[Guns/Tech/Blue Hair and now Story to go with it] What happens when I play Borderlands 2/ May Day

[Dartz]

Or what happens when Ford Sierra is found on her workshop floor, naked from the waist down, glistening with sweat while surrounded by five prototype firearms, a bunch of dismantled guns in various condition, half an engine block and an empty bottle of 'Rocket Fuel' Klatchian Coffee Liqueur

**Anarchy and Discord.
"Two sides of one tasty apple"

It's an assault rifle, apparently from the FAL family judging by the receiver. It fires 7.62mm bullets, standard NATO size and takes any compatible magazine. It comes with a green laser aiming module. At first, it was thought to be the most basic of the five guns. In tests it seemed to perform no different to the standard FAL, except for an electronic 2x8-segment LED display on the stock that increments as bullets are fired, rather than keeping track of the remainder in the clip. The counter resets to zero each time the weapon is reloaded prematurely

The only other external difference was the fire select. Instead of switching between 'semi' and 'full' automatic, it now only differentiates between 'Anarchy' and 'Discord', delineated by a Circle-A and a golden Apple. It has no 'safe' mode. The weapon is thus, always live when it is loaded.

In Anarchy mode, the counter resets to zero each time a non-empty magazine is ejected. The higher the count goes, the worse the weapon's effective accuracy becomes, but the faster the rounds are expelled from the barrel, and the faster the action cycles. When the counter maxxes at 99, each bullet is travelling at approximately Mach 5 when leaving the barrel, but this is accompanied by a wayward flightpath that would appall a 17th-century pistol owner, and empties the magazine inside a second.

In Discord mode, the weapon can be reloaded at any time, but will only fire semi-automatic single shots. The electronic counter on the stock will begin to tick down on a timer, starting as soon as the weapon mode is switched. The weapon will be perfectly straight-shot accurate, with the fired bullet landing on the green laser spot. This effect lasts until the counter reaches zero, or the weapon is switched back to Anarchy mode. When the counter reaches 00, the rifle will continue to function as a conventional FAL in semi-automatic with no bonuses.

**Gunzerker Twins.
"The chosen weapons of A-team!"

Originally a standard Plasma Pistol and Plasma Carbine.

Both weapons appear corroded and battered, with the Carbine missing parts of the foregrip, and the Plasma-Pistol's magazine and igniter workings being opened and exposed. Both are quite capable of taking any compatible ammunition for the type.

When fired on full-auto, neither weapon will run out of ammunition until the trigger is released. Remaining rounds fire and do damage as normal. Rounds fired beyond the amount actually left in the magazine will not harm whoever they hit - though they will feel like they've been shot, at least up until they realise they haven't. An otherwise 'lethal' hit to head or heart will temporarily knock someone unconscious. When using blank gel ammunition, all expended cartridges function like this.

They must be carried as a pair by one person. When separated, they will refuse to fire in full-auto. Both may always fire in semi-automatic mode as normal. Dual-wielding is especially cool.

Attempts have been made to replicate both for Survival Shot training use.

**Bad Touch.
"I can't help it, I'm just built that way".

Unknown 9mm sub-machine gun. Uses a unique rotary magazine type. May have been partly build out of a CGI Eezo prototype. It's heavy, being made mostly from machined metal with an unusual side-loading rotary magazine and combined power cell. Padding on the stock is a firm foam that is warm to the touch. Internally, it is somewhat similar to a boosted railgun, with the initial pyrotechnic charge of the ammunition being used to cycle the weapon's action and power coming from a cell in the magazine. Painted in a bright, shocking pink.

It has an extremely high rate of for for a handheld weapon, emptying a 60-round magazine in under a second.

Vibrates. Vibrates a lot. It is truly a very enjoyable gun to use for some. Shooting a magazine is definitely an arousing thing to do... only one compatible magazine exists. Attempts to replicate it and its powersupply have failed. Reloads are, therefore, a slow, tedious and frustrating affair.

Also. Bullets exit the barrel aflame with burning passion. They continue to burn until they strike their target. There is a 10% chance that the target will be set on fire if they are made of a flammable material and are in an atmosphere that supports combustion. Elemental effects are fun, aren't they?

