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5/20/2025, 5:21:28 AM
>>6244979
[2/2]
Fear was the defining feature of his face as he dashed from the bushes where he previously lay waiting, and the fact that you could read his features so well demonstrated how close the exchange had come. Loaded crossbow in one hand, head and eyes frantically darting all around, he made directly for his stricken leader. Upon reaching him, he made a brief attempt to use his free hand to help his comrade upward. Then he froze. Red Turban's hand grasped forlornly at the bottom of his tunic. His wild and distressed eyes locked with yours. The magnitude of his mistake fell upon his mind like a boulder from on high. For a half-second, you thought he might attempt to surrender, given you had him in your sights and him without his crossbow even being raised, but he shook himself out of his fugue a second later and attempted to raise his weapon. You squeezed the trigger.
KA-CRACK!
Red Turban was still gripping his tunic as he fell.
It was over. The crossbowman, spearman, and musketeer are all down for the count. The familiar shakes overtook your extremities as the adrenaline wound down, making reloading your musket afterwards a more tedious process. You watched Red Turban sink back down, still and silent.
What do we do with Red Turban?
(Pick One)
>Attempt an Interrogation. Above all, you still need information. (Write-in one question.)
>Finish him off. No sense in letting him suffer any longer.
Meanwhile, inside the escape pod, another soul from the doomed colony expedition silently waits, having gone through an ordeal far more traumatizing than your own landing had been. You wonder what their story is, what they brought with them, and, briefly, if they're going to come out smelling as awfully as you had.
Who is our third colonist? (Or second, depending on how exactly you view Allie.)
(Pick One)
>A member of the expedition's medical staff.
>Another veteran, either friend or former foe.
>A handyman hired on to build the future colony.
>A future farmer, enticed by the promise of land.
>Write-in, out of 1,500 pods, who knows who else is coming down?
[2/2]
Fear was the defining feature of his face as he dashed from the bushes where he previously lay waiting, and the fact that you could read his features so well demonstrated how close the exchange had come. Loaded crossbow in one hand, head and eyes frantically darting all around, he made directly for his stricken leader. Upon reaching him, he made a brief attempt to use his free hand to help his comrade upward. Then he froze. Red Turban's hand grasped forlornly at the bottom of his tunic. His wild and distressed eyes locked with yours. The magnitude of his mistake fell upon his mind like a boulder from on high. For a half-second, you thought he might attempt to surrender, given you had him in your sights and him without his crossbow even being raised, but he shook himself out of his fugue a second later and attempted to raise his weapon. You squeezed the trigger.
KA-CRACK!
Red Turban was still gripping his tunic as he fell.
It was over. The crossbowman, spearman, and musketeer are all down for the count. The familiar shakes overtook your extremities as the adrenaline wound down, making reloading your musket afterwards a more tedious process. You watched Red Turban sink back down, still and silent.
What do we do with Red Turban?
(Pick One)
>Attempt an Interrogation. Above all, you still need information. (Write-in one question.)
>Finish him off. No sense in letting him suffer any longer.
Meanwhile, inside the escape pod, another soul from the doomed colony expedition silently waits, having gone through an ordeal far more traumatizing than your own landing had been. You wonder what their story is, what they brought with them, and, briefly, if they're going to come out smelling as awfully as you had.
Who is our third colonist? (Or second, depending on how exactly you view Allie.)
(Pick One)
>A member of the expedition's medical staff.
>Another veteran, either friend or former foe.
>A handyman hired on to build the future colony.
>A future farmer, enticed by the promise of land.
>Write-in, out of 1,500 pods, who knows who else is coming down?
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