>>45889030
[x] EVERY CHOICE COMBINED

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>>45889089

YOU ARE TOYING WITH INCREDIBLY POWERFUL FUCKING FORCES HERE

ARE YOU SURE

>>45889089
THIS
DO THIS YOU COCKSUCKER

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>>45889135

>>45889137
>>45889089

BE IT ON YOUR FUCKING HEADS

IF YOU HAD ANY FUCKING CLUE WHAT YOU JUST DID

BUT YOU WILL SOON

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You are in a closet, pressed against one of the most beautiful girls in the world.

Her limpid, light-green eyes gaze deep into yours, hidden depths deep within shimmering with emotions you can't begin to comprehend. She shifts against you slightly, her supple, nubile body feeling wonderful against yours. Your heart hammers as she opens her mouth, and says...

"MRRRMMHHH! MRRRRMMHHH!"

You widen your eyes in a violent, angry stare and tap the barrel of your pistol against her head.

Thankfully, she shuts the fuck up.

Outside you hear the telltale creak of footsteps advancing over the hollow floor.

They're here.

[ ] MAX MOTHERFUCKING PAYNE STYLE
[ ] HERE, CATCH
[ ] LIKE THE MAJESTIC GRABBOID

>>45889418
>[X] LIKE THE MAJESTIC GRABBOID
Be the Burt Gummer you know you can be!

>>45889418
>MAX PAYNE MOTHERFUCKERS

>>45889418
>[ ] MAX MOTHERFUCKING PAYNE STYLE

>[ ] LIKE THE MAJESTIC GRABBOID

It's simple, we come from beneath in bullet time.

But instead, reverse graboids from above! ASSBLASTER TIME!

>>45889456
>>45889463
>>45889485

SO IT SHALL BE WRITTEN

SO IT SHALL BE DONE

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You clamp your hand even tighter over the slender girl's mouth as tears begin to trickle from her eyes. The footfalls outside are stiff enough to make the rows and rows of ethernet cables behind her shiver in time with her long twintails.

Of course.

Of fucking *course* this couldn't be easy.

You lean back and SPRING. The door to the server closet's more of a thin dust cover, the weak latch shattering easily beneath your weight as you fly backwards across the narrow aisle, slashing your pistol down and sideways to put three rounds harmlessly into something extremely big, nasty and robotic looking. You hit the cold floor and slide, feet already kicking to push yourself further along as an entire rack of blade servers is smashed to splinters; shards of plastic flying everywhere as the massive machine plows right through the corner of the aisle intersection to get at you. You manage to resist the urge to magdump in its general direction as your free hand feels around above your head for the latch - and then you're sliding headfirst into the crawlspace beneath the serverroom where power cables and frigid refrigeration air circulates. Shimmying to one side, you push away heavy power cables as you slither beneath a rack of blade servers seconds before a massive metallic foot smashes through the floor where you just were. Fresh cacophony sounds from above as the machine plows through another rack, slamming its foot down about where you'd be if you were still moving at your top scuttle in a straight line.

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Carefully timing your movements to coincide with the terrifyingly heavy footfalls, you move enough to poke your head up on the other side of the rack, the floor panel resting on your head. The robot's “head” is swiveling to bear on you when you double-tap it, two rounds of 9mm +P+ hollowpoints smashing into it's primary sensors.

Naturally the fucking thing turns and charges, every massive footfall deliberately smashing right through the weak panels to obliterate everything above and below, heavy metallic hands stretched wide to smash through server racks and send them crashing down on either side, turning clear floorspace into a jumbled mess.

[ ] MAGDUMP? MAGDUMP.
[ ] STICK WITH THE PROD
[ ] USE “THAT”

>>45889734
[X] USE “THAT”

>>45889734
STICK WITH THE PROD

PROD WITH THE PROD

>using "that" this early
>any year

>>45889762
>>using "that" this early
>>any year

THIS NIGGA KNOWS WHAT'S UP

>>45889734
>USE THAT
I SEE A FUCKING BUTTON

>>45889762
>not establishing a signature move

Just throw a cheesy one-liner afterwards

>>45889795
>implying "that" is our signature move and not our secret forbidden technique

>>45889709
ALL FOR PROD

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As a thousand-odd pounds of industrial labor bot come smashing through the server room towards you, time seems to slow down. A familiar frission races through your nerves, the tingling, warming heat of muscle memory stitched into your flesh and bones. The urgency grows as the machine advances - six steps from you, now five, now three, now almost upon you - your hand snapping into a fist as you fling your arm out, springing out of the floor and under the machine's first violent swing. Impact jolts up your arm as you slam your blow home in its guts, punching through the rubberized flex-cover between torso and hips and delivering the killing strike.

Explosions sound within its cavernous chest, burning hot lubricants blasting out over your left hand. You snatch it away and spring back, the P7 already coming up to fire two, three, four more times into its torso, but the machine is finished. It jerks violently once; the torso making a half-turn to the left, smashing it's spasming limbs through the shattered blade servers - and then it lies still, smoking.

You advance cautiously, pistol raised, then crouch and extend a hand to yank the end of your spring-loaded baton from its waist. The high-grade steel survived with barely more than a scratch, though the LEDs in the grip are flashing yellow, warning you that the battery's been reduced to half-charge.

“N-Nani ga okotta? Anata ga kizutsukete imasu ka?” comes a voice from the server closet.

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You look up as the green-haired 'girl' emerges from the cabling closet, staring at the smoking machine embedded in the floor with wide eyes. You eject the P7's magazine and flick the remaining rounds into your pants pocket with your thumb before dropping the mag in your jacket and slamming a fresh one home.

