#gravbike

[thecrowinggriffon]

Haven't been painting a lot this last week. However, I have been printing and converting thes Grey Knight reinforcements for my game next week. Made a repulsor into an executioner by adding a lasgun on the turret as well as a double barrel psycannon. Don't thinkit's legal, but it follows the rule of cool.

[demigoddropout]

Pax is such a sweetheart

He built a gravbike to ride with his dad

He built another little device for his mom to use during her meetings 😭😭

Don't get me started on the whole speech he gave the obsidians about abandoning their morning star... HIS FATHER

"I am the son of the Morning Star. The flesh and blood of the man who broke your chains"

[francisgoeltner]

Bravestarr: TurboMule - Design

One whacky design from the original show was the anti-grav bike called ‘TurboMule’ which replaced a cowboy’s horse on New Texas despite serious shape clues from bulls. I decided to bring this design a little closer to the bucking/jumping horse as a base shape and did some silhouette ideation based on that. 

I also wanted to stay away from too much used cliches of anti-grav generators (the usual round plates with blue glowing elements) and therefore did some further tech exploration sketches based on different shapes and propulsion types.

The four most promising of the silhouettes turned to volume sketches and the best of those was also explored some more with some states and functional sketches.

For more concepts and higher resolutions: www.conceptdojo.com 

[evapunk333]

Incorrect Red Rising Quotes

Mustang: Victra… How do I begin to explain Victra?

Tactus: Victra is flawless.

Roque: I hear her hair's insured for $10,000.

Darrow: I hear she does gravBike commercials…on Luna.

Sevro: One time she punched me in the face… it was awesome.

[sunnysmiles]

in the switching station due north a few hours north of Sadall, an apprentice lineman sees 4 gravbikes fly over head, and in the distance, a bus explodes.....

[redemptionva]

                                                          Quin

“I promise you - just look for yourself,” Gref insisted as the squeak of the monitor accompanied his voice, “all there, and it looks pretty big. Plenty of opportunities to find whatever you’re looking for.” Gref’s mouth curled into a grin that showcased his crooked teeth and stressed the creases in his homely sun-burned skin. A crackle came from my helmet - beneath the noise lay my mirthless chuckles.

“Fine, fine” I asked as my voice was tenuously doubled through two channels, “How old is this thing? I don’t really want to dig through a rusted bucket again”  “At least a century, so any fuel-fires or fumes are bound to have gone out by now. If you’re so worried about it, just toss a match down before you go spelunkin’.” I turned my head and mulled over the perpetually decent finds Gref had “found” for me over the past few months or so. “Sure,” I shrugged, gesturing to the antiquated speeder-bike that Gref had been eyeing since I arrived, “you really want that, huh?” With a nearly wordless exchange, I traded the speeder that had surely seen better days for a chance at finding something worthwhile. At least more worthwhile than a Vekog Mk. III Gravbike.

The sight was something to behold if you hadn’t seen the work a scrapper does almost weekly: a massive freighter-ship the size of a tower dug deep into the earth perpendicular to the ground. It awkwardly protruded from the ground laden in a rust and moss. Despite Gref’s description, very little paint survived the century (at least) of storms and meteor-showers. Its nose was lost to the earth, leaving the majority of the vessel beneath the cracked earth. Quin wasn’t a tourist; they knew better than to waste time sight seeing. I didn’t let myself get distracted by such an uncanny scene. After my first few months out here, I pushed the thoughts of the poor souls that perished here. Gref told me not to be too upset about it. They were a bunch of rich people from a “lost civilization of terrible proportions that were slain by the mighty LLF”. He knows that the thought of those bastards makes me itch, but he thinks he’s funny and I won’t take that away from him. 

After getting a lay of the land, I pried my way inside of the beast after taking a torch to this damaged port a story above the ground. Inside was musty as I expected. Stale air couldn’t touch me beneath the helmet. The floor was at an angle, leaving me hanging on door frames like a ladder for a giant. As I slowly made my way deeper into the belly, the glow of my headlamp kept things mostly visible until I encountered a map on the wall. It was one of those maps that had the big “you are here” thing on it, but that didn’t help a whole lot  considering I had no clue where the hell I was to begin with. Seemed I was near the back where the engines died. That’d explain the stains on the wall and floor. Despite the age, I was surprised how untouched everything was. The doors I managed to get open (or the ones that were already open) lead to nothing impressive. I found a few thousand in a currency I’ve never heard of and metal jewelry. A jumpsuit with a label on the breast that was probably a name and number. Despite how much I’ve scrapped through ships like this, I don’t think I’ve ever been this disoriented. Seeing beds flipped and against the wall made my stomach churn. Damned if I knew why. It just did. 