**Shock and Awesome
"Affecting will, perception and Understanding"

Driver-Coil-Compensated semi-automatic Sniper Rifle, similar to the Long-Lance custom order types. Fires 20x100mm Vulcan practice rounds that release an electromagnetic pulse on impact with the target, capable of damaging systems vulnerable to EMP such as sensors and computers. It appears that this is some sort of static electricity effect between the barrel and the bullet.

The weapon is capable of firing all 20x100mm rounds, but the electroshock effect will only work with the otherwise inert blue-tip practice rounds. Otherwise, it functions exactly the same as the base rifle, with the same compensation effects, accuracy rates and quirks.

It's painted a deep, electric blue and makes a sound that has been described as 'Liquid Blue Electric Death' when being fired, a long blue streak joining the shooter to the target momentarily.

Accompanying the weapon is a broken smartgun system built into the optics with a Delta-level intelligence named Exkay Seedy. Exkay teases the user in a high-pitched voice when they miss, miss repeatedly, when they reload, and when they hit by reminding them that the person they just shot had loved ones and a family. It uses interwave access and facial recognition tools to pull up details from the target's social networking profiles. It cannot be turned off.

---------------

2 of them are straight ripoffs. As for who finally ends up owning them... well.... that depends.
________________________________
--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?

[HRogge]

"I think I still remember parts of the one over there... we tried to combine Frigga's love for railguns with our Mass Effect boosters... but we couldn't prevent the barrel from overheating, so we dropped the project. I like the purring sound it makes when you fire it!"

[robkelk]

Or what happens when Ford Sierra is found on her workshop floor, naked from the waist down, glistening with sweat while surrounded by five prototype firearms, a bunch of dismantled guns in various condition, half an engine block and an empty bottle of 'Rocket Fuel' Klatchian Coffee Liqueur

Y'know, writing up the story pf how this came about would be a lot more interesting than just those dry stats are...
--
Rob Kelk
"Governments have no right to question the loyalty of those who oppose
them. Adversaries remain citizens of the same state, common subjects of
the same sovereign, servants of the same law."

- Michael Ignatieff, addressing Stanford University in 2012

[Dartz]

I will.... eventually. It's just something that defied being canned. There's a genesis of something there but..... there's a bunch of other half-attempted story fragments out there. I might try to to pull them together.
________________________________
--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?

[Dartz]

Damn you. Look what you made me do. When I need to be awake in the morning for work. And now I have three open stories.

A little on the adult edge than is usual for Fenspace.

There was nothing more tedious than a hundred identical AR-clones needing to be test fired and cleaned before packaging. Each one had to be tested for accuracy and safety, with performance results being logged back into the assembler so it could self-correct. It was a level of industrial process control that lived far beyond her own ability to understand, even with the manual in front of her.

For the first time in her life, Ford found herself quietly regretting the decision to drop out of high school a year early.

The Machine, as it was only ever known, was the size of a small garage with the majority of its working mechanisms hidden behind lockable white maintenance panels. It took in rolls carbotanium sheets, pre-built trigger assemblies and barrel-blanks through one end, chewed on it a bit, pushed it all through an electric curing over to set the carbon, assembled it using the most dextrous mechanical fingers Ford as ever seen in her life, then spat out a fully assembled and functional rifle into a waiting container.

It could make a hundred rifles in a day, and do that for as long as she needed to make them.

Each one, Ford calculated, cost her about a hundred and fifty credits in materials and equipment, ten credits in maintenance to the machine, eight credits in power and energy, thirty-nine on a case, forty-three on a cleaning kit, a straight hundred for the smartgun system and another thirty-two credits of her time testing it and certifying it as safe and accurate before shipping to the customer at their expense.

She charged nearly fifteen hundred credits for each rifle, in its case, with an additional cleaning kit, instruction manual and owners certificates. And that was cheap for an AR-clone, especially a carbon-based one with smartgun assistance.

And when it wasn't making AR-clones, it was making the basic Plasma pistol and Carbine frames, before hand finishing by herself to the customer's spec. She still had nearly a hundred Long-Lance rifle and Caster Gun pistol frames in storage, waiting for the final go-ahead. The phrase 'mining credits' came to mind. If only she ever received enough orders to actually run the machine for more than an day ever few months.

Finishing another weapon, number thirty-two in the run, she finally decided to start taking applications for an assistant. The interest when she'd first started had been… minimal.

