The Great Excitebike Migration: As Narrated by Sir David Attenborough

[gunplay]

Who: Ocelot and ANYONE
What: EXCITEBIKES
Where: Campus hallways.
When: Dec. 20
Warnings: Motocross violence..? And swearing.

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[Seeking warmer dirt tracks free of ice to do sick tricks on, the annual Excitebike migration cuts a detour through the vast open hallways of the campus this year. The herd of tiny blocky motocross racers travels in close groups so as to avoid both predators and being lapped by the leader. Once they're on the move, there is very little that can stop them until they reach a finish line.]

[BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB]

[Naturally, Ocelot is out on patrol, spinning his guns, when he hears the buzzing of many tiny engines. But it is too late-- there is nowhere to run.]

[He barely has time to scream before they hit him. And when they're gone around the corner and the dust settles, Ocelot is left sprawled on the ground, his Spetsnaz uniform covered in little tire tracks. Déjà vu.]

...Son of a bitch...

Comments

[trustycrowbar]

[Gordon had just walked away from the campus coffee shop, steaming cup of liquid intelligence in his hand, when he hears the noise. He blinks cluelessly as the people around him scramble for the walls and corners, and barely has time to look back to the oncoming BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB--]

[He doesn't have time to scramble out of the way; he barely has time to yelp before he's hit. Coffee, glasses and papers go flying. Gordon himself blocks the track in a gangly sprawl, and small tire tracks over that spotless labcoat of his as the excitebikes vault over and swerve around him.]

[One of the little racers wipes out on the new latte slick, and gestures in 8-bit obscenity to the faceplanted giant in the middle of the track before he goes back for his bike. THANKS A LOT, BUDDY.]

[gunplay]

[Well at least Ocelot isn't alone in his crushed dignity. He shakily crawls forward to retrieve his dropped gun, shoving aside Gordon's papers.]

I'll kill those.... those....

[...People? What the hell were they? Too low-res to tell for sure.]

[trustycrowbar]

[Gordon doesn't say anything just yet, but he laboriously pushes himself up, glaring unfocused at the world in general and groping for his glasses. Wow, those things aren't just for show, are they?]

'S whole damn school is starting to feel like an acid trip in an arcade...