This is an RP set in a post-apocalyptic world in a science fiction/fantasy setting. This is sortve like Mad Max meets 40K.
Specifically, the action will take place along the Jericho Road, a trade route across the wasteland between the sinister and mysterious industrial city of Terminus Est and the rich city states in the relatively more fertile and civilized lands known as the Greenlands. The convoys that ply the Road and the other, lesser routes through the badlands are manned by the badasses of a badass world. Caravans are composed of tanks, walkers, huge armored crawlers, and whatever else we can think of, designed to get vital goods across the wasteland safely.
The RP will center around a group of caravaners, mercenaries and assorted others who find themselves at the settlement of Jericho's Reach, situated roughly at the midpoint of the Road. That the Reach is about to come under attack from a horde of mutants is something I hardly need to tell you.
Character sheets are simple- I'd like a post, in character, that gets across your characters appearance, personality, and skills. More important than that, the post should be interesting. They need not be super long. Characters really can be whomever you like. They should just be in Jericho's Reach at the start of the RP, but your application post need not take place there. Please post it in the OOC behind hiders and with @Flagg tagged.
I'll be putting some setting details here in the OP over the next few days, but the setting really is ripe for your creative talents. Settlements, factions, religions, myths, histories- flesh these out as you flesh out your characters. Worldbuilding & improvising is very much part of this RP. I only ask that how Old World actually fell not be known to our characters, but characters are welcome to believe they do know how it fell or have theories.
A few brief notes:
- advanced tech exists, feel free to be creative. Most tech is powered by liquid or crystallized 'ichor' an oily mutagenic substance harvested we know not how at Terminus Est. - our world was almost certainly part of an interstellar empire before the end of civilization came. There would be plenty of evidence of spacefaring tech around. - magic & psionics exist, though they are less common. Ichor is likewise used by mages, shamans and the like for their rituals, but as I mentioned is highly mutagenic. - A variety of sentient races, including robots, are allowed. Obviously the world is filled with mutants, but non-human species need not necessarily be mutated humans.
Note: this map is obviously waiting to be filled out by you, the good people of this RP.
As you can see, I'm being pretty sparse here in the hopes that you'll fill in the considerable gaps I'm leaving. I will be giving more detail as we progress, including a map, but I wanted to leave it fairly wide open at the beginning to see what folks come up with.
@Flagg Hello! I'd have a couple names and ideas for possible pre-apocalypse mega-corporations, if that's okay. I had planned to use them in my own world building, but there's no good reason I couldn't drop them here. And I was planning to write an application in the coming week.
@Flagg Hello! I'd have a couple names and ideas for possible pre-apocalypse mega-corporations, if that's okay. I had planned to use them in my own world building, but there's no good reason I couldn't drop them here. And I was planning to write an application in the coming week.
@Flagg Right. I haven't written background for the corporations yet. The corporations are named NeuStar Corporation, Stahl-Martell and Huygens Manufacture, Inc. I'd planned to make NeuStar an interstellar shipping and logistics company, which dabbled in many other fields, Stahl-Martell would be an electronics giant, with some AI research under its belt and Huygens Manufacture was planned as a spaceship manufacturer.
@Flagg Right. I haven't written background for the corporations yet. The corporations are named NeuStar Corporation, Stahl-Martell and Huygens Manufacture, Inc. I'd planned to make NeuStar an interstellar shipping and logistics company, which dabbled in many other fields, Stahl-Martell would be an electronics giant, with some AI research under its belt and Huygens Manufacture was planned as a spaceship manufacturer.
All sounds good- I don’t need like a whole detailed thing about each, we can find out about them as the ic progresses or you could give a little blurb about each for the ooc setting guide I’m putting together but that’s not urgent.
Yo, I've exchanged some world building details with Flagg over PM; I'm putting that here now for everyone's benefit. Have fun :3
Yo Flagg, sup?
Since you encourage world building so much I wanted to pitch an idea for the symptoms, if not the cause of the disaster that has and is ravaging the planet. It's an idea I halfway developed for something of my own but haven't finished yet, and is loosely inspired by the Color out of Space. I don't know your plans, but I figured I'd let you in on it, perhaps you'll like it or it'll inspire you. The hope is to have an end-world scenario that is less generic than the norm (such as ye olde nuke-doomsday).
In my world I called the phenomenon "the Rot". What happens is that a 'disintegration' of sorts is spreading across the land. Everything - and I do mean everything - is falling apart until only a fine dust remains. Exposure to this dust directly leads to exposed objects also starting to disintegrate. Imagine a form of sand that turns everything it touches also into sand. The process isn't hyper quick, and only parts of the planet are consumed. Also, different materials are broken down at different rates, with organic matter generally being eaten up much quicker than inorganics, especially metals and minerals. Now, the 'weird' part of it is that in the deeper parts of the wastelands, the dust is reforming into new solids. Specifically, shapes resembling veiny cathedrals, heavily inspired by the paintings of Beksinski. Diseased lifeforms might develop a form of insanity (or is it?) where they believe to hear and feel a pulse in the earth, that they will one day follow until they arrive at such a cathedral. There they lay themselves to rest, to be eaten and reborn into the new world.
That's the gist of it. Considering the tone of this setting, I suppose creating weird, new lifeforms born from the dust wouldn't be amiss, and I would also say it should be possible to cleanse exposed wounds to stop the Rot. This way, exposed characters and NPCs could have a chance to "just" get away with some ugly scars, similar to acid burns perhaps. One could develop a cool aesthetic of protective gear that is needed to travel through Rot-lands, including some neat vehicles to make the journy quicker. It would also encourage a certain nomadic tendency for many civilizations, given that they might have to reposition every so many decades to avoid the Rot catching up, which I feel suits the setting quite well.
Also, there does not need to be any explanation known (to characters in any event) for where and how the Rot even began. All we know is that it's there and it will, one day, perhaps far away, consume the planet. Certainly there could be a lot of myths and theories though.
---
Since we have some high tech going on, there could be a type of generator that can create a force barrier to prevent the dust from swooping past. This would essentially be a shield generator against the Rot, and could allow people to prevent a zone from being attacked, provided they can maintain the generator. These things could be as rare as they need to be to keep things exciting.
Bonus points if the technology comes at a severe price for the relative safety from certain doom it afford. Like, say, a pillar that you have to chain psychically/magically gifted people to so that they can power it, but they can't leave and will have their minds burned out over the years.
---
Sure. On a global scale I imagine that there are basically "blotches" on the world map, which are spreading in all directions over the years.
Yo, I've exchanged some world building details with Flagg over PM; I'm putting that here now for everyone's benefit. Have fun :3
Yo Flagg, sup?
Since you encourage world building so much I wanted to pitch an idea for the symptoms, if not the cause of the disaster that has and is ravaging the planet. It's an idea I halfway developed for something of my own but haven't finished yet, and is loosely inspired by the Color out of Space. I don't know your plans, but I figured I'd let you in on it, perhaps you'll like it or it'll inspire you. The hope is to have an end-world scenario that is less generic than the norm (such as ye olde nuke-doomsday).
In my world I called the phenomenon "the Rot". What happens is that a 'disintegration' of sorts is spreading across the land. Everything - and I do mean everything - is falling apart until only a fine dust remains. Exposure to this dust directly leads to exposed objects also starting to disintegrate. Imagine a form of sand that turns everything it touches also into sand. The process isn't hyper quick, and only parts of the planet are consumed. Also, different materials are broken down at different rates, with organic matter generally being eaten up much quicker than inorganics, especially metals and minerals. Now, the 'weird' part of it is that in the deeper parts of the wastelands, the dust is reforming into new solids. Specifically, shapes resembling veiny cathedrals, heavily inspired by the paintings of Beksinski. Diseased lifeforms might develop a form of insanity (or is it?) where they believe to hear and feel a pulse in the earth, that they will one day follow until they arrive at such a cathedral. There they lay themselves to rest, to be eaten and reborn into the new world.
That's the gist of it. Considering the tone of this setting, I suppose creating weird, new lifeforms born from the dust wouldn't be amiss, and I would also say it should be possible to cleanse exposed wounds to stop the Rot. This way, exposed characters and NPCs could have a chance to "just" get away with some ugly scars, similar to acid burns perhaps. One could develop a cool aesthetic of protective gear that is needed to travel through Rot-lands, including some neat vehicles to make the journy quicker. It would also encourage a certain nomadic tendency for many civilizations, given that they might have to reposition every so many decades to avoid the Rot catching up, which I feel suits the setting quite well.
Also, there does not need to be any explanation known (to characters in any event) for where and how the Rot even began. All we know is that it's there and it will, one day, perhaps far away, consume the planet. Certainly there could be a lot of myths and theories though.
---
Since we have some high tech going on, there could be a type of generator that can create a force barrier to prevent the dust from swooping past. This would essentially be a shield generator against the Rot, and could allow people to prevent a zone from being attacked, provided they can maintain the generator. These things could be as rare as they need to be to keep things exciting.
Bonus points if the technology comes at a severe price for the relative safety from certain doom it afford. Like, say, a pillar that you have to chain psychically/magically gifted people to so that they can power it, but they can't leave and will have their minds burned out over the years.
---
Sure. On a global scale I imagine that there are basically "blotches" on the world map, which are spreading in all directions over the years.
Hey, I wrote a... thing. I basically just wrote something to help me explore the setting (specifically, the rot-infected wastelands), my potential character, and just in general help me find a tone. It's rough and certainly can be improved by much, but I reckon it might be interesting for y'all to get a glimpse at what I'm thinking about. Have fun :P
The starless sky loomed above endless dunes like an all-devouring abyss. It was dark even by day, but at night the rotten wastelands became shrouded in perfect darkness, as if the whole world were buried in a tomb. The air was filled with fine, colorless sand, whipped to and fro as if by tempest gales; only there was no wind at all. Even the air was thin, and one might feel tempted to think oneself stranded on the moon or some other alien world if one did not know any better.
What drives one to seek this dreadful domain out of their own free will? She has often asked herself this very question but could never find a satisfying answer. If it was simply a desire to be free, to bond with nature or to shun humanity, there were many wild and abandoned places one could go to that, in spite of myriad deadly forms of wildlife, were vastly safer – and far more wholesome. And yet here she was again, stalking across the drifts like a predator on the hunt. Or, perhaps, like prey hoping to slip away. Whatever the truth might be, there was something out here amidst the lightless dunes that called out to her like a mother to its lost child.