The deeper I went, the harder it was to see. Something lingered in the air. Some sort of gas. It had a color like mud and the density of moderate fog. I descended further and yeah, still plenty of this gas. Paranoid thoughts about the filters on my helmet filled my mind. I couldn’t remember the last time I changed them. Last week? A month? Fuck, I hope it hasn’t been a month. What else had I not ran diagnostics on? My feet. My feet hit the bottom. The side? The side was the bottom in this case. I’m breathing to much. I need to breathe. I can’t breathe. Am I choking? Choking on nothing. Choking like a baby on spit. Fucking mercy. My head hurts. Like someone stuck jumpers to my temples. I can’t. I can’t, I can’t. My head is heavy. It’s full of the charge from the jumpers. The jumpers that the baby choked on. I reached the side only to choke on the bottom.

What the fuck happened. One minute I was running diagnostics and the next my mind went from solid to liquid out my ears. Splitting headache. I’m on the floor looking up at the fog that became harder to see through. Not even my lamp helped. I was the last bean in the can and there was only a fart from what was already eaten above me. Never thought I’d feel so small yet so big at the same time. I have all this space to move around yet nowhere to go. I’m not standing up. I’ll just crawl. Yeah, what could go wrong? Crawl on the bottom (side) of a totaled ship that had sharp rock and glass all over the place to grate me like cheese.

Left, right, left, right. My head was pounding. At least I could feel something in my head. The rest of my body tingled with the frigid chill of ice water, but it was something. Something was better than nothing. A box. The thing of my search. A fucking box. I reached for it with my stiffened arms to grab it. Click. It opened. Small tubes with clear liquid. A small container full of sterilized needles. Some other bottle of liquid. Good enough. Meds. Gref will know. Gref. Is he even alive? How long have I been down here? Fuck. Maybe I’m dead. Maybe I died after that fall. Come to think of it, I never actually reached the bottom. Did I fall? I need to get the hell out of here.

I fell asleep, but only for a few hours. My blurred vision cleared around the center, leaving me with two inconvenient tunnels of perception. Yeah, I must’ve fallen. Whole body hurts and it hurts to stand. There’s a particularly bad pain in my back, but it isn’t stopping me from trying to climb out. 

The walls down here weren’t like the ones up a ways; they’re rusted and dented down here. Wrapped around the earth like tinfoil. The rest of the ship seemed inaccessible from here. There is far too much in the way for me to ever possibly dig through. Fucking Gref. I guess I can’t blame him for my stupidity. I don’t know why I go on these dangerous dives in the condition I’m in. I guess a greater part of me wants to make sure the old bastard doesn’t worry about me. I don’t know why. I don’t have anything to prove. Hell, maybe I do. I’ll be damned if I tell him about what happened though.

I’m lucky to be alive at this point. I just rested as much as I could before I began to climb with my hook and cables. With all the things that happened here, I wondered why I hadn’t seen a body yet. There’s no way that someone survived this crash. Stop. Stop. Left, right, left, right. I’m not fucking falling again. Left, right, left right. The gas is thinning. It’s easier to see. Left, right, left, right. I can see light. How long was I - No. Left, right, left right. I finally sat myself down near the port I burned through to get in. I threw my helmet off and finally took a drink and had another sawdust protein-bar. Last thing I wanted to do at the bottom was have to inhale all that shit when I was trying to eat this garbage. That’d really make me sick. Just seeing light eased my pain. The pain in the head, I mean. My back still hurt like a sonuvabitch.

As much as I wanted to rest, I didn’t want to stay in this metal tomb for another minute. Even the smallest pebble made a deafening echo as it banged against the metal on the way down. It didn’t bother me at first, but my amateur scrapper was showing. I was honestly disheartened and afraid. Helmet on. Hooks and ropes are ready to go.

