The sky over Seattle is squid ink miasma, a cauldron of smog and ashy Stratocumulus that writhes with silver-blue tongues of static discharge. The diffuse moonlight that manages to penetrate the heavens grants a lapis sheen to the skyline of Downtown. The occasional cloud break reveals a wedge of fey luminance, like God's own flood-light, trawling the urban jungle for prey. The city smells of rain, atmosphere, and humanity.
Seattle's skyline is a silhouette of corporate enclaves, bastions of power of Aztechnology, NeoNET, Wuxing, Mitsuhama, and the imposing bulk of the Renraku arcology. Although these structures are kilometers away, the guileful tendrils of their influence seem to creep through the concrete like roots of some twisted flora, ever seeking profit and power.
A beast looms in the gloom: a serpent, made of ferro-crete and plasteel. The 510 is a super-highway, twelve lanes wide and bejeweled with the lights of traffic like a psychotropic, disco roller coaster. On one side of the behemoth are the Neo-Stalinist housing projects and abandoned, refuse-strewn lots of the Barrens. On the other, the walled suburban enclaves and slick strip malls of Bellevue. The serpent segregates the two districts, like Sodom and Gomorrah.
The Eaves is situated beneath the 510, an homage to pre-war Americana in stucco and tile scattered between graffiti-covered girders. Narrow alleys run throughout like capillaries, beset on all fronts by sunken drainage canals. A main thoroughfare is lit by the loglow of advertisements which gleam on the chrome contours of Nihon vending machines. Nearby, a refuse drone like a silvery arachnid, scurries across the asphalt, snatching small bits of detritus with uncanny agility. Somewhere, a Rasta sings a baritone ode to ganja and his ensuing laughter echoes throughout the space.
At the end of the boulevard, preceded by a parade of Stuff-r-shacks, clinics, and restaurants, the road ends and gives way to an expanse of astro turf lawn. A flickering holo proclaims FIRST ANGLICAN CHURCH OF THE IMMORTAL SON. A few moths wing around the glowing letters, fruitlessly searching for a moon obscured by haze.
The church itself is a primeval construct of soot-colored stone, all spires and columns; ramparts and ridges. The tall, narrow windows are set with plexi, painted haphazardly in a crude imitation of stained glass. A stone Christ stares balefully down from the cross at the center of the pediment.
A flash of lightning illuminates the church, throwing the already monochrome property into sharp relief. Just as quickly, the darkness leaps to reclaim the light and the Lord's face recedes into shadow. The deep bass of thunder rolls over the Eaves, seeming to linger in the cracks and crevices of the house of worship.
Twin doors of imitation wood stand ajar, permitting the meager light within to impinge on the threshold. Passing through the entry-way is like stepping from one world to another; from the enlightened age of reason to the superannuated age of faith. The luster of innumerable candles gives the space an Impressionist aspect. Interior walls are patterned, battered panels bearing chipped varnish. In some places are impressions of a Saint, or Apostles-- murals lost to time and vanishing amid the ruined patina. The cloying scent of incense and the acrid aroma of decaying wood infuse the immediate area. A ruined pipe organ lies retired in a transept, tarnished ranks protruding at odd angles like broken bones.
Standing on the apse, behind a simple stone altar are two figures. Both are robed in some type of silken shawl and both wear masks; carved to resemble an Oni and a Daruma respectively. Each clutch AK-97 assault rifles, although the barrels are pointed away, toward the crenulated ceiling. The Yokai-masked individuals' posture is that of wary neutrality.
At the end of the faded, mildewed carpet, past the formation of splintered pews and rusted candelabras lies the pulpit. And adjacent to the pulpit stands Preacher.
Preacher is a relic of the past, preserved in Anglo flesh with a hint of Slavic melancholy. His face is all rugged lines; a geometry of hard lessons. His head is shaved, save for a forelock the color of crude oil that transitions to gray at the root. Something resembling a grimace adorns his countenance, tobacco stained teeth gripping a stubby cigar. A smooth black cassock clings to broad shoulders and his clerical collar barely contains a muscled neck. He wears alligator-skin wingtips, festooned with copper toes.
Preacher watches the runners enter with a pair of glacier-blue eyes that seem preternaturally bright in the dim confines of the church. His expression is immutable, a stalemate between curiosity and impatience. That penetrating, azure gaze sweeps over each member of the motley collection of would-be mercenaries. Appraising. Analyzing.
When Preacher speaks, it is with the voice of a rector: an accent-less contralto steeped in experience yet as rough as the stone of which his house is made.
"Hoi, friends," says Preacher, his too-blue eyes glowing. "Welcome to my parish."
Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
The wind kicked up in the alley, casting leaves of city-trash aloft on the breeze. Mick popped the collar on their billowing overcoat and risked a look over their shoulder. Inky black shadows slithered over garbage cans and clung to the ferrocrete walls of the gloomy alley. A faltering street lamp flickered greasy, wan light after them from the street behind.
And there was no blood then.
Mick ran their hand over a peach-fuzzed scalp. Things were getting hard again. The air was filling up with tension and anger and paranoia, the whisper-thin membrane between violence and tranquility blistering as to burst.
But there was no blood yet.
The wrap around Mick’s breasts ached. It always ached. The small ork drew a breath, pulling the rancid Seattle air deep into their lungs, and felt the compression wrap disagree as their ribs begged to expand. Steam rose from sewer grates as somewhere, further ahead in the impenetrable dark, a can rattled and skittered across the pavement.
The meet was in half an hour. Mick didn’t often find opportunities falling into their lap, and it didn’t matter that they were in the middle of an episode. It couldn’t matter; there was no more runway for them to play it safe.
“Hey baby,” called a bestupored voice from behind them. Mick turned and saw a silhouette rising lugubriously from the shadows, the dry shuffling sound of shifting garbage floating out of the darkness like the twirl of smoke from a snuffed candle wick.
Mick didn’t stop walking. This drek was pretty normal.
Unfortunately.
But what usually came after was pretty normal too.
Maybe not so unfortunately.
The air and shadows grew thicker the deeper into the alley Mick traveled. “Hey! Hey, I got somethin’ t’ show ya,” the man slurred from behind.
Mick was used to this by sheer virtue of existing, it would seem. Mick had literally never presented as a woman, eschewing the traditional trappings of femininity from their earliest memory. It had never felt appropriate to be labeled a “girl,” and thus Mick had never thought of themself as one.
Mostly, the people around Mick pretty much left them alone. Beneath their lined coat, Mick stood a slight 5’7”, their waifish frame concealed by expansive, flowing clothing that typically bore the names of punk rock bands, or the occasional colorful hand gesture to demand a wide berth from and would be comers. A network of tattoos covered Mick’s pale skin and flowed over a spider web of tattoos.
But there was no blood yet.
“Hey, wait,” the itinerant gutterman grumbled behind them.
And out of the heavy gloam in the alley, Mick thought they could smell the first wisps of the inevitable sanguine tide, coiling into them from beyond, heady and sweet.
And without warning, Mick was in that goddamned bathroom again.
––––––––––
It took a moment to grasp the scene laid out through the open bathroom door. A hideous smear of ruddy light slithered out from behind and around the door jamb. The man’s back was turned, his arms working laboriously at an unseen burden. Mick crept closer, their voice driven to extinction in their 11-year old throat. A slow pool of blood spilled into view like molasses, slopping out lazily across the tile floor. The man grunted as his right arm worked while Mick slipped silently through the bathroom door.
The bathroom was a scene of horror such that Mick’s young mind couldn’t immediately process it. Mick’s father laid in rough-hewn pieces to Mick’s left, an explosion of gore traced across the mirror and counter, pooling in the sink. His dead eyes stared out at Mick from up off the floor. His feet stuck up out of the hamper on two disembodied legs, one of his house moccasins still hugging his rapidly graying left foot. His hand was a ragged claw, stretched to its final living extent, reaching for help that never came. A thick glob of blood and tissue dripped down his hairy knuckle and onto his wedding ring.
Grunting heavily, the man bent over and heaved a mighty weight over itself in the bathtub, sheets of blood smeared across the white tiled wall, heavy drops gathering and falling one-by-one like a disinterested crimson rain from the ceiling. A long knife, slick with gore, rested casually on the floor by his foot. From around the wall of man, Mick could see their mother’s hair stuck to the wall, streaking up the tile in thick mats.
And that was when he tuned. His eyes met Mick’s and there was a wild, untethered rage within him. Far away, he smiled slowly at a quivering child and his face froze over. In his right hand was a hacksaw, caked in syrupy clots of flesh and fat. Mick’s eyes nervously darted back to the knife on the floor, and as he followed Mick’s gaze, he finally spoke.
“Yeah? Want that, do you kid?” His voice was a growl. Human but not. Here but there. Mick didn’t move and didn’t make a sound.
“Go ahead, pick it up,” he suggested easily, his eyes locked on Mick’s. When he spoke, the bathroom bloomed with the sour smell of liquor and cigarettes.
Bending over with an impatient huff, he retrieved the knife– the knife he had used to slit Mick’s parents’ throats– and slapped it aggressively into their hands.
“You wanna be a killer? Here. Take it. Take it, killer. Let’s see what kind of killer you are.”
All four-foot-six of Mick was frozen. The weight of the knife was alien in their small hand.
His smile curled up to his high cheeks, creating half moons of his burning eyes that never unlocked from Mick’s.
“Bet you can’t even–”
But Mick never learned what he bet Mick couldn’t even. The rage drained gradually from his eyes, replaced by an odd mixture of confusion and pleasant surprise.
The smile drooped from his face in slow motion as Mick’s eyes traced down the line of buttons on his filthy military surplus shirt, coming to rest on the hilt of the blade sticking out of his chest just beneath his sternum. A thick foam of pink bubbles gurgled from his mouth and onto his lips. Mick’s gaze returned to the man’s, which shone still with baleful awareness as his legs buckled beneath him, landing his knees on the tile with a bone-shattering crunch. The globe of his head wobbled on its pike as his chest and shoulders hitched in rhythmic waves– tiny at first, but mounting to grand, rolling sweeps– as the man began to sputter out gales of soul-rending laughter.
The blasts of his dying amusement ate the world. They bounced off the tile walls and echoed forever. They pierced through the Mick, blasting holes in them, filling their heart with ice and snow and rattling bones.
The cackling rose and roared ever higher, the murderer’s weight jumping on the end of the knife still in Mick’s hand. It was only when they instinctively ripped the blade from the man’s chest that Mick finally heard their own blood-curdling scream, sustained and dancing nimbly through his guffaws.
A spray of blood erupted from the hole in his chest, casting Mick’s silhouette onto the wall behind them. It was like being covered in hot honey– thick, but running thin, and sticky enough to catch flies.
All the world was ablaze as the small ork met their awakening.
The bathroom exploded in a shower of electricity and sparks that were there but weren’t. White-hot energy lapped over every surface, radiating out from Mick and curling back around on them, closing upon them like a chrysanthemum blooming in reverse. The knife in their hand vibrated with the explosion of power ripping through the room as the dead man slumped backward, falling awkwardly against the bathtub where Mick’s mother rested asunder.
Then the light was out. The fluorescent tube light over the bathroom mirror exploded, sending filaments of glass everywhere. The world shook and rattled and rumbled, coming to a jerky rest as the tinkling of glass and afterimage sparks faded instantly to distant, numb memory. Though they couldn’t see it, Mick could feel the blood dripping down the walls.
And that was when they heard it. A heavy swoosh through the darkness, thick and cloying, uncoiling from the very depths of their mind. Casually, from out of the black of the room and of Mick’s heart, swam a shadow, silent and easy and cool, stalking the murky farwaters of their consciousness. It swam around Mick in wide, lazy, ethereal circles.
Until it didn’t.
It came for Mick. It came for Mick so fast that the small orphan couldn’t even draw a breath. Its massive jaws stretched wide open to reveal its rows of teeth until the mouth was all Mick could see. And it was then, as the shark’s jaws closed around Mick’s very soul, that they were ripped from the flashback.
––––––––––
“... about it?”
Mick shook the images from their mind as reality came flooding back in through the murky depths of the past.
The alleyway resolving itself, Mick was surrounded now by three men, but it was the same slurring voice from before that barked the question.
Mick turned and saw the man step into the dim light of a neon OPEN sign that blinked above a short stairwell leading down into one of the many unknown chambers of Seattle’s underbelly.
“I said, ‘what are you gonna do about it?’”
“About what?” Mick asked, still swimming back to understanding.
He smiled a hungry, lascivious smile as he came a step closer.
“You got some fraggin’ drek in your ears, chica.”
Mick could feel the other two drawing nearer from behind.
“I said, ‘if we ask you to show us your tits, what are you gonna do about it?’”
Mick eyed the two closing in their periphery. The shadows in the alley swam, roiling and sanguine, the darkness closing in.
And then there was blood.
––––––––––
Slipping through the doors of the church, the ork comes upon a gathering company of lowlifes. The unpleasantness in the alley had made them late and set their arrival off-kilter. Approaching, Mick moves uneasily in the group, but that was to be expected. Mick moves uneasily in any group.
The hairs on the back of their neck stood up most places, and here, they were at full attention. That was also to be expected.
Mick sticks to the rear of the small assembly, trying to keep to dim pockets untouched by the sickly, pious light. Oh, how quickly even a group of total strangers comes to look like a Parish before their Parishioner.
