Supercape
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Starshot Crew of five. Accounted for? Unaccounted for? Who knew? And organised crime, too. The detail of what had happened here was still elusive, but the pieces were starting to fall together. He looked through a few pages of Blasterbeam magazine, a low grade gun-fetish magazine for lunatics, and threw it away with a grunt of resigned contempt. He couldn't see anything else of much pertinence. Instead, he resigned himself to the task at hand; demolitions. Not part of his usual occupation. It reminded him of... Seventy years ago..the French alps...the smell of petrol and gunpowder.... He frowned. He didn't want to think about the war. Best get this business over with as quickly as possible. He set the charges, perhaps with excess speed and paucity of care, and radio'd in... "Charges all set. Ready to detonate at you go-ahead..."
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GM "I bet you are" said Morello, that thin bright smile on his lips, just below his dark eyes. The door lead down to a crucifix. There was a musty smell, and dust - a lot of dust. Enough to make Morello cough. He tried to make it quiet, but a cough is a cough. Especially in the dark silence. "I can't see a damn thing..." muttered Morello, bringing out a flash light...this was of course no problem for the Tattered Man. He could see the dust. The half-rotten wine cellar wood. The old barrels. The vintage wines. And odd jars of exotic herbs and spices. And pickles, with most peculiar and disturbing pickles in those jars. Before Morello could turn on his flash light, John heard a scuttling sound, like a rat, behind some of the wine barrels. It was an unpleasant sound of something small in the walls and woods...
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Sneaking into the Club House: 1d20+14 28 for Sneak roll.
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The Red Rat "What was that? Rubin the Radioactive Rabbit?" asked the Rat through her ear piece. Trotsky, it seemed, had all the primal instincts of an ursine hunter, and the intelligence of one too. She hoped the Doctor could keep his pet under control. "Ah, never mind" she muttered more phlegmatically. However, caution was of the essence. Why run into trouble when you could sneak up on it and plant a taser bullet in the back of its skull? With this prudence in mind, she dropped to a half crouch, and silently slid towards the club house, keeping her magnificent emerald eyes sharp. Magnificently sharp, thanks to superior soviet technology!
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Again, might be a dead end, but taking his time with a "take 20" on Search (for 22 result) if that is ok.
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Starshot Being told he shouldn't care was a red rag. Damn I will care! He pocketed the Navigation computer. Perhaps that would provide some evidence of what happened. A black box would be better. Weapons...now here was a thing. Was the Bortha a weapon too? was this an arms running operation. Good money would be paid for high tech weapons to a lower tech society. Especially with more than one sentient species on the planet. Starshot figured that he could take his time; people might get suspicious, but that might rattle some rotten fruit out of the tree. And what were they going to do? Come and get him. He hadn't mentioned he had taken down the Bortha, and deliberately so. Lets keep some Valaxian Aces up my sleeve! He searched the Berth thoroughly - it was not big - for clues...
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Starshot Navigation device shot? This would imply the ship was shot down before it crashed with the asteroid. Imply was one thing, proof was another. And there was still no way of knowing who had shot the ship down. Then again, an EMP? Was this sabotage? Did the EMP go off first? That was sabotage. He needed a skilled engineer to piece together this mystery. That ruled Gunmonkey out. And Gunmonkey knew more than he did. He could only call this in. See what they said. He flipped open the comm device and squeaked out a few dials to tune in. "Starshot here. I have made contact with the ship. It looks like sabotage. Somebody fired off an EMP inside it. I can't piece together what happened...but I think someone should. This looks strange..."
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Starshot Starshot paused a moment, wondering why the collision with an asteroid? Space was dangerous, mistakes happen. But they normally happened for a reason, a sloppy pilot, maybe running overdrive causing sensor dilatation. Maybe those impact wound's. What from? Perhaps he should find out exactly what happened. Perhaps not. There was a job he was supposed to do. Then there was what he should do. Then again, there was what he wanted to do. And none of those aligned. "Damn my teeth" he said, gritting the offending articles. "Can't hurt to look..." He took out his rifle, fired up the plasma. He would look for a way in. Or cut himself a hole...
