Able gives a maddened grin as he levels fire at the crowd of mooks coming at him.
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"Doesn't matter, kid," say Able glumly - the normally fiery gnome seems to be taking the sickness hard. "We die in his bar, he just got a whole new night shift of workers, sick f+#& like he is." He signals a serving bot. "Tell you what, you slick little Goblin - How many creds you need to let the crew here go? I'll open a tab in whatever amount you want, you feed me the cheapest rotgut you got til I keel over from drink or nanobots - these folks go after Borak. Chances are we'll all keel over before I fill up that tab, so boom - fresh worker, nice profit, turn over some of the supply of rotgut. Whattaya say?"
If rolling a one means that this devolves into mowing down innocent albeit inconvenient bartenders... Able is unsurprisingly OK with that.
Able is covered in blaster discharge, engine smoke, and lots of blood (some of which is even his). And even all that can't hide the look of half-insane rage on the gnome's face as he deliberately climbs onto the counter. "I've been fighting literal fires and station security all gorram day. When my crew hasn't been trying to kill me with their ineptitude, some psychopath with nanobots has been trying to tear me apart from the inside. The only food I've had since I woke up from my assassination-induced blackout is a f&%%ing Starburger, and I'm a f@&#ing vegetarian. I am having an exceptionally bad day, and it's making me into a bad person." "And you're concerned about your business interests? Here's a business interest for you - if we don't find this Despoiler character, I am going to ram my nanobot-infected bloody arm down your throat and find out if eating my blood will infect you. The only thing stopping me from doing that is the belief that it's easier if you just tell me what we need to know." Able spits on the ground, and the blood is visible in his spit. "So. Is it going to be the easy way or the fun way?"
Able nods approvingly as the picks up the Clint. "It's heavy. That's good. Heavy is a sign of reliability." He holsters it. "And if it doesn't work, you just throw it at them." He then follows Zanbabe and Zakary to the bar, herding the reptiloids as he goes.
Able watches the networked HelpBots with a bemused look on his face. "That is certainly not going to end well," he says unconcernedly around a mouthful of StarBurger. He opens up a diag screen on Mk I and tries to see whether there's any improvements he can make to the networked S.H.I.EL.D. protocols.
Able walks up behind the distracted guard and plants both feet to make a solid swing at the guard's head with the crackling electro-wrench.
The guard luckily bends down just as Able swings for the fences. A major whiff.
Able takes the crack to the skull and very briefly sees stars. "Now you've done it, you son of a b+#+~," the ornery gnome states. He pulls something out of his pocket and fastens it to the wrench - the end of the wrench begins spitting sparks and shooting small arcs of electricity. The gnome smiles in a way that only shows teeth, but no mirth.
Able watches, bemused, as Trask manages to accidentally be effective. "What a little f&#+ing weirdo," he sighs to himself, before swinging his wrench into a guard's knee.
"Who armors a kneecap??" exclaims Able, getting increasingly angry that he's been denied his favorite tactic.
In Able's gnome head, the overall injustice of the guard situation combines with the lingering stress of the engine fires and the immediate surprise of an unexpected grenade to create a perfect mental storm. In his mind, something snaps.
The guards are suddenly facing three feet of Old Testament rage. They have become sinners in the hands of an angry gnome... and that gnome has a blaster and a wrench. He throws himself into their midst like a slightly-smoking wolverine, a frenzy of wrench swings and blaster fire.
Able stalks the hallways, still smoking slightly, trying to find out what the hell was going on. He reaches the bridge to see all the crew clustered around the doorway. "What's the matter, all you pilots forget how doors work? Get out of the way." The gnome jostles his way through until he can get to an access panel to affect some repairs.
Powered seemingly by pure anger and spite, Able stands where the flames once stood. With a tug he hauls the Mk I to it's treads. "Find somewhere else to wreck before I decide to empty you of circuits and use you as a trash-can," he says peevishly. Able draws a flask from his jumpsuit pocket and takes a long gulp. "I'm getting too old for this s&&#," he says to the empty engine room.
Never one to let a faulty machine get in the way of getting a job done, Able pries open HelpBot Mk I and hauls out the fire suppressant hosing. "THANK YOU FOR MAKI-" "Shut up you heap of f&%%ing scrap, or I'll reprogram you into a toaster." He begins to spray foam over the last of the fires.
The alarms die down, leaving an echoing silence in their absence. Able stands, breathing heavily, still red in the face. With the smoke pouring from his beard and the soot darkening his face, the effect is that of a small, very angry devil. He looks at the two robots, one stowaway, and the sheepish reptiloids as they creep out of the still-smoldering engine. "All of you. Get. Out. OF. MY! ENGINE ROOM!!!" The mechanic's voice rises from a controlled calm to a furious bellow. The chastised crew and additionals hurry out of the room before any more anger can be directed their way, with the exception of HelpBot Mk I, which trips over the trash cube left behind by Mk II and begins spinning on the floor.
As the engine room alarms continue, a harried-looking gnome runs at full tilt into the engine room. "What by Desna's f@&%ing stars have you little scale-rats done to my engine??", screams the red-faced gnome. He begins to rearrange power couplers, reroute fire protocols to different sections of the room, even at one moment shooting a blaster into one auxillary power source to deactivate it - turning into a small whirlwind of furiously focused intention.
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