And there was the blood, ineffectually smeared just minutes ago on a handful alleyway detritus, now forming a thick, sticky cake on their hands. And that was generally to be expected as well.
Mick clears their throat and, reluctantly, speaks, "Hey, uh, Padre? You got someplace I could wash my hands? Didn't seem appropriate to use the Holy Water."
And there was no blood then.
Mick ran their hand over a peach-fuzzed scalp. Things were getting hard again. The air was filling up with tension and anger and paranoia, the whisper-thin membrane between violence and tranquility blistering as to burst.
But there was no blood yet.
The wrap around Mick’s breasts ached. It always ached. The small ork drew a breath, pulling the rancid Seattle air deep into their lungs, and felt the compression wrap disagree as their ribs begged to expand. Steam rose from sewer grates as somewhere, further ahead in the impenetrable dark, a can rattled and skittered across the pavement.
The meet was in half an hour. Mick didn’t often find opportunities falling into their lap, and it didn’t matter that they were in the middle of an episode. It couldn’t matter; there was no more runway for them to play it safe.
“Hey baby,” called a bestupored voice from behind them. Mick turned and saw a silhouette rising lugubriously from the shadows, the dry shuffling sound of shifting garbage floating out of the darkness like the twirl of smoke from a snuffed candle wick.
Mick didn’t stop walking. This drek was pretty normal.
Unfortunately.
But what usually came after was pretty normal too.
Maybe not so unfortunately.
The air and shadows grew thicker the deeper into the alley Mick traveled. “Hey! Hey, I got somethin’ t’ show ya,” the man slurred from behind.
Mick was used to this by sheer virtue of existing, it would seem. Mick had literally never presented as a woman, eschewing the traditional trappings of femininity from their earliest memory. It had never felt appropriate to be labeled a “girl,” and thus Mick had never thought of themself as one.
Mostly, the people around Mick pretty much left them alone. Beneath their lined coat, Mick stood a slight 5’7”, their waifish frame concealed by expansive, flowing clothing that typically bore the names of punk rock bands, or the occasional colorful hand gesture to demand a wide berth from and would be comers. A network of tattoos covered Mick’s pale skin and flowed over a spider web of tattoos.
But there was no blood yet.
“Hey, wait,” the itinerant gutterman grumbled behind them.
And out of the heavy gloam in the alley, Mick thought they could smell the first wisps of the inevitable sanguine tide, coiling into them from beyond, heady and sweet.
And without warning, Mick was in that goddamned bathroom again.
––––––––––
It took a moment to grasp the scene laid out through the open bathroom door. A hideous smear of ruddy light slithered out from behind and around the door jamb. The man’s back was turned, his arms working laboriously at an unseen burden. Mick crept closer, their voice driven to extinction in their 11-year old throat. A slow pool of blood spilled into view like molasses, slopping out lazily across the tile floor. The man grunted as his right arm worked while Mick slipped silently through the bathroom door.
The bathroom was a scene of horror such that Mick’s young mind couldn’t immediately process it. Mick’s father laid in rough-hewn pieces to Mick’s left, an explosion of gore traced across the mirror and counter, pooling in the sink. His dead eyes stared out at Mick from up off the floor. His feet stuck up out of the hamper on two disembodied legs, one of his house moccasins still hugging his rapidly graying left foot. His hand was a ragged claw, stretched to its final living extent, reaching for help that never came. A thick glob of blood and tissue dripped down his hairy knuckle and onto his wedding ring.
Grunting heavily, the man bent over and heaved a mighty weight over itself in the bathtub, sheets of blood smeared across the white tiled wall, heavy drops gathering and falling one-by-one like a disinterested crimson rain from the ceiling. A long knife, slick with gore, rested casually on the floor by his foot. From around the wall of man, Mick could see their mother’s hair stuck to the wall, streaking up the tile in thick mats.
And that was when he tuned. His eyes met Mick’s and there was a wild, untethered rage within him. Far away, he smiled slowly at a quivering child and his face froze over. In his right hand was a hacksaw, caked in syrupy clots of flesh and fat. Mick’s eyes nervously darted back to the knife on the floor, and as he followed Mick’s gaze, he finally spoke.
“Yeah? Want that, do you kid?” His voice was a growl. Human but not. Here but there. Mick didn’t move and didn’t make a sound.
“Go ahead, pick it up,” he suggested easily, his eyes locked on Mick’s. When he spoke, the bathroom bloomed with the sour smell of liquor and cigarettes.
Bending over with an impatient huff, he retrieved the knife– the knife he had used to slit Mick’s parents’ throats– and slapped it aggressively into their hands.
“You wanna be a killer? Here. Take it. Take it, killer. Let’s see what kind of killer you are.”
All four-foot-six of Mick was frozen. The weight of the knife was alien in their small hand.
His smile curled up to his high cheeks, creating half moons of his burning eyes that never unlocked from Mick’s.
“Bet you can’t even–”
But Mick never learned what he bet Mick couldn’t even. The rage drained gradually from his eyes, replaced by an odd mixture of confusion and pleasant surprise.
The smile drooped from his face in slow motion as Mick’s eyes traced down the line of buttons on his filthy military surplus shirt, coming to rest on the hilt of the blade sticking out of his chest just beneath his sternum. A thick foam of pink bubbles gurgled from his mouth and onto his lips. Mick’s gaze returned to the man’s, which shone still with baleful awareness as his legs buckled beneath him, landing his knees on the tile with a bone-shattering crunch. The globe of his head wobbled on its pike as his chest and shoulders hitched in rhythmic waves– tiny at first, but mounting to grand, rolling sweeps– as the man began to sputter out gales of soul-rending laughter.
The blasts of his dying amusement ate the world. They bounced off the tile walls and echoed forever. They pierced through the Mick, blasting holes in them, filling their heart with ice and snow and rattling bones.
The cackling rose and roared ever higher, the murderer’s weight jumping on the end of the knife still in Mick’s hand. It was only when they instinctively ripped the blade from the man’s chest that Mick finally heard their own blood-curdling scream, sustained and dancing nimbly through his guffaws.
A spray of blood erupted from the hole in his chest, casting Mick’s silhouette onto the wall behind them. It was like being covered in hot honey– thick, but running thin, and sticky enough to catch flies.
All the world was ablaze as the small ork met their awakening.
The bathroom exploded in a shower of electricity and sparks that were there but weren’t. White-hot energy lapped over every surface, radiating out from Mick and curling back around on them, closing upon them like a chrysanthemum blooming in reverse. The knife in their hand vibrated with the explosion of power ripping through the room as the dead man slumped backward, falling awkwardly against the bathtub where Mick’s mother rested asunder.
Then the light was out. The fluorescent tube light over the bathroom mirror exploded, sending filaments of glass everywhere. The world shook and rattled and rumbled, coming to a jerky rest as the tinkling of glass and afterimage sparks faded instantly to distant, numb memory. Though they couldn’t see it, Mick could feel the blood dripping down the walls.
And that was when they heard it. A heavy swoosh through the darkness, thick and cloying, uncoiling from the very depths of their mind. Casually, from out of the black of the room and of Mick’s heart, swam a shadow, silent and easy and cool, stalking the murky farwaters of their consciousness. It swam around Mick in wide, lazy, ethereal circles.
Until it didn’t.
It came for Mick. It came for Mick so fast that the small orphan couldn’t even draw a breath. Its massive jaws stretched wide open to reveal its rows of teeth until the mouth was all Mick could see. And it was then, as the shark’s jaws closed around Mick’s very soul, that they were ripped from the flashback.
––––––––––
“... about it?”
Mick shook the images from their mind as reality came flooding back in through the murky depths of the past.
The alleyway resolving itself, Mick was surrounded now by three men, but it was the same slurring voice from before that barked the question.
Mick turned and saw the man step into the dim light of a neon OPEN sign that blinked above a short stairwell leading down into one of the many unknown chambers of Seattle’s underbelly.
“I said, ‘what are you gonna do about it?’”
“About what?” Mick asked, still swimming back to understanding.
He smiled a hungry, lascivious smile as he came a step closer.
“You got some fraggin’ drek in your ears, chica.”
Mick could feel the other two drawing nearer from behind.
“I said, ‘if we ask you to show us your tits, what are you gonna do about it?’”
Mick eyed the two closing in their periphery. The shadows in the alley swam, roiling and sanguine, the darkness closing in.
And then there was blood.
––––––––––
Slipping through the doors of the church, the ork comes upon a gathering company of lowlifes. The unpleasantness in the alley had made them late and set their arrival off-kilter. Approaching, Mick moves uneasily in the group, but that was to be expected. Mick moves uneasily in any group.
The hairs on the back of their neck stood up most places, and here, they were at full attention. That was also to be expected.
Mick sticks to the rear of the small assembly, trying to keep to dim pockets untouched by the sickly, pious light. Oh, how quickly even a group of total strangers comes to look like a Parish before their Parishioner.
And there was the blood, ineffectually smeared just minutes ago on a handful alleyway detritus, now forming a thick, sticky cake on their hands. And that was generally to be expected as well.
Mick clears their throat and, reluctantly, speaks, "Hey, uh, Padre? You got someplace I could wash my hands? Didn't seem appropriate to use the Holy Water."
Last edited by John on Mon Oct 18, 2021 12:30 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
“You must have tea and cake with the Vicar, or you die!” Cue laughter.
The comedian launches into an energetic imagining of an Anglican “Inquisition”, complete with soft-hearted torturers who think the rack ought to be ‘loosened up a bit’.
Mouse lazily swipes a hand across the AR stream, shrinking the low-res flatvid in her visual space, and relegating the comic to background noise in her consciousness.
She pauses a moment, hunkering further down into the safe comfort of her hoodie, as much to protect her from the chill of the December air, as from her fellow patrons on the Eaves’ public bus system. Clutching the damp fabric closer to her sides, she shrinks down into the ripped vinyl coating her seat, edging further away from the Sarariman in the seat beside her, who seems precariously on the verge of nodding off… and heaven forbid leaning into her in the process.
Rather than entertain such a scarring mental image, Mouse refocuses on the flight of digital media before her, images of gentle faced clergyfolk streaming into her vision as her attention flits from one to the next. As far as she’s concerned, this counts as ‘researching the job’. Of course, instead of seeking out tips on the Johnson directly, she’s opted to sift through every piece of Anglican-adjacent media she can find, as though to glean pearls of truth from the totality of Preacher’s pop-culture counterparts. She passes over an obsessively researched fandom article on 'Vicar Heidi' from the "Taichi the Bullet Train" kids' trid, and instead, settles on another flatvid:
A British cop makes an impassioned speech about the nature of morality to a dour faced vicar. The vicar rolls his eyes, before drawing two loaded pistols from the oversized sleeves of his clerical vestments and opening fire.
Just as the digital reverend hits the ground with a blasphemous ‘Jesus Christ!’, the bus creaks to a stop. Time to put that ‘research’ to good use.
Any scrap of her unwarranted self confidence evaporates the second Mouse steps through the church doors. From the half melted candles to the way the stone walls mute the electronic noise of the city, all of the spiritual trappings seem perfectly curated to stoke unease in the decker. In this earnest house of faith and community, Mouse is the outlier, her features obscured behind her face mask and fogged lenses, a virtual library of Sin at her very fingertips.
She takes a breath, as though debating saying something, but first glances at the digital crib-notes that light up her HUD alongside the Preacher’s meatspace features, namely: <<Remember: Anglicans != Catholics>> and beneath that, in bold flashing font, <<Do not, under any circumstances, make that joke.>>
Her mind lapses back to the comedian’s manic demands of ‘tea and cake with the vicar or death’, and the creeping awareness that this one did not seem the ‘tea and cake’ sort, but rather, the ‘concealed weapons in vestments’ type. She instead swallows hard, lowers her gaze and returns Preacher’s welcome with only a curt nod of acknowledgement.
...I’ll take the ‘death’, please.
The comedian launches into an energetic imagining of an Anglican “Inquisition”, complete with soft-hearted torturers who think the rack ought to be ‘loosened up a bit’.
Mouse lazily swipes a hand across the AR stream, shrinking the low-res flatvid in her visual space, and relegating the comic to background noise in her consciousness.
She pauses a moment, hunkering further down into the safe comfort of her hoodie, as much to protect her from the chill of the December air, as from her fellow patrons on the Eaves’ public bus system. Clutching the damp fabric closer to her sides, she shrinks down into the ripped vinyl coating her seat, edging further away from the Sarariman in the seat beside her, who seems precariously on the verge of nodding off… and heaven forbid leaning into her in the process.
Rather than entertain such a scarring mental image, Mouse refocuses on the flight of digital media before her, images of gentle faced clergyfolk streaming into her vision as her attention flits from one to the next. As far as she’s concerned, this counts as ‘researching the job’. Of course, instead of seeking out tips on the Johnson directly, she’s opted to sift through every piece of Anglican-adjacent media she can find, as though to glean pearls of truth from the totality of Preacher’s pop-culture counterparts. She passes over an obsessively researched fandom article on 'Vicar Heidi' from the "Taichi the Bullet Train" kids' trid, and instead, settles on another flatvid:
A British cop makes an impassioned speech about the nature of morality to a dour faced vicar. The vicar rolls his eyes, before drawing two loaded pistols from the oversized sleeves of his clerical vestments and opening fire.
Just as the digital reverend hits the ground with a blasphemous ‘Jesus Christ!’, the bus creaks to a stop. Time to put that ‘research’ to good use.
