…” I said quietly, sliding the photo towards him, along with 50 credits. The bar keeper wrapped his sausage like fingers around the small photograph after he pocketed the money.
“Yeh… I know thiz guy…” he sound tilting the picture towards the light so he could get a better look.
“Infact… strange’a…” he said, leaning forward to whisper. “He be sitting in that dark corner… ov’a there…” he murmured, indicating my target’s location with his thumb over his shoulder.
“Thank you… you’ve been a great help…” I said, inspecting the dark corner. At first glance, it was hard to tell if anyone was there or not, however the faint glow of a cigarette end illuminated his presents.
“Say…” he said, grabbing me by the shoulder. “You ain’t gunna be start’in any hassle… are ya?” he glared, tightening his grip ever so slightly on my shoulder. I gently lifted his hand off my shoulder, grabbed my drink and slung it back. Slamming the glass onto the counter, I replied:
“AW HELL NO! I’m just here to say hi to an old friend!” I shouted, a large drunken smile passing over my face.
“Aw’ight…” he said, a slight look of confusion phasing him.
“I’ll have another please bar keep! And what ever my good friend in the corner is having to!” I shouted cheerfully, as I acted out a slight drunken shuffle over to the dark corner. Collapsing onto the chair, I sat across the man I was looking for.
“Who the hell are you?!” he hissed, lighting up a new cigarette. He wore a dark brown panama hat with matching dark brown sunglasses. He had thick black dreadlocks that sprouted from his head in all directions. He was fairly thick in his structure, and it had appeared he had put on several pounds since the picture was taken three years ago. A large puff of smoke escaped from his nostrils just after he took a deep drag from his “cancer stick”.
“HA-HA! You don’t recognise me, eh Terry? Terry Christie, right?” I shouted joyfully before learning VERY close to him.
“Or should I say, Derrick Brockton?” I hissed, causing “Terry’s” eyes to widen with shock. I locked my angry eyes with his before leaning back and grinning at the bar tender, as he brought another triple whiskey and a large beer for “friend”. The bar keeper gave us an odd look before he returned back to his counter.
Derrick and I stared at each other for several moments, neither of us saying a word.
“… If your looking for “Derrick”, he faded away from the Inner Sphere a long time ago pal…” Derrick finally said. I grasped my drink and took a gentle sip.
“Yes… Derrick DID fade away… but Derrick DID, unknowingly, leave a nice trail of breadcrumbs for me to follow…” I said, grinning very slightly as I observed his movements. He swallowed hard, his hands twitching as he laid them palms down on the table.
“When you faded away, many things happened Derrick. Your ties with the various mob bosses back on Gibson gave some very interesting offers for your death…” I said, watching as the colour sank from his face.
“However, I turned them down. Your more use to me alive…”
“… So you’re a bounty hunter?” he said, squinting his beady eyes as he sunk back into his chair. His nerves were clearly starting to show as sweat poured from his forehead and his cigarette juttering as it rested on his shaking, thick lips.
“Your very perceptive Brockton. I wouldn’t expect any less from a drug dealer such as yourself…”
“EX-drug dealer…” he said, nearly standing up in rage.
“Regardless of whether you’re clean or not Brockton, it doesn’t change the fact the you MURDERED those three innocent people-”
“It would have just been one if those mindless pigs didn’t step into my line of fire!” he hissed between gritted teeth as he pounded the table top.
“Now-now Derrick, we don’t want to be upsetting the locals…” I said, looking over my shoulder to check that no one was looking.
“Now… this can be done the easy way… or the hard way---” I said, turning around before noticing that Derrick was gone.
Jumping to attention, my eyes swept the bar. I saw the swine rushing towards the exit as he knocked over a bar table or two. Without a second’s pause, I reached under my large suede coat and brought my trusty, black powder revolver to my hip. With my left hand, I pulled back the hammer, fanning three, tightly group rounds towards Brockton as he made his hasty escape. Two of the three rounds missed, however the third round smashed into his Achilles heel, causing him to fall over, screaming in pain. I re-holster my revolver, thanking god I didn’t have to use my “Crescent Moon” revolver. The “Crescent Moon” was a modified magnum revolver that fired high calibre rifle rounds. The stock and chamber was built larger and stronger to withstand the HUGE force that this weapon packed when fired. Along the barrel, stock and handle was a beautifully engraved design of an old wind sail ship cruising across the sky in front of a Crescent Moon. Hence the name…
But that didn’t matter right now.
As the screams died down, I shouted to calm everyone down.
“ALRIGHT! Alright!” I bellowed, raising my badge into the air.
