Fox

Chuck goes digging and comes up with a new weapon. It glows! That seems fine. Mike takes a shot at Chitin now that others aren't in the direct line of fire: Ranged Attack Roll vs. Chitin: 1d20+3 4 I suppose that balances out the good luck the melee folks had. Chitin can hear what sounds like shouting just outside. Goons 4, 5, and 6 have opened their crate and pull out something that looks an awful lot like a bazooka, but it's also glowing?? They line up a shot, but it looks like it has some wind-up.

Exactly what you needed. These guys were more solid than Chitin might have expected; feels like those two had some kind of lightweight armor on under, or as part of, their jackets. Apparently it was either not great quality, or more designed for something that isn't blunt force. Conversely, the trio at the far end have open jackets, or none at all; safe bet is they're basically unarmored.

Goon 1: Toughness Save vs. Chitin, DC22: 1d20+3 12 Haha, nope! Goon 2: Toughness Save vs. Chitin, DC20: 1d20+3 16 Nope! They're both down for the count. Make me a Notice check, Chitin.

Initiative, Round 2: 22: Chitin, 2HP, 1 bruise 21: Chuck, unharmed, unarmed 18: Goon 1, unharmed 14: Goon 2, unharmed 9: Mike, unharmed 9: Goon 3, unharmed 8: Goon 4, unharmed 7: Goon 5, unharmed 2: Goon 6, unharmed You're up, Chitin!

GM "What--hey! Give it back!" Chuck was not going to get the gun back, and he knew it; even as he made the demand, he was backing away from the armor-clad hero and moving to another crate of bad goods. "We're not here to kill people. We just move the goods! What other people do with it is their problem, go bug them, bug!" Mike followed Chuck, though he didn't turn around - he kept that gun on Chitin, watching for...whatever these heroes did. Did he know this one? What did this one do? "The only person getting hurt today is you! We don't want to shoot you, but we will if it'll keep you off of us!" Most of the crates were still closed up; Chuck's was ajar, but a long flat number off to the side was properly-sealed and giving a trio of goons some trouble. One had run off - toward the entrance? - and the remaining two closed in on Chitin with crowbars in hand and blood in their eyes. They said nothing but they swung in at the same time, leaving him with precious little room to maneuver....

Well, let's see here! Chuck, now unarmed, is going to back away. He will not be attacking this round. Goons 1 & 2 will, though! They close to melee range, and the former aids the latter in a melee attack. They aren't exactly high-PL (or even balanced-PL) attackers, but they're going to do what they can! Aid, DC10; Melee Attack Roll vs. Chitin, DC21: 2#1d20+3 19 21 19 clears the aid check, making that 21 into a 23 - though it would have hit anyway! Give me a DC19 Toughness save, Chitin. Mike falls back to cover Chuck, but he's not going to shoot into melee and risk hitting a friendly target. Goon 3 runs off. Where are you going, Goon 3? Goons 4-6 are busying themselves with a nearby crate a bit off to the side. I'm sure that's fine.

Chuck is incapable of beating that! Chuck is disarmed, and Chitin now wields a pretty nice SMG.

Mike, Chuck: Initiative Rolls: 1d20+2 9 1d20+6 21 Initiative Rolls: 6#1d20+1 14 7 2 8 18 9 Initiative, Round 1: 22: Chitin, 3HP, unharmed 21: Chuck, unharmed 18: Goon 1, unharmed 14: Goon 2, unharmed 9: Mike, unharmed 9: Goon 3, unharmed 8: Goon 4, unharmed 7: Goon 5, unharmed 2: Goon 6, unharmed The goons are lower-PL minions and comparatively poorly-armed, spread out a bit around the warehouse. Some of them already have weapons of opportunity (crowbars, etc.), some are unarmed (for now!), but they have the advantage of action economy. Chuck and Mike look like they have a little more experience under their belts, and Chuck was noticeably faster on the draw, but both are mere mortals as near as Chitin could tell. Initiative's yours, Chitin!