Any scrap of her unwarranted self confidence evaporates the second Mouse steps through the church doors. From the half melted candles to the way the stone walls mute the electronic noise of the city, all of the spiritual trappings seem perfectly curated to stoke unease in the decker. In this earnest house of faith and community, Mouse is the outlier, her features obscured behind her face mask and fogged lenses, a virtual library of Sin at her very fingertips.
She takes a breath, as though debating saying something, but first glances at the digital crib-notes that light up her HUD alongside the Preacher’s meatspace features, namely: <<Remember: Anglicans != Catholics>> and beneath that, in bold flashing font, <<Do not, under any circumstances, make that joke.>>
Her mind lapses back to the comedian’s manic demands of ‘tea and cake with the vicar or death’, and the creeping awareness that this one did not seem the ‘tea and cake’ sort, but rather, the ‘concealed weapons in vestments’ type. She instead swallows hard, lowers her gaze and returns Preacher’s welcome with only a curt nod of acknowledgement.
...I’ll take the ‘death’, please.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Reiya is fucking done.
Not that she means to be melodramatic. Drama is an interpretation of life Reiya has generally sought to avoid. She’s had her fair share of arguments, to be sure; her blunt tongue has ignited many recipients of her ire to retaliate with their own indignation, but those fires tend to flare and burn out. This particular sheen of anger and frustration has been a slow burn, kindling into rage tinged with revulsion and escapism, tinged with grief, only recently.
Naturally impulsive—following the wind in her hair, as her medicine mother would say fondly—Reiya could summon endless patience in pursuit of her calling to the life of a shaman. She knew, once she had brushed fingers with death as an adolescent, that the ability to weave the unseen to great and tangible effect was a path she wanted to take. The years of training, memorization, and grueling labor were a constant balance between tedium, exhaustion, and revelation, but she had weathered them all, and her initiation journey and vision quest proved beyond even her dreams of triumph and prowess over the primal energies that surrounded them all. That she had to do it with men’s doubts lurking in the shadows of every success, and boy’s voices insinuating the unfitness of her female body to be a shaman, added fuel to the fire of her drive, despite the inevitable laments about the infuriating tenacity of gender discrimination. Was this offshoot of the Niitsitapi Blackfeet living in fucking 1969 instead of 2069?
But that certainly wasn’t the worst of it. A practicing shaman she had become, tending to the more minor ailments, squabbles and spiritual malfunctions of her community as the apprentice shaman to a distant cousin who was male and patronizing. Reiya’s patience and temper wore thinner still, and came close to being unleashed, but her medicine mother, who had borne far more burdens and handled more bullshit from men than anyone else Reiya knew, counseled the renewal of fraying patience, citing the assurance of success, given Reiya’s talents. And Reiya listened, as she always had, and worked on her spellcraft and shapeshifting, as she loved to do. Besides, Satya had come into her life, a miracle of kindness, patience, and gorgeous feminine curves that Reiya lacked and yet loved. Satya’s calmness cooled Reiya’s rage, while she learned how to kindle her lover’s fire.
And then a new variant of VITAS unusually resistant to magical treatment found its way into the community, and no healer and shaman had the power to slake its lust for her people. The recent nature of Reiya’s training was brushed aside in favor of her competence, and she did what she could, without cease. She kept her distance from the people she loved most in the world to keep them safe, but the sickness found them, and she could do nothing to heal them. Reiya’s patience returned as she nursed her medicine mother and her girlfriend until they fell, one after another, and she felt their spirits slip beyond the worlds that she could see.
Reiya sang the mourning chants and laced her calves with cuts, as Blackfeet women in mourning do, for four days. She considered cutting her hair like the men, but couldn’t bear to part with the long tresses Satya had so loved. She considered cutting more of her skin and more deeply, so that she could feel the pain viscerally instead of inside her head. But in the end she let the rage take her, shapeshifting into a wolf and running for days. She did not consider returning.
Once exhaustion cooled her anger somewhat, she paid a visit to Uncle Ends All Games, a relation sufficiently old and avuncular to merit the title, in Seattle. Reiya had called him Uncle Enzo since she was a teenager deeply engrossed in Snow Crash, and as he also grew up reading the classic 1990s cyberpunk genre, he was delighted and amused. They weren’t close, but Reiya’s medicine mother had been a connection between them, and in an odd sort of tribute to her life and loss, Enzo helped Reiya find something else to do with her life, skills, and rage.
So there she was. Here she is. There’s a creepy “preacher” who looks like a thug—and likely is one—in a noxious and ugly church that none of the gods and spirits she knows would deign to visit. She eyes a few of the other runners with some curiosity, and some disdain, before glaring back into the glacial eyes of their host. We’ll see what happens next, and if Reiya can be bothered to care.
Not that she means to be melodramatic. Drama is an interpretation of life Reiya has generally sought to avoid. She’s had her fair share of arguments, to be sure; her blunt tongue has ignited many recipients of her ire to retaliate with their own indignation, but those fires tend to flare and burn out. This particular sheen of anger and frustration has been a slow burn, kindling into rage tinged with revulsion and escapism, tinged with grief, only recently.
Naturally impulsive—following the wind in her hair, as her medicine mother would say fondly—Reiya could summon endless patience in pursuit of her calling to the life of a shaman. She knew, once she had brushed fingers with death as an adolescent, that the ability to weave the unseen to great and tangible effect was a path she wanted to take. The years of training, memorization, and grueling labor were a constant balance between tedium, exhaustion, and revelation, but she had weathered them all, and her initiation journey and vision quest proved beyond even her dreams of triumph and prowess over the primal energies that surrounded them all. That she had to do it with men’s doubts lurking in the shadows of every success, and boy’s voices insinuating the unfitness of her female body to be a shaman, added fuel to the fire of her drive, despite the inevitable laments about the infuriating tenacity of gender discrimination. Was this offshoot of the Niitsitapi Blackfeet living in fucking 1969 instead of 2069?
But that certainly wasn’t the worst of it. A practicing shaman she had become, tending to the more minor ailments, squabbles and spiritual malfunctions of her community as the apprentice shaman to a distant cousin who was male and patronizing. Reiya’s patience and temper wore thinner still, and came close to being unleashed, but her medicine mother, who had borne far more burdens and handled more bullshit from men than anyone else Reiya knew, counseled the renewal of fraying patience, citing the assurance of success, given Reiya’s talents. And Reiya listened, as she always had, and worked on her spellcraft and shapeshifting, as she loved to do. Besides, Satya had come into her life, a miracle of kindness, patience, and gorgeous feminine curves that Reiya lacked and yet loved. Satya’s calmness cooled Reiya’s rage, while she learned how to kindle her lover’s fire.
And then a new variant of VITAS unusually resistant to magical treatment found its way into the community, and no healer and shaman had the power to slake its lust for her people. The recent nature of Reiya’s training was brushed aside in favor of her competence, and she did what she could, without cease. She kept her distance from the people she loved most in the world to keep them safe, but the sickness found them, and she could do nothing to heal them. Reiya’s patience returned as she nursed her medicine mother and her girlfriend until they fell, one after another, and she felt their spirits slip beyond the worlds that she could see.
Reiya sang the mourning chants and laced her calves with cuts, as Blackfeet women in mourning do, for four days. She considered cutting her hair like the men, but couldn’t bear to part with the long tresses Satya had so loved. She considered cutting more of her skin and more deeply, so that she could feel the pain viscerally instead of inside her head. But in the end she let the rage take her, shapeshifting into a wolf and running for days. She did not consider returning.
Once exhaustion cooled her anger somewhat, she paid a visit to Uncle Ends All Games, a relation sufficiently old and avuncular to merit the title, in Seattle. Reiya had called him Uncle Enzo since she was a teenager deeply engrossed in Snow Crash, and as he also grew up reading the classic 1990s cyberpunk genre, he was delighted and amused. They weren’t close, but Reiya’s medicine mother had been a connection between them, and in an odd sort of tribute to her life and loss, Enzo helped Reiya find something else to do with her life, skills, and rage.
So there she was. Here she is. There’s a creepy “preacher” who looks like a thug—and likely is one—in a noxious and ugly church that none of the gods and spirits she knows would deign to visit. She eyes a few of the other runners with some curiosity, and some disdain, before glaring back into the glacial eyes of their host. We’ll see what happens next, and if Reiya can be bothered to care.
-
Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Axel awoke to find that he had been changed into a monstrous verminous bug. No, that's not right. A bug to be certain. But not a monstrous one. He idly wonders about what other part of that statement seems wrong before more memory arrives. Context. He's flying down the freeway, ducking and weaving past drones, vehicles, and mobile, glowing advertisements that trickle through the route like so many blood cells. If they stopped, the city would quickly die like any organism. There's a rush of air under his wings–No, that's wrong, too. Fan blades. This must be the Storm, that old MCT-Nissan Roto Drone that was his pride and joy, once. He squeezes the muscles in his engine, and tilts them toward the rear, pouring on the speed. Droplets of rain end their long ground-ward journey against his monocular sensor, and the wind caresses his metal carapace like the touch an old lover. He's never felt so alive.
In the distance below him, underneath the choking smog illuminated from below by the loglow is his other self. A body of meat and decay, of foibles, follies, and regrets. He spares a thought to that other self before once again losing himself in the chase. The border wall separating Bellevue from Redmond looms larger than life in the distance, like shore cliffs offering respite to a tired sailor. The way through is tricky, but if the van's pilot doesn't screw up down there, it should put him at a drainage tunnel just a little ways off the 405. He dives. The clear, rain-speckled air gives way to the churn of exhaust and humanity below. He just needs to get behind his pursuers, a quick minigun burst to the rear tires, and the rest is grav–
The gunshot propels Elias into unwelcome wakefulness, as it always does. It's not like being woken up by a sound. There was definitely a sound, he's sure of it, but it's a sound that's not a sound. An overwhelming sensation that serves one purpose: To convince its victim that the only reasonable and logical response to it is to lay there in shock. Elias's chest heaves against his sweat soaked shirt, and his left arm begins its all-too-familiar spastic shaking, a souvenir that the neural reconstructive surgery couldn’t fix. He spreads the fingers on his left hand wide, splayed out like an asymmetrical starfish, and closes it again in a rhythmic fashion, overriding the errant nerve signals with intentional motion. The ritual calms the fit, and he idly brushes the data jack at the base of his neck. The touch is cool, but brings forth memories of heat and fire. He’d seen a 3D representation of the Control Rig, and its myriad tendrils that reach out to embrace his medulla, before wrapping around and through it like the webbing around a spider’s captured prey, cocooned in an almost claustrophobic shell of metal and plastic threads. That was the price, and he knew it going in. Cold sim, plugged into a port in the side of your head, far from the action is one thing, but if you want to truly fly, you need to tap into the medulla, to go directly to the source of all those fast-twitch neurons and the highway of signals queuing up in that tiny stalk below the rest of the brain. Pure, instantaneous animal motion as data. Instinct as wireless signal. No time for safeties to test the signals before allowing them into the brain. Hardwired from the console, to the hardware in his head.
Didn’t really think what would happen when that thing jumps up to 90°C, did you? He asks himself ruefully.
The memory flashes again, and he winces. Any punk who’s spent enough time on the Matrix has heard of biofeedback, or dumpshock in Elias’s case. What they don’t tell you is what it is like. What it means to become the ghost in a machine, and to feel your body break to pieces moments before snapping back into your own analog body as it too falls to pieces. He could afford the reconstructive surgery, but barely. The therapy he had to do on his own.
Elias throws the covers off, and heads for the shower. He taps the water meter a couple times, before deciding that he can go another week before needing to top off the tank on the roof. Another check, this time the filters, and he’s finally satisfied that nothing in the rundown industrial building is in danger of immediate failure.
Still toweling off, Elias descends the stairs to the wide, expansive garage below his loft. Unlike the man, the garage is the image of responsibility and order. Rows upon rows of tools hang from the wall, each neatly covering the silhouette on the board behind it. Chests sit just out of the way, but not so much that they can’t be rolled to the middle of the shop at a moment’s notice. And there, in the middle of it all, his current pride and joy crouches like a feral animal ready to spring. The full-spectrum LEDs in the ceiling highlight the polished chrome of the vehicle, while the plasteel armor plates don’t so much absorb the light, as they let the light almost slide off of it. A gun turret sits above the cockpit, empty cradle waiting like hands in supplication. Praying for a gun. The machine is a summary of mechanical perfection, all straight lines, and mathematical curves.
Too bad it doesn’t work.
“Hey pal, keep staring, and I’m gonna start getting jealous,” drawls a voice behind him.
Elias sighs, “and yet every day, she gets closer to roadworthy, and you just get shittier,” he replies to the entity behind him. He turns to the familiar sight of the abomination that lives in the other half of the garage. Before him stands a Ford Econovan of an indeterminate, and potentially impossible vintage. The paint that can peel has peeled, except for a… Tapestry or mural of some kind painted on the side depicting a poorly rendered dragon riding a motorcycle, with an ancient flag of the old United States billowing behind, spraying a tongue of flame toward the viewer, and the phrase, “Wizard Stallion” emblazoned above, and “No Prison can Cage this Soul” below. No amount of paint thinner, razor blades (and at one point, even a laser) can seem to remove it. Like the voice coming from this insult to motorized conveyance, Elias has chalked the artwork up to being just another way that the van is haunted or possessed. Even the license plate, with its far too many letters spelling out THEVANTICHRIST, flies in the face of reason, especially when Elias discovered a valid registration match, despite the most recent registration presumably being lost during the Crash of ’29.
