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Post by fuegan on Jan 27, 2011 20:44:37 GMT -5
Hamish Seymour Campbell – Intellegence Agent, Director. Homeworld: Industrial Asteroid. 46 years old, dark Brown hair, dark eyes, Chestnut Goatee, large scar over belly, well built, 6’3”, 195 pounds. Stats: Str 8 Dex 12 End 11 Int 12 Edu 9 Soc 5 Skills: Combat: Melee (Blade 2), Gun Combat Slug Rifle 2, Gun Combat Slug Pistol 1, Gunner Turrets 1. Interaction: Persuade 1, Investigate 1, Deception 1 Specialist: Medic 1, Remote Operations 1, Pilot Spacecraft 1, Computers 1, Comms 1, Stealth 2, Sensors 1 General: Jack of all Trades 3, Athletics - Coordination 1, Survival 1 Weapons: TL11 X-Ray ignore 3 meters of cover. Telescopic Sights subtract 2 range bands from target when aimed. HUD is +2DM to all hit rolls at all ranges. SAP = ½ dice of damage, AP = dice of damage, DSAP = 2x dice of damage. TL13 5.5mm Heavy Gauss Sniper Rifle: Secure, TL11 X-Ray, TL11 Telescopic Sights, HUD. Ammunition: 1 AP, 4 DSAP Slug Rifle Dmg: 5D6 AP Mg: 20 Auto: No Recoil: 0 Kg: 8 ACst: 40 SPECIAL: +1DM on all Aimed shots at any range. TL13 4mm ‘Navy’ Gauss Pistol: Secure, Laser Sight, HUD. Ammunition: 3 AP Slug Pistol Dmg: 3D6+2 AP Mg: 50 Auto: 3 Recoil: 0 Kg: 0.7 ACst: 20 SPECIAL: Rifle range. TL10 9mm Rapid-Fire Light ACR: Secure, Gyrostabilizer, TL11 Telescopic Sight, TL11 X-Ray, HUD. Ammunition: 6 AP, 6 DSAP. Slug Rifle Dmg: 3D6 Mg: 100 Auto: 6/10 Recoil: 1 Kg: 3.25 ACst: 55 SPECIAL: Can expend whole clip of 50 or more at once. TL6 18mm Assault Shotgun: Drum. Ammunition: 1 HE, 1 Flechette, 1 Slug, 1 Buck, 1 HEAP. Shotgun Dmg: 4D6 Mg: 20 Auto: No Recoil: 2 Kg: 4.5 ACst: 20 TL6 9mm AutoPistol: Silencer, High Capacity, Laser Sight, HUD. Ammunition: 1 AP, 3 Poisoned, 3 Tranquilizers, 3 Silenced. Slug Pistol Dmg: 3D6-3 Mg: 30 Auto: No Recoil: 0 Kg: 1.5 ACst: 10 TL8 5mm Body Pistol: Silencer. Ammunition: 3 Stealth, 1 Silenced. Slug Pistol Dmg: 3D6-3 Mg: 6 Auto: No Recoil: -1 Kg: 0.4 ACst: 20 SPECIAL: 3D6-6 Dmg for silenced rounds. Cutlass: Dmg: 2D6+4 Heft: -1 Mass: 1 Knife: Dmg: 1D6+1 Heft: 0 Mass: 0 TL14 Arc Field Sword: Dmg: 4D6+2 Heft: 0 Mass: 2 Gear: Gain 4 contacts, Improved Relationship, 3 ship shares, Communication: T13 Radio Transceiver, T10 Comm, TL13 Data Display, Commdot, 8 Datawafers Specialist: TL11 Personal HUD, 1 TL15 Bug, 2 T11 Bugs, 3 T7 Bugs, TL12 Interrogation Tool Set, TL12 Disguise Kit Survival: TL10 Medkit, TL8 Binoculars, Breather mask, Tent, TL7 Hiking Boots, 5 Ropes, 5 Cold Light Lanterns, TL11 Survival Kit, Grapple Launcher, Advanced Climbing Kit, TL7 Personal Field Kit General: Cutting Torch, Medium Chain, TL7 Backpack TAS Membership Armor: Vacc Suit (TL 14) [Magnetic Grapples, TL11 Medkit, Smart Fabric, IR Chameleon], Subdermal Armor 1 Vehicle: Floater [TL11 Computer, Enclosed, Life Support, Heavy Armor, High performance, Sealed], Drones: TL11 Personal Drone Cash: 31,580 14,000 retirement per year. Armor: 9 Attachments:
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Post by fuegan on Jan 28, 2011 23:07:26 GMT -5
Warc has connected. DeathsHands has connected. DeathsHands: Is this prose enough? Warc: Not purple enough. DeathsHands: Now? DeathsHands: Why can't I open a campaign? DeathsHands: 'dis is racist Warc: I don't know, really, we've always had problems trying to open campaigns not as host DeathsHands: Unless everyone wants to sit and watch Death place VBUs all over a starship Warc: Send it to me. Warc: Just make sure you've got fog of war everywhere so we don't see it as players. DeathsHands: I'm tempted to play "Let's see who can connect to Death." Warc: Whatever ye scheme be Warc: Enact it. DeathsHands is disconnected. You have disconnected. Warc has connected. DeathsHands has connected. DeathsHands: Oh shit DeathsHands: it worked DeathsHands: guys DeathsHands: I think I'm a wizard. Fuegan: He wasn't expecting it Warc: Your net must've put on that skirt that