Drakul tries yet again to start the chant of "SHOOTING! SHOOTING! SHOOTING!" as he lays suppressing fire.
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You can't shoot down a satellite no matter how well you roll. Challenge... Accepted.
"YES! YESSSS!! SHOOTING SHOOTING SHOOTING!!" Drakul seems to be trying to start some sort of chant with the rest of the party. "SHOOTING SHOOTING SHOOTING!!"
Drakul begins pumping his arms in the air. And his guns, held in his arms. And shoots nothing but the ceiling, over and over.
Drakul comes running back to Trask. "Gaze and wonder, stupid Trask, at what Drakul has achieved! DRAKUL AND TRASK HAVE ARMAMENTS!!!" Drakul has bought a double armful of small arms, and somehow got tailblades from somewhere. He excitedly drops the guns in a cluttered pile and begins chasing his own tail to attach the tailblade. "The humans will remember this as they day that Drakul and stupid Trask were recognized as ALMIGHTY WARRIORS!"
Drakul slinks into the cargo bay with the rest of the crew. "Trask," he whispers, "the humans want bigger guns to go into battle. Imagine how much they will worship mighty Drakul and faithful stupid Trask when we find the weapons they want for them." With a look he thinks is sly, Drakul begins to scan the place for the 'special stock.'
Drakul, being unable to read, walks past a number of interestingly-labelled boxes with no concept of what is in them. He assumes that the large wooden cubes are like building blocks, but for giants.
Drakul winds between peoples' legs, eating the discarded Starburger wrappers as they go. Presented with food, the reptiloid is uncharacteristically silent, and thus able to hear what people around him are saying.
Drakul gives a high-pitched scream as a shot pierces his shoulder. "DRAKUL IS SLAIN! AVENGE YOUR BETTER, STUPID TRASK!!" The little reptiloid falls prone and wiggles on the ground, very clearly not dead, just overdramatic.
Drakul stands defiant in the face of incoming fire, and resorts to an old family trick to make technology work - he begins banging it on the floor.
The gun begins smoking, and Drakul begins cursing.
When the ship docked, safety protocols kicked in and locked the ships weapons until the ship was dedocked, so the reptiloids were stopped from continuing to exercise their right to bear arms. After a few minutes of raging against the computers that stopped his destruction of the space station, Drakul managed to hear enough coming through the comms to piece together what was happening in other places on the ship. "Come, stupid stupid Trask! The tall softskins will be angry at Trask for letting Drakul touch the bigbig shipguns, so we must make them happier by saving their stupid longshank lives!" He leads the nervous Trask to the armory, where the two stock up on all the weaponry that they can conveniently carry. One of the side doors to the bridge opens with Drakul grinning madly, guns in both hands and sidearms dangling from at least three belts that the reptiloid has slung around itself. "Fear the mighty Drakul, stupd softskins!"
The gun makes a clicking sound but doesn't fire. Drakul begins searching for the safety, not noticing that none of the weapons were stored loaded.
Drakul slinks through the engineering corridors, muttering darkly to himself. "Stupid angry Enginemaster ruining Drakul's making engines even better and saving whole crew and getting elected Captain-for-Life... Drakul hates stupid angry Enginemaster. Hates him!!" His coffee-dilated eyes scan the corridors, seeking inspiration. One sign worms it's way into his little brain and he turns to Trask excitedly. "Trask... the GUNS!!" The little reptile scampers down the hallway in the direction of the gunnery.
"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. The engine burning around him, Drakul narrows his eyes and hisses in fear at the sound of his gnome boss arriving in such a fury. "The Enginemaster!", the reptiloid hisses. "Hurry, stupid Trask!" He attacks the engine with renewed focus and fervor in his fear.
Whatever Drakul is furiously hammering on, it's not helping.
Drakul's pupils take up his (admittedly beady) little eyes as the coffee-like takes over. It's not coffee... but man, whatever this brown stuff is works! "Come, stupid Trask! Today, Drakul teach you how to make little purring engine ROAR!", shouts the small reptiliod. He pushes further into the smoke, his homemade electrotool shooting sparks everywhere.
In the engine room, Drakul scampers through a thicket-like knot of wires. The intercom has been blaring and making his normally surly mood into a downright hostile stormcloud of an attitude, as his growing headache keeps getting worse. He slams a clawed fist onto the intercom button. "CEASE YOUR YAMMERING, SOFTSKINS!", he yells in his small, screechy voice. "DRAKUL WILL AGAIN SAVE YOUR WORTHLESS HIDES!" He drains one of the coffee-ish cups that TSL has been spamming the ship with, hurls the empty cup into a small mountain of similar cups, grabs a fresh cup of the drink, and clambers into the bowels of the engine room. A hectic flurry of clanging sounds echo as he begins to patch and overclock the engines.
Smoke pours out of the corner where Drakul had been working. A stream of obscenity pours out of the smoke cloud. |