|
>>
|
06095b.jpg
Mystic Rain Soda
06095b
>>910271
>>910255
>>910238
>>910235
>>910203
>>910200
> 67+10
After a moment of quick thinking, you determine that your best course of action is probably to just hold still, powering down your various systems in as smooth a fashion as possible so that no whirring gizmo or pulsating pump can be mistaken for a vital sign. You have no idea if it will work, frankly, but you bank on the beast’s inexperience with artificial lifeforms to see you through.
As gambit’s go, it’s an excruciatingly slow one to wait out, the growl not seeming to die in your captor’s throat as it debates whether you need another couple of smashes to stay well and truly dead and then if it’s willing to waste what must be a dwindling supply of energy on them. Still, eventually it seems to reach a conclusion, the eyebot dropping from its slobbering mouth as it turns its head toward the breeze to consider other potential concerns: most notably, horns on the wind.
From your present vantage, it’s a little bit difficult to guess as to where exactly they’re coming from or in what kind of numbers, and so you switch over to Aria’s camera and- That’s a lot of raccoons!
Like a furry wave, they come on, all shapes and sizes of the woodland denizens moving with one mind and over a hundred, chittering voices as they storm the clearing from all sides. Some are mounted, some have weapons, and others come on with nothing but their paws and their fury, but combined they produce at least enough noise and confusion for you to fire off your jetpack one more time, eyebot in hand as you go sliding through the mud.
There’s nothing left for it at this point, no time for a cleverer plan, and so you just chuck the sucker as hard as you can, aiming the throw so that comes down on top of the beast’s back before giving the order. In that moment, a shockwave goes out, the eyebot evaporating in a plume of fire and shrapnel that takes the monster’s spine with it. Right down the middle, the back end of it flattens to the dirt at an unnatural angle as you look on with grim satisfaction.
Then, your allies are on it, swarming over it like a hill of ants. With knives, with hatchets, with teeth and claws, the bravest among them take its back in a wave, heedless of the fire or the radiation as the better equipped open fire on its flanks with everything they have.
Even then, riddled with shrapnel, doused in fire, blasted, bloodied, chopped, and broken, the bear doesn’t seem ready to stop. It gives a deafening roar of protest, shoulders shaking with enough force to dislodge a few of its attackers, but as its paws move up to rake off the rest of the insects daring to crawl on its back, a host of grapnels are thrown out from the riders that ensnare them, ropes snapping taught around tree trunks and the bear’s two remaining limbs, forcing them out so that the assault can continue, uninterrupted.
> What to do?
> [] Let them finish this. You’ve done enough.
> [] This thing will be a long time dying if you don’t do something to end its suffering. What?
> [] Other
|