File: bathroom.png (27 KB, 800x600)

27 KB PNG

>>3782187
…THE PRESENT DAY
…TIME: 0703
…LOCATION: 1919 SOUTH PRESIDENT’S ROW, APARTMENT 767, OLD RAY CITY, NEW DAWN

Chunks of peeling grey paint drift down from the walls and ceiling. You hunker by the bathroom door, clutching the metal plunger you just used to knock out a suited thug, trying to think of a way out of this horrible fucking situation. Your task of planning is made infinitely harder as burst of energy fire turns a chunk of the outside corridor’s drywall into a fine cloud of ash. As you wince at your hungover headache, a robotic voice bellows down the hallway from the living room.

“SURRENDER NOW. YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED. YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS TO RESPOND.”

You sigh and lean back against the wall. How the hell did this happen to you? You close your eyes and think back to last night…

File: Raceway_1.png (20 KB, 800x600)

20 KB PNG

>>3782189
…THE PREVIOUS DAY
…TIME: 1937
…LOCATION: DIVEGATE RACETRACK, OLD RAY CITY ABANDONED DAM, NEW DAWN

You open your eyes. The hum of your jetcart’s reactor pulses in your helmet, and you take a deep breath as you psych yourself up. You fucking GOT this shit! Mmf. That adrenaline is a hell of a drug, especially on top of the roaring crowd. You snap open your eyes, and immediately devour the landscape in front of you. Flanked on each side by the shapely, rumbling metal deltas piloted by other racers, you look forward to your windscreen out onto the track. The metal stadium stands line either side of the giant halfpipe drainage channel atop the abandoned dam, facing inwards at the flying drone-borne screens gently bobbing overhead. Before the massive drop at the end of the tunnel stands a rickety metal archway, decorated with bright arrows pointing down the sheer cliff, and a message that reads “DIVEGATE RACEWAY. GOOD FUCKIN’ LUCK!”

“LADIES aaaaAANNND GENTLEMEN…” The announcer’s stomach-vibratingly deep voice booms over the loudspeakers “…Welcome to Dive… Gate… RACEWAY!” He bellows. The crowd roars in response, cheers exploding out wildly into the concrete jungle. “Today, we’ve got a SPECIAL treat for you, on this last race of the season! A two-way tie for first! Who’s gonna come out on top tonight? Will it be the hotshot Emma Handel, flying the Grey Ghost, or Seamus McVane in his Scrapyard Special? I don’t know, and neither do you!”

One of the drones turns its camera to your cockpit, and you take the opportunity to play it up for the crowd, laughing and shaking your head dismissively as you shrug. Seamus is good, but you know Old Ray City like the back of your hand. The announcer continues. “…But that’s the magic of racing for you! Now, pilots…” he pauses, building suspense before nearly blowing out the speakers with a titanic bellow of “START. YOUR. ENGINES!!!!!”

You, and the other handful of racers around you, comply with glee. The simultaneous scream of hoverjets powering on deafens the viewers in the stands lining the trench, roaring out into the city streets below you. The authorities probably already heard it on their audio sensors, which naturally means you’ve got about twenty minutes before the Rapid Response Teams start deploying, assuming the right cops got bribed.

>>3782196
As you bob up and down on your antigrav fields, your helmet radio buzzes. It’s your crew chief, Micah. His nasally voice is somehow even more annoying over the headset. “Alright, hotshot. You get one last chance at this. You got the route down?”

You groan. “Yes, Micah. I have the route down. Drop gate, bridge, boneyard, retrieval truck. Short and sweet.”

He responds cheerily. “Good, good! Well, assuming you fly it carefully sweetie, you’ll have survived a full two seasons of racing. That’ll put you as one of the longest lived pilots in the game! I mean, not that I care about *you* really, but most of you pilot ingrates smash my lovely creations into a wall, or canal, or truck, or something else equally stupid.”

Pfft. Talk about a lack of faith. “Glad to see you believe in me, Chief. I’ll bring your jet back in one piece like always.” You reply. Before he can respond further, the announcer’s voice blares out yet again.

