"...So basically you pretend you're in World of Warcraft or something."
"You're on to me! Aaah! I jest, I jest. But yeah. That's mostly my plan. We've yet to encounter, y'know, anything that wouldn't run like a boss battle.
Do you play?"
"I know what a cook is.
We should talk strategy, really. I can fight Witches alone but if these things are really that bad then we'll have to work together, right?"
"I-I... I'm not th-that good..."
((THAT SHOULD BE EVERYONE))
The peaceful, sensible gathering is interrupted by a great, terrible rumbling and a sense of impending dread.
Doom, as it turns out, comes in the form of a painted-grin Russian shipgirl, steaming down the space station corridors at full speed.
"Excuse me! Coming through! We brake for nobody!" she roars, cackling madly with her labcoat fluttering behind her, muscles bulging with exertion despite probably not being used. Even so, she has... oh dear god. She has, in fact, a very technological cable tied around her waist (and harnessed in a few other places) and is towing a massive pallet of arcane-looking equipment behind her, its not-quite-smooth rolling (oh hey it has wheels. Tiny wheels that barely lift it off the ground at the best of times.) across the floor being the source of aforementioned terrible rumbling.
The madness in female form thunders past the innocent bystanders, only slowing in order to make a corner, almost jack-knifing her 'trailer' before disappearing into the arcade that a certain sorcerer had managed to put out of order not so long ago.
what the actual fuck