“Bitch,” you snarl. “SPEAK FUCKING ENGLISH.”

“Watashi ni donaranaide kudasai! Buta! Orokana buta!”

Holstering the pistol, you pluck the electric baton from beneath your arm. “IF YOU DON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP I'M GOING TO RAM THIS UP YOUR FUCKING ASSHOLE AND TURN YOU INTO A SILICON POPSICLE!”

The slender gynoid recoils from you, tears trickling from her eyes as she cowers against the wall. “G-g-gomene-s-siaaaaiiii~”

Over the sound of cooling, ticking metal from the robot and the hum of refrigeration fans, you can hear distant gunshots.

[ ] BREAKER ONE-NINE, WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK IS GOING ON AAAAY
[ ] LET'S BLOW THIS POPSICLE STAND
[ ] I NEED GUNS. LOTS OF GUNS

>>45890150
>[X] I NEED GUNS. LOTS OF GUNS
MORE DAKKA

>>45890150
>GET SOME FUCKING GUNS BITCH

>>45890150
[X] GET GUNS
[X] WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON
[X] BLOW THIS POPSICLE STAND

>>45890173
>>45890195
>>45890266

WE RIDE

>>45890150
>[X] I NEED GUNS. LOTS OF GUNS

>>45890150
>[ ] I NEED GUNS. LOTS OF GUNS

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You squeeze your eyes shut and smack your skull with the muzzle of your little pistol in frustration. “Don't you have a fucking emergency diagnostic mode or some shit?”

She stares at you, and shakes her head.

“So you're gonna act like Miss Idol-Chan no matter what?”

She hesitantly nods.

“For *fucks* sake-” you hiss. “Okay. Fine. Stay quiet, stay low, and STAY BY ME, okay?”

She nods hesitantly.

You lead her out of the server room, your P7 up and raised. You hate the fucking thing, and you hate the fucking hollwpoints they issued you even more, but it does go bang every time you pull the trigger, so it'll do. Nonetheless, a pistol's for fighting your way to a longarm - which, judging by the full automatic gunfire you hear echoing through the halls of the broadcast studio, you need to do right now.

You raise the radio to your lips - and pause.

If they've got RF snoopers, they'll be on your ass before you can say “fuck the singularity.”

[ ] EEE TEE PHONE HOME
[ ] RUN SILENT RUN DEEP

>>45890390
>[X] BEGINNING VIRTUOUS MISSION

>>45890390
METAL GEAR THE SHIT OUT OF THIS!

>>45890390
>RUN SILENT RUN DEEP
WE'RE A FUCKING SUBMARINE NOW BITCH, ENGAGE SONAR

>>45890390
>[X] RUN SILENT RUN DEEP

>>45890390
> [X] EEE TEE PHONE HOME
FUCK STEALTH, STEALTH IS FOR PUSSIES.

>>45890407
>>45890439
>>45890442
>>45890465
>>45890525

ROGER, MAKE OUR DEPTH THREE-ZERO-ZERO, NEUTRAL ANGLE ON THE PLANES, AHEAD ONE-THIRD, SECURING BILGE PUMPS

WRITE FASTER YOU NIGGER

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You decide to listen, first - the radio ought to be a goddamn mess right now. You press the button for channel-scan - and promptly get an earful of static. Jamming - on all frequencies.

With Pizza-Chan close behind you advance down the back hallway cautiously, ducking underneath the narrow windows set into the doors leading to various control rooms and production booths. The gynoid follows your lead, her footsteps unnaturally silent, even in those silly boots - they have soft soles for some reason, better grip during tricky dance moves or some bullshit like that.

You pause cautiously at the entrance to the atrium, raising your left fist sharply. Pizza-chan bumps into your back abruptly, clearly not understanding the signal. You bite back a sharp rebuke, then manage to pin back a sigh before either give away your position. Dropping to one knee a few feet from the corner, you hold your breath and *listen.*

“I hear three up on the landing,” Miku stage-whispers. “ohshimmm!” she exclaims as you clamp a hand over her fucking mouth for a THIRD time this goddamned day.

From the atrium landing, located at the top of a sweeping double staircase, you hear low, tense voices querying each other, every noise echoing in the huge, glass-celinged room. There's no ambient noise to cover you - the fountain that usually burbles in the middle of the marble-floored room is silent.

[ ] Back the way you came - set an ambush.
[ ] Send Pizza-chan out as a decoy - they're here to kidnap her, after all.
[ ] Engage them right here like a fucking badass.

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>>45890783
[X] Engage them right here like a fucking badass.

>>45890783
>[X] Send Pizza-chan out as a decoy - they're here to kidnap her, after all.
>[X] Engage them right here like a fucking badass.

>>45890783
> [X] Engage them right here like a fucking badass.

>>45890585

[X] Engage them right here like a fucking badass.

>>45890783
>[X] Back the way you came - set an ambush.

>Spoke Japanese
>Suddenly speaking English
what mate?

Men, we're out numbered and out gunned, all we have over the enemy is....OUR MINDS!
>[X] Back the way you came - set an ambush.