“Last call for engines on! Last call! Ready or not, here we go, in…

THREE

TWO

ONE

RACE!!!”

As you push up the thrusters, you’re slammed back into your seat by the extreme acceleration. You have only a few seconds to make your first move of the race on this short concrete halfpipe before you reach the track’s eponymous “dive gate.”

>Gas it hard, drive aggressively, and bully your way to the front.
>Take a moderate stance for now, don’t make yourself an easy pass, but don’t push it too hard.
>Take it easy. This first drop has a habit of killing a pilot or three every race.

>>3782203
>>Take a moderate stance for now, don’t make yourself an easy pass, but don’t push it too hard.

>>3782203
>Take it easy. This first drop has a habit of killing a pilot or three every race.

>>3782203
>Take it easy. This first drop has a habit of killing a pilot or three every race

File: Raceway_2.png (26 KB, 800x600)

26 KB PNG

>>3782205
>>3782212
>>3782222
>Take it easy. This drop has a habit of killing a pilot or three every race.

As you watch the racers depart the starting line, two or three of the rookie pilots open their throttles to the max, jetting past the more experienced and cautious pilots. You let a few of them pass, but catch one of them trying to pass you on the outside. You let them speed past, where they promptly collide with another aggressive pilot, spinning out and smashing into the left wall in a mess of metal and leaking hydraulic fluid. You imagine the crowd’s derisive laughter at their failure to get past a hundred meters, but your amusement is cut short by the rapidly approaching sheer cliff.

As you blast over the edge of the dam, you feel your stomach free fall into your throat, and can’t help from screaming “WHOOO HOOO” as gravity takes hold of your jet. You keep an eye on your speed as you blast down the surface of the skyscraper in front of you, the ground approaching at an eye-watering pace. One of the rookies that blitzed out in front of you fails to pull up in time, and as his jet plows into the concrete of the road, it erupts into a gigantic fireball. Damn, those never get old.

File: Raceway_3.png (54 KB, 800x600)

54 KB PNG

>>3782236
Avoiding the same fate, you pull gently on the stick while cutting the throttle, arcing your jet off the building at an optimal altitude to the road below. The road ahead splits into a pair of tunnel bridges, but as another pilot finds out, the left-hand tunnel puts you head-on with oncoming traffic. As he pulls up hard and ejects, you have a split second to see his craft continue its ballistic arc towards the river below the bridge. You don’t have time to ogle the scenery though, as the familiar green tailfin of McVane’s’ Junkyard Special darts in front of you into the tunnel. Oh, hell no. This is YOUR bridge, god damn it.

>Try going up on the walls to bank around the pilot in front of you
>Try to pass the pilot in front of you in the turn up ahead
>Hold back for now, fancy moves in tight spaces are dangerous

>>3782244
>Try going up on the walls to bank around the pilot in front of you

>>3782244
>>Try to pass the pilot in front of you in the turn up ahead

>>3782244
>Try going up on the walls to bank around the pilot in front of you

File: Raceway_4.png (160 KB, 800x600)

160 KB PNG

>>3782250
>>3782259
>>3782288
>Try going up on the walls to bank around the pilot in front of you

You push the stick to the side, tilting your craft up onto the wall as you force your engine into the red zone. As you feel your seat straps tighten to hold you in place, you roll around the wall of the tunnel, pulling dangerously close to the rear of the jet in front of you. Seeing your maneuver, the crafty bastard in the lead piles on the energy, then brakes hard into the turn at the end of the tunnel, barely managing to stay ahead as you swing down off the wall.

File: Raceway_5.png (19 KB, 800x600)

19 KB PNG

>>3782315
Come ON, McVane, give it up! You grit your teeth and leave the throttle forward as you burn around the turn, screaming out into the setting sun to snatch the lead away from him. The orange glow soaks into everything you see, and as you skid through the turn, flying over the side of the canal, you see the sidegate of your destination ahead.