More time to focus on fun projects, research, development and putting together a more standardised tender package. Less time spend doing the boring work.

Ford sighed, beginning the process of dismantling the rifle for a final cleaning before packaging. Even with the direct-impingement action of the prototype replaced by a modified gas-piston, it still needed care and attention. And customers expected a 'new' gun, without fouling or staining from powder.

With the rifle cleaned, it was packed away in foam along with its expected accessories, and a target sheet signed by her, testifying to its accuracy. The finished box was added to a growing stack in the opposite corner of her workshop.

Ford gave a tired sigh, taking a mouthful from a bottle of water while wishing she had something with a little more knives in it to relax with. There were another sixty-eight to go. And her workbench, in between a disorganised mass of tools and spare-parts, were the custom projects she'd been working on along with maintenance requirements for Survival Shot, a few old-model exocomps that'd got belly up and parts of a 1967 GT500 engine that belonged to a car she gave serious consideration to respraying from it's stock colour.

"Time for a damn break," she said to herself. Something strong was required.

Hidden in a tool cupboard, behind an unused and still-sealed rotary tool was a bottle of something special. Klaatchian coffee liqueur was just the thing. Energising, releasing, and one glass would dissipate inside an hour, leaving her mind refreshed and buzzed. It was only dangerous stuff if you weren't careful…

She mixed it down with water and a little sugar so the alcohol wouldn't scald her pallat, inhaling the warm scent of roast coffee mixed with toffee spices and herbs, before taking one warming sip. Ford allowed the flavour to warm her mouth, before swallowing, allowing the finish of the flavour to remain on her breath.

It satisfied her right to the core.

Another mouthful chased it, followed by a third, until the glass was empty.

The handgun on her workbench caught her eye, piquing her curiosity. It was nothing more than the standard plasma pistol, unfinished and missing the igniter. But she was compelled to stare at it, wondering just what looked so out of place.

It wasn't the beans, she told herself. It was almost too soon. Chances were, she forgot to refit a part when she last worked on it. But for the life of her she couldn't tell what it was. Taken a frustrated breath, she stared at it, willing the solution to jump out at her. It took an age, her mind racing through possibilities, accelerating until it gained unstoppable momentum.

"Yes!" she annouced, spotting what had been missing at last. It was something that had never been fitted to the pistol, and normally never would be fitted to the pistol, but now seemed just perfect. It was an absolute necessity, and it'd just take a few minutes…. plenty of time before the liqueur took a grip on her mind and pulled her into the madness place.

A part of her screamed, realising what was happening to her mind but it was already too late. It was swallowed by the rush.

The Machine continued to churn out rifles, as the beans began to take hold.

------------

"Rally!"

A shrill voice drilled deep into her skull, dragging her up out of the depths of sleep.

"Rally, wake up!"

Warm hands tugged at her shoulder, jostling her body. Ford tried to turn over, away from the voice and the jackhammer headache pouding between her ears. The smell of concrete, gunsmoke and lubricating oil mingled with her own sweat and a sweet lavender perfume that tingled the inside of her nostrils.

"Wake up Rally!"

They were getting annoyed. They were calling her that name she hated. Ford's eyes shot open.

Anika. In lingerie. Anika, in very racy lingerie. Inspite of the headache, Ford generally could've recall any time she'd seen Anika wear a black-lace teddy, or lacy, knee-high stockings, or anything that could remotely be described as sexy.

Her aching mind ground on the idea, noting first that while this girl was about the right size, her hair was fair too blonde. The girl's eyes were wider, and much too blue. Anika's, the last she'd seen, were more of a golden colour. All of this churned out and coalesced into one stunned exclamation

"Who the fuck are you?!"

Ford was upright, adrenaline clearing the fog in her mind fast.

The girl shrunk back from her, a hurt expression on her face as if she'd been betrayed by her closest friend.

"It's me Rally. Minnie May…." she said, her eyes starting to moisten.

Minnie gave her a sparkling grin. Ford felt sick, and wasn't sure if it was the echo of all the alcohol, or the realisation that she'd just done something incredibly dumb because of it. The explanation she was looking for was amongst the detritus on the floor. And empty bottle of RD-75 Rocket Fuel, resting beside an equally empty tin cup. She scanned the room, realising that she had been sleeping on the floor of her own workshop, in a centre of an explosion of gunparts and what looked like a half-dissasembled 424 engine. She was able to pick out at least five whole weapons in the mess - a FAL from Survival Shot's collection, a plasma pistol and carbine that looked the worse for decades of wear, a Long-Lance painted in a lurid electric blue, and a mysterious pink metal object that looked suspiciously like some form of sub-machine gun.