>>45890783
>FUCK UP SOME ROBOT BITCHES

>>45890783
>Pizza-chan
>Suddenly Miku
WHICH ONE IS IT

>>45890844

SHE COULD ALWAYS SPEAK ENGLISH BECAUSE SHE'S A FUCKING ROBOT SHE WAS JUST BEING A FUCKING *BITCH*

AS USUAL

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RIGHTO STRAIGHT TO KILLING SOME MOTHERFUCKERS

>>45890878
FUCKING ROBOT BITCHES MAN, THIS SHIT AINT WORTH IT

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>>45890851
>Hiding
>Not mind bullets

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>>45890906
FUCKING ROBOT BITCHES IS ALWAYS WORTH IT

>>45890953
MOST OF THE TIME YEAH, BUT THIS SHIT RIGHT NOW WITH FUCKING SKYNET-TERMINATOR-SINGULARITY BULLSHIT IS MAKING ME RETHINK MY PRIORITIES

>>4590925
>Not knowing mind bullets need time to charge

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You push the fucking gynoid back a few feet, letting the hatred in your eyes propel her a few feet further. Then you turn to address the incoming tangos.

Of course she only speaks English when she's trying to be helpful, and that's only when it's absofuckinglutely not helpful at all. Some more fucking coding parameters becuase apperently the west coast weebs love hearing pani-pani-pizza-chan babble on in her native tounge.

God, you hate them. You hate the hipsters, you hate the fucking Starbucks-toting cocksuckers in their Smart Cars, you hate the aging hippies standing on streetcorners screaming REEE at the youthful hipsters with the tech jobs moving into their neighborhoods, and most of all you hate the asshole-sniffing hand-wringing Japs that hired you for this job then proceeded to mandate what equipment you could and could not carry around the fucking office. Due to their immense wisdom, foresight and skirt-wringing pussiness, you are now facing a long-range firefight in a wide-open area armed with a fucking P7 and three loaded magazines.

As the sound of footsteps and too-loud terse conversation descends the sweeping marble staircase in your direction, you glare over your shoulder at Miku. She cringes, but seems loathe to get much further away from you.

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You give her a wild-eyed look, a toothy grin, and a quick glimpse of the EMP grenade in your hand. *That* sends her scuttling for cover.

Still on one knee, you shuffle forward quietly till you've got a look at about the last quarter of the staircase. You raise the P7...

... and wait.

Motion, peripheral vision, the small black shape of a weapon; SMG or machine-pistol close to a shoulder, angled mostly in your direction but not quite. Plant his center-mass on the post. Press forward slightly with the right hand, pulling back with the left; the isometric tension of a good Weaver stance, right elbow planted firmly on your knee; ass resting on your left heel.

Face hoves into view, he's turning, but your breath is burning in your chest as you squeeze it tight, stabilizing your body like a tripod as you take up the trigger slack, feel the resistance -

send it

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- and ride the recoil back down as the sharp sound clatters and echoes around the room, your electronic earplugs damping the report. The gun discharges again as the sights line up, almost by magic, and the target - some fucker in a yellow t-shirt and baggy shorts - reels against the high railing and spasms violently as he falls, his weapon clattering as it tumbles down the marble steps towards the floor.

Then everything goes right to fucking hell.

The room fills with the echoing cacophony of automatic fire, long loud BRRRAAAATTTS as the HOOM and WHOOOM of ricocheting rounds hum past your head, a spray of lead shards biting your right shin as a round disintegrates on the marble floor ahead. You hear the sound of light rounds slamming into the corner, some of them penetrating and chewing up the carpet of the hallway. You retreat in a low crouch, weapon up and ready - you see one of the doors to a production studio is ajar, and put your shoulder to it, automatically clearing the pie as you roll in, expecting to find nothing other than pizza-chan hiding under a desk -

- but instead you just see her black-booted heels as she's slammed into a wall of TV monitors by some huge motherfucker with a hand twisted into her hair, artificial arms gleaming in the faint light of flickering equipment LEDs.

[ ] POP POP WATCHIN MOTHAFUKKA'S DROP
[ ] CAN'T GIVE AWAY OUR POSITION - REMEMBER THE BASICS OF CQB
[ ] SUP BUUUUDDYYYYYYYYY?

>>45891349
>[X] SUP BUUUUDDYYYYYYYYY?

>>45891349
>[X] POP POP WATCHIN MOTHAFUKKA'S DROP
UNHAND OUR WHORE! ALSO STEAL A GUN

>>45891349
>POP POP WATCHING MOTHERFUCKERS DROP
GOD DAMN IT ROBOT BITCH YOU BETTER BE FUCKING WORTH IT

>>45891379
>>45891383
>>45891428

Y'ALL NIGGAS DON'T FUCK AROUND WOOOOOO

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>>45891349

[X] POP POP WATCHIN MOTHAFUKKA'S DROP

>>45891480
DAMN STRAIGHT

>>45891480
GO BIG OR GO HOME, AND WRITE FASTER YOU FUCKING QUEST FAGGOT

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Miku shivers, her legs quivering, but she makes no complaint. You hear a muffled sound as the huge fucker yanks his hands back around neck-level, like he's cinching something tight. You wait till he flings her to the floor before making your move. He turns, catches sight of you, and is just getting a good look when you send the motherfucker to Mozambique; riding the recoil as you plant one in his chest, throat and the last right between the fucking eyes.

Then you're on your feet, flinging one of the heavy desks near the door over on its side. You press yourself up against the wall near the door just as the shouts and voices near it. You flick the magazine out of your pistol and slip a fresh one in as the voices cluster around outside.

There's a split second of silence as they contemplate their next move.

Then someone kicks the door open, and you're nearly blinded as the bright muzzle-flash of a machine-pistol fills the room. Sawdust fills the air as the overturned desk is preforated, slugs ricocheting around the room and burying themselves in furniture and expensive computers - aside from your principal, or so you hope.

As soon as his weapon falls silent, you poke your hand around the corner and fire into him twice.

