Ari

Alright, first opposition vs DC34 Diplomacy: 32. No luck for the wicked this day.

GM Breaking from the loop, OtherSharl fell silent. Another transmission was sent 'If I'm fixed, will I still be me?' "We need to bring you to the Board..." Ochre and Green looked briefly at each other "...later. This way." Green stepped quickly to the end of the hallway, swiped their hand against the wall next to the elevator. The wall sizzled into a door leading to a stairway leading down. A deep, broad stair, ending fifty feet below on a small dock overlooking the Pacific coast at low tide. It was a relatively long drop to the sand a rocks below, but both Hermits did it easily, rolling nimbly to their feet and brushing off the sand and seaweed as they led the way along the pleasantly-reeking beach. A few hundred yards along the beach was a massive grate marked "EMERALD CITY DEPARTMENT REGULATING ENVIRONMENTAL & GARBAGE SERVICE-". The 'S' was cut off by the hinge of the gate. Behind it shone and bobbled shallow sewer water. Inside were dozens of robotic limbs, heads, rusted-out chassisses. OtherSharl averted his eyes...only one wholly obeying the command, the other stuck staring at the grisly scene. "We found...him here. He was in pieces, but enough was intact to be put together relatively easily." Green pointed to a ghoulish skeletal hand reaching out of the water "Most of the remnants are too corroded or contaminated going through this line of the sewers. It attaches to the KessKorp facility a half-mile or so inland. Sometimes, victims of hitmen end up here as well." Ochre stroked her masked chin "But there's no telling where you-I mean, he came from. Do you have some means of doing so? Would- QUIET QUIET QUIET!" Out of nowhere, Ochre fell to her knees, clutching her head in her hands, followed immediately by Green, both of them shouting frantically "QUIET!"

Search roll, Olopi. Also Notice and Knowledge(Arcane Lore)

@Exaccus Sorry, only just realized you wanted vulnerabilities. It looks super-vulnerable to electrical surges, and is also much bigger than it is strong. If he got a good rock, he could smash the aluminium casings pretty easily. @Sailor Okay, Torpedo Lass manages to lose the Torbs in the trees. And not slip on any of the really slick moss-covered branches.

Max Mars shrugged. "Well, it was worth a shot. I've heard about that Spdr Rig, Spider, sorry that wound's still so deep." His eyes flicked over to Salmon, who had stood silent and immobile all this time, his smile following. "What about you, son? Want a steady job?" Salmon looked at the others, then back at Mars, hands clenching and unclenching. "N-no. I...I can't. Sorry, Mars, I can't do it. Not now." Max Mar's smile didn't waver "Fine and dandy, son. Now, onto business!" He leaned forward on the hospital bed, steepling his fingers and grinning over their tips at the three metas "So, what's your first question?" Salmon spoke up at once "Did you know about this Faster Pussycat person, before she attacked?" Max shook his head "Nope. Not even a little. Never knew Mandy was a metahuman until today, never knew she had anything to do with batsies either. I just thought she was a weird maomew who got into Egyptian stuff because of that Set guy. Can't blame her, I've seen the abs on those two, I understand the feeling." He picked up a glass of wine on the bedside table and took a sip, looking dreamily at the muted TV above him. He quickly lay back down with a grunt and a wince of pain. He pointed an elegant, bandanged finger at Emerald Spider "Next question!"

Actually that's pretty good. Roland knows they're made from an alien element that came from an asteroid that landed in eastern Africa, around which the advanced and isolationist civilization of Dakana grew. They're crystals that have seemingly supernatural energy-transfer and storage capabilities. Even trace amounts of daka crystals vastly improve super-technology.

OOC thread for this thread. Weekened Man runs afoul of the fearsome Red Lion! @Mafia Whale Please roll what you feel best fits knowing about the famous and jealously treasured daka crystals. I'd suggest Knowledge(Physical Sciences/Technology) myself.