The massive Boeing Spaceplanes scrapyard. This is where old spaceliners go to die. Skeletal bodies of massive supercarriers, engines that dwarf the buildings scattered around them, and mountains of scrap fill the enormous lot for miles further than the eye can see. As you blaze down the bank of the canal, row after row of warehouses flash endlessly by your left side. Then, suddenly, the gate is right in front of you.

File: Raceway_6.png (124 KB, 800x600)

124 KB PNG

>>3782320
You pull the stick into your gut, pitching your nose into the sky as you disengage your hover jets to put all your power into the main thruster. As you tilt your nose over the top, you roll inverted, pulling down towards the ground, blasting over the gate without losing a single bit of speed. As you near the ground, you slam the stick to the side, finishing your roll, while simultaneously re-engaging your hoverjets. The impact of nearly hitting the ground jolts you down to the bone, but you stay focused on dodging the piles of metal and rust jutting out of your path.

As you rock the stick back and forth, flitting under crumbling scrap heaps and through narrow paths cutting through the junk, you end up on a final, mostly open stretch. A giant spaceliner has been dragged through the fence like some kind of battering ram, and the innards of the ship form an extremely tight tunnel. This is the end of the race. People dot the scrap heaps, perched on precariously balanced chairs and skulking in the evening shadows of junk piles. As you come roaring out into the open, you look to your left and see none other than the Junkyard Special. Fucking hell, of course it was going to come down to this. As you watch, McVane disengages his hoverjets. What kind of nutjob..? Without those, you’re less driving, and more flying your hoverjet scant feet above the ground.

His daredevil move lends him the power to stretch into the lead, barely eight meters ahead of you. You grit your teeth and engage the manual override, pouring all your power into the throttle. Your engine starts to get dangerously close to the redline, and you’re low on fuel, but come ON! This is it!

>Screw it, this is the end stretch. You’re getting into that spaceliner skeleton first if it kills you. Hit the gas.
>Try one last crazy maneuver. Hit the maneuvering override and try a high G barrel roll in the spaceliner.
>Damn, if he wants to die flying like a madman into that tight space, let him. You’ll cross the finish line before his flaming corpse does.

>>3782327

>Screw it, this is the end stretch. You’re getting into that spaceliner skeleton first if it kills you. Hit the gas.

>>3782327
>>Try one last crazy maneuver. Hit the maneuvering override and try a high G barrel roll in the spaceliner.

While we wait for votes, hiya! You guys having fun? Enjoying the shitty MS Paint art?

>>3782327
>Screw it, this is the end stretch. You’re getting into that spaceliner skeleton first if it kills you. Hit the gas.
>>3782354
It's better than I would produce if you lock me in a room with nothing but MS paint

File: Raceway_7.png (67 KB, 800x600)

67 KB PNG

>>3782335
>>3782343
>>3782369
>Screw it, this is the end stretch. You’re getting into that spaceliner skeleton first if it kills you. Hit the gas.

You instantly decide that if there was ever a time to cause catastrophic damage to your engines, that time is now. Your abused throttle groans as you force it to the maximum forward position, and manually disengage the safety override under your chair, yanking out the wire with a grunt. Immediately, the airframe begins to shake and jitter, but the power increase is exactly what the doctor ordered. As you squeeze past the Special, you take the opportunity to wink to its pilot, whose face is lined with G-strain that makes him look practically constipated. Then, you snap your head back forward, and point your nose directly at the end of the tunnel ahead of you. You reach the spindly frame in half a second, and the interior whips by you at a blistering pace. You hear the sound of metal grinding and see sparks where your vertical stabilizer scrapes the ceiling, and your knuckles turn white on the controls. But before you know it, you’re out.