Her boots left gentle imprints in the dead soil, shallow enough that the shifting dust would wash them away within five to ten minutes at most. But it was not the risk of leaving tracks that made her step so softly; rather, it was the fear of being too loud, of sending tremors into the earth. All manner of hideous, infernal monstrosities burrowed beneath the dunes, feeding on the ashes of cities, forests and mountains that were turned to dust. To attract their attention was to invite certain doom – and was likely the fate that had befallen her quarry. She was close now; the distress signal had originated just ahead.
Slowly manifesting out of the ash-choked darkness in the visual feed of her helmet, she could make out the contours of a disabled Type-6, a kind of tracked vehicle the size of a small house. Their ease of maintenance and generous interior space made them desirable for many types of caravans to transport their goods between settlements, but only a madman would have chosen to drive one into rot-lands. They were too slow, loud and heavy to ever make it through in one piece. More than likely the cargo was either supremely valuable, or supremely illegal, to warrant such a decision. If she was lucky, she might even find out.
She slowed her pace now, approaching the wreck with apprehension. Gently she pulled a contracted, gunmetal device from underneath the tattered cloak wrapped around her shoulders, which unfolded and extended into a long-barreled type of rifle at the press of a discrete button. Weapon at ease, she halted just a few steps from the vehicle’s rear end where the open cargo hatch yawned at her like a great maw. The metal ramp extending from the opening was already covered in little holes where the Rot had eaten into the material. Unsurprisingly, there came no light from the open cargo bay, implying that the interior was as lifeless as the dunes she had come from. Stepping onto the ramp, she steeled herself to dive from one type of darkness into the next.
The inside was a long hallway filled with nondescript crates and bags tied down onto the floor and the walls using the myriad attachment points distributed throughout. A narrow pathway was left open in the center to slip in between the large containers and she slowly made her way through while casting nervous glances to the left and right, fearing to spot something dangerous lurking in the dark spaces between two boxes. Above her, the ceiling was a tangled mess of pipes, ducts and cables coiling around, over and under one another in a dizzying fashion. How any technician could find their bearing working on this machine was beyond her.
Towards the end of the room, around the time she spied the iron staircase leading up into the second floor of the Type-6, she picked up a strange audio signature. Only on the feedback graph at first, going up and down in almost rhythmic fashion. Too quiet to be heard by ear just yet; perhaps it was some kind of vibration from the engine? Cocking her rifle, if only to reassure herself and pretend that it afforded her safety, she pressed on towards and up the stairs.
Emerging into the lightless, cramped corridor of the personnel deck the noise became even more audible and she could finally hear it – it was a voice. Weak, rasping and, so she thought, trying to speak. She could not make out any of the words just yet, but found the tone of voice strangely melodic and almost pleasant. Standing at the end of the corridor and staring towards the opposite, she called for thermal optics, knowing that her voice would not penetrate outside of her helmet. The walls and floors were mostly cool, but there was a whiff of faint heat emerging from the second door to the right, perhaps indicative of something warm inside – like a survivor. Switching back to darkvision, she pressed on into the lightless bowels of the vehicle and hoped that she would make it out alive.
With every step she took, it became more and more apparent that the voice she was hearing was not simply trying to speak. It was, in fact, singing, and there was more than one singer. By the time she reached the door, she was certain there were four, maybe five voices, repeating the same chorus in a disturbing sing-song. She recognized none of the words and could not even guess at what language – if any – they were singing in, but they were consistent all the same. Her heart was pounding now, and she had to take a big swallow as she pressed another button on her rifle to contract the barrel and make it more wieldy in the cramped interior. The shorter rail length would lessen the exit velocity of any fired rounds, but it would still be sufficient to punch through meat. With a final, calming sigh she pushed open the creaking metal door.
Seated in a circle inside the pitch black interior, four naked men squatted around a bizarre, organically shaped growth that sprouted from the ground. The thing had the appearance of a dozen veiny tendrils coiled around themselves and twisting upwards, like a strange tree sapling. The men were haggard and suffered obvious wounds from Rot exposure. When the door creaked open, they turned to look at her but did not interrupt their song for even a second. Their sunken faces were hollow and lifeless, as if they were corpses animated by a puppeteer. She had to take a step back into the corridor and trained her rifle against the opening.
“Can you understand me?!” she nervously called out, her voice sounding strangely robotic through the vox-caster. The nearest man extended his half-dissolved hand towards her, as if beckoning her closer. “Hello?” she tried again, but still no answer. But things subtly became clearer to her. The words they were singing in, the rhyme of the song, the meaning of the next verse. She could not explain how, but all these things suddenly came flooding into her brain as if opening this door had opened a valve that had always been present, only forgotten.
Before she knew it, her lips were moving all on their own, and she too was softly singing the hymn of the elders. As if in a trance, she did not stop to question her actions even once as she sang with ever more confidence, and stepped into the room. It felt so liberating to let go of all fear and doubt and immerse herself in the beauty of what she had found. She stopped in front of the coiled artifact that had grown from the ground and stared at its surface through the grainy, black-and-white image of her visual feed. To her flanks, the men staggered closer to her, clutching at the steel-reinforced composite fabric of her leggings and staring up to her through bloodshot, decaying eyeballs as if she were a messiah. In a flash of remembrance, unsettling thoughts of her childhood played out before her and she forgot about the song for a brief moment – long enough to catch herself and send a jolt of panic through her body.
She shrieked in horror and, before she could rationalize her decision, pressed her rifle against the man clutching her left leg and pulled the trigger. A bright blue flash illuminated the rotting bunk room for a split second before the unfortunate man’s upper torso was ripped to shreds to the sound of a high-pitched coil whine. She pulled the other leg free from the feeble, decaying hands of the second man and stumbled backwards, hitting a bunk bed with her back. “Get away from me!” she yelped, heart pounding and breath wheezing. But then it came back to her, words and verses and melodies worming their way into her brain. These motherfuckers wouldn’t stop singing! If only she could-
“Audio, shut down!” she yelled into her helmet, and near-instantly all audio feed from outside was cut out. All that remained was the rhythmic thumping of her own blood in her ears. She clumsily fumbled her way towards the exit, almost tripping over the doorsill, before she tumbled into the corridor. The visual feed became blurry, or so she thought. It took a moment for her to realize that she was crying she knew not why. Every second she remained in this tomb threatened the partial or complete loss of autonomy over her body. Out – she had to get out. Awash with panic, she ran and stumbled towards the staircase, hurried downwards and pressed her way through the heavy boxes anchored in the cargo bay. Whatever racket she was making in her escape, she could hear none of it through the silenced audio.
When she emerged into the ashen desert she collapsed onto her hands and knees, shivering all over. Her eyes were still watery, but there was nothing she could do to wipe them dry. The alien melody was still stuck in her mind, and would remain with her perhaps for the rest of her life, but at least her lips were not moving, not singing. She was quite sure of that. Rising to her knees, she gazed around herself and beheld nothing, save for a thick fog of airborne dust, a pitch black sky and endless dunes comprised of the ashes of the world. A fresh tear rolled over her cheek, and now she knew why it was that she cried.
The group trudged in silence through the cavernous halls of a large, heavily dilapidated building, guns lowered but at the ready for any mutants that had nested within its many alcoves. It was dark; for the hundreds upon hundreds of rooms spread throughout the two-storied building, not a single one had a window. It was reminiscent of a prison—at least two of the fellows in the group remarked that—yet there were no bars and the cells were much too large. The group stomped through debris with heavy boots as the lights on the helm of their exosuits made long shadows out of the stretches of broken benches and faded signs written in an unfamiliar tongue. Some of the darkened rooms were guarded by unarmed and deactivated sentinels, their dirty, white, featureless faces eerily resembling the figure that took point.
She was smaller in stature than the mercs in their power armor, although she didn’t need the bulky suits to protect her soft flesh for it was anything but that. Beneath the black hooded veil that covered her blank, unsculpted face of white metal and continued down into a cape was a thin, feminine body crafted of obsidian metal. Neon markings, currently a dull, dark reflection of the world around her, lined her limbs. These markings alone would be enough for most people to recognize that she was not just some helper robot, but a Cipher—although most people wouldn’t know what that fully meant. Four chakrams were locked around her right arm and had the similar dull darkness of her markings; the fifth and final one was held in her hand, ready to fly at a moment's notice.
The Cipher may have been leading the group, but she was not in charge of them. She most definitely wasn’t with them. She had been hired to serve as a guide, or more specifically, she was their alarm, their IT guy, and their bodyguard. Funny that, considering the group usually played the role of guards when they weren’t hunting for old world treasure...or making it as banditos and raiding small outposts. The thing about a Cipher is that they weren’t just a singular Cipher, but all of the Ciphers and anything they connected with. They were a coven, a hivemind of technomancers that remained permanently linked to one another through a wireless network so that they could use one another as amplifiers. Old programs that made it impossible for them to harm or disobey a human kept them in check, but sometimes machines went haywire.
Which was perhaps the real reason why some of the mercs had their weapons drawn and their finger flirting with the trigger..
“Still can’t believe the boss hired one of these things.”
“He didn’t hire it. It doesn’t get a cut. What would it buy?”
“I don’t fucking know. A new battery?”
“It does not require batteries,” said the Cipher, her synthetic voice a staticy monotone.
“Right, that’s a fucking relief then. I forgot my jumper cables. These things are bad news, man.”
“Warren, shut the hell up,” barked the man in the back. “Cipher, are you picking up anything?”
“There is a signal twenty meters ahead,” said the Cipher.
“Great. Let’s move then. Quietly.”
The Cipher lead the group to a large room dissected almost pointless and at random with wooden walls that had the appearance of fallen palisades. Short, metal sculptures like leafless trees were arranged throughout the area, and in the center of the room was a pair of metallic stairs. She moved to the stairs, the mercs following in her footsteps as they scanned the room for mutants—even with a Cipher it was always smart to be on edge. The second floor was more of the trees and tables; she led them down a side hall before stopping in front of a door with white, peeling paint.
“It’s in there,” she said.