I hopped on my bike, looking up at the thing that nearly killed me. I coughed, looking at the box I found before tucking it away again. I had at least two weeks. That was good enough. Despite getting what I was looking for, that wasn’t worth the scare. I drifted with great speed over the craggy landscape. The last thing I wanted was a ship like that to be my over-sized titanium casket. -Note from the Author- Hey there! My name is Redemption (Red for short), and I’m a writer and aspiring voice actor. The kind of things that I’ll be posting here are going to vary. Some stuff may be more silly like outtakes and what have you and others may be like this; short stories or even multi-part stories. Please let me know what you lot would like to see in the future. Thanks! Link to my Fiverr page (I use this as a portfolio since I can’t seem to get any orders anymore): https://www.fiverr.com/share/plxaDZ

[yulduz98]

Character Profile: Vladislava

Name: Vladislava Aleksandrovna Stroeva

Alias: Vladya, Vlada

Code Name: Molniya

Age: 21

Ethnicity: Bashkir

Nationality: Russian

Height: 5′10″

Family: Unknown

Occupation: Member of the Russian Special Forces

Rank: Starshiy Leytenant (Senior Lieutenant)

Skills: Lightning Magic, Flight, Energy Shields, Self-healing

Strengths: Destructive Lightning Magics, can self-heal, can fly, can summon an alien slave.

Weaknesses: Has a relatively weak physique.  It is outstanding by human standards, but frail by meta-human standards. Her energy shield offers only limited protection and has a long cooldown.  She drinks too much.

Equipment: She uses no weapons.  Her combat uniforms are state-mandated red and maize.  She was given a Sukhoi Su-101 gravbike by the FSB for air combat.

Current events:

-She is on an exchange program with the MCPD, though she has no authority to enforce the law.  It is merely an observation role.

-She is also on a mission to find and recruit Russian meta-humans, mutants and demons living in Millenium City.

-She is in charge of a Russian moonbase, where her recruits are housed.

Personality:

-She is somewhat outgoing, though takes a while to trust strangers.

-Vladya is fanatically devoted to her government.  Though she makes smart-ass comments about the bureaucrats, she has utmost respect for the Russian Chief of the General Staff, Army General Valery Gerasimov, as well as for the Russian President.

-Her personality is greatly shaped by her upbringing.  She is a strong believer in the supremacy of the state, in maintaining order, and in a state agent’s duty to enforce the law.

She looks just like Albina Akhtyamova: https://www.instagram.com/albina_akhtyamova/

[gamerszone2019-blog]

Disintegration Hands-on: Less Halo, More Bizarre Shooter-Strategy

New Post has been published on https://gamerszone.tn/disintegration-hands-on-less-halo-more-bizarre-shooter-strategy/

Disintegration Hands-on: Less Halo, More Bizarre Shooter-Strategy

Disintegration sounds pretty complicated. It’s a first-person sci-fi shooter, except you’re riding a free-floating hoverbike, and you’re simultaneously controlling multiple AI squadmates, each with combat specialities and abilities that can be popped individually. I think the best compliment I can give Disintegration is that, by the end of 20 minutes with its multiplayer, it didn’t feel that complicated after all.Developer V1 Interactive knows that it’s throwing players in at the deep end of its pool of ideas, but has a neat solution – it wants every interaction to feel like shooting, to lessen that gap between FPS and RTS. Pulling the right trigger sets your guns off as you’d expect, but pushing a right shoulder button pops commands for your AI team wherever your crosshairs are pointing. It works similarly to Apex Legends’ excellent Ping system, switching seamlessly from “go here” to “claim that objective” based on what you’re pointing at.

That philosophy extends elsewhere – activating your squad members’ abilities (using a D-pad) pops up targeting reticles, showing you area of effect, or direction of attack. It’s effective – it takes time to learn which buttons do what, but there’s almost no learning curve to how each command will act when you set it off.

Disintegration: 9 New Images

That control scheme is central to both the game’s single-player campaign and its multiplayer. The former sets the tone for the world – this is a dystopian future in which human brains have been implanted into robot bodies to avoid a pandemic (a process called ‘Integration’ – witness the wordplay), and outlaws are fighting to get their original fleshy bodies back after a post-human regime takes control.

Lead character, Romer, is your gravbike-riding protagonist, and he leads a squad of robo-ordinary Joes – crucially, these are mechanics, journalists, and teachers (or at least the brains of ones) rather than super-soldiers, and they should act as such. From the little I’ve seen, it’s aiming for the ‘Cayde-6’ end of Destiny rather than the ‘all-consuming Darkness’ part – it’s got a strange sense of humour to go with its transhuman doomsaying, and a welcome one. I haven’t seen campaign gameplay, but V1 promises an ever-changing line-up of gravbikes and AI squad members to keep things fresh as you pilot Roamer back to his body and face and other bits.