A chill crawled up her spine, and she began to become are of her bra pressing down on her chest harder than usual. Ford pondered a moment, watched by a concerned May. Gradually, she became more and more aware of her body, and the messages it was giving her. Cold sweat prickled across her skin.

"Did we?"

Ford didn't want to know.

An impish grin peeled across her May's lips. "Well, you needed a little help to cool down after the last prototype went a little funny…" A giddy shudder thrilled through her body as she drew her own legs close and hugged herself. "I normally prefer men, but I'm a professional. And you were so far gone that you would've had a heart attack if I didn't…"

Ford gaped, her bare toes curling up. Metal scratched on the concrete floor - at least her leg was still attached.. Her clothes were thrown across the workbench, trousers pooled in a heap by the open door of her Shelby. It'd been turned around, obvously after being driven somewhere - and hadn't been very carefully parked.

At least the shutter door had been closed, she could be thankful of that.

Using her natural arm, she pulled herself up onto shaking legs, still feeling nauseous, still with a pumping headache that threatened to burst her brains out of her ears. May shuffled to her feet, revealing herself to be exactly the same height as Anika - aside from the big mass of blonde hair on her head.

That explained where she'd come from. There was a stock of spare parts set aside for Anika and Shinj, including two whole bodies in case the worst happened.

Ford swallowed another deep breath of air, struggling to clear her head. She pressed her artifical hand against the side of her skull, and suddenly became aware that that something felt off with it. She held it in front of her face, not needing a degree in cybernetic mechatronics to see the problem.

Three of her fingers were hanging limp, refusing to respond. An access panel on her forearm had been removed, and the servos behind it taken out, leaving the tendon-ends dangling loose. She scanned the room once more, equal parts amazed and horrified at the chaos, then looked at May still standing there in her lingerie with an expectant look on her face.

"What happened?"

Ford wasn't sure she wanted to know, but knew she had to ask.

"You needed an assistant, to finish those AR's while you worked on the specials, so I was the result," she grinned cheerfully, nodding in the direction of a stack of rifle boxes sitting beside the Machine.

A hundred of them waited there, ready and labelled for shipping.

Her headache began to pound, deeper and deeper. She ground her knuckles against her temples, hoping to force the headache away, or force herself to wake up and discover it for the nightmare she thought it was.

"Damn you Sonoda," she snarled under her breath.

-------

The GT's engine burbled along, effortlessly propelling them through darkened tunnels. Ford made a point to skirt around the inhabited parts of Frigga, avoiding the worst of the newcomers and their prying eyes. At least they were dressed, even if May had taken a miniskirt that was just that bit too short.

"I was born Misty Carlson. I call myself Ford Sierra because there was a time when my real name could've gotten my mom in trouble. You can call me either. Just don't call me that."

"What? Rally?" teased May.

Ford glared. If she could've ignited May on the seat right there with her gaze, she would've, to hell with the damage to the restored upholstery.

"You're a bounty-hunting half-Indian lesbian with a fetish for firearms and hot metal. Face it, you're Rally Vincent in all the ways that matter." Minnie explained herself calmly. "I mean, why else would you think of me, when you thought about hiring an assistant?"

Ford took another calming breath, allowing her anger to cool off. "Rally Vincent has been the bane of my existence. I nearly didn't buy this car because of her and what Sonoda did with that comic."

"What?"

"It's got a strong lead. Good action. Great attention to detail. But it's also a total creep-fest… it's just one man's fetishes on paper." She couldn't help but shudder. It didn't help that the fictional Kerasin was insideously close to what Thionite was actually used for… Ford had helped bring in more than one Goldie.

"People in glass houses," mused May out loud.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

May's eyes narrowed, her smile turning thin and cat-like. "I know someone who's so horny for cars they fell in love with a combat cyborg with a curvacious steel body because she was like a walking automobile."

"Shut up May," Ford growled, feeling her cheeks begin to warm and her stomach go tense.

