Deinonychus began to make some harmless bombs, smoke bombs, teargas, among others. As he finished making the various chemical bombs, he approached the armory where the nerve gas the others were talking about was being held. Forming a scalpel out of plasma, he opened the box and took about 5 canisters of it, before heading back to the lab.
Daisuke went around to his designated locker and picked up a few vials- their labels said things like "neurotoxin", "tranquilizer", and other stuff that basically just meant "kill". He liked the poisons that fiddled with people's brains; it was funny watching them magically fall asleep and see things that weren't there. He grabbed all of the vials.
Next to them was a case of those little metal darts that you could fill with the poison and hide in your mouth without the poison leaking and shoot at somebody through his bamboo straw. Those were cool. They were really light and polished and looked like they were made out of titanium- he was used to the hand-forged ones his grandfather made in his shop, which were a lot heavier. It might be bad if he wasn't used to them soon.
He saw that "girl" and the Asian lady and a couple other people all near the firing range, plus someone else was already shooting. He learned to not mind really loud sounds like that.
They probably wouldn't mind if he practiced for a bit, right?
He dug around in his backpack for his bamboo straw, a dart in hand, and slipped over to a little stall-thing that didn't have people all around it. Watching them carefully, he put the dart in his mouth, being careful to not let it poke anything too hard or make clinking sounds. The woody end of his bamboo straw followed; he positioned the cold dart with his tongue so it would go down the shaft the right way, his eyes moving quickly to the person-shaped thing's "neck", and one tiny little wispy noise later...
He moved the paper-person closer to him for a better look. A hole where the dart's needle-point struck was punched right through the paper, right where the jugular vein would be on a person.
"Yaaay!" he said somewhat quietly, knowing there were people around him trying to aim.
"Jack, you have debauched my sloth."Alice slipped behind Daisuke and looked at his work. Then she said, with a wicked smile, "kid, I think I like you already. Not a sound, and whatever you put on that dart is making its way to the bastard's heart." Deciding he might be a useful ally, she added, offering her hand, "what's your name? Didn't catch it earlier. I think I've already introduce myself, but if not, I'm Alice."
edited 31st Jul '11 9:09:10 PM by KillerClowns
"Well, they gave me this small thing in that locker," Bianca says, and shows the pistol to Shion. "I'm hoping this won't be too hard, especially with my... impairment." She taps her metal arm with a fingernail, producing a tinny click.
Warm hugs and morally questionable advice given here. Prosey BitchfestJoshua fired his sixth shot. Sighting down the scope, he found that it was a bulls-eye, though not centered yet. He probably should have gotten a chair or laid down, but it didn't matter; he was hitting close enough.
Looking over, he noted that the Asian woman was still teaching the metal-armed woman on pistol shooting. Joshua lowered his rifle, debating with himself. Perhaps he should get one of his pistols, as well; if he couldn't teach properly, perhaps he could at least lead by example. He turned on heel then, making his way back to his area so that he could get his semi-auto.
I am now known as Flyboy.Yuki rolled her eyes as she watched the others on the firing range. "You people and your noisy firearms," she said. She ran back to her footlocker and pulled out a trio of throwing knives. Returning to the range, she chose an empty lane.
With three lightning fast movements, she hurled the knives downrange. After hearing three crashes of metal on the concrete floor, she pulled the target closer for examination.
Two knives, side by side, pierced through within an inch of each other in the target's chest. The third had gone through the target's forehead, dead center.
"This is about stealth. I'd say use guns as a last resort."
No one believes me when I say angels can turn their panties into guns.Shion looks at the girl's dinky pistol, and taking it into her own fingers— she unloads the clip and press-checks the chamber. The clip doesn't have any bullets.
"That's lesson no. 1," she says. "Unloading the gun."
Then she pulls some spare bullets befitting the caliber, and pushes them in the magazine one by one. Once that's done, she slams the clip in, and cocks the handle. "That's loading it. I'll show you how to aim and shoot good.. once I get a nice shower."
(OOC: I going to sleepy for the night.
)
edited 31st Jul '11 9:22:38 PM by QQQQQ
There was a man who taught his young children how to kill? Alice liked him already. "Sounds like you have a good father," she said, still smiling, in a manner both maternal and subtlety predatory, bringing to mind the dark satisfaction of a wolf watching its pup kill for the first time. As she spoke, she moved the target down the range. "What does he do for a living?" Then, as a bit of insurance, she added, "you don't have to answer that. I can understand if you don't like talking about your past and your family. I certainly don't."
