Drunkard, Hobo, Liar: Ch. 2, Hobo
a/n: Earlier that day, a Curator team paused to discuss how their mission was going. Cold and disappointing, to be honest. Also, what is with that new guy they recruited?
No swears. Too much game mechanics and limited understanding of maintenance.
All the good things belong to Monolith Soft, except the Curator team, because I make OCs constantly. Please send help, or a review.
When Gary jumped down from the pilot's capsule, the cold hit him straight in the gut. He should have expected that. Things got warm in the pilot's seat, and his gear was designed more to keep him cool than to protect him from wind like a knife. He tensed his body, trying not to shake too obviously as he walked towards Nina. He needn't have worried. Nina was completely focused on her task of counting their take so far. She crouched over a row of rubbery, wrinkled sacs, muttering to herself.
"So how's it going?" he asked conversationally. His teeth chattered against his will.
She didn't look up. "If you insist on looking hot in that tight skell wear, you're gonna get cold whenever you hit the real world. Now shut up and lemme finish measuring."
Gary slapped his arms and hopped slightly from foot to foot. Maybe he should wait in his skell, like their third regular team member was smart enough to be doing. But he was today's team leader and Nina shouldn't be suffering alone out here. He examined her heavier gear quickly. Not much suffering appeared to be happening. He'd stick it out anyway. He had another task to get done.
Luckily, Nina finished her count before the icy wind could weaken Gary's resolve any further. "We're a good six short."
"I thought we had hit twice the number."
"Yeah, the number, but these things don't drop regularly, even with his help." She flicked a nod at the pick-up teammate who was sulking by the edge of the cliff. "Three of the ones we did get are too small, and two were shot to hell. And one ... I don't even know what went wrong. I mean, that's great in its own way. I'm kinda itching to spin out some theories because that could mean the acid sacs are crucial for the formation of ..."
Gary cut his fellow Curator off before she could continue her entomology master class. "Short version, Nina."
"If the gods of RNG are kind, we're gonna need to hit 10 more. If they aren't, dinner may be late."
"But we have Treasure Hobo on our side," Gary pointed out. The two of them turned to study the newest teammate. Then both looked away quickly, lest he catch them staring. They needn't have bothered. He was ignoring them completely.
Nina snorted and started to tag and pack the materials they'd collected. "You gonna go give him the money talk?"
"Just about to do it now."
"Good luck." She stood up suddenly and reached to grab Gary's elbow. "I don't know, Gar'. Maybe give this one a break. Something feels off about him."
"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing."
Gary walked over to where the Treasure Hobo was squatting. The unkind nickname had stuck from the moment the man had joined their team. This morning, scrolling through the recruiting board, Gary had found the specs his trio always looked for: ground pounder, rifle, treasure XX to increase the rate of drops. The plan was for the BLADE-for-hire to stay on foot and paint the targets so Gary's team could blast the over-leveled spider indigen from the comfort of their skells, their missiles guided to the right appendage. Not as accurate as all of them on the ground, sure, but faster and safer and easier. They were Curators, not Harriers, for crying out loud; their real job was back in NLA, trying to figure out something, anything, about the bits of flora and fauna they brought home. Besides, the guy's treasure augments might even make the balance go in their favor.
Then they had met him. It was such a shock, they'd almost gone out as a three member squad. The guy was practically grey from all the grime on his face and hands. His darkened gear was ragged, patched at some points with utility tape, left torn in other places. One pocket hung on by a few threads, weighted down by a bulge of ammo. Gary had done a quick scan to make sure they had the right guy, but, yeah, the intensity of his treasure levels almost hurt Gary's eyes. And his weapons were in good working condition. In fact, they seemed to be the only dirt free part of him.
He was in the process of disassembling his assault rifle when Gary reached him. Maybe Gary had timed it that way, maybe not. Okay, he had definitely timed it that way. Treasure Hobo didn't interact with the team much, but Gary had noticed that he cleaned his weapon regularly, at every break in fact. So when they had stopped for a count, Gary knew it was only a matter of minutes before he could count on the Hobo's ranged weapon being out of commission. Gary'd risk the mellee one for the moment.
"So, uh, my dude, I wanted to talk to you about the reward situation." Nothing but the snap of metal in reply. "Yeah, so you see, skells come with overhead. Lots of it. Fuel, insurance, repairs. I'm sure you understand. So my team, we usually split the reward differently." Gary waited out a second of hard shivering before continuing. "One share for the BLADE, one for the skell. So today we're planning on splitting seven ways. You get me?"
The stranger lifted the barrel of his dismantled gun directly at Gary, peering through the empty tube. Gary flinched, but the blank blue gaze lasted only a second. Then Treasure Hobo lowered his matted head over his weapon and started swabbing madly at the barrel.
Gary coughed with more than discomfort. "So, okay, just wanted to give you a heads up. You're okay with that, right?" He coughed again.
Something like a broken chuckle came from the hobo. He mumbled what Gary hoped was "okay". Gary watched as he rapidly reassembled his weapon. Every step was careful but done at the speed of lightening. The hobo tipped the gun up, stroking the length of it very slowly, and for a moment the solid barrel divided his grimy face. Then he tilted his head up and licked the tip of the gun.
The Curator backed away from the cliff edge, with its sweeping view of Primordia and the safety of NLA. When he had a few meters between them, he shouted, "We're going to do a few more runs, but we'll be back in NLA for dinner. Just like I promised." Gary heard a response but didn't care. He trotted smartly to his skell and swung back into it.
Oh man, the review he was gonna post on this guy when he got back home. One star, and acid enough to knock the most recent one off the top, because if he'd had suspicions as to the validity of that Mediator turned wanna-be Curator before, the fact that the idiot had praised Treasure Hobo confirmed all his doubts.
theywerefightingongrassnotsandsoheknewitwasadifferentdaynoonewasgoingtolose
No. Focus. Remember to check the
colderthanSylvalumsoheknewheknewheknewitwasdifferentnoonewasgoing
Remember toscirpobloodwasn'tbluesotherewasnoreasontothinkabout
No. Focus. Get ready. You can atleastdothatmakesureyoucanprotect
Focus. What had Mondo said? Be careful how
carefulhowyoucleanyourweaponssondon'twanttoloseyourhead
a/n: Old hands now know who the Hobo is. A lot of that stuff I did not make up. Poor man.
Also: I am actually thinking of romance and H.B. I've left that topic alone because other people were (and still are) doing great work in that area, but now my brain is mumbling about Cross and amnesia and Interceptors and biathlon events. We'll see.
Honestly, reviews make my week, so drop one if you are still reading.
Next up: Case has been waiting patiently, trying to relax.