promotion (locked) school life (locked) choco and me (locked) arm care (locked) a girl friend (locked) pai and soccer (locked) the photoshoot (locked) friendsgiving (locked) the third fight (locked)
It is only the second time Park’s been allowed as leader and you were kind of hoping he'd have done some script edits since then. The script is lame, like the mission itself. One of the transfer stations out past the 'dome's lost efficiency. You guys're supposed to find out why that is.
"Probably something got blown over in the storm a couple weeks ago," suggests the dark-skinned girl. 'Johnson' is printed on her gray jumpsuit.
"What if it's a t-rex?" Hurricane counters.
"What if it's a bear!" stutters the redhead, eyes wide.
"What if it's a human?" 'Hernandez' says from right next to you, voice soft.
You're still a good half hour out, but no one talks much after that. Lame.
The "facility" is more like a shack out in the middle of a field. The rice is all gone to seed, mixed with fruit and wildflowers and grasses brushing against the suits' thighs and tickling where the dented armor doesn't meet properly down the legs.
The whole squad falls into position without arguing; sniper and medic at a safe vantage, the others covering the shed from the other directions. Hurricane is at your 7 as you head in, muting Park's channel as he goes on about whatever crap. Testing the door's your job, and you step soft and easy towards the door...best you can anyway, with the connection to the suit buzzing at the back of your neck, steel wool on aluminum. You stay low, turning the knob and pushing. And then pushing some more. And then--
The door sticks, like it's been propped open. Blowing the door's out of the question (unfortunately), so you shoulder into it until whatever had been keeping it shut finally gives way. You stumble in a few steps, something squashy and sticky crunching under your feet.
"Oh," you say, not believing what you see.
"■■■■?" comes over the comms, and you think to transmit your video feed.
Suddenly you get where the problem with the power grid's coming from. The machinery is covered--the entire room is covered, floor to ceiling lined with neat rows of honeycomb, oozing onto the levers and plugs, over desk and work table and shelving, and swarming over with just so many drones.
"'S a lotta bees," Hurricane breathes, close behind your back, and you startle, knocking the door open harder, crushing into the nearest comb and knocking a whole rack out of place.
The bees don't very much like that.
The swarm turns to you, the one in front, the attacker, and begins to surround you. And continues to surround you, more and more and more bees seem to be pouring through the door to greet you. They ram against the suit, steady as a hailstorm, and the buzz echoes in your teeth. You remember the loose panel at the knee, how you'd just ripped it off since the rattle as you walked'd been so annoying.
"Run," Hurricane cries, tugging at your arm hard enough to loosen the arm seal and it's just downhill from there.
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infested [[unlocked day 116]]
It is only the second time Park’s been allowed as leader and you were kind of hoping he'd have done some script edits since then. The script is lame, like the mission itself. One of the transfer stations out past the 'dome's lost efficiency. You guys're supposed to find out why that is.
"Probably something got blown over in the storm a couple weeks ago," suggests the dark-skinned girl. 'Johnson' is printed on her gray jumpsuit.
"What if it's a t-rex?" Hurricane counters.
"What if it's a bear!" stutters the redhead, eyes wide.
"What if it's a human?" 'Hernandez' says from right next to you, voice soft.
You're still a good half hour out, but no one talks much after that. Lame.
The "facility" is more like a shack out in the middle of a field. The rice is all gone to seed, mixed with fruit and wildflowers and grasses brushing against the suits' thighs and tickling where the dented armor doesn't meet properly down the legs.
The whole squad falls into position without arguing; sniper and medic at a safe vantage, the others covering the shed from the other directions. Hurricane is at your 7 as you head in, muting Park's channel as he goes on about whatever crap. Testing the door's your job, and you step soft and easy towards the door...best you can anyway, with the connection to the suit buzzing at the back of your neck, steel wool on aluminum. You stay low, turning the knob and pushing. And then pushing some more. And then--
The door sticks, like it's been propped open. Blowing the door's out of the question (unfortunately), so you shoulder into it until whatever had been keeping it shut finally gives way. You stumble in a few steps, something squashy and sticky crunching under your feet.
"Oh," you say, not believing what you see.
"■■■■?" comes over the comms, and you think to transmit your video feed.
Suddenly you get where the problem with the power grid's coming from. The machinery is covered--the entire room is covered, floor to ceiling lined with neat rows of honeycomb, oozing onto the levers and plugs, over desk and work table and shelving, and swarming over with just so many drones.
"'S a lotta bees," Hurricane breathes, close behind your back, and you startle, knocking the door open harder, crushing into the nearest comb and knocking a whole rack out of place.
The bees don't very much like that.
The swarm turns to you, the one in front, the attacker, and begins to surround you. And continues to surround you, more and more and more bees seem to be pouring through the door to greet you. They ram against the suit, steady as a hailstorm, and the buzz echoes in your teeth. You remember the loose panel at the knee, how you'd just ripped it off since the rattle as you walked'd been so annoying.
"Run," Hurricane cries, tugging at your arm hard enough to loosen the arm seal and it's just downhill from there.