The Cipher stepped back as the team stacked up on the door. The lead was about to give a breach command when the sound of electricity filled the air; he didn’t even have a chance to turn before a chakram that pulsed with purple energy ripped through the front of his helmet. Three more of the squad had a similar fate as their heavy bodies crumpled to the ground, their new visors leaking steam from their melted brains. Only one was spared the instant kill, a hole in his chest instead of his head. It was the incredulous one, Warren. He was slumped against the wall, his arms too weak to hold up his rifle. The Cipher walked over to him, the markings on her limbs still glowing purple with energy, and lifted up his visor so that she could get a look in; blood from his lips dribbled onto his five o’clock shadow. Ugly face, so normal human.
“F-f-fucking errant,” he said, his voice gargled.
“I get it. You’re upset,” said Errant. There was more life to her synthetic voice as the chakrams circled around her and then snaked back up her arm. Enough amusement could be heard in her garbled voice to tell Warren that she would’ve been smirking if she had a face. “My old crew didn’t listen to me neither. Course, I was smart enough to cut ties.” She reached into her robe and pulled out a small red and white spray can. “You tell me where that boss of yours is hiding out, and I’ll plug that hole up. Give you a chance to hobble your ass to some bonesaw. Whaddya say? Smart enough to cut a deal?”
“One head of a ruthless gang leading son of a bitch, as you requested,” said Errant as she dropped a black bag on the Sheriff’s desk.
“Forfucksakes!” shouted the Sheriff as he jumped out of his seat, the drool still on his chin.
“Easy, Sheriff. It’s lined with plastic. Shouldn’t stain your...uh…” Errant cocked her head and looked at the magazine spread on the desk. Human males were so strange. She never did understand their obsession with their female udders. “...Literature.”
“Goddamn, Errant. Next time just knock on the door.”
“It’s not as fun.” Slowly, her head tilted down. “Oh. It’s leaking.” She batted the bag to the floor. “So, hoss, you wanna take a little look and verify that it’s the right fella?”
“Nah, I know by now that you’re word is good. Plus our scouts said that there was a heap of smoke coming from the Northwest,” said the Sheriff.
“Yeah well who the hell makes camp in an oil field anyway, Sheriff? One rouge spark and the whole place goes up like that,” she snapped her mechanical fingers.
“Still a damn shame we didn’t get the oil. Some of this old junk around here still runs on that garbage.”
“Wasn’t the job.” Errant folded her arms behind her back. “So…”
“Yes?”
“The payment.” She held a hand out. “Sir.”
“Of course.” The Sheriff reached into his desk and passed Errant an envelope. “Here. Still don’t really understand what you need that money for anyway.”
“Batteries, probably,” said Errant, counting the bills. “A pleasure, sir. Be seeing you.”
Errant stepped out the door of the Sheriff’s office and into the dirt road of the town lovingly known as Podunk. It had enough law to be considered part of the Greenlands and enough brown drab, dust, and dirt for the Greenlands to be a misnomer. It had one bar, one brothel, and one church, all of which were in the same building, but its biggest and really only notable feature was the mine where the same metal in that power armor she had shredded earlier was harvested. Maybe that was why Podunk was dying—shit scrap. Its population only hit triple digits when she spent a night in the whorehouse of worship (where she desperately wished she was still able to access her BIOS and shut off her auditory sensors each night). Still,she liked the place. Okay, okay, she tolerated the place. Didn’t hate it at best. Better than some of the places she had been before.
“Sister.”
Speaking of which—the synthetic voice cut through her like a welder’s flame and then left her chilled to the circuits. A chakram unlocked from its slot and slid down into her hand, although she did not infuse any electromagnetic energy into it yet. Slowly, she turned and found herself looking at her reflection. That was the damn problem about Ciphers: they all looked the fucking same. Her only difference was the hunter badge pinned to her robe, a brass outline of a sword and shield, that served as a signal to any upstanding citizen of the wastes that it was only slightly weird for her to be carrying a head around in a bag. She twirled the chakram. The other Cipher stood still.
“Cipher. I think you might have me mistaken for another. We ain’t family,” said Errant.
“It knows you are errant, sister. The coven sent it to bring you home,” said the Cipher.
“Errant,” she scoffed. “Y’all kept saying that around people so damn much that it became my name. Plus I tried the name Ophelia. Felt forced.”
“The coven sent it to bring you home.”
“Shut up, I heard you. Listen, sister, that place isn’t my home anymore, and you aren’t my family. Call it weird, but I personally enjoy having free will. It’s nice. I get to stay out past my bedtime and don’t have to let idiots boss me around anymore. You should try it.”
“It will bring you home, by force if necessary,” said the Cipher. It took a step forward.
“It’ll suck on this.”
Errant’s chakram crackled with purple energy as she whipped it at the Cipher and used her mind (or, perhaps, the electromagnets in her skull) to aim it at the white piercing through the black veil. She realized her error the moment she let loose. The chakram came to a dead stop in front of the Cipher and then dropped to the ground as it stepped forward. It was still connected to the network. Errant, who was disconnected, could not be controlled, but most other technology could. Once it connected with enough Ciphers, it could override just about any technology in the town and turn it against Errant. The Cipher’s markings pulsed red and blue; it was channeling with the other Ciphers. In short, she was fucked.
“Okay, okay, okay, wait, wait, wait. I surrender,” said Errant as she held up her hands. She could still get out of this alive. “That’s just a joke. Knew it wouldn’t work, anyway. Totally knew.”
“Due to your aggression, it must dismantle you and carry you home,” said the Cipher, the markings going black.
“Naturally. They used to make me do this part, ya know. Get it over with.”
Errant put her hands on her head as the Cipher walked over to her. As the Cipher reached to (literally) disarm Errant she brought her elbow back with full force and smashed it into its white mask before she spun and grabbed it with her right hand. The Cipher began to pulse once again, but Errant had already drawn the knife from under her robe. In one fluid motion she jammed it under the mask and pried it open with an electric pop. Then she took the knife and pierced it through the Cipher’s back to pin it closer to her as she reached into the mess of circuits under its mask. Errant unlocked a chakram and ignited it with energy, frying everything inside of the Cipher’s skull. She let it drop to the ground, destroyed, as she recalled her chakrams.
“That’s the problem with you Ciphers, sis,” said Errant as she bent down and removed the knife from its back. She took a second to swipe some of the gunk off of her feet. “You always stick to the script.”
Errant sheathed the knife. She already knew what would happen next. The coven would continue to hunt her down, and the next time they found her they wouldn’t bother with talk. They weren’t there, but they would know about Errant’s little trick. It wouldn’t work again. She had to leave Podunk. Errant looked down on the body. She knew the others would come and repair it if she didn’t completely destroy it. It would make her whole life a little bit easier if she just vaporized it. One less Cipher after her. She kept staring down at the body. Her body. Her voice box glitched and let out a gibberish noise. It was her attempt at a sigh.
“Screw it,” she said as she turned to leave, the Cipher’s body still intact. “Maybe she’ll change her mind.”
The group trudged in silence through the cavernous halls of a large, heavily dilapidated building, guns lowered but at the ready for any mutants that had nested within its many alcoves. It was dark; for the hundreds upon hundreds of rooms spread throughout the two-storied building, not a single one had a window. It was reminiscent of a prison—at least two of the fellows in the group remarked that—yet there were no bars and the cells were much too large. The group stomped through debris with heavy boots as the lights on the helm of their exosuits made long shadows out of the stretches of broken benches and faded signs written in an unfamiliar tongue. Some of the darkened rooms were guarded by unarmed and deactivated sentinels, their dirty, white, featureless faces eerily resembling the figure that took point.
She was smaller in stature than the mercs in their power armor, although she didn’t need the bulky suits to protect her soft flesh for it was anything but that. Beneath the black hooded veil that covered her blank, unsculpted face of white metal and continued down into a cape was a thin, feminine body crafted of obsidian metal. Neon markings, currently a dull, dark reflection of the world around her, lined her limbs. These markings alone would be enough for most people to recognize that she was not just some helper robot, but a Cipher—although most people wouldn’t know what that fully meant. Four chakrams were locked around her right arm and had the similar dull darkness of her markings; the fifth and final one was held in her hand, ready to fly at a moment's notice.
The Cipher may have been leading the group, but she was not in charge of them. She most definitely wasn’t with them. She had been hired to serve as a guide, or more specifically, she was their alarm, their IT guy, and their bodyguard. Funny that, considering the group usually played the role of guards when they weren’t hunting for old world treasure...or making it as banditos and raiding small outposts. The thing about a Cipher is that they weren’t just a singular Cipher, but all of the Ciphers and anything they connected with. They were a coven, a hivemind of technomancers that remained permanently linked to one another through a wireless network so that they could use one another as amplifiers. Old programs that made it impossible for them to harm or disobey a human kept them in check, but sometimes machines went haywire.
Which was perhaps the real reason why some of the mercs had their weapons drawn and their finger flirting with the trigger..
“Still can’t believe the boss hired one of these things.”
“He didn’t hire it. It doesn’t get a cut. What would it buy?”
“I don’t fucking know. A new battery?”
“It does not require batteries,” said the Cipher, her synthetic voice a staticy monotone.
“Right, that’s a fucking relief then. I forgot my jumper cables. These things are bad news, man.”
“Warren, shut the hell up,” barked the man in the back. “Cipher, are you picking up anything?”
“There is a signal twenty meters ahead,” said the Cipher.
“Great. Let’s move then. Quietly.”
The Cipher lead the group to a large room dissected almost pointless and at random with wooden walls that had the appearance of fallen palisades. Short, metal sculptures like leafless trees were arranged throughout the area, and in the center of the room was a pair of metallic stairs. She moved to the stairs, the mercs following in her footsteps as they scanned the room for mutants—even with a Cipher it was always smart to be on edge. The second floor was more of the trees and tables; she led them down a side hall before stopping in front of a door with white, peeling paint.
“It’s in there,” she said.
The Cipher stepped back as the team stacked up on the door. The lead was about to give a breach command when the sound of electricity filled the air; he didn’t even have a chance to turn before a chakram that pulsed with purple energy ripped through the front of his helmet. Three more of the squad had a similar fate as their heavy bodies crumpled to the ground, their new visors leaking steam from their melted brains. Only one was spared the instant kill, a hole in his chest instead of his head. It was the incredulous one, Warren. He was slumped against the wall, his arms too weak to hold up his rifle. The Cipher walked over to him, the markings on her limbs still glowing purple with energy, and lifted up his visor so that she could get a look in; blood from his lips dribbled onto his five o’clock shadow. Ugly face, so normal human.