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Starshot Maybe it was a fighting beast, designed to kill. For sport of for profit. Maybe for both. He couldn't tell. It would be a shame to lock this beast away. It should be roaming free. Or at the very least, its head stuffed and put on the display of the Xeno's lounge. Not captivity. He put on his helmet. The hunting was done, for now. It was time to focus on the ship, or what was left of it. Hefting his plasma rifle over his shoulder, and flipping on the helmets HUD he started towards the main bulk of the ship, scanning it in the various fancy spectrums his hunting helmet provided. He was no expert in explosives, but he was fairly sure it would be an easy enough task to plant them. As long as he didn't find anything unexpected...
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Starshot Starshot stood over the beast, breathing heavily and taking a moment. Without a word, the adrenaline cooling, he walked through the snow to pick up his gun and discarded tools of the trade. That had been a fight to remember. And another scar to remember it by. But it was worth it. It was a feeling of true life, when at the brink of death. He took a look at the scenery. It was a beautiful icy scenery to fight on. But now the real world crept in, and in a sense it was just as brutal as the fight, although brutal by a different nature. Taking no chances, he stabbed the Bortha with all the sedatives he had. Before anything else, he wanted to take a look at the creature. He bent down and started examining it...
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Starshot "Come on! Come on!" yelled Starshot, full of livid blood. By Wodin, he felt alive! Maybe the salt of shame would hit him later, but not so much as perhaps it should. He felt like a vaguely oppressive and beautiful German Opera. He pounded one flesh fist into one metal one, and jumped again, swiping the Bortha with a right. It hit, but the real clanger was the follow up, a crushing thump with his cybernetic hand, straight into the chest. Even Starshot could feel the splintering impact there. ""You put up a noble fight, but you never stood a chance!"
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Ok I so Starshot will try a Move action demoralise at -5, Demoralise Bortha: 1d20+5 15 Then a straight punch, unmodified. Punches Bortha: 1d20+12 32 and that's a crit, for a DC 28 Toughness Save (unless it is immune to crits!)
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The Red Rat "I recommend that's a good idea" She pulled out both guns. This smelled liked trouble. And when in trouble, check your ammo clips.... Configuring non-lethal ammunition...came the feedback via SLAVE and the cyberlink with her handy weapons. The bullets would vapourise on impact, leaving a nasty bruise and maybe a broken rib. But not exploding through vital organs like regular ammunition. Perhaps the tranq darts would be wiser, but she had an inkling that this was dangerous ground. "Lets see if Trotski can sniff out some atomic trouble. And...errr....let me know if this place is radioactive, huh? I don't mix well with radiation. And I'm not just talking baldness and pancreatic cancer" she explained. This really smelled like trouble. But she might as well embrace it. Kept her pulse beating. So off to the Clubhouse it was...
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GM Morello got to work with the lock picks, grunting. He was no expert, but he knew how to pick a padlock. And whilst sturdy, it was not a difficult one to pick. In a minute or two there was click. "Aha! I have not lost my fingers!" he said, with a knowing smile, and wiggle of those very digits. He pocketed the lockpick with a whistle of his teeth. "Now then, down we go, I suppose. But tell me, my friend. What do you think we shall find, and what do you think you will do when we get down there? I would like to know before stepping into the darkness!" He fondled a small silver crucifix around his neck. John could here him mutter some Catholic ritual in Latin.
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GM With a quizzical smile on his lips, Morello followed. He had a calm air, without threat of violence. But there was something cruel about his lips, almost a sneer. A contempt. Or maybe a blunt and effective determination. "Whatever gets the job done, my friend" he said, seeming to approve. There certainly was a back door, to the kitchens, no less. It was not the most solid of doors, and had not the most solid of hinges. A good kick would send it collapsing (at least from the Tattered Man) and it could probably be wrestled open without much effort. From within, the sounds of simmering and even mumbled chat. Beneath the overgrowth however, another option presented itself. A little more secure (padlocked), an obscured cellar door. From beneath, as far as could be determined, silence. John was fairly sure he could put his boot through the door without much effort. Although Morello whistled and showed him a picklock... "I have many talents! As I said. Whatever gets the job done!"
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GM A few minutes later Morello spoke not a word as they approached the Church. But he whistled, an odd tune with a strange time signature. 7/4, if the Tattered Man was any judge. The Church up close, had a kind of rusty feel, even if it was stone. A bronzed look of old construction, with lichen and moss dotted around. It looked rather gothic, rather antique. But it was also in fair repair, in no danger of falling down as far as one could tell. And it was beautiful. Inside, there was soft lighting - some electric but an abundance of candles that filled the air with a floral fume. They were greeted by a middle aged slim woman who looked pale and dark, and wore tinted glasses. "Oui?" she asked, in an accent that was not convincing. "I am afraid the restaurant is not yet open. We are refurbishing. We can take a reservation if you wish, perhaps next month?" she asked, politely. "Unless you are a food critic of course!" she added, with a mixture of sycophantic diplomacy and experienced distaste.
