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Fireteam Dysjunction; The one where foresight would have been useful.
Topic Started: Aug 27 2012, 08:36 PM (643 Views)
Smitejr
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Realizing that he was caught out in the open, with no cover, Desmond curses. Activating the shroud, he slips past the captain, before releasing the majority of his remaining throwing knives as he leaps over the fireteam behind him, coming down on two with his hands outstretched.

"Epsilon, hold the captain's attention! I need to take care of these men!"
Tune your ear to the frequency of despair, and cross-reference by the longitude and latitude of a heart in agony.
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LornMind
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Bigger Than A Breadbox
Epsilon happily obliges. "No prob!" he shouts with glee. "ASSHOLE! YOU! WITH THE STUPID RETARD LOOK ON YOUR FACE! KISS MY ASS!" He jumps atop the cover and rears his posterior at him, shaking it mockingly before jumping back down onto the ground to avoid a hail of bullets.

He peeks over the cover and rests his FN sideways along it before pinning the trigger. He reloads and pops out one last time to chuck an empty magazine as hard as he can directly at the captain's face.
When it comes to writing, I'm a zip gun in a prison; one-shot, one-trick, and I'm all you've got.
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Gleam
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The captain doesn't even bother to stop as Desmond phases through; he just barrels straight down the hallway at Epsilon, accelerating into a blur that crumples rounds into minature metal pancakes before hurling them aside. The magazine is shredded by the odd, acceleration-based ars, and then the captain slams directly into Epsilon's cover, face-first and midcharge; a three-foot-thick, concrete ceiling column.

He barrels straight through it like a bead curtain, and swings an arm at Epsilon's throat like he's gunning for a home run. "LARRRRIAAAATOOOOO!" He bellows.

~*~

The fireteam ducks and covers, but one soldier doesn't move fast enough and her thigh gets slammed through with one of the knives. She hisses in pain and jerks out a thick combat knife, swiping at Desmond's fingers with it as they close on her, her other hand diving for her sidearm. Her comrade swings on Desmond and snaps off a smart burst, one-two-three at his midsection.

~*~

Rueham lunges out of cover and looses another round at the clerk's head, tearing most of the man's face off and shattering his skull visibly. He blinks with his one remaining eye, and looses the round chambered in his launcher anyways. The explosion blows Rueham back into a wall, cracking his head against it harshly.

Loosing a quiet sigh, the clerk leans forward in his seat and sets his forehead against the steaming-hot barrel of his weapon. He doesn't seem to notice, though, as he falls from his chair to the floor.
Class. Dig it up, dust it off, hang that shit crooked on an ear. My halo's a land mine rind, amigo.

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Smitejr
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Stopping his momentum cold, Desmond jumps back away from the combat knife, before countering with another thrown weapon aimed right for her center of mass. Already discounting her life, Desmond turns around to engage another one, eyes widening as he sees the man pull his sidearm at him.

Trying to dodge, he manages to evade two of the hastily shot bullets. However, the third ends up on target, and is only stopped by the Shroud's armor from doing more than giving him a nasty welt that would need to be checked on later. Forcing the Shroud into action, Desmond jumps into the air, drawing his last belt knife, though he grimaces as he feels the bruise slow him down.
Tune your ear to the frequency of despair, and cross-reference by the longitude and latitude of a heart in agony.
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LornMind
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Bigger Than A Breadbox
Epsilon considers the odd sensation of weightlessness that surrounds him and his eyes widen as he feels himself tearing through the air, the massive arm of an angry captain driving him towards God knows what. In a daze he looks up at the captain and sees a face contorted with rage; he says, half-choking, but placidly nonetheless, "Hey, that's not very nice man." He feels himself slam against the wall and blinks the stars from his eyes.

A truck smashing him into a wall was an apt comparison. He falls to his knees and coughs violently, his FN lying uselessly several feet away. "Okay, that was mean, dickhead." From his kneeling position, he snaps into a sprinter's stance and dashes forward, his capacitors out-putting a massive amount of entropically charged air. The loud hiss of an overheat greets his ears as he slides to his FN and stumbles roughly against his largely crumbled cover, his still woozy brain protesting basic motor functions. He points his weapon, his hands trembling and swaying visibly from the mild concussion at the captain uneasily and taunts him, still coughing, "TRY THAT AGAIN MOTHERFUCKER!"
When it comes to writing, I'm a zip gun in a prison; one-shot, one-trick, and I'm all you've got.
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