"You can burn it down after we're off the leash." Kerrigan's not unreasonable, just practical. "We need to destroy the array totally so they can't reestablish control. Wreck that to your heart's content."
She snags the duffel out of the air, a clinking noise of metal and composite coming from within. "Great, thanks. Door's above my pay grade without the lockbreaking kit I don't have." Unzipping the bag, she starts pulling out pieces of her high-tech gear, none of which seem to be burglar's tools.
"Cover me for a minute." This seems mostly directed at Stacia, but Kerrigan's happy to take anyone's assistance on this. Without further warning or any sign of embarrassment, she strips down from her Jorgmund-issue jumpsuit and starts pulling on a set of futuristic light armor. Anyone discourteous enough to stare can see a handful of well-healed scars tracing along her very pale skin, but for a career special operative, she's remarkably unscathed. Ghosts don't get hit much.
"Get me an estimate on how long it's going to take and how much noise you'll make," she says to Remy while she gets dressed. "This isn't the most defensible location, and I don't want to waste too much effort holding it when we don't know what kind of resistance we'll be up against on the other side."
Kerrigan takes command reflexively, easily. This is her life—the rapid, high-stakes, hard strike, a rebellion without a chance that has somehow managed to bring the reigning power to its knees...and the chance that everything could fall suddenly, horribly to disaster. The responsibility settles onto her like her armor does, not a physical weight, but nonetheless a real one. The circuits in her suit start drawing on her psionic power to charge themselves, a familiar and comforting feeling despite the strain, and her mind starts running scenarios. How much resistance can they expect? What's a good disposition of their forces? Worst case, who has the best chance of getting through? And...who's expendable?
no subject
She snags the duffel out of the air, a clinking noise of metal and composite coming from within. "Great, thanks. Door's above my pay grade without the lockbreaking kit I don't have." Unzipping the bag, she starts pulling out pieces of her high-tech gear, none of which seem to be burglar's tools.
"Cover me for a minute." This seems mostly directed at Stacia, but Kerrigan's happy to take anyone's assistance on this. Without further warning or any sign of embarrassment, she strips down from her Jorgmund-issue jumpsuit and starts pulling on a set of futuristic light armor. Anyone discourteous enough to stare can see a handful of well-healed scars tracing along her very pale skin, but for a career special operative, she's remarkably unscathed. Ghosts don't get hit much.
"Get me an estimate on how long it's going to take and how much noise you'll make," she says to Remy while she gets dressed. "This isn't the most defensible location, and I don't want to waste too much effort holding it when we don't know what kind of resistance we'll be up against on the other side."
Kerrigan takes command reflexively, easily. This is her life—the rapid, high-stakes, hard strike, a rebellion without a chance that has somehow managed to bring the reigning power to its knees...and the chance that everything could fall suddenly, horribly to disaster. The responsibility settles onto her like her armor does, not a physical weight, but nonetheless a real one. The circuits in her suit start drawing on her psionic power to charge themselves, a familiar and comforting feeling despite the strain, and her mind starts running scenarios. How much resistance can they expect? What's a good disposition of their forces? Worst case, who has the best chance of getting through? And...who's expendable?