>>4255093
>Nico Kalashi (Male)

>>4255093
>>Lishna Kov (Female)

>>4255093
>Lishna Kov (Female)

>>4255093
>Nico Kalash

A tie. Made a roll and writing...

>>4255093
>Lishna Kov (Female)

File: Nico.png (149 KB, 600x600)

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>>4255101
>>4255116

Right… Right. You nod resolutely from your position flat on the ground in a puddle of blood, your neck-length, golden hair bobbing along with the pang in your head. Slowly the world clears up around you and the pain abates, even if only a little. --You grasp reality and don't let go.

You are Nico Kalashi, and you are so fucked up.

Forcing your emerald eyes to remain half-lidded, you roll over pitifully and try to push against the dirty wooden floor to force yourself up. When that doesn't work, you instead crawl like an animal, pulling yourself past the worn recliner, couch, and stacks of take-out cartons strewn across your apartment. It isnt a pretty sight. In fact, its downright pathetic. If you had any room for an emotion deprived of pain, it would gut-wrenching disgust at being brought so low.

Your monument of pizza boxes tips over when your leg brushes past it. If tears weren't already streaking down your pale face, they certainly were now.

You crawl into the hallway in your apartment, and finally manage to force yourself up to your feet using the doorway. Your knees tremble, waver, but you hold strong. You’ve never, ever felt this helpless in your life. Like a goddamned baby deer. Prey, where you should be a predator. Sneering, you hobble along the wall and push your way into the tiny bathroom.

White linoleum and faded wallpaper greet you as you blindly flick the light on and brace yourself on the sink. You’re openly gasping and sweating now as you stare into your reflection. You look like hell; your hair is a mess, trails of dried blood mark your face, and your eyes are ringed with thick black.

You tilt your head down and grimace. Scoring a deep mark under your hair on top of your head and slicing into the corner of your forehead is an awful gash. A large split wound in your skull that burns at a touch. The blood around it is dried and stagnant-- probably the only thing keeping you from bleeding out on the spot.

“...Fuck.” You mutter, quite eloquently.

The gash… the pain… just what happened to you?

>roll 1d100 to try and recall

Rolled 84 (1d100)

>>4255128

Rolled 86 (1d100)

>>4255128

Rolled 21 (1d100)

>>4255128

>>4255120
Seconds too late. Ah well. Post Lishna pic?

Rolled 58 (1d100)

>>4255128

File: Hallucinations.jpg (47 KB, 750x528)

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>>4255138

The memory comes back hard and fast. You remember raiding the gambling house… tearing through the guards and goons like it was second nature with wild abandon. It all comes back in near crystal clear quality, every second of heart-pounding, bone burning action coming to mind like a shot of pure adrenaline. The tiny slices in your knuckles can attest that you gave as good as you got. You remember the exhilarating heat in your chest as you cut loose, laughing giddily all the while.

Then you remember turning a dark corner, your awareness faltering ever so slightly, and the unforgiving pain of having your skull cracked wide open.

You gingerly prod the wound, wincing again. A goddamned monkey wrench? The pain and dizziness all made sense now. You're not entirely sure how you’re even still alive.

The memories thereafter are fuzzy, muddled and fractured. You feel some amount of pride remembering that you kept on fighting even after taking such a brutal hit. But you had been losing, struggling… The last, most prominent memory is the sound of breaking glass, and something crunching.

Another lance of pain rockets up your back, but you ignore it.

As you mull over the memories, you grab a spare roll of gauze and a handful of painkillers. Swallowing them dry, you begin to wrap up the wound to the best of your ability. Everything else is blank. But you must have at least managed to drag yourself back home and collapse in your living room-- a relatively safe spot compared to the streets. It could have been much, MUCH worse.

Once the impromptu first aid is finished, you let your blonde hair hang over the bandages and collapse into the empty tub like a cut puppet. Your energy is all but sapped, and its all you can do to keep from passing out on the spot. You stare at the cracked ceiling, and marshall yourself.

Accept a vice.

>Smoking (+10 to combat rolls, -10 to constitution rolls)
>Alcoholism (+10% damage, -10 to perception rolls)
>Plutomania (+10 to luck rolls, -10 to social rolls)
>Write-in

File: Lishna_Kov.jpg (58 KB, 367x380)

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>>4255145

Would've used this pic for the moment.

>>4255156
>>Alcoholism (+10% damage, -10 to perception rolls)

>>4255156
>Alcoholism (+10% damage, -10 to perception rolls)

>>4255156
>Plutomania

>>4255156
>Alcoholism (+10% damage, -10 to perception rolls)

>>4255156
>Is there a "Al Coholyk" here?

File: Humble_Abode.jpg (397 KB, 1400x800)

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>>4255160
>>4255164
>>4255167
>>4255176


Grumbling through your aches, you reach into one of the leg zippers in your pants and pull out a small metallic flask. The stainless still catches the glint of the buzzing lamp in the ceiling as you hold it up high for appraisal. There, right in the center of it, is a large hole burrowed through the container. You shake the flask, and nothing comes from it except a dented bullet that rolls out of the hole to clatter into the tub. You curse, loudly, and toss it aside.

No whiskey to take the edge off this time. Your piss-poor luck shines through yet again.

Not only that… you shift in the tub, feeling nothing press against your fine ass. It appeared your wallet was gone too. Just lovely.

You throw an arm over your eye and wait. One minute turns into four, which turns into ten. Eventually, you drop your arm and pull yourself up and out of the tub with far more grace and speed than you had when falling into it.

The painkillers were doing their job. Your head is clear and the aches are gone. You’re not at 100%, but you’re pretty damn close.

===

You exit the bathroom and into the living room again. Without your skull beating like a drum, you can take in the sights with a cleared head. You note the trail of blood leading from the exit into a big puddle where you woke up. You spot your cloak and hat in a heap on the couch.

...And you notice that the last dregs of sunlight are disappearing through your shuttered windows. The sun dipping low to be swallowed by the towering constructs of steel on the horizon.

“It's almost night…?” You question. You went to the gambling house at nighttime, and had to have left not long after. Did you spend an entire day passed out on the floor?

Your stomach grumbles, and you click your teeth. If that's the case, then you missed an entire day of school. You were gonna get an earful for that tomorrow, no doubt.

NOW you’re pissed. It was bad enough they dared to sneak attack you like that. But they couldn't even nut up enough to finish the job? Had to leave you with the bad end of a concussion and call it a day? They even took your wallet! You see it for what it is-- a big neon ‘FUCK YOU’ written on your forehead.

If people found out you got your ass kicked and didn't get even, your reputation (what little there is) would be ruined. You’re not just pissed. You’re absolutely, unabashedly, LIVID.

You were gonna finish what you started. One way or another.

But… not just yet. There's still light out, and that tends to make things more troublesome for you. It’d probably be best to distract yourself for a bit. And you are nothing if not distractible.

>Write-in

>>4255120
Where is the roll ?

Shieet if you need options just ask.

Anyway, might as well post the rules during the downtime.

Most rolls are handled as a best of three rule, Criticals and Critfails still apply.

Not much else to say so far without spoiling. This is my first quest so be a little patient if I make mistakes here or there.

>>4255182
>get something to eat

>>4255182
>seek professional medical attention
also, is there a superior that we report to?

File: You_live_like_this.jpg (53 KB, 512x304)

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>>4255249

You momentarily scoff as you let the window shutters hang shut. You'd love nothing more than to hop a ride to the hospital and get this nasty wound some ACTUAL attention. But there are so many reasons not to that you cant begin to count them. For now, it was best to boil it down to your lack of wallet making it a very unappealing idea. You're already drowning in debts, no need to add to the list for something you can shake off.

And as for a superior... You shiver in disgust. No way. Nobody is in charge of your life but you, and that's not gonna change anytime soon.

>>4255229

You peer down as your stomach gives its best impression of a T-Rex. The sound is loud, and does wonders in Turns out that spending upwards of twelve hours unconscious on the floor does little to satiate your bodily needs. Who knew?

The decision makes itself for you. Being this starved was going to affect your quest for revenge, so it was best to handle it promptly. Besides, what could be more distracting than stuffing your face?

You grab a carton of Chinese food, about to dig into cold-- possibly stale-- beef and broccoli, before giving a pause. You frown irritably and make an about face while grabbing a couple more discarded take-out boxes. You saunter into the kitchen and deposit the various foodstuffs on a counter while eyeing the oven.

...You’ve never actually tried your hand at cooking anything-- always choosing the far easier route of fast food and carry out. Just stepping into the neglected kitchen of your apartment is an entirely new experience for you.

Maybe that monkey wrench knocked a few screws loose. Either way, you’re willing to give it the old college try.

[Protip: Stupid tasks are a good way to increase passive skills or gain skills, even if they do waste your precious time!]

>roll 1d100 to make something edible

>>4255255
Holy mother of typos batman

Rolled 18 (1d100)

>>4255255

Rolled 77 (1d100)

>>4255255

Rolled 75 (1d100)

>>4255255

File: Nico_Kalashi.jpg (187 KB, 1016x1135)

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>>4255267

You actually manage to make something edible from the mess of old take out food. You marvel at the lack of a rancid smell, and cautiously poke and prod at the plate-- finding no burn marks whatsoever to speak of.

...This is pretty impressive. Its not restraunt quality by any means, but with what you had to work with and your painful lack of experience, it was something to be proud of.

Even if you were fairly certain it was just a fluke, its still the damn tastiest fluke you've ever had. Your stomach fills quickly, and you sigh in relief.

[Diligence has Increased!]

===

Tossing aside your chopsticks, you stand and peek through the shredded curtains on your window and give a sharp-toothed grin. Night has fallen. It's time to enact vengeance.

You sweep your cloak up and throw it on, your quick fingers doing up the buttons at the neck. The high collar obscures your chin, and your arms and torso are hidden under the green garment. You gingerly stuff most of your hair into a likewise green cap, and finally slip on your octagonal shades.

You don't need a mirror. You know you look badass.

Now that you’re kitted out in your baller duds, it's time to put the hurt on some greasy gamblers. But before that, you give a pause and adopt a thinker's pose. A large, and very angry part of yourself wants to get to the gambling house now and get the job done quick and brutally. But the tiny, neglected part of your brain whispers that it's probably a bad idea.

Last time, you went there empty handed. Things went pretty okay, but it certainly wasn't easy going. And… you tap the sliver of bandage peeking out from under your cap, it obviously didn't end well.

If you’re going to tear down that shit hole, then it might help to even the playing field…

>Grab a weapon
>No need

>>4255279
>No need

>>4255279
>no need

>>4255279
>No need

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>>4255288
>>4255297
>>4255299

You mull the option over for a bit before shaking your head resolutely. A weapon may have helped, but you're nothing if not stubborn. You went there at first without a weapon, and you were going to do it again. Not because you're an idiot, but to prove a point. Prove that a bunch of shady gambling fucks arent even worth the effort of grabbing a weapon.

You clench your fists and grin darkly. Its hard mode time.

[Fists: (2d2) of damage.]
[In hard mode, weapons found in the field can break after too much use. Only personal weapons can be kept.]

This decision can be changed either now or sometime later

NOW you’re ready.

You escape the dank confines of your apartment and into the open air of the city, only pausing to throw together the many, many locks that kept the dilapidated door shut. The glow of the neon sea stretching across the horizon lights upon your glasses as you jauntily descend the staircase.

As you travel, the ruined buildings of the boroughs slowly warp into the claustrophobic hodgepodge of the commercial district-- the sounds of countless moving bodies, honking horns, and blaring advertisements turning dominant. Whatever image of tranquility that existed during the day is gone; arguments between passerby immediately devolve into bloody fistfights, drug peddlers don't even bother to hide their goods in their trench coats, and you watch one particularly unlucky sap get shanked in the back and thrown head-first through a shop window.

You give a sharp-toothed smirk as you watch a man break into and hotwire a car right in the middle of the street without a care in the world-- driving off and nearly mowing down a group of loitering thugs who holler and give chase.

All in all, it's a pretty tame night.

You sober up quickly. As much as you want to cut loose and go wild, you have a mission now, and getting distracted and wasting energy would just make it all the harder. Focusing up, you recall the directions to the gambling house and move on. Usually any manner of thug would have stopped you by now to try and shake you down, but curiously enough they all kept a wide berth from you.

Maybe they could sense your single-minded drive and didn't want to get in your way. Or maybe your bloodthirsty shark-like grin was a little too disconcerting for them to try their luck. Either way, it made it easier for you-- no diversions were forthcoming.

Even still… it's a long walk. Without a car or bike of your own, there's no way to cut down on the distance, and there's no way in hell you’re taking your chances with a taxi-- far too much could go wrong. Not that you had the money for it in the first place.

File: The_line.jpg (82 KB, 720x480)

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>>4255309

But your patience is soon rewarded. The claustrophobia abates, the crowds thin, and the streets open up wide. The neon fades away to be replaced with normal streetlights, and the occasional LED of the passing cars. Your boots come to a stop on the sidewalk, and your octagonal shades gleam with glee-- you spot it.

The Gambling House is a two story building sandwiched into the small corner of the city just before the industrial district. It's not an ostentatious thing in the least-- and compared to the casino in Sefton Avenue, it's not much to look at. But it's enough. What was once one of a many abandoned buildings in the city had become a den of gambling that had a line of eager fools waiting outside to try their luck.

It wasn't just gambling of course, any dumbass with eyes could tell there was more going on under the table. But the establishment still hadn't been busted yet. Perhaps it suggested deep connections?

At the moment, you didn't care.

Hopping up, you take a seat on the hood of a car parked in an alley across from the Gambling House. You rub your chin thoughtfully and stare at the bouncer checking people through the double doors. You’re here now, but how should you approach this? Last time you just walked in through the front door, but that wouldn't work now. The bouncer would recognize you in a heartbeat and sound the alarm. You suppose you could do it anyway and damn stealth, but it always helped to view all the options.

You know that there is a back entrance too, and it’d certainly be easier than the front. However, you know for a fact there are at least two guards back there too. Tough, but doable. It would be the highest chance of entering undetected.

Of course… you could also get creative…

>Force your way through the front
>Go through the back
>Write in

>>4255313
>Go through the back

>>4255313
>Go through the back

>>4255313
>Force your way through the front

Taking a small break, will return in an hour or so

>>4255313
Teleport inside

File: Back_Alley.png (2.06 MB, 1920x1080)

2.06 MB PNG

>>4255338
>>4255348

There's something to be said about taking the cautious approach. You’re all for balls to the wall hell rides, but you can also recognize when a more… enlightened approach is required. As you make up prose to yourself in your head, you take the long way down the streets and through the ungodly tight alleyways to reach the rear end of the gambling house.

Buildings surround you on all sides now, and the stench of wet garbage only grows stronger as you traverse the alleys toward the gambling house. Every now and then you come to a stop when your foot nudges a discarded bottle of beer-- you check each and every one of them, but they’re all empty. Your mood only drops as you sourly pout.

Stepping over an upturned dumpster strewn over a gutter, you finally spot the back door when the alley opens up.

"..."

The muddled voices reach your keen ears, and you hurriedly hide behind a ladder recessed into a wall of an abandoned building to peer out. The back of the gambling house is littered with graffiti and trash scattered along the concrete. Whereas the front had rather well maintained double glass doors, this entrance only had a single tightly shut metal door-- and two suited men standing on either side of it. Light creeping through the cracks in the door silhouette them as they stand guard.

