Jun 2, 2017 2:11 pm
Nerves is so absorbed in his work that the elevator is practically upon the party before he realises it. Dr. Zephyr makes an executive decision and rips Nerves away from the terminal, depositing both himself and the Kerenthi in the hollow behind a dormant power regulator. Kree has taken up position nearby, shielded from view by a plated cable thicker than her torso.
The platform finishes descending, clamps loudly locking into place. Immediately, five troopers step off it and scan the area.
They're carrying some serious hardware. League-issue plasma rifles, belts of concussion grenades, and most noticeably completely grey and emblem-free combat armour.
These are what the underworld call Grey Mercenaries. A team that just so happens to have Mercenary League and/or supercorporate equipment that doesn't come with identifying colour schemes or digital tags. Professionals, but professionals operating in open violation of the Vursoun Treaty.
Not that they seem particularly professional at this moment. There's a lot of consternation at the bloodbath that greets them.
"Where the hell is the prep team?"
"Maybe some of these bodies are theirs."
"They should fucking hope so! Look at this mess."
One of them, perhaps the leader, mutters about amateurs. Then he shakes his head and begins barking orders. "No matter. We've got a job to do. Tomas, secure the perimeter. Palsiet, access that command terminal. Havers, disable this elevator so we don't get any unexpected guests... and Olec? Stay with the device. We've got 900 seconds before the generator begins its reboot: and we do not want to be inside the chamber when this thing starts up."
Discarded technicians' uniforms hang off the elevator's railings. In its centre, a mess of glass tubes and pulsing lights rests under the close guard of a heavy-set Grey with a scatter rifle. Various warning symbols for toxins and chemical hazards are plastered all over its canisters.
The squadron springs into action. One of them heads to the terminal, unfolding an expensive-looking computer tablet as she walks. She hasn't noticed the party yet.
The platform finishes descending, clamps loudly locking into place. Immediately, five troopers step off it and scan the area.
They're carrying some serious hardware. League-issue plasma rifles, belts of concussion grenades, and most noticeably completely grey and emblem-free combat armour.
These are what the underworld call Grey Mercenaries. A team that just so happens to have Mercenary League and/or supercorporate equipment that doesn't come with identifying colour schemes or digital tags. Professionals, but professionals operating in open violation of the Vursoun Treaty.
Not that they seem particularly professional at this moment. There's a lot of consternation at the bloodbath that greets them.
"Where the hell is the prep team?"
"Maybe some of these bodies are theirs."
"They should fucking hope so! Look at this mess."
One of them, perhaps the leader, mutters about amateurs. Then he shakes his head and begins barking orders. "No matter. We've got a job to do. Tomas, secure the perimeter. Palsiet, access that command terminal. Havers, disable this elevator so we don't get any unexpected guests... and Olec? Stay with the device. We've got 900 seconds before the generator begins its reboot: and we do not want to be inside the chamber when this thing starts up."
Discarded technicians' uniforms hang off the elevator's railings. In its centre, a mess of glass tubes and pulsing lights rests under the close guard of a heavy-set Grey with a scatter rifle. Various warning symbols for toxins and chemical hazards are plastered all over its canisters.
The squadron springs into action. One of them heads to the terminal, unfolding an expensive-looking computer tablet as she walks. She hasn't noticed the party yet.