Luna-88 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flowersandhighexplosives) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
at_the_tower2015-02-01 10:58 pm
flowersandhighexplosives) wrote in at_the_tower2015-02-01 10:58 pm
002
WHO: Luna-88 and open
WHAT: One easily distracted Warlock and YOU
WHERE: Earth: Mothyards
WHEN: afternoon
RATING: n/a
The distinctive echoing ping of an exotic sniper rifle breaks the early morning stillness of the Mothyards, heat rippling through the chill air along the line of the projectile. The small group of Fallen scouts drop methodically, one and then two felled before they can get behind cover. Another killed when it peeks out to check the pause in rounds. Two dregs and a vandal. Two more left. One of them takes a few lucky shots at a far ridge, but he's downed even as his postmortem attack hits his target: the Warlock crouched in the dry grass there, Icebreaker's barrel sizzling, her shield crackling faintly as it absorbs the shots.
With one dreg left standing, Luna-88 trades the weapon out for her scout rifle and jumps from the ridge, hurrying to close the distance to her last target. She detours around the other side of a half buried cargo plane, circling around to cut through the gutted interior and flank the dreg who, unwittingly, is still fixated on where she'd come from across a relatively open field.
He turns at the last minute, perhaps the crunch of dry grass and dirt under her boots giving her away, but she snaps out her palm and slaps it against the Fallen's chest, staggering him with a blunt wave of force- no flames this time, she needs this one intact. He flails for his knife, but Luna is faster, rifle jammed under his chin, the trigger pulled. His head comes apart, followed by the hiss of escaping ether. Too slow, too slow, she's not going to get as much as she wants- the body barely has time to start crumbling before Luna is dropping her weapon and grabbing hold of it, propping it upright as her now free hand scrambles to trap the escaping vapor in a small container. She only gets about half of it, but it'll have to do.
She lets the body drop to the ground and tucks the vial into robes that pool around her as she crouches down to inspect the corpse, her head tilting curiously. The dreg's own knife is picked up and used to cut away at pieces of armor, a docking cap pried off, the stump of one amputated arm prodded at.
"Luna." It's her Ghost. She's gotten used to tuning him out when she's occupied. It's a bad habit. "Luna." He sounds agitated, but if there's anything on her radar, she assumes it's one of the other Fallen patrols, which she is quite confident she is out of sight of, thank you Ghost. "Luna! Eyes up, Guardian!"
That has her attention and she gropes instinctively for her weapon, rising and turning on her toes as soon as she feels her fingers around the grip, ready and aimed down the sights whether it's friend or foe behind her now.
WHAT: One easily distracted Warlock and YOU
WHERE: Earth: Mothyards
WHEN: afternoon
RATING: n/a
The distinctive echoing ping of an exotic sniper rifle breaks the early morning stillness of the Mothyards, heat rippling through the chill air along the line of the projectile. The small group of Fallen scouts drop methodically, one and then two felled before they can get behind cover. Another killed when it peeks out to check the pause in rounds. Two dregs and a vandal. Two more left. One of them takes a few lucky shots at a far ridge, but he's downed even as his postmortem attack hits his target: the Warlock crouched in the dry grass there, Icebreaker's barrel sizzling, her shield crackling faintly as it absorbs the shots.
With one dreg left standing, Luna-88 trades the weapon out for her scout rifle and jumps from the ridge, hurrying to close the distance to her last target. She detours around the other side of a half buried cargo plane, circling around to cut through the gutted interior and flank the dreg who, unwittingly, is still fixated on where she'd come from across a relatively open field.
He turns at the last minute, perhaps the crunch of dry grass and dirt under her boots giving her away, but she snaps out her palm and slaps it against the Fallen's chest, staggering him with a blunt wave of force- no flames this time, she needs this one intact. He flails for his knife, but Luna is faster, rifle jammed under his chin, the trigger pulled. His head comes apart, followed by the hiss of escaping ether. Too slow, too slow, she's not going to get as much as she wants- the body barely has time to start crumbling before Luna is dropping her weapon and grabbing hold of it, propping it upright as her now free hand scrambles to trap the escaping vapor in a small container. She only gets about half of it, but it'll have to do.
She lets the body drop to the ground and tucks the vial into robes that pool around her as she crouches down to inspect the corpse, her head tilting curiously. The dreg's own knife is picked up and used to cut away at pieces of armor, a docking cap pried off, the stump of one amputated arm prodded at.
"Luna." It's her Ghost. She's gotten used to tuning him out when she's occupied. It's a bad habit. "Luna." He sounds agitated, but if there's anything on her radar, she assumes it's one of the other Fallen patrols, which she is quite confident she is out of sight of, thank you Ghost. "Luna! Eyes up, Guardian!"
That has her attention and she gropes instinctively for her weapon, rising and turning on her toes as soon as she feels her fingers around the grip, ready and aimed down the sights whether it's friend or foe behind her now.