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3/29/2025, 12:10:49 PM
>SELECTED: Crouch down, very slowly. Hugging the jungle floor, you place your hand on your magpistol and you wait. And wait. And wait. [Xenophobe]
You didn’t survive your homeworld by turning a deaf ear to your gut, even when your gut wasn’t always right. When the available options are either waiting it out and feeling a little foolish at your own jumpiness or possibly getting your head bitten off by a lurking Carnotaur, that choice kinds of picks itself. Probably there was something you should be reflecting on about how this didn’t seem to trickle down to being smart about your gambling when it came to creds, or even your own life in a firefight. But you’ve never really been one for self-reflection, and certainly right now your only focus is on your surroundings for the slightest sign that your instincts were right. So you wait.
It seems like hours pass as you huddle there, every sense on red alert. A squawk to your right, belonging to a small native avian that you recognise from your time out here. Or maybe an answering call to the warble you heard just before from a flanking attacker. The magpistol slowly leaves its holster, thumb flicking the safety as your crouched legs remain tightly coiled and ready to spring into action. Your heightened senses filter out the ambient sounds of the jungle, a subconscious trait perked with genemods and exercised over constant years of near-constant danger. The sway of a branch overhead, gleaned from the gust of strong wind that sometimes follows in a recent dust storm. The buzz of a flight of Savis bombers, trailing away to the north-west after another indiscriminate firebombing. The thud of Savis artillery, fragging big guns from the sounds of it, and no whistle or screech to signal their payloads landing anywhere near you. The flutter of a rainbow scale-wing, tiny and mindless. Back on Clayton’s Cradle anything that brightly coloured would carry enough venom to wipe out a platoon. But in this jungle it’s harmless, just a dazzling display designed to intimidate predators rather than lure in prey. It’s no threat to you. And neither is anything else that you can tell. Nothing you can see, or hear, or smell or taste in the air. But still you wait, long enough for your legs to begin to ache, long enough for the sweat to run down your arm and make the tight grip on your magpistol slippery.
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You didn’t survive your homeworld by turning a deaf ear to your gut, even when your gut wasn’t always right. When the available options are either waiting it out and feeling a little foolish at your own jumpiness or possibly getting your head bitten off by a lurking Carnotaur, that choice kinds of picks itself. Probably there was something you should be reflecting on about how this didn’t seem to trickle down to being smart about your gambling when it came to creds, or even your own life in a firefight. But you’ve never really been one for self-reflection, and certainly right now your only focus is on your surroundings for the slightest sign that your instincts were right. So you wait.
It seems like hours pass as you huddle there, every sense on red alert. A squawk to your right, belonging to a small native avian that you recognise from your time out here. Or maybe an answering call to the warble you heard just before from a flanking attacker. The magpistol slowly leaves its holster, thumb flicking the safety as your crouched legs remain tightly coiled and ready to spring into action. Your heightened senses filter out the ambient sounds of the jungle, a subconscious trait perked with genemods and exercised over constant years of near-constant danger. The sway of a branch overhead, gleaned from the gust of strong wind that sometimes follows in a recent dust storm. The buzz of a flight of Savis bombers, trailing away to the north-west after another indiscriminate firebombing. The thud of Savis artillery, fragging big guns from the sounds of it, and no whistle or screech to signal their payloads landing anywhere near you. The flutter of a rainbow scale-wing, tiny and mindless. Back on Clayton’s Cradle anything that brightly coloured would carry enough venom to wipe out a platoon. But in this jungle it’s harmless, just a dazzling display designed to intimidate predators rather than lure in prey. It’s no threat to you. And neither is anything else that you can tell. Nothing you can see, or hear, or smell or taste in the air. But still you wait, long enough for your legs to begin to ache, long enough for the sweat to run down your arm and make the tight grip on your magpistol slippery.
[1/3]
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