Initiative time!

GM "Hey, is that...?" Chuck was looking at Mike, bewildered; Mike was squinting at Chitin, clenching his gun like it would give him answers. "....no, it isn't," he said with a bit more confidence than he felt. "I don't think so. But it's trouble." Chuck nodded, turning back to their intruder. "Then yeah! We do think!" he shouted. "A bunch of guns!" In unison, he and Mike brought their weapons to bear...

GM At the height of its success, this warehouse had a maintenance man named Jacob James; he was the best, servicing most of the warehouses in this part of Greenbank, and a few private projects beyond. His tools were his prized possessions, and once, only once, he left them out of his sight...and was heartbroken when one of his wrenches went missing. A small thing, strong but delicate, good grip. A workman's tool. He loved that wrench - he loved the whole set - and he never found it. But Ryder did. The wrong hand in the wrong spot tipped an old wooden box that was barely upright to begin with, finally collapsing into kindling and sending a small metal object tumbling. It made a wonderful sound, beautiful and metallic, as it clattered directly into the open floor and nearly to Chuck's feet. "Hey - hey! Everyone hold up!" Movement ground to a halt, boxes stopping and rollers quieting. They were looking at the wrench, not at Ryder, but it couldn't last; Chuck dug another SMG out of the box and started gesturing to the half-dozen young men and women nearby. "Someone go check on the guards!" he ordered, waving vaguely at one of the doors. "Everyone else, spread out! It's probably nothing, but we can't take any chances tonight."

GM The warehouse lot was littered with rotting wood and old containers...and some old, rusted-out barrels - past the gate guards, off on the short side of the building. It was these that the robugs zipped off toward, and it was these that came toppling down in a clattering of metal and rot. The guards at the gate stopped chatting immediately, turning uneasily to look at the rising cloud of rust, then at each other, then back to the cloud. "That's...a cat." "Shut up, you don't know it's a cat." "It's a cat." "Did you see a cat?" "It could be a cat." "Oh yeah, smart guy? What if it's a raccoon?" "Raccoons are basically cats, you can't-" Another pile of barrels collapsed in on itself (evidence of the hard work of little drones far too small for the job), and they nearly jumped out of their skin. "Will one of you idiots go check that out??" The catwalk guard was leaning over the railing, gesturing toward the gate and the mess. "YOU check it out! You're up there!" shot back the gate guards, closing the distance - not so much to check the barrels as to antagonize their antagonist. "We're down here, we can't see anything!" "I'm up here, I can't get down there, I can't check it out, I'd have to go all the way back around!" "So you want us to get tinnitus?" "What's...it's tetanus, you idiots, now go catch the cat or whatever before--" "Raccoon." "What." "Bill thinks it's a raccoon." "What." The gate was, it seemed, unguarded...for now. Up on the catwalk the guard had moved off toward the short end of the warehouse, overlooking the barrels; the would-be gate guards had moved almost directly under him, away from the gate. None of the trio seemed to be paying much attention to anything, far too concerned with the finer points of the taxonomy of urban wildlife, but who know how long that would last. If those inside the warehouse had noticed anything over hearty conversation and the squealing of crates on rusty conveyors, they weren't showing it.