With your throttle maxed out, and your engines on the verge of total failure, you soar through the spaceliner’s frame, flying out of the rust-colored wasteland into the familiar rolling grey concrete plains of the city. Blowing past the hastily spray-painted line on the ground marking the finish, you hear a warning rumble coming from your engines. The scent of ozone and metal fills the cockpit. Aw, dammit. You told Micah you were gonna bring back his jet without fucking it up. You re-engage your hoverjets and cut your main thruster to zero, coasting to a slow crawl as you pop the window and stick out your fist into the air. Fuckin’ victory, there’s nothing else quite as sweet.

You lean back in your seat, and slowly bring the Grey Ghost towards an open shipping container. Deftly slipping it inside, you cut the engines completely and disembark from the jet. As you jog out of the container, you’re greeted by a crowd of well-wishers and fans. The mass surges towards you, but you quickly notice Micah leaning out the front window of his waiting getaway hovercar. You sprint over, clamber inside the backseat, blow a quick kiss out the window, and let your chaffeur take you off into the city before the horde can catch up. No time for a medal ceremony here, the cops are probably about to arrive and disperse the crowds anyway.

File: raceway_pickup_lot.png (23 KB, 800x600)

23 KB PNG

>>3782419
As he rolls up the window, Micah throws you a backpack, then sniffs the air. “Hm. Ozone. You burned out my engine, didn’t you? I spent six months on that thing, let me tell you! Agh, you goddamn pilots…” He trails off into his rant, and you nod along, taking the opportunity to pop off your helmet, peel off your flight suit, and slip into a more comfortable (and cute) casual outfit from the bag. Perfect. Micah continues to jabber as you roll down the window, breathing in the smell of the city and letting the wind blow through your hair as the sun sinks down into the background.

“…damn, I’ve got so much work ahead of me before next season…” Micah moans. “Ugh. Where do you want me to drop you off, anyway?” He asks, shaking his head as he dodges around traffic.

“Uh, Divegate Bar. They’ll be showing reruns of the race, and I’m looking for a good time tonight, bay-bee!” you say, reaching over the console to crank up the radio on the dashboard. Micah motions to slap your hand away, but instead just shakes his head.

“You breeders are disgusting. I hope you know that.” He retorts, pulling up a map. You laugh in return, high on the sensation of surviving a life-or-death scenario at mach speeds.

File: Divegate_Bar.png (35 KB, 800x600)

35 KB PNG

>>3782423
Before long, you’ve rolled to a stop down an oily, dimly-lit backstreet. Your kind of place. You pop open the door, and step out onto the street with a simple “Later, Micah!” and strut confidently up to a nondescript, rusted door with a simple yellow sign. Its plain block lettering reads “Divegate Bar and Grill.” You push open the familiar door, and step inside.

The smell of smoke hangs in the haze over the well-stocked bar. Chunks of everything from famous hoverjet wrecks to pilots’ helmets festoon the walls, and a lively crowd fills the atmosphere with chatter. Vidscreens on the walls show footage from the race on loop, with replays of the three or four firey crashes and ejections along the way. Every table on the floor is packed to the gills with people, laughing and swapping stories under the dim neon glow of the room. Around the game booths at the back, a cluster of people crowd around ace players going head-to-head in some fighting game. In the corner booth, a group of men with cropped hair and identical jackets crowd together, each with a girl on his arm. One or two of them sit at the bar with the rest of the patrons, chatting up women in the hopes of going home with one that night.

File: 3RD_TFS_PATCH.png (23 KB, 480x480)

23 KB PNG

>>3782427
One of them, a pale-skinned, well-built, holy-shit-he’s-hot man with a clean-shaven face notices you walk up to the bar, and motions for you to take a seat next to him. You grin, and wave your hand in response, plopping down in the chair as you wait for one of the bartenders to get around to you. As you take a look at his jacket, you see a patch with a star shield and sword. The Securistar logo. Around its border is inscribed “Securistar 3rd Tactical Fighter Squadron — You Buy It, We Break It.” Another patch on his chest reads “Lieutenant Ken Reno.” This guy is an honest-to-god fighter jock from some corporate space force. Rich, hotheaded… just your type. This is getting interesting…

>Make the first move, see what he’s all about.
>Wait for him to take the lead.

