"You are but a s̔̽p͉̙ͯ̉͌ē̺͔̙͍͆̅ͅc̓̂ͥ̇͏ķ͓̲̝͒̾ͦ.̶̥ An infinitesimal waste of cosmic dust pressed into a humanoid figure and given breath, e͈̯̫̱̯̼ͤ͆x̛̝̗͕̖̞̙ͬͨ̓̅͌ṗ̘̲͑ͥẹ̟͍͈̗͛͢l̊͗̅͂͏l̓̋ͤ̉ͭ҉e̥͙̙̟̲d͙̈̊̈́̃ͩͥ into a world you cannot begin to fathom, and left to toil until your fleshy shell decays into the dust from which you came...
Yet even the most insignificant of spanners can stop the works of a w͍̲ͬ̋̉̇e̷̟̖̦̳̣̓̈̍l҉̻͈̲͈͓̯l̳͑ͩ̉͂͆̿͌-̩̰͖ͦ̈̍o̵̟̫̱̘̳íͮ̈̏ͤ́̈҉͇l̥̜̮̽̅ͪͥ̓ē̢͊ḍ͍̭̤̈́̔͒́̈̍ ̙̜͈̬̺̫ͯ̿̒ṃ̵͓̳̮̪̘̇͗ͦ̚ͅa̗̼͇̫͉ͥ́ċͩ̾̐̕h͑ͫi͉̫̻̾̄ͥn͕̬̘̭̯̹̊̀̾̌͘e̘̺̜̜̲ͨ̉̅̄ͭ͜.͔͕͈̗̣̺̉"
~I0-N4, 159th termination cycleNo one on Station C-9 truly knows who they are, let alone why they inhabit the unsettling pristine white corridors of their home. Perhaps they float through the cosmos on a collision course with the sun or even on the surface of a lush jungle planet uninhabitable by humans, yet no amount of external horrors could possibly hope to dissuade them from one unified goal:
escape. It did not take the strongest of thinkers to realize that being trapped inside a sealed research station with only a half-dozen living creatures still clinging to their sanity and an exponentially-growing number of soulless husks is the fast track to a messy, horrific end.
Death, however, does not qualify as escape.
It lurks, and
it controls the quick-cloning process in the station; at best, they might find a way to overpower the machine just to have a chance to die without waking up in a puddle of gore in a maintenance closet, body warped and mind full of memories belonging to their past selves.
This is not a story of the triumph of the human spirit.
This is not a story of the evils of automation.
This is not a story of the good of man.
This is a story of hatred and survival.
_________________________________________
What is this story about?Simple: You are a survivor. Roughly a half-dozen humans are trapped in a complex of uncertain make and locale in the distant future where technology is king and the woes of the past have been replaced with a much more pressing and terrifying reality. Fresh out of a brain scrubber, your crew must determine where they are and why they are trapped in the complex before deciding exactly how they are to survive in the long term. In the short term, they fear death only for the fact that their bodies will be replaced with new ones, with different strengths, weaknesses, and potential mutations. At first, you will likely want to carefully peruse the station and continue whatever jobs have been assigned to you, but as time wears on...
Beyond that, the plot is not set in stone. Overcoming the overseer of the complex will not be a straightforward task and there are many paths to stumble down. Perhaps the story will delve into the tenacity of the human spirit, the confusing matches made during a crisis, or even the horrors of mortals pushed to the point of performing unthinkable acts to secure their future.
That, of course, is up to you.
_________________________________________
Rules and Guidelines
- Dyssomnia will be my co-GM for this roleplay. Assume all communication from my co-GM to be just as important and accurate as anything I would tell you.
- Character slots are fairly limited. Unless a lot of very interesting people come pouring in, expect no more than five characters at any one time.
- There are no character sheets, per se. Each character will be randomly generated by the AI at the time of their rebirth, based on parameters you suggest; all you have hard and fast control over is their gender, for convenience's sake. The exact details of a generated body are up to you, aside from what the machines have assigned to it.
- After a character death, your character retains all their memories but may not be able to act on those memories - lacking a current understanding of rocket science makes building a rocket from memory an extremely unlikely occurrence.
- Posting format will be third-person novel-style by default. This might change if the AI requests it. ("I0-N4 is only accepting queries in the format of a 1980s text parser from an adventure game," for example.)
- There will be stretches of character isolation in which posts flip between your character and the GM (hey, that's me!) not unlike your own personal Choose Your Own Adventure book. This will be handy should other players be slow to post, but isolation will not make up the bulk of the roleplay without some very bizarre decisions.
- All OOC queries of the AI will be answered as if the AI were actually responding, and thus might make little sense or be full of misinformation. Inquire at your own risk.
- Be willing to die. Death will not be uncommon. This is a horror story and your character will come back shortly, so don't worry about being ejected from a roleplay due to death without due cause.