Hidden in the darkness of the corner, you eye them closely. They don't seem like much-- they’re thin bodied wasters who were mostly likely just plucked from the street for the night-- and you cant spot any weapons on them.

Even still, it would be two on one. No sense in getting overconfident just yet.

The two leaned against the bricks of the building, each puffing away at a cigar as they conversed all blase like-- neither registering your eyes watching them like a hawk. The alley is wide open here, if you try to approach them they would spot you in an instant.

The door’s your ticket in. But those two were not gonna let you pass easily.

>Write-in

>>4255544
Grab a bottle and approach them playing drunk, when the opportunity rises smash the bottle on one and take the other

>>4255573
+1

File: Goons.jpg (15 KB, 170x233)

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>>4255573
>>4255597

Your eternal smile turns downright devilish as you pull back from the ladder and into the shadows once more. It's not hard to find another empty bottle of beer, you pick it up and keep it close by as you eye your score. This would be almost too easy.

You dexterously spin the bottle along your fingers and take a deep imaginary swig from it, your entire body tilting backward while your feet remain flat on the ground-- like a game of limbo. When you pull back up, your face is flushed and your grin is loopy. The shift in balance forces you forward with zero grace and sends you stumbling out into the light.

Every movement is over-exaggerated and sloppy. What would usually be a jaunty casual gait had been warped into staggering, crisscrossing of steps that send you shifting to the side and back again-- always just inches short of falling flat on your face but always recovering just in time. You imagine you look just like a drunken sailor trying to fight the rocking heaves of a boat in a storm.

One of the guards notices you instantly and pauses in the middle of his conversation. He slaps his fellow man's chest and points to you.

“What the fuck…?”

The alerted guard grunts, “Hey! This is private property! Turn around motherfucker!”

You act like you don't hear them and throw your balance just enough to ‘accidentally’ topple a trash can. “Weigh, hey! Roll… and go!” You slur and attempt a hiccup, taking yet another imaginary swig as you slowly advance on them.

“...Hes fucking drunk.” The first guard pinches his nose in exasperation, “It's always something in this city.”

The other man nods in agreement, though the lilt in his voice shows that he's at least amused at your antics. “Guys pissed. I don't think he even knows what city he's in.”

You’re getting closer now. You slur more of your words and quiet your voice just a little. By all means, you’re giving off the air of harmless, senseless drunk.

“Just get rid of him already. Guys an eyesore, and that mumbling is annoying.”

A rolled eye, “Yeah, yeah…” The second guard takes a step forward, face creasing “Hey bucko, turn around now. Go get pissed somewhere else.”

Your hand holding the bottle drops loosely to your side, you take a couple more crisscrossing steps toward them. If they could see beyond your glasses, they may have noticed the way your eyes sharpen intensely.

“...to be rollicking randy… dandy…”

“Just move it already-!” The man goes for a shove to your shoulder.

>roll 1d100 for sneak attack. +30 for vice bonus

Rolled 1 + 30 (1d100 + 30)

>>4255644
WAZAA

>>4255650
Thank god we have the vice bonus, holy moly

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>>4255650

Rolled 68 + 30 (1d100 + 30)

>>4255644

Honestly considering not taking the critfail this time just because i dont see it enhancing the fun for this particular roll.

Decisions decisions.

Rolled 20 + 30 (1d100 + 30)

>>4255644

>>4255661

The shove hits your shoulder hard. But instead of toppling over like he expected you to, you take the shove and spin with it. Instead of hitting the dirt, your body pirouettes around the thugs extended hand like a spin move in football. It's hardly graceful, but you move with such speed that the lack of practice pales in comparison to what comes next.

He doesn't even have time to blink before your eyes glint, and the beer bottle comes around to smash over his head with the full force of your spin behind it. Green glass shatters instantly, exploding into the air with impunity. His eyes instantly white out, and he drops like a sack of bricks to hit the wall-- his legs all but jelly from the unexpected blow.

“What the fu--!!”

The other man barely gets his expletive out before you’re on him, tackling him to the ground with ferocity and straddling his chest. You don't take the time to savor the undiluted fear in his eyes as you bring the jagged remains of the beer bottle to bear and drive it straight into his unprotected throat. Blood sprays in the air, and you press down with all you’re worth-- fighting against his desperate struggle.

>roll 1d5 + 6 for damage (+5 for sneak attack +1 for vice)

Rolled 5 + 6 (1d5 + 6)

>>4256965

Rolled 5 + 6 (1d5 + 6)

>>4256965

>>4256996
>>4257012
Good right

Okay. Now that I've finally got some free time, its time to try and do this quest again.

File: Alley.png (1.38 MB, 1920x1080)

1.38 MB PNG

>>4256996

The light in his eyes fade and his struggle comes to an end quickly. The hands gripping yours fall slack at his side the final tremors fleeing his body. You hold your position for a moment longer before wrenching the jagged bottle from his throat, the brittle glass shattering with the action and leaving you weaponless.

Oh well.

You stand back up, and roll your shoulders throwing away your harmless drunkard persona like an old coat. As far as your plans go, that was just about flawless. Though you cant shake the feeling that you narrowly avoided terrible catastrophe. Shrugging that off, your eyes trail toward the first bouncer, still slumped against the wall, and note that he was out like a light. You didn't quite expect to take him down that easily too, but you certainly weren't complaining.

>Finish him off?
>Y/N

Stepping toward the sealed metal door, you give the handle an experimental jiggle-- it turns back and forth without any trouble, and you scoff. Amateurs. Couldn't even lock the damn door.

Still, you didn't get this far in life by being reckless. Well, not exactly true. Reckless and audacious, yes, but not inattentive or negligent. So when you considered the possibility of walking headlong into a room full of people who want to tear your throat out, you hesitated.

Bending low, you press an ear to the crack in the door and wait…

>roll 1d100 -10 for perception (-10 for vice)

Rolled 91 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4260479
>N

>>4260485
Shit -10 didn’t work

File: Kitchen.jpg (112 KB, 1024x682)

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Hopefully we get some more rollers soon

>N

You're a Gangster. Not an executioner. Although killing him off might be the 'safe' option, it just didn't sit right with you. You are more than prepared to take a life, make no mistake, but something about killing a defenseless man in his sleep gave you the heebie jeebies. So you leave him. Unconscious in a dumpster festering with month old food, but alive all the same. Very few people who cross your path can say the same.

>>4260485

It's not an easy task to cut through the noise pollution of the city and focus on a singular sound, but you somehow manage anyway. It's a surreal feeling to have everything fade away until there's nothing left but the sound of your breathing and the muffled report from beyond the door. There are all sorts of noises filtering through the crack, but the one you focus on is the most important-- the set of footsteps quickly approaching the door.

You pull back, sneer, then raise your foot up high. No time to think about game plans, you only had seconds to act. Without any fanfare, you drive your foot against the door with all the force you can muster, flinging it open into the building like a battering ram.

There is a heavy metal ‘clang’ as the door meets resistance before flinging itself open, and a scream of pain. You stomp in after the half-broken door, and roam your eyes over the new surroundings.

White tiles, cupboards lining the walls, long rows of lights in the ceiling, and four separate islands in the middle of the room with stove tops and ovens built into them. Hanging over those stove tops are convoluted metal constructs with a bunch of cooking utensils welded to them like knives, spatulas, and even more knives. A kitchen-- one of those big ones you could only find in those fancy pants restaurants that feed more than a hundred people at a time.

It sure wasn't staffed like one though. Apart from the corner of the room where some putz in a smock was lazily stirring a pot of… something... the rest of the room was completely empty.

Well… except for the suited man lying prone on the ground, gripping his face in anguish. You note the smear of blood on the edge of the broken door, and follow it to the twisted nose of the guard. The man glares up at you in some parts shock and pain, completely vulnerable-- like a flipped turtle-- and for just a moment he doesn't know what to do.

You’re more than capable of giving him an idea.

YOU HAVE THE INITIATIVE

>Write-in

>>4260542
>pin him down and make him tell us where we need to go (what are we doing here?) then knock him out.

>>4260560
+1

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>>4260560

You don't waste a second. Before he even knows what’s happening, you’re pouncing on him like a tiger and pinning one arm to the ground with a knee and the other with a hand. He fights you, hard, but you manage to pin him beneath you long enough to pull your fist back and nail him across the cheek. The sound of knuckles meeting tender flesh is overwhelming, and his head snaps back into the concrete with a sputter of saliva.

Blood immediately wells up in his mouth, and he lets out a high groan of agony, your free hand snags his hair and you hold him against the ground-- forcing his eyes to stare into your octagonal shades.

>3 Damage dealt

“Let's make this quick. Who's in charge of this place?” You demand, pressing your knee harder into his arm.

"Wha... That green cape... You're that brat from the other night!"

You growl and press your knee in harder. Its not a fucking cape. "Shut up and talk!"

There's a pause as he stares up at you, then his eyes glint with pure defiance and malice. Your eyes widen comically as he begins to struggle like a wild animal beneath you. He thrashes and bucks, and you have to fight to try and keep his limbs pinned. His arms lash out and his knees keep striking your back-- lacking force but still serving to unsteady you.

You growl in annoyance. You might have caught him off guard, but this was still a perfectly healthy man. Your punch may have dazed him, but it wasn't nearly enough to actually weaken him. If you wanted an easy interrogation target, you probably should have chosen someone less hale and hearty.

Another buck sends you up off your seat, and the goon takes immediate advantage. His legs come up, a single dirty loafer pressing against your chest all the warning you get before you're being flung up and off of him by a kick. Your back strikes one of the stove top islands, and you grunt at the pain.

>-1 Health

Luckily, the kick put you back on your feet. Unluckily, the man had already climbed up to his feet as well. He eyes you warily, his fists up as he glares you down. The two of you share an awkward look before he suddenly bursts into action to keep on the offensive, his fists dropping away as his leg comes soaring up in a roundhouse aimed for your head.

>roll 1d100 to dodge

Rolled 95 (1d100)

>>4260643
>Discombobulate him

Rolled 8 (1d100)

>>4260643

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>>4260666

The kick comes in fast. Faster than any normal person could possibly send one. But you are still faster yet.

As soon as it comes in, you’re already ducking under the blow. It soars over your head, the wind buffeting your cloak in its wake. The goon’s eyes widen, pure shock overcoming him while he's left wide open. Before he can even begin to pull his leg back, you’re stepping into his personal space, looping an arm under his outstretched leg and another to grip his shoulder, and you lift him.

You pick him up, take a step, then spin and promptly drive him back first into the stove top. The steel bends and warps under his back, and he cries out in agony. Whatever bravado he had is summarily destroyed, and he's left wheezing in agony.

Not quite finished yet, you use the stove counter to launch yourself up so you can grab onto the rack of knives hanging above him. Your fingers latch a mean hold on the swaying rack, and when your full weight comes to bear the steel cords connecting it to the ceiling snap with little fuss.

You bring the rack of knives screaming down, and the goon can barely raise a hand in defense before the twelve different razor sharp blade edges skewer him like so much meat. Blood erupts in a fabulous fountain, as you step away and pant.

Pinned beneath an array of knives and the stove, his life sputters out in an instant. Blood begins to leak down to the ground in earnest, and a final haggard jolt runs through the man's leg before the buzz of adrenaline finally fades.

It's only moments later that you realize you were supposed to interrogate that man. You frown and give his leg a nudge. Something tells you he wasn't in the talking mood anymore.

“Err…” You turn and finally remember that you weren't quite alone. The smock wearing man tending to the pot of… chili… watches you warily as he backs against the corner. His eyes dart from the dead goon to you faster than you can follow. You take a step toward him, and he immediately throws his hands up. Between the gruesome murder he just witnessed and your haunting visage with blood splattered along your shades-- any courage he had crumbles in an instant.

“Stephany owns this place. Big guy ugly mole. Can't miss him,” his voice hurried, panicked. “Top floor. He’s usually in the Luxury lounge. Just… please.”

Well... That was easy? You think? Intel is intel.

He must take your silence as displeasure, because his hand quickly points, “The door beside the freezer will take you upstairs without going through the foyer. Um… Okay?”

>Write-in

>>4260745
>go upstairs using the door beside the freezer
Damn we’re badass

>>4260759
+1

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>>4260759

Only sparing your bloody work of art a last glance, you give the man a cheeky two-fingered salute.

“Thanks for saving me the trouble, pal.”

He looks even more petrified now, but you ignore that. He’s completely stiff as you pass by the freezer and swing open the wooden door you almost certainly would have missed otherwise. There's little behind the door apart from a wooden staircase leading upward to another door like this one. There are no lights in it, making the only way to tell where you’re going possible by the light streaming through the door at the top of the stairs.

The stairs creak and groan as you climb them, but you pay it little heed. Instead you mull over this Stephany fellow you learned about. You knew there had to be someone leading this establishment, but you were never quite sure who it was. But Stephany… the name was familiar.

He's not exactly famous by any means. And by criminal standards, he's just about at the bottom of the ladder. But still, one didn't just get ownership of a place like this on sheer luck. Old Stephany must have his fingers in more than a couple pies to be able to pull something like this under his umbrella.

What was it…? You rack your head and think hard. Was it drug pushing? Money laundering? Weapon trafficking? You distastefully grunt when no answer is forthcoming. You don't have enough to go on to be sure, so you push the thought aside for the moment-- your focus returning to razor sharp clarity as you carefully edge the 2nd floor door open. When no sounds are forthcoming, you carefully step out. You find yourself in a hallway lit with dim bulbs along the ceiling. Its a mostly barren hallway, little characterizes it apart from the many doors sealed with thick wooden strips along the walls. You glance down one end, noting the way the corner turns and slopes downward.

That leads to the foyer, where most of the gambling happens. You recall you came up through there last time. The other end… well, you aren't sure. But if you’re looking for the luxury suite there's no doubt it was down that way. The further the boss got from the rabble downstairs, the better.

(Cont.)

You stalk the hall, your eyes roaming from behind your glasses for any threats. Your semi-quiet entry is doing you a severe favor now. By now, thugs would have already been swarming you in this hall to get a piece of you. As it is now, no one even knows you’re here.

It's good. It makes your job all the easier. But part of you almost hopes to run into somebody just to get some more sweet, sweet revenge.

Your jaunty walk continues for a long while longer before you finally reach the end of the hallway. It terminates here, but branches off to your left and right like a fork in the road. On the wall in front of you is a big Bulletin Board with dozens of colorful posters and advertisements pasted over its face. It's a colorful abomination of different images and flyers-- some utterly worthless, and some not… To your left, the hallway stretches on yet again, and to the right you notice the hallway ends with a door not too far away.

You pause, and tilt your head as a memory comes back hard.

Right… this was where your head got busted open. You peer to both sides warily, and let out a sigh when you realize nobody is there. Of course, you did enter stealthily, so there would be no ambush waiting this time. You brush your head as it aches quietly, and examine the two different directions.

Last time, the ambush came from the left. So you can only assume that the luxury room is probably down that way too. But to your right… You’re not entirely sure. But this is a gambling house, so you can make some deductions. If you had to guess, the counting room is probably down that way.

You lift your cap and brush a few fingers though your locks. What to do…

>Head to the luxury room
>Head to the counting room
>Write-in

>>4260847
>Head to the luxury room

Taking a small break since there arent that many people around at the moment.