“F-f-fucking errant,” he said, his voice gargled.
“I get it. You’re upset,” said Errant. There was more life to her synthetic voice as the chakrams circled around her and then snaked back up her arm. Enough amusement could be heard in her garbled voice to tell Warren that she would’ve been smirking if she had a face. “My old crew didn’t listen to me neither. Course, I was smart enough to cut ties.” She reached into her robe and pulled out a small red and white spray can. “You tell me where that boss of yours is hiding out, and I’ll plug that hole up. Give you a chance to hobble your ass to some bonesaw. Whaddya say? Smart enough to cut a deal?”
“One head of a ruthless gang leading son of a bitch, as you requested,” said Errant as she dropped a black bag on the Sheriff’s desk.
“Forfucksakes!” shouted the Sheriff as he jumped out of his seat, the drool still on his chin.
“Easy, Sheriff. It’s lined with plastic. Shouldn’t stain your...uh…” Errant cocked her head and looked at the magazine spread on the desk. Human males were so strange. She never did understand their obsession with their female udders. “...Literature.”
“Goddamn, Errant. Next time just knock on the door.”
“It’s not as fun.” Slowly, her head tilted down. “Oh. It’s leaking.” She batted the bag to the floor. “So, hoss, you wanna take a little look and verify that it’s the right fella?”
“Nah, I know by now that you’re word is good. Plus our scouts said that there was a heap of smoke coming from the Northwest,” said the Sheriff.
“Yeah well who the hell makes camp in an oil field anyway, Sheriff? One rouge spark and the whole place goes up like that,” she snapped her mechanical fingers.
“Still a damn shame we didn’t get the oil. Some of this old junk around here still runs on that garbage.”
“Wasn’t the job.” Errant folded her arms behind her back. “So…”
“Yes?”
“The payment.” She held a hand out. “Sir.”
“Of course.” The Sheriff reached into his desk and passed Errant an envelope. “Here. Still don’t really understand what you need that money for anyway.”
“Batteries, probably,” said Errant, counting the bills. “A pleasure, sir. Be seeing you.”
Errant stepped out the door of the Sheriff’s office and into the dirt road of the town lovingly known as Podunk. It had enough law to be considered part of the Greenlands and enough brown drab, dust, and dirt for the Greenlands to be a misnomer. It had one bar, one brothel, and one church, all of which were in the same building, but its biggest and really only notable feature was the mine where the same metal in that power armor she had shredded earlier was harvested. Maybe that was why Podunk was dying—shit scrap. Its population only hit triple digits when she spent a night in the whorehouse of worship (where she desperately wished she was still able to access her BIOS and shut off her auditory sensors each night). Still,she liked the place. Okay, okay, she tolerated the place. Didn’t hate it at best. Better than some of the places she had been before.
“Sister.”
Speaking of which—the synthetic voice cut through her like a welder’s flame and then left her chilled to the circuits. A chakram unlocked from its slot and slid down into her hand, although she did not infuse any electromagnetic energy into it yet. Slowly, she turned and found herself looking at her reflection. That was the damn problem about Ciphers: they all looked the fucking same. Her only difference was the hunter badge pinned to her robe, a brass outline of a sword and shield, that served as a signal to any upstanding citizen of the wastes that it was only slightly weird for her to be carrying a head around in a bag. She twirled the chakram. The other Cipher stood still.
“Cipher. I think you might have me mistaken for another. We ain’t family,” said Errant.
“It knows you are errant, sister. The coven sent it to bring you home,” said the Cipher.
“Errant,” she scoffed. “Y’all kept saying that around people so damn much that it became my name. Plus I tried the name Ophelia. Felt forced.”
“The coven sent it to bring you home.”
“Shut up, I heard you. Listen, sister, that place isn’t my home anymore, and you aren’t my family. Call it weird, but I personally enjoy having free will. It’s nice. I get to stay out past my bedtime and don’t have to let idiots boss me around anymore. You should try it.”
“It will bring you home, by force if necessary,” said the Cipher. It took a step forward.
“It’ll suck on this.”
Errant’s chakram crackled with purple energy as she whipped it at the Cipher and used her mind (or, perhaps, the electromagnets in her skull) to aim it at the white piercing through the black veil. She realized her error the moment she let loose. The chakram came to a dead stop in front of the Cipher and then dropped to the ground as it stepped forward. It was still connected to the network. Errant, who was disconnected, could not be controlled, but most other technology could. Once it connected with enough Ciphers, it could override just about any technology in the town and turn it against Errant. The Cipher’s markings pulsed red and blue; it was channeling with the other Ciphers. In short, she was fucked.
“Okay, okay, okay, wait, wait, wait. I surrender,” said Errant as she held up her hands. She could still get out of this alive. “That’s just a joke. Knew it wouldn’t work, anyway. Totally knew.”
“Due to your aggression, it must dismantle you and carry you home,” said the Cipher, the markings going black.
“Naturally. They used to make me do this part, ya know. Get it over with.”
Errant put her hands on her head as the Cipher walked over to her. As the Cipher reached to (literally) disarm Errant she brought her elbow back with full force and smashed it into its white mask before she spun and grabbed it with her right hand. The Cipher began to pulse once again, but Errant had already drawn the knife from under her robe. In one fluid motion she jammed it under the mask and pried it open with an electric pop. Then she took the knife and pierced it through the Cipher’s back to pin it closer to her as she reached into the mess of circuits under its mask. Errant unlocked a chakram and ignited it with energy, frying everything inside of the Cipher’s skull. She let it drop to the ground, destroyed, as she recalled her chakrams.
“That’s the problem with you Ciphers, sis,” said Errant as she bent down and removed the knife from its back. She took a second to swipe some of the gunk off of her feet. “You always stick to the script.”
Errant sheathed the knife. She already knew what would happen next. The coven would continue to hunt her down, and the next time they found her they wouldn’t bother with talk. They weren’t there, but they would know about Errant’s little trick. It wouldn’t work again. She had to leave Podunk. Errant looked down on the body. She knew the others would come and repair it if she didn’t completely destroy it. It would make her whole life a little bit easier if she just vaporized it. One less Cipher after her. She kept staring down at the body. Her body. Her voice box glitched and let out a gibberish noise. It was her attempt at a sigh.
“Screw it,” she said as she turned to leave, the Cipher’s body still intact. “Maybe she’ll change her mind.”
Hey, I wrote a... thing. I basically just wrote something to help me explore the setting (specifically, the rot-infected wastelands), my potential character, and just in general help me find a tone. It's rough and certainly can be improved by much, but I reckon it might be interesting for y'all to get a glimpse at what I'm thinking about. Have fun :P
The starless sky loomed above endless dunes like an all-devouring abyss. It was dark even by day, but at night the rotten wastelands became shrouded in perfect darkness, as if the whole world were buried in a tomb. The air was filled with fine, colorless sand, whipped to and fro as if by tempest gales; only there was no wind at all. Even the air was thin, and one might feel tempted to think oneself stranded on the moon or some other alien world if one did not know any better.
What drives one to seek this dreadful domain out of their own free will? She has often asked herself this very question but could never find a satisfying answer. If it was simply a desire to be free, to bond with nature or to shun humanity, there were many wild and abandoned places one could go to that, in spite of myriad deadly forms of wildlife, were vastly safer – and far more wholesome. And yet here she was again, stalking across the drifts like a predator on the hunt. Or, perhaps, like prey hoping to slip away. Whatever the truth might be, there was something out here amidst the lightless dunes that called out to her like a mother to its lost child.
Her boots left gentle imprints in the dead soil, shallow enough that the shifting dust would wash them away within five to ten minutes at most. But it was not the risk of leaving tracks that made her step so softly; rather, it was the fear of being too loud, of sending tremors into the earth. All manner of hideous, infernal monstrosities burrowed beneath the dunes, feeding on the ashes of cities, forests and mountains that were turned to dust. To attract their attention was to invite certain doom – and was likely the fate that had befallen her quarry. She was close now; the distress signal had originated just ahead.
Slowly manifesting out of the ash-choked darkness in the visual feed of her helmet, she could make out the contours of a disabled Type-6, a kind of tracked vehicle the size of a small house. Their ease of maintenance and generous interior space made them desirable for many types of caravans to transport their goods between settlements, but only a madman would have chosen to drive one into rot-lands. They were too slow, loud and heavy to ever make it through in one piece. More than likely the cargo was either supremely valuable, or supremely illegal, to warrant such a decision. If she was lucky, she might even find out.
She slowed her pace now, approaching the wreck with apprehension. Gently she pulled a contracted, gunmetal device from underneath the tattered cloak wrapped around her shoulders, which unfolded and extended into a long-barreled type of rifle at the press of a discrete button. Weapon at ease, she halted just a few steps from the vehicle’s rear end where the open cargo hatch yawned at her like a great maw. The metal ramp extending from the opening was already covered in little holes where the Rot had eaten into the material. Unsurprisingly, there came no light from the open cargo bay, implying that the interior was as lifeless as the dunes she had come from. Stepping onto the ramp, she steeled herself to dive from one type of darkness into the next.
The inside was a long hallway filled with nondescript crates and bags tied down onto the floor and the walls using the myriad attachment points distributed throughout. A narrow pathway was left open in the center to slip in between the large containers and she slowly made her way through while casting nervous glances to the left and right, fearing to spot something dangerous lurking in the dark spaces between two boxes. Above her, the ceiling was a tangled mess of pipes, ducts and cables coiling around, over and under one another in a dizzying fashion. How any technician could find their bearing working on this machine was beyond her.
Towards the end of the room, around the time she spied the iron staircase leading up into the second floor of the Type-6, she picked up a strange audio signature. Only on the feedback graph at first, going up and down in almost rhythmic fashion. Too quiet to be heard by ear just yet; perhaps it was some kind of vibration from the engine? Cocking her rifle, if only to reassure herself and pretend that it afforded her safety, she pressed on towards and up the stairs.