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Starshot Starshot had a hand on the snow. If not, he would have fallen. He could feel the tremor vibrate up him. Stronger than me...not as fast...he told himself. After all, the beast was still a beast. Stronger, larger, and quicker than it had any right to be. But it did not have his experience or will. He stood up, and ran headlong at the beast, giving it a powerful shoulder barge just under its arms. He felt the first trickle of sweat down his brow. The first gasp of breath. He could keep this up a long time, but not forever...
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Reflex vs Area: 1d20+8 13 Failed the main roll. Against the trip attack I guess its vs STR or DEX rather than reflex save, but its still +8 so...Reflex STR save vs Trip: 1d20+8 26 which is made. The Toughness Save is Toughness save vs Bortha Stomp: 1d20+9 27 which is made. So, Starshot will charge the beast... Charges the BOrtha: 1d20+12 26 should hit, for a DC 23 Tough Save
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Starshot The teeth sunk into his boot, and he could feel flesh part and blood flow. Another scar... He lashed out with his other boot to try and peel the beast of him. The Bortha only responded with a twist of its neck and body. Wotan! He is strong! Starshot span across the snow, in a daze. He was thankful of the snow to cushion the fall. He felt the cobwebs creep into his eyes. The Bortha had thrown him a few dozen feet away. He felt snow in his nose and eyes, and was almost thankful, for it provided a sharp jolt of alertness. "Come on then, beast! That all you got?"
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Tough vs Bortha Claw: 1d20+10 19 a bit painful, so activating Second Chance: Second Chance Tough vs Bortha: 1d20+10 19 Exactly the same! Ill take the bruise (and injury?) plus daze then.
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Ok if you will allow it, activating the Primal challenge complication and disarming himself. Fist against fang, brutal nature at work. Flying Kick at Bortha: 1d20+12 24 and a DC 23 TOughness save (i will hope that hits!)
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Starshot Starshot flung the injector to one side, its shot spent. He had a few spare capsules, but now was not the time. The Bortha weighed a ton, and it would take an age for the poison to knock the thing out. It was a noble beast, with all its teeth and ferocity. And cunning, it seemed. He grinned a bloody grin, and tossed his rifle away. Just you and me now, beast! Let's see how tooth and claw fare against sinew and steel! He crouched low, then took a few steps, before launching into a arrow-like flying kick, both legs hurtling towards the back of the beast.
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Starshot Starshot dove to one side, the snow flying from his boots. However fast the Bortha was, he was still the faster. Nerves spliced with techno-organic fibres made his reactions fast. Very fast. And years of doing this... Damned if I am going down in the snow, bleeding red over white.... He shouted again, and instead of - as the Bortha would be expecting - backing off, he jumped forward. Can't remember...Bortha anatomy....where did its blood flow? Never mind... Lessons in alien anatomy later. He jammed his sedative gun in to the fur and fat, and pressed the trigger. A sharp needle, four inches long, extended and administered a healthy bolus of Omnisom, numbing the flesh and the brain...
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Ok! So move action: Startle Startle the Bortha: 1d20+10 23 with a -5 penalty for move action that would be an 18. Standard action: And I suspect this will fail, but lets go for it: Inject with sleepy drug. Inject Bortha: 1d20+12 21 if that hits, a DC 15 Fatigue save (and subsequent poison effect). It also causes a tactile dazzle but i doubt that will be relevant (although it could cause an amusing effect if backstabbing!)
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Starshot Starshot gritted his teeth and snarled back at the Bortha. "Grrrr Grrrr!" He never knew a Bortha back down. But this creature, he wanted to understand it. Somehow, he felt he had to take it alive. "Grrr! GRRR!" he shouted, taking a few steps forward. He was slow but purposeful. Showing no fear. I'm the boss here, you shagpile! Whilst he advanced, holding his rifle in his cybernetic left hand, full of iron grip, he pulled out the small sedative injector by his hip. Perhaps he could take this thing alive after all...