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You eat carpet as the wall above you explodes in a cloud of drywall dust, bullets chewing haphazardly through the wall. Weapon tucked up near your chest in a double-handed grip, you roll on your side and swing it to bear just as someone hoves into view on the opposite side of the wall. You fire at the same instant, but he's aiming too high and his recoil drags his muzzle higher as he jerks and cries, the high-pitched “AH! AH AH!” yelps of pain almost surreal as you unload into him. You wait, weapon raised, for anyone else to stick their head around the corner - but nobody does. Rolling onto your belly you slither towards the door and take a quick peek around the corner, but find only two bodies, a lot of shell casings and the fading squeek-eek-eek of sneakers fleeing into the atrium.

[ ] Get the robobitch and exfil through the offices behind you.
[ ] Finish this. Staircase is the shortest way.

>>45891869

>[X] Get the robobitch and exfil through the offices behind you.

>>45891869
>[X] Finish this. Staircase is the shortest way.
FUCK HER LET'S FINNISH THIS SHIT.

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>>45891904
>FINNISH

I LIKE YOUR FUCKING STYLE SON

>>45891869
>GET ROBOBITCH AND GET OUT
WE HAVE THE ROBOT GET THE FUCK OUT

>>45891869
> [X] Get the robobitch and exfil through the offices behind you.
IT'S ALL WORTHLESS WITHOUT THE ROBOT

>>45891899
>>45891904
>>45891921
>>45891928

RIGHTO HERE WE FUKKIN GO

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You consider advancing on the atrium while you still can - you can see these clowns aren't using smartlinks, and that plus their obvious amateurism renders their machine-pistols damn near useless, especially on full-auto magdump like they've been using. But as accurate as the roller-delayed blowback P7 is, at 40 yards across the atrium the guy flinging more bullets has an excellent chance of tagging you - and if you're hurt, you'll never get Miku out of here intact.

And then there's the others to worry about.
Dragging the closest victim into the room, you relieve him of his weapon - it seems to be an old Skorpion with a wire stock. You liberate several spare magazines from the corpse, close the door, and brace it shut with his body and the bullet-riddled desk. Then you turn to your charge.

Pizza-chan has been properly bedecked with tomato sauce - the copious amounts of blood (and flecks of brain matter) vacated from the skull of the aug'ed up thug that had caught her. He had enough time to bind and gag her - she's pressed herself into a little nook between two desks. She's got a thousand-yard stare and is shaking violently, breathing too fast, her arms behind her back.

You pat the aug down and find a handcuff key in his right pocket. Grabbing the gynoid by the shirt, you hoist her up and unlock the cuffs.

“This way,” you instruct, holding up the Skorpion for her to carry.

She stares right through you, not even moving to remove the mircrofiber cloth and length of ethernet cord she was gagged with.

[ ] SLAP
[ ] DRAG
[ ] CARRY

>>45892246
>[X] CARRY
DON'T SLAP THE ROBOT, THAT'S A STUPID IDEA

>>45892246
>[X] SLAP
GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF ROBOT

>>45892246
>[X] SLAP
THEN WE'LL DRAG HER ASS OUT
>[x] DRAG

>>45892246
>SLAP, CARRY IF THAT DOESNT WORK
WE DONT HAVE TIME ROBOSLUT, GET THE FUCK UP

>>45892291
>>45892292
>>45892297
>>45892307

THINE PIMP HAND: WAY STRONG

>>45892246
GET THE FUCK IN GEAR

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You flick your baton out again, and give Pizza-chan a good tap on the noggin.

“EYAHRGH!” she cries - the residual static charge isn't enough, but it gets her attention. She flings herself against the wall, her chest still heaving, hyperventilating - breathing isn't just for show with gynoids; it's their primary cooling function. You can feel the heat radiating from her overtaxed systems from here. Fight or flight mode?

Fuck, you don't know. You're not an engineer.

“Hey. Pizza-chan.”

“T-that's not my name,” she replies automatically, that downward quirk of her mouth back. It's reflexive, but reassuringly familiar, and that's what you need right now. You proffer the grip of the Skorpion again, along with a handful of spare magazines. “I need you to carry these.”

She blinks, swallows, and gingerly accepts the items - but her breathing hasn't slowed any.

“Now - COME.”

She follows you through the darkened offices. They're mostly empty on this lovely Sunday afternoon - everyone was drearily anticipating the post-production crunch of cleaning up the recordings the girls were supposed to make *today.* You move quickly and quietly, the trijicon sights of your pistol glowing faintly in the shadows, but nothing leaps out to assail you. Your nerves jangle at every subtle scrape, and you almost put three into the ceiling when the A/C kicks in and the vent flexes under the gentle pressure.

You clear through the production rooms, cross another hallway quickly and find yourself in the Cubicle Farm.
... in fact, you're not far from your own office.

[ ] Go to your office. Retrieve THE BEST GUN EVER.
[ ] Fuck that - you're almost to the panic room. Keep moving.
[ ] Try the radio again - you're closer to the exterior now.

>>45892506
>Radio
IT'S A TRAP

>THE BEST GUN EVER
WELL SHIT SON WHY THE FUCK NOT?

>>45892506
>[X] Go to your office. Retrieve THE BEST GUN EVER.

>>45892506
[X] Go to your office. Retrieve THE BEST GUN EVER.