GM Whatever the guards were waiting for, it certainly wasn't palm-sized robots; Ryder's little drone didn't warrant a second look as it buzzed its way toward the warehouse, and found easy ingress through a partly-broken rooftop window. The warehouse was split into roughly three pieces, as near as it could see from this vantage point: most of the ground floor was dominated by shelving and loading/unloading, old roller conveyors missing some of their metal cylinders but none the less letting the occupants noisily slide crates around. Above half of this was a second floor - more storage, it looked like, though a few dilapidated desks and a couple falling-in walls spoke of some kind of office area - with the other half covered only by catwalks and girders, open air clear to the increasingly unstable ceiling. Off to the north, on the far side from Ryder and his bug, was a heavy metal door that looked like secure storage - or some kind of long-defunct refrigeration unit. "-just so glad to see you come back," one of the men was saying - short and on the slim side, in a pair of coveralls that were hanging loose off their hips. "Wouldn't have been the same without you, Mike!" "Yeah, well, you know." Mike had calmed somewhat, and looked embarrassed to have been so despondent in the first place. "I just had to think it over, yeah? You're still crazy, Chuck." "What, to be moving this stuff? We talked about that, Mikey, it's a good-" "Don't 'Mikey' me, you know what I meant. You know why this is dumb. But you know what? We're all one guy. So if we're all going to be dumb, let's be dumb together, yeah?" Mike clapped his friend on the shoulder, stepping forward to pull what looked an awful lot like a sub-machine gun out of one of the boxes. "This stuff is great. We just have to make sure it all goes okay. And I'm here for it."

APPROVED!

There are enough surrounding buildings and urban decay that Riley can easily get close to the warehouse (or, at least, the fence around it!), and see at least what's going on outside - let me know if there are any particular details you or he would be after. The guards at the checkpoint don't look particularly friendly; they're keeping a somewhat negligent lookout, but they are looking out. The fence is ~8-10 feet high, depending on where it's still in good shape and where it had to be installed against the surrounding terrain. It does seem to run all the way around the building.

Greenbank - Southern Rail Warehouses May 17th, 5:27pm GM Mike moved with the conviction of someone whose mind was set, which is to say that he marched forward with great determination and only stopped to re-summon his courage twice. He also didn't seem concerned by the idea that anyone may have been following him, which was very convenient for anyone following him. All the same, his path was not direct and a near-miss with a bus almost put him out of reach; it was nearly half-past five when Mike arrived at his destination and entered the warehouse. It was one of the larger buildings in this part of Greenbank, if somewhat derelict from years of neglect after the rail service started to dry up - in its heyday it would have been two stories of grade-A Freedom City storage space, a living part of metropolitan trade. If one closed their eyes they could almost imagine the great trucks rumbling in, past the checkpoint through the eight-foot chain link border fence, down the wide road to one of those grand sliding doors in the side of the building, warehouse bosses shouting orders from the catwalk that stretched two thirds around the outside of the second story. There were men at the checkpoint, sliding gate squeaking closed on rusty wheels once Mike had passed. One of them had reached into his jacket when Mike approached, stopping only once he'd seen his newly-inspired face in the light. There was a man walking the catwalk, though he couldn't get quite all the way around before a broken section forced him to turn back. His hand never strayed far from something hanging off his belt. There were sounds of movement and machinery from inside the building, discussion and lively chatter. Perhaps the warehouse wasn't so abandoned after all.

"I don't think anybody likes your party?" Elizabeth had her head cocked to the side, and she was - both of her were - holding crook staves they couldn't possibly have smuggled into the dance. "I don't think it is a party. It was! We were having fun! People were dancing, drama was happening!" The other Elizabeth nodded, adding, "People shouldn't get stabbed in the brain at parties." "People shouldn't get stabbed in the brain at parties! Your party sucks. Danica's - not Danica's, the not-Dani...you know what I mean - Danica's party was way better."

Well, the good news is that you prompted the ref team to look at Second Chance! The bad news is that our deliberation and math ended up nixing Second Chance on damage with Very Common descriptors, since it's a bit powerful for the cost. Ballistic's a common descriptor, so you're fine there, but the other two may need some adjustment.