"I know she gets off on the vibrations travelling through her partners body from the buffing wheel as she polishes her partners breasts, and can't even smell turtlewax anymore without getting a tingle in her pants." An alto giggle rose up the girl's throat, mocking her.

"Shut up May," Ford snarled, forcing herself to glare at the tunnel ahead.

"Oh, and how she sometimes gets hot when testing things on the range, and has to sleep with a loaded gun under he pillow."

"That's a handwavium quirk!" Ford snapped at her, red faced. The car jerked as she accidentally swerved at the wheel, pulling it across the tunnel before she corrected it with a curse. "And how'd you find all this out anyway?"

"You're a talkative drunk," May giggled, being entirely too pleased with herself. "Complaining about how you were stressed, and couldn't get off because your partner was on another planet and the puppet she left behind was just a lifeless doll…"

Ford slumped forwards over the steering wheel. "This is a nightmare. This is hell. I've died and fallen into a Sonoda comic…"

"Isn't it great!" May enthused.

"For freakos," Ford answered sourly.

"And you still didn't answer my real question,"

"Which was?"

"If you hate Rally, why do you live like her?"

And that was the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Ford settled herself back into the driver's seat, taking a moment to let her anger drift away.

"Because I wanted to live like this before I know what a Rally Vincent was…" she answered, forcing her voice to calm down. "This is who I want to be. And I don't want to let a fictional character prevent me from being who I want to be."

May went quiet, looking down at the floor of the car. She sighed heavily, throwing her head back over the seat-rest to look at the ceiling.

"But you're so like her…"

Ford focused on the road, mulling it over in her mind whether she should bother to tell the story or not. Ultimately, she concluded that it wouldn't do any harm.

"My aunt Irene owned a gun shop. She looked a lot like me. She owned a car just like this one. She taught me a lot about being my own person and doing the things I loved, rather than what people expected of me." She paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. "And when the great city of Chicago and State of Illinois cut a large chunk of her business out with new gun-control regulations in the late eighties, she got clever and hooked up with a Japanese tour operator, selling the chance to shoot the real thing to Japanese tourists." A thin smile crept across her lips. "One of them, was a well known comic author."

"So…" began May, her eyes widening.

"I think, rather than being the same person, we might be inspired by the same person," Ford concluded.

May nodded, before fidgeting with her seatbelt. For the time being, that seemed to shut her up and that was all Ford wanted. For the rest of the journey, May said nothing, save for humming a breezy tune when they passed through a chamber that had once been the Motorcon car-park.

It took a half hour for the pair to reach their destination, Ford bringing the Mustang to a halt outside what was normally called Jet's Shed and what had once been the main power planet engineer's office.

"This is where I woke up," said May, recognising the numbers on the door.

"I just have to check something," Ford answered, quickly, shutting the car down.

She got out, leaving the door open as she hurried around the back of the car. Ford knew the combination to the outer door off by heart. It opened to a long, gloomy passage, lined with cable conduits and low-level lighting. The air inside was thick and humid from a forever-unfixed steam-leak into the ventilation.

It drew the sweat out of her body as she jogged along, May following behind her.

"What's the hurry?" the android wondered aloud. "You know what I am"

Ford didn't say anything. What she was afraid of, was that she'd broken something irreplaceable while fumbling drunkenly around with it all. It could be a death sentence for any one of the three if a critical piece of machinery was damaged.

Ford had to know. The inner door was key-locked. She had the spare. It opened with a squeak of protest, allowing her into a cool, darkened room that smelled vaguely of machine oil, cherries and ozone. One whole wall was given over to an old map of Frigga's power grid, lightbulbs that indicated switch status providing dim illumantion. Green backlights glowed behind power guages, while through the far windows, she could look down into the shadows of the turbine hall and the machinery that powered the astoroid.

The steel floor trembled with power.

Stray sparks of light glinted off a wall lined with spare parts, while machinery hung from the ceiling in the circle around a central workbay that might've come from God's know were. Jet's private desk was pressed against the far wall, illuminated by the blue glow of a 3D monitor standby light.

It all seemed well.

A single switch lit the room up, painfully bright to her eyes for a moment. She held her breath, scanning around. It was cleaner than she expected. It was much worse than she could possibly have imagined.

Two spaces had been set aside for two spare bodies. One a defective prototype that was used for parts testing. One an unwaved backup, in case Anika or Shinji were seriously injured.