the modem really likes. DeathsHands: orange DeathsHands: blue and white stripes DeathsHands: brown stain on the shoulder DeathsHands: bad collaar DeathsHands: *collar DeathsHands: okay, VBls should be right. * Warc rolls: 2d6+X => 10 + 3 = 13 Fuegan: This was your epic map? DeathsHands: No DeathsHands: but I don't wanna trust ark with things. Warc: Fuck yeah, space! Warc: :[ Warc: Look! Warc: It's Space Wolf! DeathsHands: Tokens in teh cockpit. DeathsHands: Go, teh go. Warc: Oh there we are Fuegan: Imma go take a shit while you figure things out Warc: I was just looking at a starfield for awhile there DeathsHands: gj ark Warc: Don't worry guys Warc: My throat is well protected. DeathsHands: Alright.... umm... who wants to fly? DeathsHands: fuegan gets to, that's right. Warc: He's probably got something better than Pilot +0. DeathsHands: The skill package has Pilot (Any) 1 DeathsHands: fueg has Pilot (Spacecraft) Warc: Hmmm Warc: I wonder where all my guns are Fuegan: k Warc: Alright m'lord, GM. Warc: We are prepared. DeathsHands: Right DeathsHands: soy sauce is ready DeathsHands: visionis functioning? DeathsHands: *vision is Warc: I think it is... Warc: Oh, no. Warc: It's off. Warc: Yeah, there we go. DeathsHands: First day of a new RPG DeathsHands: exciting. DeathsHands: Fueg, you alive, bro? Fuegan: yeah, I had to get the door DeathsHands: The small scout ship flings itself out into normal space, finalizing it's jump through USOC-controlled space. The immediate view outside of the viewport gives way to a wide asteroid belt; nestled in the middle is a tall, cylindrical station. The flares of engines can be made out amongst it. DeathsHands: Hammish at the helm, Mithras at gunnery, and Sulliman manning comms and auxiliary systems. * Mithras is still asleep, his feet propped up on an idle control panel. * Sulliman pounds his fist against a bulkhead. * Mithras stumbles forward halfway through a snore. * Hammish guides the ship casually between astroids. Sulliman: Wake up, we're out. Mithras: What, what.... ah... looks like we are. * Sulliman palms through a barrage of holographic panels Sulliman: Got one Junda Waystation. Regulating passage, apparently; they're requesting registeries. Mithras: Nitpickin' gits... think it'll cause us any problems? Sulliman: Nah, looks like just border control. USOC was pretty harsh about the coloniual fueds. Mithras: That they were... how much longer we got? I have another nap in me if this takes much longer. * Hammish focuses on monitoring controls Sulliman: Looks like two hours for approach. Sulliman: Hammy, take us in smooth. Mithras: Hammish! There's two creds in it for ya if you can make that one hour. * Hammish gives Mithras the finger and proceeds to lower the ship's speed. * Mithras leans back in his chair again. Mithras: It's win-win for me... Sulliman: Uh huh. DeathsHands: An hour and a half passes by; there's little else to see except for rocks passing by. DeathsHands: The comms console begins to beep. Sulliman: Getting hailed. DeathsHands: Through the viewport, the engine flares of two craft can be made out. * Hammish patches the comms through * Mithras sits up and rubs his eyes. Pilot: Patrol Squadron Gamma Six to unidentified spacecraft; transmit your registry codes and cut off your engines.. * Mithras mumbles to himself, "Ah, no! You'll never take us alive." Sulliman: Yeah, dinkly scout like us versus patrol cutters. That's an easy win. Mithras: If Hammish could fly a little better, it would be. * Hammish turns off the ship's engines Sulliman: Transmitting. Pilot: M6TA22X-D; you're clean. Pull up to maximum speed and stand by for nav guidance. * Mithras draws his twin-cylinder revolver and twirls it around his finger. * Hammish brings the ship to max speed DeathsHands: The cutters guide the ship close to the station; docking procedures... proceed, and there's a thump as a clamp locks itself onto the ship. * Mithras gets