R/s App--Samples only
First Person Speaking Sample:
[a tall man in steel-colored body armor with yellow trim is currently very engaged with perusing the brochures at the information kiosk, a holographic version hovering at a comfortable height for him to read. after a moment, he waves a hand to dismiss the brochure, but underneath that helmet, he's blinking, unsure if someone is just pulling his leg or...]
[frowning, he starts looking around again at what's around him: the random buildings that shouldn't exist but do and outer space in every single direction.] This...can't be real. [in his heart, though, he has a feeling the brochure is telling the truth. it's all far too elaborate and thorough for it to be a lie, and the appearance of the shop on the Mother of Invention makes complete sense now (though he has a strong urge to report it to the Director anyway).]
[very quickly, duty supersedes any other curiosity he has--and anyway, he's satisfied the need for initial reconnaissance, so it's time to report in! he taps the side of his helmet, activating his long-range comms systems]
Come in, Command, this is Agent Washington. I seem to have...um... [he falters, unsure of how to go about explaining that he's suddenly on a plane of existence that is the meeting point for many universes without sounding like he's gone completely insane. so, he just settles for establishing contact and going from there] Command, do you read? [he pauses for a second, hoping for some reply, but only hears static. this doesn't please him, not one bit.] I repeat, Command, do you copy? [and again, he gets no answer. he grumbles under his breath]
[slowly] Okay...I'm going to assume everyone has gone to get a cup of coffee from the mess hall. Because we all know how great that stuff is. [he waits for a reaction to his sarcastic remark, but gets none]
What the hell?! [he lets go of the long-range comms button, his arm flopping to his side. his annoyance with those back home seem to have pushed everything else he read in the brochure completely out of his mind for the moment.] Someone should always be monitoring the comms! That's basic protocol. The Director is going to hear about this when I get back.
Third Person Writing Sample:
The score was even, tied four and four. They'd both gotten in some lucky shots, much to Wash's annoyance and surprise, but he also knew Maine was a good fighter. A damned good one, and if he let himself think about the bruises he'd no doubt have later thanks to their earlier hand-to-hand round, he'd be there for a while. But he couldn't spare a thought to his aching muscles and joints. Not right then.
Not when those damn paint pellets were whizzing right past him as he dodged and weaved his way to temporary safety behind a tall, rectangular pillar in the middle of the others in the training room. It was only a matter of seconds before Maine charged in after him. The man was taller and broader than Wash; Maine was built like a fucking tank but had the precision and maneuverability of one too, or it seemed so at times. Like his fellow agents, Wash took the time whenever he could to observe the training sessions going on. They not only allowed him to see how the agents did against each other, but helped him to anticipate what he might be up against when it came to be his turn out on the training floor. If there was an advantage to be had, one had to take it and run with it, and with the highly competitive atmosphere between his friends and colleagues, not taking one would be incredibly stupid.
Thankfully, he was anything but. If anything, he was getting very tired of getting hit by the damn paint. It hardened his armor when it struck, expanding and ballooning over the surface from a set blast radius--and it fucking stung. It certainly drove home the point that it was a live ammo proxy and if it had been real, the wound would be doing more than just stinging. He normally did his best to avoid getting shot, and he was usually pretty damn good at it. He must be feeling off; that was the only answer (or it should be, in his mind.) Getting called to a meeting with the internals had been unexpected. Made him wonder what serious violation he'd made since no one was called to the internals without a damn good reason, but as it turned out, he hadn't done anything wrong. They merely wanted to bring him into the fold about certain--
"Shit!" he exclaimed, just barely catching sight of Maine's fist as it cracked the pillar where his head had just been. He didn't stop to think why Maine hadn't just shot him as he backpedaled, quickly aiming his own pistol at the other agent as he retreated back around the same pillar. Unfortunately, his shots had gone wide thanks to his momentary surprise and near skull-crushing, but they were enough to make Maine duck out of the way--or so it seemed as he lost sight of him. But now he knew for sure where Maine was, and instead of giving into a full-retreat, Wash knew he had a few mere seconds to jump into offense-mode.
He quickly spun around and continued his sprint around that pillar, anticipating that Maine would be delayed long enough for him to come around from behind. From there, he figured Maine had two options: continue to follow his opponent or go around the other way and surprise him. Either way, Wash had speed on his side and decided to bank his chances on the latter plan of attack.