"Wow," whistled May, beside her.

There was a good chance that she was the backup. That left one question on Ford's lips.

"Where's the other one?"

________________________________
--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?

[HRogge]

And so the android making on Frigga continues...

[Dartz]

Not really.

Shinji was intentional. May and _______ are leftovers from the process of getting it right. Lun was the traditional accident. That's, at most, four. Hardly a running habit....

This was originally part of another story.

--------

"PuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuru!"

She soared along the corridor, cool supporting her wing-spread arms, carressing her naked body. She could feel the humm of the power hiding behind the walls, fizzing and buzzing through her body. Overhead lights buzzed at her as she banked herself around a junction, following the noise. People stared as she passed, alarmed at the sight of a naked child bird-running through the corridor. She didn't care.

It was fun!

She passed robots hanging in the air, each onefizzing with energy. Sparks swirled around her, waves of energy radiation out from the blocky hover-bots. She could see the patterns change and warp and flow as they took interest in her. Butterflies danced around her, the patterns on their wings warping and shifting as they fluttered. They rolled through the entire spectrum, tracing out symetrical snowflake patterns. Part of her noticed each pattern came in powers of two.

Energy radiated from an antenna mounted to the wall, butterflies brushing against her skin and tickling her stomache. She felt them brush over her mind itself along with the idea that she needed to travel left along with them.

Left.

The butterflies drifted through her mind, guiding her down a new corridor. She banked left, dodging a speeding motorcycle. It crackled like lightning, sparks shooting through her veins as the enging thrummed past. The sensation tickled inside...

"PuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuru!"

This was freedom. This was flight. Cold concrete chilled at bare feet. She felt herself grown warm inside inspite of it, her mind slowing even as her feet picked up pace. The chaotic noise behind the walls changed pitch to a high, warbling squeal; chirping, wheeting and whispering in her ears in voices that spoke in tones beyond her comprehension. She strained herself to hear them, her mind tuning in to the words.

"naked child running through the accomodation block...." The woman in her mind sounded almost amused

"Level D, section 31. Level D, section 31." She repeated the words to herself. "....Female. Blonde, blue eyes! That's her!" she announced to those watching, the sparks in her mind piping output to her mouth. "Eyes, ears, echo..."

That was her! The voices were speaking about her. They were chasing her.

"...after her..." hissed through her thoughts before fading away into the distance behind her.

"PuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuru!"

She giggled with bubbling mischief, running harder. The excitement of being chased tingled through her bones. She thought she could hear music running in the back of her mind, a tune with a pulsing, driving beat that she couldn't hope to recognise. She was a barefoot Speed King

The tone of the noises behind the walls changed, getting sharper and more hurried. It got louder, faster - screaming and whistling rather than chattering and chirping. More of the fizzing, tingling hoverbots were following her - one hanging a few metres behind her.

An open door allowed her to duck into someone's apartment to hide. She found clothes inside, waiting in a laundery basket. Loose fitting frilled-shorts and a purple blouse were the only things that would even get close to fitting her small frame. She heard the door open

"Hey You!"

The owner was tall, apparently Japanese and dressed in a sailor suit. Sweat slicked her chestnut hair down to her brow, furrowed in anger.

"PuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuru!" She giggled, running for the door. "I need these now!" And that made it A-ok. She felt grasping fingers brush against her body momentarily, but slipping from the grip of an adult was childs play. For a moment, she thought the woman would just run after her - but no - she ran free. She felt the attention of the hoverbots brush over her, colours washing over he vision. She caught drafts of sweet perfume drifting around her in time to the light flickering around the edges of her vision. It smelled like pink, then green, then the lights turned a funny shade of rose followed moments later by freshly cut grass, chased by the crackling pink ozone of a beam-saber. Hot metal glowed as more voices sparked in her ears.

"...Stole my nightshirt...!" she announced. "Same girl! Girl grabbing garments gayly going"

She was aware of something coming at her from a crossing pssageway, sparks in her veins growing stronger as it approached. A green off-roader roared by, lightning firing in her body in time with the roar of its engine, waves of colour and sound and energy following behind it as it dissapearred off into an unlit tunnel. Red lights receeded into the distance. They blazed bright a moment as the beast-machine squealed to a hault.

Spotted me, she realised with a thrill.