“So where to, chief? The open road is calling, man! Strippers in Tacoma? Oh, oh, let’s make a run across the border for some of that Salish grass!” Elias sighs again and grabs his Command Console from the safe, opens the driver’s side door, and tosses it across to the passenger seat. He pauses to get his game face on, and then Axel steps up into the van, and straps in.
“No dice, T-Bone. Got a job.” He says, and fires up the ancient petroleum motor. On cue, a grinding and clicking starts to come from the console, as an improbably ancient device retracts a plastic cassette into itself. Axel doesn’t know the origin of the device, except that like all of the other idiosyncrasies of the van, it was there when he bought it, and has proven impossible to remove. The plastic cassette is nearly dust at this point, except for a small portion of an old label that reads “Elektra” on one side, and has the numeral “8” on the other. A familiar distorted warble of a song begins to play from the speakers as he pulls out of the garage, past the sentries.
“Leaave on time, leave ooon tiiiime…” The ballad of a bygone era tells him.
He’s on the highway now, the clouds roil above the skyline in silent threat.
“I wanna get paid, I wanngjdgddgd get paid…”
The border crossing at Bellevue is mercifully uneventful, and he continues to the address given to him by Carl.
“…haaaavve a realgood tiiiime”
He pulls off the highway, and filters onto the little surface streets.
“That’s *static* Mr. Fahrenheiiiiit…”
The old timey halogen bulbs illuminate a suitably worn and stony entrance to the church yard.
“…Oonnn a collision course…”
Axel pulls around to the front, being sure to point the nose of the van toward the exit, in case he needs to leave in a hurry.
“Havin’ a good time, having a good time!” The singer crescendos before Axel kills the motor.
“Wait here, don’t know how long this will take,” he says to the empty van. He moves into the back, and removes a piece of plywood covering a hole in the roof, before arranging two roto-drones beneath it.
“No problem, man! First sign of trouble, I’m leaving you behind!” The voice calls behind him before he closes the driver’s side door and walks up the steps of the church. The door is already open, and he walks in, taking stock of the faint silhouettes farther in.
“Hey omae, heard you need a wheelman?”
In the distance below him, underneath the choking smog illuminated from below by the loglow is his other self. A body of meat and decay, of foibles, follies, and regrets. He spares a thought to that other self before once again losing himself in the chase. The border wall separating Bellevue from Redmond looms larger than life in the distance, like shore cliffs offering respite to a tired sailor. The way through is tricky, but if the van's pilot doesn't screw up down there, it should put him at a drainage tunnel just a little ways off the 405. He dives. The clear, rain-speckled air gives way to the churn of exhaust and humanity below. He just needs to get behind his pursuers, a quick minigun burst to the rear tires, and the rest is grav–
The gunshot propels Elias into unwelcome wakefulness, as it always does. It's not like being woken up by a sound. There was definitely a sound, he's sure of it, but it's a sound that's not a sound. An overwhelming sensation that serves one purpose: To convince its victim that the only reasonable and logical response to it is to lay there in shock. Elias's chest heaves against his sweat soaked shirt, and his left arm begins its all-too-familiar spastic shaking, a souvenir that the neural reconstructive surgery couldn’t fix. He spreads the fingers on his left hand wide, splayed out like an asymmetrical starfish, and closes it again in a rhythmic fashion, overriding the errant nerve signals with intentional motion. The ritual calms the fit, and he idly brushes the data jack at the base of his neck. The touch is cool, but brings forth memories of heat and fire. He’d seen a 3D representation of the Control Rig, and its myriad tendrils that reach out to embrace his medulla, before wrapping around and through it like the webbing around a spider’s captured prey, cocooned in an almost claustrophobic shell of metal and plastic threads. That was the price, and he knew it going in. Cold sim, plugged into a port in the side of your head, far from the action is one thing, but if you want to truly fly, you need to tap into the medulla, to go directly to the source of all those fast-twitch neurons and the highway of signals queuing up in that tiny stalk below the rest of the brain. Pure, instantaneous animal motion as data. Instinct as wireless signal. No time for safeties to test the signals before allowing them into the brain. Hardwired from the console, to the hardware in his head.
Didn’t really think what would happen when that thing jumps up to 90°C, did you? He asks himself ruefully.
The memory flashes again, and he winces. Any punk who’s spent enough time on the Matrix has heard of biofeedback, or dumpshock in Elias’s case. What they don’t tell you is what it is like. What it means to become the ghost in a machine, and to feel your body break to pieces moments before snapping back into your own analog body as it too falls to pieces. He could afford the reconstructive surgery, but barely. The therapy he had to do on his own.
Elias throws the covers off, and heads for the shower. He taps the water meter a couple times, before deciding that he can go another week before needing to top off the tank on the roof. Another check, this time the filters, and he’s finally satisfied that nothing in the rundown industrial building is in danger of immediate failure.
Still toweling off, Elias descends the stairs to the wide, expansive garage below his loft. Unlike the man, the garage is the image of responsibility and order. Rows upon rows of tools hang from the wall, each neatly covering the silhouette on the board behind it. Chests sit just out of the way, but not so much that they can’t be rolled to the middle of the shop at a moment’s notice. And there, in the middle of it all, his current pride and joy crouches like a feral animal ready to spring. The full-spectrum LEDs in the ceiling highlight the polished chrome of the vehicle, while the plasteel armor plates don’t so much absorb the light, as they let the light almost slide off of it. A gun turret sits above the cockpit, empty cradle waiting like hands in supplication. Praying for a gun. The machine is a summary of mechanical perfection, all straight lines, and mathematical curves.
Too bad it doesn’t work.
“Hey pal, keep staring, and I’m gonna start getting jealous,” drawls a voice behind him.
Elias sighs, “and yet every day, she gets closer to roadworthy, and you just get shittier,” he replies to the entity behind him. He turns to the familiar sight of the abomination that lives in the other half of the garage. Before him stands a Ford Econovan of an indeterminate, and potentially impossible vintage. The paint that can peel has peeled, except for a… Tapestry or mural of some kind painted on the side depicting a poorly rendered dragon riding a motorcycle, with an ancient flag of the old United States billowing behind, spraying a tongue of flame toward the viewer, and the phrase, “Wizard Stallion” emblazoned above, and “No Prison can Cage this Soul” below. No amount of paint thinner, razor blades (and at one point, even a laser) can seem to remove it. Like the voice coming from this insult to motorized conveyance, Elias has chalked the artwork up to being just another way that the van is haunted or possessed. Even the license plate, with its far too many letters spelling out THEVANTICHRIST, flies in the face of reason, especially when Elias discovered a valid registration match, despite the most recent registration presumably being lost during the Crash of ’29.
“So where to, chief? The open road is calling, man! Strippers in Tacoma? Oh, oh, let’s make a run across the border for some of that Salish grass!” Elias sighs again and grabs his Command Console from the safe, opens the driver’s side door, and tosses it across to the passenger seat. He pauses to get his game face on, and then Axel steps up into the van, and straps in.
“No dice, T-Bone. Got a job.” He says, and fires up the ancient petroleum motor. On cue, a grinding and clicking starts to come from the console, as an improbably ancient device retracts a plastic cassette into itself. Axel doesn’t know the origin of the device, except that like all of the other idiosyncrasies of the van, it was there when he bought it, and has proven impossible to remove. The plastic cassette is nearly dust at this point, except for a small portion of an old label that reads “Elektra” on one side, and has the numeral “8” on the other. A familiar distorted warble of a song begins to play from the speakers as he pulls out of the garage, past the sentries.
“Leaave on time, leave ooon tiiiime…” The ballad of a bygone era tells him.
He’s on the highway now, the clouds roil above the skyline in silent threat.
“I wanna get paid, I wanngjdgddgd get paid…”
The border crossing at Bellevue is mercifully uneventful, and he continues to the address given to him by Carl.
“…haaaavve a realgood tiiiime”
He pulls off the highway, and filters onto the little surface streets.
“That’s *static* Mr. Fahrenheiiiiit…”
The old timey halogen bulbs illuminate a suitably worn and stony entrance to the church yard.
“…Oonnn a collision course…”
Axel pulls around to the front, being sure to point the nose of the van toward the exit, in case he needs to leave in a hurry.
“Havin’ a good time, having a good time!” The singer crescendos before Axel kills the motor.
“Wait here, don’t know how long this will take,” he says to the empty van. He moves into the back, and removes a piece of plywood covering a hole in the roof, before arranging two roto-drones beneath it.
“No problem, man! First sign of trouble, I’m leaving you behind!” The voice calls behind him before he closes the driver’s side door and walks up the steps of the church. The door is already open, and he walks in, taking stock of the faint silhouettes farther in.
“Hey omae, heard you need a wheelman?”
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Yung lingers quietly in the shadows just beyond the flickering luminance of an ancient streetlamp, cautiously observing the entrance to the decidedly out of place cathedral of a bygone era. Then again, what isn’t out of place these days, especially considering the automotive abomination that just pulled up to the sanctuary.
Yung turns to face the pair of red eyes piercing the darkness behind him…
“Cállate lobo, I know, La unión hace la fuerza.” Yung mutters to himself.
After a resigned sigh, Yung steps into the flickering light and walks confidently toward the cathedral. Ginger calculated footsteps avoid the acid tinged puddles that might otherwise damage his custom cobbled wingtips. As he moves past the jalopy of indiscernible origin a mechanical voice suddenly breaks the silence.
“Hey homie, keep your hands off the chromies.”
What the frag, someone loaded an AI into this piece of drek?
“Aye slitch, it look like I want your rusted old chromies, drek! Why don’t you get some petroleum jelly and rub that shit off meng?” Yung replies.
Fraggin AIs
Regaining his poise, Yung continues up the steps to the cathedral doors. He pauses for a moment, pulling a pair of circle framed glasses with tinted lenses from the inner breast pocket of his Synergist Business Line Longcoat and sliding them over the bridge of his nose.
At least these will provide a buffer, calm, cool, confident...for her. He tells himself.
Yung grabs both handles of the doors, pulling them confidently outward as an overt announcement of his presence. Gazing inward at the motley collection of meatbags, Yung strides forward projecting an air of stately stoicism.
“Oye güeyes, this must be the place eh? Well, my Tio always said, ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’ Aye Padre, this job betta be payin mani nuyen, I got a lotta biz over this sprawl omae.” Yung announces to his audience.
Yung turns to face the pair of red eyes piercing the darkness behind him…
“Cállate lobo, I know, La unión hace la fuerza.” Yung mutters to himself.
After a resigned sigh, Yung steps into the flickering light and walks confidently toward the cathedral. Ginger calculated footsteps avoid the acid tinged puddles that might otherwise damage his custom cobbled wingtips. As he moves past the jalopy of indiscernible origin a mechanical voice suddenly breaks the silence.
“Hey homie, keep your hands off the chromies.”
What the frag, someone loaded an AI into this piece of drek?
“Aye slitch, it look like I want your rusted old chromies, drek! Why don’t you get some petroleum jelly and rub that shit off meng?” Yung replies.
Fraggin AIs
Regaining his poise, Yung continues up the steps to the cathedral doors. He pauses for a moment, pulling a pair of circle framed glasses with tinted lenses from the inner breast pocket of his Synergist Business Line Longcoat and sliding them over the bridge of his nose.
At least these will provide a buffer, calm, cool, confident...for her. He tells himself.
Yung grabs both handles of the doors, pulling them confidently outward as an overt announcement of his presence. Gazing inward at the motley collection of meatbags, Yung strides forward projecting an air of stately stoicism.
“Oye güeyes, this must be the place eh? Well, my Tio always said, ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’ Aye Padre, this job betta be payin mani nuyen, I got a lotta biz over this sprawl omae.” Yung announces to his audience.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Kiyoshi shifts his weight furtively as he leans against the wall near the alley's opening. The thick mist creates virulent halos around the glow of the flickering neon signs of decrepit shops lining the street, the damp air magnifying the stench of a nearby dumpster casting a shadow which partially obscures him from view and moistening the noxious grime coating the brick wall at his back. He wonders idly if anything in this place has ever been truly free of damp. He has a hard time imagining it.
Kiyoshi peers down the street at the meeting point. A streetlight near the church entrance flickers unpredictably in the mist with a sickly orange glow, like the malfunctioning lure of an anglerfish infected by the inexorable decay of its surroundings. A church, of all places, and the irony isn't lost on him. A place where the high and the low go to dedicate themselves to a code or doctrine laid down by those who have established the perception that they occupy the high ground, moral or otherwise. Having been heavily steeped in corporate doctrine and the subtle (and often less subtle when it involves him) brutality of corporate politics for the better part of two decades, the message sent by the choice of venue feels both hamfisted and familiar.
Though it's not quite his first time meeting a new employer since his time in the darker corners of the shadows began, it still feels strange surveilling a scene like this without his team at his back -- the clipped, professional chatter over the commlink giving him eyes where he cannot see, as if he could be in several places at once. The lack leaves him with a foreign feeling of being uncomfortable and exposed before logic reasserts itself and pulls him back into reality. He grits his teeth hard at the thought of being back within striking distance of any of his former squad. Synapses fire in an electrical storm across a well-worn neural pathway in his brain which, given the chance to be employed in the real world, would end in one thing only: swift, unrestrained, and deadly violence.