What I have seen is the game’s 5v5 multiplayer. I played a mode called Retrieval, an attack-defence variant that sees one team try to stop another from picking up energy cores and delivering them to an extraction point. Much of the marketing around Disintegration centres on its creator, Marcus Lehto, and his association with establishing the Halo series. That might be a clue to Disintegration’s world-building, but Lehto’s new game feels more like a mixture of space combat, Titanfall, even elements of MOBAs.

The gravbike is a nifty thing, controlling like an FPS character, but with the added ability to change flight height (up to a certain level – you can’t just zoom away from the fight). It means you’re nimble enough to fly through doors and into indoor areas, but it’s expansive enough to make shootouts with other players feel like dogfights – outmanoeuvring them can be as much a weapon as sheer firepower in my experience.

Gravbikes, and the squads that go with them, can seemingly get pretty varied, too. Multiplayer has you pick from pre-set squads – presented more like violent sports teams than outlaw warriors – each of which acts according to specific rules. My pick was a squad of robo-people in creepy clown get-up – obviously I chose them for that reason alone, but quickly found out I had inadvertently picked an excellent defence team.

My new gravbike fired salvoes of sticky grenades that I could detonate remotely – excellent for laying as traps for attackers in a bottleneck. My squad, meanwhile, came equipped with two members who could create energy fields that slow down anyone inside, and a giant mech with a high-damage melee charge attack. It quickly became clear that I could slow multiple squads on top of my grenade traps, while coordinating a flanking attack with my mech. It’s satisfying stuff when it comes together, helped along by a lane-based design (clearly chosen to stop gravbike users just zipping across the length and breadth of the map as they please).

Other squads can be built around pure tanking defence, or squad healing (a fairly necessary pick, as there’s no easy way to heal without them), each with squads that complement that focus with their various abilities. I’m excited to see how far V1 pushes those ideas – it’s already clearly thinking beyond “sniper” and “ranger”, and I’m hoping for some outlandish tactical possibilities.

That’s Disintegration’s early success, I think – it’s communicated its strange basic concept well enough to me already that I’m thinking about where it could lead. Much of the game’s appeal will lie in the story mode we haven’t seen yet, but if multiplayer signals how interesting it will be to play minute-to-minute, this is a very encouraging first step.

Joe Skrebels is IGN’s UK Deputy Editor, and he is a committed clown team main already. Follow him on Twitter.

Source : IGN

[orukamachi]

Voltron: Grass

So earlier this evening/yesterday (for me) I sent the minific prompt ‘grass’ to the Voltron Think Tank and they put together the most incredible piece of collaborative fic I have seen in literally years.

Well, while they were about it I went off and wrote my own response to my own prompt and had a nap and a sandwich and it turned out very different. I’m trying to rustle up some confidence in my work because when I write I write a lot. I write. A LOT. And never publish. So here’s a step towards changing that.

Alternative title, maybe: Catnip

They’d almost grown used to it already. The constant attention, the prying, the medicals, and years before that, the absence of daylight and clean air as they had been raised to know them. Since their return to earth, triumphant in its own way, they’d still not quite been set free. The Garrison had hounded around them, closely followed by the military, not only of the USA but of a number of exceedingly shady international organisations. Shiro even pointed a couple of figures out, saying ‘I know that guy,’ but not recalling exactly where, except that it hadn’t been before Kerberos.

Keith was put into quarantine. Shiro very nearly killed the man who made the order on the spot, putting the boot in with an unfamiliar feeling he later identified as revenge. Ultimately they both agreed to be kept under observation, if only to prove that there was not one stinking thing wrong with either of them. Just that one of them had a hyper-advanced prosthesis that could – and did – cut through his observation cell wall, and the other occasionally flickered out of focus and back like a chameleon having an acid trip. Normal things. Normal side-effects of being lied to and lied about for years on end.

