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Sergeant Tyson

Sergeant Tyson Carcsowitz, a former roughneck marine from the Eastern Republics, he has found himself reenlisted and redeployed to frontline Terra. Staffing Gambit's Bar as a administrative liaison.

0 · 355 views · located in Terra

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by AzricanRepublic

So begins...

Sergeant Tyson's Story

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Sergeant Tyson quickly patted himself, checking first to make sure he standard issue sidearm was at least hidden from plain view and the apron was remotely stain free. He was wrong, it was fairly dirty and the AP-50. Hearing the commotion coming from the floor, he was quick to pace himself before popping up from behind the bar and into the tavern floor. He appeared confused, for all intents and purposes expecting to see Coalition marines. Instead, however, the current situation bewildered him.
"Alrigh -- Huh, coulda' sworn there was a MAG team there a second ago ... Alright, everyone, let's just remain calm ... "

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Sergeant Tyson frowned, noticeably. He shrugged before reaching to his hip and drawing the AP-50, a slim automatic pistol that could fire rapidly and deliver a powerful punch for its compact state. He racked the slide back before putting it down onto the counter top.
"Alright, Agent, patrons -- let's all place our weapons onto a nearby table, complete disarmament here people. Uhmm, Mister Gorbachev, tear down this wall."

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Sergeant Tyson , unable to reach for his weapon after placing it on the counter, held his hands in the air and shrugged as he noticed the weapons being aimed toward him. Sighing outwardly, he rolled his eyes.
"Guys, c'mon, that's cheating ... " He replied, first talking toward the gunmen before looking toward the armored behemoth.
"Guy, yeah, just take the girl -- Look, Aschie, just let 'em go, he probably has a ranch he can send her to or something ... "

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Sergeant Tyson gulped noticeably at the claims from the Aschen commander, his gaze transferring from the mans guards and then to the forming group directly around him.
"Alright, this situation is getting very far! Slooooow your roll people!"

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Sergeant Tyson cursed and smacked his knee, the cops getting here was good and bad at the same time. Indicating toward the unequipped weapon laying on the table, he continued to hoist his hands to his shoulders.
"Look guys, it's my first day on the job and I really don't want this place shot up -- I put my guns down, you guys gotta' do the same. It's the fucking game."

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Sergeant Tyson shrugged his shoulders at the development, not particularly caring for either situation at the moment, just that this location did not become the site of another gunfight.
"Well ... yeah, definitely enlightening and shit. We should depart the premises with heavy firearms immediately, because as of last month the insurance on this thing is invalid."

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Sergeant Tyson is no longer appreciating this as well. Glancing down to the AP-50, Tyson shrugged before reaching forward and picking up the automatic, letting it weigh in his hand slightly before pointing first toward the police, and then towards the metal behemoths moving from the bar.
"Thank you for your service sir, really!" He replied before then directing his glare to the Aschen.
"Alright -- violation of airspace is a big one on this. This is definitely against the city ordinance for noise."

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Sergeant Tyson heard the ruckus downstairs, and even before he made it to the landing several would hear the booming voice of the Coalition attache as he descended the stairwell. The light clack of a magazine being loaded into a weapon followed him as well.
"All you fucking yuppies turning this bar into one giant noise violation -- " He barked as he descended the stairs, waving the auto-pistol loosely in his hands as he surveyed the current tavern floor. Cocking his glance toward the primary incident that had dragged him down here, the Sergeant grunted as he struck towards the bar.
"Next person that fucking breaks something is going to get a teeth full of boot." He shouted boisterously, finally spinning at the quick gunshot.
"The one with the pistol, get your sorry ass out of the bar if you're gonna' off some yokel."

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Sergeant Tyson brushed off the responses from the locals, flaring his nostrils and imitating what many would call one stupid looking monkey before placing the auto-pistol down on the counter and looking around for the bartender. Rolling his eyes and clutching at his brow, he massaged the bridge of his nose. Shrugging his shoulders, he spun the pistol and left it on the counter. He was thoroughly distracted by the lack of bartender to notice the two men suddenly fighting, of course, when he realized it he definitely let it show.
"'Ey! Kung Warriors, the fuck none of you get about no fighting in the bar?" The Sergeant stepped forward, perhaps his initial introductions had not been harsh enough. He appeared none too shy of combat, standing at a top height of 6'8 and garbed in a stripped down, much more capable version of the renowned T-10 Scatterran armor. Decked with the automatic pistol, fools would only trifle with the Coalition attache of Gambits.
"Kill the fucker, but kill him outside Shaolin Warrior, and I won't warn again." He remarked dryly, the pistol releasing its bolt to reveal the heavy-coat slug that would be propelled through the electromagnetic rails that created its barrel.

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"No damaging bar property!"

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Sergeant Tyson , obviously confused from the sudden termination of the combat as well, was quick to relinquish the lesser of the fighters in punishment. The Sergeant shook his head before waving his hand toward the bar.
"No problem with that, guy, take a drink on the house." He said, nodding to a stack of bottles on the counter. Seating himself on a bar stool and crossing his arms over his chest, he settled into his position before scrutinizing the bar once again. The automatic pistol displayed in full on the counter, should anyone attempt more shenanigans.

