They walked into an art-museum armor hall, minus the glass and the velvet ribbons.
One hulking video-game suit, minus the surprise hot chick, stood out, but Scott had that covered. He'd looked a little jumpy going in, and he didn't look much better now, but it was a grown-up kind of jumpy. The kind that said that sword meant bad news by the kilo-pica. It was a Japanese katana with a conversation heart for a hilt -- was he sure about that Canadian thing? Canada by way of Japanimation, maybe. Either way, he knew what the damn thing meant, and S.T. didn't.
Most of the armor was just old, and covered in dried blood. The streaks on one shield were longer, and S.T. snorted. Fake wood paneling, the kind that made a car into a sign of impending middle age better than a Baby On Board tag. Roscommon had never reproduced, but he'd ended up with one of the fucking things anyways. S.T. flipped up the visor and reached a hand in
( ... )
The room seemed almost too bright from the dim candleglow of the last hallway, but Depth Charge didn't bother to wait for his eyes to adjust before stalking straight towards the suits of armor where they waited, stern guardians presiding over the array of blood-darkened weapons. He passed under their watchful gaze as the other two stopped to admire the view, running his fingertips across the various hilts and holsters, sizing each one up as he walked.
Gotta be blasters here. Those'd work. But those aren't exactly good fo self-defense- you can blow a missile up, but if you miss you're a dead 'bot. Dodging and diving only works when you're not being attacked from all sides, and you can bet your bottom energon chip that they're gonna take every chance they can to kick my aft.He found he'd stopped right in front of the same suit of armor he had those few nights ago, the almost aquatic metal figure with dulled red eyes. In its metal grip, the harpoon waited. It still looked like it could have been a perfect replica, and this time the
( ... )
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One hulking video-game suit, minus the surprise hot chick, stood out, but Scott had that covered. He'd looked a little jumpy going in, and he didn't look much better now, but it was a grown-up kind of jumpy. The kind that said that sword meant bad news by the kilo-pica. It was a Japanese katana with a conversation heart for a hilt -- was he sure about that Canadian thing? Canada by way of Japanimation, maybe. Either way, he knew what the damn thing meant, and S.T. didn't.
Most of the armor was just old, and covered in dried blood. The streaks on one shield were longer, and S.T. snorted. Fake wood paneling, the kind that made a car into a sign of impending middle age better than a Baby On Board tag. Roscommon had never reproduced, but he'd ended up with one of the fucking things anyways. S.T. flipped up the visor and reached a hand in ( ... )
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Gotta be blasters here. Those'd work. But those aren't exactly good fo self-defense- you can blow a missile up, but if you miss you're a dead 'bot. Dodging and diving only works when you're not being attacked from all sides, and you can bet your bottom energon chip that they're gonna take every chance they can to kick my aft.He found he'd stopped right in front of the same suit of armor he had those few nights ago, the almost aquatic metal figure with dulled red eyes. In its metal grip, the harpoon waited. It still looked like it could have been a perfect replica, and this time the ( ... )
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