Zack
Inactive Member
A soft ‘boom’ rattled the NNN offices, the power would go out, and then the emergency lighting would kick in as the backup generators started to power up.
“WHY ARE WE OFF THE AIR!” Someone shouted, a very particular someone with a crew cut, suit, hip holster, red tie, and a cigar hanging out of his mouth who happened to own and run the Nepleslian News Network.
One of the camera techs would respond, “The power just…”
“YOUR FIRED.” The owner interrupted, “GET THIS FIXED NOW, GET A REPORTER TO THE POWER STATION, GET ME PICTURES, INTERVIEWS, AND SOUNDBITES.” He yelled, his cigar falling out of his mouth as he watched the doors to his precious newsroom open as seven identical bald, muscular, nepleslians burst in, literally foaming at the mouth. Behind them was a single NMX shocktrooper, his jellyfish like body clad in a dull brown armor that looked like it had been assembled from metal scraps.
Like any good nepleslian businessman, the owner would pull a revolver from his hip holster. He was joined by the head editor, pulling a shotgun from under his desk, the news anchor, grabbing a pistol that was tapped under her chair, the mailboy pulling a machine gun out from his mail cart. In second the NMX and its slaves were facing a well armed newsroom full of Nepleslians. As the gunfire started so too did the owner’s rallying cry.
“GET OUT OF MY NEWSROOM!”
“WHY ARE WE OFF THE AIR!” Someone shouted, a very particular someone with a crew cut, suit, hip holster, red tie, and a cigar hanging out of his mouth who happened to own and run the Nepleslian News Network.
One of the camera techs would respond, “The power just…”
“YOUR FIRED.” The owner interrupted, “GET THIS FIXED NOW, GET A REPORTER TO THE POWER STATION, GET ME PICTURES, INTERVIEWS, AND SOUNDBITES.” He yelled, his cigar falling out of his mouth as he watched the doors to his precious newsroom open as seven identical bald, muscular, nepleslians burst in, literally foaming at the mouth. Behind them was a single NMX shocktrooper, his jellyfish like body clad in a dull brown armor that looked like it had been assembled from metal scraps.
Like any good nepleslian businessman, the owner would pull a revolver from his hip holster. He was joined by the head editor, pulling a shotgun from under his desk, the news anchor, grabbing a pistol that was tapped under her chair, the mailboy pulling a machine gun out from his mail cart. In second the NMX and its slaves were facing a well armed newsroom full of Nepleslians. As the gunfire started so too did the owner’s rallying cry.
“GET OUT OF MY NEWSROOM!”