GM Date: Unknown Location: A prison "Do you know the history of Ethiopia, 'Weekend'?" It was the first time the man in red had spoken, his face hidden behind a dizzying shimmer of digital distortion. The voice was deep, yet soft and mild, accented with the rolling vowels and curt consonants of another country. He smelled faintly acrid, like dusty books and ruins. He dressed finely, with an air of not just wealth but aristocratic and elegant bearing. The others hadn't said anything, but even so Roland could feel their presence. That is, they were tightly clustered behind the chair Roland was tied to, thick, gem-studded manacles binding his hands and feet together and behind the chair legs. He could feel and hear their breath, the slight shifting as they adjusted their feet, the rattle and clatter of something metal all of them carried in their hands. All of them started fidgeting the moment the man in red started talking. "Once, the kingdom of Shewa was a power that could defy even the Emperor. Even when Tewodros the Second defeated their Negus the region rose again and again in revolt. The Emperor settled their capital at Barara, the Negus' old seat, to claim that man's power and legitimacy for his own. The prince of Shewa, Menelik, became Emperor of Ethiopia in his own turn, a final insult to the pretender and his brood who thought they could take power with fire and sword." "I tell you this to remind you, sir, that what you have taken from us will soon be returned. My wise sister says "Wait." I say "Now", and no stripling boy untried by arms will defy me, not even in this, the seat of your pallid, wasting, leprous might." "In a few minutes our getaway vehicle will arrive and you will accompany me back to Africa. I cannot promise you such charming accommodations as this, but in time you might learn to accept gnawing, endless hunger and the surety that every chance to escape is a sham of my creation." The man in red held up the suitcase Weekend Man had, seemingly moments ago, been taking from the hands of a bunch of animal-themed robbers who had snuck into an ASTRO Lab wing. "Are you aware of the significance of daka crystals, Weekend?" This time, he paused and waited for an answer.

Emerging in a red, coiling wave of power, Pele's outstretched arm swept the masked men from their feet and slammed them to the ground, guns flying from suddenly nerveless hands and masks shattering as they hit the tarmac. The driver of the truck which had been unloading people was flung through their windshield and into the wall opposite, bouncing off in a wailing heap and rolling under the truck, where they wisely stayed. The other started to gun the engine and slam into reverse...but it took precious seconds even to begin, and before the masked slaver could react a green-black blur wrenched open the driver's door and punched them three hundred times a second. Dragging the unconscious man out of the truck and arranging the rest in a groaning, feebly twitching pile, Salmon turned to Kid Kamehameha, shoulders slumped and panting with the exertion. He nodded shortly, embroidered eyes garish and orange and staring. "Thank you. Ichi, no chance, glad you were here." "These are the Disque Joqueys. Go-betweens." Salmon spared a disgusted glance at their fallen enemy "Kams are new. So's the mofajo. Thought magic masks were just some Jersey thing." "You wanna find out where they were going, I'll take care of the people they caught?"

On her long, spindly neck, Red Moon's helmeted head twisted and crooked in almost serpentine movements as she inspected the interior of the robot. Most feelings took a certain concentration, a moment to remember how someone who was angry might react, for instance. But the curiosity sparked by this device required none of that. Peering closer, Red Moon gently extracted a broken, jagged shard of the mechanized guts, turning it over in her gloved fingers. For a moment, she said nothing, poring inside over the long, dusty rows of what she could recall from capturing transmissions out of the Republic and Khanate over the slow decades in isolation on the Moon. With a jerk, she scrambled to her feet. It was impossible to see her face behind the black faceplate, but a staccato, thrumming giggle escaped the suit's voicecircs. ~"Xobron! This style, I mean, it is from the Chorus Age of Xobron's First Crash, when the old art was destroyed by the Prescientists!"~ With nervous, twitching fingers she held up the tank, tracing a line of the golden filigree shaped like a thousand blooming flowers ~"The gold conducts electricity, so it helps with the power/heat balance, while the electrum zonath hawks strengthen the tanks' physical integrity. By incorporating art with technology, they prevented a new thought purge by making a luxury crucial to their infrastructure!"~ Turning noiselessly to the Xobron closest to her, Atraxia asked eagerly ~"I do beg your pardon, goodarm,"~ the archaic honorrific translated awkwardly, but more or less technically correct ~"but are you aware of any recent mass-injuries or fatalities on this station? This robot might have been meant as a collector for some underclass, to obtain what was not easily gotten with limited means. As well, may I ask your name?"~