Heres a twitter to keep notified (maybe) when I start running the quest: https://twitter.com/Fatherpriestly

>>4260847
>Head to the luxury room

>>4261739
+1

Starting yet another nother session in about 30 minutes.

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>>4260865

Heading down the left path yielded more of the same bland hallway that kept your wound nerves on red alert with every corner turn. It was pretty much the perfect environment for an ambush, and you would be damned if you got caught in one again so soon. The ground thrummed gently beneath your feet, and you belatedly realized you must've been passing over the foyer by now-- the bass of the music pumping through the stereos downstairs reaching even up here.

It was dreadfully unfitting. The only real gambling going on downstairs was over games of Shogi, Cee-Lo, and Cho-han. Not a single roulette wheel or poker table to be found. Ambient tea house music would have fit this place better than bouncing dubstep. Though it was tentatively referred to as a gambling house, this place was no Sefton Casino. Not by a long shot.

As your thoughts drifted off, you finally came to the end of the hall. Much like before, it terminated with little fanfare, only this time to no branching paths. Instead, before you was an almost revoltingly ostentatious set of double doors. The doors reached all the way up to the ceiling and the dark grain of the wood almost appeared gilded with bronze, setting it into stark contrast against the placid shades of the plaster around you.

Without a doubt, this was the Luxury Room. Already, you could tell this ‘Stephany’ fellow was going to be a piece of shit through and through. What kind of freak would put a door like this in such a shabby building?

Approaching the door, you gave it a calm once-over, focusing on the nearly non-existent gap between the wooden doors. Humming in thought, you snap a thin piece of plaster off the wall and experimentally slide it between the doors.

Thunk.

(cont.)

You frown and toss away the plaster. “Locked… Well, it's not like I expected anything else.” You wouldn't be getting through this way-- not easily, at least.

Still, your target-- the head of this ugly, ugly snake-- is in there. You want in. And necessity was the mother of invention. You trace your eyes along the walls and finally note the window put into the wall and give your patented grin.

It was boarded up, much like all the other doors and windows you’ve come across, but a single tug nearly tears one of the boards away with ease. Rotting wood and rusted nails-- they were making it too easy on you. The rest of the boards come down-- slowly, you don't want to make too much noise just yet-- and eventually you’re free to crank the window open and peek your head out into the city air.

Seems that this window overlooks the back alley you came through not too long ago. You can even still see the dead bouncer you left out there. Ah, memories. You rove your eyes around, noting the ledge stretching along the wall beneath the window.

“...”

And… you hear voices. Quiet, muffled voices. You lean out the window and peer to the side. It seems the luxury room had its own set of windows, and from here you could sorta almost hear the people talking inside. The door was too thick to hear much of anything, but from here you could almost hear the conversation filtering out of the windows.

It's hard to hear from here, but you might be able to make some words out. Enough to at least get an idea of how many people are in there. Or, of course, you could always get closer…

>Try to listen (roll 1d100, perception roll)
>Shimmy along the ledge to get closer (roll 1d100 stealth roll)
>Write-in

>>4265959
>Shimmy along the ledge to get closer (roll 1d100 stealth roll)

>>4265966
roll for it lad

Rolled 88 (1d100)

>>4265976
Didn’t know if you wanted to wait until a vote was closed off before rolls

Good point. But god only knows if we'll get more players

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>>4265966

Only sparing the hallway a single look backward, you duck your head and squeeze your way through the open window. It's a tight fit, and you slow yourself the hell down so you don't accidentally fling yourself to a painful doom, but with careful maneuvering and death grips on the wall you manage to steady your feet on the extended ledge. It's hardly comfortable, and you have to press yourself tight against the bricks so the wind doesn't knock you off-- but as you slowly shimmy toward the Luxury Room windows, you manage a safe-- if slow-- rhythm.

The voices get louder, but you pay them little heed. You’re more focused on keeping your breathing steady and measuring your every painstaking step. Within moments, you’ve made serious headway and any worry of falling is gone. It was honestly easier than you expected-- with your body limber from action and without a weapon to slow you down, you shimmy along with ease.

Then it starts raining. And you curse your luck. It started with a couple glancing drips bouncing off your cap, only to slowly morph to a light drizzle. Its nothing major, but at any moment it could take a turn for the worse and make this all the harder.

You should probably pick up the pace.

“The RATS busted another of the meetings this morning…” A surly, near-slurred voice reached your ears as you finally came to a stop just before the windows. “Heard Akage never showed up to it.”

You lower yourself, and chance a peek into the window. The darkness and the rain was doing you a favor now. So long as no one was actively examining the window, they wouldn't notice you.

“You think he’s behind it?”

“Can't be sure. Akage is tough, and he's honest, but I wouldn't put it past him to have an in with the RATS.”

“I bet he called it in. Another bust and he just happens to not show? Suspicious.”

The room is rich-- wealthy in a way that it really shouldn't be. Velvet couches, pristine glass tables, and a large mahogany desk rife with sheafs of papers and other bobbles. And seated at that desk, is that fat bastard himself. Your eyes naturally drift to his fuck-ugly mole, and you sneer.

Stephany. Right where you expected him to be.

(cont.)

Stephany brushes a hand over his chops, looking displeased at something. “...Pull back on the deals with Akage. He’s been pushing for more transports of explosives, and I’ve got a bad feeling about all this.”

One of the other people gives a nod, “This has bad news written all over it. Best wash our hands of it before it gets out of hand.”

You squint, leaning a little closer to see better. You count… four people in total, all circled around the desk. They’re talking faintly now about things you can't quite hear, but its easy to see they’re all armed. A lead pipe… a set of knives… Stephany and the man on the couch don't seem to be armed, but you can't be sure.

One of them turns to the window, but by then you’ve already pulled away and slipped back inside from where you’ve come. You pay a small tactical retreat to the branching hallways to think this matter over.

Leaning against the bulletin board, you adopt a thinking pose and try to assess what you’ve learned.

…

Explosives. That was what stood out the most to you. Seems like your guess was spot on; Stephany really was in the weapon trafficking business. You cant be sure about his methods, but it looked like he was pushing high-grade weaponry to some of the big names in the city. AND he had enough breathing room to refuse to supply some of those names too.

Akage… You aren't familiar with the name. But it might be best to stow it away for the time being.

Focusing on more pertinent matters, you realize that you’ve hit a bit of a dead end. Your target has sealed himself up in a room and has surrounded himself with three armed-- potentially capable-- thugs. You are confident in your skills, but going up against four people at once WITHOUT a weapon? It was just about suicide.

Getting in would be the hard part. Those doors weren't coming down, not without something to facilitate their fall. So that entrance was a bust for now. You could bust through the window, but you lack any real leverage to enter quickly like that. You could try, but you wouldn't have the element of surprise once you do get in.

There must be something you’re missing. If you had a key, you could at least get in quickly and maybe get the drop on one of them. If you had a weapon, you could feasibly draw them out of the room and slaughter them. Wasn't this supposed to be an under-the-table weapon trafficking business? All you've seen so far are blunted knives!

Gah… Stephany was really turning out to be a pain in your ass. What to do?


>Write-in

>Head to the counting room

Whoops meant to add options

>Break in
>Head to the counting room

>>4266029
>head to the counting room

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>>4266037

Having your target just outside your grasp leaves a bad taste in your mouth. You’re hesitant to turn away from the luxury room, but even you can recognize when the odds were… less than favorable. You were gonna stack your hand and make damn sure you came out the victor this time around.

Making up even more prose in your head, you turn down the left branch of the hall and come to a stop at the unmarked door. The only thing that really separated it from the myriad doors you’ve passed is the fact that it's not boarded up. In fact, the door is even ajar just a little bit.

That's new.

You… consider listening close and trying to ascertain what's inside. For all of about three seconds. You’re in a bad mood now, and you STILL haven't managed to let off as much steam as you hoped. Throwing caution to the wind, you throw the door wide open and step in as if you owned the place.

The room is just as poorly maintained as most of the gambling houses. Austere wooden floors, plastered walls and popcorned ceilings abound. Cardboard boxes line the walls, and plastics folding tables are scattered around. Most of the tables are covered in poker chips and miscellaneous papers, though you do spot quite a few bills strewn about.

The counting room… Usually the place would be staffed with a bunch of underpaid asian workers that would count the money raked in and get it laundered properly. But, surprisingly it was nearly bare. Seems they were not getting enough business tonight to be able to make it worthwhile.

You wonder whose fault that is?

Heh.

It wasn't empty though. Two suited thugs, immediately jolt at your entry and turn to you with wide eyes-- their conversation broken. Taken off guard, they stare owlishly at you-- and you stare right back at them.

You flash them a peace sign, and they both leap to their feet. One brandishes his fists, the other snatches a monkey wrench off the table.

Wait. Monkey wrench?

You lift your own hands and ready yourself, eyes darting between the two thugs as they slowly-- carefully advance on you.

You are facing two thugs.

>Health: 19/20
>Heat: 4/4
Specials available
>N/A

>Weapon: fists (2d2)

>Write-in

Rolled 1, 2 = 3 (2d2)

>>4266068
>Weapon: fists (2d2)
Yeah we gotta get that wrench guy fast, knee him in the balls if we can for good measure

File: Vice_Henchman.jpg (27 KB, 250x300)

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>>4266073

You’re in no hurry to have a repeat of last night. More importantly, every ounce of your ire centered on that man the minute he picked up that damn wrench. You’re not sure if it's the same guy that bludgeoned you, but you had no qualms with treating him like he was.

The two thugs share an uneasy glance at your stillness, and the moment they do you lunge forward. Your palms hit the unarmed thugs chest, hard, and send him careening over the side of a table with a yelp. It wasn't nearly enough to actually hurt him, but it did give you some space. The armed thug growls, and swipes at you-- and you swiftly back-step to get away from the screaming blunt tool.

The heavy, unwieldy weapon leaves him wide open and you don't even hesitate to take a long step right into his personal space and deliver a mean hook to his cheek. It sends him reeling backwards, and you absolutely don't let up.

>4 damage dealt

When he tries to bring the wrench on your head, you deflect his arm and force it to uncomfortably bounce against his chest. You keep with him as he backpedals, constantly wary of his lashing arms that you barely push aside. You try to land glancing blows where you can, but its difficult-- no more clear opening were showing themselves.

The most you could muster is keeping close to him, where he couldn't get any leverage to actually get a full swing off. Here, you can shortstop his attacks before they get any real strength behind them-- its tough, and you arent making much headway, but its better than the alternative.

He leaves himself wide open again, and you leap on the opportunity. But before you can even pull your fist back, a shoe meets your chest and sends you flying backwards with a gasp.

>-1 health

You stagger backwards, and before you can right yourself there are arms wrapping under your armpits and pinning you in place. A body presses against your back, and you growl when you realize that the other thug had you fully restrained.

Mr. Monkey Wrench is on you in an instant, his tool coming in a large arc to slam into you.

>roll 1d100 to dodge. best of three.

Rolled 16 (1d100)

>>4266101
I’ll roll again if no one else does

Rolled 91, 12 = 103 (2d100)

>>4266101
rolling again

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Shouldn't have broken this quest up over so many days

>>4266146

The grip around your arms is steel, yet it bends all the same. Throwing your weight around with more force than you should rightfully be able to exert, you manage to wrench an arm free from the grip in your armpit. The man behind you hisses in anger, and attempts to reassert his hold before you can scurry away.

Unfortunately for him, you have absolutely no intention of running. Instead of trying to get away, the moment your arm is free your hand snatches a vice grip around your restrainer's wrist and forces his arm in front of you. You hold his arm still in a bar, and drag it until it's directly in the path of the wrench.

“Oh shi-”

Steel meets flesh with a grisly noise. The arm snaps nearly instantly, the arm bending in all the wrong ways as the wrench obliterates his forearm into an array of gruesome compound fractures. He screams, loudly, his grip slackening more than enough for you to grab him and throw him over your shoulder into his horrified friend. They both hit the ground hard, the second thug cursing and trying to pull himself out from under his writhing partner-- the mass of agonized limbs making it hard.

The first man barely registers as a threat anymore. Even if he was capable of lifting his arms in retaliation, the pain no doubt rampaging his body made it all a moot point. As it was, the pitiful groans leaving his mouth as he cradles his arm is the most he can muster.

You are left daintily unharmed. It was a close call, but one of them was basically incapacitated now and the other was still trying to struggle to his feet.

One goon has been incapacitated.

>Health: 18/20
>Heat: 4/4
Specials Available
>N/A

>Weapon: fists (2d2)

>Write-in

Rolled 2, 1 = 3 (2d2)

>>4266175
He’s on the ground it shouldn’t be too difficult to knock him out

File: Stalemate.jpg (210 KB, 1080x1080)

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>>4266175

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, you stride forward and seek to capitalize. The goon shoves his crying friend off of himself, but before he can fully pick himself up you're pressing your shoe against his face like it was meant to be there. There's a moment of silence-- almost a build-up of latent energy-- before you’re stomping your foot down with cannon-like force and smashing his skull back against the wooden floorboards.

A curb-stomp in nearly every meaning of the word. Dust scatters from the echoing clap of his skull meeting the ground, and you’re fairly certain if you had stomped any harder there would have been a shock wave.

>4 damage dealt

But… It's not enough. Although you’re certain you dealt crippling damage just then, it's just not enough to take him down fully. Your face morphs into surprised shock as he lifts his wrench and promptly brings its hilt careening into the side of your leg.

>-2 health

You hiss, and pull away. Your leg throbbing insistently as you stagger backwards. It was little more than a glancing blow, but its enough to give the thug just enough breathing room to throw himself back up to his feet. The man give you a bloodied snarl, hefts his wrench, and steps in to swing at you.

But you’re ready too. Before the swing can be fully realized, you’re stepping right up to him and wrapping your hands around the tool. You both come to a standstill. Your hands wrap around the wrench in white-knuckled death grips, both of you fighting for it between you. Both of your skulls knock together, your teeth bared as you snarl at each other like animals.

When you try to tug it away, he tugs back harder. When he pulls, you butt your head against his and only reinstate your grip further. It's a stalemate.

In Stalemates, you roll for both yourself and your enemy. The highest roll of both dice will decide who wins the struggle. Best of 3 applies for both people

>roll 2d100 (opponent has a -15 for low health)

Rolled 22 (1d100)

>>4266216

Two dice lad

Rolled 55 (1d100)

>>4266332
If there’s no good rolls it’s all my fault now

Rolled 90, 76 = 166 (2d100)

as in

Rolled 56, 13 = 69 (2d100)

>>4266216

Picking the session back up in 30 minutes.

File: You'z_a_Ganxta.png (1.68 MB, 1193x1004)

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>90 vs 61

Roaring from the depths of your soul, you give a wrenching tug and finally pry the weapon from his hands. He gets little more than a gasp of horror before you bring it around in a long swipe, and catch him right on the ear. The sharp sound of bone crunching fills the air, and the thug crumples to his back as if his legs had been cut out from underneath him.

He hits the ground hard, his limbs not functioning correctly enough to weaken the fall. A curious whistling noise exits his ajar mouth-- almost akin to the sound of a ball limply deflating. But you aren't quite done yet. The last blow was crippling, of that you had no doubt, but it still lacked the leverage to truly finish this off. Plus, this was most likely the man that cracked your skull open. He deserved far, far worse.