Satisfied with the distance she'd given it, she used her own pistol-like dart gun to silently put another hole in the target's neck.
As detestable as his employer was, Gant had to admit, the work was tolerable; there was the potential for violence, even if it was rare and never overt. Still, better a smidgen of hope than an empty desert. This was the exception, purchasing a weapon. Patterson had insisted: blend with the populace. He received a good sum to buy any gun of his choice. There was nothing of suitable caliber here; a skull-shot with a .45 round was a tap at best. And for the best round, the .408 whose very name rolled from the tongue, there were no weapons he could hide. Sighing, he bought the box of shells alone, folding them into his arm below the muscle. There were… idiosyncratic ways of using bullets.
Well, if he had expended this much energy for his worthless employer, he might as well go a step further, hunt down the partner that had been mentioned in the dossier. Cain, a tolerable name for a soldier, with some violence implied, if of the wrong type. The man was liable to be at the casino; humans never could resist anything offered without seeming cost. But, perhaps this one was different, followed a path like his own.
When he returned, it took but a few moments to find the man he had been shown, drinking at the bar and quite intoxicated, if the smell gave any indication. But at least he would deal with another fighter, not a worm. He chuckled as he saw that the other also had a picture of him, tucked under the glass, and sat down next to him, extending a hand. “I am Gant. And you, I assume, are Cain.”
This is this.Joshua returned to the range. The ladies were still going over the basics. That was fine; he was never into the basics anyhow, so it gave him time to get into his usual mood for shooting.
He pushed a magazine into his nickel-plated M1911 and took aim. The target was a good distance away, but he'd shot from farther. Still, he wasn't as accurate with the pistol as he was with the rifle. He had been his college's qualified marksman in rifle shooting—if nothing else, he owed his still being alive to that—but he was merely average with the pistol. He had gotten better, of course, but he wasn't going to hit bulls-eyes.
He sighted again, re-affirming his grip on the pistol. He breathed deeply, ready for the exhale... and... he fired. One shot, two shot, three shot, all at a medium-tempo—not so fast that the gun kicked and he couldn't aim, but fast enough that he could have killed more than one person before they would have had time to react—until all seven rounds were down range.
He looked at his handiwork. He had been going for a smiley face, and it wasn't... terrible. He could at least tell what it was, though it was rather lopsided. The fact that he'd gotten within the couple innermost rings was impressive, though the eye he wanted to put in the bulls-eye was too far to the right.
Ah well, he thought, as he reloaded the weapon. Practice makes perfect.
I am now known as Flyboy.Was he going to have to say this again?
"My dad was taught how to be a mercenary, and now he's teaching me."
He was technically a ninja, having been trained centuries before Daisuke was even born, but this just sounded better. Why not?
"But most of the time, he teaches calculus."
edited 31st Jul '11 9:38:09 PM by CrystalGlacia
"Jack, you have debauched my sloth."Bianca thanks Shion for her time and wanders around, carefully observing the others with the guns. But those things are dangerous, so she waits for the woman who threw the knives to turn her back and she hops up to wrap her good arm around her neck, yanking her back but not squeezing hard enough to choke her, and looks curiously into her eyes.
"Did I do a good job? I'm out of practice." She releases the woman and waits for her to tell her how she did or slap her.
Warm hugs and morally questionable advice given here. Prosey BitchfestJoshua gave up on the pistol after the fourth magazine. Returning to his bed, he noticed—not for the first time, but properly now—that there was a drawer there. He sat at the top end of the bed, where his head would have gone, and opened the drawer, and almost laughed out loud at what he found. Equally spread on each side were boxes of ammunition—and on the .45 side, there were even extra, empty magazines, which were even nickel-plated. Joshua didn't bother questioning why this was done; free shit was free shit, and he didn't argue with free shit.
He placed his pistol in the drawer with the ammunition, then reached over to get the revolver and put it there as well. On closing the drawer, he realized that he had forgotten the clothes. He stood up, brushing himself off lightly, and made his way over to the washer-dryer.
Opening the dryer, he retrieved the rest of his meager belongings. Making his way back to the bed, he dropped the pile of clothes on the edge, opting to sort.