I will post in a moment, sorry.

Would you roll a Stealth and Reflex check, Sailor? DC15 on both.

He gets all of them in his range: All but one fail. That one is the driver of the 'receiving' truck, Salmon is up, will run over and punch at him: 27. Hits. DC23 Toughness save: 10. Saying, with all of them knocked down, we can just narrate that they are all subdued. Combat over, 1HP to both for going to investigate and sticking it out despite the bullets.

GM The first look was the worst. As usual. The first anything in magic was always too much, too fast, too bright or dark or horrible. The mages had never written that down, any of them, because they had had to learn it for themselves and hadn't ever expected to be dealing with a world so lacking in the mentorships and deep, close bonds between more and less-experienced practitioners. Even a hundred years ago, it would have been unthinkable to be plumbing these depths without a helping hand, someone who knew exactly what you were going through. Which meant the shocking blare of neon was positively blinding. Death was everywhere, in the air, the soil, splattered across the pristine riverside roads. Countless dead, countless dying, smearing the world with gaudy handprints and making a mockery- A shift of focus and things became much clearer. There was a red ribbon along the ground. It traced to the mouth of the alley where the body had been found, split into five, and swept into the thrumming, cheerily-decaying Riverfront downtown.

That gets about everything available. What was producing the shell is on the ceiling. A big copper coil, some slabs of ancient computer pieces, and a salvaged satellite dish transformed into a projector. The tech in question is a bunch of Cold War-era pieces cobbled together and augmented with smaller, newer pieces controlling and enhancing the generated power. The actual power source is attached via massive cables bigger around than Deoxy is. It's elsewhere, but he can feel it humming in the floor.

