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5/29/2025, 1:14:27 PM
Both of the soldiers are Red Hand militants, one lanky human with a soulpatch and one stout Quexi with a scarred beak, each of them is already sporting the Snake-fist patch gifted to you earlier this evening. That means they must have served directly under your command on at least one ambush on the encroaching Savis patrols, and you vaguely recognise them even if you can’t recall their names. You come to realise that the patch also marks them as part of Hail’s inner circle of handpicked men, hard bastards with a real axe to grind against the Empire.
You expected some sort of challenge but both step aside, Soulpatch even throws in a respectful nod. Hail probably told them you were expected, but neither of the guards blink at Crane following in your wake so perhaps your reputation as a living legend among the rebels carries more weight than benefiting from the odd trinket and accolade.
From the outside you had no idea whether you’d be entering a cramped lean-to size shelter or walking downhill for a full minute or two, so it’s with some mild relief that you find your eyes adjusting to the larger lit space after only a few steps past the entrance.
“Nines?”
“I think we should hold off on any further discussion concerning the squad.” Your 2IC leans in and mutters a great deal more quietly. “But I very much doubt-”
“No, Crane. Nines.” You point to one corner of the room, large enough to park Savis Thunderbolt Bomber in.
“++Confirmation. This unit designated ‘Nines’ is indeed present in this facility.++” The heavy gunner for Vinehound squad is draped over something that resembles a gym chair, looking a lot like a ringside boxer getting a pre-match massage. “++Justification. This unit’s allocated sentry duties have concluded, all time spent within this facility have been outside this unit’s allotted roles with 0.01% decrease in anticipated squad efficiency.++”
Behind Gunner Nines, sparking away at some sort of ‘cage’ emeshed on the back of Nines head, you recognise another Company member wielding what looks like a cross between a welder and a sparkplug with an almost ecstatic expression on her cybernetic face. Trying to get SIG ‘Jack In’s attention is a wasted effort, your sensitive ears can tell she has the latest hit from DJ Dustoff blasting at full volume behind her noise-cancelling earphones, so you direct your bewilderment at your Gunner.
“What in the Green Hell… Nines!”
Surrounded in a confined room full of the hardest angriest rebels in the whole League, all minding their own business that involves varying degrees of metalwork or cleaning weaponry, you’re having a difficult time settling one tone between the choices of alarmed, outraged or morbidly curious.
[2/4]
You expected some sort of challenge but both step aside, Soulpatch even throws in a respectful nod. Hail probably told them you were expected, but neither of the guards blink at Crane following in your wake so perhaps your reputation as a living legend among the rebels carries more weight than benefiting from the odd trinket and accolade.
From the outside you had no idea whether you’d be entering a cramped lean-to size shelter or walking downhill for a full minute or two, so it’s with some mild relief that you find your eyes adjusting to the larger lit space after only a few steps past the entrance.
“Nines?”
“I think we should hold off on any further discussion concerning the squad.” Your 2IC leans in and mutters a great deal more quietly. “But I very much doubt-”
“No, Crane. Nines.” You point to one corner of the room, large enough to park Savis Thunderbolt Bomber in.
“++Confirmation. This unit designated ‘Nines’ is indeed present in this facility.++” The heavy gunner for Vinehound squad is draped over something that resembles a gym chair, looking a lot like a ringside boxer getting a pre-match massage. “++Justification. This unit’s allocated sentry duties have concluded, all time spent within this facility have been outside this unit’s allotted roles with 0.01% decrease in anticipated squad efficiency.++”
Behind Gunner Nines, sparking away at some sort of ‘cage’ emeshed on the back of Nines head, you recognise another Company member wielding what looks like a cross between a welder and a sparkplug with an almost ecstatic expression on her cybernetic face. Trying to get SIG ‘Jack In’s attention is a wasted effort, your sensitive ears can tell she has the latest hit from DJ Dustoff blasting at full volume behind her noise-cancelling earphones, so you direct your bewilderment at your Gunner.
“What in the Green Hell… Nines!”
Surrounded in a confined room full of the hardest angriest rebels in the whole League, all minding their own business that involves varying degrees of metalwork or cleaning weaponry, you’re having a difficult time settling one tone between the choices of alarmed, outraged or morbidly curious.
[2/4]
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