Flipping the wrench in your grip, you grab its bloodied head and thrust it toward the man's prone face like a rapier. The slender end slams into the back of his throat, prying a choked gurgle from him. His eyes focus for one lingering moment, long enough for him to watch you reel your leg back and send the mother of all soccer kicks slamming into the bottom of his jaw.

The effect is instantaneous. The sheer force behind the kick forces his mouth to close shut. But with the handle of the wrench locking his mouth open, it's an impossible task. His jaw shatters in an instant, bone and meat spewing in every direction as he is forced to bite down on an unforgiving hunk of steel. He passes out nearly instantly, probably to choke on his blood and die within moments.

But the few seconds he spent awake were pure agony.

You pluck the wrench from his mouth with a sick noise, tossing it up and down as you admire your work. No matter the fight, your enemies always find themselves brought low in the end.

Then, as an afterthought, you snatch the wrench handle out of the air, spin on the spot, and promptly sling the tool overhand like a baseball pitcher. It slips from your grip and rockets straight into the barely conscious skull of the thug with the broken arm. It meets his temple with tremendous force, and floors him instantly. He doesn't even get to muster another groan.

(cont.)

Silence falls over the room. Both of the thugs lay in unmoving heaps, brutalized to such a degree that they would never pose a threat to you again. What was, at first, a difficult situation, had become a slaughter where you walked out nearly untouched.

“Oh My Goodness!” You give a small pelvic thrust, the heat of battle and victory rushing through your veins like liquor. Your sharp teeth gleam as you grin into the empty room

>You are now level 2!
>Health has increased by 2!
>Heat bar has increased by 1!

Heat moves are available!

>Choose one

>Finishing blow: Instantly kill a STUNNED enemy! Cost:4
>Secret weapon: Shank an enemy with a hidden knife and inflict BLEED! Cost:2
>Meditate: Empty your heat bar to gain health based on heat spent! Cost:ALL
>Animal instinct: Force a blow that would kill you to become a Stalemate! Cost:5
>LOCKED

>>4267664
>Secret weapon: Shank an enemy with a hidden knife and inflict BLEED! Cost:2

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>>4267671

Your hand lashes up, the sudden action throwing your cloak back theatrically as you reveal the nondescript dagger clutched in your hand. It gleams in the fuzzy light beaming from the ceiling, and boasts an edge sharpened to a frighteningly keen degree. You spin it along your fingers, testing the leather grip as you roll it over your knuckles and along your palm in practiced motions.

Giving it a couple more spins, you promptly grab hold of it and slide it into a holster strapped to your thigh. It slides home cleanly, and when you relax your arms your cloak comes around and hides it from view.

>Secret Weapon heat move obtained!

With the two thugs handled you were finally free to really give a look to the counting room. You slowly meander around, taking in the barren room and noting anything of interest. Theres… very little to speak of. Most everything that would have caught your interest is gone, but you do take the time to pocket the spare bills lying around on the tables.

>+500 Dollars

Just when you’re ready to call it bust, you spot it. Behind a mountain of cardboard boxes, you spot a sliver of steel glinting in the wall. It's such a stark contrast to the beige plaster that you can't believe you nearly missed it. Tearing down the cardboard boxes and shoving aside assorted refuse, you come face to face with a steel door. It's a big motherfucker-- nearly on the level of bank vault doors. The metal is aged and unpolished, but when you place a palm against it you can immediately tell it's thick.

“What do we have here?”

The lever handle of the door resists your tug for a moment, but soon snaps smoothly. The door groans as you cautiously push it inward, stepping from the counting room into a much smaller space hidden in the wall. The lights, hot white and glaring, come on the moment you step inside.

Your breath is taken away.

The closest thing you can compare it to… is a freezer. Bland white tile, and white brick walls galore. But any sense of normality is blown away by the military grade boxes and crates stacked onto shelves that line the wall. A long table in the center of the room has a bunch of black metal parts strewn over its face. Confusion takes over for a moment before you spot the rifle scope mixed into the parts and realize where you are.

“Motherfucker… It's the weapon stash!”

There are two points of interest. The clipboard of papers pinned to the wall, and the crates themselves. You aren't sure what to start with, and you aren't sure how much time you have before more thugs arrive.

>Read the ledger
>Open some crates

>>4267713
>Open some crates
we should try and arm ourselves up with a gun that would come in handy if there is anymore time then we can
>Read the ledger

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>>4267721

You waste no time in grabbing the handle of one of the crates and dragging it off the shelf. Its a heavy bastard, and you grit your teeth as you slowly amble over to the table and drop it down with an echoing slam. Flipping your dagger into your hand, you slip it into the crack of the lid and use it as a lever to snap it wide open. The wooden lid slides away and crashes to the floor, and you immediately begin sifting through its guts.

You… don't find much. As you look through the box, and pull out various parts and pieces, you don't come out with anything worthwhile to show for it. A pistol grip here, a rifle scope there, springs and screws all over the damn place.

You push the box aside and grab another one. This one has much of the same-- only the parts were even smaller and even harder to ascertain their purpose. No full weapons in sight. And that case repeated itself on the next box, the next crate, and the next one before you finally give up with a curse.

It seems that, although Stephany is in the weapon trafficking business, he doesn't actually sell guns straight out. Instead, it seems he sells gun parts and pieces-- enough pieces to build a gun. Stephany was pawning the manufacturing process off to his buyers, and only supplying them with the materials needed to make the weapons.

Smart. But right now it was a pain in your ass. You don't have the fuzziest idea of how to make a gun from scratch, and you knew you didn't have the time to try.

You sullenly pull another crate from the shelf, and pop it wide open. But this time you blink when you realize there are no gunmetal parts to speak of. Instead, what you pull out are two soft bricks of what seemed to be… clay? It's a spongy material, yet firm enough that it maintains its shape. It's nothing like what you’ve pulled out so far, and you hum thoughtfully as you examine it.

Then you gasp when you flip it over and find the metal device screwed into the brick. You follow the wires stretching from the device and planting itself into the clay brick, and you suddenly realize what you’re holding.

Your frown warps into a grin.

>C-4 Plastic Explosive x2 Obtained!

(Cont.)

You stow the C-4 away in your cloak, the boon more than making up for the time you wasted cracking open boxes. Chancing a peek back into the counting room, you give a sigh of relief when you see nobody waiting. Seems your entry has still gone unnoticed. Maybe they weren't expecting another attack so soon? Either way, it worked to your favor.

Stepping back into the vault, you stride over to the far wall and pluck the clipboard from it. Taking a seat on the table, you begin reading through it.

“Shipment A-23 to the Deville Flats… Machining table shipping to Safehouse Eight… Four crates of 12 gauge to Cobalt Enterprises…”

Seems that you have in your hands a ledger of the transactions that Stephany has been moving so far. It's difficult to tell if these are past transactions or ones that still needed to be completed, but it's interesting nonetheless. But also pointless. Following these paper trails likely would only lead to dead ends-- by the time you get to any of these places it will most likely be too late.

But you couldn't help but marvel at the numbers. You could be forgiven for believing that Stephany was arming a small army, instead of the gangs scattered around the city.

Just when you’re about to toss the ledger away, you spot a strange addition right on the last page.

“Two tonnes of… Silver? Sent to Broach Park?”

...What the hell? There was no misreading this. Apparently Stephany sent out an entire shipment of pure silver? You can't help but pause. Who the hell would want that much silver? And more importantly, why would they buy it from a weapon trafficker?

Hmm… Well. It's not exactly gold bullion, but silver had its own worth too. You could make some serious cash off of it if you managed to find it. This might be something worth looking into soon.

Intel Added!

There's only one last thing of interest in the ledger. It roughly acknowledges some sort of… weapon, sorted within the crates in the room. One that was sorted within other miscellaneous parts as a… gift, to a buyer.

You look back over the room and grimace. The ledger tells you what box it's in, but with how you ransacked the room it's impossible to be sure where that box is now. Well, whatever. Hindsight and all that.

>roll 1d100 to search

Rolled 71 (1d100)

>>4267775

Rolled 78 (1d100)

>>4267775

File: Tomahawk.jpg (37 KB, 400x400)

37 KB JPG

75 DC... Nicely done.

>>4267784

It's a long search, and you grimace at the blister you get on your fingers. But eventually, you find a lonely crate that you accidentally pushed away under the shelves. You pull it out cleanly, lift the lid off again, and waste no time in tossing aside the garbage within to get at your prize. When you finally empty it out fully, you give a sharp knock to the bottom of the box.

Hollow.

Using your knife again, you rip the planks away and pull out the weapon within. You lift it where the light can easily catch it and smile. In your hand is a genuine tomahawk. Your finger along the fine wrapping, tassels, and feathers pinned to its handle. This wasn't just a tiny axe. This thing had HISTORY. You could feel the wear worn into its wood, and the care put to maintaining it.

You stand and give a chop through the air. The tomahawk sings as you swing it, the sharp edge slicing at your behest as if it was a part of you. It was a sturdy, powerful weapon. While not the most terrifying weapon you’ve ever wielded, it was reliable-- and that was more than enough for you.

>Tribal Tomahawk obtained!

You slide the tomahawk into your belt loop, and let your cloak fall over it. It rests against your hip as if it belonged there, and if you were a superstitious man you would say that the weapon agreed with you just as much as you did it. You crack your neck and give the room a final once-over. Seeing nothing else of interest, you step back into the counting room. You pop a squat next to the unmoving thugs.

You felt much, MUCH more confident about your odds now. Armed and brimming with heat, you were ready to take down anything in your way. It was just about time to take the hurt to Stephany once and for all.

>Head to the branching hall
>Head straight to the luxury room
>Write-in

>>4267861
>Head straight to the luxury room

>Tribal Tomahawk obtained!
It's time for some AC 3 action

>>4267861
>Head straight to the luxury room

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>>4267872
>>4267895


The counting room door shuts behind you quietly, a final reverberating noise as you return to the eerily silent hall. Stuffing your hands into your pockets, you begin striding back to the luxury room-- your gait unhurried, and your brow furrowed pensively. There is no sound to accompany your journey apart from the claps of your heels meeting the wooden floorboards with each step-- the sound more akin to a heartbeat in your ears than a march.

Your glasses flicker as you turn and peer out the gaps in the boarded windows you pass by. The neon sea still stretches out far and wide out there, but it's muddled… hazy, beneath the curtain of rain now falling. The storm had picked itself up tremendously-- the wind now howling against the gambling house and the rain pelting along the glass like chunks of hail tumbling from the clouds.

It's… soothing in a way. The reverberation of the storm sings to the heat suffusing your body, hardening your will and calming the palpitations you hadn't realized were gripping your heart.

The hallway is long, arduous... but uneventful. Within moments, the dark hallway is behind you, and the foreboding doors of the luxury room are before you. The gilded wood calls to you, and you press your palm against it. The thick wood remains steady beneath your hand, unyielding to your fearsome presence. At your right, the window you left open lets the wind and misty rain rush in-- buffeting your cloak as you lose yourself in your thoughts.

You present your options before yourself. The door was still locked and you couldn't break it down by hand. You could get in if you knocked, but you would have a limited ambush potential on maybe one person. The window was still available, but with how the storm picked up you're not certain if you could manage it again.

This was it. The final hurdle. Now how to approach it?

>Write-in

>>4267914
>blow the door up with C-4
Don’t know how well it will work but it’s a hell of an entrance

>>4267924
Yes, this exactly

File: c-4.jpg (19 KB, 340x260)

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>>4267924
>>4267953

Well… If Stephany wanted to hole himself up like a rat, then he was free to do so. You had your own ways of forcing him out of his hole. Giving a genuine grin of glee, you pull out one of the bricks of C-4 stashed in your cloak and eye the door. The wood was thick… sturdy. But only sturdy enough to make you second guess trying to kick it down. An explosive should do the trick and then some.

Pressing the brick of pliable plastic against the seam of the doors, you give it a couple of experimental prods and twists to make sure it holds position. Once it's firmly planted in the center of the door, you give a nod of appreciation and focus on priming it.

Your experience with explosives is… more limited than you would like. But even you know enough about C-4 to have an idea of what to do. You work on the metallic terminal, gently moving wires here and there to prime it-- its a painstakingly slow process, and you have to pull back and redo parts often. When you fit the last wire into the base of the block, you cautiously lift your hands away. Sweat builds up on your brow as you take a careful step backwards-- the blinking red diode in the primer catching ominously on your glasses.

Primed and ready. Best not to touch it again.

Stepping back up to it, you take a deep breath and center yourself. No more time to waste. It's time to finish what you started. Raising a hand, you harshly rap your fist against the luxury room door. The bangs echo down the hall, loud and insistently.

Immediately you turn tail and flee-- damn near sprinting as you put distance between yourself and the doors. You keep running until you’re a good handful of yards away from it, then turn and crouch warily as you eye the door. There's no corner to take cover behind, but you’re far enough that any debris would ‘probably’ fail to reach you.

There is a silent moment where there is no sound. No howl of wind or battering of rain. Even your breath and heart are muted, as your eyes sharpen and focus on the door. But even in the silence you can feel it-- the air buzzing louder and louder with energy of what was to come.

It's silent. And then it's not.

The sound of a lock falling echoes out, like the tolling of a bell tower. Then the space between the doors open, light filtering out of the room for just a moment. Then the block of C-4 gives a shrill BEEP and erupts into a plume of heat and smoke.

(Cont.)

File: Knock_knock.jpg (24 KB, 640x360)

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The doors don't stand a chance. Wood and metal give a shrill shriek as they are rent wide open-- the sheer tons of force slamming into them all at once more than they could possibly bear. Hinges break in an instant, the once beautiful doors shattering and blowing into the luxury room like so much shrapnel. The walls quake under the explosive echo, fractures spiraling out along the walls and shattering the windows as they pass.

The cloud of smoke erupts outward toward you, pulsing through the hall as if it were alive. Myriad stones and wood chips bounce against your raised arm as you gape at the devastation-- the smoke coiling around your legs as it seeps past you. The wind born from the explosive snaps your cloak and your errant blonde locks behind you, and there is no hiding your ecstatic grin.

“GAAHH!!”

Yells of shock and horror echo from within the luxury room, and you waste no time in swiping the dust and smoke out of your path and taking off at a dead sprint. You cross the hallway and through the smoke in record time-- leaping over the trashed door and sliding to a neat stop in the middle of the luxury room.

Scars were left in the once fine flooring from shrapnel, a couch was overturned and a glass table was shattered along with the fine bottles of wine that decorated its top. Smoke fills the corners of the room and races along the ceiling.

Your eyes land on the inhabitants of the room. First you glance at the man buried under the rubble of the door. He caught the worst of the explosion. At the moment, you were glad the remains of the wood hid him from view, because there was likely little left of him anymore. One man, a thug in a white suit, was groaning and clutching his head as he writhed in the remains of the glass table-- you note the brass knuckles wrapped around his fingers.

Another thug, this one standing beside Stephany’s table, seemed disoriented too. His eyes were unfocused and he struggled to use the desk to keep himself steady. Clutched loosely in his hand is a thick iron pipe.

And then there's Stephany, still seated at his table and still fuck-off ugly. He was coughing weakly, but was better off than the rest of them. His eyes centered on you with a look of shock.

“What the fuck…?!”