Eyes closed, Kiyoshi draws in a breath, holds it for several seconds, and releases it slowly. Throughout his career with Shiawase he had been trained to decouple emotion from violence. Violence is the last card in the deck -- the one played when diplomacy has failed and when failure is not an option, a means to an end when other means are exhausted... most other means, anyway. That, at least, was how he lived with it. Until just over a year ago, he'd never had occasion to personally desire violence against another, and now he wrestled with it constantly. He might prefer violence to be the final option, but for Kenji, for Ren, for Aioki and Yukiko, he'd make a swift and deadly exception.
Kiyoshi brings himself back into the moment and watches for a few more moments as several distant figures arrive and duck through the tall doors, each arriving separately, he notes. He finally dislodges his back from the grimy wall and advances toward the flickering orange streetlamp above the church entrance. Before he reaches the doors, his augmented hearing picks up on words being exchanged, and rather than interrupt, he slips in silently and places his back against the wall and observes the scene and the players before him.
Kiyoshi peers down the street at the meeting point. A streetlight near the church entrance flickers unpredictably in the mist with a sickly orange glow, like the malfunctioning lure of an anglerfish infected by the inexorable decay of its surroundings. A church, of all places, and the irony isn't lost on him. A place where the high and the low go to dedicate themselves to a code or doctrine laid down by those who have established the perception that they occupy the high ground, moral or otherwise. Having been heavily steeped in corporate doctrine and the subtle (and often less subtle when it involves him) brutality of corporate politics for the better part of two decades, the message sent by the choice of venue feels both hamfisted and familiar.
Though it's not quite his first time meeting a new employer since his time in the darker corners of the shadows began, it still feels strange surveilling a scene like this without his team at his back -- the clipped, professional chatter over the commlink giving him eyes where he cannot see, as if he could be in several places at once. The lack leaves him with a foreign feeling of being uncomfortable and exposed before logic reasserts itself and pulls him back into reality. He grits his teeth hard at the thought of being back within striking distance of any of his former squad. Synapses fire in an electrical storm across a well-worn neural pathway in his brain which, given the chance to be employed in the real world, would end in one thing only: swift, unrestrained, and deadly violence.
Eyes closed, Kiyoshi draws in a breath, holds it for several seconds, and releases it slowly. Throughout his career with Shiawase he had been trained to decouple emotion from violence. Violence is the last card in the deck -- the one played when diplomacy has failed and when failure is not an option, a means to an end when other means are exhausted... most other means, anyway. That, at least, was how he lived with it. Until just over a year ago, he'd never had occasion to personally desire violence against another, and now he wrestled with it constantly. He might prefer violence to be the final option, but for Kenji, for Ren, for Aioki and Yukiko, he'd make a swift and deadly exception.
Kiyoshi brings himself back into the moment and watches for a few more moments as several distant figures arrive and duck through the tall doors, each arriving separately, he notes. He finally dislodges his back from the grimy wall and advances toward the flickering orange streetlamp above the church entrance. Before he reaches the doors, his augmented hearing picks up on words being exchanged, and rather than interrupt, he slips in silently and places his back against the wall and observes the scene and the players before him.
Last edited by Stephen on Fri Oct 15, 2021 11:20 pm, edited 5 times in total.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Preacher's expression remains inscrutable throughout the barrage of interrogatives. He answers all three with conservative motions: first swiveling his head to one side toward a beige jerry-can and basin in the opposite transept, in answer to Mick. He directs the slightest of nods to Axel in affirmation. The piercing, cobalt scrutiny of Preacher's eyes doesn't waver throughout the exchange, but seems to finally settle on Yung.
"So I prophesied as He commanded me," says Preacher. His lips twitch into an executioner's smile-- performative and joyless. "...and the breath came into them, and they came to life and stood on their feet--" Another nod indicates the troupe huddled in the nave. "...an exceedingly great army."
Thunder peals outside, the reverberation of which shakes the windows in their panes. The shadows in the church lurch madly to and fro as an errant gust sweeps through.
"Ezekiel," explains Preacher. "Fitting verse, given the circumstances."
The unnaturally blue eyes pick over Yung, while the rest of Preacher's face remains as cold and rigid as Siberian permafrost. For reasons unexplained, he seems to deem the muscular man arbiter of the group.
"I'll admit that I seldom contract outside of the church. Ordinarily I would have members of my congregation see to this task. Unfortunately, most of my flock are engaged with other matters and I have an issue which needs urgent attention. I admire your eagerness. What is your name?"
"So I prophesied as He commanded me," says Preacher. His lips twitch into an executioner's smile-- performative and joyless. "...and the breath came into them, and they came to life and stood on their feet--" Another nod indicates the troupe huddled in the nave. "...an exceedingly great army."
Thunder peals outside, the reverberation of which shakes the windows in their panes. The shadows in the church lurch madly to and fro as an errant gust sweeps through.
"Ezekiel," explains Preacher. "Fitting verse, given the circumstances."
The unnaturally blue eyes pick over Yung, while the rest of Preacher's face remains as cold and rigid as Siberian permafrost. For reasons unexplained, he seems to deem the muscular man arbiter of the group.
"I'll admit that I seldom contract outside of the church. Ordinarily I would have members of my congregation see to this task. Unfortunately, most of my flock are engaged with other matters and I have an issue which needs urgent attention. I admire your eagerness. What is your name?"
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Better to be the boot.
The image on the surface wobbles, momentarily disturbed as the fluid palpitates, excited and wakeful at the stimulus. Probing and greedy in its single-mindedness to engorge and envelop, it stretches, rippling, touching, infiltrating, taking the sole into itself so that it may know it, caress it- devour it. Every void an opportunity. It seethes and rushes into nook and channel, indiscriminate, pressing, contaminating- lusting.
The puddle laps eagerly at the injection-molded treads, sucking from their marrow a feast of grime and decay, of guts and brine, and drek. Those atoms of itself that by fortune of chance find themselves near the front press inwards, even as other parts of it are displaced, forced aside by their kin to be sent crashing and bouncing amongst the rest until they too slow, spent and uncaring, though unslaked, an echo in a coliseum.
A world in miniature, without impetus. A society of molecules. Blind, and unthinking, ruled nevertheless by the same laws of Newtonian physics as those sentient beings who, in their great cleverness, set themselves above it in their narcissism. Cause and effect, action to reaction. Winners. Losers. Haves, and Have Nots. Life? Culture? Destiny? Or merely physics…an experiment in motion, a universe of sound and clamor, a runaway catalyst with no more agency than a puddle of water…
Unaware the plight of the “individuals” that comprise the growing pool of discolored runoff beneath his feet, a hulking figure pauses, ducking his head out of the rain beneath the eave of an unremarkable warren apartment long enough to bump a pinch of snuff from a small, cheap canister he produces from somewhere inside the oily waxed cotton offshore jacket that appears more a natural part of him than the whirling, shiny, mechanical limbs it covers. Though even were he – aware, of them, that is- he isn’t the type to spend overly much time in deep thought about it.
Thoryne grunts in satisfaction, checks his watch, and ambles good naturedly to mount the steps leading up the grand entrance of the church. As he ascends, a momentary wave of land-sickness bombards him, and he makes use of the the handrail as his senses assail him with the rolling vertigo of a ship in motion. Muttering something about that damn dwarf, and fogging piss soaked boots, he slips through the doorway.
Behind him, the puddle churns in the eddy of his departure, the once clear reflection of the city skyline now obscured by the swirling miasma of drek and sludge stirred up by its fervent panic; the still image of the bastion of civilization occluded by chaos of its own making.
Much better to be the boot.
The image on the surface wobbles, momentarily disturbed as the fluid palpitates, excited and wakeful at the stimulus. Probing and greedy in its single-mindedness to engorge and envelop, it stretches, rippling, touching, infiltrating, taking the sole into itself so that it may know it, caress it- devour it. Every void an opportunity. It seethes and rushes into nook and channel, indiscriminate, pressing, contaminating- lusting.
The puddle laps eagerly at the injection-molded treads, sucking from their marrow a feast of grime and decay, of guts and brine, and drek. Those atoms of itself that by fortune of chance find themselves near the front press inwards, even as other parts of it are displaced, forced aside by their kin to be sent crashing and bouncing amongst the rest until they too slow, spent and uncaring, though unslaked, an echo in a coliseum.
A world in miniature, without impetus. A society of molecules. Blind, and unthinking, ruled nevertheless by the same laws of Newtonian physics as those sentient beings who, in their great cleverness, set themselves above it in their narcissism. Cause and effect, action to reaction. Winners. Losers. Haves, and Have Nots. Life? Culture? Destiny? Or merely physics…an experiment in motion, a universe of sound and clamor, a runaway catalyst with no more agency than a puddle of water…
Unaware the plight of the “individuals” that comprise the growing pool of discolored runoff beneath his feet, a hulking figure pauses, ducking his head out of the rain beneath the eave of an unremarkable warren apartment long enough to bump a pinch of snuff from a small, cheap canister he produces from somewhere inside the oily waxed cotton offshore jacket that appears more a natural part of him than the whirling, shiny, mechanical limbs it covers. Though even were he – aware, of them, that is- he isn’t the type to spend overly much time in deep thought about it.
Thoryne grunts in satisfaction, checks his watch, and ambles good naturedly to mount the steps leading up the grand entrance of the church. As he ascends, a momentary wave of land-sickness bombards him, and he makes use of the the handrail as his senses assail him with the rolling vertigo of a ship in motion. Muttering something about that damn dwarf, and fogging piss soaked boots, he slips through the doorway.
Behind him, the puddle churns in the eddy of his departure, the once clear reflection of the city skyline now obscured by the swirling miasma of drek and sludge stirred up by its fervent panic; the still image of the bastion of civilization occluded by chaos of its own making.
Much better to be the boot.
Last edited by Conway on Sun Oct 17, 2021 5:48 pm, edited 7 times in total.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Yung brushes back the greatcoat covering his left flank, casually placing his hand in the front pocket of his Synergist business line suit as he advances into the church. He steps deftly to avoid areas of the carpet that might risk sullying his shoes.
As he proceeds into the room Yung appraises the pews with mild disdain, finally fixating on one in the second row. He approaches the pew and pulls a handkerchief from his lapel, leaning over to discerningly drape it out onto the most sturdy looking part of the splintered seat.
Standing back up, Yung places his hand in his pocket once again and turns to face the Preacher.
“Well Padre, I am Akela la Caza.”
Yung sweeps his right arm out wide, palm upward, and bows his head in a gesture of respect. After a brief moment he lifts his head and once again assesses the pew before finally taking a seat.
Yung continues, “The words seldom and urgently are Nuyen to my ears. We are a formidable force, as you say, an ambitious army. In addition to our sanguine samaritan…” Yung nods his head in the direction of the pale Ork.
"We have a top notch rigger controlling a beastly slitch with an attitude waiting outside."
Yung rolls his head lazily back toward the group, reclining slightly in the pew as he extends his arm back, beckoning with his index and middle finger for someone to advance.
As he proceeds into the room Yung appraises the pews with mild disdain, finally fixating on one in the second row. He approaches the pew and pulls a handkerchief from his lapel, leaning over to discerningly drape it out onto the most sturdy looking part of the splintered seat.
Standing back up, Yung places his hand in his pocket once again and turns to face the Preacher.
“Well Padre, I am Akela la Caza.”
Yung sweeps his right arm out wide, palm upward, and bows his head in a gesture of respect. After a brief moment he lifts his head and once again assesses the pew before finally taking a seat.
Yung continues, “The words seldom and urgently are Nuyen to my ears. We are a formidable force, as you say, an ambitious army. In addition to our sanguine samaritan…” Yung nods his head in the direction of the pale Ork.
"We have a top notch rigger controlling a beastly slitch with an attitude waiting outside."
Yung rolls his head lazily back toward the group, reclining slightly in the pew as he extends his arm back, beckoning with his index and middle finger for someone to advance.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
The remaining team members filter in, and it becomes immediately apparent just how small Mouse is by comparison. On a rational level, that should be reassuring: literally any of them could be a suitable meatshield once drek hits the fan. But that instinctive appeal to gallows humor belies the screeching of her lizard brain that strangers == danger, particularly if they’re well armed.
In an act of cosmic mercy, the Preacher keeps to his stereotypes, fixating on the striking young man before anyone else. At the word “Ezekiel”, text streams across the decker’s retinas: <<Related content: Ezekiel 23:20>>. As the text of the passage cascades into view into a helpful visual overlay, Mouse has to stifle a snerk, particularly as the Johnson praises the young man’s ‘eagerness.’
Gritting her teeth, she glances back at her new crew, attention lingering briefly on the rigger, who’s admittedly bearing some intriguing tech on him, before finally accepting the chatty one’s unspoken offer to join in. “ARMY’S ONE WORD FOR IT.” Her words are less spoken than ‘emitted’: a synthetic, computerized voice, vaguely-feminine, but distinctly lacking the timbre and cadence of anything that would come from an actual human’s meat-mouth. “MORE IMPORTANTLY, WE’RE A TEAM OF PROFESSIONALS, WILLING TO COMMIT FILTHY ACTS AT A REASONABLE PRICE.” She shrugs, forcing herself to maintain a casual air, and harder yet, meet the Preacher's cold gaze. "QUESTION BEING, WHICH MORTAL SINS WE'LL BE COMMITING ON YOUR BEHALF."