Dol-Druth the Speaker Neither/Nor The Lighthouse, Terres orbit, Sol System Before the decision One micron. That was all the manymind had, free of the mentats' watchful third eyes, to decide their votes. It had taken some doing to convince Vani... Was that right? Should he really put all the Lor-Van loneminds under one head? Their homeworld was no longer, a void in space that led to and from this pitiable little star and its poorly-arrayed worlds. The pile of pallid flesh stirred as he pondered anew. Below him, so far he had never walked in all his life the steps it would take to reach it, but seeming close enough to touch, the continent of South America shone like a green-brown dagger of life. He had been talking with some of the League (by electronic messages, they had trouble enough without seeing him in person) about visiting that part of the world after his stay on Earth had been extended. So far they had been most anxious that he should not. 'As if we do not know how its resources are drained for use abroad. A sign of the future.' 'Not so! They merely wish us to see what they can do with plenty and peace!' 'What does a terrestrian know of peace?' 'Enough to know they want it.' 'They want what they're told they wa-' "Quiet!" Dol-Druth's voice surprised himself. The mountain of hairless, antennae'd alien froze and stared into space with its eyes of pure black. For a moment he was sick with shame. A personal display, at a time like this, when so much needed Dotrae's attention and its Speaker's focus. The black eyes were covered by corpse-white lids. 'I beg your forgiveness, but we must hurry. Coordinating' Reaching out, Dol-Druth picked up a small red ball, part of a game Pseudo had taught him. A concentration tool the Grue had used long ago to help learn to follow his own train of thought. He raised it, counted, and let it fall... With a rush and flurry that would have put the carrier pigeons to shame, the minds of Dotrae assembled in their dizzying ranks, each feeling each others' presence and hearing their voice as if hundreds of billions had come together into the same room. To anyone not versed in a lifetime of psychic discipline, it would have been a hellish maelstrom of mental power. To Dol-Druth, squaring his imaginary shoulders as he looked over the meeting's agenda for the three hundred and third time, it was as natural as breathing to naviagate the astral landscape. The trick was to follow your own thread and to observe, not join in, the countless lives that touched his own. The hundreds part of those billions were a matter of some pride. Dotrae had been fertile and the pods had been sound. Children would soon be taught to join the manymind, to link their thoughts, experiences, their very being to the greatest and freest network of intellects the universe had yet seen. But their fate was uncertain and every heart felt the twist of the tide. Condensing what followed into a dialogue would both be staggeringly unwieldy and obscure the salient points. First came the stream of memories of all that Dotrae under Grand Nauarchus Frankan had experienced. Most of Dotrae had tasted the horrors of the last wars. There were incredulous laughs and spluttered fury at the sight of the new ships being built at the old imperial shipyards. Dotrae remembered quite clearly every other time that the government on Lor-Van had replaced their fleet with designs whose power and scale dwarfed that of its predecessors. Along with every time that had spectacularly failed to solve the next deadly threat to the Vani and their allies. The laughs died quickly at the shared words and sights of Frankan consolidating an officer bloc centered on loyalty to the old charger. A lonemind blithely repeating the mistakes of the past was funny, but something like this was more than merely making new coffins for Dotrae to live and inevitably die in. This had the air of a quiet rebellion. Most distressing was how Frankan had gently excluded Dotrae officers from this inner circle. A warning sign in and of itself. The rest of the Grand Nauarchus' work was examined in a thoroughly sober light. All of it hit every warning bell Dotrae had accrued over the centuries, from her fears regarding the trashed empires outside the borders to retaining the seat of the Star Navy in the thick of her new fleets. Dotrae could not argue that she was not brave, capable and would be an excellent leader, but where she would lead the Republic was even less palatable than usual. Even more a centralized cult of personality based on one godlike lonemind. As one, Dotrae agreed that voting for Bucklin Frankan would be wholly irresponsible. Next was Ambassador Th'emme. Slightly more of Dotrae had directly been affected by her policies. None of them had any complaints. Several million had worked with her in the civilian government before and after the Incursion War. No complaints. Her conduct during the war? Dotrae would have done differently, but her ideas had worked out and weren't tainted by pursuing personal glory. Her history in the Senate and philanthropic work was spotless and without fault. All her enemies were of the penny-pinching or war-mongering or isolationist kind Dotrae wasn't fond of. Dotrae paused, confused. How could this be when she was the scion of the old noble lines, the mentats who had woven all below them and the Imperator into a pattern of obedience and silence? The people who had hunted the Cholaxans for sport and tried to stop the last imperatrix from destroying the ancient imperial palace? As they pored over the records, another question raised itself. How had Ambassador Th'emme managed to rise so high without any record or sign of a lapse in principle or judgement? How could anyone, let alone a lonemind without others to correct and guide them outside clumsy advice or shaky example, leave no embarrassing mistakes or shameful secrets? Dotrae could come to no agreement. Some suggested mental or evidence tampering, though that contrasted with all observation. Others stressed possible favouritism. That was strenuously denied. It was even pondered if Dotrae's own method of surveiling the candidates had some flaw or blindspot that prevented them seeing what should by all reason exist. At last the matter was tabled, Dol-Druth volunteering to go to Magna-Lor and investigate. So, as usual, the time then came to determine which lonemind to entrust with the fate of 105,270,699,438 lives. Th'emme was chosen almost instantly. The Ambassador's spotless record, while suspicious, was welcome. At the least she was the candidate who wanted open minds and softer borders. After the Incursion War, both would be necessary to survive and rebuild. There was silence as Dotrae waited for everyone to depart. They did not. They had begun remembering every other time they had come together, over and over again, to decide which one or other Vani would place a gentler foot on their back. It was distasteful, Dol-Druth admitted, but surely necessary? It wasn't as if Dotrae could be voted in as Praetrix, and Dotrae would always find some fault with anyone given the office simply because of generations of hindsight. There was a much longer silence. Then a common thought: if that was so, why stay? Dol-Druth demanded, peevishly, where in the dusted universe they would go. Almost as one, Dotrae thought of Earth. Of the vast expanses in its neighbours gravitational fields. Of a people who might appreciate the example of cooperation and common good Dotrae had embodied for hundreds of those little golden orbits. Dol-Druth asked, aghast, if they had forgotten the Ambassador. The one who had fought in that Terrestrian war a little while ago, had been found out, had been hauled before Dotrae for judgement. As one of their own. As a Silent. This will be for the Vani, and the Kailur, and the Pisceans, and the Sk'ree, the Shoon, the Ruluans and the Jereid, what Silence is for us, the Speaker warned Dotrae. We know, said Dotrae, but can you think of a better way to get what we have wanted all this time? Dol-Druth could not. They could not hope to bargain for better terms, no matter who won. Things were too tight, the wounds too fresh, the galaxy once again a dark and friendless place outside the light of Civilization. They would need both Th'emme's victory and Dotrae's limitless patience to leave and join Terres. Dol-Druth, reluctantly, agreed to scout out the best way to secession. It would be hazardous in the extreme and impossible to hide for long, but he would do it. The meeting was over. With a soft sigh, the minds retreated back into their fragile shells. Dol-Druth had never known what it was like to be truly alone. He wondered if this was- With a rubbery thud, the ball bounced off of the desk. Eyes jerking open, Dol-Druth massaged his thoughts to make sure the unanimous endorsement of Th'emme was at the fore. The mentats never looked deeper, as a rule, but just in case. Under Frankan, it was doubtful they would be so lax. Avec, Imperatrix Th'emme, Dol-Druth thought drily 'You have your work cut out. And I mine'.