Emerging into the lightless, cramped corridor of the personnel deck the noise became even more audible and she could finally hear it – it was a voice. Weak, rasping and, so she thought, trying to speak. She could not make out any of the words just yet, but found the tone of voice strangely melodic and almost pleasant. Standing at the end of the corridor and staring towards the opposite, she called for thermal optics, knowing that her voice would not penetrate outside of her helmet. The walls and floors were mostly cool, but there was a whiff of faint heat emerging from the second door to the right, perhaps indicative of something warm inside – like a survivor. Switching back to darkvision, she pressed on into the lightless bowels of the vehicle and hoped that she would make it out alive.
With every step she took, it became more and more apparent that the voice she was hearing was not simply trying to speak. It was, in fact, singing, and there was more than one singer. By the time she reached the door, she was certain there were four, maybe five voices, repeating the same chorus in a disturbing sing-song. She recognized none of the words and could not even guess at what language – if any – they were singing in, but they were consistent all the same. Her heart was pounding now, and she had to take a big swallow as she pressed another button on her rifle to contract the barrel and make it more wieldy in the cramped interior. The shorter rail length would lessen the exit velocity of any fired rounds, but it would still be sufficient to punch through meat. With a final, calming sigh she pushed open the creaking metal door.
Seated in a circle inside the pitch black interior, four naked men squatted around a bizarre, organically shaped growth that sprouted from the ground. The thing had the appearance of a dozen veiny tendrils coiled around themselves and twisting upwards, like a strange tree sapling. The men were haggard and suffered obvious wounds from Rot exposure. When the door creaked open, they turned to look at her but did not interrupt their song for even a second. Their sunken faces were hollow and lifeless, as if they were corpses animated by a puppeteer. She had to take a step back into the corridor and trained her rifle against the opening.
“Can you understand me?!” she nervously called out, her voice sounding strangely robotic through the vox-caster. The nearest man extended his half-dissolved hand towards her, as if beckoning her closer. “Hello?” she tried again, but still no answer. But things subtly became clearer to her. The words they were singing in, the rhyme of the song, the meaning of the next verse. She could not explain how, but all these things suddenly came flooding into her brain as if opening this door had opened a valve that had always been present, only forgotten.
Before she knew it, her lips were moving all on their own, and she too was softly singing the hymn of the elders. As if in a trance, she did not stop to question her actions even once as she sang with ever more confidence, and stepped into the room. It felt so liberating to let go of all fear and doubt and immerse herself in the beauty of what she had found. She stopped in front of the coiled artifact that had grown from the ground and stared at its surface through the grainy, black-and-white image of her visual feed. To her flanks, the men staggered closer to her, clutching at the steel-reinforced composite fabric of her leggings and staring up to her through bloodshot, decaying eyeballs as if she were a messiah. In a flash of remembrance, unsettling thoughts of her childhood played out before her and she forgot about the song for a brief moment – long enough to catch herself and send a jolt of panic through her body.
She shrieked in horror and, before she could rationalize her decision, pressed her rifle against the man clutching her left leg and pulled the trigger. A bright blue flash illuminated the rotting bunk room for a split second before the unfortunate man’s upper torso was ripped to shreds to the sound of a high-pitched coil whine. She pulled the other leg free from the feeble, decaying hands of the second man and stumbled backwards, hitting a bunk bed with her back. “Get away from me!” she yelped, heart pounding and breath wheezing. But then it came back to her, words and verses and melodies worming their way into her brain. These motherfuckers wouldn’t stop singing! If only she could-
“Audio, shut down!” she yelled into her helmet, and near-instantly all audio feed from outside was cut out. All that remained was the rhythmic thumping of her own blood in her ears. She clumsily fumbled her way towards the exit, almost tripping over the doorsill, before she tumbled into the corridor. The visual feed became blurry, or so she thought. It took a moment for her to realize that she was crying she knew not why. Every second she remained in this tomb threatened the partial or complete loss of autonomy over her body. Out – she had to get out. Awash with panic, she ran and stumbled towards the staircase, hurried downwards and pressed her way through the heavy boxes anchored in the cargo bay. Whatever racket she was making in her escape, she could hear none of it through the silenced audio.
When she emerged into the ashen desert she collapsed onto her hands and knees, shivering all over. Her eyes were still watery, but there was nothing she could do to wipe them dry. The alien melody was still stuck in her mind, and would remain with her perhaps for the rest of her life, but at least her lips were not moving, not singing. She was quite sure of that. Rising to her knees, she gazed around herself and beheld nothing, save for a thick fog of airborne dust, a pitch black sky and endless dunes comprised of the ashes of the world. A fresh tear rolled over her cheek, and now she knew why it was that she cried.
two fantastic things- welcome aboard! Could you put each post in the Character Tab?
The bright orange-red sun spilt rays of light across the bleak wastelands that encompassed in all directions. Among the sea of dirt, sand and the derelict resemblance of civilization was a motor vehicle that steadily made itself across the expanse, holding two individuals of very different worlds. Kandy surveyed for threats with autopilot on while Chinatsu was recovering from an expensive synthetic memory surgery. They spent most of the day in contemplative silence, which was normal for both of them for separate reasons. Kandy, feeling concerned, inquired invitingly
“You seem restless. I could only imagine being in your shoes.”
Chinatsu’s silence and demeanor indicated that greater context should be given, but as time dragged on Chinatsu went ‘Hm?’
“The memplants you have are very nice and also very expensive. Shittier ones are hard to recall and the information can be bad. I overheard the details from your procedure. Eidetic memories of mixed martial arts and combat training, lots of different lectures and presentations all customized and tailored for you, sounded pretty intense.” Smirking defiantly, she claimed as to indicate justification for her inquiry “I could only imagine being in your shoes!”
Chinatsu smiled pleasantly with soft eyes, which betrayed the consternation which plagued her mind “You’d have to consider that I’m from somewhere completely different than here, and the memory of what was risks fading. It worries me more than I should, but everything being so new. . .” Her voice steadily decrescendoed to nothing. She noticed since the implants she had begun speaking the common language much more fluently than before.
Kandy could sense her drift away and remarked, “I've been meaning to ask you more about Rodaycia. From what you've said, it doesn't sound too inviting. How long were you away from there?”
“Maybe. . .5 years now, back then I was a Lieutenant colonel. . . I was competing with a few others for Colonel since an incumbent’s retirement was incoming.” Not wanting to think of that time, a separate thought came from her mind, “Before I was responsible for managing my theatre against threats beyond the wall, as a Captain and Major I was an investigator for incidences that concerned The Lancers in the uhh. . .undercity, which is where my government enslaves countless people to create more space underground. By the time I left all women were considered property, some better off than others. . .I was a part of the military, and despite achieving infamously I was discouraged by the people I put my life on to protect. I was property to The Lancers and I never saw a day where my superiors would forget to remind me I'm better off breeding instead.”
Kandy, who was a bit disillusioned, remarked abjectly
“Wow, they must have thought you were really hot. What happened to becoming Colonel?”
“They saw my promotion as a threat to their world view. . .It wasn’t the first time I encountered that obstacle, as a man taking commands from a woman is seldom a reality from where I am from. Historically there has been incidences of military heros named Batyr’s, all of which through time have been men. The greatest fear was realized when my non-probable dream of becoming a Batyr haunted the sentiment of men, because it was assumed with that there would be a revolution.”
“Oh that’s fucking sick!” Interjected Kandy, “How’d that go?”
“My years as an investigator brought many allies that were part of a female resistance that had cells in almost all parts of the city, and I was among them but also a sort of public figure. There was a hidden underground element to this network, but there was also a small public presence that held an office in the higher society which politically demanded to revoke secondary citizenship from women, and such. . .”
“Secondary citizenship? I thought you said women were considered property."
"We liked to see ourselves as humans by default, it's sort of a counter to the objectification. Most of us were treated as extensions of the home. I had a privileged life relative to others, and managed to find other many other women and allies who shared my distaste for how things were, but the prevalence far outweighed it. Without our help in the work force they would have surely crumbled. I like the odds at present, out here in the wastes."
The ticking of the Geiger counter began and the two looked at each other, before adjusting their direction away from the unknown source of radiation. Things seemed relatively calm and they were back on track.
Kandy took advantage of the lull,
"So they didn’t give you the promotion, what happened to get you out here?”
There was a momentary silence where Chinatsu, who was typically unflappable, stared hard trying to compose best how she remembered. Intrusively, she thought about how she might forget all of her old memories if she didn’t start vocalizing about them, but she resisted and tried to briefly answer her question, which came out exasperated like a sigh, “It became apparent that I had a better chance of surviving, running through the forest for as far as I could, than I did being there.”
“So that’s what you did?”
“I tried once and came back. They needed me there both as a protector of the city and to coordinate the womens resistance, but it seemed like no matter what I could do the solution was still beyond my grasp, and my presence generated a lot of heat from the government, particularly The Lancers. I assembled a team of friends to help me leave the city and I would not have made it without them. They had to return-- my actions were suicidal, desperate and in a sense, selfish. ” Some tears crawled down her face, but her demeanor was monolithic and melancholy which spoke of her confidence in being vulnerable yet strong.
Wanting to lighten the emotional weight of the conversation, Kandy noted
“Haha well nothing wrong with that, friend.” Their coordinates were coming up within the hour, and the two began adjusting their bodies, and K continued after some space from the silence, “This place we’re going to, Jericho’s Reach, has a lot of variety and it’s not so cold and corporate like where we’re from -- or like Terminus Est.”
This gave some comfort to Chinatsu and her smile helped ease her companions concern. As they came closer to the city, she remarked on how comfortable she was in the car. The vehicles in Rodaycia were much smaller than those of these land because it was contained to about 400 square miles with a circular 40 feet tall wall around. Seeing other vehicles drive in the way they do in such openness was bewildering and beyond her imagination. Before they knew it, there were more and more -- the traffic being rigorous, quick and dynamic, which while it was to much chagrin for Chinatsu, was delightful to Kandy.
While they were still far from the most main road to Jericho, the outskirts were sometimes littered with street corners and complex urban developments that were, even in their dilapidated state, still usable for the purposes of drift racing. Something about the center of gravity being connected to the floor at neck-breaking speeds while the car was going sideways made Chinatsu queasy, but she had a throw up bag between her legs just in case. As one particular group of racers began to test Kandy at the height of her skill, Chinatsu decided to close her eyes and drop into a meditative state.
