[Episode Extra] Grand Theft Australia

Jun 28, 2018
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#1
You know. This damn island's always been a pain in the ass.

The story goes that back at the dawn of time, or at least a hell of a long time ago, this rock was home to mystics. Shamans and medicine men and warriors in tune with the Earth, that sort of crap. Guess if you live in the biggest pile of barren waste this side of the Sahara, you have a lot of time to grow your brain. Or maybe the scarcity of freaking everything just made them used to working harder.

Either way, their secrets died with them when the outside world came knocking.

Story of the ages, really - bunch of sun-baked peasants squatting in the sand watch a bigass ship from a much richer place roll up. They either do what they say or they get stomped on until they comply. Next thing you know this place is a prison colony. Then they revolt. Then they get conquered by someone else. Time and again shit's just not gone the way of the people living here - because who the hell wants to live here, and who can keep up a fight against invaders and the goddamned sun at the same time?

Did I mention I hate it here? Misfortune of one's birth and all.


So yeah. Fighting, conquering, chaos, and being left to rot. That's always been our life. The aborigines couldn't stop it. The Shura couldn't stop it. Lord knows the Directory didn't give half a crap about this place - all they wanted was ore and obedience. Shit falls from the sky on our heads and as long as it doesn't break someone's pricy toy, no one outside this island gives a rat's ass. All those wars in space? Other dimensions? The end of the world? We might as well be our own planet for how far away that is.

Maybe somewhere a little further away. Or with a thicker atmosphere or something. Maybe more water and actual trees. Wouldn't that be nice.

What this godforsaken rock lacks in shade, order, or good taste though, it makes up for in metal. And misfit animals I guess, but mainly metal. Metal is freaking everywhere here - in the ground, on the airwaves, stacked up to make something you could charitably call a roof over your head. And of course robots - holy shit, we got those out the ass. Guess that's what happens when you gotta march soldiers by the throng to take down a couple of really stubborn martial arts maniacs.

G-e-s-p-e-n-s-t. That's what you got for shelter if you got nothing else. Hollow out a head, stick an arm out of the ground, maybe if you're lucky you'll get a working torso for some air-con. Hell, friend of a friend said he saw a farm using an old rifle as a silo and a magazine as an outhouse. Pretty sure that was bullshit though - only things to farm out here in the interior are sunlight and moisture. The hell would you need a silo for that?

Anyway, on account of the ore, and all the shit that's gone down over it, the only real work in these parts is mining, forging, smelting, and machining. Or being a mechanic, in my case. If you aren't doing one of those, you're probably in the mob or contracting to them. There's always something in need of fixing for one of those groups, you just gotta be careful they don't all come to pick up their shit on the same day.

Maybe invest in some reinforced walls, just in case.
 
Jun 28, 2018
100
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6
#2
The high-pitched whine of a ricochet on the other side of the foot-thick wall assaulted the man's ears, while stray sparks scattered into the dust of the open doorway.

Case in point. Ever had contract disputes turn nasty? Deadbeat shows up and tries to muscle his way to a freebie? Yeah, that's why you take precautions.

"Heads up!"

The man's eyes darted skyward as another figure came tumbling through the air, dropping something long, round, and heavy his way. His arms shot out to catch it at the last moment, turning the grip at one end into his palm. He took a moment to look the weapon over, attach a round to the business end, and pull the pin. Looking to his right, he caught the other figure rolling to her feet, her arms a blur as they swept upward. In the pool of sunlight flooding through the doorway, a little gleam of metal shone from a finger on each hand.



That's Danelle, but you better call her Dan. She's the proprietor of Flash Dan's - a gunsmith and a dab hand at weapons trafficking. She's cute and bubbly, which means she disarms people with her looks or affect. Wanna know why they call her the Bang Doll though? Trust me, you don't.

Dan just as quickly dove into another roll, her back landing against the wall on the other side of the doorway. A pair of deafening booms outside send a burst of wind and even more dust through the open entry, further coating the cracked and ruined door lying a few feet away.