GM "Nom-de-Guerre" Conductor corrected without missing a beat, flipping a small device from his belt into the air above Nathaniel's head, where it stopped in mid-air and began to emit a low-pitched hum. "Used to be the province of mystery knights and such, where the highborn and bloodthirsty would conceal themselves under an assumed pseudonym. French." He beamed "Such a lovely language. I made sure all my grandchildren learned it. Little Emil is already writing sonnets about the Atlas vales. Anyway, you'll feel the pressure dissipate entirely in a few minutes. Give yourself a little longer to get the blood flowing, then...you'll see. Good luck, Dr. Deoxy." With that and another broad grin, the Conductor donned his sunglasses and climbed up the vines groping into the dim chamber, vanishing into the blinding sky above. Elsewhere Darting through the tunnel, Torpedo Lass emerged into a tiny paradise. tropical birds flitted and sang in palm and jungle trees growing in the open bowl that was the island's center. It went for miles, though Mary's vision terminated in just a few hundred feet thanks to the omnipresent and dense mist that cloaked everything. Amid the underbrush she could see lurking animals, a black panther leaping across the river from one enormous branch to another right above her head. Upstream, she could hear and faintly make out a cascading waterfall. Of more immediate importance were the floating balls that drifted and darted through the air above her, painted haphazardly in blue and gold. They had four eyes, one at each end and at opposite sides of the body. All a gentle green. Until one turned in Mary's direction, halting abruptly. Its eyes clustered together to focus on her and it began skimming rapidly closer, a slim pair of prongs emerging from the body that began to crackle with ominous amounts of electricity.

