Re: The $300,000 Fight-A-Thon! [Round One: Storage Park!]
08-26-2012, 06:12 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Pharmacy.
Moods never improve when your head is throbbing with anger, although the dragon was pretty sure the collision with the ceiling contributed significantly more. Despite her white-hot indignation, Guillemet was speeding along. She was pretty sure she was making substantial progress at finding the door, despite the fact that everything below her was a high-velocity blur of incomprehensibility.
It was a rather amateurish reconnaissance and she could had slowed down a bit and actually scanned for the exit (in fact, there were many). However, she was not much for pondering - takes too much time. Rather important time.
At this point of time, her choleric tendencies simmered down to a less potent annoyance because the dragon was pretty sure she was not making substantial progress at all in Operation: Get The Hell Out Of Here. Instead of changing her plans and listening to her common sense, Guillemet grumbled and groused at the infuriatingly infinite number of shelves in this damned place. Why were there so many? Who uses this dum—
[color=#P4914]
BAM.
A blinding flash and an equally searing pain crushed through her carpaced flank and shot through the rest of the body. She screeched in hurt surprise, followed by a cacophony of obscenities in several different languages. If she bothered to look closer, she would realize what had wounded her was a not exactly a bullet, but mostly definitely some sort of vaporous missile. Judging from the wound, the thing was a fine piece of technology. A narrow thing, charged with ionized light and a taste of future. A plasma shot, if you may.[/color]
Of course, she did not care for that technological crap she could have gleaned. She was very angry. She was also hurt. Also SHE WAS SHOT IN HER ASS. HER GODDAMN ASS OF ALL THE BODY PARTS THAT ARE ANATOMICALLY SHOOTABLE. THIS IS THE MOST EMBARRASSING AND EMOTIONAL EVENT OF HER LIFE. RRRGHHHH.
She squawked, hissed, and made other sorts of furious noises at the righteous burning of her scaly derriere. She was understandably indignant, especially when she was bouncing between the ergonomical minimalism between the spaces of the shelves. Smash. Spoons rusty enough to give tetanus at a glance plinked down. It was almost musical. Smash. A Drinking Bird had a few seconds of thematically appropriate flight. If it were alive, it would have cried tears of joy before it met its Maker on the floor. Smash. A Giant Novelty Mug Of No Importance. It was oddly shaped and probably made a reference to something. Which is lost because it was completely pulverized. Smash. Smash. Smash.
It was a rather humiliating ride down to the ground.
If it was any consolation, the gravity was much heavier than normal standards. Something truly of scientific importance – especially its abnormality could have gleaned information about how particles interacted with each other. It was pretty revolutionary but Guillemet was stubbornly sure if she had to choose. She would rather have the head of her assailant than a breakthrough in quantum physics. Now.
---
[color=#P4914]
“Got’cha down mate.”
A voice declared somewhere in the shelves. The shark-man smiled – a slash of a serrated grin appeared on his face as he drank in the delicious view of the falling beast like one does a good martini. He thought that comparison rather fitting. After all, he liked his targets the way he liked his alcohol – bitter, strong, and easy to knock out on He let out some sort of shark-analogue of a malicious chuckle. It was a good joke. Ironjaw always thought himself as sort of funny.
He was a funny man. Shark. Whatever.
In a congratulatory gesture to himself, Ironjaw blew out the smoke from his plasma rifle despite his ridiculous amount of teeth. It was pretty amazing that he managed to force air out from his lips instead of spittle considering his mouth is essentially a horror-fence of genetically-enhanced goodness, but he was fine. He managed to do fine. After all, he was forced against his will to become a goddamn shark. Part-shark. Whatever.
He hoisted his rifle (thanks to Roy eh heh heh) onto his shoulder and moved his bulk forward. He needed to make sure his target was down. And dead. He needed to make sure that the lady-dragon does not do anything stupid. It should be a relatively easy task. She was not too bright from the looks of the actions – or at least did not act smart if she was actually smart. Still, she might be a complete idiot. Ironjaw hated idiots. They were a waste. And deserved to be eaten, of course.
