Board Thread:Role Plays/@comment-13488655-20161111105839/@comment-26104528-20170306062439

(I say we timeskip to tomorrow morning for Osiris and Co. But just so you guys don't feel too cheated, here's a one-shot piece/homage to one of my favorite pieces of Borderlands Fanfic)

After a brief, uneventful elevator ride, Fritz, Clayton, and Anemone found themselves at one of Eaglis's premier rooftop bars. Being a weekday, you'd expect the bar to be mostly empty or even closed.

An almost-truth; yes, the bar would have been devoid of a good chunk of its usual customer base but that did not mean it wasn't busy. As the trio walked in, they passed by a few members of the local mob who either gave only respectful nods or didn't respond at all.

Further into the bar, three girls wearing form-fitting clothing were sharing a bottle of ratafia while half-a-dozen figures all typed away on various devices with beer bottles sitting before them. On the outer deck, a quartet of bulkier individuals enjoyed the view of the city over glasses of whiskey or vodka. Only thier silhouettes could be seen against the lights though. Finally, pair of faunus were at the end of the bar, deeply inspecting thier glasses of Atlesian Dust Ale.

The cyborgs enjoyed a night of each other's war stories, but just as Fritz was about to tell the tale of his journey to a Plague Zone and how he won over what was once one of Vale's most notorious criminals, almost a dozen gangsters burst into the bar from both the roof and main door. Well-equipped and well-armed, anyone from Mistral would recognize these individuals as Ymir's Children, a gang composed of deserters from the Atlas Military and not to be trifled with.

So why no one in the establishment panicing was the question that was on everyone's minds. The squad's leader sauntered up towards the register and bartender to find out himself.

"Does no one here recognizes us!?" he shouted in his outlandish accent while gesturing with his weapon.

The bartender took a casual look around the room, shrugged, and replied "apparently." before turning around to get a rag to wipe down his bar. Offended by this insolence, the leader held his revolver even closer to the man, stopping him in his tracks.

"Then perhaps it's time I introduce myself..." he cocked the hammer "dynamically..."

"Look bud, if you just want money-" the bartender hit the "no sale" button, springing open the drawer. "-just take it. B'sides, this bar's in someone else's territory already."

Hundreds, fifties, twenties, the leader and two of his subordinates scanned through the drawer until-

ZAAP!! all of thier technology-enhanced gear had malfunctioned in some hilarious way. Smartguns ejected thier magazines, visors went completely blank, power armor locked up tight. The six laptop weilders all grinned cheekily as the light from thier screens revealed the Paiz-Heinkel logos emblazoned on thier polo shirts.

Two of the gangsters standing near the bar were simultaneously engulfed in flames and electrocuted by the two faunus who revealed dust casting gloves bearing the symbol of the Markby-Morrigant Excavation company. Plasma shots peppered the other three gangsters, shots from the bulky customers sitting outside. As they entered the bar, they were revealed to be wearing powered armor of thier own, built in the likeness of Roman Gladiators and with the insignia of Oceanus Heavy Industries on the shoulder pads, specifically thier Fleet Marine division.

The four on the other side of the room struggled to get thier equipment rebooted and ready, only to collectively be cut down by dust bullets and poisonous darts from two Leighly-Braun Assault Rifles and three Kachina Biotech Pneumatic Repeaters for thier troubles.

As for the leader and his entourage, the rightmost gangster got to taste Anemone's hook, the leftmost had been run through with a corrosive stilleto, and the leader got to experience both, almost simultaneously.

After a brief inspection of the scene, the bartender declared a round on the house for "judiscious marksmanship" before preparing two pitchers of his finest beer and setting them on the end.

As for the 4 gangsters who were sitting near the bar's entrance, they all slipped on latex gloves and started moving the bodies into the backroom for disposal. Thier leader couldn't help but grin at the sort of deal he was sitting on. A protection racket on a bar that you didn't need to protect; the customers did it for you and they did a damn good job of it.

With the excitement over, the Eliminators continued thier war stories, the Hackers went back to cyberspace, the Succubi went back to thier wine, the Marines went back to admiring the scenery, and the Dust Casters went back to thier tricks.