up with a long winded yawn, making his way down the ship. Mithras: About time. Sulliman: Uh huh. Alright, I got the refuel settled up. Should sneak a peak at the contract apges too, you never know who needs some doing done around these parts. Sulliman: *pages Mithras: Something always needs done... more concerned with how boring it is to do it. * Hammish secures the sockpit and rises from the seat DeathsHands: Nice. * Sulliman scrolls through the listings. Sulliman: Muscle, trade security.... hmm. Sulliman: Check this one out. * Sulliman rotates in his chair to face Mithras, and points at a holo panel. * Mithras looks down at it with the slightest of interest. DeathsHands: The contract is especially vague, and most of the information is blocked, but you can -- at the very least -- tell it's a transport job. Fuegan: lol @ sockpit Sulliman: Alright, so a 'Mr. Thitt' wants transport to the core systems here. And he's willing to pay a full 100 thou' to do it. Fuegan: I was putting together some shower parts for my dad to install earlier, I'll be more involved now. Sulliman: Mr.. Thitt. I have no idea, really. Mithras: More errands... load of credits though... Ham, watcha think? Move some crap around? Hammish: 100k just for transport? What's the catch? Sulliman: Well, you've got the simplest job in the book, but we're lookign at way over any standard charter fee. Sulliman: Which could only mean one thing. Hammish: We don't exactly have the most combat-worthy vessel. Mithras: 'Ats fine, if anyone wants this junk, they're gonna have to board us anyway; and I ain' messin' around with any pirates. Sulliman: Sounds like a death trap. * Mithras twirls his revolver again and holsters it. Mithras: That's what it takes; high risk, high reward. Hammish: I don't think I like this kind of mission. Being outnumbered and outgunned is one thing but being blasted out in space being completely defenseless, that's not my style. * Mithras laughs out loud. Mithras: Alright, if Ham here doesn't think he can dodge a little flak, then I'll take his word on it. Mithras: Anything else look like it might be the worth the time? Sulliman: Hmmm Sulliman: mostly just hauling around crap for just enough to fuel the hold. Mithras: Heh, haven't heard that before... Sulliman: And maybe keep about 5% of teh bills paid. Sulliman: *the Hammish: Guess we can always go to another location... Mithras: Waste more time flyin' and burning gas? Hammish: Yep. Mithras: I ain' gonna live a hundred years, Ham. Mithras: And I don't think you are either. Sulliman: We either pluck around some more, or take on the death trap job. Mithras: Let me think on this one... * Mithras turns away and strokes his beard mock-throughfully. Sulliman: Oh yes, let the marine think. Hammish: Well like I said, I ain't too fond of dying in the cold vaccum of space. Sulliman: You got your vacc suti and rescue bubble. It'lll be warm for two hours, give or take. Mithras: Let's see... we can either not do something ridiculously dangerous... or do something ridiculously dangerous... Mithras: Ahh, I've got it! * Hammish looks at sulliman dryly. Mithras: We'll do something ridiculously dangerous. Hammish: Nah. Mithras: Well, if you've got something that beats taking out the trash of every other station around here, speak up. Sulliman: Sounds like a vote of confidence. Maybe we'll even keep our crap paid this time. Sulliman: I'll tell him he has a place onboard. * Hammish ponders for a moment. "me, with a devious smile he speaks" Unknown command. Try /help for a list of commands. * Hammish with a devious smile he speaks Hammish: Alright, we'll do this stupid mission. Mithras: 'Atta boy, Ham! Hammish: But if things go bad, I don't want any bitching for the direction I take. Sulliman: When we don't get repossessed by an Imperial audit, you'll be glad you said yes. Mithras: If things go bad, you can have one of my guns, and whichever direction you