>Health: 18/22
>Heat: 4/5
Specials Available
>Secret Weapon: Cost-2

Weapons
>Fists (2d2)
>Tomahawk (1d6)

YOU HAVE THE INITIATIVE

Rolled 6 (1d6)

>>4268006
>Tomahawk (1d6)
Lets clean up these thugs then get the boss

>>4268015

You pluck the tomahawk from your hip and hide it behind your back, your eyes darting between the prone thug with the brass knuckles and the one by the desk with the pipe.

The element of surprise is going to wear off soon. Which of them were the greater threat? And how did you want to attack them?

>Write-in

>>4268054
the thug with the lead pipe is the bigger threat attack him first with the tomahawk then finish off the one with brass knuckles , the tomahawk should be able to keep us away from punching distance

File: Tweedle_dee_and.jpg (27 KB, 620x357)

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>>4268069

You’ve had quite enough blunt weapons for one lifetime. You can recognize a threat when you see one, and the reach that mean looking pipe offered was a threat if ever you’ve seen one. You rush forward, your movements quick and precise as you cross the distance before anyone can react.

“F-Fuck!” The thug grunts, trying to push away from you using the desk. But he's too unsteady and far too slow. You snatch his wrist in a death grip before he can get away, and wrench him toward you. Trapped in your grip and with his legs weak, the man can't resist your insistent jerk and sails toward you. You stick your leg out, and catch his ankles as he passes. With one quick swipe of your legs, you knock his legs out right from underneath him and send him plummeting to the ground face first.

He managed to catch himself with his palms before his face meets the floor, saving himself from a nasty impact, but by then you’re already raising the tomahawk high above your head and bringing it screaming down onto his open back.

The polished steel embeds itself beside his spine with ease-- the sharpened edge slicing through layers of clothing, flesh, and muscle as if they weren't even there. Blood spurts onto your face, and the thug screams bloody murder from the bottom of his lungs. You plant a foot on his back, wrench the weapon around a little, and finally pry it free from his back with another prolonged spurt of dark life essence. His scream turns high-pitched, his eyes rolling into the back of his skull as he sinks to the ground bonelessly.

>6 damage dealt
>Thug B is STUNNED!

(Cont.)

“You motherfucker!”

You ignore his suffering, and turn on a dime. The thug with the brass knuckles is struggling back to his feet-- the scattered glass making the task harder than it should have been. His eyes meet yours with fierce rage.

Your legs pump as your race toward him, and he blanches. He picks himself up faster, and the distance empties as you close in. There's no time to ready a full swing of the tomahawk, by the time you did he could counterattack you. So, throwing caution to the wind, you take a final long stride before leaping from the ground.

The thug’s jaw drops in abject disbelief as you sail toward him-- your sharp teeth gleaming in the light as you crow jeeringly. You snap your foot out, and he doesn't even get a chance to protect himself before you nail him in the chest with a flying kick that empties his lungs out. He gasps, eyes flickering in agony as your foot grinds into his chest with ferocity.

>2 damage dealt

He screams as the kick throws him into the wall, once again hitting the floor as he grasps his chest. You hit the floor too, your back striking the remains of the glass table as you land hard. But your grin still persists, and with flair you kip back up to your feet and prepare to capitalize on your advantage.

Click

Then you hear it. And you stop cold. You chance a hesitant glance over your shoulder and watch as Stephany, wearing the ugliest sneer you’ve ever seen, points a shotgun at you. The barrel stares you down.

>roll 1d100 to dodge

Rolled 9 (1d100)

>>4268137

Rolled 67 (1d100)

>>4268137
I’m just gonna roll again and hope this was a best of 3

Picking the quest up tommorow around the same time. Will make the final roll if need be.

Rolled 59 (1d100)

>>4268137

Rolled 42 (1d100)

>>4268137

Starting again in about 30 minutes. Maybe we'll reach the end of the first night this session?

We'll see, We'll see.

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>>4268163

You throw yourself to the side. Warning bells have never blared louder in your head-- your every muscle works in tandem to get you the hell out of there before you’re turned into Swiss cheese.

Stephany unloads the buckshot with a deafening clap, sending the supersonic pellets bearing down on where you just were. You leap the moment his gun makes a report. Your body strikes the upturned couch hard enough that you see stars and flip right over its edge. A quick and desperate maneuver that deposits you on the other side of the couch-- blocking Stephany’s aim on you.

The blast devastates the wooden floorboards in a burst of debris, and the errant shots rip holes all along the velvet couch you’ve thrown yourself behind.

>-5 health

You hiss and clutch your arm to your chest. Your brow tightening as you shakily peel back your cloak. You hadn't gotten out unscathed… You count three holes burrowed into your forearm, all burbling with blood and sending throbbing echoes of agony blazing through your body. It was more a glancing blow than a direct hit, but it was still agonizing.

“Stupid, STUPID!” You chastise yourself huddling further behind the couch when another blast of buckshot obliterates the corner of the seat in a flurry of velvet scraps and wood. You overextended yourself. Of course Stephany would have a weapon of his own! You were so busy focusing on the two back-ups that you completely disregarded Stephany, and now you were paying the price.

“You! You’re that piece of shit from the other night!” Stephany roars, and his weapon kicks again to saturate the air with more debris and flak. “You were dead! I made sure of it!”

You cautiously curl the fingers of your injured arm. There's a burn of pain that rushes through you, but your body heeds your command. No nerve damage. It would slow you down, but with the adrenaline rushing through your body you could ignore it for now. More importantly, you weren't in any danger of bleeding out yet.

Another shot slams into the couch just above your head, rocking it against your back violently and making you grit your teeth. You chance a hesitant glance around the corner and watch as Stephany quickly reloads his weapon, slamming the gauges into the weapon with quick and harsh movements.

Your eyes dart between the other goons. The first thug is still nearly comatose on the ground and wasn't going to be getting up anytime soon. The one with the brass knuckles is picking himself up, but he seemed hesitant to act-- he didn't want to accidentally step into Stephany’s line of fire.

There's a lull in the salvos, and your enemies are hesitating. You don't think you’ll get another opportunity like this.

>Health: 13/22
>Heat: 5/5
Specials Available
>Secret Weapon: Cost-2

Weapons
>Fists (2d2)
>Tomahawk (1d6)

>Write-in

Rolled 5 (1d6)

>>4269782
>throw the Tomahawk at Stephany
>run up and use secret weapon on Stephany

>>4269803
Alright. Roll 1d100 for accuracy.

Rolled 13 (1d100)

>>4269834

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>>4269834

You flip your tomahawk into your hand and roll out of cover, your eyes zeroing in on Stephany as you begin sprinting toward him. The pudgy man curses, and tries to get his weapon sights on you, but by then you’re already raising your weapon high over your head and flinging it at him with all the force you can muster.

You had never read “The Art of War’ by Sun Tzu, but if you had to guess there was probably a passage in it describing just how idiotic it was to throw your only weapon at your enemy. But, on the other hand, you were just as certain that Sun Tzu expressed just how important being unpredictable was in winning a fight. What could be more unpredictable than doing something that others wouldn't even think of doing?

The tribal tomahawk adopts a fearsome spin as it cuts through the air, broaching the space in fleeting moments. But Stephany notices it, widens his eyes, and promptly ducks away with a scream of fright. It sails straight over his head and impacts the far wall-- embedding itself there with a resounding thunk

A miss. Unfortunate, but hitting him wasn't your main goal. The deadly throw distracted Stephany just long enough that he couldn't properly raise his shotgun in defense. He tries to lift it again and blast you away, but you’re already on top of him.

You reach over the desk and grab his wrist, prying it from his weapon and slamming his hand palm down on the table fiercely. Before he can even muster a curse, you're flicking your blade out of your holster, spinning it into a backwards grip, and stabbing it straight through the back of his hand. Flesh is pierced handily, and the silvery blade erupts straight through his palm to skewer into the wood of the desk-- pinning him to the spot.

>4 damage dealt
>Stephany is BLEEDING!

“GYAAHH!!” Stephany screams, his hand gripping his wrist and dropping the shotgun. His face, drenched in sweat and red from exertion, seethes up at you. “How dare you--!”

But by then, you’re already spinning on the spot and snapping your leg out to deliver a fearsome roundhouse to the side of his face. His head snaps to the side, and spittle fills the air as he is forcefully thrown right back down into his chair-- a dazed, agonized expression on his face.

>2 damage dealt

(Cont.)

You grab the discarded shotgun greedily, but a roar from behind you makes you hurriedly spin on the spot. The gangster with brass knuckles is upon you. He grab the shotgun in your hands before you can even begin to aim it, his grip iron as he pulls against you. The two of you struggle, but he eventually wins out and gives another wrenching tug that tears it from your hands and sends it flying across the room to hit the wall.

“Damn!” The thug lands a blind kick on your hip, forcing the two of you apart. You take a couple unsteady steps backward and he does the same. You eye each other, both of your hands raised defensively.

Stephany is out of it for the moment, but the pipe thug is slowly picking himself back up-- his disorientation finally beginning to wear off. Both of them we'rent a threat at the moment, but it was only a matter of time until they were. Your tomahawk is still pinned to the wall behind Stephany.

You and the brass knuckled thug slowly circle each other.

>Health: 13/22
>Heat: 3/5
Specials Available
Secret Weapon: Cooldown

Weapons
>Fists (2d2)

>Write-in

>>4269897
>pivot and go for the tomahawk in the wall

>>4269907

Your opponent is focused on you completely, and the tomahawk is pretty far away. He wont let you move around easily.

You'll need to overpower him first before you can get away and get your weapon back.

>roll 1d100 for strength (best of three)

Rolled 87, 21, 69 = 177 (3d100)

>>4269950
To get the ball rolling I’ll just roll 3d100s unless someone else comes in

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>>4269955

>87

The thug pounces at you with a roar, his meaty paws lunging for your throat. You manage to snatch his wrists out of the air before they can wrap around your windpipe, your arms tremble as you barely hold him back. The two of you fight against each other-- his fingers twitch just inches from your neck and sweat mingles along your palms as you barely keep him at bay. You grind your teeth as you’re slowly pushed back, the man's height and weight seriously taxing your strength.

“I’ll tear you apart!” He presses down harder on you, his fingers getting ever closer.

You bear your teeth and growl. Your leg comes up with lightning speed, and your knee buries itself in the side of his stomach hard enough that blood erupts from the thug's mouth. He gives a lurching wheeze, but still tries to snap his hands around your throat-- his bloodied teeth clenched as he fights through the pain.

Then your knee hits him there again, and all the fight evaporates from his limbs. For a moment, all his strength falters, and you take brutal advantage of it. Throwing his wrists to the side, you force him to spin on the spot as you take a forceful step toward him. Your hand lashes up and grabs onto the back of his buzzed head-- your fingers digging into his skull like a vice.

You pull him back, his spine bending as you force him into a limbo-esque position. And then, with all the force you can muster, you use your grip on his head to pull him right back up and slam him face first into the corner of Stephany’s desk. The impact rings through the room-- both the edge of the desk and something in his skull shatters at the collision.

>5 damage dealt
>Thug A is INCAPACITATED!

He crumples slackly. All the fight leaving his being alongside a pitiful moan. You disregard him, and instead lunge for the desk. Your palm impacts the hilt of the dagger you left impaled in Stephany’s hand and you use it as a platform to push yourself into a somersault right over the massive desk with cat-like grace.

Stephany screams at the pressure on the knife wound, and you take the chance to rip your knife out of his hand as you flip over the table-- sending a spray of blood splattering over the table and papers on it.

You land in a roll, your cloak snapping behind you as you leap to your feet and wrap a hand around the handle of your tomahawk. A quick pull wrenches it from the wall in a wave of uprooted plaster. The weapon gleefully returns to your person as you rest it on your shoulder and turn to take in the battle.

Pipe thug is on his feet and brandishing his weapon, but he's unsteady and blood is leaking a steady trickle down his mouth. Stephany took the chance to throw himself over his desk to get away from you. You can't see him from where you are, but he couldn't have gotten far.

>Health: 13/22
>Heat: 3/5
Specials Available
>Secret Weapon: Cost-2

Weapons
>Fists (2d2)
>Tomahawk (1d6)

>Write-in

Rolled 4 (1d6)

>>4270012
>use the tomahawk on pipe thug

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>>4270023

You take slow, purposeful strides around the wooden desk. Your eyes never stray from the thug with the pipe as you two step into the middle of the room and begin circling each other. The world around you fades away as you focus intently on him-- watching his every muscle twitch warily as you keep your own thoughts close to your chest.

You probe each other for openings. Even though things have been going well so far, you understood that all it took was a single bad hit and this could all go downhill quickly. Your opponent knew that too and the way he keeps his weapon between you two makes it clear he intended to strike the moment opportunity presented itself.

You act first. Your tomahawk slices through the air in a wide chop aimed for his head. He reacts quickly, and short-stops it by bringing his pipe up and blocking it. The shrill scream of metal over metal fills the air as you grind your axe against his weapon. Sparks burst to life as you pull your weapon away and bring it back in another chop, and another hack, and another swing with all your strength.

To your amazement, your enemy doesn't falter once. For every swing you make, he blocks it with haste and fights against your power. Each parry and block fills the air with the sound of metal clashing and the heat of sparks flying as you both dance around each other with feral snarls etching your faces.

A wide swing of yours meets another deadend, and the thug takes the chance and fully deflects your tomahawk along his weapon. Metal squeals as your axe is deflected along the length of the pipe and to the side, all of your force suddenly being redirected away from him. The sudden shift leaves you cursing, and your off-kilter body follows your weapon as you stumble past him with your posture broken.

He takes immediate advantage. His pipe raises up high over and he brings it crashing down toward your wide open back.

But you are still faster yet. Your tomahawk flips into your other hand with speed, and you waste no time in positioning it so that the weapon is flat against your back-- a desperate shield made in haste. The pipe lands on your back hard, but the tomahawk stops the unforgiving steel from impacting you directly.

>-3 health

You grunt all the same at the force that rumbles through you. But the thug gasps in shock, not expecting you to react so quickly. You knew you had him. You wrench the tomahawk back, the curved edge of the axe catching in a groove of the pipe as you tug it. With a viscous spin, your axe wrests the pipe from his grip and sends it straight into the windows with a sharp CRACK.

(Cont.)

He tries to back away. Desperately he does. But you’re already bringing your weapon around and burying it in his gut. Blood mists into the air as he chokes-- the sharp blade lodged in his chest sending waves of crushing pain over his mind. He lurches toward you on dead legs, and you pry your tomahawk out of his gut, spin around him, and bring it bearing down on the back his neck.

There is only a moment of resistance-- a pitiful rally against the inevitable. Then, with the sound of shearing bone, his head is separated from his body and sent sailing across the room. Silence falls. His body remains standing for a single, lingering moment, before it gives out and falls slack to the ground with a wet ‘thump’. Blood spurts from the remains of his neck.

You slowly climb back up from your crouch. You swipe your tomahawk through the air, slinging the blood from the blade along the wall.

...You don't quite feel the same rush from a kill that you normally would. If anything, all you feel is respect. Even if it didn't amount to much in the end, he still faced you down to the bloody end. For that, you could at least respect him.

You take a deep breath.

CLICK

You grimace, and turn your head. Stephany was sitting leaned against his desk, his mutilated hand held close to his chest as his other hand pointed a pistol dead between your eyes.