GM Mike didn't move for a moment, still staring at what was more juice than smoothie by now. "....we're all one guy," he repeated, slowly, like the words were foreign in his mouth. "....we're all one guy!" he said, like the words were the most profound wisdom he'd ever heard. He brought his head up, looking at Ryder with an almost manic wisdom. "We're all one guy," he whispered. He jumped up, or tried to, legs caught under the table; his second attempt was ungraceful but no less energetic, slowly disentangling himself from his seat. "I can't stop Chuck, but if everyone's just one guy maybe I can help. One more guy is all you need sometimes, right??" He was partway out the door before he spun around on his heel and marched right back, throwing some cash down on the table and grabbing his drink. His free hand fell on Ryder's shoulder, leaning down slightly to look him in the eye. "You're a smart kid, and I owe you. You do deliveries, right? I think I've seen you around." He didn't wait for an answer. "Don't do any deliveries to the south end of Greenbank for a while. Best advice I can give you. You're a great kid and I'd hate for anything to happen to you." He was marching out the door again, energy renewed. "They're just one guy!" And then he was gone.

GM "No. Nuh-uh." Mike shook his head, looking haunted. "I tried, Ryder. I got at least some of them to leave Chuck to his---to what's going to happen. Chuck cannot be convinced. When that guy gets something in his head, he never gives it up. And that was great when the ideas were good, but this is just the dumbest..." He sighed, slumping back down. "He's gonna ruin himself and everyone near him tonight, and I don't know if I can do anything to help. I'm just one guy! I think the best I've got is to stay as far away from him as possible, and keep myself out of it. Maybe...maybe start again? If he doesn't drag me down with him somehow, anyway? Try again somewhere else, I'll still have a few friends left out there, maybe one of our business partners will still be talking to me."

GM "Hey, I didn't mess up, it was Chuck's---" Mike stopped, jaw tensing as he sized Ryder up. "....I didn't mess up," he insisted, finally. When he continued his tone was guarded, and he was back to looking at his smoothie. "Some...friends and I, we started a business. Everyone coming together to help, yeah? And we did pretty good! You know, watched our money, got some business partners, it was all going great. And then Chuck, like an idiot, he decides he's going to start a....project." He kept pausing, each time glancing up at Ryder like he was consciously remembering that he was talking to some kid. Mike couldn't have been that much older himself, but it was enough to count. "And now Chuck's going to bury us all and he's too stupid to see why, and all I've learned is that my best friend's a fool and the rest of 'em like Chuck more than me so they're fools too."

Well, that sounds like a Diplomacy check to me, Ryder!

GM The young man was visibly lagging a sentence or two behind, but eventually he looked up and offered a hand on reflex before realizing that Ryder's wasn't quite there yet. He put his hand back down - tense even in relaxing, like every muscle was pulled tight. "I'm, uh. Mike. Nice t'meet you, Ryder. And yeah, no, it's good. The smoothie's fine." He couldn't have had more than two sips from it. "Guess I'm just not very hungry." He held the (ever less frozen) treat by the base, slowly turning it with his fingers. "Dreams are all good, Ryder, until someone ####s them up. All that work for nothing. You stick to the Smoothie Shack, man - you'll have better dreams in here than out there."

OOC thread for this IC thread. Nothing here yet!

Riverside - Smoothie Shack May 17th, 4:33pm GM All kinds of people came into the Smoothie Shack, on Sundays as with any day: the kids after a cool treat, often with beleaguered parents in tow (though the latter were just as often secretly happy for an excuse to indulge); the joggers who'd some some napkin math and figured they'd burned enough calories to justify immediately consuming that many again; the older regulars, most of whom had stories about the ice cream parlors of their youth (less than most of which seemed credible). Even when it was quiet one could people-watch, learning about the patrons and passers-by by watching the little things. The young man in the booth by the window, clearly wanting to be seen (and perhaps waiting for someone who'd never arrived), the couple who were all smiles and laughter (but there was too much tension, too many little jumps and starts for it all to be genuine).... .....or the not-so-little-things, like the rough young man in the far corner who'd spent the last half-hour, head in his hands, watching his smoothie melt and looking for all the world like the last thread on the sword of Damocles was going to snap at any moment.