Glade
Starleaves n Stimcafs
Rogue Protocol OP: Silence the Speederway Giant.
Planet: Echelon
District 25: Yellow District: a.k.a. the Yell-Away, Not-So-Mellow Yellow, the Everyman's District
Location: Speederway Y9812-25, Six Lane Dual Speederway (12 total)
Night, Clear Skies, Heavy Neon Wash
Keyrunner (Fixer): Clicker | Echo-ID: CK | Undervine Alias: CK117
Crew Status:
Hanna
|
Saul Colsan
| Glade | Ghostkey | Sickle | Chronicle | Ibis | Juju | Hound | Savant | Crash | Ciphera
OOC: Thread / Crew
Target: Board and take Overlight Energy Consortium's Tactical Armored Crawler, a repulsor giant in motion. 55 meters/180 feet of durasteel. Evade EchoSec (CorpSec) and secure the contents of its vault and the vehicle.
Black armored plating thundered down the speederway like a runaway city block, crossing two lanes, it drank in the neon haze and painted it back like it lived there. For a craft that size, the thing moved with uncanny speed, too fast for comfort, but slow enough to be caught by the brave or stupid. Inside, a dozen, maybe fifteen guards in corpo-black, setup ready to ruin someone's evening, and a prototype engine so rare that it had its own vault.
Yellow District towered around them, residential blocks well stacked until they vanished into shadow, holo-ads glowed across weathered billboards, street dens and everyday folk trying hard not to notice the wrong kinds of movement after midnight. Perfect place to disappear a crawler or die trying.
The Rogue Protocol hovertruck rattled in the slipstream of its wash, closing. Inside, a mixed deck of neon-ready runners and silent professionals checking gear, black jackets with augments and tats, flak jackets, or street-scrap armor patched with personal style. Some spoke. Some didn't and some…
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Woooohooo!" Crash shouted, pounding on their truck wall like he wanted to challenge the crawler to a personal fistfight. The rookie vibrated with excess charge; someone once remarked he bounced off the ceilings more than the floor!
Nøva
Lacing her durasteel-tipped boots, Sickle glanced up. Her neon-green hair spiked outward from a hooded scavers jacket, sleeves disappeared into rogue wiring, each signal an act of systemic defiance. "Careful Kid," she snorted, snapping a mag-lock shut tight on her custom thigh rig. "Keep broadcasting like that, and EchoSec'll tune in from the next district. Save ya hype for when we peel their tin can wide open."
On comms, their defacto Chiss lead Savant clinically cut through chatter: "Non-lethal if possible." Everyone knew that meant: Try. Everyone also knew that if things ran hot, killing corpo muscle was just another noisy day in the Yellow.
Up front in her pilot seat, visor lit bright with targeting data, Glade shook her hair free, slamming a stim back, senses focused. "Everyone 'bout ready ta burn?" Their two black speeders settled into forward and rear positions around the crawler, like hungry wolves bracing for a snack. The Rogue's hovertruck drifted upward in their blind spot.
Juju, looked over her slicing deck, jacked in and eyes glazing over. "Emergency frequencies jammed," she whispered, voice soft with that haunted edge. "Feels… wrong, though. Like something's listening anyway."
Chronicle checked his chronometer and clicked his shades down with precision. "Ten minutes," he set almost as ritual. "Prime mag boots and grapplers." A soft whirring noise confirmed it, magnets warming up and ready to bite corpo metal.
The side door slid open, wind screeching in. Ghostkey grinned at whoever caught his eye… like most streetrunners, too young, bright and eager to burn himself out. "A'ight Rogue's," he said, voice carried on back-alley bravado. "Let's print some mems in this neon." The kid stubbed out a cheap polyplast stick against the wall, tossed the ember into the night, then drew a sonic blaster that hummed hungry for a target.
Glade pulled back on the hover-yoke. The truck shifted higher, hovering level with the crawler's giant armored roof and its three hatches, front, mid, rear. That was the moment the crawler's systems probably realized they had company. Grappler lines whizzed out, magnetics snapping tight to moving metal. Clipping in for a safer landing. Some jumped. Ghostkey didn't just jump but launched out, goggles down, grin wide, a kid convinced he could grab the cityworld by the throat and demand it dance.
Speeders (NPC Locations)
Land Speeder 1 (Front): Ciphera | Hound
Land Speeder 2 (Rear): Savant | Ibis
Hovertruck (Side): Glade, Ghostkey, Sickle, Chronicle, Juju, Crash.
First Roll: Crawler's Reaction Time.
Second Roll: Speederway Traffic
Third Roll: Any Corpo Escorts
Low rolls always mean bad news.