Ironjaw simply smiled again.[/color]
Moods never improve when your head is throbbing with anger, although the dragon was pretty sure the collision with the ceiling contributed significantly more. Despite her white-hot indignation, Guillemet was speeding along. She was pretty sure she was making substantial progress at finding the door, despite the fact that everything below her was a high-velocity blur of incomprehensibility.
It was a rather amateurish reconnaissance and she could had slowed down a bit and actually scanned for the exit (in fact, there were many). However, she was not much for pondering - takes too much time. Rather important time.
At this point of time, her choleric tendencies simmered down to a less potent annoyance because the dragon was pretty sure she was not making substantial progress at all in Operation: Get The Hell Out Of Here. Instead of changing her plans and listening to her common sense, Guillemet grumbled and groused at the infuriatingly infinite number of shelves in this damned place. Why were there so many? Who uses this dum—
[color=#P4914]
BAM.
A blinding flash and an equally searing pain crushed through her carpaced flank and shot through the rest of the body. She screeched in hurt surprise, followed by a cacophony of obscenities in several different languages. If she bothered to look closer, she would realize what had wounded her was a not exactly a bullet, but mostly definitely some sort of vaporous missile. Judging from the wound, the thing was a fine piece of technology. A narrow thing, charged with ionized light and a taste of future. A plasma shot, if you may.[/color]
Of course, she did not care for that technological crap she could have gleaned. She was very angry. She was also hurt. Also SHE WAS SHOT IN HER ASS. HER GODDAMN ASS OF ALL THE BODY PARTS THAT ARE ANATOMICALLY SHOOTABLE. THIS IS THE MOST EMBARRASSING AND EMOTIONAL EVENT OF HER LIFE. RRRGHHHH.
She squawked, hissed, and made other sorts of furious noises at the righteous burning of her scaly derriere. She was understandably indignant, especially when she was bouncing between the ergonomical minimalism between the spaces of the shelves. Smash. Spoons rusty enough to give tetanus at a glance plinked down. It was almost musical. Smash. A Drinking Bird had a few seconds of thematically appropriate flight. If it were alive, it would have cried tears of joy before it met its Maker on the floor. Smash. A Giant Novelty Mug Of No Importance. It was oddly shaped and probably made a reference to something. Which is lost because it was completely pulverized. Smash. Smash. Smash.
It was a rather humiliating ride down to the ground.
If it was any consolation, the gravity was much heavier than normal standards. Something truly of scientific importance – especially its abnormality could have gleaned information about how particles interacted with each other. It was pretty revolutionary but Guillemet was stubbornly sure if she had to choose. She would rather have the head of her assailant than a breakthrough in quantum physics. Now.
---
[color=#P4914]
“Got’cha down mate.”
A voice declared somewhere in the shelves. The shark-man smiled – a slash of a serrated grin appeared on his face as he drank in the delicious view of the falling beast like one does a good martini. He thought that comparison rather fitting. After all, he liked his targets the way he liked his alcohol – bitter, strong, and easy to knock out on He let out some sort of shark-analogue of a malicious chuckle. It was a good joke. Ironjaw always thought himself as sort of funny.
He was a funny man. Shark. Whatever.
In a congratulatory gesture to himself, Ironjaw blew out the smoke from his plasma rifle despite his ridiculous amount of teeth. It was pretty amazing that he managed to force air out from his lips instead of spittle considering his mouth is essentially a horror-fence of genetically-enhanced goodness, but he was fine. He managed to do fine. After all, he was forced against his will to become a goddamn shark. Part-shark. Whatever.
He hoisted his rifle (thanks to Roy eh heh heh) onto his shoulder and moved his bulk forward. He needed to make sure his target was down. And dead. He needed to make sure that the lady-dragon does not do anything stupid. It should be a relatively easy task. She was not too bright from the looks of the actions – or at least did not act smart if she was actually smart. Still, she might be a complete idiot. Ironjaw hated idiots. They were a waste. And deserved to be eaten, of course.
Ironjaw simply smiled again.[/color]