>>3782429
>Make the first move, see what he’s all about

>>3782429
>Wait for him to take the lead.

>>3782429
>>Make the first move, see what he’s all about.

>>3782429
>Make the first move, see what he’s all about

File: Divegate_Bar_.png (35 KB, 800x600)

35 KB PNG

>>3782434
>>3782446
>>3782452
>Make the first move, see what he’s all about

“Hey, mister flyboy. Name’s Em. You look like you could use some company, huh?” you ask, smiling.

He laughs and shakes his head. “Sure, sure. What can I get you to drink?”

“Oho, forward much? I like that in a man.” you laugh, before dropping your smile to a deadpan expression. “I’ll take a whiskey, neat.”

He raises an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth in response, giving you an amused grin. “Well, I guess I can’t say I was expecting that. I like girls that can surprise me.”

You cock your head to the side with a jaunty grin of your own. “Get used to it. So what’s a fighter jock like you doing planetside, in this hole in the wall?” You ask.

“Well, see, we’re back here on shore leave. We just got back from the Edgeworlds blowing the shit out of Merck assets. Or uh, ‘arbitrating contractual disputes’ as the suits say. But me? I’m just here looking for some company, maybe make a new friend or two.”

“Pfft, if you wanted company, you woulda gone somewhere more upscale. Rich hotties like you would only be here if you were hiding from the upper crust. What, did your squadron trash an uptown joint and get booted down here into the streets?” You laugh. The bartender sidles up with your drink, slipping it over to you like a ghost. Reno nods to him and he slides off to the next customer. You continue. “Whatever. So regale me with some of your war stories, glory boy.” You say, intently leaning in.

Reno’s smile widens and he leans back a little to take a drink before he continues. “Well, actually, I’m mostly here because I used to fly hoverjets, waaaay back when I was a teenager. What can I say? I’ve got an abiding love for the sport. Taught me a few bad habits that I’m proud to carry on to this day. From the smell of it, you’ve been flying one too, huh? You wouldn’t happen to be, say, Emma Handel, newly-crowned champion, and exactly the kind of girl I’m looking for, would you?”

As if to punctuate his point, the screen shows your flashy finish of the race, and displays a picture of your face beside it, declaring you the overall winner of the season.

Your grin would’ve given you away if the vidscreens didn’t, so you reply in kind. “Smart, too? Alright, Ace, I like your style. Shots?”

“Shots.” he replies, motioning over the bartender.

“Let’s do this shit.” you say, grabbing your drink.

The two of you clink your glasses, and with a wink, Lieutenant Reno turns his bottoms-up. You follow suit, just in time for the bartender to come over for the next round.

Within an hour, your memories of the night’s banter and camaraderie blend together, and leave the realm of reality like a dream…

Be back in a bit, gonna go grab some lunch, etc.

How are you guys liking the quest so far? Since this is the very first thread, suggestions and comments are welcome. The earlier you bring something to my attention, the earlier it might get incorporated / fixed / improved.

>>3782486
So far so good. A description of ourselves would be great.

>>3782596
Oh, good idea! Lemme paste it in from my old notes.

You are EMMA HANDEL, and you’re kinda short compared to the boys. Not like that’s a problem for a pilot; your heart has to work less hard to pump your blood, which gives you extra G tolerance.

You’ve got shoulder-length dark brown hair, with bangs parted to one side over your cute, tanned face. But by far the most interesting feature on the front of your skull is your eyes; they sparkle with a speckled green glow, and they’re absolutely brilliantly bright.

As for the rest of you, your five foot two inch frame is toned and strong, with muscles tuned to perfection for anti-G straining and the rigors of intense flight. Your shoulders are maybe a tad wider than you’d like, and your hips a bit narrower (and your chest a bit flatter, but fuck if that’s gonna stop you getting the boys), but overall, you look good even in a flight suit.