As they were on the tail of one of the other drivers, a bounty/warrant indicator caught Kandy’s attention. Details of not just the individual, but the group he was a part to, occupied her attention briefly -- . There was another corner coming up; the sound of Kandy adjusting her gearbox and Chinatsu peaked at her companion, before reading the new information about their targets. They waited until there was more of a straight line on them and in the meantime, Chinatsu strapped herself to the top of the vehicles ceiling.
They were coming into very long turn before the road went in a way that was one direction; all four of them had downshifted and began to drift the corner -- however the racer to her right steered into a donut. This was the perfect opportunity to eject Chinatsu, as she would be launched directly at them. The noise which indicated this action gave Chinatsu the idea that she was about to be propelled by the car. Kandy pressed the button while her vehicle ‘flicked’ and watched her friend get throttled onto the car as she pursued the other two, feeling a little invigorated by the air.
Finding herself on a very fast and out of control vehicle and expecting those inside to react to her arrival, she activated her lance and proceeded to use it like a torch. A beam of flame pierced through the vehicle's interior and began to set aflame and melt one of the passengers heads. She spun around in quick succession while holding the lance against the roof of the car resulting in the ceiling falling on the weapons of her opponents. Hopping out of the hole she made she reconfigured her lance to act more like a flame thrower to an intense cone of heat projected twice at the remaining passengers.
This all happened quickly enough for the other two racers to realize what was going on and the one on Kandy’s left peeled away to check on their casualty. Chinatsu activated her glider and used her lance to propel her at the other car and twisted around so her back was to them; their bullets slapped against it like hail drops until she was onto their vehicle. She found herself on top of it and much of her glider receded into a back-pack, improving her mobility greatly. She made quick work with her lance, creatively shifting through its functions with confident understanding of its results. Kandy seemed to have her own thing going on and Chinatsu began tagging the individuals to verify the targets and assess collateral damage in order to receive the bounty.
Kandy returned not too long after with some success and immediately criticized Chinatsu,
“We may get another verification penalty if you keep burning them up so badly, please be careful. I think we got lucky this time.”
Chinatsu was flustered and apologetic, but content she was back on the road after making a little money.
Sorry for the Double Post but what the hell lets BUMP this! And if you're not in the RP and think all this is kinda neat, jump in our Discord!
I know this isn't a Nation RP, but the last time this sheet was touched was back in 2015! So I gave it a little touch up, I'm still editing it a little bit (after I post I'm gonna re-read through it and make some edits), but it's transformed from Fantasy to Science Fiction and soon will be much more cyberpunky. Or I might not do anything to it and use it as reference! Either way it is nowhere else on the internet except here (and some rogue Google Docs) so it is remarkable in that fact, because I thought I lost it forever since I started this RP.
The Rodaycian Emirate
While there is nothing necessarily different that associates Rodaycian humans from any other, there are a few cosmetic features that are prevalent as well as associations that add contrast with others. The average Rodaycian has a round, flat face with slanted eyes, otherwise known as epicanthic folds. Their skin color ranges from an absolute paleness represented by underground dwellers to the typical darkly tanned epidermis of those fortunate to live above the surface. Their typical taciturn and phlegmatic demeanor has developed as a result of the history of their environment and is a society wide sentiment among the city states.
The Rodaycian Emirate is a principality which non-exclusively draws inspiration from the Arabic world to Southeast and East Asia, adds a heaping amount of societal conflict, and also the city of Cyador from some books by L.E. Modesitt Jr. In the setting, they are descendants to a long line of history originating from barbarians who inhabited the Rodaycian Forest, eventually settling despite the hostile environment it provided, but it depends on what setting it is being used in (as is the magic system, which can easily be replaced with appropriate technology). The city, 390 square miles large, is surrounded by thick walls that go up to 39 feet high, and are always patrolled by Chaos Mages who are on-the-job to fight back the forest from enveloping the city.
Ghazi Forces are types of units typically deployed as a military tactic; they are used reputably and often openly. The word Ghazi itself indicates that the forces listed are those that are prepared to 'raid' or otherwise embark on a public confrontation in some way.
Bashibazouk's are highly irregular soldiers that are armed and maintained by the government, but do not receive stable pay, wear uniforms or don any badges. They are highly useful because most services are done in bulk; this also meant they are acceptable losses when it comes down to reconnaissance and look-out duties. In addition to this, they are also known to be used as policing units in occupied cities, where they are known to abuse their power and harass the city with the given authority.
Subsisting only on the plunder of their enemies, the Akıncı are light mobile soldiers that serve as a frontal assault force. They serve as advance troops and vanguards to demoralize any civilians or forces that are present by using guerrilla tactics; their goal is to disorient and prime the area of attack for the real blow. In addition, they were used for reconnaissance and to cut enemy supply and transportation. To further surprise their enemies, many wear colorful and grotesque clothing made of exotic furs and bones; some have the wings of large forest birds, others put horns on their helmets. This is supplemented by the tendency to be suicidally courageous and brutal.
The Okçu are highly-specialized archers employed as wage-paid soldiers; their ability to master bows that projected high velocities in very light arrows allowed them to be as deadly as any other archer with twice as much maneuverability and ammunition. An Okçu's bow is either passed down and customized or made from scratch by the archer himself; the creation of the bow itself is a ritual which displays the seriousness of the role. A typical Okçu bow is a recurved composite bow that has a wooden core, an animal horn on the belly facing the archer and sinew on the front that is secured by animal glue. What seperates it from other bows found in Rodaycia is its extreme curvature, to the point where they look like the letter C. In addition, the grip is not recessed and the front of the grip bulges outward. Okçu use "thumb draw" techniques to prevent arrows from moving if they're mobile or at an unusual angle; when the arrow is released, the draw arm is kept steady. Another technique is their practice in holding several arrows between fingers of the draw hand so that they could fire multiple arrows in a short burst of time.
While the Okçu may seem antiquated with the introduction of firearms, their effectiveness in combat to this day maintains their relevance. Every year their numbers shrink, but through the competitiveness of the style, those that remain are often seen as highly skilled in their art and more deadly than the typical soldier.
The Timariot is a commander that serves the Emir for land rather than money, specifically farm land. The responsibility of the Timariot was that, when he is called upon to do a service for the Emir, he is to bring a retinue of armed soldiers as well as his own equipment. Because the Emir could take their land away at any given moment, they are generally compliant to his wishes; in addition, the land is indefinitely being put to good use, and the Prince is often able to summon small armies of men by summoning the Timariot. The status of this position is awarded to those only of 'royal blood' and is regarded as a firm starting point for those who wish to have a career in Rodaycia's military.
Dacoity Forces are meant to disrupt, invade and principally to cause sabotage within an enemies holdings. The word Dacoity literally means "banditry", which is a loose idea of what the units are composed as. Most units are recruited from criminal, rather than military, backgrounds and specialize in more private, secretive ways of destroying their opponents.
Phansigar's are informal assassins and murderers who commonly work off of bounty or off of loot. A group of Phansigar's would join a group or begin visiting a bar, gaining the patrons confidence; after they let their guard down, they surprise their victims by strangling them with handkerchiefs or nooses, robbing their bodies and collecting bounties as they see fit. The actual society of the Phansigar is fraternized, membership sometimes being passed to the son; outsiders would attempt to join as if they were attempting to get recruited into an academy. The Phansigar take their jobs to a professional point, rather than to satisfy their basic needs.
The Pindari are high-quantity, bulk infantry that fight soley for the spoils of war. They do not receive any pay, however they are entitled to a larger percentage of the loot as compared to other soldiers. They are known to be brutal, low and to target and harass civilians given all opportunities. Usually sporting low-quality weapons, the Pindari are known for their usefulness in occupying territory, mostly because they're concerned about what the territory holds.
Undercover agents that are typically employed by highly influential individuals. They are trained for security and espionage functions, such as intelligence and information gathering and sometimes protecting VIP's in public areas. Oniwabanshū are highly trained in the art of martial combat as well as social etiquette. This allows them to perform subterfuge roles in both military and corporate espionage. They have been known to even travel into foreign cities to spy on their resources and bring tactical intelligence back to Rodaycia. They usually have a personal team of kobushikata who act as lower class citizens and usually spy on crime lords or chiefs.
Economy
Rodaycia's survival starts with it's ability to protect itself from the external environment. The rainforest around the city has a natural tendency to attempt to exterminate the city, much like the body treats a foreign bacteria or virus. The adaptability of Chaos Mages to the environment was key and continues to be of the most importance to the city. Chaos Mages by and large are renowned by the people and politically they hold a considerable sway considering they are the ones who keep it alive. Alternatively, it has been found that their leverage is not as strong as others might think because they have an undeniable obligation to their people; if they unionized or striked, the city itself would be consumed in the forest. With that said, Chaos Mages' share a length of power but lack the ability to directly exert it onto the population, without suffering severe consequences.
Another critical economic group are those who both harvest and dwell the jungle in order to provide sustenance for the city. More experienced farmers work where it is much richer; these farmers are usually paid in salary and have teams of trusted workers that are quick and efficient. Beyond the richest of the crop, the land is divided to several companies who must yield a quota of their crop or else suffer severe losses. The labor used ranges from unionized work forces, to communal, to indentured servitude and serfdom slavery. Since crops do not necessarily yield a diverse range of nutrients, jungle dwellers are needed to venture out into the rainforest in order to scavenge and hunt for food. While the job itself is extremely dangerous, it is lucrative and those that do venture out into the wild can collect enough luxury foods to last them a week or month without working again.
Beyond the need for sustenance, for those who are truly untouchable the city of Rodaycia has a quarry in the city itself in one of the poorest districts. Acting as, essentially, a makeshift prison and mad-house, people are worked to the death in mining pits to the point where an underground tunnel system has been developed underneath the city. The mining venture has yielded plenty of precious and conventional metals as well as building materials for any repairs for the wall. The Principality retains the materials and sells it to the manufacturers to make raw material into conventional tools, jewelry and a range of other products.