“Seriously?” You mutter, tilting your head as you sigh.

“If it works.” Is all he offers, grimacing through the pain as he glares at the destruction around himself. “I should have done this to begin with.”

You're not impressed. The gun wavers in his grip, unsteady and drifting as he tries to center it on you. His eyes are squinted, his breath is laboured and forced, and sweat is drenching him. It honestly seems like it's taking all his strength just to keep the weapon up.

>roll1d100 to dodge (Stephany is suffering a -25 from critically low health and BLEED)

Rolled 46 (1d100)

>>4270173
Next thing you know he’s gonna bring an assault rifle from under his desk

Rolled 84, 33 = 117 (2d100)

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>88

You see his finger squeezing from a mile away, and you quickly jump to the side. Stephany isn't in nearly good enough condition to follow your movement, and the bang of the bullet is only accompanied by the sound of a hole being rent into your cloak instead of your flesh being perforated.

Stephany curses, and tries to adjust, but you’re already leaping toward him and brandishing your tomahawk in a harsh upward arc. Your blade cuts home hard-- blood filling the air as you sever Stephany’s hand at the wrist. The removed appendage flops unceremoniously onto the desk, the gun still loosely clenched in its twitching fingers.

Stephany howls in agony, holding both his brutalized arms away from you as he empties his lungs out. With both his hands functionally useless now, any threat he could possibly pose is gone.

====

You glance over at the beheaded goon, and then at the other one that still laid in a comatose heap. It was over. You had brought them all down.

The tomahawk slips into your belt again, your cloak relaxing as you give a deep breath and let the heat filling your bones slip away. Another moan of pain snaps you out of your reverie, and you watch as Stephany tries to pitifully crawl away. His movements are panicked and desperate, and you almost feel pity as you stomp up to him, grasp the lapels of his suit, and pull him from the ground.

“Gah!” He wheezes when you slam him on top of the desk. He tries to struggle out of your grip, but his movements are weak-- ineffectual. There's no one left to help him anymore, and he is far and away from being able to put up an actual fight anymore.

He stares blearily up at you, and you glare right back.

>[ ]”You know who I am?”
>[ ]”How does it feel?”
>[ ]”Who is Akage?”
>[ ]”Tell me about your shipments.”
>Finish him.
>Write-in

>>4270334
>[ ]”Who is Akage?”
Shite sorry I missed the update

>>4270789
Then finish him

We're in the home stretch now. And we're starting to get saged out. I plan to pick the quest up for another session tomorrow and (maybe) finish it, so I'll see you then.

Also, if I should space my sessions out more or start at a better time, just me know. I am still new to this after all.

30 minutes before next session.

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>>4270789

>[ ]”Who is Akage?”

Stephany’s body freezes under your hands-- the pain evaporating in an instant to be replaced with bold-faced shock.

“What the fuck?!” He mutters, teeth bared as he glares bewildered up at you. “How… Where did you hear that name? Who told you I’ve dealt with Akage?”

Your eyes roll, “I’m sure you know the saying of loose lips, Stephany?” Your words elicit a grimace from him.

“They sink ships… Dammit all…”

You saw no reason to tell him that it was his own loose lips that clued you in on this ‘Akage’ fellow. You give him another insistent shake.

“Akage…” He swallows, hesitating for a moment as he debates just what he should reveal to you. But when his eyes alight on the fingers you hover just over his stump of a hand, his will caves in. “He's the authority on drugs in the city. King of all things meth and phetamine. He’s…” Another dry swallow, and a cringe of pain. “He's not well known, but I can promise you that the first drug dealer you meet when you leave this place is probably in his pocket.”

“So... what? He's just pushing some drugs around? He's not the first to do it. What makes him special?”

“It's not just ‘pushing drugs around’” Stephany growls. “He’s a goddamn spider, and his web is all over the city. Every single white manufacturer answers directly to his cadres. There isn't a single drug deal taking place in this city that he doesn't know about. And you can be damn sure his pockets are filled with every ounce of coke that circulates the city.”

The scale of what Stephany is suggesting gives you pause. Ruling over the ENTIRE drug empire in the city? ...It didn't seem possible. Your brain just can't coincide with it.

“Thats… Thats not possible.”

“They said that he came from out of nowhere. One day the drug trade was lawless-- damn near anarchic. Then, Akage shows up and dismantles every drug lord’s industry using his men. Within a week, all the movement of drugs through the city passed through his channels first-- and no one else's...”

His voice is petering off. You slap his pudgy cheek and bring him back into the waking world.

The rest he tells you is… enlightening. Nobody is entirely sure how Akage brought the drug empire under his heel-- it happened so fast, and there were so many conflicting testimonies that the truth became muddled… lost in a web of lies. The only thing that Stephany can state with certainty is that Akage had the help of some sort of Militia that stormed countless safehouses and emptied out the cartels faster than they could react. With the leaders of the drug empire dead, Akage was free to pick up the pieces in the power vacuum that followed.

(Cont.)

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Nobody knows what the militia Akage used is, but Stephany posits that it must be the RATS. If Akage really is in with the RATS like you’ve been lead to suspect, then it's entirely possible that he made use of them to clear out the drug kingpins three years ago. With the help of those monsters, it would be an effortless coup.

Akage is working with the RATS… Or, at least, he’s allied with them. Interesting.

“Where is he?” You finally ask.

“I’m not entirely sure… But once a week there is a heavily armored train that crosses the tracks over the commercial district.” A weak cough, and a sputter of blood from his stump. Stephany’s waning. “Anyone with enough money can rent one of the train’s cars and use it to move important contraband across the city safely. Akage basically owns one of those cars with how much he's rented it.”

The midnight train. Or, the ‘Smooth Operator’ as you’ve heard it been called. Interesting indeed…

[Intel Added!]

“Why the hell do you want to know all this? Who the hell are you?”

“...Well, let's just say i’m an interested third-party who might want to take this drug empire as my own.” You shrug offhanded. You’ve never really been one for having lofty, concrete goals of power. You’re the type to do as you please, when you please. “The idea of bringing someone like that down is pretty enticing.”

“Wha--” Stephany’s shock is as clear as your reflection in his wide eyes, “You’re out of your mind. Even… Even if you get past the army Akage owns, you wouldn't stand a chance against him. He’s a fucking war veteran. He’s in an entirely different league then some two-bit thug like you!”

You glance around the room. Your eyes alighting on the destruction you’ve wrought from the moment you stepped in. You recall every life you took within minutes of your entry-- how you dismantled this place, this forretress, as if it were nothing and still came out of it with only a few puncture wounds to show for it. Your eyes settle on the decapitated corpse of the swarthy goon, and you allow your sharp maw to grin widely.

“I guess we’ll find out, won't we?”

>[ ]”You know who I am?”
>[ ]”How does it feel?”
[X]”Who is Akage?”
>[ ]”Tell me about your shipments.”
>Finish him.
>Write-in

>>4274025
>[ ]”Tell me about your shipments.”
>Finish him.
Lets get what intel we can out of him then get out of here

File: OneMore.jpg (8 KB, 209x192)

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>>4274060

>[ ]”Tell me about your shipments.”

“Fuck…” He groans tiredly. “Of course you found the ledger... Cant believe everything falling apart from some bastard in a cape.”

“It's a cloak.” You growl, “And talk. I want to know who you’ve been pushing shipments to and why.”

There's no more hesitance or fight left in him. Just a tired resignation as he realizes there's no way to weasel out of this. “There's not much to tell… People get in contact with me over shortwaves and make a purchase by wiring me some cash. I make a drop off point, leave it there, and in an hour they come and pick the parts up. Quick, simple, and without any face-to-face contact.”

“So they can't backstab on a deal… Clever.” You nod. It's a good system. You’d expect no less from a man who got this far in the city. “And where is that money?”

Stephany looks smug as he smirks up at you, his lips curling in a sneer, “Offshore accounts. As far away from the city as possible. You wont get it.”

You let him have his smug satisfaction with a roll of your eyes. He had his money, but you had his life. No matter how you looked at it, it was far from a fair deal for him.

You mull his testimony over for a bit. It was about what you expected. With so little contact and such a covert means of selling, it would be just about impossible to track any of it down-- at least with the means you had available. However, there was one last deal that you could stand to learn more about.

“The silver…” you begin, your words tentative as you muse over the revelations, “There was a shipment of it to Broach Park. Two tonnes of pure silver. Who bought it, and why did you have it? What would a weapon trafficker need silver for?”

Theres a moment of silence, a parting of lips alongside a breathless gasp. Then, Stephany is reeling backward as if struck.

“Wha…” He breathes, disbelief all over his face, “You mean… You mean you don't know? You came here, tore my place down and killed my men, and you don't even know?”

“Know what?”

“That's… No, no… Do you even realize what you’ve done? Do you realize the forces you’re meddling with?! I thought they sent you, but you’re just… just a damn clueless brat! You--! You--!”

You try to shake him and demand him to explain himself, but his lips remain steadfastly sealed. You wont get any more from him on this.

(Cont.)

>Finish him.

You’ve heard enough. This farce has gone on too long already. It was time to stamp an end to this page of your story.

Stephany grunts as you lift him off the desk by the lapels of his suit-- your strong grip ironclad against him as you raise him up and set him on his feet before shoving him away. Stephany staggers, the pain and blood loss making him disoriented and weak as his legs nearly fail beneath him. His legs turn to jelly as the push sends him tottering away from you like a newborn baby until his back meets solidly against the massive glass windows along the wall.

He leans against them, his brutalized hands at his sides as he gulps down lungfuls of cool air-- his weak gaze barely able to meet yours. You don't follow him. Instead, you stalk around until you’re standing directly in front of him with a distance of only a yard or so to separate you two.

You pluck the discarded pistol from the desk, the cold dismembered hand flopping to the ground as you pop out the clip and check it over with keen eyes.

Stephany watches as you check the slide and ammo, his chest throbbing with his overdrawn breaths, “You will regret this… You think you can get away with killing me and live in peace? Your life is over brat. You’ll… you’ll die out there in the streets like a rat.”

Finally finished with your examination , you point the gun at him and watch as he shrinks back against the mirror. The weapon gleams-- your glasses reflecting its sleek shape as you center it dead on his chest.

“Dead now… Dead later…” You muse, your head tilting as you speak softly. “What does it matter?”

You always accepted that your end might be grisly. It was only to be expected by the life you've chosen to live. But not for one moment have you ever feared it.

“But… I think I’m gonna live a very… very long life. Call it a feeling in my gut.” You continue, glancing across the carnage in the room one last time. “I am very hard to kill, after all.”

Stephany growls, “Arrogance. Do you think you’re any different from them? From me? You’re going to die!”

The gun turns in your hand, your wrist shifting until you were pointing it at him in a sideways grip. Your lips curled.

“Wanna make a bet on it?”

>Spare
>Kill

>>4274123
>Kill
I’m actually really curious what would happen if we were to spare him but I don’t feel it’s in character at all for Nico.

>>4274130
+1

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>>4274130
>>4274135

“Fuck y--”

The muzzle flashes with a deafening BANG and a bullet rips straight into Stephany’s chest-- tearing past bone and meat to exit his back in a spray of blood and continue on even through the window. Stephany’s give a garbled gasp, the force and sudden shock of agony throwing him back against the window.

The gun kicks again-- this time a bullet tears into the meat of his leg. Blood erupts and a piece of white hot metal is embedded into his femur hard enough to send fractures erupting all along the bone. Another shot, this time in his shoulder tears tendons and ligaments with impunity. Blood splatters against the window and the floor tainting the room with the smell of iron.

You unload the clip. Every flash of the muzzle lighting the room as you pull the trigger again and again. Another bullet in his chest, likely directly in the heart. Another bullet in his skull-- his eye being obliterated as the shot exits the back of his skull and breaks another hole into the window behind him. More and more shots hail down on him-- each bringing forth another explosion of blood, and the tinkle of glass falling to the floor.

His screams stopped after the second shot. You weren't sure if it was because he lacked the strength to do so, or if his lungs were so shredded that it was impossible.

Or if it was because he was already dead.

The final shot of the clip exits the chamber and you let the recoil throw your hand to the ceiling. It doesn't matter-- the bullet is already on its collision course. It spirals through the air on a trail of white smoke, almost whistling through space as it collides dead center on his forehead. The final shot is too much-- the force lifts Stephany straight off his feet and sends him careening into the window. The glass, weakened by the shots that had tore through it, shatters in an instant. Stephany’s limp corpse is sent flying out into the stormy night, his limbs flailing wildly as the darkness swallows him whole.

He plummets into the dark, rain-soaked alleyway. His back strikes the fire escape on the way down-- the railing of the staircase shattering his spine in an instant. But it only arrests his fall for a moment before he's crashing all the way down to the ground with a sick thump

(Cont.)

You step up to the shattered open window. The rain and wind rushes in, pushing against your cloak and hair as you lean through and peer at Stephany’s unmoving body in the center of the alley. There isn't even a twitch of a finger.

You toss the gun after him, letting it clatter into the alleyway before stepping back.

Stephany is no more. His memory, his deeds, and his weapon trafficking ring will likely dissolve come morning. Much like everything else in the city.

======

You breathe a long sigh, and let the cool wind and rain beat against your face. The burn of adrenaline in your limbs finally fades-- trickling away until there was nothing left but the fulfillment of triumph.

>Heat reset to 0!

You turn from the corpse, your gaze returning to the room. You… had a lot to think about. More than you expected. But for now, it was best to push those thoughts out of your mind for a later date. This may have been a quest for revenge, but that didn't mean you couldn't gain anything more from it.

>Check desk
>Leave
>Write-in

>>4274172
>Check desk
>pay respects to decapitated guard lad fought to the end

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>>4274178

The winds rush into the room as you look it over, your steps unhurried as you trawl and look around. It really is a nice place. If you could say nothing else about Stephany, he at least had good taste in decor. Of course, it was probably far more impressive before you set off a bomb to get in.

Your gait pauses as your eyes still on the beheaded form of the most tenacious guard you encountered. You step up to him and kneel to give him a look over. It really was a shame that he had to die. Of all the people you’ve fought today, he had been both the most challenging and the most exhilarating of the foes you’ve faced.

Taking a crippling blow to the back and getting back up… going blow to blow with you without flinching… and all without using any underhanded tactics to face you down.

You wouldn't pretend it was anything more than a desperate struggle of two rats trapped in this city. But for just a moment he made you forget the reality of the city, and see him as an equal.

There is little respect you can offer to a beheaded corpse. But you place him on his back and cross his arms over his chest. It's not much, but it's something.

======

With how wrecked the room is, your eyes naturally drift toward the fuck-huge desk near the wall. Stephany’s ‘personal’ desk as you’ve come to know it. Any luster it once had is left ruined by splatters of blood and the gouge you left in its wood with your knife. Furthermore, the stacks of paper have been left blown astray by the gouts of wind coming through the window.

You scrounge around it for a moment, peering through for any more secrets to find. The drawers offer very little to speak of-- apart from pointless papers and unused cigars, there is little to actually speak of.

Then you look in the little alcove beneath the desk, and blink. There pushed into the corner, is a rectangular hunk of steel that contrasts greatly against the cool wood. A safe. Hidden away where you otherwise never would have noticed it.