Me? I'm Joe. Cottonmouth Joe some say, on account of the snake on my arm. Some say Caught-In-Mouth though, something about being strongest when in the greatest peril. You ask me I'd rather not be either - I don't need to be reminded of an overplayed oldie or a backhand compliment. I'm just a dude trying to make a living as an artist - detailing, tattooing, repainting. But if it gets business for Cottonmouth Customs, then so be it.

He counted under his breath, waiting for the dust to clear. Then hooked around the corner into a crouch, aiming the RPG at one of the armored vehicles outside. A click of the trigger and he was darting back into cover, bullets whizzing past his ears. Another boom as the round struck the vehicle's side, tilting it upward. Another as it landed again, much the worse for wear.

Across the way, Dan had taken up a submachine gun and poked it through a breach in the bulletproof glass. Laying a hand on her headset to push the blissful protection tighter around her ear, she tried to shout over the din of gunfire, absentmindedly keeping her own blazing. When Joe shook his head to indicate he couldn't hear, she tucked her tongue in the corner of her lips and squirmed her hips upward, fishing for something in her pocket with her free hand. She promptly pulled a phone from it and tapped out a message deftly with her thumb. A moment later, a buzz in his shirt pocket had him reaching for his own.

Of course with gangs and organized crime running rampant, business is booming, so to speak. Everybody's trying to make a name for themselves, fighting like dogs over scraps. You'd think simple vendors like us would get a pass - don't bite the hand that feeds, don't kill the goose that shits gold. But when what you've got's a particle cannon, every problem looks like target practice. It's murder on my overhead.

Tucking the phone back in his pocket, he tossed the launcher aside and took up his shotgun.
 
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Jun 28, 2018
100
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#3
The shrill cry of a whistle in the distance brought a pause to the hail of bullets. Heads turned, eyes widened. Joe cocked his shotgun, while Dan took the chance to pop out one magazine and clack in its replacement. On the other side of the convoy outside, the thunder of hoofbeats, a cloud of dust, and a hearty Wooo~wooo-oo~ announced the approach of an iron horse. Or, rather, of an ungainly resembling a truck wearing a locomotive as a costume. A number of cargo trailers were being dragged behind it as it raced along, propelled by what appeared to be a jet engine. The driver leaned out the window, squinting against the sunlight.



The moody blonde with the lesbian haircut is our cavalry for today, Yvette. Former Directory pilot, aerospace engineer, and CEO of CVC (Corps Vette Corp). She's what you might call a mad scientist, if there were such a thing as one that -didn't- have chronic verbal diarrhea. Or an annoying laugh. Or barely spoke period.

Yvette leaned back into the cab, calmly pulling a knob out of the console. A series of loud clicks punctuated the release of the clamps chaining the trailers together. An abrupt turn of the wheel sent the awkward engine swerving to one side and scattered the speeding trailers into the assembly of vehicles ahead. Shouts rang out as the occupants raced for cover - hiding inside their vehicles or sprinting away from them. It was followed by the resounding crash of each collision, and just as swiftly by the leap of another figure from the bed of one of the trailers.



And that's Casey. Or KC, really - Kaito Chiba. Tech wiz that runs Kei's Sea Den, a dojo by day and nightclub otherwise. Performs under the name Master Peace. Ever gotten beat up by a DJ? What about a DJ who's got Shura blood? Yeah, it's not pretty. I do -not- envy those guys.

Pained grunts and the crack of blunt force against body mass rang through the confusion. At its sound, the pair sheltering inside made a break for it - charging outside, guns blazing. Between the three, the dazed and bewildered mooks around the armored cars began to collapse one by one - some willingly, some very much not. Joe unloaded a string of beanbags into one assailant's gut, while Casey knocked another unconscious with a tonfa to the back of the head. Dan pelted yet another with rubber bullets until he cowered, sheltering his head with his hands.

When all was said and done, Yvette hauled the ringleader out of hiding in his shattered APC, and threw him to the ground. Joe promptly planted a boot on his chest to pin him, the shotgun by now slung over his shoulder, and a clipboard in his hands.

"Right. So full body custom detailing, polished up the chrome. Installed lighting on the undercarriage. Also, adding a late fee to cover our time and effort trying to deliver it. That comes to... 20,000 credits. Will that be cash or card?"