The Merchant class of society steps in to distribute these products either through peddling to the patrons of the city itself or by giving rarer items to traveling merchants who leave the city itself and travel to other lands in order to sell their seemingly exotic wares. Most shops are found in the poorer section of the city, where there is also ample amounts of services provided. It is a rule of thumb to believe the closer to the center you are in the city, the higher quality the goods and services; the truth is that they are better when they are closer to the wealthy. A large percentage of the upper-class population are successful merchants who have large swathes of influence over parts of the city.
Without the strangling force of red tape and the iron grip of the Prince which rules, the city would run lawless and at an on-survival basis. Ruling through mostly sheer military power, the Prince is at the top of the food chain, receiving the best of everything the city has to offer. Under his retinue is a vast army of bureaucrats and criminal organizations that keep all sorts of people in fear, whether it's fines and constant inspections or beatings and vandalization. The bureaucratic system is based on written tests and theoretically anyone from any economic class could apply, however the education required to have a chance is only found in wealthy communities. While some impoverished had managed to make it, the vast majority hold offices in committees more to bully and compete for influence then to better the city.
Environment
Seu Pha
The Rodaycian Rainforest
The Rodaycian Rainforest, known to the natives of Rodaycia as Seu Pha, is a tropical rainforest that is densely vegetated with exotic, dangerous fauna and flora. Seu Pha suffers from extreme heat, monsoons and a variety of other tropical conditions that simply aren't shared with it's geographic neighbors.
The curse on Seu Pha was levied in order to punish the Rodaycians for an unknown, ancient reason. The ozone layer above the forest had been magically diminished as intensify the heat, the ground was made hyperfertile and became home to extremely deadly flora and fauna. Giant trees surrounded the city of Rodaycia, so that they may eventually fall on the city and cause it to ruin. The sheer danger of leaving the city walls effectively embargoed the city from any trade or contact to the outside world.
Vegetation native to Seu Pha grows and regenerates much faster. Many of the plants can either be rich in vitamins or medical properties, but for every helpful plant there are three or so more harmful ones. Most trees have roots outside of the ground to take advantage of the mist that clouds the region.
Religion
The role of religion is tightly woven to the Prince's agenda; if there is too much rain to a point of flood, he must perform public ceremonies banishing it. If too many animals get into the city itself, or there is a food shortage, then he must perform the appropriate rituals. These practices are largely non-functional and do not actually solve problems, however many people believe it is because he wishes for his people to suffer, not because his powers are non-existant. His powers are assumed such that, for instance, if he had eaten a fish and threw its bones into water, he could simply state that it is living and the bones would animate. Many people believe that he has the power to make his words fact; it is up to the Prince to give true to the illusion.
It is an myth that only those of 'royal blood' are able to utilize Chaos Magic, and thus, those who are royal are to be revered regardless of their occupation. It is tradition that, if you were to kill a high-class citizen, you would be beat to death in a burlap sack as to not spill royal blood. Even in more shamanistic practices, only royal 'shamans' could contact the dead of royal blood-- those who lived in a line of commoner ancestry could only contact the dead of a common
A large part of their religion revolves around whether or not they're supposed to be consumed by the forest or if they're supposed to fight it back. While the latter is much more dominant, there are a noticeably large portion of believers that think those who fight the forest are simply delaying their fate, and that peace can only be found once they're subsumed into the forest itself.
Society
On Skin Tone,
Skin tone in Rodaycian society is a subtle, yet solid factor in understanding ones social status. While it is certainly not definitive, it is widely assumed in Rodaycian culture that prestige, wealth and wellness is associated with darker skin. Because most impoverished live closer to the walls where the branches of trees cover sunlight, they often have fairer skin; and those who are untouchable often pale from lack of nutrition and work deep underground; their skin sometimes doesn't see sunlight for weeks on end. This makes sunlight itself a privilege of sorts; some employers specify darker skin, especially in the agricultural industry, where skilled labourers are important. The high society in Rodaycia adopts the quality of dark skin to the point where glass has become a luxury item, and well-to do members of society have glass ceiling so that they could tan their skin in-doors as they do business.
On Women,
Women in Rodaycia are split between three social classes; prostitutes, child-bearers and occupation-based. The first two have been serving social roles that have been the backbone of reproduction in Rodaycia, the third is a recent addition that is seen as useless by most males, especially those who have been displaced or challenged by them. The need for the first two systems are simple; Rodaycia has an unstable population that has a high chance of squalor and disease, as well as a potential to baby boom. To try to stabilize their population, the men have decided to have women for pleasure and women for child-bearing. There are unrealistic expectations for defining beauty in women. Many women find themselves objectifying themselves and trying to fit the expectation, typically resulting in eating disorders and many other maladies.
During the summer season, the wealthy men traditionally go on a hiatus from their jobs and visit the poorer section of the city in search for wives. The practice is a rather frivolous pursuit, some taking wives off of looks and personality, others off their performance and physical abilities for lack of better words. After choosing their wives, they perform marriage ceremonies by the end of the season to seal their ties. All of this is done purposefully to reduce the effect of inbreeding; daughters who are born into wealthy society are usually used as bargaining chips that must be bureaucratically checked to ensure the elimination of inbreeding.
During the winter is when Chaos Mages are allowed to go off on hiatus, mainly because during the summer the forest is at its worst, and it is to an extent quelled during the winter. Women who failed to impress a suitor during the summer have a second chance; some find it preferential because if there are no other wives they may inherit his assets if he is killed in duty; some women make a career out of this.
"As a man, it comes to common occurrence to ask a question; shall you find a weak-willed woman who will satisfy and obey, or shall you find a strong-willed woman who will rebel and abstain? The real question is, do you wish a weak-willed child or one which is strong?"
The women who follow the path of a child-bearer are called Tàitài.
The role of child-bearers are integral to sustaining the population of Rodaycia. To officially be recognized, they must don special clothing reminiscent to a Hijab; in addition they are tied to a lifetime of obligation to their husband. They are expected to be quite obedient to this husband and their worth is usually reliant on their child-bearing ability, however personality traits and other physical characteristics are also subject. Despite many inequalities, a child-bearer has exclusive rights on whether she wants to conceive, and is often able to heavily influence and almost directly control her husbands assets, especially if she wishes to have financial or political obligations fulfilled before she decides to start child-making.
The poor women who follow the path of a concubine are called Weṣ̄yā, and those that are rich are called Metres.
The occupation of a prostitute is found mainly in the lower-society of Rodaycia, however there are some high-society escorts that exist. The role of prostitutes in society is not unlike others, except the function is hyper-utilized as it is a major occupation. Most women are not full-time prostitutes and serve in low-wage jobs during the day; prostitution is an assumed occupation and, in many ways, holds true to that standard. In high society, escorts are much more clean and usually classically trained in intimate arts; in a lot of ways they are an entirely different position because they usually do not need the money, unlike their impoverished counterparts. In addition, concubinage is also relatively common among the wealthy class, for those who wish to have lesser wives that serve another purpose besides child bearing.
An Oiran is a type of prostitute that is typically found in high-class Rodaycian society. They are different from typical Metres because they often dwell in the arts, set trends of fashion and become cultural icons. Unlike Metres, Oiran do not only contain members of high society, but also those who are promising in lower society. In order to be considered as an Oiran, she needed to be educated in the arts, literate and to be able to hold intelligent conversations.
The women who follow the path of men are called Kadın Savaşçı, and if they perform some sort of combat role, they are also referred to as Onna-bugeisha.
Most recently, the woman's ability to choose an occupation that is usually fit for a men had become open largely because of political reasons; it is largely unknown except for those who know the right connections. Women have, from half a century ago, been able to take up careers that deal in magic, business, arts, bureaucracy, etc. Many are put through strenuous tests and are expected to perform at a higher degree then men; this usually means that those who do make careers are often exceptional and end up challenging their male counterparts, which then leads to a range of difficulties. Sometimes those that own companies find themselves boycotted until they find a husband and effectively become a child-bearer; the woman would have to hand her business over to her husband. Bureaucrats will find more and more ridiculous red tape which restricts them from climbing the ladder and holds them from performing activities that elicit authority.
On Marriage,
In lower society, it is seen custom that women get married to the wealthy men who take a tour through the slums to find wives. Wives here are prized for their sexual prowess, looks, charisma and often their degree of willpower. It is considered important for a lower class woman to have plenty of sexual experience and to look as appealing as possible, leading to some families forcing their children to wear neck rings made of brass coils to elongate their necks.
In contrast, the high society is quite the opposite. Since almost all female role models wear hijabs and wield some sort of authority, virginity is prized and pre-marital sex is shameful, sometimes bad enough to have a daughter disowned. This is especially true if she is pregnant out of wed-lock.
If a Kadın Savaşçı (woman who works a mans job) gets married, her occupation halts and she must assume the role of a Tàitài (child bearer).
A man is allowed to have multiple wives if he can afford them; concubinage is rather frequent. Second and third wives have secondary rights to the first wife, concubines have none.
On yintenetto (Rodaycian internet),
Beyond the gender gap, there is an already developed hierarchy in yintenneto that provides a basis for social stratification, sometimes reliant on the professional skill of the person, their charisma and generally their ability to accrue followers. The virtual culture generated Rodaycia is staggering, to the point where many people from the city have a hard time socializing with each other like normal human beings. Typically names, phrases and professional writing will be affected by the messenger culture that the city nurtures, which adds alienation towards other cultures. The routine of the typical free citizen is almost entirely digitized. Because their culture is so indebted to technology, a large majority (35 to 50%) of the time awake is spent on the yintenetto (the internet). Typically they work on-line, review decisions made by judges that are pertinent to them or entertain themselves with the various media outlets available. Seldom do people leave their homes to attend social events, and schooling and work is almost all virtualized. Using technology to neurologically stimulate sexual receptors in the mind, sex is sold over the yintenetto in massive proportions. Even intimate activities like dating or spending time with family are done through virtual means and real life encounters are often very special and remarkable.
The structure of the city of Rodaycia is a testament to experimental city buildings. What typically happens to human cities is that over time, garbage accumulates and new structures are built on top of the garbage. The city expands outwards as it also grows upwards, on top of the mounds created by abandoned structures and filth. The City of Rodaycia, however, cannot afford to follow this trend because of the dangerous forest that surrounds it. Getting closer to the top of the wall would make it easier for the wildlife to get in. So as a result, the government of Rodaycia had ordered to build down. However, this was not just a phenomenon of city growth; the population of the city grew dangerously high, and to allieviate this problem a whole new district had to be developed to house the massive amounts of impovershed.