take with it couldn't possibly be the wrong one. Sulliman: Alright, get comfy. Mithras, try and be presentable this time, will ya? Sulliman: I don't want the "I've been sitting in armour for the past week" smell to lose out out 100k. Sulliman: *us out Mithras: Ya' gotta keep Old Betty movin', or she gets whiny. Heh. DeathsHands: A few slow hours pass by; the sporadic bursts of messages over channels highlighting the day. DeathsHands: The operation consoles go red. Sulliman: Someone's knocking on the airlock. Hamish: Go anser it. Hamish: anwser* Hamish: bah Mithras: I ain' the doorman... and apparently, I don't smell too pretty either. Hamish: Answer Sulliman: Thanks. Warc: Where is the airlock anyway? Is it 7? Hamish: You're welcome. DeathsHands: To the right of Sully. Warc: Oh, just that little thing. DeathsHands: 7 is the Air/Raft bay. * Mithras stands and straightens up his flak jacket. DeathsHands: Shipboard klaxons let out a short whine before the airlock valve opens. DeathsHands: Through the airlock trots a Hiver holding a large suitcase. * Sulliman scratches his head Sulliman: What. * Mithras holds up his hand and coughs into it to conceal a laugh. DeathsHands: (page 44 if you are unfamiliar with giant starfish.) DeathsHands: The Hiver twiddles his limbs animatedly. Sulliman: Uhh... crap, let me get this. * Sulliman pulls a translator from a coat pocket. Sulliman: Hiver dialect... got it. * Mithras nudges Hamish. Mithras: And they say I look pretty. DeathsHands: The translator scans the Hiver momentarily, and burps out a message in an uncannily confident male voice. Ajoloora: Hello! Hamish: Um... Hamish: Hi. Mithras: I like him already. * Ajoloora leans closer to Hamish, his six eyestalks blinking. Ajoloora: Are you not teh freelancers? I am Ajoloora... Mr. Thitt, as it were. * Mithras leans in closer to give him a good look. Mithras: That'd be us, yep. * Hamish holds in a loud laugh and spits slightly toward the alien. Ajoloora: Well then... Hamish: Excuse me, I'm... a little sick? Yeah. Mithras: Oh, yeah, he's got a bit of a bug there. Fuegan: wow these things look stupid... it looks like something a preschool kid doodled. DeathsHands: And this is why I knew this would be awesome. Warc: I'm sure humans look like what a drone imagined in psionics class. Mithras: Alright, Mr. Thett... care to tell me a little bit about what you're looking for us to do? * Ajoloora taps a button on the side of the briefcase; a holographic map of the subsector is shown. One of them blinks red. Ajoloora: I need you to take me right there. * Mithras squints. Mithras: ... Ham, how far is that? Ajoloora: Fang Xiu III; 4 parsecs away. Warc: So how long does it take to fly a parsec? DeathsHands: A jump drive can jump an amount of parsecs equal to it's level. DeathsHands: One hex = 3LY = 1 Parsec DeathsHands: All jumps last exactly one week regardless of disatance. DeathsHands: *distance Warc: Our jump = Level X? DeathsHands: Level 2 Fuegan: 2 weeks with stinky alien Mithras: It's not too bad an offer... two weeks out of our way, for what I shall consider a worthy sum... Ajoloora: We deal in important business; it's very well worth your while. Mithras: Course. * Mithras looks over at Sulliman. Mithras: Watcha thinkin'? Sulliman: We need the cash. Sulliman: Can't be all that bad -- he's nice enough, Sulliman: *. Hamish: Alright, if you are ready to leave, I'd like to get this journey started as soon as possible. Hamish: Do you have any left over business here? Ajoloora: Not at all. Speed is a factor. Mithras: Welcome aboard, then. Sulliman: I'll show you to your room, Mr. Thitt. * Mithras walks back to his seat. Mithras: Let's get this hulk movin', Ham; you're on the clock for a lot more than 2 credits now. * Hamish goes back to the cockpit with a sigh Sulliman: Registry double-back complete, undocking... Sulliman: you got the wheel. Sulliman: We should be inconspicous enough, right? Scout