>>45892506
>BEST GUN EVER
WHY IS THIS A CHOICE

>>45892538
>>45892552
>>45892576

YEAH MOTHAFUKKA YEAH

>>45892615

YEAAAAAHHHHH

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With a blood-splattered Miku stumbling in your wake, you carefully advance through the maze of cubicles - the thin dividers won't stop a BB gun, much less a rifle round, so you dare not make any noise lest someone is crouching with a carbine on the far side of the big room. At last you reach your own office on the far side of the room, fumble with your keys for a second, and pop on in. You go right for your desk drawer, where your Company Unapproved, Very American, Totally Horrible weapon is weapon is waiting for you - a Colt M45 with under-barrel light and a Trijicon holo-sight on the rear. From the bottom drawer you retrieve a pistol belt complete with a leg holster and strap it on - it's already heavy with pre-loaded magazines; old-fashioned FMJ. They ought to punch right through any metal motherfuckers you meet later on this trip.

You plop yourself down at your computer and log in with your usual credentials, then navigate right to the security system interface. Unfortunately most of the system seems to be out of action; only static meeting your eyes on most of the monitors. But a few are still working - and one shows two hulking SOBs stalking down a hallway with what looks like a portable battering ram in their hands. You snatch up the desk phone and dial quickly - the unwritten number for the small and screamingly inadequate panic room that doubles as the very inadequate security armory.

“HELLO? HELLO!?” comes the terrified voice on the other end.

“Iori?”

“MISTER WALKER, HELP ME! I'M IN THE PANIC ROOM, HELP!”

[ ] Leave Miku in your office and haul ass - you're almost out of time.
[ ] You can't risk her getting picked off alone - bring her with you.
[ ] Activate the PA system and tell those ugly fagmofucks how hideously turd-looking they are.

>>45892830
>PA SYSTEM
THIS FEELS LIKE A BUTTON, LETS PUSH IT

>>45892830
>[X] Activate the PA system and tell those ugly fagmofucks how hideously turd-looking they are.
BRING THEM TO US, SO WE CAN FUCKING SHOOT THEM ALL

>>45892830
>[X] Leave Miku in your office and haul ass - you're almost out of time.
LEAVE THE DEAD WEIGHT
>[x] Activate the PA system and tell those ugly fagmofucks how hideously turd-looking they are.
NOW WE WE SHALL SETTLE THIS

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>>45892927
>>45892956
>>45892864

SHIT JUST GOT REAL FUKKIN AUTHENTIC UP IN THIS BITCH

>>45892956
WE HAVE BROUGHT THE ROBOT BITCH THIS FAR. WHY DO YOU WANT TO FORSAKE THE POSSIBILITY OF FUCKING THE ROBOT

>>45892830
>PA
YEA MOTHERFUCKER

>>45893014
FUCK THE ROBOT AFTER MURDERING ALL THE ASSHOLES IN OUT WAY

>>45893014
PRIORITIES OVER PUSSIES SOLDIER!

>>45893038
DO NOT FUCK THE TRAUMATIZED ROBOT

>>45893063
THAT'S WHY I SAID DUMP THE DEAD WAIT MAGGOT

>>45893063
THAT'S THE WHOLE POINT OF KEEPING THE TRAUMATIZED ROBOT

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There's no way you're getting to that office in time to save the kid's life - and you know damn well that the chances of her working out how to load the Incredibly Awesome Rifle before those augs batter down that door are close to nil.

So instead, you just key the intercom system and lean close to the mic.

“HEY, FUCKNUGGETS! YEAH, YOU TWO WITH THE BATTERING RAM!”

They pause, looking at the ceiling in surprise.

“YOU HAPPEN TO KNOW A GUY WHO HAS BLACK AUG-ARMS?”

One of them finds the closest camera and sneers at it before blowing it away with his pistol. The audio sensors, however, are linked to the speakers, and a camera further down the hall is still transmitting - the one right outside the armory. They saunter towards it, undaunted.

“WHOOPS, FORGOT MY TENSES THERE. I MEANT *HAD* BLACK AUG-ARMS.”

This time, they pause.

“YEAH, ASSHOLES. I AIN'T TRADING ANY FUCKING HOSTAGES TODAY. I'M JUST STACKING YOU BASTARDS SIX DEEP.”

The battering ram drops to the floor as they draw their weapons, already looking down to consult PDAs.

“COME FOR ME NOW,” you state, “OR I COME FOR YOU LATER. YOUR CALL.”

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One of them stops long enough to shoot out the camera over the armory door before they leave.

You seize Miku by both shoulders and gently press her down till she's kneeling behind your desk, then push her back into the knee cubby. You take the Skorpion, load a fresh magazine, rack the bolt and place the grip in both her hands, squeezing them tightly till she grips the weapon firmly. “Miku. This desk is heavy enough to stop most rounds, and I'm locking the door behind me. If anyone tries to come in who isn't me, wait till they walk around the desk, press this against them and pull the trigger. Can you do that?”

She nods shakily.

“Good girl.” You pat her on the head, dash out of your office, lock the door behind you -

- and then you run like you've never run before. Darkened rooms, bullet-riddled walls, blood-splattered floors; smashed windows and ripped-apart doors flash by your eyes as you sprint through the sprawling building, angling for the office supply storeroom halfway between you and the backstage area where the security equipment armory is located. You hit the door-bar with your shoulder as you bull through and feel the hot wind of a passing bullet as it punches clean through the metal above your head. Sprawling across the floor as you cross the threshhold, you scamper behind a heavy-duty cabinet loaded with all sorts of metal tools of the stagecraft trade. It promptly thwangs and thrums as it stops several rifle-caliber rounds from suppressed weapons at the other end of the room.

[ ] Yeah, these cocksuckers are using smartlinks. Toss the EMP grenade.
[ ] Save the grenade - close for melee. You still have the stun baton.
[ ] Use “that.”

