Mezzo: Métier!

Welcome to Mezzo: Métier! A strange and fast-paced Sci-Fi story featuring a lewd combat system adapted from NeedaMedic's previous combat systems and plenty of choices to speak of. This is a VERY loose spin-off of Mezzo Forte, but is mainly inspired from works like Cowboy Bebop and Firefly. WARNING: This game's combat system openly advertises **** and domination as fetishes. (Don't worry, wholesome love interests are also here and here to stay!) Bad Ending's are possible, but combat is low risk. This is a slow game, and if our protagonist meets her end it will be at the audience's discretion, otherwise I will always try to find a way to journey forward. I encourage you to explore my story, and paint your own vision of this world as we go forward. Not every piece of this puzzle will be obvious, and I intend to reveal more and more chapter by chapter. This includes the game system itself. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy.

A Foreword from a Dangerous Man.

Somewhere in the outskirts of Tijuana, Mexico. 2089.

“Tell him it’s done.” Boyd calmly demands, staring blankly ahead at a concrete wall, every inch filled with obscene graffiti. His eyes trace over a particularly colorful piece of calligraphy as the voice on the other side of the burner phone raises. Boyd let’s the man continue on his rant, and it ever so slowly quiets when the hitman hadn’t responded.

“I said… tell him it’s done.” Click. With a quick twist, the phone is forever silenced. He simply drops it to the car floor, hiding it away under the driver’s seat with a quick slide of the foot. Shifting in his old leather seat, Boyd is now covered in an old leather jacket, taking great care in leaving his wrist completely covered.

Carefully noting everything was prepped and ready, he glances up at the wall again. His dreary, focused, and blank visage broken through by a large smile as he notices a thoroughly detailed piece of male genitalia, covering other symbols. With that, his car door swings open. Boyd struts down the dirty hallway confidently, even with the large cumbersome duffel bag swaying along with him. He’s finally arrived, apartment 6A. Loud music blares from the room, shaking the walls. Unknown to Boyd, a generation or two past his time. Rap, rap, rap. The gunman finds himself rolling his eyes as the music quiets down, and hushed voices murmur warnings to one another as quick footsteps fly toward the doorway.

It’s unlocked, and swung open. A six-foot something muscle greets him as smoke flees from the crowded room behind. Boyd flicks his eyes up to the thug, his expression betraying nothing but possible annoyance. “Care to… scooch?” Boyd gently asks, to which the thug continues the stare down for a short moment before moving himself, providing entry. Boyd flashes him a wide smile.

“That’s what I thought.” He doesn’t take care to read the tall man’s reaction, as he’s already moving onto the center of the room, where three **** out cartel members sit. White powder illuminated by the sunlight gently floats through the air, as cocaine lines are whisked away, sloppily hidden.

“Hey, hermano! The bullet guy, right? Lawton. Laaawton.” The young man sitting in the center calls out, looking to his friends as he sounds out the name, as if it was an alien one. In Boyd’s eyes, he was nothing but a rich man’s son. As if ****, the other two men at the table belt out some laughter. In return, he grins, yet saying nothing.

“Where you from, man?” The young man asks, not even having looked at the bag yet. He is ahead of everyone and everything, in charge of the room. Or so he thought. “Lawton. Sounds like the Midwest. Heh, you a hick, hermano? Stupid American?” Boyd lets out a light chuckle, slowly sliding out a chair for himself, the young cartel members cheery demeanor fades as the chair grinds against apartment flooring, plopping himself in the seat, Lawton lets out a big sigh.

“Close.” Boyd nods, side eyeing the other men. “But even a stupid American knows… respect, no?” He reads fear. Good. “Respect demands quality. There isn’t a single family deserving more of mine than the Escabedo’s. Truly.” He takes another look around the room. No response but silence. So he continues. “Which means…” With slight struggle, the bag slumps against the table. “I deliver the highest quality.”

Allowing himself to stand again, practically prying open up the bag. Filled to the brim with bullets as big as sausages. “Hand crafted from Puerto Rico, eh? Fuel for a belt-fed killer. Same difference for most, just the sight strikes fear in the police, and if you click… boom. Strikes a hole through them all the same. If you notice, very light, mobile ammunition. You won’t need your local Schwarzenegger to maneuver a bag-“ The cocking of a gun breaks through the silence, of course, belonging to the hot shot leader.

“Lawton.”

Recognizing the sound, the gunman raises his brow, yet not his head. “Hm?”

“I think we’ll be taking those guns, Lawton. For free.” The three cackle together, as if on cue. “We’ll take off your hands. But, since you carried it all the way over, we’ll trade you some bullets, hermano.” Lawton’s palms dramatically flatten against the table as he raises his head, meeting a pistol at eye level. He slowly, methodically, raises his right hand, displaying a pointer finger.

“No, you won’t.” The young man laughs.