As it turned out, Maine was waiting right around that corner for him--but had been looking in the direction that Wash had fled. A small, victorious smirk grew on his face, though sadly hidden by his helmet, in the moment he realized he'd flanked the other agent. Time seemed to slow as Wash raised his pistol and fired off three shots--two to Maine's shoulder's and one to the helmet--and as Maine no doubt noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye and tried to spin out of the way. That split-second wait between the rounds leaving the gun and striking--or missing--their target was always the worst. Thankfully, Wash wasn't some hot-headed recruit. Each shot he made was in anticipation of Maine's movements since he knew he wouldn't go undetected for long, and he knew his training pistol inside and out by now, taking into account the trajectory of the rounds, how much spin it'd have compared to live ammo spitting out of the same muzzle, and many other factors that just crossed his mind naturally as it did with any other weapon.
Like he'd hoped--one, two, three--each round found their target, though one of the shoulder shots struck Maine's chest instead. The paint burst open on the other agent's white armor and instantly ballooned into a bright pink stiff foam, freezing him in place.
Wash let go of the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, put kept his pistol aimed at Maine just in case--but when F.I.L.S.S. began to speak, he knew it was over.
Lockdown Paint Scenario complete. Training session is now over. Final score: Maine, four points. Washington, five points. Winner is Washington. Now resetting the floor to default position...
As F.I.L.S.S. spoke, the pillars descended, taking their place once more in the floor, but Wash wasn't watching them. He panted lightly as he relaxed, his heart-rate elevated--though he supposed that it had been the entire time and he was just noticing it--but damn, it felt good to win. Granted...Maine probably wasn't too happy that he'd lost again, he thought as he watched the paint melt off the other agent's armor, but there'd be other training sessions in the future.
"Hey," he said, walking up to him. "Good job out there."
Maine shrugged and grunted in reply.
"Though man," he continued as Maine started to walk past him, "my ears are still ringing from the previous round." Amongst other things, he thought. "Definitely clocked me pretty well."
Maine, always a taciturn man, said nothing as they deposited their pistols on the nearest table and headed to the locker rooms. Wash was sure there was a dent on the side of his helmet now from their earlier encounter, and he specifically made a mental note about having the technicians check that out. Well...he was sure there were other dents and things--Maine and him weren't holding anything back in the hand-to-hand rounds--but if his helmet failed in the future, he could definitely be in some trouble.
But all thoughts of that went out of his head the moment he saw two datapads waiting for them on the bench with a tablet pen neatly lying across each datapad surface. They let out a collective moan, though Maine's was more of a growl.
"Damnit, not again..." He hung his head for a moment and sighed. "This is the third time in a row I've had to fill these things in! I thought the Counsellor spaced them out." His eyes flicked over to Maine, watching him pick up one of the datapads. Part of him had hoped that'd earn a word of shared commiseration, but heard nothing except for a soft grunt.
"At least they're not too bad to fill out. Just tedious and--ugh, that question's on there again." He was sure he didn't need to elaborate on which one he meant. Everyone complained about it. 'What would you have done differently?' Wash could go on for hours about what he might have done differently if he felt like it, but he didn't see the point in explaining it there. The lesson was learned immediately and he enacted them in each succeeding round.
He frowned, poking at the datapad that sat neatly in his lap, then resigned himself to filling it in. "But... I suppose there probably are a whole bunch of reasons why the Counsellor wants to know this and all the other information he gets from us. And of course, we have to fill them out or else the Director will get angry with us," he added for good measure. He didn't know if that was exactly true, but he didn't want to chance it, either. "At least they aren't tax forms. Why they insist on having us fill out paper copies I'll never know. The digital data keeps just as well and burns just as easily given the right circumstances. And anyway, paper's so expensive these days, it's--"
But what it was, he didn't get a chance to say. His sentence was cut off when Maine's datapad was dropped rather noisily on the bench next to him as he stood.
"Wait, you're already done?!" he asked incredulously, looking between Maine and reaching for his datapad.
"Nope," came the deep, grumbled response as the other agent headed for the door.
"But--but you can't just leave it here!" Wash practically jumped to his, both datapads in hand. "You have to fill it out! That's the protocol whenever we get one of these exit interviews!"
Unfortunately, his efforts to maintain protocol were completely ignored. He could have sworn he heard a "don't care" come Maine as he left the locker room, but Wash decided to just cut his losses and lightly dropped Maine's datapad on the bench. After all, he wasn't the one who lost. Maine was probably just being a sore loser, even if it was ridiculous to feel that way over one point's difference. It did sour the victory a bit--and Wash had wanted to ask Maine about that one move he pulled in the first round--but there'd be other training sessions. Certainly wouldn't be the last, that was for damn sure...