>>45893327
Grenade, then Prod.

Final boss hasn't shown up yet.

>>45893327
>[X] Save the grenade - close for melee. You still have the stun baton.
STILL TOO EARLY FOR "THAT" B0SS
MAYBE FINAL POST AS I DRIFT TO SLEEP

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>>45893327
>[X] Save the grenade - close for melee. You still have the stun baton.

>>45893350
>>45893371
>>45893376

I LIKE THEES A WHOLE LOT

ALL RIGHT, ASSKICKING IN 3, 2, 1

GOOD KOMRADES I SHALL NOW FIGHT SLEEP. TILL DAWN'S LIGHT!

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>>45893532
GOOD NIGHT KAMARADEN

>>45893407
FUCK I MISSED A VOTE.
I WOULD HAVE SAID TO USE "THAT" ANYWAY

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You quickly evaluate your chances of negotiating the room without catching a snap-shot in the dome from an aug'd-up asshole with a smartlinked rifle and quickly conclude it's highly unlikely. In fact, a flesh-and-blood man like yourself prevailing against two aug'd attackers in the first place is highly unlikely.

Of course, the bitch of the whole smartlink thing is that people often forget how to use a firearm without one - and once they're reduced to old-fashioned iron sights, they tend to miss a lot.

You pluck the EMP grenade from your pocket, thumb the firing switch, and fling it over the workbench.

Even behind a metal workbench you can still feel the electric sizzle in your back teeth, the ozone-like stench high in your sinuses as the powerful discharge washes over you. All these years later, and it's still with you, lingering, the uncomfortable vestiges of what you once were.

It's a little more than uncomfortable for the bastards on the other side of the room - you hear them grunt and snarl in pain as their neural links short and overload before the clamping devices kick in. You're already vaulting over the table, your .45 up and out and ready to sling lead downrage. You catch them while they're still trying to jack in the hardlines to their rifles - the radio links totally washed out, if not completely fried by the grenade - and they're tardy in reacting to your rush. You hit the ground and roll behind the second workbench in the room before they start firing again. Your earplugs have failed, blown out by the grenade as well, but they still serve to protect your hearing a bit, making it possible to determine that only one rifle is firing. You lean around the end of your bench and fire a round blind, then another - and are rewarded with the sound of some big heavy metal asshole hitting the ground in a combat roll.

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One 'mech to your north, by the door, sheltering behind a pallet-load of printer paper. One to the east-ish, just dove behind god-knows what. You take up an angle and see the supplies on those shelves are mostly janitorial - toilet paper, paper towels, cleaning solutions - so you just start plugging rounds through them one at a time till the asshole bolts to his feet and dashes back to his buddy.

The spent stainless magazine clatters on the polished concrete floor as the reload clicks home - press-check, one in the chamber, let's rock. You slip out from behind your bench and advance across the room in a crouch - it's maybe twenty yards down the length of it, maximum. You know what's coming - you keep the little green dot of your holo-sight on the top layer of the paper pallet. As soon as you see a thin black line appearing, you fire - hoping to nail the rifle, in case the cocksucker's gun-cam is still functioning, but when it vanishes you draw the P7 and start firing steadily, one shot with each steady step, keeping their heads down and the .45 ready to meet any ill-advised dashes from cover.

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As you approach within ten yards the rifle pops up again and you put a round into it from your M45, snatching it from the aug's hand - and then you rush them. One breaks sideways, hands empty as he leaps for cover - and catches two in the back for his trouble. The other pops out like he's spring-loaded, swinging his rifle up and over the barricade - only to meet the slide of your P7 as you bat it aside, already hurling yourself over the top of the pallet. Before you can swing your .45 around something hits your shoulder like a battering ram, stunning you long enough for a metallic arm to seize your forearm and slam it into a metal shelf riser, sending the pistol flying from your grip. You smash the butt of the P7 into the cocksucker's face, sending him reeling, blinking blood from his eyes - you level the pistol and hear it click empty, the slide locked open on an empty and smoking chamber.

There's a second of complete and utter silence as the aug releases his rifle's pistol grip - and when it clatters against the floor shit gets wild again.

[ ] Get your god damned gun back.
[ ] Introduce this fucker's head to your good old friend, concrete.
[ ] This asshole's got some meat left on him - look for it with your knife.

>>45893868
>[x] Introduce this fucker's head to your good old friend, concrete.

>>45893868
>[X] Introduce this fucker's head to your good old friend, concrete.

>>45893868
>[X] This asshole's got some meat left on him - look for it with your knife.

>>45893868
>FACE, MEET CONCRETE

>>45893893
>>45893900
>>45893908
>>45893917

I LOVE THE WAY YOU GUYS THINK

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Your new friend hasn't had his limbs chopped off and replaced with metal ones - but his integrated neural jack is currently playing host to a wearable integrable exoskeleton. The speed of his left jab tells you he's deactivated it, but if he manages to pin you long enough he might risk turning it on to smash your skull apart; the jitters and instability caused by the EMP damage won't be a problem once you're stationary. As his knuckles whistle past your temple and his right hand snatches for a sidearm on his thigh, you realize he's actually pretty damn good.

In other words, he's pissing you off so much you can barely contain the pressure boiling in your skull.