ship, hardly any defense... * Hamish gets the ship out of the dock and into flight Mithras: Perhaps... * Sulliman looks at Mithras over the screen of his hand computer. Sulliman: Mmm? Mithras: Don't think I'm too worried about any random pirate, that's pretty far odds that they'd care about us. Mithras: But we can't do nothin' about this guy's business; if he's gettin tailed, we're gettin tailed. Mithras: And with a hundred grand to throw around for field trips... who knows what his business is. * DeathsHands rolls: 2d6 => 7 Hamish: I don't really care. As far as I'm concerned, this is a transport mission and nothing more. Once we dump him off at the planet, he's none of our concern. Sulliman: Hopefully. Mithras: You're right, Ham, and as long as you can get us there in one piece, I ain' complaining. DeathsHands: The next week goes by uneventfully. DeathsHands: Sitting, surfing through the latest comm signals from Junda and staring into space occupy your time. Mr. Thitt serves as an example of the Hiver's reputable lack of table manners. * Mithras groans one day in the cockpit. Mithras: Ham, I am afraid, that I am not a man of my word. Mithras: I am now filing a complaint. Sulliman: He really did jam the garbage chute. DeathsHands: The ship pulls out in empty space near a remote refueling depot along the comm lane. Hamish: Hm? Mithras: How's the gas, Ham? We gonna have enough with the starfish weighing us down? * DeathsHands rolls: 2d6 => 8 Sulliman: Mmm. Sulliman: I think I caught a blip for a moment there. Mithras: Is that right... Sulliman: I think. Mithras: Keep your eyes open, Ham. DeathsHands: Hours pass; the ship refuels quietly and makes it's way back to jump range. * Mithras yawns widely. Mithras: Heh... thing was carrying a bloody suitcase... * Mithras shakes his head. * Hamish pilots leisurely Sulliman: Another whisper. Sulliman: From the depot. Sulliman: Reminds me -- shouldn't there be patrol cutters at a station like this? Mithras: I think I left my Fleet Protocal Handbook in my room... Mithras: But I'll take your word on it, this looks fishy. Fuegan: whisper? DeathsHands: Small sensor return Warc: y'know, the mysterious blip on the radar. Sulliman: Oh, crap. Hamish, go evasive. Warc: most likely a wing of pirates or sentient asteroids Fuegan: Do I have to roll something? DeathsHands: Naw * Hamish starts juking around. Warc: Oh and because this might soon be relevant, Mithras doesn't have anything even related to Gunner. DeathsHands: Skill package. Warc: Fuegan took that one. DeathsHands: ...right. Fuegan: Well I had everything else Fuegan: lol Warc: He gave me Comms, Medic, Persuade, and Stealth Fuegan: Altough, don't you get some skills from that as well Fuegan: Yeah, I have all thoise already Fuegan: and they don't stack. Fuegan: so there was no point in taking them. Warc: I'ma learn how to fire the guns today. Warc: Maybe I'll earn Gunner 0 Fuegan: or gunner -2 Sulliman: Fast contact. Fuegan: besides Fuegan: we have no guns Fuegan: so Idk what ur QQing about Warc: Find a new verb, really; QQ is just about old enough to retire Fuegan: bitching Fuegan: u happeh? Warc: There ya go, at least it feels like you put some effort into it. Fuegan: More effort than your bitching. Shit is a reflex for you. Warc: Bro, I think you qualify greatly for overreacting. DeathsHands: Right. Fuegan: Idc about the gunnery thing. Fuegan: Anyway Fuegan: Idk what you want me to do death. Fuegan: I juked... that's about all there is for us to do. Fuegan: make a jump if we're in range? Sulliman: We got a boat coming right at us -- move it! * Hamish attempts to make a jump DeathsHands: You're too close to the depot to jump. Fuegan: Seemed like ages since we left. Fuegan: Seems* DeathsHands: Not the waystation, mind you. Fuegan: Yeah, the depot Fuegan: feels like ages. Sulliman: Dammit, we're not gonna outrun that thing! Hamish: ok. Hamish: I can't move any faster. Mithras: