Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)Mr Master
Pulsar
- Joined
- Jan 26, 2009
He dropped down behind the armored car when it slowed down at a stoplight. The subsonic hum of the gravonics providing thrust died away as he landed, and he reached under the fender with his right hand and lifted. Carbon nanotube muscles hummed with power as he lifted the rear end of the car several feet off the ground. He also changed his skin display from dead black to red with yellow highlight flames.
IR scans painted two men inside. It was time to break silence; the surrounding traffic was already reacting to his presence, so why not make some noise. "You in the truck; you got about fifteen seconds," he said. As he spoke each word into the helmet mic, the suit computer translated it and created it from its own lexicon; no recordable voiceprint was going to come through those helmet speakers, ever. Having given the requisite warning, he lifted his left hand and pointed his dorsal forearm weapons array at the rear lock. "DJ," he said, accessing the onboard music computer. "Gimmie Dirty Deeds, external speakers." As the opening drums and guitar throbbed, he started his sonic cannon on the vibratory frequency of steel, focusing the sound on the lock. Sure, he could have ripped it open, but even with his strength, the inner cage was reinforced enough to make it tough. The cannon made a high-pitched whine that humans could barely hear, giving everyone in a one-block radius a splitting headache, although the suit filtered it out for him, so he could hear the passenger in the armored car yell, "Holy shit, it's that AC-DC guy!"
Steel wasn't doing it, so he ratcheted up the frequency until he started seeing some cracking with the radar scan. The radio scanner was alerting him to a slew of emergency calls on cell phones and police band radios, but nothing was too pressing. Nearby traffic had abandoned their cars, civilians were fleeing his immediate area, although the crowd was gathering about half a block away in each direction in the intersection. He ramped up the volume so they could all hear. His estimate was actually way off; Bon Scott was just starting to sing when the lock finally shattered, so it took more than 30 seconds. Ah, well.
He used both hands to lift the truck onto its nose, then he grabbed the chassis and hoisted it. He crimped his suit's fingers into the steel, shifting from hand to hand, moving his grip down toward the front wheels until he had the whole thing lifted above his head. He paused a moment, to savor the lyric "I lead a life of crime..." and then on the next drumbeat, he swung the whole truck down onto the curb there at the corner, smashing the doors open, sending all the money cases and bags flying across the pavement as Mr. Scott screamed out "Dirty deeds! Done dirt cheap!" Several of the socially rebellious in the crowd cheered his timing.
He knew what he was looking for. The computer optics read bar codes until he found what he wanted, the Revodyne Industries payroll deposit. That secured, he selected a few others; places likely to handle high denomination bills; might as well make a profit, while he was at it. He scanned each bag for tracers or dye packs, and had to discard a couple for that reason, but he ended up stashing six full bags in his hip storage spaces.
By this point, peripheral sensors were reading cop cars closing, some uniforms in the crowd, trying to push through. He grabbed two bulging bag in each hand, and strode out to the middle of the intersection. His clanking feet would have cracked the asphalt if it weren't for the side-effects of the gravonics negating the majority of the suit's weight. He set up his vectors, calculated the trajectories, and, most importantly, set up his playlist.
As "Rocker" blasted from his suit speakers, he bobbed his head to the beat, and did a little skiffle-y dance before starting to spin. His arms swung out as he spun, and the hum of the gravonics swelled as he rose into the air. When he was spinning at a fast enough rate, he let the bags slip from his hands, each one flying out into the air down the targeted streets, over the heads of the crowd. On his very next spin, a micromissile launched from his shoulder units down each street, detonating each bag and sending a shower of money fluttering down over the crowd. They went nuts, as expected, crowding in for the free money, obstructing the officers of the law. "Power to the people," he chuckled to himself, "And all hail the almighty dollar!"
His distraction complete, he sailed off into the sky, chameleon-ing into a sky-blue mottled with white. He had a whole variety of ways to avoid getting followed, but first he needed to get to the Hudson. It was still great to see New York City from the air, but he couldn't help but be preoccupied as he sailed toward the water.
IR scans painted two men inside. It was time to break silence; the surrounding traffic was already reacting to his presence, so why not make some noise. "You in the truck; you got about fifteen seconds," he said. As he spoke each word into the helmet mic, the suit computer translated it and created it from its own lexicon; no recordable voiceprint was going to come through those helmet speakers, ever. Having given the requisite warning, he lifted his left hand and pointed his dorsal forearm weapons array at the rear lock. "DJ," he said, accessing the onboard music computer. "Gimmie Dirty Deeds, external speakers." As the opening drums and guitar throbbed, he started his sonic cannon on the vibratory frequency of steel, focusing the sound on the lock. Sure, he could have ripped it open, but even with his strength, the inner cage was reinforced enough to make it tough. The cannon made a high-pitched whine that humans could barely hear, giving everyone in a one-block radius a splitting headache, although the suit filtered it out for him, so he could hear the passenger in the armored car yell, "Holy shit, it's that AC-DC guy!"
Steel wasn't doing it, so he ratcheted up the frequency until he started seeing some cracking with the radar scan. The radio scanner was alerting him to a slew of emergency calls on cell phones and police band radios, but nothing was too pressing. Nearby traffic had abandoned their cars, civilians were fleeing his immediate area, although the crowd was gathering about half a block away in each direction in the intersection. He ramped up the volume so they could all hear. His estimate was actually way off; Bon Scott was just starting to sing when the lock finally shattered, so it took more than 30 seconds. Ah, well.
He used both hands to lift the truck onto its nose, then he grabbed the chassis and hoisted it. He crimped his suit's fingers into the steel, shifting from hand to hand, moving his grip down toward the front wheels until he had the whole thing lifted above his head. He paused a moment, to savor the lyric "I lead a life of crime..." and then on the next drumbeat, he swung the whole truck down onto the curb there at the corner, smashing the doors open, sending all the money cases and bags flying across the pavement as Mr. Scott screamed out "Dirty deeds! Done dirt cheap!" Several of the socially rebellious in the crowd cheered his timing.
He knew what he was looking for. The computer optics read bar codes until he found what he wanted, the Revodyne Industries payroll deposit. That secured, he selected a few others; places likely to handle high denomination bills; might as well make a profit, while he was at it. He scanned each bag for tracers or dye packs, and had to discard a couple for that reason, but he ended up stashing six full bags in his hip storage spaces.
By this point, peripheral sensors were reading cop cars closing, some uniforms in the crowd, trying to push through. He grabbed two bulging bag in each hand, and strode out to the middle of the intersection. His clanking feet would have cracked the asphalt if it weren't for the side-effects of the gravonics negating the majority of the suit's weight. He set up his vectors, calculated the trajectories, and, most importantly, set up his playlist.
As "Rocker" blasted from his suit speakers, he bobbed his head to the beat, and did a little skiffle-y dance before starting to spin. His arms swung out as he spun, and the hum of the gravonics swelled as he rose into the air. When he was spinning at a fast enough rate, he let the bags slip from his hands, each one flying out into the air down the targeted streets, over the heads of the crowd. On his very next spin, a micromissile launched from his shoulder units down each street, detonating each bag and sending a shower of money fluttering down over the crowd. They went nuts, as expected, crowding in for the free money, obstructing the officers of the law. "Power to the people," he chuckled to himself, "And all hail the almighty dollar!"
His distraction complete, he sailed off into the sky, chameleon-ing into a sky-blue mottled with white. He had a whole variety of ways to avoid getting followed, but first he needed to get to the Hudson. It was still great to see New York City from the air, but he couldn't help but be preoccupied as he sailed toward the water.