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2/15/2016 6:49:01 PM
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[i]Wilson lands, the power armor absorbing the shock and sending out a shockwave on impact. Standing up to full height, his M2HB slid down into place, and the bolt locked twice to chamber a round. Reaching to his back, he brought forth his MG3, and locked its bolt as well.[/i]
I was born ready for this.
[i]In seconds, the roar of machine gun fire filled the air as the Courier pressed forwards. Spent casings and belt links flew everywhere as civilians fell. The Deuce's .50 caliber incendiary shells cut through walls, cars, and flesh easily, decimating whatever they hit. The MG3's rapid fire rate literally cut people in half, the sound itself instilling fear. There was no escape from him. Those that run were cut down, those that hid were demolished.[/i]
English
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[b][i]The Frontiersman opened fire on incoming police units, occasionally firing his right hand out of its socket like a grappling hook, pulling himself to higher and higher ledges to get better vantage points. A police helicopter flies nearby, and he grapples into it, flying in from the side and unleashing hell, individually hitting each cop inside six or seven times. He shoots the pilot, and the helicopter slams into the ground, as he jumps away and continues to fire, nailing things midair as he zips from spot to spot. [/i][/b]
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[i]Wilson simply moves forward. Shells, laser beams, and plasma seem to do nothing to his armor as he moves effortlessly through the hordes of law enforcement. His MG3 had finally run out of ammo, and rather than a new belt, he holstered it, and drew his shotgun. The Browning on his shoulder continued to pound away, barrel growing red. More and more fell to him, blood splattering his armor. Those that got too close received a shotgun blast to the face, ripping their face apart. Occasionally, he swung with his left hand, the impact of his metal-encased fist damaging internal organs, his Tesla shield killing via electrocution. [/i]
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[b][i]The final push of targets sweep in, and The Frontiersman tosses his G11 to the side, his stony grey hand sliding into his palm, forming an onyx black revolver, and he draws a tri-barrelled shotgun from his back, starting to rapidly fire into the fleeing crowd of civilians, maybe 100 remaining at best. [/i][/b]
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[i]Wilson stops firing, the barrel of his Browning red-hot and smoking. Sliding his shotgun onto his back, he draws his machete, and an energy blade springs forth from the top of his left wrist gauntlet. The power armor goes into overdrive as he rushes in swinging. Screams, snapping bone, and the slicing of flesh can be heard as he rips them apart with the two blades. A final figure attempts to run, but the attempt is futile, as he catches up, and slams the machete blade down into their head, cracking their skull. The body falls to its knees, and Wilson wrenches the machete out, the corpse falling over, blood oozing out.[/i]
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"Well well, you certainly lived up to the name!" [b][i]The Frontiersman shouts from a rooftop, before he jumps off, the spring loaded legs absorbing the shock. He approaches Wilson, after picking up the G11, it laying limo at his side. He steps over plenty of corpses, and an NWH Helicopter flies over, landing in the middle of the street. the Frontiersman steps in, sitting next to the only soldier on board aside from the pilot[/i][/b]
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[i]Wilson picks up the gun.[/i] I dig it. [i]He slides it onto his back, and climbs onto the helicopter, holding the side rail on the cargo bay entry.[/i]
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[b][i]The blades spin up, and The Frontiersman grabs a green duffel bag from beside him, sliding it to Wilson. [/i][/b]"Twenty grand, should be enough to cover ammo costs"