She popped a ventilation grill and slipped inside, pulling it shut behind her. Cables fizzed above her head, the hum deepening as she got closer. A squal of noise rolled through her as she reached out for them, energy racing through her arms. Ideas and images flashed through her mind, a garble of information washing over her. She saw machinery roaring, turbines playing heavy metal as they spun in time with a woman yelling at someone named 'May' while a kaleidoscope danced in her eyes.

Stunned, she covered her hands with her mouth, aware of feet beyond the vent-grill running towards here. They marched in time to the beat of the music as she slipped back into. Sparks of light danced off the walls, the scent rasberries mingling with dry dust that prarched her throat.

She screamed and kicked out out the fingers drawing across her back. Seized by panic, she scrambled forward, knocking a dusk-skinned woman out of her way as she burst out through the grill. She heard her swear behind her as she jumped up into the driver's seat of the still-running off-roader. She needed it - it was her escape. It thrummed with power. A makerplate on the dashboard identified it as a Ford Racing Warthog. She floored the accelerator.

The engine bellowed, out-matching the parking brake. A warning alarm wheeted at her, remind her to take it off a moment later.

In the mirror, she could see the woman give weak chase before removing some sort of communicator from her pocket.

"PuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuru!" she laughed as she roared off down the tunnel. A map on the centre console told her where she was. The base was named 77 Frigga. She was in the accomodation block. Level Seven.Sector G. A route had been plotted down to the landing bay already. The voices in her mind came through clear and crisp, pulsing in tune to something mounted to the roll-bar. She could feel it even above the haze of energy sparking off the engine.

"She just stole my damn Warthog. She's running to the mainshaft. That'll take her straight to the landing bay. Is she related to Minnie? Where did they come from? Where's she going? She wasn't on any fucking transport? Who is she? I'm Elpeo Ple. Is she the same one who stole those clothes? Matches the description. Subscription. Conscription" She spun at the wheel following the route on the map. Tyres squealed, leaving ffour black arcs on the concrete floor. "I've got the motorcon transponder - It just turned left onto 7-G." One of the crashbars skimmed the wall, dislodging slabs of concrete from the steel substructure.

Computers whistled somewhere beneath her, generating noise synchronised with the displays on the dashboard. She could feel its tune and tone change along with the information on the screens. It wasn't hard for her mind to work out that some of what she was experiencing might be the result of the technology around her... she could sense the machinery itself.

"I'll chase her but I'm coming from the dome. The Crown Vic shit itself, I'm out of this. She's doing over 160. Let everyone know we've got a thief on the run. Where the hell does she think she can get to - I've locked the main door."

They were different people. Men, women. She recognised one or two voices - the dark haired woman especially. The others were a mystery. One of them sounded like her. She felt herself giggle again, riding a joyous electric thrill as the engine brap-brap-brapped against its limiter. This was so much fun! She'd race to the landing bay and make her escape like they were saying she couldn't.

The Warthog skidded to a halt on a massive elevator carriage. A dark shaft stretched far above her into the distance, a cold breeze whistling through.

"I've locked the lift. She can't go down. We've got her trapped. No you don't!"

She giggled again, clambering over a railing grasping hold of a cold, rusting ladder. She felt herself grow extraordinarily light as she swung out over a bottomless pit lit by sharp flashed of multicoloured lights. Cold snowflakes and golden butterflies drifted past her, swirling on the breeze carrying whispered voices fading away into the distance as she got further and further from the still running.

As she descended into the darkness, there was only the ever-present humm of power and the stillness of her own thoughts.

The magnitude of the silence was amazing. Even the humm receded away until she was left with just the noise of her own body. She felt herself fizz and whirr as she moved, the same computer noise whistling in her ears she she climbed. So - she was a computer too then. The idea made her giggle to herself.

She moved by feel alone, passing by dim lights every few hundred metres. She yelped when her foot found the rung she'd expected to find missing, a momentary thrill of fear seizing old.

She felt herself hanging in mid air, aware off the feeling of zero gravity taking hold. She waited to fall, quietly amazed at gravity's refusal to grab at her. She glided on her outstretched arms, spiralling down through the darkness.

"PuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuru!" she called out, hearing her voice ring back off rock walls. "PuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuruPuru!"