“I won’t? And why’s that Lawton? Because you have a wife- no, no… a kid. You’re an old dude, come on, he can’t be under fuckin’ twelve!”

“No, you cannot kill me, because I haven’t explained everything yet.” Boyd says with nothing more than a grimace.

His hand maneuvers into the bag, shuffling through the bag to pick out three miscolored rounds. He proudly shows them off. “See this? Very special, explosive rounds. Here, take.” His arm travels across the table to the young man. “Go on.” With a glare, the man gingerly accepts, gun still pointed and ready to end the ammunition dealer. Boyd gestures to his friends. “Don’t be afraid to share, amigos, share!” He encourages, sitting back down. As the three are distracted with sharing the trio of rounds, his left arm slides down to his jean pocket, pulling out a fourth and final miscolored round. His chair slides over, angled more toward the entrance. His forearm draped over the back- aimed directly at the muscle behind.

The young man shakes his head. “They look like bullets, Lawton. As much as you are entertaining, we’d like to move forward. No more delays. Get me?”

“Oh, yeah. I get you. No time like the present.” Boyd grins, unnerving the man behind the gun. “See, the thing is…” the gunman leans forward. “Most bullets, oh they pack a punch. But these ones, oh man. They pack something a little extra, you get me?” The three exchange glances, not getting him.

“What I mean, is that they really, really, go…” His thumb presses down on the round hidden in hand, a spring loaded mechanism **** down with a click. “Boom.”

Like fireworks, the rounds in their hands explode, sending shrapnel, blood, and bone spraying across the room, covering most surfaces in sight instantly. The muscle in the back barely has time to react, his hand moving towards his belt, before a round fires straight into his chest. It pushes him to the floor, a streak of blood trailing along the wall behind him. Everyone, left on the floor aside from Boyd, who wipes a speck of blood off his face.

He sighs, a burning hole in his leather jacket, where his wrist gun shot through. “Well, shit.” He sits in silence for a few moments, collecting his thoughts, before a gurgle is heard across from him. Slowly standing, and walking across the room. The young cartel member lies there, clutching his neck. Probably begging, if he could speak. Boyd doesn’t wince. Boyd collects his own gun from the table, one he held just a few moments ago.

Boyd places a boot firmly on his chest, steadying him. The gunman looks him dead in the eye, any semblance of friendliness, gone. “One last thing, hermano.”

“Not Lawton.” He shakes his head. “Deadman.”

Two final gunshots quake the apartment, leaving behind only bodies and gun smoke.

Mezzo: Métier, Part I. An Old, Dusty Ship in an Old, Dusty Town

You will be informed of game mechanics, stats, abilities, and inventory when necessary. Let me be all narrative, sheesh man.

2093.

Ira wakes in her standard fashion. Alone, half dressed, in a sloppily made bed of her own design. The only abnormality being tossed from her mattress to the metal floor that covers the expanse of her uncarpeted chambers. "Shit!" She hisses, as the unsteady thrum of turbulence rocks her prone form beneath. Using the janky bedframe to her side as support, Ira boosts herself upward to scuffle her bare feet across the room.

Pressing and holding the intercom button with a finger, she looks up towards the only thing that adorn's the room's walls, a speaker system that interlays itself all throughout the ship, connecting directly to the cockpit.

"Hey, Mac. Maybe mind announcing the next time we enter Earth's atmosphere? It gets a little shaky on the way down." Ira says, fuming. She leans a shoulder against the wall, waiting for a response, but only greeted by the quiet hum that typically accompanies the ship's speaker system. "Mac?" She repeats, as the speaker continues on it's useless droning. Huffing, Ira peers back to the slim-fitting black turtleneck resting against her bed, leaving the speaker alone as she moves to adorn it.

Mac, finally able to relax, shifts back in her seat. Lights at the control panel flared at her, seemingly angered.

"Well, it weren't the prettiest landing but at least you're still hummin'." Mac's gloved hand reaches up to the ignition switch, flicking it off. The ship stills, albeit with a relaxed huff. One by one, red lights dotted around the control panel flicker into darkness, until the lights that accompany the crammed cockpit interior leave it abandoned. Only sunlight glares through the tinted window before her. Unfortunately, there isn't much opportunity for silence as the metal door behind her opens with a loud 'clang!' Mac's eyes drift to a mirror needlessly fit to see whoever is behind her as she flies. She tenses as she sees Ira's form, arms crossed, sleepy and tense as ever.

"Ira?"

"Mac." Ira releases herself from the doorway as she walks into the room, scraping her shoulder against a bookshelf fastened to the ship's deck. Mac's "accessories" to the cockpit didn't leave a lot of room to walk. Knick-Knacks and books were left littered on shelves haphazardly fit on surfaces that clearly had no room for them. It didn't leave much space for company but, compared to the relatively vacant ship that lied beyond the cockpit it was a welcoming sight to most. "The intercom is... busted?" Ira muses, technically oblivious, she looks to this room's speaker for sparks or something obvious. No sparks or other obvious damage was apparent.

