[When he yanks the probe out, he isn't gentle, not by a long shot. There's no time for ceremony or apology, even as the bizarre sensation fades out, replaced by a flood of adrenaline. You all heard his voice within the Matrix, and his operator's headset is still camped firmly around his short-shorn head.] One's almost through the upper hull, staboard, [he says.] He's still jacked in.
[He nods at the operative beside you, still prone and wired up on the chair. It means a couple things. They're two hands short, and a few more seconds out from EMP. Maybe it also means they're going to have to suck it up and bake one of their own to save the ship and everyone else, but they have options until then, and that's what Horse means when he stoops down and forms a stirrup with his hands. You can go faster up the ladder when you skip as many rungs as Horse is tall. And their biggest turret is up there.]
I'll be right behind you.
Wildcard Simulation
The Agent program doesn't start until you get in the car, [he says, a tinny voice in your earpiece. Horse is entirely correct, of course, but
the restaurant is so lovely: the steak sumptuous, the plaza sprawling in sunlit elegance outside, mannequins striking poses from storefronts and elegant fonts presenting designer brands above them. There's a sparrow bouncing around optimistically on the balcony railing beside you. Mosaiced skies roam gently over the facades of skyscrapers a few blocks down at the speed of a warm autumn wind. It'd feel real, if his bass-deep voice weren't stupid questions like:]
What are you doing in there?
Wildcard Real
[There are enough people in Zion that not everybody knows everybody, but few enough that anybody's likely to know something about you. One of those things that some people know about Horse, and many other Natives of Zion, is that Irkallans elicit in them an insensate and single-minded rage, a reaction as visceral as dogs with cats. Or what, presumably, dogs and cats are supposed to behave like, based on the Machines' understanding programmed into thousands of Matrixes across the planet.
That's what makes the refugee envoy that docked six hours ago so tenuous. Deserters' deserters. They new boatload of Irkallans are supposed to be segregated with the thin but convenient excuse of quarantine-- for everybody's safety.
But it's not hard to guess that somebody made an exception, when the sound of footfalls from the entryway behind you are matched with a complete change in the air inside the tavern. There is instantaneous ugliness on Horse's face across from you; his shoulders bunch, his eyes lock on the doorway. The clatter of cups and talk dries up like it was scorched. The bartender, a dozen yards back, stops in the middle of drying a carafe.]
[OOC note: I'm quite RLed at the moment at least until Tuesday, please forgive for slowtags.]
Horse | Native OC | Mission & Sim & Real
[When he yanks the probe out, he isn't gentle, not by a long shot. There's no time for ceremony or apology, even as the bizarre sensation fades out, replaced by a flood of adrenaline. You all heard his voice within the Matrix, and his operator's headset is still camped firmly around his short-shorn head.] One's almost through the upper hull, staboard, [he says.] He's still jacked in.
[He nods at the operative beside you, still prone and wired up on the chair. It means a couple things. They're two hands short, and a few more seconds out from EMP. Maybe it also means they're going to have to suck it up and bake one of their own to save the ship and everyone else, but they have options until then, and that's what Horse means when he stoops down and forms a stirrup with his hands. You can go faster up the ladder when you skip as many rungs as Horse is tall. And their biggest turret is up there.]
I'll be right behind you.
Wildcard Simulation
The Agent program doesn't start until you get in the car, [he says, a tinny voice in your earpiece. Horse is entirely correct, of course, but
the restaurant is so lovely: the steak sumptuous, the plaza sprawling in sunlit elegance outside, mannequins striking poses from storefronts and elegant fonts presenting designer brands above them. There's a sparrow bouncing around optimistically on the balcony railing beside you. Mosaiced skies roam gently over the facades of skyscrapers a few blocks down at the speed of a warm autumn wind. It'd feel real, if his bass-deep voice weren't stupid questions like:]
What are you doing in there?
Wildcard Real
[There are enough people in Zion that not everybody knows everybody, but few enough that anybody's likely to know something about you. One of those things that some people know about Horse, and many other Natives of Zion, is that Irkallans elicit in them an insensate and single-minded rage, a reaction as visceral as dogs with cats. Or what, presumably, dogs and cats are supposed to behave like, based on the Machines' understanding programmed into thousands of Matrixes across the planet.
That's what makes the refugee envoy that docked six hours ago so tenuous. Deserters' deserters. They new boatload of Irkallans are supposed to be segregated with the thin but convenient excuse of quarantine-- for everybody's safety.
But it's not hard to guess that somebody made an exception, when the sound of footfalls from the entryway behind you are matched with a complete change in the air inside the tavern. There is instantaneous ugliness on Horse's face across from you; his shoulders bunch, his eyes lock on the doorway. The clatter of cups and talk dries up like it was scorched. The bartender, a dozen yards back, stops in the middle of drying a carafe.]
[OOC note: I'm quite RLed at the moment at least until Tuesday, please forgive for slowtags.]