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.
There it was. He pulled out the .38 from inside the wide-angle neck and looked at it. There was blood on it, right where it had laid open Bart's temple. Never mind that it should be sitting in a police filing cabinet until the end times rained down and Boston sank into the Atlantic. Then it would rust.
Was it loaded? Seemed likely. He found a piece of wall to stare down and found the cartridge release latch and thumbed it. The center swung sideways. A brass hexagon of eyes winked up at him. Yeah, it was loaded. He clicked the cartridge back in place and turned back to the other two.
"Neither should this. My roommate busted this out of our landlords car. He let the Mafia blew up our house, so I don't feel to broken up about it." That didn't explain why it was here beyond freaking him out, but that seemed like sufficient reason.
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 spark of suspicion he'd felt on seeing it was overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia even in spite of the blood. This wasn't just a weapon he was looking at, some interchangeable amalgamation of metal and fuel, this could easily have been part of his body a some point. It was his slagging tail, for Primus' sake.
He pried it out of the armor's grip. When he turned around S.T. was weilding a gun and Sword Guy was, predictably enough, admiring another sword. "Creepy, huh?" he commented. He whirled the harpoon in his hands for effect. "This used to be my tail. Don't ask me how they got it- the less I think about that, the better. Let's go."
With that, he made for the doors at the other side of the room, gripping the harpoon tightly in his hands. Between the tension and the adrenalin, whatever it was waiting for them in there was gonna be skewered if it so much as blinked at him funny. Depth Charge opened the door.
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.
There it was. He pulled out the .38 from inside the wide-angle neck and looked at it. There was blood on it, right where it had laid open Bart's temple. Never mind that it should be sitting in a police filing cabinet until the end times rained down and Boston sank into the Atlantic. Then it would rust.
Was it loaded? Seemed likely. He found a piece of wall to stare down and found the cartridge release latch and thumbed it. The center swung sideways. A brass hexagon of eyes winked up at him. Yeah, it was loaded. He clicked the cartridge back in place and turned back to the other two.
"Neither should this. My roommate busted this out of our landlords car. He let the Mafia blew up our house, so I don't feel to broken up about it." That didn't explain why it was here beyond freaking him out, but that seemed like sufficient reason.
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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 spark of suspicion he'd felt on seeing it was overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia even in spite of the blood. This wasn't just a weapon he was looking at, some interchangeable amalgamation of metal and fuel, this could easily have been part of his body a some point. It was his slagging tail, for Primus' sake.
He pried it out of the armor's grip. When he turned around S.T. was weilding a gun and Sword Guy was, predictably enough, admiring another sword. "Creepy, huh?" he commented. He whirled the harpoon in his hands for effect. "This used to be my tail. Don't ask me how they got it- the less I think about that, the better. Let's go."
With that, he made for the doors at the other side of the room, gripping the harpoon tightly in his hands. Between the tension and the adrenalin, whatever it was waiting for them in there was gonna be skewered if it so much as blinked at him funny. Depth Charge opened the door.
[to here]
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