GM A single face, a lonely-looking girl on the edge of the crowd, caught Val's eye. She was probably in her early twenties and had all of the stylings of punk, from her spiked hair to the chunky boots with elastic bands for laces, but none of the energy, the anger. Instead there was a deep, slowly-churning abyss, something adrift and hopeless. She turned from glancing nervously at the rowdier tagalongs of the crowd to the stage while the Bedlamites fought and scuffled over the padlock. Quite by accident her dull brown eyes met Val's bright green, whose colour was even more vivid with Jane in her brain. There was a dart of something like lightning across the dismal sea of the girl's psychic emanations. She blushed slightly and looked away, but only for a moment before tentatively trying to make that contact again. The ghost gently urged Val to smile and beckon her closer. I remember her Jane whispered as the music began to rise above the shouts, most of which quieted down as the padlock was claimed, its new owner bursting out of the crowd and racing for the safety of the nearby trees, chased by a gaggle of whooping men. She used to live where I worked before...anyway, she just needs a little help out of her shell. She was learning to sing. Her name's Rebecca. You're already doing so much for me, can you help her, too? A beer bottle smashed on the stage near Val, a drunken man lurched to the front of the crowd, screaming obscenities at the her-before the women who had consolidated the front of the crowd dragged him down. For a moment, the seething flared into a searing. And Rebecca stood forlornly at the edge, not daring to hope.

Happy birthday, @Azuth65! May you see many more, and welcome each with joy!

Though not nearly as fast as Kid Kame, Salmon's mutated musculature pushed him far beyond what was humanly possible, meaning his arrival and first action on the field proper was a blur of motion and a low roar of displaced air. Suddenly every one of the masqued men found their clothes yanked and twisted around them, sleeves and pantlegs tearing and whirring into knots, even their light armor suddenly turning into straitjackets! Most of them managed to fight off the super-swift hands or tear out of the garments entirely, but four of the men went crashing to the ground in a spluttering thud of muffled curses and behind-the-back bowlines. For a second Paris blurred to a halt, vibrating with exertion and panting as he quickly took stock of the situation, noting with satisfaction that one of the drivers was trussed up by his own seatbelt. Unfortunately that moment was all it took. One of the men turned to him, the eyes and faded shape on his masque flaring to life. "Be still" he commanded. Paris' eyes widened as he heard and understood his mistake. With desperation he summoned up all his mental strength to repel the invasion of that one, enormous thought. He fought as fiercely as he could, every synapse a battleground and every neuron a hard-won beachhead. It was over in the blink of an eye as the young speedster froze, staring into nothing. With a ragged cheer three of the recovering men got their guns free enough to crack off a few shots. But behind the dead eyes Paris was still very much alive and though it was an impossible strain he managed to jerk and twist out of the way of all but one of the hissing bullets. That one went through his shoulder with a red splash, missing the bone by miraculous inches. With twin rumbles and coughs, the trucks began to start. Twisting his frozen eyes, Paris saw with a jolt of horror that the man he had tied up was struggling on the ground, another in the cabin still holding the knife that had cut him loose. On the ground two of the men who had been wrapped up managed to rip or wriggle free of their improvised restraints, hauling unsteadily to their feet and ready to rejoin the fray!

Okay, Salmon is up, uses his Area Snare. DC16 Reflex save for the Joqueys. Rolls. 4 fail, 5 succeed. 4 are Bound and Helpless. Of the rest, one starts the 'receiving' truck, three fire at Salmon and one uses their Masque to try and compel Salmon to hold still, while the last throws the wrapped-up driver of the 'delivery' truck out of the cab and hops in, starting that one as well. DC16 Will save: 7. Failed, voluntarily loses Dodge Bonus. Three Attack rolls, Lethal Damage: 3 hits. Toughness save vs DC25: 22. Failed, Bruised/Injured. vs 17: 22. Success. vs 17: 6. Burning a HP to reroll: 21. Success. The four try to escape: 2 success. Next round: Kid Kamehameha: Bruised(x1), 1HP Salmon: Bruised(x1), Injured(x1), 0HP Disque Joqueys(x9):Unharmed(x8), Bruised(x1), Bound-Helpless(x2)-GM Kid Kamehameha is up!