In an act of cosmic mercy, the Preacher keeps to his stereotypes, fixating on the striking young man before anyone else. At the word “Ezekiel”, text streams across the decker’s retinas: <<Related content: Ezekiel 23:20>>. As the text of the passage cascades into view into a helpful visual overlay, Mouse has to stifle a snerk, particularly as the Johnson praises the young man’s ‘eagerness.’
Gritting her teeth, she glances back at her new crew, attention lingering briefly on the rigger, who’s admittedly bearing some intriguing tech on him, before finally accepting the chatty one’s unspoken offer to join in. “ARMY’S ONE WORD FOR IT.” Her words are less spoken than ‘emitted’: a synthetic, computerized voice, vaguely-feminine, but distinctly lacking the timbre and cadence of anything that would come from an actual human’s meat-mouth. “MORE IMPORTANTLY, WE’RE A TEAM OF PROFESSIONALS, WILLING TO COMMIT FILTHY ACTS AT A REASONABLE PRICE.” She shrugs, forcing herself to maintain a casual air, and harder yet, meet the Preacher's cold gaze. "QUESTION BEING, WHICH MORTAL SINS WE'LL BE COMMITING ON YOUR BEHALF."
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Preacher returns Yung's gesture of respect with a slight nod, though his enigmatic bearing remains. "Every 3 months, the Lone Star precinct in Bellevue takes all of the firearms it has confiscated and transports them to a facility in Renton, to be destroyed. Last month was a... productive month for Lone Star. It was a record seizure." He removes the cigar from his mouth and stubs it out on the pulpit. "Such a waste, no? When those weapons could be utilized towards a higher purpose."
"I have a contact inside Lone Star. He informed me in advance of the transport's contents, route, and the exact time and day that the delivery was scheduled. I had my people lie in wait, about halfway along the route, but the transport never showed up. My contact informed me later that the delivery hadn't made it out of Bellevue. The driver had triggered a silent alarm, so Lone Star sent a team to rendezvous with the transport. When they found it, both the driver and the cargo were gone."
Preacher folds his hands in front of his vestments. "I'd like you to track down that cargo and return it to me before Lone Star locates it. Fortunately, we do have a lead. Does this arrangement interest you?"
"I have a contact inside Lone Star. He informed me in advance of the transport's contents, route, and the exact time and day that the delivery was scheduled. I had my people lie in wait, about halfway along the route, but the transport never showed up. My contact informed me later that the delivery hadn't made it out of Bellevue. The driver had triggered a silent alarm, so Lone Star sent a team to rendezvous with the transport. When they found it, both the driver and the cargo were gone."
Preacher folds his hands in front of his vestments. "I'd like you to track down that cargo and return it to me before Lone Star locates it. Fortunately, we do have a lead. Does this arrangement interest you?"
-
Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
"Well, batya," Axel says slowly, "I'm always down for sticking it to Lone Star, and the to poor little dears in Bellevue that have enough guns that they can afford to just throw them away."
He idly picks between his teeth, "So who stole your idea? I'd like to know what new enemies I'm making before I throw in."
This is it, he thinks, act like you've done this before.
He idly picks between his teeth, "So who stole your idea? I'd like to know what new enemies I'm making before I throw in."
This is it, he thinks, act like you've done this before.
Last edited by Drew Buddy on Sat Oct 16, 2021 2:35 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Yung removes his glasses, folding the arms in with delicate deliberation, then places them back into the breast pocket of his coat. He scans the faces of each member of the crew silently as if to look for some sign of reservation among a group of people he’s never met before but knew he would find none.
Cool, calm, confident...
"Ok, Padre, the answer to your question is yes, we are interested. But how does the old saying go?" Yung smirks, "The Devil is in the details?"
"I think the crew and I have a few questions. We collaborate on this, you know, knowledge is power, and 7 heads is betta than one." Yung says, tapping his temple with his index finger.
"I think we ask a few questions, go over the details, then come to an agreement on how much these lost things would mean to you and your congregation in these difficult times."
"The wheelman, he ask a good question, he always ask the best questions." Yung says bringing his thumb and forefinger together, kissing them, and separating them again. "You always wanna know who you gonna frag before you jump in bed."
"I have some questions too, but I give da big brains in our crew a chance to speak up." Yung says invitingly.
I hope these guys spew some good dreg
Cool, calm, confident...
"Ok, Padre, the answer to your question is yes, we are interested. But how does the old saying go?" Yung smirks, "The Devil is in the details?"
"I think the crew and I have a few questions. We collaborate on this, you know, knowledge is power, and 7 heads is betta than one." Yung says, tapping his temple with his index finger.
"I think we ask a few questions, go over the details, then come to an agreement on how much these lost things would mean to you and your congregation in these difficult times."
"The wheelman, he ask a good question, he always ask the best questions." Yung says bringing his thumb and forefinger together, kissing them, and separating them again. "You always wanna know who you gonna frag before you jump in bed."
"I have some questions too, but I give da big brains in our crew a chance to speak up." Yung says invitingly.
I hope these guys spew some good dreg
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
The modulated voice of the elf somewhat startles Kiyoshi, though he quickly controls his surprise. His gaze flicks away as soon as her eyes turn towards his. It was strange how such a superficial artificial aspect of humanity could throw him off.. when he knew to his core he was deeply less human than she.
Returning to the moment a dialogue at hand, Kiyoshi can't help but notice the practiced inflections of a skilled negotiator rolling off Yung's tongue, though he's still a stranger and not to be trusted. Too many corporate types with the same honeyed venom running around for his taste.
Back to the wall, Kiyoshi grunts quietly. The neural muscle memory of countless pre-briefs asserts itself as he detaches himself from the shadows. Amid all the other chatter, he takes a half-step forward from the wall, gazes stone-faced at the Preacher, and asks the only question that matters until he knows more,"Your lead?" he asks simply.
Returning to the moment a dialogue at hand, Kiyoshi can't help but notice the practiced inflections of a skilled negotiator rolling off Yung's tongue, though he's still a stranger and not to be trusted. Too many corporate types with the same honeyed venom running around for his taste.
Back to the wall, Kiyoshi grunts quietly. The neural muscle memory of countless pre-briefs asserts itself as he detaches himself from the shadows. Amid all the other chatter, he takes a half-step forward from the wall, gazes stone-faced at the Preacher, and asks the only question that matters until he knows more,"Your lead?" he asks simply.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Preacher's folded hands open in a vaguely plaintive gesture. "I do not know who took the cargo. I put out a call for assistance as soon as I learned of the cargo's status. The details would be up to you."
The alcohol blue fire eyes move to Kiyoshi. "That said, a data broker in my employ informed me they have information that will lead to the return of the cargo. There is a night-club about four blocks from here called the Powder-keg. If you go there and ask for The Owl, they will assist you."
The eerie gaze moves back to Yung. "I am prepared to pay ¥75,000 total for the returned cargo. I will add in an additional ¥10,000 if you can return it without attracting the attention of Lone Star. Is that amenable, Akela La Caza?"
The alcohol blue fire eyes move to Kiyoshi. "That said, a data broker in my employ informed me they have information that will lead to the return of the cargo. There is a night-club about four blocks from here called the Powder-keg. If you go there and ask for The Owl, they will assist you."
The eerie gaze moves back to Yung. "I am prepared to pay ¥75,000 total for the returned cargo. I will add in an additional ¥10,000 if you can return it without attracting the attention of Lone Star. Is that amenable, Akela La Caza?"
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Oh, this is such a bad idea, Reiya thinks, almost against her will. How Satya and Na-Ah would hate to see her here. She’s preserved her mask of faintly interested disdain so far, flicking glances to the various members as they appear and speak. The other woman is pretty cute, though Reiya is started by the synthetic voice and the amount of biotech crammed into that small package. In fact, Reiya is faintly alarmed by the amount of bioware some of her soon-to-be compatriots are packing, but she sure as hell won’t let it show.
The guy acting as Face, Akela whatever, while not elected by the rest of this motley crew, seems to know his stuff, though Reiya has a little trouble parsing his slang. Well, girl, she says to herself, you’re not on tribal land anymore. You’re essentially a hick. Well-done.
The shaman is quite aware that she doesn’t know enough to ask useful questions, but even she knows that’s not nearly enough information to go on, or enough nuyen for something this dangerous. Hopefully the others will nudge the price up a bit while garnering a few more details; she could say something pithy about the paucity of intel and funds, but she doesn’t want to reveal her lack of knowledge quite yet. They’ll figure it out soon enough, but she intends to project a confident and unconcerned air until then. And what, really, has she to be concerned about? She might end up dead, so what?
Yet, if she’s being honest with herself, Reiya knows she is not ready to follow her loved ones quite yet. There’s revenge to be had, and Lone Star is a name even she knows. Indeed, Lone Star is a big enough player to have potentially been involved in engineering the variant of VITAS that ravaged her community. Maybe not, but she knows for sure they’ve fucked with a number of Native peoples, and that’s enough to rekindle the embers of her rage and dispel her fears.
Fine, she says to herself, and mentally to everyone else in this decrepit hall. Bring it.
The guy acting as Face, Akela whatever, while not elected by the rest of this motley crew, seems to know his stuff, though Reiya has a little trouble parsing his slang. Well, girl, she says to herself, you’re not on tribal land anymore. You’re essentially a hick. Well-done.
The shaman is quite aware that she doesn’t know enough to ask useful questions, but even she knows that’s not nearly enough information to go on, or enough nuyen for something this dangerous. Hopefully the others will nudge the price up a bit while garnering a few more details; she could say something pithy about the paucity of intel and funds, but she doesn’t want to reveal her lack of knowledge quite yet. They’ll figure it out soon enough, but she intends to project a confident and unconcerned air until then. And what, really, has she to be concerned about? She might end up dead, so what?
Yet, if she’s being honest with herself, Reiya knows she is not ready to follow her loved ones quite yet. There’s revenge to be had, and Lone Star is a name even she knows. Indeed, Lone Star is a big enough player to have potentially been involved in engineering the variant of VITAS that ravaged her community. Maybe not, but she knows for sure they’ve fucked with a number of Native peoples, and that’s enough to rekindle the embers of her rage and dispel her fears.
Fine, she says to herself, and mentally to everyone else in this decrepit hall. Bring it.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Yung cocks an eyebrow, casting a glance toward Reiya, the only time during the entire exchange he’s had a momentary lapse in composure. He smiles and slowly turns his head back to meet the gaze of Preacher.
“Well Padre, it seems the crew is excited about this one, but there are a few things we gotta settle.” Yung says as he clasps his hands behind his back and begins to slowly begin pacing back and forth in front of the pulpit.
Yung raises a finger as he continues walking. “First, we don’t know who we fraggin other than Stars and that's no good, muy aggro. We take this job for you, maybe it close a door for us tomorrow, bad for business ya know.”
Yung raises a second finger. “Second, dis a rush job and we walkin into a heatwave, we can handle it yeah, but we got to go now, every minute that passes dat hardware gettin harder to find.”
Yung raises a third finger. “Third, we not gettin much data other than a meet a bird in da club, who knows what kinda data your man got. Could be it’s arctic or maybe it malo.”
Yung stops pacing and turns to meet Preacher’s steely stare once again. “Now, number three, that’s sometimes part of runnin, so we give that one to you for free. But one and two, they gonna add ten percent each. We take the job for ¥90k, but if we keep the Stars blind, maybe only an extra ¥7.5k, and each member of the crew gets a piece of hardware from the cache.”
((Roll negotiation))
Now for the final touch Patron.
Yung lifts his arm and pulls back his sleeve to reveal a gold wristwatch looking down at it casually. “Now, as I say, we don’t got much time, so what you say Padre?” Yung inquires before once again clasping his hands behind his back.
“Well Padre, it seems the crew is excited about this one, but there are a few things we gotta settle.” Yung says as he clasps his hands behind his back and begins to slowly begin pacing back and forth in front of the pulpit.
Yung raises a finger as he continues walking. “First, we don’t know who we fraggin other than Stars and that's no good, muy aggro. We take this job for you, maybe it close a door for us tomorrow, bad for business ya know.”
Yung raises a second finger. “Second, dis a rush job and we walkin into a heatwave, we can handle it yeah, but we got to go now, every minute that passes dat hardware gettin harder to find.”
Yung raises a third finger. “Third, we not gettin much data other than a meet a bird in da club, who knows what kinda data your man got. Could be it’s arctic or maybe it malo.”
Yung stops pacing and turns to meet Preacher’s steely stare once again. “Now, number three, that’s sometimes part of runnin, so we give that one to you for free. But one and two, they gonna add ten percent each. We take the job for ¥90k, but if we keep the Stars blind, maybe only an extra ¥7.5k, and each member of the crew gets a piece of hardware from the cache.”
((Roll negotiation))
Now for the final touch Patron.
Yung lifts his arm and pulls back his sleeve to reveal a gold wristwatch looking down at it casually. “Now, as I say, we don’t got much time, so what you say Padre?” Yung inquires before once again clasping his hands behind his back.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Negotiation Check
He blinks, perhaps the first time since the conversation began. "The Owl is a trusted friend of the church, they will no doubt provide you what you need. Rest assured, I would know if someone were attempting to move a prize of that size. No, whomever claimed it has yet to attempt to fence it."
