So they come out, and apparently their social security checks had bounced or something, because they are throwing a major tantrum. Flashes were everywhere as they sprayed gunfire down the street. Within seconds, a taxi is upside down with flames streaming out of its wheelwells, it’s driver a burning corpse tossed onto the sidewalk. At the same time, they smear this old bag in a wheelchair across two lanes. This all happens so fast that some geezer in his roadster can’t stop in time and slams into the taxi. He must have been going at least 40, too, because he flies through the windshield and spreads like peanut butter along 50 feet of asphalt. Yet another explosion rumbles from around the corner, where RocketMan is getting his rock(et)s off. I can’t see what happened, but I’m really starting to suspect that all of this extreme carnage and mayhem may not be accidental on the part of Team Villain.
Now, this obviously gets the hair on the back of my neck standing straight up. I mean, I’m all for old people dying hideous and gruesome deaths – after all, their time is up anyway, so they’d best just get on with it and “decrease the surplus population”. HA! There’s a reason I call my railgun Scrooge, you know! Anyway, it’s just that this indiscriminate violence tends to end the lives of beautiful young ladies who might otherwise have been impressed by my gentlemanly ways and decided to reward my valor by getting naked with me … ah, I’m getting off subject. Anyway, there were civilians screaming and running every which way … some of them were so terrified they acted like utter morons, running directly at the Villainettes. Terrorized mob mentality, so often good for laughs and chortles, is sometimes just a major pain in the ass.
I instantly sprang into manly action – I tore forward as fast as my JGR-19 JuggerGnat power armor suit could take me, and dived to the side to take cover in a stone doorway alcove. Last thing I needed this morning was to run a long straight beeline in full view of a cranky minitank. From this position, I had good sightlines back to the rest of my squad, protective cover from the minitank, and a good launching position for my next advancing break forward. Looking back, I could see my teammates ambling into position – Pickles broke left when I headed to the right, and advanced around to the front of a warehouse. From there he had a clear line-of-sight down Main Street, and could provide any covering fire needed. Brenda and Affleck followed in my wake, deeply breathing of my exhaust fumes and a near-lethal dose of the sexual pheromones which always, I presume, cascade off me in torrents.
Off in the distance, police sirens finally started to wail. At this rate, the police were going to show up just in time to sweep up the mess I was planning to make. Of course, since we’re not exactly “legal” they’re always just as likely to target us as they are the idiots who are blowing everything up, but it’s hard to stuff logic down their throats. The police work best when they don’t work at all.
Meanwhile, Team Vanilla were continuing their mindless rampage. The minitank paraded further down Main Street towards us, which baffles the imagination. Can you even conceive of driving a tuna can into combat against super sophisticated battle armor? Didn’t the Poles charge the German tanks on horseback? What a cretin this guy was. One thing’s for sure: raining shrapnel down on his ass would be doing him a favor. Another villain showed up on the scene – this one looks like the progeny of Darth Vader’s mom and an octopus. Octovader comes parading onto the scene, his flaccid tentacles whirling around. If it weren’t for the civilians who were getting pureed by the spinning arms, I’d have put money on this character being sent in as comic relief.
Civilians were continuing to freak the hell out, which really doesn’t help out the situation at all. One guy driving a bulldozer slams on the gas, and barrels straight ahead. Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal, but it turns out that there’s a construction worker in a robolifter right in front of him. Although I’m sure that the robolift operator was probably some cowardly dog, there’s at least a chance he might have hopped on the hero bandwagon and flattened some of Team Villain’s henchmen. This wasn’t going to happen after the bulldozer strike, though, what with the fire and the explosion and the sparks and the blood and the gore … this town seems to be inhabited solely by useless peons.
In order to get a bit closer to the morons busting up the town, I put a full sprint on and made my way across the street to cover in an office entrance alcove. On the way over, that dungheap minitank took a pot shot at my ass – it missed, as might be expected, but the shell careened past me to do a serious number on a gas station. All of the pumps went up in a huge fireball, spraying gas and flames everywhere. As one might expect, Brenda and Affleck refused to go anywhere near the blazing inferno. Pickles could have, but he decided to stay back and check out my rear – er, I mean, protect our flank. I sat there, bathing in the glow of post-detonative fallout, and began to maneuver for a straight shot on that little tank. Brenda, to her credit, did creep up to the very position I had just vacated moments ago. Good thing, too, in case I missed an important clue in that little hidey hole. Glad to see you’re always willing to play detective Brenda. Sheesh.
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