It was like the call of some golden eagle, circling high above her. She swooped through the air, gliding in a way she knew was impossible. She tumbled in the air, spiralling herself down. She tried to pull up and loop - but succeeded only in bouncing of a half-rusted metal rail thick enough for her to crawl inside if she felt she had to. It stank of old grease and ozone.

A column of fireflies rolled around it, a hard electric fizz rushing through her body as they pulsed past. She could feel the power crackle through her, lighting her veins, nerves and muscles, seizing hold of her mind. She felt herself paralysed, overcome by the momentary electric shock as the fireflies swarmed, pulsing in time with the ever-present humm. Waves of light washed over her, followed the the scent of strawberries, steel.

She was aware of something big moving down from above, a draft of air blowing her down the shaft. She flipped herself over in time to see the carriage above approaching, rumbling and roaring in the tunnel. Butterflies warred with fireflies as one of the bots fizzed past, speeding up the shaft.

Light was rising from below and she felt herself begin to panic. She knew she'd be crushed to nothing.

She felt herself scream as the left carriage crashed into her, her whole body bracing for the final crush. She knew she'd feel herself burst in excrutiating detail right before the end. She wondered if maybe, now that she was some sort of machine, she'd survive. She felt the world slow down around her as the light moved up to envolope, her mind going hot, her breath parching her throat. The whisper of her own electronics in her ear turned to a squal of panic as the light. She opened her mouth to scream... Mercifully, she blacked out before the final crush.

She came too what felt like a heartbeat later, surrounded by darkness with footsteps above her head.

-------

"This sucks," snarled Ford, traipsing back down to where she could get another vehicle.

"At least you found her," May teased.

Some days you get the bear....

-------

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[HRogge]

This one is downright STRANGE... not sure what to think about it, maybe the next chapter will clear this up.

[Dartz]

Elpeo Ple is a bit... weird. She's partly unshielded, so all her internal cabling is acting as an antenna, interacting with various electromagnetic fields in funny ways while her mind tries to interpret them. That includes radio transmissions, wifi signals and whatever's going through the powerlines.

Elpeo predates Shinji. The body was found to be faulty when it was placed in a hardware test mode before being waved - so it was shelved and put aside as a dummy. Minnie May was the spare set aside incase Shinji or Anika get really messed up. There's also enough spare parts set aside to rebuild both of them near from scratch if needed - which is both good practice when one is a Security Officer and the other an occasional hardsuit-wearing vigilante, and there were minimum order amounts on most of the parts required anyway.
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[Duane Peters]

So I take it "The 'Wave can't be used to make weapons," has been retconned?

[HRogge]

So I take it "The 'Wave can't be used to make weapons," has been retconned?

I think it was always "you cannot just wave a whole weapon and get something lethal"... you have to wave parts and even then you often get quirks. So you need to know what you are doing to sidestep the "no weapon" rule.

[robkelk]

You have to work at it, and some parts (specifically, the ones that can be dangerous on their own) don't 'wave up very well at all.
--
Rob Kelk
"Governments have no right to question the loyalty of those who oppose
them. Adversaries remain citizens of the same state, common subjects of
the same sovereign, servants of the same law."

- Michael Ignatieff, addressing Stanford University in 2012

[Dartz]

And that's exactly why the Gunzerker's extra rounds don't do much more than stun the target. There's no real substance to them whatsoever. They're waveshots.

You can't make rayguns out of wholecloth, but you can use it to bridge the gaps between real physical principals and wavetech, or deal with secondary effects, or enhance some materials properties. Both plasma carbines rely on a fusion reaction to trigger the rapid plasmafication and rapid expansion of a beryllium aerogel slug to accelerate a bullet. The only waving is the fusion trigger, which is a piece off a fusion torch. Everything else is based on known principals and technology.

The drive-coil compensator does nothing to the projectile beyond make its trail through the air glow a bit 'somehow'. Without the compensator, the rifle will still function happily. It'll also break the shoulder of the shooter. All the compensator does is manage the recoil by changing the effective inertial mass of the rifle.

The Borderlands guns are just conventional weapons with added 'weird' from being more carelessly worked along with blue-haired inspiration, and probably derive from the above principals in some ways.

Never mind that it is possible to build perfectly cromulent weapons without waving a thing. But generally, the better you're able to describe the physical operating principals of a thing, the less handwaving it needs.
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