And if it’s not already obvious, you live your life on the “burn it at both ends live fast die hard” spectrum. Your chosen profession has an average lifespan measured in months for all but the absolute most skilled, but damn if the fame and the pay aren’t worth it. You’re basically a nobody as far as the powers that be are concerned, and you stay out of the eye of the law and the corporations (ESPECIALLY when the corps own half the cops and the mobsters own the others).

>>3782653
Thirsty.

>>3782657
Basically, yes. Growing up as a street rat has a way of making you shortsighted.

File: bathroom_.png (27 KB, 800x600)

27 KB PNG

>>3782482
…THE PRESENT DAY
…TIME: 0703
…LOCATION: 1919 SOUTH PRESIDENT’S ROW, APARTMENT 767, OLD RAY CITY, NEW DAWN

Another burst of gunfire tears you out of your reverie, and you still have no idea how you’re supposed to fight a squad of heavily armed goons with a plunger. You try to pick up their gun again, but the ammo screen just flashes red and black. Of fucking course it needs the right license to use. You throw the useless slab of plastic across the room. Then the voice comes again.

“THE CRIMINAL IN YOUR BED IS OUR HOSTAGE. SURRENDER NOW OR FACE CONTINUED ASSAULT. YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS TO RESPOND.”

It’s the third time they’ve pulled this stupid routine on you in the last minute, but the first time they actually shot back with anything besides stun rounds. You spend four of the five seconds racking your brains, but come up short. At least if you surrender you’ll get to figure out who sent these S-class assholes.

“Fine, FINE. I surrender!” You shout angrily, tossing the plunger out into the hallway. “I’m coming out!”

You stand up, brush the dust off your shoulders, and raise your hands, swinging out into the hallway where you get a good look at the cluster of suits in your living room. Every one of them is heavily armed, toting name-brand compact pulsers and sporting identical suits and sunglasses. Definitely corporate, these assholes.

You hear the familiar whine of a charging energy gun behind you, and moments later, a robotically masked voice. “Lower your hands behind your back.” You comply, taking the opportunity to speak as the thug slaps a pair of handcuffs on you. “Alright, we both know the corpos own you ugly sharts, and you wouldn’t be here unless they thought they owned me. So what the FUCK is going on here?”

“You’ve had your fun, Missus Nguyen. Now it’s our turn.” comes the reply from a suit you didn’t notice behind you. “Boss, read her the doc.”

“Wait a second, who’s Nguyen? I’m EMMA HANDEL, you stupid cunts.” You crane your head around to glare at your captor. This earns you a prod in the back from their pulsegun, and they start marching you into the living room. As you step into the living area, you see a new figure lounging on your sofa. The figure strikes a gaunt silhouette, and his milk-pale skin is sheathed in black carbon-fiber tendrils that climb up his body from the tips of his fingers to his bald scalp. He leans back, spreading his arms while crossing his legs, and nods his head to a beat only he can hear. After a moment of silence, he begins to speak.

It sounds like a cross between an arrogant prick and an arrogant prick.

>>3782701
“Your… proclivities for unlicensed use of various FreeLander LLC products brought you to our attention recently, Miss Blair Nguyen. Especially your, well, joyride, let’s call it, last night, which apparently involved six counts of homicide by unlicensed heavy pulser, two counts of grand theft auto, and multiple other minor infractions including but not limited to illicit drug trafficking, public fornication, and jaywalking.” The left-hand thug, a mountain of a woman with a large black bag slung over her shoulder, steps behind you. Moments later, you feel the sting of a biosampler tear a tiny chunk of skin and a few drops of blood from your neck.

You wince in response, spitting back with venom. “Oh yeah, that’s me, hardcore terrorist hacker here. Not like I was having trouble working the goddamn Repliwave this morning, hungover as shit.” Your head pounds again, as if to accentuate your point. “You ever consider you might’ve just gotten duped? I don’t even know who the fuck Nguyen is.”

He grins at your discomfort, ignores your outburst, and continues. “Your attempt to interdict the Securistar fuel cell shipment was very nearly admirable. Nearly. But now, you are here, sleeping with a confirmed criminal, suffering through the effects of… oh dear, that is a frankly irresponsible amount of highly illegal accelerant drugs. Tut tut tut.” he says, tapping the display on his glasses.