Your now-empty right is free to intercept his punch - your fingers are numb but you can still catch his arm in the crook of your elbow, yanking him close as you bring the butt of your P7 down on his shoulder, then slashing it into the rising muzzle of his pistol. It discharges into the paper pallet as you push yourself over it, falling on the sonofabitch as the butt of your weapon comes down on his fucking temple. As you land atop him you smash your skull into his nose, hearing a distinctly satisfying *click* as the back of his head bounces off the concrete floor. Slamming your pistol butt into his gun hand, you roll on your side, grab his tac-vest with your right hand and shove, sliding him over the floor and slapping his crown into the cinderblock wall behind him, near the other door.

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Then you're all over him like the proverbial rice in a glass of milk on a paper plate in a snowstorm, keeping up a manic rain of blows to make sure no knives or backup guns come popping out of any side pockets - the motherfucker's got more pouches than a Liefeld drawing, and you're not eager to see what he's got in any of them. You stop a few minutes later, the bastard's eyes glassy, blood seeping from his head after you've drummed it against the floor a few dozen times. Exhaustion is setting in - but you snatch up his rifle and put three rounds in his skull, then empty the magazine on the prone body of his buddy lying to one side.

No fucking point in taking chances.

You reload mechanically, holstering the P7 and filling a magazine with the loose spares in your pocket. The .45 goes back in the thigh holster, the rifle (an M-4 carbine) is slung, backup irons unfolded; but you're not sure if they're sighted in properly or not. The closest exokeleton user's chestrig yields a few magazines for it that go in your pockets.

You get halfway out of the door before the adreneline crash hits you - and the aftereffects of the EMP; the nasty aftertaste, the metallic tinge in the back of your mouth. You shiver and slump against the wall, streaking other men's blood over it as you catch your breath.

It's been one hell of a day, and it's not even over yet.

[ ] Try the radio again.
[ ] Make haste.

>>45894202
>MAKE HASTE

>>45894214

WE RIDE

You sprint the remaining distance to the armory as fast as possible, rifle up at the low ready to engage any “friends,” the selector left at full-auto. The dressing rooms are abandoned, mirrors shattered, makeup kits scattered - the costuming area is in similar disarray, the body of a tailor sprawled over her bench still, large caliber wounds gaping wide in her back. Finally you reach the room you spend so much time in, the locked door that protects the moderately expensive radios and pistols and batons and pepper spray and even the riot gear you keep on hand for away visits to venues where the crowds are huge and defensibility of ingress and exits poor. You gain the final hallway, where the abandoned battering ram still sits halfway to the door. With a sigh of relief, you stalk down the final stretch, rifle trained at the corners ahead - there's no cover here and no doorways to dart into, so if someone opens up on you you'll need to suppress them till you reach your objective.

You're within ten paces of salvation when the wall down the hallway vanishes in a bone-jarring CRUNCH of wallboard and plaster. You dash for the keypad, but the familiar FWHOOSH of an igniting rocket motor reaches your ears a second too l-

[ ] Use “that.”
[ ] Use “that.”
[ ] Use “that.”

>>45894405
>USE THAT
>USE THAT
>USE THAT
>FUCKING USE THAT
USE IT BITCH

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>>45894442

It's time.

>>45894451
Push the Button

>>45894405
The button. Push it yes?

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Time slows to a crawl as your eyes flick down the hall and find the tell-tale plume of rocket exhaust as the RPG screams towards you.

Hyperreality, they call it. The brain kicking into overdrive, straining itself to the limit to react in time to save your life. But an RPG moves almost like a bullet at this range - the instant you've glimpsed it, it's already too late to move. In this hallway, the frag pattern will find you - and probably blow the door open and kill your principal as well.

It takes you then - the frisson, building between one beat of your heart and the next -

- and then the flash.

You come to on the floor; blood trickling into your eyes, your shirt shredded in three or four places. Dull aches spread through your chest when you suck in a breath, but the class-IIA seems to have stopped the worst of it; it's just shrapnel, not rifle bullets. Lurching to your feet, you raise your rife and wipe the blood from your eyes with a shirtsleeve when the machine fires again, the shoulder-mounted rocket pod lighting up briefly as another rocket screams your way -

- and detonates halfway down the hall.

Welding the rifle to your shoulder, you send a burst of automatic fire down the long hallway, the rounds sparkling and snapping as they rebound from the machine's armored carapace. A third rocket blossoms from the tube, only to go off almost in the 'bot's face, sending it reeling - but not toppling; it's three-legged keeping it upright. It squares its armored torso to you, the huge, heavy slabs of crushing steel it calls 'fingers' retracting to reveal the muzzles of twin light machine guns.

[ ] SOMETHING BIGGER, SOMETHING BETTER
[ ] NEO STYLE, MOTHERFUCKER

>>45894630
The button has been pushed, everything is right in the world

>Neo Style

>>45894630
>I'M BIGGER, I'M BETTER

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>>45894666
>>45894679

ROGER DODGER, LETS FUCK SOME SHIT UP

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Unfortunately for the metal monster currently trying to vaporize you, that conversion takes time - time you don't feel like giving it. You're already halfway down the hall when you feel the telltale itch of targeting RADAR/LIDAR sweeping over you; your muscles burn as you fling yourself at the wall, kick off with one heel and tuck into a roll when the guns open up, tracers slicing towards you. More plaster rains down as the high-velocity rounds chew through the walls and ceiling - you land feetfirst on the wall and launch yourself towards the carpet, rifle up and blazing away on full-auto for whatever good it'll do. The guns swing downwards ponderously, aiming for where you *will* be - and that's when the blinding, searing heat in your skull seems to blaze into a nova of light, stars dancing in your vision as that old metallic taste bites the back of your tongue again, stronger than an aluminum sandwich. Ozone sizzles in your nose as you slam into the floor hard, aches and pains shooting through your spine as you slide between two lines of tracers slashing through the floor on either side; hot fragments biting your calves through your shredded jeans. You grind to a halt by the machine's tripod-style feet, and roll swiftly as one huge hand slams into the ground. It backhands at you as you spring up, but you just fling yourself back to soften the blow, teeth clicking together as your ribcage creaks beneath the impact. You grab the metallic limb and hold on for dear life, free hand whipping out the shock-prod and ramming it into the flex-joint of the elbow.