- If a story element unsettles you on a personal level, please let me know via PMs and I will do my best to avoid offending you in such a way in the future.
- Play your randomly-generated body to the best of your ability and don't be afraid to embellish beyond the basics given to you. Describe appearance, quirks, and mannerisms to your heart's content.
- This list is subject to change.
_________________________________________
How do I join?Joining is as simple as making a post asking if all slots are full -- chances are, they won't be immediately -- and if given the go-ahead, you will be asked to provide an extremely small blurb on what you would like your character to be, in terms of gender and a vague snippet of history, background, or skill along with a suggestion on a starting point. If you wish for gender and other assets to be fully randomized, simply denote such in your request. For example...
Example said
I would like to play a female survivor who has undergone extreme personal trauma and is talented in the sciences. Ideally, I would like to begin somewhere befitting her career.
That's extremely basic, of course. Feel free to go a little outside of the box on character requests, although they will surely not be met with 100% accuracy. Anything from maintenance skill, tinkering habits, a dangerous lack of self-preservation, an extensive criminal record, or even something as crippling as an extreme phobia of automatons are all interesting hooks that are more than acceptable for the basic character premise.
After you have been given your tiny chunk, write about your character! They will be given an official designation (DMW-001, perhaps. This does not at all stand for Dead Man Walking) but you are free to let them choose their own name and write about their description to your heart's content. Anything else is up to you, such as habits, quirks, likes, and so on; the only thing you will
not be able to write about initially is your character's backstory. That must be discovered first!
_________________________________________
Current Characters
Most of the information contained within is fairly self-explanatory, but there are two sections with numbers and vague allusions to a character's BIOMETRICS and SKILL-SPEC. Put simply, this is a basic idea of your character's strengths, weaknesses, and skills.
For Biometrics, attributes rank and are defined as follows:
LOW (1): Weak, sickly, unathletic, or simply a little slow. On the grand scale of human average, Low is unimpressive but not disabling, simply a moderate disadvantage.
AVERAGE-LOW (2): Baseline human average. The expected level of performance for a standard unmodified human in all aspects of life.
AVERAGE-HIGH (3): Human average developed to its near-peak. Born without special attributes, but the character has either been gifted with or trained to a level of competence above human average without becoming truly mold-breaking.
HIGH (4): Born with a gift and honed to a fine point, humans with a 4-rank attribute are far and above the human average, not unlike a great athlete or thinker of the Pre-Station era.
PARAGON (5): Nigh-impossible to attain. A human born a Paragon is the literal embodiment of perfection in their appropriate field and might be matched one in a billion times but never outdone. Capable of truly impressive and outlandish feats within the realms and rules of reality.
For Skill-Spec, skills are ranked and explained as such:
UNTRAINED - UNSKILLED: The character is truly and wholly clueless in this field. They literally do not know this is a possible field to study and it is extremely rare to reach adulthood with a skill of this level.
UNTRAINED - LOW COMPETENCE: Basic human competence. Casual knowledge of any particular skill but never truly tested or trained in any particular manner.
UNTRAINED - MEDIUM COMPETENCE: A hobbyist, enthusiast, or other non-professional. Knows their way around a skill or career, but not the finer points.
UNTRAINED - HIGH COMPETENCE: The hobbyist turned near-professional. Those who have reached this level without proper training are either extremely well-versed, prodigies, or simply have a knack. It is entirely possible for a high competence hobbyist to match professionals in certain portions of their field, but it is rare to have 100% synchronous knowledge between the two.
TRAINED - UNSKILLED: Professionally trained in a field but never put to the test. Security members straight out of Mem-Academy, for example. Lots of hypothetical knowledge but little actual experience.
TRAINED - SKILLED: A true professional in their field, with full training and plenty of experience.
PARAGON: Unsurpassed knowledge in their field, either natural or otherwise. MacGuyver would be envious of their ability to produce results from the aether.
For now, pending future review, EXPUNGED is your ace in the hole. Your one trick up your sleeve, so to say. To help avoid a messy death, you are allowed to state one of two things:
1) Your EXPUNGED skill rank can replace a skill of lower rank, or;
2) Your EXPUNGED skill is an extremely specific skill of the listed level for the sake of a momentary flash of brilliance.
Of course, this is all for flavor, but you might be trapped in a situation where you desperately need to be able to use knowledge of computer science to break open a locked door. Simply state or act an appropriate excuse (hidden character depths, an epiphany, a secret training folder hidden in their datapad) and play on! Examples of extremely specific skills to replace might be HOVERCRAFT MECHANICS, ANTI-ROBOTIC TACTICS, or even SKULLDUGGERY. It's all up to you within the realm of sanity and reality.