"And ain't it a shame?" Mac nervously huffs, finally using a spare leg to swing her pilot's seat around to the imposing woman. "Hope you didn't meet the floor too hard with that bout of-" She shoots a look up to Ira's mop of... currently distressed hair. "...turbulence."

Ira doesn't reply. Not to the desired turn of topic, anyway. "Any damage?" She asks.

"None too much to speak of- to the ship. To our reputation though?" Ira's attention is turned to the landing pad as Mac throws her head over her shoulder to have a peek out. Ahead, several maintenance workers adorning red jumpsuits maneuver the ship as they examine the effect it had hitting the runway. A few of the snottier ones peer into the cockpit, as another describes the scene to a newcomer. Ira sucks in a breath. "Your old boss will know bout us in no time." Ira cocks her head in retort.

"Count on it." She flicks the bird to the gentlemen engineers in no particular order, catching a sneer from most- including the pilot.

"'Ey!" Mac limply smacks a hand against Ira's hip bone. "My ship, my reputation, my manners, can you dig it?"

"I'll go outside then, and start yelling at them myself. Can you dig that?" The two stare at each other, with Ira winning the bite-sized pissing match. Mac simply settles into her seat. "I'm going to go check on our darling corpse." Ira meekly declares. "See if I can get Clint to help." Ira turns her back on the cockpit.

"Clint's kill." Mac shrugs. Her eyes settle on the mirror, currently portraying Ira's tight behind. That's where those eyes drifted, anywho. Within a moment of Ira's form vanishing, Mac concentrates on the workers, deciding to gingerly hoist a middle finger to the men, in a manner not near as confident as Ira's. She cackles.

"Hey, lady."

"How's my man of the ship?"

"Fine, fine." Clint hums. He was currently nestled on the couch overlooking the ship's kitchen. In it's current state, it was... unkempt. Minding the ever-present undone dishes, elements belonging to the refrigerator were sporadically placed around the kitchen as if it needed to be excavated. A brick had been jammed beneath the appliance's door, keeping it at bay from something spilling out. "Made you a coffee. Figured you'd need one after spilling over. Walked out of your room with a temper." He leans forward to slide Ira a mug, making the poor thing look small under his opposing meaty hand, a blazing trail of steam rising behind it's wake.

A smile can't help but crack across Ira's stern gaze. Clint can't help but notice. "Two sugars?" She eyes him, testing the brown liquid with the barest edge of her upper lip.

"Three. Figured you needed the sweet before uh," He addresses the fridge with a wave of the hand.

"Yeah?" She mumbles into her cup, taking a sip. "How's it doing?"

"It's refrigerated." Clint answers, letting loose a sigh. Whether he was concerned about the fridge, or the carcass was a guessing man's game. "I'm gonna need a bit of help with-"

The sound of the cockpit's door opening startles both of the kitchen's settlers, as Ira's jolt results in a bit of coffee soaking into her turtleneck. Ira seethes, as her jaw clenches with the pain.

"We got a bit of a situation." Mac steps into the common room, picking at the lint on her lengthy sleeve.

"What?" Ira growls. Before she can answer, there's a pounding heard a hall away. The trio of them turn- as Ira sets down her coffee and Mac leans up from the comfort of their beloved couch. "They're not happy are they?" Ira groans.

"Nope." Mac answers with a nervous shake of the head. "The whole gesturing thing mighta not have helped us a whole bunch."

"We have get going, too." Clint adds in. "Can't settle in this morning doing a bunch of angry people's paperwork. We're already late on this guy's transport and if those goon's come knocking on our door-"

"Well Mac's not a talker!" Ira sighs, beginning to pace. "I cannot be at two places at once."

"That's not the only thing." Mac declares, now spun around from the two of them. They fix their gazes on the back of her curly hair. She turns back towards them, putting up a limp wrist as if it added to her defense. "The ship... it isn't turning on."

"God damn-it Mac!" They both say in unison. Mac raises both hands, facing back towards them.

"She needed new parts awhile ago. But my concern, is that if those goons or your old boss comes wanting a throwdown, it's a fight we got **** but handling. I know what's going on, but I'm gonna need new parts."

Before Ira can respond, there's another set of rapid knocks at the door. She fixes her sweater, and puts on a mean face. "O-kay. Let's..."

As of now, voting is open! Vote in the comments or in PM's.

Help Clint deliver the fridge. This is a (REFLEX) check! Ira's Forte! She has a +5 to this task.

Talk down the angry engineers. This is a (MIND) check! She has a +3 to this task.

Race to get the damaged ship repaired. No obvious check associated.

Any other take? Post ideas if you have those.