You shrug in response. In your defense, you’re too hungover to remember what you took anyway. As he continues to manipulate the controls on his glasses, the tendrils on his face pulse, and you raise an eyebrow and ask. “Hey, does your dick have those ugly-ass veins too? Jesus, you must have a hard time getting laid.”

File: Forward_Apartment_Layout.png (14 KB, 800x600)

14 KB PNG

>>3782721
His right eye twitches almost imperceptibly in response, but you got through to the douchebag, and that’s a win in your book. He clears his throat, then continues in the same tone as before. “These biosampler readings are just fascinating, I must say. Oh, Number Three, go fetch our other pet criminal from the bedroom. Perhaps give them some clothes as well.” the thin man says, continuing to ignore you. As her boots thump down the pseudo-wood hallway floor to go fetch your last night’s catch, you take stock of your situation.

The open living room and kitchen are separated by a bar, which one of the guards is leaning against, cradling their gun and looking bored. The couch the man in charge (you should really learn his name so you can stop calling him “the man”) is sitting on dominates the far wall of the living room facing you, next to the door, which is, of fucking course, guarded by another corpo soldier. Scattered around the grease-stained coffee table are a handful of bottles of alcohol, and your television on to your right is flanked on either side by a pair of heavy speakers on spindly metal stands. You look back towards the kitchen to your left, and see a sink full of dishes that you probably should have washed a few days ago protruding above the bar. Damn. Maybe you stacked those plates a little too high.

>>3782723
Before you can take in any more, you hear two pairs of footsteps walking back up the hallway. That’s gotta be your new partner in crime. The footsteps stop, and you hear a sneeze, a shuffle, a HRRRK, and then discharge of a stungun. A loud thud echoes up the hallway, and you grin. You get em, Lieutenant.

Moments later, Number Three, sporting a fat bruise on her right cheek, drags a limp body into the living room and dumps it onto the floor into a groaning heap. The suave Securistar fighter jock from last night rolls over onto his back, sighing at the ceiling, before slowly hauling his sculpted body into a sitting position with a focused glare. You’d probably stare at his abs more if there weren’t other distractions in the room, but time for that later. When he sees the black-laced face of the spindly figure on the couch, his eyes widen as though struck by a bolt of pure terror.

>Rib him about being scared. Maybe you can get him to put on a brave face.
>Ask him who the asshole on your couch is.
>Stay quiet for now.

>>3782733
>Ask him who the asshole on your couch is
No account of the fun and shenanigans last night? For shame

>>3782741
My smut-writing skills are even worse than my MS Paint skills. Do you guys want lewd stuff in this quest? I'll have to ask around for some pointers if so.

>>3782733
>Rib him about being scared. Maybe you can get him to put on a brave face.
>Ask him who the asshole on your couch is.
>>3782748
lewds are nice if it makes sense from the story perspective (like right now). But not lewds just for the sake of it.

>>3782748
Sure. Ask here or qtg. They're probably more knowledgeable about it.

>>3782733
>>Rib him about being scared. Maybe you can get him to put on a brave face.
>>Ask him who the asshole on your couch is.

I'll have to sleep now. Best of luck qm

>>3782797
Have good dreams, anon.

File: sweet_dreams_emma.png (10 KB, 800x600)

10 KB PNG

>>3782741
>>3782755
>>3782778
>Rib him about being scared. Maybe you can get him to put on a brave face.
>Ask him who the asshole on your couch is.

You try to jerk the Securistar pilot out of his horror. "Hey. Maverick. This guy your boyfriend or something? You two got a history or something?"

For his part, Reno ignores you, simply stuttering out “Whoa whoa whoa, hey. I didn’t do anything wrong, man! I don’t know who this woman really is, but I swear I’m innocent. I don’t want any trouble with the law!”

Wait.