IMPORTANT: EXPUNGED is permanent. Outside of extremely rare and limited circumstances, EXPUNGED is a one-shot change given to you with each and every clone. Do not be afraid to use your EXPUNGED skill, but do not waste it!
System Online
Welcome back, AM-5!
The green light at the top-center of the screen lit up just as the greeting faded, leaving the digitalized reflection of its recipient and her surroundings in its wake. Fitted overalls of a worn green shade could be seen in a bundle at the foot of her bed, as well as her brown work boots, gloves, and the belt that her smaller tools called home. The rest of the room was relatively neat, void of any visible personal items.
Directly in front of the camera was the owner herself, standing at her height of 5'6" in a plain white cotton shirt and grey pajama pants. There were a few beats of silence, during which the fair skinned female lowered herself into the swivel chair while gathering the damp strands of her shaggy, dark copper hair into a loose bun on her head. Her expression was somewhat melancholy as she leaned forward onto the desk with her elbows and ran her hands down her face. "I wish you would just call me Amelie," she quietly grumbled into them when they paused around her mouth and nose, leaving her round hazel eyes free to stare at herself in the recording.
Immediately her gaze went to her slender forearms, where it lingered for a minute or two before it drifted upwards towards the ceiling, accompanied by a long exhale of breath. Her hands finally fell from her face, and when she spoke again, her Welsh accent was unmistakable. "They asked me again today." She was chewing on her lower lip, her expression suggesting that she was reliving the memory. "…I still couldn't do it," she said, shaking her head slightly in disappointment. "I couldn't even get my legs into the damned space. Gerard keeps telling me it's alright and that he doesn't mind it at all, but… He's way bigger than I am."
Whether she was aware of it or not, the fingertips of her right hand were trailing along her left forearm, where there were pink lines running down its length, as if she had been scratching at the skin earlier that day. "I just hate that I can't even do my job properly. Someone else has to do it for me." It was childish, really. Who else in the station would have been afraid to slide into a harmless vent?
And suddenly, she blurted out: "I mean, I'm twenty-three years old. You'd think I'd have gotten over it by now!"
Blinking, surprised at the sudden outburst, Amelie looked back at herself on the screen. The corners of her mouth had turned downwards into a frown, which only deepened when she glanced down to see that she had dug her nails into her arm again. She removed them to find a pinprick's amount of blood bubbling up. The mechanic stared at the clot for a moment, willing her frustration to cool down; yelling at the computer screen wasn't going to help her slide into the stupid vent.
Clearing her throat, as if announcing the change in subject, she continued in a collected, yet casual manner. "The real problem is, why do the panels keep getting loose down there?" A short, breathy chuckle escaped her as she reached for the roll of bandages that stood guard at the corner of the desk. Even though there wasn't much bleeding, she would've hated to get it on her white bed sheets.
"In other news…" She ripped the bandage with her teeth and replaced it back in its corner before finally addressing the camera head on, one hand reaching up to her face to scratch the side of her nose. "I beat Maybel in darts for the fifth time this week," she continued, shrugging her shoulders. "That's pretty much it." There was another silent pause, before she nodded her head, repeated, "That's pretty much it," and proceeded to press the End button.
Welcome back, I0-N4! I see you're accessing crew records for Designate ID: AM-5.
It has been 3 days since this record was last accessed. AM-5 has been regenerated XX times.
Please input GAMMA clearance access code. This information is Restricted: Personnel file. DNR, MCH
Security code accepted. Code overwritten: DNR. New code: ROD.
AM-5
PULM_WORK: 0
set.Pulm_Rev_Complete "1";
TARGET: AM-5;
ARE YOU SURE? Y
ERROR: Header file ("Specifics") not found; manual entry required
Current Status: ALIVE, FRESHLY REVIVED
Current Locale: MEDBAY
Gender FEMALE
Nationality: MISSING_REF
Height: AVERAGE (BELOW 5'10")
Body Type: AVERAGE
Body Age/Wear: EQUIVALENT TO HUMAN, AGED: 22-28
Hair: RED
Eyes: HAZEL
BIOMETRICS
Strength: LOW (1)
Agility: AVERAGE-HIGH (3)
Health: AVERAGE-LOW (2)
Mind: HIGH (4)
SKILL-SPEC
Comp-Sci: UNTRAINED - MEDIUM COMPETENCE
Mechanics: TRAINED - SKILLED
Med/First Aid: UNTRAINED - HIGH COMPETENCE
Security: UNTRAINED - LOW COMPETENCE
Survival: UNTRAINED - LOW COMPETENCE
[EXPUNGED]: UNTRAINED - MEDIUM COMPETENCE
UP
KICKSTART: AM-5 is equipped with a military-spec nano-reboot system; Should she fall prey to mortal death but be removed from danger, specialized nanites are capable of repairing and restarting her body ONE time before burning up and becoming useless.
