Eternity RPC Board
10-12-2020, 12:31 AM
Destroy the cargo.
Demonstrate the Asphodel.
Minimize bystander casualties.
Targets are present.
Destroy the cargo.
Demonstrate that Asphodel.
Minimize bystander casualties.
Targets are stationary.
Destroy the—
“Hey, new guy, eyes up front before you lose your head!”
Taraneh snapped to attention, her eyes fixing on the annoyed mechanic in front of her. ‘Kids,’ his expression seemed to groan. Or maybe, ‘Foreigners.’
“Sorry!” she chirped in her best Arkianian, punctuating the sentiment with a sheepish grin.
The man sighed and pulled a bandana from the rear pocket of his coveralls to dab at the beads of sweat gathering in his forehead creases. “They always assign me such rookies,” he lamented aloud but to no one in particular. “Such rookies! Can’t even speak more than a sentence in our language— feh! I tell you this: retirement cannot come one day too early, my young friend! Oho no!”
Distracted by the indulgence of self-pity, the man didn’t notice when his apprentice snuck another lingering glance to the motley group of truckers who had assembled themselves some hundred yards away, across the concrete and metal expanse of the spaceport yard. Six of them. At least six trucks, then, but were there more?
She narrowed her eyes.
Destroy the cargo.
Demonstrate the—
Wait. One of the men was on the move. Taraneh watched him cross the expanse between his comrades and the toilets.
“Sir?” she interrupted her supervisor’s pitiful ramblings. “I, eh, I have to make toilet.” To be sure she was understood, she nodded at the bank of stalls, and tried her hardest to look very uncomfortable.
The mechanic threw up his hands in surrender, tossing his dampened bandana away like a white flag. “Sure, fine! I have all night, after all!”
“Many thanks!”
…
Men were disgusting creatures Melinoë noted as she hid in the stall beside the terrorist, waiting. She could hear him over there, pissing. How could someone enclosed in their own stall piss so loudly that she could hear it enclosed in her own stall? It was like a horse. Disgusting.
A dim light turned blue from the faintly translucent plastic making up the walls of the portable toilet filtered in from the bright fluorescence of the spaceport beyond. Melinoë squinted down in the dim at the slight bulge in the right hip of her coveralls. She had been given the freedom to use force, to use any means she felt best. She slipped her hand down over the fabric and felt the hard lines of her holstered sidearm.
She would not fail.
Destroy the cargo.
Demonstrate the Asphodel.
Minimize bystander casualties.
The faintest sound of a zip squealed in the adjacent stall.
Go time.
With purpose in every motion, Melinoë tossed open the door, quickly scanned her periphery for anyone who might catch sight of her — no one, luckily; the rest of the terrorist group had dispersed and were not waiting on their friend it seemed — and caught hold of the wrist the man — Shapur Rostami if intel was correct — just as he was opening the door of his own stall. She was silent like shadows, quick like a breeze. She didn’t allow him the opportunity to cry out. The young soldier caught the confusion, maybe fear in the elder’s eyes as she forced him back into the stall, the gun previously holstered at her side now in her hand, now pressed against Shapur’s stomach.
The element of surprise seemed to work in her favor as she backed the man into the enclosure.
“How many trucks?” she hissed, sliding the gun up until it was pressed into his chest. “How many containers?”
Demonstrate the Asphodel.
Minimize bystander casualties.
Targets are present.
Destroy the cargo.
Demonstrate that Asphodel.
Minimize bystander casualties.
Targets are stationary.
Destroy the—
“Hey, new guy, eyes up front before you lose your head!”
Taraneh snapped to attention, her eyes fixing on the annoyed mechanic in front of her. ‘Kids,’ his expression seemed to groan. Or maybe, ‘Foreigners.’
“Sorry!” she chirped in her best Arkianian, punctuating the sentiment with a sheepish grin.
The man sighed and pulled a bandana from the rear pocket of his coveralls to dab at the beads of sweat gathering in his forehead creases. “They always assign me such rookies,” he lamented aloud but to no one in particular. “Such rookies! Can’t even speak more than a sentence in our language— feh! I tell you this: retirement cannot come one day too early, my young friend! Oho no!”
Distracted by the indulgence of self-pity, the man didn’t notice when his apprentice snuck another lingering glance to the motley group of truckers who had assembled themselves some hundred yards away, across the concrete and metal expanse of the spaceport yard. Six of them. At least six trucks, then, but were there more?
She narrowed her eyes.
Destroy the cargo.
Demonstrate the—
Wait. One of the men was on the move. Taraneh watched him cross the expanse between his comrades and the toilets.
“Sir?” she interrupted her supervisor’s pitiful ramblings. “I, eh, I have to make toilet.” To be sure she was understood, she nodded at the bank of stalls, and tried her hardest to look very uncomfortable.
The mechanic threw up his hands in surrender, tossing his dampened bandana away like a white flag. “Sure, fine! I have all night, after all!”
“Many thanks!”
…
Men were disgusting creatures Melinoë noted as she hid in the stall beside the terrorist, waiting. She could hear him over there, pissing. How could someone enclosed in their own stall piss so loudly that she could hear it enclosed in her own stall? It was like a horse. Disgusting.
A dim light turned blue from the faintly translucent plastic making up the walls of the portable toilet filtered in from the bright fluorescence of the spaceport beyond. Melinoë squinted down in the dim at the slight bulge in the right hip of her coveralls. She had been given the freedom to use force, to use any means she felt best. She slipped her hand down over the fabric and felt the hard lines of her holstered sidearm.
She would not fail.
Destroy the cargo.
Demonstrate the Asphodel.
Minimize bystander casualties.
The faintest sound of a zip squealed in the adjacent stall.
Go time.
With purpose in every motion, Melinoë tossed open the door, quickly scanned her periphery for anyone who might catch sight of her — no one, luckily; the rest of the terrorist group had dispersed and were not waiting on their friend it seemed — and caught hold of the wrist the man — Shapur Rostami if intel was correct — just as he was opening the door of his own stall. She was silent like shadows, quick like a breeze. She didn’t allow him the opportunity to cry out. The young soldier caught the confusion, maybe fear in the elder’s eyes as she forced him back into the stall, the gun previously holstered at her side now in her hand, now pressed against Shapur’s stomach.
The element of surprise seemed to work in her favor as she backed the man into the enclosure.
“How many trucks?” she hissed, sliding the gun up until it was pressed into his chest. “How many containers?”