07-31-2017, 02:42 PM
Imperial Bounty Commission.
This highly-titled name was engraved on a golden plaque erected out front of a tower of steel and silvered glass, the inside workings remaining hidden to outsiders such as himself. Slipping out from the shadows not yet erased by the flickering lights set above the streets, he stalked towards the Imperial Offices.
The first hurdle to his arrival arrived almost immediately. The glass doors swung open easily enough, but what laid beyond proved a greater challenge. A circular hatch set into the wall, as pure white as everything else in the room remained closed, a soldier standing guard next to a set of glowing buttons placed into the wall. The guard had a distinctly different appearance from the Troopers that wandered the no-man’s land of the Nexus. Their skin was pale, pudgy, green eyes that would be called piggish were it not for the mirth that seemed out of place in such an environment. Hitchcock was emblazoned on the chestpiece, above the sizable gutplate.
"Welcome to the IBC, stranger," they spoke, subtly attempting to seem taller, stronger than they were a moment ago when they were leaning against the nearly featureless wall behind them. "I'm gonna have to ask you to leave all your various weapons and whatnot with me while you do your business inside, I'm afraid."
Vulre blinked from beneath his steel helmet. This was hardly unexpected, he supposed. Given the nature of this facility, it's hardly unexpected that they'd anticipate retribution from the criminal element. A series of presses upon the pad behind the trooper brought forth an empty rack, emerging from the previously seamless wall. The Hunter shrugged, unwrapping the chain binding the axe to his wrist, placing it inside the retreating receptacle, resolving to abandon it as he made his journey inwards.
“I said all of them, sir,” grinned Hitchcock, tapping a gauntleted finger to his eyes, the emerald orbs gently whirring as his bald, wrinkled face adjusted itself into a smile. “This room’s packed full of enough sensors to microwave dinner, and I’m linked into all of them.” He beamed boastfully for a moment, before noticing his over-large gutplate. “Err, not that I’ve ever done that, or anything,” he added somewhat shamefully.
Sighing heavily, Vulre began to unload the half-dozen blades strapped to his body. “At least you take your job seriously,” he stated, sliding a series of knives into the presented rack.
The doorman nodded vigorously. “Oh, yessir. I’ve been guarding the IBC since it got built. Almost given my life for it a few times, too. You’d be surprised how many right bastards try to slip a glass or bone knife past me,” he chuckled, tilting his head to one side and indicating a jagged scar that disturbed the rolls of fat along his neck. “Got this one when a Klingon thought he could eliminate the competition, as it were.”
There was a clatter as the final knife fell, signalling an end to Vulre’s disarmament. Nodding in satisfaction, a grin plastered across his wide face, Hitchcock allowed the air-tight portal to slide open, stale air and fluorescent lighting emanating from within.
Adjusting his hauberk and quieting and lingering fears of this new realm, Vulre stepped forwawrd.
He slipped between the blunted teeth of the great clockwork beast of bureaucracy, ever-ravenous.
This highly-titled name was engraved on a golden plaque erected out front of a tower of steel and silvered glass, the inside workings remaining hidden to outsiders such as himself. Slipping out from the shadows not yet erased by the flickering lights set above the streets, he stalked towards the Imperial Offices.
The first hurdle to his arrival arrived almost immediately. The glass doors swung open easily enough, but what laid beyond proved a greater challenge. A circular hatch set into the wall, as pure white as everything else in the room remained closed, a soldier standing guard next to a set of glowing buttons placed into the wall. The guard had a distinctly different appearance from the Troopers that wandered the no-man’s land of the Nexus. Their skin was pale, pudgy, green eyes that would be called piggish were it not for the mirth that seemed out of place in such an environment. Hitchcock was emblazoned on the chestpiece, above the sizable gutplate.
"Welcome to the IBC, stranger," they spoke, subtly attempting to seem taller, stronger than they were a moment ago when they were leaning against the nearly featureless wall behind them. "I'm gonna have to ask you to leave all your various weapons and whatnot with me while you do your business inside, I'm afraid."
Vulre blinked from beneath his steel helmet. This was hardly unexpected, he supposed. Given the nature of this facility, it's hardly unexpected that they'd anticipate retribution from the criminal element. A series of presses upon the pad behind the trooper brought forth an empty rack, emerging from the previously seamless wall. The Hunter shrugged, unwrapping the chain binding the axe to his wrist, placing it inside the retreating receptacle, resolving to abandon it as he made his journey inwards.
“I said all of them, sir,” grinned Hitchcock, tapping a gauntleted finger to his eyes, the emerald orbs gently whirring as his bald, wrinkled face adjusted itself into a smile. “This room’s packed full of enough sensors to microwave dinner, and I’m linked into all of them.” He beamed boastfully for a moment, before noticing his over-large gutplate. “Err, not that I’ve ever done that, or anything,” he added somewhat shamefully.
Sighing heavily, Vulre began to unload the half-dozen blades strapped to his body. “At least you take your job seriously,” he stated, sliding a series of knives into the presented rack.
The doorman nodded vigorously. “Oh, yessir. I’ve been guarding the IBC since it got built. Almost given my life for it a few times, too. You’d be surprised how many right bastards try to slip a glass or bone knife past me,” he chuckled, tilting his head to one side and indicating a jagged scar that disturbed the rolls of fat along his neck. “Got this one when a Klingon thought he could eliminate the competition, as it were.”
There was a clatter as the final knife fell, signalling an end to Vulre’s disarmament. Nodding in satisfaction, a grin plastered across his wide face, Hitchcock allowed the air-tight portal to slide open, stale air and fluorescent lighting emanating from within.
Adjusting his hauberk and quieting and lingering fears of this new realm, Vulre stepped forwawrd.
He slipped between the blunted teeth of the great clockwork beast of bureaucracy, ever-ravenous.
Torcher of tomes, slayer of sorcerers, taker of ears, and flayer of men. Reasonable rates.