Katie – and that felt strange, to hear people calling her Katie – had been sent off home as she was listed as a minor, and she’d kicked and screamed the whole way because she’d just spent seven years in space and had hit her legitimate twentieth already and there was no way in HELL she would swallow child treatment. But she went in the end, because her father and brother were going, and she really, really did miss her mom. Then Lance and Hunk had run home to their mothers with all the dignity they could muster, but had sprung back into formation just as quickly, Hunk with his mother in tow and Lance bringing an entire airplane full of old friends and relatives who filled up the Garrison’s every empty space with noise and clutter, and provided just enough distractions to let the Paladins cleave together, hold each other up the way they’d learned to do, even if two of them could only press their forehead to the glass in greeting.

Samuel brought Pidge back to them. She’d cried when she’d met her mother again, but cried more for being made to leave her new brothers behind. They scooped her up like a doll, their most precious treasure, And she posted a message through to Keith’s vacuum-sealed cell, a note to say that his hut and his gravbike were still out there, amazingly untouched, buried by the shifting sand, and that she and Hunk were going to fix it up, and then some. Hunk winked. Lance groaned. More days away from the beach.

Shiro was released. Keith wasn’t. The Holts and the McLain clan occupied the director’s office a little more pointedly. Hunk’s mother made an awe-striking appearance. A decision was made.

Keith was released. Shiro collided with him like a planet plunging into a star, whispering something only Keith could hear, until the words became nothing but sounds with no meaning.

In four months, they had barely seen a week’s daylight between them.

The big press event was on. The world turned its eyes on them, watching and listening as they answered – very carefully – public questions – also very carefully vetted – in front of a field of cameras and microphones, smartphones they didn’t recognise, all of it tech that seemed strangely out-of-time for them. None of them were really focusing. Lance and Pidge were leading the talk. As time passed, they huddled in together, Keith flush up against Shiro’s right arm, Lance scooting so close up against his left that Pidge, between them, was sitting on their laps. Hunk at the far end like a buttress against them overbalancing, right arm hooked around Lance’s waist, bringing him down as he kept leaping up to pick a fight with the press, repeatedly knocking Pidge out of her seat. She shunted Shiro over to make room, muttering Altean expletives.

Shiro let his eyes unfocus and gaze away into the far distance. The hall had one wall of fold-back panels, now completely open to the elements as people crushed in to hear this first interview with the much lauded heroes of the year. Somewhere out there, a patch of something shimmered in the heat.

“You see…?” he murmured.

“I see,” Keith replied. “You want it?”

“I want it,” Shiro decreed.

He stood, trailing Pidge as he went, and the rest of them followed like a train of ducklings, never letting go of one another as Shiro carved his way through the crowd, people jumping back and falling silent as he strode towards them, eyes fixed on the far horizon and each of his Paladins solemnly matching his pace.

The sun hit them like scalding water and each of them gasped in the unfamiliar heat, the impossible brightness of it, hands brought up to shield their eyes as Shiro dragged them on and on, a flotilla of cameramen following their every step. It was barely a hundred yards. It felt like miles.

It was a lawn.

It was ten yards square.

With a stupid foot-high chain-link fence.

With a familiar feeling of synchronicity, and an odd sense of reverence, they each stooped to take off their footwear and stepped over the barrier, as they had done in so many different ways before, and then hit the ground like tired children, exhausted from too much running around.

It was cool, cushioning, and prickly. It was heavenly.

Grass.

“Say the thing, Lance,” said Shiro, as he knelt on the turf, dug his fingers into the roots and brought his head down low enough to smell the damp soil.

“Fooorm Voltron!”

“Maybe the other thing?”

“Oh, sure-- Disengage.”

“Right. Right. Everybody just… disengage.” The four of them watched fondly as Shiro lay down smack dab in the middle of the manicured lawn, sprawling in the wonderful, unique scent of planet Earth, rolling like a cat, flexing his back as he stretched out, turning his face to the heavens and seeing a familiar moon in the mid-morning sky. Earth, and the Moon, old friends reunited.

They joined him. It was wonderful. Cameras flashed nearby, and they didn’t give one damn between them. And they wondered how they’d forgotten grass of all things. Keith remembered the heat of the desert sun, Hunk had longed for the mountains of home, Lance had openly cried for rain, And Pidge – well, she had never missed nature before, but now that she’d realised, it hurt all the more.

Shiro cried. Not really crying, just letting years and years of confinement and fear escape as tears and roll away into the soil. He didn’t make a sound, but they could all feel it in the minute shudders he valiantly tried to hide.

“Salt’s bad for grass,” Hunk said to the sky.

So Shiro laughed instead.