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Sergeant Tyson eased himself into the seat of the bar, apparently finally calming down from his disgruntled arrival on the tavern floor from earlier. Dropping his arms to his sides, he quickly spun on the stool and fished a small pad from a satchel at his side. After that, a sheaf of papers followed. Setting the small device on the countertop, he gave one last cautious glance toward the other patrons, literally expecting something to suddenly explode, before issuing one quick prayer and beginning his work of balancing the whacked budget that fueled the establishment underneath the Coalition flag. He hoped few would disturb him, knowing well that most of the patrons wouldn't realize his employment at the bar in it's entirety. He was here to make sure this bar didn't tank, of course this was looking very difficult.

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Sergeant Tyson was fairly busy with the pad, which appeared to be some form of a calculator, and his own mindful mysteries to notice patrons sitting at the bar. It would take him several more minutes before he finally cursed the blasted office work, giving it a double birdie before inhaling sharply and stepping up from his stool. It was another five more seconds before he finally looked at those at the bar. Releasing a sigh, his eyes skipped over the entire group before he looked to where the bartender would normally be, it was painfully obvious he was becoming irritated again.
"No bartender? No bartender. No fucking bartender. No. Fucking. Bartender." He grumbled before walking around the corner of the bar and searching for one of the thousands of aprons he saw tossed in the laundry every evening. Locating one, he observed it before tossing it away and grumbling to himself; turning to the bar and hardly sparring any of the patrons at the bar a 'hello' before requesting their drink.
"What d'you want to drink? They said something about half off on hard liquor for the day."

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Sergeant Tyson , hearing an order called off from a nearby table, pounded his hand on the table once to signify his understanding before plucking the respective alcohols from the large bar along the wall and planting them on the counter and preparing a tall glass. Popping the cap from the bottle of vodka, he stopped himself mid-motion as he read the label of the precious drink. Furrowing his brow in confusion, he set it down and read the label to himself once again -- the vodka, a specialized brew that Tyson had unloaded only half a day before, bore the markings of a Scatteran brewer.
"When the fuck did we start importing this?" He inquired, shifting his eyes to the other patrons before sneaking himself a swig and then continuing to blend the man's drink. While the rum was not of Scatterran locale, the vodka certainly was, and Tyson personally knew of its potency. Placing the bar on the counter, he gave a quick whistle to the table before pointing at the drink and putting one last splash of fruit punch into the brew.
"Up 'nd runnin' -- let me know how that tastes, got a bit of a kick to it." The Sergeant remarked.

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Sergeant Tyson grinned broadly, the marine shrugging his shoulders in appreciation at the patron. Taking the gold coin, he slipped it into a re-purposed ash tray before placing it back beneath the counter top and returning to stocking a particular crate of the Scatteran vodka that he had placed in the drink.
"That's Taunveiser -- I drank that shit when I was in tertiary school, come into class wasted as hell off of that." He remarked, his voice loud enough to carry to the patron, but could have easily been lost in the garble of the bar. Turning back to the bar, he was still stocking the alcohol and was too distant to notice the same data pad he had left with the leaf of papers was vibrating from an incoming call.

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Sergeant Tyson appeared behind the bar after trotting down the stairs and tossing his ruined shirt into a waste bin; still clothed in a PT-shirt and cargos, thankfully, the Sergeant plucked one glass from the bar and then took his position at the helm of the ship that was Gambits Bar. Designating himself as the bartender, he passed by a man already served alcohol, toward a rather flamboyantly dressed woman with fairly weird looking hair. Keeping his mouth shut, however, he placed the glass in front of Reilly and knocked one fist on the table.
"What d'you want to drink tonight, Missy?"

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Sergeant Tyson taking the glass off the counter, he nodded abruptly to the woman at her request and turned around to the bar. Pacing by a line of vodkas arranged along the bar, he gingerly selected two before pouring the contents of both into the glass and offering to the woman with bright pink hair. It was fairly obvious to him this woman wanted inebriation in its entirety, and drunk patrons meant better tips.
"There ya' go ma'am, vodka in the cold." He said before stepping away and looking at the other woman, with surprisingly similar hair, and crossing his arms over his chest. He looked confused, rightly so.

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Sergeant Tyson descended the stairs, brandishing his AP-50 and pointing toward some hooligan behind the bar.
"Excuse me, but you are not employed at this establishment, and I'm gonna' have to ask you to put the apron away, and get the fuck away from my bar."

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Sergeant Tyson smacking his hand down on the counter, Tyson rolled his eyes before sliding the AP-50 down the countertop, where it would stop in front of the impersonating bartender. Afterwhich, the Sergeant quickly stepped behind the bar.
"Hey, straightjacket, the fuck did I say about you not working here?"

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Sergeant Tyson crossed his arms as he passed behind the impromptu bartender, first grabbing a sheet of paper and pen before smacking it down in front of the newbie and pointing at the application sheet. Reaching forward to grab his automatic, he quickly attached it to the holster at his side.
"Before you can legally serve the alcohol, you need to legally work here," He remarked pointedly, obviously not in the decision to boot him, but rather make sure he would have someone to blame if the place was robbed.
"Fill that out, and I'll gladly let you handle this hole on Tuesday nights."