You pull the safe further out into the light and look it over. If ever there was a place to hide secrets, it would have to be here. The steel is thick, and blemishless. All that really stands out about it are the spin dials placed on the side of it with four numbers written on each dial.

A four number combination… Okay.

Guessing would never, ever work. So you return to peering through the drawers with more attentiveness. You had to hope that Stephany left the code hanging around somewhere, or else you could just forget about getting into it.

After a minute of search, you find it. Or, at least, you think you found it. You pull out a sticky note of paper glued to the wall of one of the drawers. Your browl curls, as you frown.

“What the fuck is this?”

WARNING: You can roll to solve puzzles. But failing to roll high enough will result in the puzzle being forever locked.

>Enter Code: (----)
>Try to solve it. Roll 2d100 (best of 2)
>Leave it be.
>Write-in

Rolled 70 (1d100)

>>4274211
I tried this puzzle even wrote it down, but I‘m just too fucking dumb to know what I’m suppose to do.

To be fair this is my first puzzle, so its entirely possible its just straight unsolvable. But I cant imagine I fucked up Magic Square too badly

I'll give it about an hour or two before I close the puzzle, in case theres anyone else who wants to try their mettle

>>4274278
Roll one more time

Rolled 65 (1d100)

>>4274506

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Since there is very little gain here and I made the puzzle... Unreasonably hard. I will basically give this one up this time.
>>4274278

You mull over the paper for a long while, racking your head hard as you try and make sense of what you could only possibly call a puzzle. Why in the hell Stephany would hide the code behind a puzzle was far beyond you, and it was much too late to ask.

Then… it clicks. You gasp and toss the sticky note away, turning back to the safe you flick the dials into their positions.

“Six two… Eight two.” You murmur, rolling the final dial into place. There is a soft click, then the safe groans open. You give a jubilant whoop, and fling it open wide.

[Intelligence Has Increased]

Without a wall of steel to hide it, the spoils of Stephany’s secret stash are laid before you. Stacks upon the thick stack of bills on a recessed shelf. For a moment you raise a brow before pulling it out-- then you spot the 100 dollar on the top of the taped stack, and give a gasp.

“Offshore accounts my ass… You were holding out on me, Stephany.”

>+10,000 Dollars

Pushing the bills into the breast of your cloak, you peer around the interior of the safe some more. You next grab onto what appeared to be a glimmering red jewel sitting dead center in the box. When you lift it out and up so that the light can gleam beautifully off of its polished surface, the beads wrapped around it drape across your arm like languid snakes.

>Obtained [Gift] Ruby Pendant!

And that's the last of it. Pushing the safe back into its alcove, you stand and pocket the pendant in a place you’re certain it won't get broken. All in all, it's a good haul, and if you were a little more childish you might have done a little jig.

=====

Before you can actually consider that, a glow from your side makes you seize up. Your head snaps to the side, and you stare out the broken window as you become keenly aware of a noise growing ever louder in your ears. Your eyes catch it when you search the stormy city, squinting past your shades as you unconsciously lower your body… The revolving gleam of red and blue cutting against the dark walls of the buildings. And the sound of a siren screaming through the rumble of the storm clouds.

“Shit…” You growl, taking cover on the wall and peer out into the wind. “The one time…”

You curse as you realize that the sirens are only growing louded instead of turning away. It only makes sense-- you knew an explosion in the middle of the city was bound to attract the attention of the police. Honestly, you were more surprised they hadn't shown up yet. Getting caught by the police and thrown in jail (and you would be thrown in jail) was not appealing in the slightest. It was best to gather up what you can and book it now before they get any closer.

Then, you hear it. A scream that echoes outside the window, stealing your attention as you whip your head back outside and finally lose your composure.

“Oh FUCK! It's the RATS! MOVE!”

Oh… shit.

You throw yourself back into the room the moment the storm cuts the power out to the building. Darkness blanketing you as you clutch your chest-- your fingers digging in against your elevated heart rate. RATS… Here?! Damn it all! You and your fucking luck!

The RATS… Many would call them the scourge of the city, while just as many would also say they were protectors. It was an acronym that stood for Rapid Assault Tactics, but most people used a more relatable one… The Reactionary Assault Team.

Anytime that anything happens in the city-- whether it be a firefight, an explosion, or a theft going above and beyond petty-- there was always a chance that they would appear. The RATS were, in essence, a paramilitary task force co-opted by the city’s own mayor. They, with nearly unlimited jurisdiction, roam the city and enforce law and order where the police falter. And with their military grade weaponry and the outstanding strength of every member of the task force, the denizens of the city were powerless to fight them.

It would not be a stretch to say that every member of the RATS fought like a veteran soldier. In a city of squalor like this… they stood out. Especially with how easily they imposed their will.

If they were here… Then you were in serious danger. There was no doubt in your mind they would be here before the police. Or maybe they already were here. You absolutely could NOT be caught by them. Otherwise you were as good as gone.

You needed to drop everything and leave. Now.

>Use the fire escape outside the window
>Use the emergency stairwell to the kitchen
>Write-in

>>4274520
>Use the fire escape outside the window

>>4274520
>Use the fire escape outside the window
Use the storm to hide us

File: Let_Me_IN.jpg (25 KB, 640x360)

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>>4274529
>>4274539

You glance toward the blown in doors behind you before turning away. The power to the building is out, and as far as you know the RATS could be storming the building at this very moment. There was no guarantee that you could get to the stairwell before they came down on you like a hammer of god. You needed to leave as quickly as possible and put as much distance between you and the gambling house as you could.

The window would have to do. Wiping the water that stuck to your glasses away, you carefully climbed through the shattered pane and held onto the ledge tightly. It was slick and cool under your fingers, but your careful movements carried you swiftly until you dropped down onto the fire escape-- the clang of your boots meeting metal being swallowed up by the storm.

You crouch low, the shadows wreathing you as you cast a cautious glance around. The glow of police light is still hot and growing in the distance, but otherwise there was little to see. Ignoring the biting chill of the rain you began to make your way down the stairs, making sure to stick close to the walls.

“Chkzzz… ***” The sound of static, makes you come to a dead halt. You freeze in place, your body locking eerily still as you shakily turn your head. There, on the roof of a building across the alleyway-- you barely make out a shadow figure crouching on the ledge. The rain and darkness obscures them, but you can make out the green glow of their eyes easily even from here.

You dare not even breathe. The visor turns methodically back and forth, but never centers on you. They don't see you. You dont allow the shaky sigh of relief to escape-- your desperate desire to remain still forestalling anything beyond shakily hyperventilating.

Then the figure lifts something up-- something large and rectangular that they set heavily on their shoulder. You bite your lip as they stand, a moment of silent confusion filling you as they tower over the alley.

Then, there is the scream of fire and smoke as the rectangular device erupts into a flash of light-- a clapping boom filling the air as flame erupts from it. A shadow, indistinguishable mass is ejected faster then your eyes can possibly follow. The shape roars across the alleyway-- trailing smoke as tears into the Luxury room only a single staircase above you. There is the sound of something crunching, then a deafening BOOM that shakes the very foundation of the building and sends you staggering into the railing.

You curse silently and shield yourself as a bright wave of heat, glass, and debris hails over you. Flames gout out from the broken windows of the luxury room-- blazing white hot against the darkness of the stormy city. Even from here you can feel the sheer force of the explosion that ripped through the luxury room-- the wash of heat is so potent that your skin even begins to sweat.

If you were still in there…

(Cont.)

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You don't let those terrifying thoughts sit for long. Your terrified gaze follows the shadowy figure as they drop the rocket launcher and turn away-- disappearing from your sight as if they weren't even there.

You swallow weakly, and turn away. You… You can't hang around any longer. Your breath is noticeably more haggard as you descend the final sets of stairs on the fire escape, your steps slipping through the rain drenched steel.

You come to a halt at the end, and you lean to peer over the precarious edge that would deposit you back into the alleyway you came from. Normally you would need to drop the ladder to get down safely, but you were under no misconceptions now. You didn't have TIME to play it safe. So, with only a short muttered curse, you leap and tuck your limbs close to your body as the alley comes up fast.

The ground is hard, and rattles your body, but a quick roll dissolves most of the impact. Your feet slide as you throw yourself to your feet. You glance frantically around before finally finding the exit to the alleyway and take off at a dead sprint. The flames blazing out of the luxury room still wash over you as your cloak beats against the rain, your steps loud and harsh.

“CHkk… ****”

“!!”

You back away quickly, your steps staggering as you halt your strides. Your face is agape, horror etching your every feature as your shaky limbs push you further back to the Gambling house. You barely heard it over the rain, but there was no mistaking the sound. The clack of harsh boots, and the sound of radio static. They were coming toward you through the exit you were planning to take.

There's no time to think. You throw yourself back into the alley and frantically look around. It's so suffocatingly bare that you almost want to scream. With only seconds to spare, you finally throw yourself behind a dumpster in the corner of the alley. It's not incredible cover, but it's all you have.

The steps grow louder, and you spot them. The form seems to wreathe itself in the darkness as it steps into the light of the fire-- the green glow of its visor is radioactive as its head swivels and takes in the alley. The rifle clutched in its hand remains loosely clutched in its armored fingers, yet you had know doubt that it would be able to lift it in mere milliseconds and cut you down.

Their steps, loud and commanding, beat back the rain as you try to shrink yourself down. Your breath is shallow and your heartbeat is a drum in your ears. The green visored RAT stalks through the alley, stopping just where you used to be and glaring over the mountains of trash.

You bite your lip and try to control your breathing. You can't be found. You just can't.

>roll 1d100 for stealth

Rolled 2 (1d100)

>>4274577

Rolled 39, 53 = 92 (2d100)

>>4274598

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>>4274647

The armored soldier pauses as he steps up to the mutilated corpse of Stephany, his steely boot nudging the body as you watch on enraptured. One of their hands lifts from their gun to press against where their ear usually would be-- more garbled static and indistinguishable noises fill the air as you pull back into the corner.

Was it surprise they felt when they came across Stephany’s body? Or were they expecting it? Were they relaying it or just making a check in over their shortwave communication? With the way their speech was distorted and with you unable to even see their face, it was impossible to be sure.

The visor turns, and you pull away. The venomous glare of green lights the alley as it stares at the dumpster you were behind. Even as you huddle into the darkness, you can't shake the feeling that the gaze was still boring a hole straight through you.

Did they see you?

Boot steps pound out again, slow and methodical. Bursts of water bounce into the air as they stomp through the puddles-- you’re too busy hiding to see them. But you can HEAR them, and their steps are getting louder. Lightning arcs access the sky and you reach for the tomahawk at your hip, however pointless it may be.

Only a distance of a few feet separate you now. All it would take was a couple more steps and he would turn the corner of the bin and spot you. You marshall yourself and ready your axe…

“Wha…”

A voice, and the sound of glass shattering fills the air. Both you and the armored soldier snap your gaze to the end of the alley-- shock is written clearly on you as you spot the new person that staggers into the firelight.

Their suit was covered in grime and refuse, and their hair was bedraggled beyond reason as they take a few unsteady steps forward. They brush a hand over their head achingly as they let out a low groan.

For a moment you’re lost, unable to place the man. Then, realization comes as you recognize him as the man you spared at the very start of the night.

The goon shakes his head and looks up. After waking up from unconsciousness, he is understandably lost. The scenery had changed so drastically that he wasn't even entirely sure where he was anymore. Then, as he pivots and turns on the spot, his eyes alight on the RAT as the armored man advances on him.

He blanches and backs away pitifully. “Uh...W-wait a minute!!”

He doesn't get another word. The armored man immediately pulls out a sidearm, the harsh blue metal gleaming in the firelight as he takes aim and fires in the span of milliseconds. A shrill POP fills the air as the weapon is discharged alongside a burst of static through the barrel. The soldier pulls the trigger three times in quick succession, each pop of electric report followed by a shard of metal lodging itself in the man's body and throwing him back.

All at once, the metal bullets lodged in him are set alight-- vibrant arcs of blue electricity roaring to life to consume him in a cocoon of pure energy. He can't scream-- his mouth is locked down tight as his body spasms and thrashes against the volts running rampant through his flesh. You can almost see the arcs of pure energy scattering across the soaked puddles at his feet, and the sound… you couldn't compare it to anything but a bug zapper.

The RAT approaches him while once again speaking into his communication relay, but by then you’re already ducking past him. The roar and spectacle of the electricity gave you the perfect opportunity to escape-- you could not forsake it. You move as quickly as you can possibly manage-- you cannot afford to catch their attention, but if you’re too slow your distraction will run its course.

The soldier does not turn as you finally reach the exit to the alleyway. He only approaches the downed man, the volts finally gone, with a pair of handcuffs gleaming in his armored grip.

You don't stop again.

And this is a good stopping point for the night. Thank's for stopping in.

>>4274708
Thanks for running QM, I really like this introduction to the RATS

30 minutes till next session

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Your breath comes out in hot puffs as you sprint through the empty streets of the city. Puddles erupt into the saturated as your feet pound against the concrete, the sharp rapping of your heels clear as day even beneath the overwhelming howl of the wind through the cramped complexes and twists of the streets. Rain thudded against you as your arms pumped and your chest seized-- your entire being soaked to the bone as you run and run.

The streets were vacant. Even in such a city of lawless abandon, no one was quite stupid enough to stay outside in the midst of such a storm. What was, at first, a minor deluge of chilling rain, had now transmogrified into an outright typhoon-- the galeforce winds coming off of the nearby ocean threatening to bowl the city over with its strength.

You run as if the wind isn't burning at your skin like tiny knives that claw and scrape. You sprint as if the frigid cold of the rain hasn't numbed your fingers and toes to the point that you can't even feel them anymore. You just pump your arms, fling water behind you, and only pause to wipe the occasional soaked strand of blonde hair from your eyes.

Blocks and buildings pass by quickly, and before you know it your sprint is slowing as you stagger to a halt. Your palm catches the side of a building as you bend over and heave-- your chest feeling as if it's being torn asunder by the mad tempo of your heart. Your lungs burn as you give a few hacking coughs.

The neon of the city washes over you just as well as the rain does, painting your features as you lean against the building and let your overdrawn nerves settle. You peer back in the direction of the gambling house-- countless blocks separate you from the scene now, the glow of the burning luxury room and whine of sirens gone. No telltale green visors have made themselves known.

You give a mirthful chuckle and stare up at the sky eternally locked behind stormy clouds. You actually made it…

It… burned you inside to have to run like that. It was the cowards way out, you knew. But not for a moment do you think it was unwarranted. You would need to find a way to either defeat or circumvent the rats-- you doubted you would be so lucky next time.

You take a deep breath. Cool, moist air fills your throat instead of the underlying tinge of smog you’ve grown used to. With your heart settled and your confidence restored, you push off the wall. The night has gone on long enough, and your brush with doom was more than you had bargained for. It was time to head back home and get out from under this deluge.

Taking long, yet unhurried, strides you recall the directions to your apartment and set off. With the streets utterly barren, you’re free to walk where you please and cut down on much of the travel time. Neon fades to illuminate your back-- worn out buildings, shattered windows, and distended concrete filling your vision as you enter the lost district, where all forgotten and abandoned souls gather.

(Cont.)

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You take a cut through an alleyway-- the tight path forcing you to siddle along against the cobbled walls until you’re once again out on the streets. You peel your hat off and shake your hair like a dog-- dislodging the last of your loose, bloody bandages and dropping them into a puddle of filth without a care. You push your hair back into your hat, and center your eyes on your apartment complex.

