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If you used Aerith, I feel bad for you, son. I grind 99 levels and she didn't get one.
1024 bytes is a kibibyte.
No wonder our ratings have been tanking the last few seasons.
I don't know. The few people who I could imagine actually carrying the lead role within the community aren't presently around. I mean, I wouldn't be too choosy if it came down to it because everyone hates the MC from being generic and not as cool as the other characters anyways.
Humans are just adorably petty.
As much as you don't like half measures and hurting women, she's out cold and you've got that sweet tingling in your forearm and elbow that tells you that there's nothing left in her head but uneasy 'got my head knocked on by a large joint' dreams. Well enough. She's not going to trouble you for a good while. Next order of business. You heave her up on your shoulder. She's wearing a solid ton of gear and probably isn't much of a dainty thing without it. Still you tell your leg to kindly fuck off and then quietly shoulder your way into the last car. Two people are fighting still, only it seems that knives and fists have been taken over guns. Fun. One's clearly an American and the other looks a little Russian-but-not-really. Probably from some little place like Georgia. Anyhow the American-- the hot blonde chick-- is holding her own against the crew cut gigantor. She's even got long hair just flipping around wildly like she don't give a damn. Snowflake and Sour would hate her. You personally like people who have their own flair and ego. It's how you're remembered that counts. No one remembers that safe guy who makes sure to do everything nice and clean and easy. You remember the guy who charged up the hill and killed thirty assailants on the way and then took out the gunnery up top. Anyhow, given that the hulking monster hasn't managed to so much as catch her with a bullet while his own vest is pockmarked with lead, you're gonna say he's on the losing end. That's an oddity, really. Usually, it's the Americans that have to use numbers and tactics to win. This girl is something special. Still, you've got the psuedo-Russian's partner on your shoulder and you figure you might as well make it your business to return her. So you do the only logical thing and call attention to yourself. Both combatants stare at you like you're some kind of retard, the almost-not-really-Russian a bit moreso. You muster the strength to one armed toss the chick onto the ground and start asking your questions, rapidfire. Don't give them a chance to think about it, don't give them room to question your existence. Put the ball in their court with a lot of speed and a little spin. The American is the first to answer you, in Spanish no less. She says something about her partner being a complete dolt and that you're dead once she finishes the big one. The big one speaks in posh English English and tell you that he'll rip your skull from your puny little head and wear it as a codpiece. Okay, agents have never been the friendly sort, but come on. Skull codpiece? Is he joking? The American asks as much. He responds by reaching in to grab her hair. She responds by dragging a her second butterfly knife through four of his fingers and burying it in his leg. With the one she'd been fighting with so far she took his right eye and a good bit of his brain you imagine. Confirmed. He's a dead man. Well, this was hardly what you expected from your train ride. You should [] Communicate like a civilized person. [] RUN! [] fight.
Given that their sight starts out worse and their other senses better. I'd say yeah.
Only option is to go out and kill a hooker with your favorite brick.
It can only be DDR. Japanese only PS1 era ones are the only viable ones though.
Implying it's not. Bring the whole house then. This is why we have houses.
You take a deep breath and brush off all the pansy you've been rolling around in. Knife, sharp. Gun, loaded. Smokes, lit. You'll be the first to admit that you only smoke to look cool and try not to do it often enough to kill your lungs too bad. However, as much as your life is about appearances and what you want people to think. Your job is about results. You weren't picked to join Sour Kraut and all the other tops of the industry because you're just another pretty face. You were chosen because you're the guy who gets there. It may not be a job in front of you, but you've got to get there first. You smile. Whoever these fucks behind the door are, you're getting there. Or not. You barely managed to avoid a shotgun blast tearing your leg off when you noticed your would be assassin in the dingy window's reflection. Your dodge puts you in a corner behind a chair with no good way to get line of sight. If you remember where he is correctly you can just-- got him. Her, rather. The woman looks to be in her early thirties at the oldest. Her vest caught the bullet, unfortunately. She'll be back up in a second. She you grit your teeth and tackle her to the ground. Your leg doth protest quite intensely against this course of action but your leg can shove it, your brain's the boss. You put your knife flush up against her jugular through the very top layers of her skin. She glares up at you and spits some kind of Russian at you. Probably insulting you. Whatever. You see that she's currently unarmed the sawn off shotgun that she was using before is just out of her reach. You check for others briefly and then ask her if she speaks English in your most polite tone. More Russian. Well, this doesn't seem to be going much of anywhere. There are still other people to attend to, so you should [] Press the interrogation. [] Kill her. [] Knock her out.
Don't worry about it. It's not like you're ten years late to the party or anything.
I prefer it that way. It feels like there is at least something constant. Something that isn't getting shittier and more foreign every day.
It's pretty easy for me to remember/recognize you, seeing as you've been using the same set since like '08 or before.
Pokemon Gendered What fresh hell is this?
