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No.29428
Вы – слишком глупая! Глупица! Ваша глупость неглаженым полюсом проявляется на ваших щёчьках! И верными стрелочками силовых линий уходит в противоположный полюс необлизанных пяточек! С-страшно даже подумать об этом! Но я всё-таки отвечу, частично, и всё-таки здесь! Ничего не спрашивайте, я ничего не объясню, даже если спросите!
https://play.aidungeon.com В режиме гостевухи тоже можно!
Задача!
Vakka sat a table near the starboard wall. To his left on the wall was a screen, showing the cosmos outside. The screen was spatial, and the image looked as real. He was having a meal and at the same time kept several tables around him within the circle of his awareness. A post-human agent, Vakka thought, in a shaggy canteen of a sub-light ship was darkly gross.
Ответ!
The harsh fluorescent lighting flickered across the grimy canteen walls as Vakka's eyes darted between his food and the potential threats surrounding him. A group of dock workers near the port side wall had been shooting suspicious glances in his direction for the past twenty minutes, their conversations growing more animated with every passing moment. The way they kept shifting their weight and adjusting their stances suggested they were preparing for something - or waiting for someone to give them the signal to act.
Vakka lifted his fork slowly, keeping the metal utensil pointed downward in a practiced motion designed to avoid drawing attention.
Задача!
Continue
Ответ!
You notice movement in your peripheral vision as one of the dock workers stands up from his table, his chair scraping against the floor with a sound that feels unnaturally loud in the otherwise quiet canteen. The man's thick fingers twitch toward his belt where a plasma cutter hangs, its edge gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. His companions follow his lead, rising in one fluid motion that speaks of muscle memory honed through countless brawls.
The room grows still as conversations die away, leaving only the hum of the ship's life support system and the soft tap of Vakka's fork against the metal tabletop.
Задача!
For a split moment Vakka bleakly wondered what went wrong, then turned The Non-leashed part of his mind inwards. For some brief moments, as it gained traction, he experienced a slight lag of awareness. Now he was actively reassessing the situation. He looked at the approaching man and his followers. His first outward reaction was of a slight fear, that shifted to uneasiness and then to sheepishness. He assumed a guileless posture of a man who found himself in a place he'd be glad to get the hell out of as soon as physically possible.
Ответ!
The lead dock worker stops three paces from your table. Close enough to lunge. Far enough to make you watch him do it.
"You're the tech," he says. Not a question. His voice comes out of a face like a dropped plate—scarred chin, one eyebrow split by an old seam of scar tissue that pulls the whole left side of his expression into a permanent half-sneer. His name tag, half-peeled, reads DOLM. The plasma cutter stays on his belt. His hand stays on it.
Behind him, the others fan out with the lazy confidence of men who've done this in worse rooms than this one.
Задача!
Vakka's facial expression changed to concern mixed with bewilderment.
"Tech!? I'm flash and bones! Excuse me, but-"
Ответ!
You shrink back in your seat, shoulders hunching inward as if to make yourself smaller, the motion instinctive. The lead dock worker—Dolm—leans forward slightly, maintaining that three-pace gap between you. His companions form a loose semicircle behind him, their hands buried in pockets or resting casually on chairs. They don't bother to be subtle about it. You're outnumbered five to one. Worse, you've done nothing to earn their enmity except be here.
Your fingers still rest against the edge of your plate, your last bite half-eaten, knife and fork placed down neatly as if the meal is just beginning instead of ending.
Задача!
Vakka takes a quick look at the tag.
"Dolm? Nice to meet you. Did I do something..? I'm not tech!"
Ответ!
Dolm's split eyebrow twitches. Somewhere behind him, one of the others laughs—a short, wet sound, like he finds your denial funnier than he should.
"You're not tech." Dolm says it slow, tasting each word. "Ship's drive master says a tech boarded at Corrivan Station. Passage paid in unmarked scrip. Paid too much, which nobody does 'cept somebody running from something or running to something." He spreads his scarred hands. "And now here you sit, not tech, not crew, not nobody. Eating our food."
"The fare was listed," Vakka says, and hates how thin his voice comes out. He makes it thinner on purpose.
Задача!
"I bet you were listed as well" Dolm laughs a bit, a croaking sound.
The men around him laugh in response.
"How 'bout we X-Ray you to see the flesh and bones, hmm?"
Ответ!
The laugh travels around the semicircle like a coin changing hands. You let your breath catch—just a little, just enough. Fear is currency here, and you've learned it's cheaper to pay in fear than in blood.
"X-Ray," you repeat, and your voice cracks on the second syllable. Not entirely on purpose. "I—look, I don't want trouble. I paid for passage, that's all. I'm going to my brother's on Meridian. He got me the ticket. Ask him. Ask—ask the purser, I'll open my manifest, whatever you want."
Задача!
Continue
Ответ!
The manifest offer hangs in the air like something dead. Dolm looks at it, sniffs, spits on the deck between his boots.
"Manifest says what you want it to say." He drags a chair from the next table over—screeching it across the deck plates, slow, deliberate, a sound made to be hated—and sits down facing you, arms folded over the backrest. Up close he smells of coolant and old sweat, and there's a twitch in his left cheek, some nerve misfiring, that makes the half-sneer ripple every few seconds like something under the skin. "Brother on Meridian."
Криииииииииииииииииииииииииииииииииииииииииииинж!
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