Planet: Echelon
District 25: Yellow District: a.k.a. the Yell-Away, Not-So-Mellow Yellow, the Everyman's District
Location: Speederway Y9812-25, Six Lane Dual Speederway (12 total)
Night, Clear Skies, Heavy Neon Wash
Keyrunner (Fixer): Clicker | Echo-ID: CK | Undervine Alias: CK117
Crew Status:
Hanna
|
Saul Colsan
| Glade | Ghostkey | Sickle | Chronicle | Ibis | Juju | Hound | Savant | Crash | CipheraOOC: Thread / Crew
Target: Board and take Overlight Energy Consortium's Tactical Armored Crawler, a repulsor giant in motion. 55 meters/180 feet of durasteel. Evade EchoSec (CorpSec) and secure the contents of its vault and the vehicle.
Black armored plating thundered down the speederway like a runaway city block, crossing two lanes, it drank in the neon haze and painted it back like it lived there. For a craft that size, the thing moved with uncanny speed, too fast for comfort, but slow enough to be caught by the brave or stupid. Inside, a dozen, maybe fifteen guards in corpo-black, setup ready to ruin someone's evening, and a prototype engine so rare that it had its own vault.
Yellow District towered around them, residential blocks well stacked until they vanished into shadow, holo-ads glowed across weathered billboards, street dens and everyday folk trying hard not to notice the wrong kinds of movement after midnight. Perfect place to disappear a crawler or die trying.
The Rogue Protocol hovertruck rattled in the slipstream of its wash, closing. Inside, a mixed deck of neon-ready runners and silent professionals checking gear, black jackets with augments and tats, flak jackets, or street-scrap armor patched with personal style. Some spoke. Some didn't and some…
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Woooohooo!" Crash shouted, pounding on their truck wall like he wanted to challenge the crawler to a personal fistfight. The rookie vibrated with excess charge; someone once remarked he bounced off the ceilings more than the floor!
Nøva
Lacing her durasteel-tipped boots, Sickle glanced up. Her neon-green hair spiked outward from a hooded scavers jacket, sleeves disappeared into rogue wiring, each signal an act of systemic defiance. "Careful Kid," she snorted, snapping a mag-lock shut tight on her custom thigh rig. "Keep broadcasting like that, and EchoSec'll tune in from the next district. Save ya hype for when we peel their tin can wide open."
On comms, their defacto Chiss lead Savant clinically cut through chatter: "Non-lethal if possible." Everyone knew that meant: Try. Everyone also knew that if things ran hot, killing corpo muscle was just another noisy day in the Yellow.
Up front in her pilot seat, visor lit bright with targeting data, Glade shook her hair free, slamming a stim back, senses focused. "Everyone 'bout ready ta burn?" Their two black speeders settled into forward and rear positions around the crawler, like hungry wolves bracing for a snack. The Rogue's hovertruck drifted upward in their blind spot.
Juju, looked over her slicing deck, jacked in and eyes glazing over. "Emergency frequencies jammed," she whispered, voice soft with that haunted edge. "Feels… wrong, though. Like something's listening anyway."
Chronicle checked his chronometer and clicked his shades down with precision. "Ten minutes," he set almost as ritual. "Prime mag boots and grapplers." A soft whirring noise confirmed it, magnets warming up and ready to bite corpo metal.
The side door slid open, wind screeching in. Ghostkey grinned at whoever caught his eye… like most streetrunners, too young, bright and eager to burn himself out. "A'ight Rogue's," he said, voice carried on back-alley bravado. "Let's print some mems in this neon." The kid stubbed out a cheap polyplast stick against the wall, tossed the ember into the night, then drew a sonic blaster that hummed hungry for a target.
Glade pulled back on the hover-yoke. The truck shifted higher, hovering level with the crawler's giant armored roof and its three hatches, front, mid, rear. That was the moment the crawler's systems probably realized they had company. Grappler lines whizzed out, magnetics snapping tight to moving metal. Clipping in for a safer landing. Some jumped. Ghostkey didn't just jump but launched out, goggles down, grin wide, a kid convinced he could grab the cityworld by the throat and demand it dance.
Speeders (NPC Locations)
Land Speeder 1 (Front): Ciphera | Hound
Land Speeder 2 (Rear): Savant | Ibis
Hovertruck (Side): Glade, Ghostkey, Sickle, Chronicle, Juju, Crash.
First Roll: Crawler's Reaction Time.
Second Roll: Speederway Traffic
Third Roll: Any Corpo Escorts
Low rolls always mean bad news.
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