This motherfucker is a cop? Oh SHIT. You immediately connect the dots. Corporate goons, a faked rap sheet, and a lawman? They probably don’t give a shit that this is a setup, hell, they probably ARE the setup! No no no, you can NOT be going to jail today. Fuck!

Before you can work yourself into a further panic, the officer responds to your comrade. “Hm. Well, Mister Olson, Vice President Matsumoto’s wife had something different to say about your… innocence. Something about riding crops and blindfolds.” He grins ferally, his eyes taking on a more predatory edge than his earlier bemusement.

“Either way, she’s been taken care of, and I’ve been instructed to arrest you on charges of aiding and abetting a known terrorist.” As instantly as it appeared, the smile vanishes from his face, and he turns a baleful, disinterested gaze to you. “As for the two of you, according to official police records, you were officially arrested thirty minutes ago. Congratulations.” He reaches up to the side of his glasses again, then his grin comes back. “Oh, and what’s this? It looks like Securistar has purchased both of your labor contracts, and will be employing you in a frontline penal fighter unit in the Gamma Quadrant. Number Three, please… incapacitate our new inmates, and prepare them for shipping.”

Your jaw immediately drops. You’ve been sold to SECURISTAR? The fuckers duking it out in the Edgeworlds? You start to stammer out “W-wait, this is bullshi—“ THWACK. The heavy fist of Number Three collides with the back of your head, and as you slam into the floor, your consciousness gasps out alongside the air from your lungs. The last thing you feel as the blackness takes you is the click of a metal monitoring collar around your neck. That’s uncomfortable. Your last act of rebellion is to wheeze out “ugly mother…fucker…” You barely finish your sentence before you pass out.

…
…
…

File: Cell_129.png (22 KB, 800x600)

22 KB PNG

>>3782805
You wake up. Thankfully. You blow out a resigned breath, then slowly open one of your eyes to look around. You’re in some kind of shitty metal holding cell, sparsely decorated with a single bed, a sink, and a toilet. You open your other eye and sit up to expand your field of view. You hear a coughing sound to your right, and notice you’ve got neighbors, separated from you by what looks like chain link fence. As you turn your view right and left, you see row after row of identical cells as far as you can see, each with one bed, one poor motherfucker being hauled off to their doom, and zero privacy. God, and just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse.

In the cell to your left, you see Lieutenant Reno, passed out on his cot. Or maybe it’s Lieutenant Olson. Didn’t that cop guy call him Olson? The fuck is up with that? Your head hurts, but at least it’s not from a hangover this time.

>Wake up the pilot. Fuck his beauty rest, you need answers about how you got dragged into this shit.
>Do some exercise first. You’ll have shitloads of time to grill him later, and you need to stay in shape. Especially in this kind of rough environment.
>Other (write-in)

Well, I'll be monitoring this thread periodically for some more responses, but as it's pretty dead now, I'm gonna call it for today until a bunch of responses flood in.

>>3782839
>Wake up the pilot. Fuck his beauty rest, you need answers about how you got dragged into this shit.

>>3782839
>Wake up the pilot. Fuck his beauty rest, you need answers about how you got dragged into this shit.

>>3782839
>Wake up the pilot. Fuck his beauty rest, you need answers about how you got dragged into this shit.

>>3782839
>Do some exercise first. You’ll have shitloads of time to grill him later, and you need to stay in shape. Especially in this kind of rough environment.
Gotta stay /fit/

>>3782839
>Wake up the pilot. Fuck his beauty rest, you need answers about how you got dragged into this shit.
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?

>>3782839
>Wake up the pilot. Fuck his beauty rest, you need answers about how you got dragged into this shit.

>>3782839
>Wake up the pilot. Fuck his beauty rest, you need answers about how you got dragged into this shit.

QM you still here?

>>3782839
>>Wake up the pilot. Fuck his beauty rest, you need answers about how you got dragged into this shit.

>>3787816
This died quickly for a quest that has been teased and prepared for weeks.

>>3787816
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9gKyRmic20

>>3782189
Story starts in the shiter.