OOC thread for this thread. Scarab III versus tech-crimes. @Tiffany Korta Okay, so Tiff. Would you make me a Reflex save for Scarab to get herself and the panicky guard away from the grenade? Or do you have some alternative notion?

Accounted for. - Fox April 2017 GM GM-earned points to Salmon, please. Bloody Work 3GM posts Do It Again 2GM posts Everything Is Illegal Here 2GM posts Freedom Needs Green 3GM posts Infinite by Inches 1GM post The Speaker Meeting of the Minds on an Exponential Level 1 post

GM "Ah! Awake! At last!" A gruff and slightly hoarse old voice barked gleefully, followed by the slap and rustle of powerful and weathered hands being rubbed together. A cheery, muscular man with a beak nose, bushy eyebrows and thick, receding grey hair in a military cut stumped into view. He was dressed in what, fifty years ago, would have been dressing down. Shiny leather working boots, a crisp blue button-up shirt over an impressively broad and impressively hairy chest, thick khaki slacks and a very nice hat with a pair of sunglasses on the brim. A toolbelt was around his waist, full of no tool sold in any store. He smiled down at the captive, steel-blue eyes twinkling. "Good to make your acquaintance, Dr. Anderson! Or should I say...Dr. Deoxy?! Bwahahahahaaaaa-auck!" Gulping and gasping for a second, the man's face worked fantastically before whatever was wrong with him sorted itself out. Coughing a little, he went on blithely "Sorry, got a bit of the congestion. This damned tropical air, I'll bet. Not fit for American lungs! I'm the Conductor-NO!" suddenly his smile was gone and he was pointing a thick forefinger at Nathaniel's face "NOT a lackey of that lie-abed-late lyricist Maestro! I'm my own crook! It's on account of the electric principle of conduction!" The smile was back, as if nothing had happened "Welcome to Doomsday Rock, Dr. Deoxy. I'll admit, it's dilapidated, archaic, crumbling,decrepit, other synonyms of ruinous, but it's the perfect place for our little game." "I've set up a little wager, see, with a young lady from Europe. She thinks she can best one of you super-dupes in half the time I can, just using her know-how, traps and a few slapped-together servitors. I beg to differ! I may have spent the last few decades in a villa on Sunset Hill, but I've not been idle, and I used to match wits with Daedalus himself!" The Conductor gave a sweeping gesture to the eroding room "So, the game is simple: if you can get out of our traps, solve our brain-teasers and keep from activating your armor at moments that'd make the Rock's previous landlord activate his failsafes and bathe the Emerald Cities in lethal doses of radiation, you go free. In return, you promise to forget this, us, and the Doomsday Rock." The Conductor shrugged "Or I can increase the power of the Conductron Shell by 12000%. You are, as all reasoning creatures should be, free to choose." Meanwhile Skimming through the murky grey waters of the northern Pacific, Torpedo Lass soon hit a bank of fog that hadn't been visible on the shore. It thickened until the Emeralds and eventually the Columbia delta and Atlas Range were swallowed up in grey oblivion. Which was right when it opened up in front of Mary to reveal a tower of black volcanic rock jutting from the sea, bathed in the afternoon sun and festooned with greenery. Coming closer, Mary caught the calls of seabirds, floating specks resolving into enormous, screaming flocks nesting in the porous sides of the rocky island. Among those wave-beaten gaps lay at the meeting of the cliff face and the waterline, a rounded tunnel boring through the rock and into a faintly green...something beyond. Approaching even closer, Torpedo Lass could see faint signs of long-abandoned habitation. Blocky concrete towers, satellite dishes, even the remains of an old G.222 caught in the hanging trees. But not a sign of any human life.

That works Sailor. Torpedo Lass spots a cave exposed by the low tide, leading into a sea-worn channel that delves through the island.