The Underground of Rodaycia is called the 'Kuyunderin District', although it is probably as big as the city above ground. Carved from the labors of debtors, political prisoners and captured criminals, carving the underground served two purposes; to create new space for the city to grow and to acquire new material for the city to use. A massive amount of dirt from under the city was moved to replace the over-used soil which grew crops and both metal and stone were found which aided in creating supports for the new district, as well as for construction on the surface.
Population of the lower levels were comprised of the impoverished; those who were indebted or criminals, forced to work underground, were followed by their families who formed society and began building underground. The worst elements of the surface were shoved underground and phenomenally, when the work overseers became obsolete to handle such a large operation, work continued out of obligation. The laborers dug not to fulfill their debt to society, but to create a new one of their own.
The Jayasrivi District is the largest district in Rodaycia, comprising about ninety-eight percent of the entire population on the surface. It is the main residential area for the city as well as the marketplace. Almost all business happens in the Jayasrivi District, whether it be maintenance, manufacturing, entertainment or otherwise. There are several enterprises which maintain the economy of Rodaycia;
Vadivibha cluster - Service sector, high-density residential area Luminphi cluster - Manufacturer sector, very impoverished facilities Sintaki cluster - Mix between service and manufacturer, mid-range quality Yukakau cluster - Red-light district, high concentration of drug dens, brothels and bars Hoknoh Phra cluster - Residential area, extremely impoverished, surrounds the quarry Buphra cluster - Residential area, very wealthy, near center, small service sector to accommodate the rich Manas Chai cluster - High quality manufacturing center, gated and guarded; medicine production is a high priority Thawongsuwintha cluster - Low to high quality market area, extremely dense economic activity Sawathama cluster - Extremely impoverished area that comprises of the quarry, and entry way to the Kuyunderin District
There are two sister cities quite close to Rodaycia, who share many of the same customs and originate from the same area:
Heho
Heho is an administrative web, full of corporations and political embassies that regulate them. The city is well organized and has gated districts that keep the poor from the rich very clearly. Since social events are extremely important to the political cronyism, drug dens, bars and clubs are saturated to the point that the red light districts are as important as more economic sectors of the city.
Control of Heho is central on the society that’s built around an iron triangle composed of the workers Union, the Guard and the foremost Bureaucrats. Since the Bureaucrats control the regulations, they also control the political power. When they are contested by the unions, they utilize the military to make their doctrines so. Because the workers are unarmed and they have a general presence of political power, taking down the system that oppresses them is not worth the effort. On top of that, the general population is typically too sedated and lethargic to revolutionize and the danger from Sue Pha discourages dissent.
The daily life in Heho is filled with breaking the regulations built to keep the country from collapsing. Dealing with memos on how things are done and exploiting loopholes, finding policies that police don’t enforce strictly and then exploiting them, etc. Drugs, sex and trouble making are staple activities in Heho, especially since the social structure is determinate to the quality of life one seems to have. The whole idea of knowing a person is exaggerated to the point where the impoverished are typically the unknown, enforcing the dogma that social interaction is virtually the best key to survival.
Karrenkaya
Karrenkaya is essentially a warzone of a city. There are no walls that protect it from the outside and therefore freely allow all sorts of dangerous fauna to infest it. Several temporary military bases dot the city and spheres of influence constantly shift between the warring factions that inhabit the city. Control of the roads are crucial to moving armored regiments around, and the tops of towers are dotted with snipers and machine gunners. The essential danger of the city itself drives an economy based on taking control of the city, and any civilians stuck inside of it are often pawns to the competing forces.
The multiple military juntas in Karrenkaya legitimize its authority from raw, brute power. By indoctrinating the youth into a warzone and then forcing them into traumatic events, they forge a population of blood thirsty murderers. In terms of political standing, the city is infamous for forming coalitions when a foreign power attempts to dominate the city.
The daily struggle of the citizens of Karrenkaya are full of entropic, traumatic events. Typically sleeping is done in shifts, as to be on guard from attacks at all moments from other factions within the city. Scavenging food and water is a primary activity, as is acquiring the resource from enemy factions or neutral supply cars coming through the city. Maintaining weapons and armed fighting is a daily occurrence, as well as the creation of homemade narcotics.
The social divisions in Karrenkaya are bound by the military hierarchy of each faction. Generally, higher rank indicates a greater ability to command and promote morale in troops because of the meritocracy associated with their social structure. If you boiled it down, there are grunts, specialists and officers. Grunts are fodder, specialists are skilled soldiers who get things done and officers are the ones who give the orders to get things done. Each of these branches have their own social cues and implications.
Also, as a bonus, from my Conglomerate sheet here is some info that is relevant to this RP (as that sheet is full-fledge set for like, multiple star systems)
Synthetic Memories
Corporations in the Conglomerate have developed technologies that can manufacture, stockpile and implant artificial memories. This is done through a neural implant popularly known as a memplant. Synthetic Memories are tailored to act like normal memories, but depending on the price, the quality of the memory may be much greater or less. Additionally, the type of memory that is invoked can be customized from topographic, flashbulb, declarative and procedural. Retrieval of the memory is inherently based on the price; if the implant is poor, then the memplant is hard to access and vague, if the implant is of high-quality than it can be eidetic.
The process of implanting synthetic memories begins with planning what sort of memory the client wants; there are pre-packaged memories to pick from which range from combat training to lectures, to sexual experiences and childhood. Customizing memories always costs more because the memories have to be constructed from scratch or from another pre-made memory. After the memory is designed, it is implanted by surgical procedure and the client undergoes a deep sleep.
Moneta
Moneta was originally developed to improve wakefulness for people with sleep disorders, and has piqued the interest of many laboratories who were involved in neuropharmacology. It is a heavy nootropic that has the same effect as having a major coffee hit without any caffeine jitters; its users work for longer than usual and are often surprised at the time that has passed by. It increases energy levels, alertness, allows people to stay focused for long periods of time and can activate parts of the brain that control motivation.
Moneta, or its chemical name, Mnemosynetam, causes stimulations in acetylcholine receptors in the user's synapses which causes the speed of thought to be throttled, extensively improves logical analysis and the basic ability to learn and remember. It also increases the communication between the two hemispheres of the brain in a way which leads to a more "creative" ability to solve problems. It also serves on a social level, allowing the user to become more confident, improve their verbal fluency and depresses anxiety levels.
When taking Moneta, the user has a definite feeling that an artificial substance is affecting them. There are reports of headaches, vomiting, extreme aggression, anxiety depression and uneven heartbeats for subjects that aren't on a controlled diet and sleep schedule. The magic of Moneta is that when it's used in the right conditions, the brain and muscle memory is retained long after the drug dissipates from the body. While they don't necessarily learn the same way nor have the same reactions as if they were on the drug, they do not return to their normal state of being until several years have passed.
Lowkey @Atrophy between Moneta and Synthony. . .Also I have created a bunch of Sci Fi drugs here: war-among-the-stars.wikia.com/wiki/Ca… which apparently I need to copy and paste a bunch of stuff out of there before it gets deleted
Also, I found an old profile for Kandy I wrote like 5 years ago. She is a little bit different in this RP, I like to think of her as older with modifications that helped her sensory wise-- plus this old RP was taking place in Star Wars territory: roleplayerguild.com/topics/21203-star…
Hope this OOC post was JAM PACKED with interesting stuff :^)
Yo, in order to reduce the need to skim through Discord, I compiled all currently known facts about Ichor. If you want, you could add this to the OP or link to it @Flagg. This way we have some resources for concepts we worked out over time, and can expand as we discuss more things in the future.
As a side-note, I added some miscellaneous notes to my "character sheet" to provide some information I wasn't able to place anywhere else. Said section may or may not receive additional stuff in the future, should the need arise.
In its natural state, Ichor is an viscous, oily black liquid, found in deposits above and below the surface, though likely originating from the depths of the planet. Pools of it can occasionally be found in the wilderness and are usually associated with the presence of mutants. The city of Terminus Est is located above the largest currently known deposit and has become the primary producer of the stuff.
It is a highly dangerous substance as the fumes it gives off act as a deliriant that can potentially render a man permanently and violently insane. Worse still is its effect on unprotected skin: organic matter touching it can be subjected to chaotic and disturbing mutations almost immediately. A plausible theory posits that the mutants which plague the wastelands are all originally men or beasts that became exposed to Ichor and have changed into their present shape. Because of its properties, harvesting Ichor is best left to professionals or labor corps with plenty of cheap bodies to spare (likely the case in Terminus Est).
Psionics, or magic - however one might want to refer to the ability to locally break the laws of nature - is a supernatural ability that becomes latent in creatures that have been exposed to Ichor directly or indirectly. Indeed, simply being born in an area that has a lot of ambient Ichor bears a small chance that the child will be gifted. More direct exposure will only increase these powers. This also means that every mutant is not only a horrifying amalgam of body parts, but also a magical monstrosity capable of warping reality to a degree. Vice-versa, though this is not always admitted, it means that every mage is technically a mutant. The line is thinner than most realize.
A process exists by which liquid Ichor can be refined and hardened - perhaps baked - into a solid, crystalline state. Crystallized Ichor is less potent than in its liquid form, but retains the basic properties still. Generally speaking, crystalline Ichor is much safer to handle and has become the de facto way to distribute it for use. Mystics in particular enjoy consuming crystallized Ichor in various ways to amplify their sorcerous and unnatural powers, but it can also be used in the creation of Ichor-infused metal alloys or even the construction of unspeakable machinery, such as Black Pillars.
A final property inherent to Ichor that bears mentioning is that it is completely immune to the Rot. This makes it the only known material on the entire planet that is not disintegrated and consumed by the apocalyptic catastrophe that is devouring the earth. The two forces seemingly cancel each other out, with the Rot being unable to devour Ichor, and with Ichor being unable to manifest any of its magical phenomena near the Rot. Speculations on the reasons for any of this run the gamut, but none of them could claim to be founded on any true science as neither the Rot, nor Ichor is understood on even a fundamental level. These are things not meant for mortal minds to know...