“Everyone stay calm, I’m a bounty hunter… this guy is wanted for drug dealing and murder, amongst several other charges…” I shouted, realising my words were just causing more confusion. Derrick wriggled on the ground as I produced a pair of handcuffs.
“AW….. Shit….” he finally muttered between gasps of air.
“Now… you stay nice and still lil piggy… the sooner this is over, the sooner I can get my reward…” I said, smirking with delight.
Tonight sure was bountiful…
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Post by Lance Commander William Rhodes on Oct 7, 2005 18:16:33 GMT -5
Chris Zondervan's voice continued to drawl on in a very self-satisfied manner as he relayed the scant details on the HPG explosion and fire. If one could use the word "swagger" to apply to a person's voice, then it would fit perfectly with the smug news anchor.
You'd think he was reporting on stock prices rather than the tragic deaths of innocent people...what a prick!
William rolled his eyes and finished the last drop of his Timbiqui Dark as Zondervan signed off with his ultra-cheesy catch phrase. "Keep it classy, Gellen's Heights."
The sound of shattering glass and overturning chairs, followed closely by muffled curses from the Cantina patrons, caused William to spin around in his seat. The holoviewer was completely forgotten as he spotted a sketchy looking man in dreadlocks, his panama hat flying off his head, making a mad dash for the exit.
Guess he doesn't like the ambiance...
Three very loud gunshots echoed in the close confines of the Cantina, ringing in William's ears, as the running man dropped like pole-axed ox, his ankle a mess of blood and broken bone. William, his combat reflexes taking over, hit the deck a moment later as the screams of the terrified barflies filled the room.
Reaching into his satchel, William drew out Thorn's heavy Desert Eagle and rammed home a ten shot magazine of 12mm rounds. Hitting the slide release with his thumb, he chambered a fresh bullet and clutched the massive pistol. Crouching beneath his table, William scanned the room for the source of the gunshots.
Didn't I just leave this party?
A man in a long suede coat dominated the room, a smoking revolver clenched in one hand. In his other, he waved some sort of badge while claiming to be a bounty hunter.
Who uses black powder anymore?
Bounty Hunters were dangerous customers, working outside the law as often as within it. William prudently decided to lay low and see how this played out, taking cover behind an overturned table. If Mr. Suede didn't play his cards right, Rhodes resolved to take him down a few pegs with a .50 caliber metal slug.
Still, I'd much rather be in a Mech.
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Post by Bounty Hunter Sam Grisham on Oct 10, 2005 15:44:48 GMT -5
Brockton wriggled on the floor like a maggot on the end of a hook.
“…Time to put you behind some bars lil’ piggy” I eventually said after a few moments of listening to Brockton’s cries. Although I never took personal vendettas into my tasks, I sure had a lot of stress to take out on porky tonight. He was the most elaborate bastard I had ever hunted, hidden out of sight while, at the same time, presenting himself on a platter just for me. He was a REAL shit. But like all turds that float to the top, in the end, they all get flushed… and this turd’s time was up!
The screams of fear soon died down as everyone in the Cantina had hit the deck for cover. Obviously they didn’t feel comfortable around a bounty hunter… and truth be told, I sure was shit scared to be in a room that was filled with mercenaries. I was standing in the proverbial “lion‘s den“. Or in this case “the lion‘s watering hole“. Luckily for me, it didn’t seem as though there was a big turn up tonight…
“Now you just stay nice and--” I started before a bullet pushed itself millimetres away from my check. I stumbled backwards as a second bulleted narrowly missed me. I watched as Brockton fumbled around with his 9mm pistol he had managed to sneak into his hands. Unfortunately for Brockton, he had suffered from a situation that I hated to be in with any pistol; case jamming. Though I’m sure his 9mm berretta was always faithful to him, the action stayed back as a nice, glimmering case kept the brass ejection hole open. Yes, she may have been faithful, but the bitch had cheated on him.
“Night night sucker!” I muttered as I pulled the hammer back on my revolver. A look of fear and stupidity washed over Brockton’s face as he realised he made the second biggest mistake in his life: Trying to kill me. The first you ask? Trying to run away from me. I squeezed the trigger and watched the hammer smash into the primer, igniting the gun powder within the cartridge which, in turn, propelled the .375 wad cutter bullet straight towards Derrick. The round cratered itself deeply within Mr Brockton’s forehead, creating a nice, clean, near perfect circle in the middle of his forehead. This couldn’t be said for the back of my target’s head, which had split open like a smashed water melon.
“That just cost me 1000…” I murmured to myself, half disappointed, half excited as the adrenaline pulsed through my body. Although he would have been worth more if he was alive, I would still get my money for bringing down this drug pushing, murdering son of a bitch…
Now all I had to worry about was carrying a dead body half way across town to claim my reward…
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