Ain' trying hard enough, Ham! Fuegan: If you believe hard enough, we can go faster! Warc: Mithras is secretly an Ork. Warc: He's been painting the engine room red. Fuegan: C'mon everyone, care! Sulliman: Mithras, armour up! Mithras: Couldn't wait a moment longer to shoot something; Ham, if we're gonna die, at least wait till I'm suited up. * Mithras rushes to his quarters. DeathsHands: (one moment) DeathsHands: Redeploy tokens please. Fuegan: where? Fuegan: all I see is black DeathsHands: Bridge DeathsHands: Map Explorer Warc: Zoom out, it's to the right Fuegan: my god you threw that far away DeathsHands: I honestly did not notice. Warc: I think there's a way to move people's views Warc: But another day. Fuegan: Its in tools DeathsHands: You hear a large thump. Sulliman: Looks like they're latched. * Mithras comes back in his powered armor, helm locked in and wielding his sawed off shotgun, chaindrive gauntlet whirring on his forearm, and a beaten old metal shield. DeathsHands: Christ. Mithras: Someone keep an eye on Fitt. Like I said, I ain' messin around with no pirates. Sulliman: Thitt. T-h-i-i-t. Mithras: ... Thet... Fett... Mithras: Whatever! Sulliman: Hamish, stick the autopilot on; we got company! * Mithras points to the security box he set up in the cockpit. Mithras: Two autopistols in there, if you got nothin' better. * Hamish turns on the autopilot and rushes to gear up Fuegan: err or not * Hamish grabs an autopitols from the box * Mithras rushes to Thiit's room. Hamish: Where's the alien? Hamish: We should keep him protected Mithras: Hey, we got some problems, boss; gonna lock ya in here awhile, hope ya don't mind. Fuegan: lol Fuegan: ok DeathsHands: You see Mr. Thitt sleeping. Mithras: ... lazy little bugger... * Mithras steps out into the hallway and locks the door behind him. Sulliman: We should have some time before they cut into the bay; get ready. * Mithras flips open his shotgun and checks the loaded shells. * Sulliman grabs his weapons. * Mithras takes up a spot in one of the side rooms. Mithras: Lock down the cockpit, we'll sit down at the back end of the ship and they can fight us the whole way down. * Fuegan kneels down with the autopistol in hand and sets up a defensive position behind a chair Fuegan: wall* DeathsHands: Umm.. they're coming from the cargo bay. Warc: wat Warc: This info is good to know. DeathsHands: Access hatches. * Mithras reminds himself of what is logically happening and repositions himself. Warc: I guess I'll take the maximum allowed 6 actions to Aim in the meantime. DeathsHands: Hamish might want to as well. Warc: Bro's got my back. DeathsHands: Fuegan? Warc: X-fire reports him as AFK. DeathsHands: Break before shit breaks, I suppse. Fuegan: hi Warc: sup DeathsHands: gl hf DeathsHands: lolzerg Warc: ffff Warc: Yeah, it turns out they're coming from Room 7 (cargo hold). DeathsHands: A flashbang flies into the room. Warc: Fack. Warc: Can I... hmmm Warc: Nope, we're probably gonna tank this thing. * DeathsHands pokes fuegan Fuegan: I'm here DeathsHands: Gonna... do anything? Fuegan: I got flashbanged? Fuegan: I have options? Warc: Can I try and hit it with my shield before it comes through the door? DeathsHands: The nade flew it. Warc: Or is it coming low? DeathsHands: Umm.. DeathsHands: Sure, try and smack it. * Warc rolls: 2d6+X => 5 + 0 = 5 Fuegan: I cover my eyes? Warc: Eh, worth a try. DeathsHands: A good plan of action. DeathsHands: The eyes are important. Warc: I'm going to hope my helmet mitigates this somewhat. DeathsHands: The flashbang explodes. DeathsHands: (fuegan, you may roll 2d6 to attempt avoiding the stun.) * Fuegan rolls: 2d6 => 11 DeathsHands: Mithras' helmet negates the bang. DeathsHands: Passed. DeathsHands: A squad of boarding vacc-suit clad troopers rush down the hall. Mithras: Oh god, we're blind! I can't see a damn thing! Warc: Initiative time?
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