The clack of your heels stop in the middle of a puddle. Your every movement comes to a halt as you pause in the middle of the street. The roar of the wind weakens, and the rain abates ever so slightly to allow more of the neon glow to seep into the streets like creeping shadows of light. Your hands tighten at your sides, and you grit your teeth as you lay eyes on the being on the other end of the street, right near your home.

The man is garbed in a green biker jacket of green leather-- the clothing glistening with the rain and boasting strange markings and images you can't place. Black leather pants lead into a fearsome pair of boots that lightly tap an unnameable rhythm into the river spanning the street-- the reverberations of the taps sending echoing ripples through the puddle that reach all the way even to you. Leaning against a motorcycle parked against the curb, their head turns to you-- their face obscured behind a motorcycle helmet so opaque that it may as well have been painted black.

“Nico Kalashi.” Their voice is… indescribable. It's not demonic, or angelic, or inhuman in any way. It's just a voice that was so strange… so warped that it was impossible for you to definitively say it belonged to a normal person. It didn't give away race, or disposition, or personality.

It was just a voice.

“You…” You growl, not moving from your spot in the middle of the street. You glance at your feet. Hadn’t you been at the other end of the street? Did you unknowingly step closer? At this distance, only a few more steps separated you two. “Haven't I been through enough tonight?”

The helmet nods, arms crossing conversationally as they lean further against the bike. “You’ve had a rather exciting night, haven't you Nico? A small-time politician gunned down in his own office, and his entire ring of weapon trafficking exposed for the reporters to find in the morning. It's a new high, wouldn't you say?”

Politician…? You give a start and struggle not to let it show. You try not to let the revelation get under your skin, that was what he wanted. It didn't make any difference, but the idea that the biker knew something about your quarry that you didn't just failed to sit right with you.

“It was just revenge. I don't care how else you see it.”

“Just revenge…” The voice mulls, “Do you think Stephany saw it that way? Well… I suppose it doesn't matter now... Are you fulfilled, Nico?”

You don't rise to his mind games. He always tried to make it seem as if he knew you better than you knew yourself.

(Cont.)

“...What do you want?”

He finally stands from his motorcycle. The glow of the neon sea in the distance washes over you two-- and you catch a reflection of it in his helmet. It reflects the city behind you, every towering building standing in clear view beneath the streams of water racing down the helm.

“I think we’re beyond stupid questions. Don't you, Nico?”

>Attack
>Do Nothing.
>Run
>Write-in

>>4277710
>Do Nothing. But be ready in case he tries something.

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>>4277747

Your fists tighten, and you scowl at the biker. But you make no moves. You just stare him down and bare your teeth, knowing deep down inside of you that there's nothing you can do at the moment. The biker nods after a moment, and you furrow your brows as you imagine him smiling behind that opaque helmet.

You want nothing more than to strike him across that stupid helmet. But it didn't work last time, and you were just as sure it wouldn't work this time.

[Cunning Has Increased!]

“I'm impressed, Nico. Despite how hotheaded you act, you at least understand the situation you’re in.” The voice is still as warped as always, but there's a strange uplift to its tone. Almost a key of curiosity hidden within. “You’ve... grown.”

“Stop talking like you know me.” You grunt.

The biker flicks his hand, the sudden twist of his wrist bringing forth a bloom of green that makes you wince. With what appeared to be a swift magic trick, the man’s empty hand was suddenly filled with a stack of dollar bills. He lightly flicks a finger through the stack of paper, his gloves hand brushing along the edge of the bills as if he even needed to count them.

>-6000 dollars

With a nod of appreciation, he pockets the bills in his jacket and returns to his bike. You’re openly seething now, but you still make no moves.

“Don't look so sour, Nico,” he begins while straddling his bike, the engine already purring gently. “There are far worse prices to pay.”

There is no comfort to be found in his words. You simply clench your fists all the harder.

“I'll find a way to hurt you. I promise.” You let your glare settle, the cool rain washing away the fury you knew you couldn't let loose. “I will kill you someday.”

“Dead today… Dead tomorrow… Does it really matter?” He jeers quietly, before facing forward toward the gem of a sea stretching across the horizon. “...Night will be ending soon, Nico. Better hide quickly, little mouse.”

You follow his gaze to the buildings towering in the distance. Behind your glasses you admire the beauty once again, your eyes briefly catching on the towering skyscraper of silver before you turn back. But, by then, the biker and his vehicle are already gone. As if he were never there.

(Cont.)

You stand alone in the rain for a little longer before shaking yourself from your revere and returning to your stride. You release the anger from your chest with an exhausted sigh and groggily take the stairs one at a time. It's a slow, arduous process, but eventually you’re at the landing of your apartment door and painstakingly undoing the various locks you had in place.

The final lock falls, and the door groans as you step inside. Water drips from your cloak as you stride into the warm confines of your apartment-- your boots squeaking as you shut the door behind you with a clank. The storm is muted in here-- the howling winds and thud of rain on the roof quiet, almost peaceful, as you remove your cloak and hat to hang on the door.

You groan as you finally shed your waterlogged clothes and brush your hair from your face. Everything is the same as you left it, thankfully. Well… Mostly the same. Your tired eyes raise a brow as you spot the brown-furred rat in the middle of the hallway nibbling at a wedge of cheese. The rat pauses to glance up at you, tilts its head, then goes right back to eating.

“Hey, Rex.” You mutter as you step over the rat and enter further into your apartment. Entering your bathroom, you wince as you pull your arm up and examine the bullet wounds marking your arm. They were scabbed over now, but they certainly didn't look pretty. Swallowing a few moans of pain, you wash the wound out with some rubbing alcohol and wind some bandages over it.

Not pretty, but at least no one will ask any questions at school tomorrow.

You meander through your apartment before finally entering the living room. Shoving aside the scattered pizza boxes, you collapse into the recline-- one of the only intact pieces of furniture you own-- with your legs thrown over the armrest and your head leaning back into the cushions. You give a tired groan and mull over the day and your… lowered earnings.

Usually, you would end the night by watching some TV. But you weren't entirely sure if there was anything left you needed to handle or address.

>Watch TV
>Write-in

>>4277833
>try and make some more food then watch tv

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>>4277857

Had it been a few hours since you last ate? The twinge in your stomach makes it clear that all that exertion and brushing with death had left you… nearly starved. You always did have a bit of a quick metabolism-- an awful thing for someone living on the brink of squalor-- but all that running around and swinging weapons only seemed to exacerbate that.

Kicking yourself back to your feet, you roll your neck and walk back into your… lightly used kitchen. Your last cooked meal was pretty good, you werent gonna lie and it was just the boost of confidence you needed to give it another try. While not exactly a “Gangster-Like” skill, you wouldn't deny that having some actual food in you would do you good. It might even help to fend off this damnable chill the rain left in your body.

Your fridge is… nearly empty. But you manage to find enough well kept foodstuffs and bring them out in an armful as you kick the fridge shut behind you. Rice, eggs, meat, and more rice… You cobble it together in whatever way you like and toss it in the oven. There's a hum of resistance in the coils inside, but eventually heat begins to emanate and you lean back against the wall with arms crossed as you wait.

Rex hops up on the counter, his beady eyes watching you as you wait. He slowly nibbles on the remainder of cheese as he stares at you. You purse your lips and glare right back at him.

“...What?”

>roll 1d100 for cheffery. Best of three.

=====

With your meal in hand, you saunter back into the living room and collapse on the couch. The storm seems to have picked up outside, but it's quickly drowned out as you turn the TV on. The dark room is immediately brightened as the TV turns on, the light washing over your furniture as you relax against your seat and loosely hold the remote.

Some wildlife show is on… It's an old rerun of the plains in Africa. You can tell it's a rerun because you can hardly recognize any of the animals on it.

You point your remote at the screen and deliberate over what to switch to.

>Channel 851 (End the Night)
>The Shopping Channel
<(Missing channel)

Rolled 16, 41, 96 = 153 (3d100)

>>4277898
Rolling 3 because more anons have not showed up yet
>Channel 851 (End the Night)

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>96. Oh my goodness.

You’ve outdone yourself. If you thought your last meal was good, then this one has just blown it out of the water. It looks like a regular TV dinner, and the presentation is far from impressive. But the moment it touches your taste buds you have to violently stomp down on the urge to moan.

It really is just that good. It is only your willpower that stops you from immediately wolfing down the meal, and instead taking it slow to really enjoy every bite as you relax into the cushions of your recliner. You even offer a spoonful to Rex, who has no such compunctions and immediately devours it noisly to the side.

For a moment, you forget about the toll collector and the RATS. Life is good.

[Diligence has risen to Level 2!]
[Apprentice Chef skill Earned!]

Apprentice Chef
Meals and rations cooked by you will automatically have a 15 percent increase to quality and also have the chance to increase certain stats when consumed. Chance for failure when cooking reduced.

=====

As you eat, you switch through the channels lazily until you finally reach the familiar night-time station you’ve grown accustomed to. The screen fuzzes for a bit before the image clears up-- what immediately appears is a large blue TV show set, with a desk and chairs in the center. As the camera pans around, you’re free to notice the crowd of seated watchers in a semi-circle around the blue stage.

A well-suited man stands in the center of the stage. His coiffed hair and pleasant smile stands out as he speaks to the crowd with unlimited charisma-- his every laugh and joke breathing life into the viewers as he walks around the stage. The camera never leaves him-- it's always centered right on him as he talks, sometimes zooming in as he begins to broach a serious topic.

It's a christian talk show. One of those kinds where a preacher gets up in front of a crowd and talks at length about finding oneself, and about god's vision for yourself.

...You’re not a religious person by any means. You don't exactly believe, but you also don't quite deny a higher power either. So most of his grandstanding speeches just go in one ear and out the other. But… you still find yourself tuning in all the same. Something about watching the man speak so passionately and vibrantly about the topic spoke to you. Never once did he speak upon the crushing politics plaguing the country, nor did he force the reality of the hell the city is to come to mind.

He just talks. About anything. About the triumphs people have faced, about discovery and power within. About… hope. It's mostly senseless drivel. But seeing someone believe so wholeheartedly that there's good in the world and preaching about finding good in evil…

Well… it's pretty fascinating.

The show continues.

(Cont.)

“Many viewers talk to me about feeling… lost.” the man on screen begins, now seated with a face pinched in slight sadness as he smiles upon the sea of people. “It's the worst thing that can happen to someone. We face struggles everyday, and we overcome them time and time again. But… those struggles only become all the harder to face when we lose the reason to face them..

Losing hope in tomorrow. Losing sight of what makes us… us[/i.] It's a nightmare. And I too have been in a similar situation. Doubting everything I do and constantly questioning myself-- ‘why should I? What's the point?’”

The man’s smile falls, “Apathy. Not having a reason to go to school… Not having a reason to go to work… Not having a reason to get up in the morning… Terrible, toxic thoughts that almost always leave to one inevitable thought: ‘why even live?’”

The crowd is silent. They always are when they arent applauding. But you’re silent too as you watch, a light frown on your face as you look away from the screen.

“Getting out of that hole is different for everyone. Lean on the people you care for, try and find more meaning in life. I promise you it's there. Dig for it wherever you can look and don't ever give up…”

“But… the most important advice I can possibly give to you and the viewers at home… Is to not lose that meaning. Keep hold of it while you still have it and don't ever let go.”

Another peal of silence.

“Remind yourself of why you live everyday. Anytime you feel doubt, just remember why you do what you do. Make it the crux of your every action and remember that it is something worth holding onto. Just because it's not important to other people, shouldn't mean its not important to you!”

The preacher is staring at the camera now, his face imploring as he speaks directly to the faces. “Ask yourself: ‘Why do I do what I do?’”

...Well? Why do you do what you do?

>For your brother, who you watched die in front of you.
>For your sister, who doesn't even know you exist.

Cool fucking italics qst

>>4277992
>For your brother, who you watched die in front of you.

>>4277992
>For your sister, who doesn’t even know you exist.
Seems like the most intresting of the choices

A tie... making a roll with my handy dandy dice...

>>4278022
Seconding with the same sentiment

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Ignored my roll thanks to last minute vote. Good looking out.
>>4278172
>>4278022

You mute the television and turn away, your attention affixing on the papers strewn across the coffee table in the center of the room. A moment of hesitation passes through you, but before long you’re tossing away the remnants of your meal and leaning over to grab a couple of the papers. You give a sad smile as you sift through them, a moment of weakness that you’re glad no one else is around to see.

The papers are small ledgers and financial reports that you’ve managed to pull on an orphanage built far out on the outskirts of the city-- a rural area where crime is nearly nonexistent. You’ve never been there yourself, but from the images you’ve pulled off of the net it seemed like a rather nice place. Quaint… You suppose.

Anyways, the orphanage wasn't the important part. What your mind inevitably drifted to was your sister. A little, blonde haired girl who had lived in the orphanage her entire life.

As her only living family, it should have stood that you would take her in and care for her instead of the orphanage. But you never stepped forward to do so. You were no fool. You didn't know the first thing about caring for a kid, and you knew that the shoddy mess that your apartment was would just be… cruel to the kid. Bringing her out of an orphanage full of people who can actually care for her and to your life of struggle… It wasn't right.

More importantly… You didn't want to involve her in the life you’ve chosen to live. The life of a Gangster is ingrained into your very being, and you doubted you would be able to give it up for any reason. You did NOT want that life for her. The further she was kept from the repercussions and influence of your actions, the better. You didn't want her getting hurt or targeted because of you.

Out there in the rural areas, she was safe from the city. And that was enough.

Still, you could never shake the almost instinctual need to do… something. Your sister didn't know anything about you-- she had never seen your face, and likely believed without a doubt she was alone in the world. That was good. It was necessary. But even still you wanted to help-- to lend a hand from the shadows even if you could never see her.

So, you keep an eye on the place to make sure she's being treated right and, occasionally, you send a stipend of money to the orphanage whenever it comes down on hard times. It's a shoddy replacement for family, but it's all you can do.

(Cont.)

You stare at the papers for a long while before pinching the bridge of your nose and tossing them away. A wave of exhaustion crashes into you like a brick wall, and you nearly topple in your chair. All the struggle of the day was coming to a head, and you felt utterly drained. Both physically and emotionally.

Letting the TV quietly continue running, you pick yourself up with a groan and toss yourself onto the couch. An arm and a leg sprawls over the side as you settle yourself into the torn cushions and throw an arm over your eyes.

You give a mirthless chuckle as you realize it wasn't the weekend and you would be waking up early. You can only imagine the hell to come in the morning.

“Just lovely…” You smirk, your sharp-teeth gleaming as darkness creeps over your body. The storm continues to rumble outside, a quiet rhythm that is soon joined by your calm breaths as you’re finally lulled to sleep.

[NIGHT 1: END]

Well well. Somehow we pulled through to the end. Thanks for playing all those who participated, and I hope you enjoyed to all those who read.

This is meant to be a continued quest, so at some point I'll be picking it up again. Keep an eye out, but its not gonna be for awhile cause I kinda need to decompress.

https://twitter.com/Fatherpriestly

Heres a twitter to keep updated on when I continue this quest again, and feel free to reach out to me with tips or questions about the quest.

Now... to try and archive this thing...

>>4278193
Thanks for running QM