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
“Excelente Padre, you are a good and reasonable man! Let your man Owl know we coming over.” Yung responds.
He turns to face the crew, reaching into his breast pocket he once again pulls out and dons his round rimmed glasses. “Well Kurū, unless anyone else has somethin to say, vámanos.” Yung says, as he points toward the entryway.
The slightest smile stretches across Yung's face, as he casually puts his hands in the pockets of his greatcoat and begins walking toward the door.
He turns to face the crew, reaching into his breast pocket he once again pulls out and dons his round rimmed glasses. “Well Kurū, unless anyone else has somethin to say, vámanos.” Yung says, as he points toward the entryway.
The slightest smile stretches across Yung's face, as he casually puts his hands in the pockets of his greatcoat and begins walking toward the door.
-
Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Axel blinks once. "You, uh, you got it, chief." He says to the suave stranger who just negotiated for more nuyen then Axel has seen from any one job in his life.
Well goddamn, if the rest of the job is going to be like this, then why didn't I get into this line of work sooner? He thinks to himself. He resolves to keep his cool, at least until this group of complete strangers is out of sight and earshot of the grim preacher.
"I know the place", he adds, bringing up a map in his AR feed.
Well goddamn, if the rest of the job is going to be like this, then why didn't I get into this line of work sooner? He thinks to himself. He resolves to keep his cool, at least until this group of complete strangers is out of sight and earshot of the grim preacher.
"I know the place", he adds, bringing up a map in his AR feed.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Thoryne sucks at a tooth, enjoying the slight background buzz as the tobacco-cannabis compounds in his snuff mix enter his bloodstream with a calming, focused effect. He listens passively to the ritual exchange of offer/counter-offer, content to leave the detailed dealings to the quick tongued and unflappably charismatic. Someone like this Yung. Say one thing for Thoryne, the "Black Strap", he had a born-to-rights, God-given knack- bordering on a gift, his friends might say- for talking his way out of nuyen.
Instead, the big man takes a moment to linger on each of his new compatriots. Sizing 'em up. You know... Taking the manifest. The way he figured, one of these pinches was gonna do their utmost best to get themselves killed, possibly taking the rest of these mates with 'em. Spend enough time with any crew and, just like a leaky boat, it'll start takin' on water. Someone's gotta be ready with the bailer. Keep an eye on the waterline. Yeah, Thoryne liked to keep his mouth shut...but he kept his eyes open, and his crew water-tight.
Thoryne scowls slightly, annoyed to find himself scratching at it again. The itch on his arm. No, not that arm, the polished network of servos, plated steel, and wiring that jutted from the connector pin embedded in his elbow joint. His arm, the one that he...
xxx {{PAIN}} xxx
***<Flash!>***
xxx {{PAIN}} xxx
***<Flash!>***
xxx {{PAIN}} xxx
Blinking, Thoryne steadies himself. Looking at those around him, he’s sure only a second or two has passed. He’s sure…well, pretty sure…he’s been paying attention. Pretty sure he’s on watch.
Instead, the big man takes a moment to linger on each of his new compatriots. Sizing 'em up. You know... Taking the manifest. The way he figured, one of these pinches was gonna do their utmost best to get themselves killed, possibly taking the rest of these mates with 'em. Spend enough time with any crew and, just like a leaky boat, it'll start takin' on water. Someone's gotta be ready with the bailer. Keep an eye on the waterline. Yeah, Thoryne liked to keep his mouth shut...but he kept his eyes open, and his crew water-tight.
Thoryne scowls slightly, annoyed to find himself scratching at it again. The itch on his arm. No, not that arm, the polished network of servos, plated steel, and wiring that jutted from the connector pin embedded in his elbow joint. His arm, the one that he...
xxx {{PAIN}} xxx
***<Flash!>***
xxx {{PAIN}} xxx
***<Flash!>***
xxx {{PAIN}} xxx
Blinking, Thoryne steadies himself. Looking at those around him, he’s sure only a second or two has passed. He’s sure…well, pretty sure…he’s been paying attention. Pretty sure he’s on watch.
Last edited by Conway on Mon Oct 18, 2021 10:28 am, edited 1 time in total.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Preacher extends two callused fingers and waves the sign of the cross across his torso. "Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them: for the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee."
-
Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Axel feels like his body is being operated by some other remote operator as the group of strangers approach the van.
"I go by Axel, by the way." He says, throwing the rear doors of the van open, and stepping up into it. He sets about to moving the roto drones out of the way, leaning them unceremoniously against the wall.
"Sorry," he says with some embarrassment as he finds the fold-out benches, lowers them, and realizes too late that the benches probably haven't been folded out at any point this decade. A few desiccated alpaca cigarette butts roll out from the hidden crevices that all old vehicles have. "Hey, T-Bone, company!" He shouts toward the front of the vehicle. "Behave!"
He turns to the group. "Anyway! I hope you like Queen."
"I go by Axel, by the way." He says, throwing the rear doors of the van open, and stepping up into it. He sets about to moving the roto drones out of the way, leaning them unceremoniously against the wall.
"Sorry," he says with some embarrassment as he finds the fold-out benches, lowers them, and realizes too late that the benches probably haven't been folded out at any point this decade. A few desiccated alpaca cigarette butts roll out from the hidden crevices that all old vehicles have. "Hey, T-Bone, company!" He shouts toward the front of the vehicle. "Behave!"
He turns to the group. "Anyway! I hope you like Queen."
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Kiyoshi impassively hides a grimace as Axel performs his decidedly pathetic red carpet routine. Still, manners matter, particularly with a crew who might be on your side of a gunfight one day. He nods at Axel formally.
"I am Kiyoshi, though you may call me Taipan."
He climbs into the van somewhat suspiciously and peers around at his surroundings, "The... queen?" he asks, genuinely perplexed.
"I am Kiyoshi, though you may call me Taipan."
He climbs into the van somewhat suspiciously and peers around at his surroundings, "The... queen?" he asks, genuinely perplexed.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
“It’s a pleasure to get some names, chummas. I think you already caught mine, but it’s Akela for those who might have arrived late.” He quips, glancing at the troll.
“Anyway, yeah, we should all, you know, share our area of expertise. I can make some guesses eh, mami mojo.” Yung says, bowing his head to Reiya. “Or our pequeñita kishu.” he says, winking at Mouse. "But its always better to hear it from the runnas mouth.”
“Anyway, yeah, we should all, you know, share our area of expertise. I can make some guesses eh, mami mojo.” Yung says, bowing his head to Reiya. “Or our pequeñita kishu.” he says, winking at Mouse. "But its always better to hear it from the runnas mouth.”
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
The departure from the church comes none too soon as Mouse eagerly escapes the cold, watchful gazes of the Preacher and Statue Jesus alike, into the metallic embrace of the “Vantichrist”. She traces her fingertips against the ancient steel and gaudy paint, coating one hand with a thin veneer of grime that quite likely predates her existence on this earth. “NICE RIDE. BUT IT’S MISSING SOMETHING…” A gentle smile of affection creeps up behind her mask as she casually wipes the filthy residue onto her pants. “A VAN LIKE THIS NEEDS ‘FREE CANDY’ SPRAY PAINTED ON THE SIDE.” Even if the decker’s choice of words and synthetic tones fail to capture her subtle appreciation for the machine, she clearly isn't at all phased by the rise, wasting no time hopping in the instant a seat is made available.
Now properly situated and in full sight of her crew, she finally takes the time to size up her team, names popping into view beside each face as they introduce themselves. Taipei in particular draws extra scrutiny, which she doesn’t bother concealing as she evaluates both his visible personal network, and the oddly familiar stiffness to his demeanor. Conversely, Yung’s jump to the overly casual nickname, (which conjures images of some tiny, ankle-biting dog in its digital translation), immediately pulls her from her careful analysis. “JUST CALL ME ‘MOUSE’,” she corrects, before remembering the rest of the request. “I DO MATRIX DREK, RECON, PHYSICAL ACCESS, VIOLATIONS OF PERSONAL PRIVACY... THE USUAL.” Her response trails off with a half-hearted shrug as she's clearly eager to move on, if only to gauge ‘Mami Mojo's,’ reaction to her own nickname.
Now properly situated and in full sight of her crew, she finally takes the time to size up her team, names popping into view beside each face as they introduce themselves. Taipei in particular draws extra scrutiny, which she doesn’t bother concealing as she evaluates both his visible personal network, and the oddly familiar stiffness to his demeanor. Conversely, Yung’s jump to the overly casual nickname, (which conjures images of some tiny, ankle-biting dog in its digital translation), immediately pulls her from her careful analysis. “JUST CALL ME ‘MOUSE’,” she corrects, before remembering the rest of the request. “I DO MATRIX DREK, RECON, PHYSICAL ACCESS, VIOLATIONS OF PERSONAL PRIVACY... THE USUAL.” Her response trails off with a half-hearted shrug as she's clearly eager to move on, if only to gauge ‘Mami Mojo's,’ reaction to her own nickname.
Last edited by Molly on Mon Oct 18, 2021 12:40 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Reiya baulks like a startled horse at the site of the Vantichrist. She has an uneasy relationship with vehicles at the best of times, and given her tendency to motion sickness, an adversarial one more often. This van gives her the distinct impression that she’ll vomit as soon as she steps aboard.
The shaman contemplates declining the ride. It’s only four blocks to their first stop, right? But she knows it’s too early to betray such misgivings. However, it seems the van is not only old, smelly and gross, but also sentient. “Hey, Pocahontas! Whatcha waiting for?”
Reiya glares at the van, which doesn’t do much given it doesn’t have eyes. Or does it? She contemplates casting Clairvoyance to see what sort of twisted spirit would inhabit this thing, but then she remembers the existence of technology, and surmises that it may be some sort of AI shit. “Don’t fuck with me,” she says with confident unconcern to the van, hoping the others also get the message, “or I’ll puke on your engine.”
“Cool, I’ve always liked ‘em feisty.”
Reiya rolls her eyes. Remember, you can always nick him with the sapphire knife, her subconscious reminds her helpfully. A fair point.
The shaman stays outside as long as she can, loitering in front of the open doors. “Reiya. Shaman,” she declares briefly and boldly, with a pointed look at Akela, and a small jerk of a nod for everyone else. “Solid spellcraft and a crossbow. Combat experience and basic healing. I can shapeshift into a wolf, and if this van ghost gives me too much drek, or you drive like shit,” she adds, glaring at Axel, “I’ll make my own way to our next meeting point.”
As if on cue, a single caw sounds nearby in the cityscape, and Reiya looks up with a genuine smile for the first time that day. Machandal, her pet crow, descends and perches delicately on her shoulder, nuzzling her hair. She imagines she must look even more the image of her title now. Too bad Mach is useless at anything other than basic tricks. “This is Mach,” she says, “he won’t shit in the van.” She hops into the van without another word.
The shaman contemplates declining the ride. It’s only four blocks to their first stop, right? But she knows it’s too early to betray such misgivings. However, it seems the van is not only old, smelly and gross, but also sentient. “Hey, Pocahontas! Whatcha waiting for?”
Reiya glares at the van, which doesn’t do much given it doesn’t have eyes. Or does it? She contemplates casting Clairvoyance to see what sort of twisted spirit would inhabit this thing, but then she remembers the existence of technology, and surmises that it may be some sort of AI shit. “Don’t fuck with me,” she says with confident unconcern to the van, hoping the others also get the message, “or I’ll puke on your engine.”
“Cool, I’ve always liked ‘em feisty.”
Reiya rolls her eyes. Remember, you can always nick him with the sapphire knife, her subconscious reminds her helpfully. A fair point.
The shaman stays outside as long as she can, loitering in front of the open doors. “Reiya. Shaman,” she declares briefly and boldly, with a pointed look at Akela, and a small jerk of a nod for everyone else. “Solid spellcraft and a crossbow. Combat experience and basic healing. I can shapeshift into a wolf, and if this van ghost gives me too much drek, or you drive like shit,” she adds, glaring at Axel, “I’ll make my own way to our next meeting point.”
As if on cue, a single caw sounds nearby in the cityscape, and Reiya looks up with a genuine smile for the first time that day. Machandal, her pet crow, descends and perches delicately on her shoulder, nuzzling her hair. She imagines she must look even more the image of her title now. Too bad Mach is useless at anything other than basic tricks. “This is Mach,” she says, “he won’t shit in the van.” She hops into the van without another word.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Mick wring-rubs their hands together, nervous amongst all the strangers. They had been expecting a crew, but a crew of three or four, and Mick had a long history of adapting poorly on the fly.
"Mick," they began, regarding the van with naked suspicion. "I, uh–" the ork's voice is thin and uncertain, their eyes searching for the words on the backs of a pair of hands draped in scars like the preacher had been in his vestments. And just as those vestments broadcast his work to world in crystal-clear, high-def trideo relief, so, too, do Mick's hands, scarred and scabbed over and meaty, knots of overly developed muscle weaving between a machinework lattice of metacarpals, tendons, and veins.
Clearing their throat, Mick gives it another try. "I tend to get into fights." Mick looks up from their hands and makes fleeting eye contact with all who would meet their gaze. Evading, Mick finds another point of interest upon which to focus their stare, and addends, "Good at sneaking into places, too."
A brief moment passes.