The black suit jacket...
The white dress shirt and black tie...
The black, not-quite-formal, but not-quite-jeans, pants...
The black belt with a silver steel buckle...
The black sneakers with white details...
The black sunglasses with silver, metal rims...
The brown beanie hat...
The plain black bandana...
Really, he imagined, he would look quite conspicuous with that outfit in the normal world. Then again, his world hadn't been any kind of "normal" for months, so it was at least justified to him. Plus, he no longer gave a fuck what people thought of his look. They had no right to judge; they had never had to survive.
Still, he would probably forgo the bandana and beanie for awhile. No need to draw attention to himself, especially if he needed to surprise. As he thought this, he realized he still hadn't found his ballistic vest. He definitely needed that—and wasn't willing to part with it, either, after the shit he had to go through to get it—and so he bent over, searching under the bed for the lost article.
edited 31st Jul '11 10:42:34 PM by USAF713
I am now known as Flyboy.Cain blinked, splashed himself with the complimentary water (or was it the rum?) and blinked again. In all his years he'd known a trip to the bar was both the beginning and end of many of life's problems, but this was absurd. There was no mistaking it though. Not even litre upon litre of booze could make the man in front of him any less the man in the photo.
"Yeah, that's me. Cain, drunk and disorderly." He hiccupped. "So your name's Gant then?"
Gant. Vaguely reminiscent of gaunt, but that was hardly the word for him. He was massive, maybe even bigger than Cain himself. Old sure, but he was more than likely much more dangerous than he looked, and he looked pretty dangerous. Cain cracked a smile wider than the desert. This just might be fun after all.
"Sit down, sit down. I've already burnt much more than the midnight oil, one more ain't gonna make much of a difference now. So, where'd that sorry sack of horse-shit Patterson pick you up? 'Cause if half of what they've told me about you is true, you must be from outer space or some shit like that."
edited 31st Jul '11 10:57:10 PM by KSPAM
I've got new mythological machinery, and very handsome supernatural scenery. Goodfae: a mafia web serialGrimm ended the call and flipped closed the phone just in time to see two of his team members carrying a crate filled with gas grenades past him into the armory. He narrowed his eyes. Grimm was certain sure they violated the UN contravention on chemical weapons. The Geneva Chemical Weapons Convention, adopted by the Conference for Disarmament in 1992 and officially enacted five years later forbade the manufacture, transport or possession of chemical weapons by a state party or within its territories. If he remembered correctly, it was Article 4 that specifically applied to this.
Grimm made a mental note to dispose of them once this heist was done with. He really ought to refer this to the OPCW (Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons), but if he did it wasn’t likely that they would be able to secure these in time. Not to mention what their mysterious benefactor would think, if these really were his. No, he was better off taking care of this himself. Perhaps he might be able to get a lead on whoever was manufacturing these weapons, but that would have to come later.
He got up and collected a sidearm and a few magazines from his footlocker. A USP .45 caliber. He then yelled out so all the rest of the people inside could hear him. The door to the firing range was ajar and so the sound carried in there as well.
“Alright, I managed to set up a meeting with a contact of mine. The cell phone reception is pretty good in here, actually- anyway. He’s going to help us get what we need for the heist. If anyone needs anything special you’d best tell me now so I can work it out when I arrive. I’m also going to need a car to transport the goods and a couple of you to help me carry them. Any volunteers?”
yeyJoshua turned when the serious man called for help. "Depends. Need a sniper?" He asked, straightening and bringing the M40 from the floor under his bed with him. He hefted the rifle over his shoulder so that it faced the wall. "I'm in if you have something to do past watch the scenery. I would like a name to address you by, first, though." He said, casually. The serious man bothered him; the lack of facial sight made reading him past "dower and more dower" difficult—not that the hypocrisy of that thought escape Joshua's mind. Still, he was offering something to do, so, why not?
I am now known as Flyboy.I'm going to bed.
Bianca doesn't wait for the woman's reply, because she has remembered her violin. She runs back to her room and searches it. Finally, the case is found under the bed.
There's no question about it: it's her violin. She remembers every scratch on it, the grain of the wood, the reddish-honey varnish, the mellow tone. How did they find it? How? William knows how paranoid she is about it, so he keeps it under his bed to make her shut up.