You trigger it.

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The machine jerks violently - it's far too big and the prod is half-extinguished, but it gives you the moment you need as the hulking beast's subroutines reroute its power and try to clamp the surges in its wiring. You swing yourself towards the boxy “head,” latching your fingers around the recess where it retracts for storage in its usual cube-shaped formation. The machine is just coming to life again when you draw your fist back - and strike.

Muscle memory is a funny thing. It ingrains itself in your subconscious hardwiring, deep beneath the Id, merging with your most basic autonomic functions, down in the brainstem. It becomes as reflective as breathing - so even now, all these years later, when you reach for it, it responds.

Your fist smashes through the machine's head, steel and aluminum crumpling as the impact jolts up your arm. You shove deeper, deeper, deeper, hot conductive jel seeping around your forearm until your fingers find a primary power main.

The world flashes white, and then everything goes dark.

....

“Walker?”

You blink yourself awake, that goddamn smell still searing your sinuses. Hovering over you is a vast white forehead ringed by red frills to the north and a sour expression to the south. The hard nose of a Mary-Jane taps your temple cautiously, like something nasty might yet spill from your mouth. “Walker!?”

You blink at the image of Iori. A faint green diamond is fitzing in and out over her face.

ENEMY?

[ ] Yes.
[ ] No.

>>45895044
>No
That was the boss fight, we're fine now

>>45895044
No.

Simulation Over

>>45895088
>>45895106

AWESOME

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You sigh, and shake your head. A second later the flashing green diamond vanishes, and is immediately replaced by a running scroll of bright red alerts.

ALERT - SAFE-MODE. REBOOT AT EARLIEST CONVENIENCE.

ALERT - NO WEAPON LINKS ON PAN. CHECK ALL WEAPONS.

ALERT - NO NETWORK HUB DETECTED. EXTERNAL TELEMETRY DISENGAGED.

ALERT - SINGGCARS OFFLINE/COMMO OFFLINE/C3I DISABLED

ALERT - POWER WARNING! 47% - COMBAT DURATION LIMITED
ALERT - POINT-DEFENSE SWARM DEPRECIATED TO 32%, ETA FOR FULL BUILD: N/A

“Ugh,” you groan as you rub your face. “I did not miss this shit.”

“Who are you calling shit!?” the shitbird says. “What took you so long!?”

You sit up and stare at her - then you glance askance at the huge combat robot you just finished killing with your bare fucking hands. You jerk a thumb at it. “Does this mean fucking anything to you?”

“I d-don't know about that stuff!” she opines. “I didn't see any of it! Just - I - can we go now? Can we go!?”

“Yeah. Help me up.”

She does so, grabbing your wrist and leaning back, using her meager weight to help you stagger upwards. Your nerves are a bit jangly, but that's what happens when you trigger a subsystem without booting the main controller first - shit gets a little wonky.

“Yeah. Yeah, just lemme get a few things, and we'll try to make it out.”

“What the hell is going on?” she demands.

“Fuck if I know, kid - but whatever it is, I've had my fucking fill.”

Two out of three down - now you just have to collect the Alcohol Idol, and blow this fucking place.

Preferably, right to hell.

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RIGHTO, END OF OUR ONESHOT FOR NOW

I MIGHT DO MORE OF THIS IF I GET BORED THIS WEEKEND, AND TELL THE STORY OF RECOVERING THAT ONE BITCH THAT ALWAYS DRINKS AND IS PROBABLY WHINING ABOUT HER DRINKING PROBLEMS IN A BACK ROOM SOMEWHERE WHILE SOME MERCENARY MOTHERFUCKERS GO LOOKIN AROUND FOR HER

BUG ME IN THE WEEKEND QUEST GENERAL AND IT MIGHT HAPPEN, WOOOOOO

>>45895328
Thanks man, it was fun. Looking forward to more if you're ever up to it.

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>>45895328

YOU DIDN'T GIVE ME A DESCRIPTION SO I MADE SHIT UP. WE OFFICE WORKER OPERATOR NOW. THE SHIT WE PUT UP WITH.

>>45895328
FUCKING GREAT MAN.

>>45895328
Oh shit someone should archive this, this shit was awesome

>>45895378

THAT'S PRETTY MUCH MY HEADCANON ANON, THANK YOU, THAT LOOKS BITCHIN

>>45895397

PLEASE DO, I GOTTA RUN AT THE MOMENT

Archived

Best Quest I've read in a long time. Unironically fantastic. Take your time on the sequel.

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>>45895287
http://vocaroo.com/i/s15wsDBm7lWY

Sensing a catchphrase there.

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Hey what's going on in this thr-

Oh.

OH.

this was hotline miami levels of nuts

i loved it

Wait, did Miku make it out?

>>45896331
Yes, idiot.

>>45896046
Bro Quest dude? Is that you?

GREAT QUEST

>>45896046
This is FUCKING AWESOME
>>45896105
I thought the same

>>45899508
HBQ's voicefag? That's totally him.

He's also Anaru Quest dude I think

Please keep this going. This is a wild fucking ride and I don't want it to stop.

Also it's generating some godly OC already