"And yeah, you?" Mick locks eyes with the chatterbox of the group. Mick has a long history with men attempting to speak for them. "Keep from calling me anything like 'mami' or 'chica' and we'll be just fine, ya rez?"
"Mick," they began, regarding the van with naked suspicion. "I, uh–" the ork's voice is thin and uncertain, their eyes searching for the words on the backs of a pair of hands draped in scars like the preacher had been in his vestments. And just as those vestments broadcast his work to world in crystal-clear, high-def trideo relief, so, too, do Mick's hands, scarred and scabbed over and meaty, knots of overly developed muscle weaving between a machinework lattice of metacarpals, tendons, and veins.
Clearing their throat, Mick gives it another try. "I tend to get into fights." Mick looks up from their hands and makes fleeting eye contact with all who would meet their gaze. Evading, Mick finds another point of interest upon which to focus their stare, and addends, "Good at sneaking into places, too."
A brief moment passes.
"And yeah, you?" Mick locks eyes with the chatterbox of the group. Mick has a long history with men attempting to speak for them. "Keep from calling me anything like 'mami' or 'chica' and we'll be just fine, ya rez?"
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
The Vantichrist back-fires three times before the dilapidated combustion engine settles on a properly lean fuel mixture. A cloud that's more oil than smoke swells in the van's wake. Mouse is buffeted on her seat, due to the failed hydro-pneumatic suspension assembly on the rear driver-side. Wordlessly, she exchanges seats with Thoryne, whose massive bulk serves as a superior counterweight.
The Vantichrist has a perfume composed of petrol, motor oil, and that distinctive mawkish odor of old upholstery.
A traffic drone signals Axel's lane to stop, flashing red light through a cracked aperture. The van stalls as it rolls to a stop and the passengers stare at the drone, a sort of plasteel cylinder on treads, riddled with various lights and sensors. Someone from the opposite lane slings a glass bottle at the bot, misses, and shouts an expletive. The rest of the drive is uneventful.
Axel swings the van into an alley, jouncing to a stop behind an industrial dumpster. The team files out of the eccentric vehicle and into a light drizzle.
Reiya in particular feels a palpable sense of relief to be back on her own feet. The barely perceptible hiss of tepid rain assailing the tarmac becomes the flutter of leathery wings. The distant din of the urban landscape becomes ultra-sonic. A faint sense of swooping through open air and dark forests flares in the back of her mind.
The entrance to the Powderkeg is little more than a plasteel door nestled among the crumbling bricks of an aged building, its singular indicator an antique neon sign. The glass tubes full of excited noble gas are arranged to lend the impression of animation: a beer-keg tipped to one side winks out to reveal a bloated twin surrounded by a zig-zag of tubes representing an explosion. A buzzing noise accompanies the transition as the sign cycles endlessly, bursting and re-forming. The door itself is a collage of sticker residue and countless layers of graffiti.
The muffled undulations of music can be heard, even by the un-augmented ear. They seem to fall against the door like waves of relentless, liquid rhythm.
Beyond the door a set of concrete steps lead down on to a checkered linoleum floor. Booths of faded velvet upholstery and waxy dark wood line one wall. Opposite is a long bar of similar composition, crowded with vinyl and brass bar stools. A pre-millennium video poker machine sits at one end of the bar-top, almost inconceivable in its antiquity. Behind the bar, a stocky orc bartender in gray fatigues arranges bottles of spirits on improvised shelving. The entire club is bathed in a constantly-shifting halation of discotheque lighting, which refracts on the contours of the bottles like alcohol-filled jewels. The grinding bassline of Johnny Nuclear's Hardwired Habit slaps at the ear drums.
There are only a handful of customers present: a couple of uniformed students are gyrating madly in one corner, lost in the throes of youth. A lithe elf sits at the bar, staring into a highball glass. Three sararimen seem engaged in a drinking contest in one of the booths. A roar of Nipponese rises each time one of them slams down a mug.
"When the thunder comes down, you gotta grab it," intones Johnny over the speakers, "Charge up my veins, it's a hardwired habit..."
The bartender looks up from his busywork, eyes widening at the amount of patrons that have just appeared. He sets down a bottle of Don Juanito Reserve and wipes his hands on a bar rag, nodding a welcome.
The Vantichrist has a perfume composed of petrol, motor oil, and that distinctive mawkish odor of old upholstery.
A traffic drone signals Axel's lane to stop, flashing red light through a cracked aperture. The van stalls as it rolls to a stop and the passengers stare at the drone, a sort of plasteel cylinder on treads, riddled with various lights and sensors. Someone from the opposite lane slings a glass bottle at the bot, misses, and shouts an expletive. The rest of the drive is uneventful.
Axel swings the van into an alley, jouncing to a stop behind an industrial dumpster. The team files out of the eccentric vehicle and into a light drizzle.
Reiya in particular feels a palpable sense of relief to be back on her own feet. The barely perceptible hiss of tepid rain assailing the tarmac becomes the flutter of leathery wings. The distant din of the urban landscape becomes ultra-sonic. A faint sense of swooping through open air and dark forests flares in the back of her mind.
The entrance to the Powderkeg is little more than a plasteel door nestled among the crumbling bricks of an aged building, its singular indicator an antique neon sign. The glass tubes full of excited noble gas are arranged to lend the impression of animation: a beer-keg tipped to one side winks out to reveal a bloated twin surrounded by a zig-zag of tubes representing an explosion. A buzzing noise accompanies the transition as the sign cycles endlessly, bursting and re-forming. The door itself is a collage of sticker residue and countless layers of graffiti.
The muffled undulations of music can be heard, even by the un-augmented ear. They seem to fall against the door like waves of relentless, liquid rhythm.
Beyond the door a set of concrete steps lead down on to a checkered linoleum floor. Booths of faded velvet upholstery and waxy dark wood line one wall. Opposite is a long bar of similar composition, crowded with vinyl and brass bar stools. A pre-millennium video poker machine sits at one end of the bar-top, almost inconceivable in its antiquity. Behind the bar, a stocky orc bartender in gray fatigues arranges bottles of spirits on improvised shelving. The entire club is bathed in a constantly-shifting halation of discotheque lighting, which refracts on the contours of the bottles like alcohol-filled jewels. The grinding bassline of Johnny Nuclear's Hardwired Habit slaps at the ear drums.
There are only a handful of customers present: a couple of uniformed students are gyrating madly in one corner, lost in the throes of youth. A lithe elf sits at the bar, staring into a highball glass. Three sararimen seem engaged in a drinking contest in one of the booths. A roar of Nipponese rises each time one of them slams down a mug.
"When the thunder comes down, you gotta grab it," intones Johnny over the speakers, "Charge up my veins, it's a hardwired habit..."
The bartender looks up from his busywork, eyes widening at the amount of patrons that have just appeared. He sets down a bottle of Don Juanito Reserve and wipes his hands on a bar rag, nodding a welcome.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Mick sidles up to the bar like a glassy, unhinged wraith, gliding through the world with silken grace and snatching the bottle of Don Juanito from the sticky, pitted bartop.
The music blares and rumbles through the club. "'Cuz I got a second mouth to feed, and no– it don't need no kiss," Johnny growls from around the edges of the pummeling industro-punk grind. Mick smiles and closes their eyes a moment, nodding along to Johnny as he testifies. It was one of Johnny's best songs, written around the bassline by the baddest woman in the entire scene, Milly Matrix. Rising with the guitars, Johnny continues, "Yeah, I've got a second mouth, baby, and it needs another hit!" Mick could picture Milly onstage at the last Meltdowns show they'd seen, beating her way through every deep groove and hidden corner in the band's catalog, the music seeming to slither from out the ends of her fingers and into Mick's very bones.
Using their thumb, Mick flicks the cap off the top of the bottle like a coin and sends it shooting across the room. Tilting their head back, the waifish ork rounds out the motion with an authoritative gulp from the bottle. Its contents slide down their throat, burning all the way, and land in their stomach with a heavy, burning splash. Then, wiping their mouth with the back of their hand, Mick extends the bottle toward their new associates, the expression on their face plain enough for all to read: 'Best I don't do the talking.'
The music blares and rumbles through the club. "'Cuz I got a second mouth to feed, and no– it don't need no kiss," Johnny growls from around the edges of the pummeling industro-punk grind. Mick smiles and closes their eyes a moment, nodding along to Johnny as he testifies. It was one of Johnny's best songs, written around the bassline by the baddest woman in the entire scene, Milly Matrix. Rising with the guitars, Johnny continues, "Yeah, I've got a second mouth, baby, and it needs another hit!" Mick could picture Milly onstage at the last Meltdowns show they'd seen, beating her way through every deep groove and hidden corner in the band's catalog, the music seeming to slither from out the ends of her fingers and into Mick's very bones.
Using their thumb, Mick flicks the cap off the top of the bottle like a coin and sends it shooting across the room. Tilting their head back, the waifish ork rounds out the motion with an authoritative gulp from the bottle. Its contents slide down their throat, burning all the way, and land in their stomach with a heavy, burning splash. Then, wiping their mouth with the back of their hand, Mick extends the bottle toward their new associates, the expression on their face plain enough for all to read: 'Best I don't do the talking.'
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
As he watches the not-inexpensive handle of tequila float away, the bartender's face shifts through several expressions, each one increasingly different from the last. He finally pushes a coaster towards Mick's retreating form, in an attempt to render the situation into some kind of transaction. He cranes his neck towards the remainder of the group, trying to identify who will pick up the tab.
-
Drew Buddy
- Posts: 1488
- Joined: Sun Oct 30, 2011 7:06 pm
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Axel's boots cross the threshold of the establishment and squeak against the faded linoleum as he walks, giving the bar an even more "sticky" feeling than it had before. He's so used to being invisible when he enters an establishment, that he can't help but feel like a spotlight is shining on him and the unlikely crew, made all the brighter by how unevenly the group's arrival has tipped the scales of the social situation in the bar. He unconsciously smooths the creases in his engine oil and grease speckled coveralls, distracting himself with a sufficiently Sisyphean task.
His labors concluded, he takes a breath and gets back to the situation at hand. The reason that they're all here in this hole in the wall of a hole in the wall. Mustering up as much confidence as he can manage, he strides up to the bar, and leans an arm on it. "Oye, omae, we've got something of a, um, appointment with a fella that calls himself 'Owl.' Told he'd be expecting us."
His labors concluded, he takes a breath and gets back to the situation at hand. The reason that they're all here in this hole in the wall of a hole in the wall. Mustering up as much confidence as he can manage, he strides up to the bar, and leans an arm on it. "Oye, omae, we've got something of a, um, appointment with a fella that calls himself 'Owl.' Told he'd be expecting us."
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
Yung pauses for a moment as he steps through the threshold. He takes in the scene as a sommelier might deconstruct a vintage bottle of wine. His eyes linger on the uniformed couple lost in the throes of energetic ecstasy, and for the briefest of moments, a sudden sadness overtakes his eyes. The kind of look you might expect of a child who was just told that his most faithful canine companion needs to be put down.
The moment passes, and once again, the unwavering confidence of unbridled youth takes charge.
“Oye, Kiyoshi, you know these saramians?” He asks rhetorically, cracking a smile as he steps out onto the flypaper linoleum.
What is undoubtedly a generational cesspool of bacteria, yearning to cling to the soles of whatever trespasser may dare tread, seems to have no effect on Yung. As he moves, he can’t be bothered to suppress a shimmy of the shoulders and a smooth swivel of the hips to the keen observer.
Yung spins effortlessly on a heel, turning back to address his companions still waiting in the entryway. His lithe movement evokes a curiosity, dormant in most, but no doubt buried in the subconscious, somewhere, yearning to be set free.
“Miss Reiya, Miss Mouse, you want a drink? Two lovely ladies in the club must have a drink eh? What can I get you? Por favor…”
“Come, please...” he says, bringing both arms up and beckoning the ladies forward with his hands as he slowly steps backward toward the bar.
The moment passes, and once again, the unwavering confidence of unbridled youth takes charge.
“Oye, Kiyoshi, you know these saramians?” He asks rhetorically, cracking a smile as he steps out onto the flypaper linoleum.
What is undoubtedly a generational cesspool of bacteria, yearning to cling to the soles of whatever trespasser may dare tread, seems to have no effect on Yung. As he moves, he can’t be bothered to suppress a shimmy of the shoulders and a smooth swivel of the hips to the keen observer.
Yung spins effortlessly on a heel, turning back to address his companions still waiting in the entryway. His lithe movement evokes a curiosity, dormant in most, but no doubt buried in the subconscious, somewhere, yearning to be set free.
“Miss Reiya, Miss Mouse, you want a drink? Two lovely ladies in the club must have a drink eh? What can I get you? Por favor…”
“Come, please...” he says, bringing both arms up and beckoning the ladies forward with his hands as he slowly steps backward toward the bar.
Re: Run #1 - Big Top Blitz
The bartender tears his gaze from Mick, who is currently swaying to the music. He looks up at Axel and, without dropping eye contact, swipes a finger on the payment terminal embedded in the bar. Glowing numerals alight on the screen set flush with the terminal.
¥110 - Don Juanito Reserve 1750ml
A scowl becomes a conspiratorial smile and the bartender nods slowly at him, before glancing at the approaching Yung with renewed Capitalist hunger.
¥110 - Don Juanito Reserve 1750ml
A scowl becomes a conspiratorial smile and the bartender nods slowly at him, before glancing at the approaching Yung with renewed Capitalist hunger.