Calm down. Calm down. She shuts the doors and windows and takes a bath. The shampoo and soap give off a nice scent— not too sharp or sickeningly floral— and it helps calm her. The cotton dress, sleevless, and with a long and full skirt, is faded becuase it used to belong to William's sister, and it helps Bianca feel more like herself. She carefully positions the metal fingers on the bow and warms up by going through different bowing motions, since this arm is a bit . Legato, staccato, spiccato, different speeds— all right, then. She begins to play.
Warm hugs and morally questionable advice given here. Prosey BitchfestDeinonychus had several spherical objects on his belt as he entered the firing range, they barely clanked together as he moved. He approached one of the booths and put on a pair of ear protectors as he took one of the spherical objects. Pushing a button, he aimed at a target and threw it. Hitting the target, the objects broke as acid spread all over target, burning it. He stepped back and admired his handiwork tried to decided which chemical weapon he should pick.
Good night, Gentlementlemen and Ladadies.
Gant laughed. "Outer space... ah, I do believe that has been a rumor going around; many have grown and died over my life. Then again, all who do our work are only halfway involved in the life of normal men. I might guess that you are less distanced than I, but we share a part of the spectrum that most do not."
He declined the offer of a drink, cleared his throat. “Nevertheless. How I ended up here is a far more mundane story. An old friend of mine, name of Heller, has laid into this place considerable sums, and owes a fair bit to Patterson, may he rot in hell.” Gant hand closed over an imaginary throat, squeezing long past the point that a spine would snap. “I owe Heller some favors for weapons and information, so he asked me to step into Patterson’s employ, and that would clear all obligations. He is a fine man, knows the value of a good brawl, so I took his offer.”
He looked Cain over. “You seem much like him, in fact. A bit more fond of the drink, but in perspective, it is not so bad a flaw compared to others. I assume he is paying you rather serious fees as well.” 700k to a million was standard operating fee, form what he garnered about this man. “This prompts the question of what he is expecting, that he needs to hire two consultants alongside his usual security forces. Certainly not for extra help guarding, not that his guards are too skilled.”
His fingers tapped on the table, leaving slight hollows where they landed. “A complete waste of effort on his part, but I am too lazy to question it deeply. It cannot be too difficult, after all, in a city as quiet as this. But enough of my blathering. I assume you know as much as I do about this pathetic venture?”
edited 31st Jul '11 11:15:39 PM by Morgulion
This is this.

Joshua awoke after his tiny catnap, stretching slightly and letting out a soundless yawn. Sitting up, he swung his legs off the bed, getting up in a series of slightly-jerky motions. He wasn't even used to sleeping on a proper bed, and the sudden return to form wasn't good for his ability to react quickly.
He overheard the others talking about gun-handling. He could have offered to help, but teaching wasn't his thing. People were bad at learning to shoot from him. He was a solo act with that kind of thing—a shame, too; he'd gotten people killed with that, but, there wasn't much he could do, either.
He made his way over to the washer and switched his clothes out into the dryer, then spun and looked around. The range looked appealing, but there didn't appear to be any guns in the rack. He made his way over, and noted another heavy, dark green, military-style footlocker. He leaned over and attempted to open it, but it stuck. He stood up straight, swore under his breath, and then delivered a good kick to the box.
The top popped open, and he was greeted to a beautiful sight: his M40—complete with black synthetic—and three boxes of 7.62 NATO standard sniper rounds. "You fucker... hiding shit from me..." Joshua muttered under his breath in a tone that didn't sound nearly angry enough to match the words. His "employer" was going to make things more difficult.
He picked up the gun and loaded it, enjoying the weight of the weapon in his hands. He hadn't had a sniper rifle in a while... perhaps he needed practice after all.
He took aim at one of the targets at the end of the range and took a deep breath. On the second breath, he pulled the trigger. Looking down the sight, he hadn't hit the bulls-eye, but he was on the edge of the inner-most circle.
It looked like he needed work after all. As he lined up his next shot, the Asian woman and one of the guys... Jonathan, if Joshua recalled correctly... brought over a crate—apparently filled with nerve gas. Not that it mattered to Joshua; whatever it took to finish the job and get the fuck out.
edited 31st Jul '11 8:53:32 PM by USAF713
I am now known as Flyboy.