CLEARANCE: AM-5 is a BETA clearance station employee under the MECHANUS division.
DOWN
LOW CONTROL TALENT: AM-5 showed remarkable lack of skill in close quarter confrontations compared to other employees in the same field. Ranged talents unaffected.
PHOBIA: AM-5 has shown an extreme reaction to SMALL, ENCLOSED SPACES. Doses of MED-2 (ALIAS: Psych) controls symptoms of panic but has been largely ineffective in long-term treatment. REASON: [EXPUNGED RECORD]
"Did Jim send you?"
The room is swathed in darkness; there is the discernible stench of smoke and traces of human filth. The shape huddled in a chair in the far corner taps a booted foot against the dirty ground. Tap, taptap, tap, tap. Sometime later he rises - you estimate a height of about 5'10" - and stretches, arms unfurling outward in a theatrical, catlike manner. The body is thin, but wiry with muscle; red-rimmed brown eyes swivel suspiciously in your direction - they are the unremarkable shade of mud, graced with a manic gleam, bloodshot. A bony hand palms his shaved head, fingertips tracing listlessly the swirls of blue tattoos running about the skin of his skull. "Jim sent you didn't he?" He repeats; the voice is gruff, throaty and surprisingly baritone. He pauses; a pointed chin inclines briefly to the left. "What did you mean you didn't send no one?" Silence. One second, two seconds, three. "I told you I already took care of him. He ain't gonna be a problem no more."
The eyes return to you.
"Don't worry 'bout Jim, he's an asshole. Likes to play games." He extends a hand. "You can call me - " He pauses, glares daggers at you; sucks a mouthful of saliva and spits loudly to the side. "No, not PR-451. What the hell is that, anyway? No, no. I'm Craig. That's my name." The accent - American. Craig scratches the hollow of his right cheek, skin stretched tautly over high, pronounced cheekbones. He keeps a lingering gaze on you - a hawkish, wary stare. You take his hand and shake - his grip is firm and his fingers close on yours with unrelenting force, like a vice. You pull away abruptly once those grimy nails start to really dig in. He reads your expression and grins up at you, a hoarse chuckle against the back of his throat. "You're real twitchy, aren't ya?" A rat scuttles into the room's bare glow, then slinks back into the dark.
"There's one thing I'm gonna tell you, so listen close. Real close." He hisses. "Don't trust 'em. Don't trust me." He hacks a laugh, wheezes. "I got thirty years experience in the lyin' department. You?"
You start to back away, toward the exit. The light flickers and you see the rest of the tattoos spanning his body; numbers, pictures. A death's head, hellfire, a series of lines which looked like they'd been scratched in with a blade. Old scars, raised ridges of damaged flesh. A hand raises and performs a mocking little wave; you see a bracelet dangling, light sparking off its precious stones. An urge arises to question him of its origins, but you decide it is better not to. The hand lowers; the fingers pluck insouciantly at a tarnished silver earring. The cold eyes continue to trail you keenly, and for a moment you think you catch a glimpse of weakness, the minutest smidgen of self-doubt. But then it is gone, and the strange man begins to hum a lilting tune, a mangled variation of 'The Itsy Bitsy Spider'. His foot has resumed its tapping.
As the door slams shut, the last ring of his voice bursts through. "Aw, leavin' so soon? Well, Jim says bye."
Welcome back, I0-N4! I see you're accessing crew records for Designate ID: PR-451.
It has been 3 days since this record was last accessed. PR-451 has been regenerated XX times.
Please input DELTA clearance access code. This information is Restricted: Ex-personnel file. DNR, PR
Security code accepted. Code overwritten: DNR. New code: ROD.
PR-451
PULM_WORK: 0
set.Pulm_Rev_Complete "1";
TARGET: PR-451;
ARE YOU SURE? Y
ERROR: Header file ("Specifics") not found; manual entry required
Current Status: ALIVE, FRESHLY REVIVED
Current Location: ISL-45
Gender: MALE
Nationality: MISSING_REF
Height: AVERAGE (BELOW 6'0")
Body Type: THIN
Body Age/Wear: EQUIVALENT TO HUMAN, AGED: 26-36
Hair: NO
Eyes: BROWN
BIOMETRICS
Strength: AVERAGE-HIGH (3)
Agility: AVERAGE-HIGH (3)
Health: AVERAGE-LOW (2)
Mind: AVERAGE-LOW (2)
SKILL-SPEC
Comp-Sci: UNTRAINED - HIGH COMPETENCE
Mechanics: UNTRAINED - MEDIUM COMPETENCE
Med/First Aid: UNTRAINED - LOW COMPETENCE
Security: UNTRAINED - LOW COMPETENCE
Survival: UNTRAINED - MEDIUM COMPETENCE
[EXPUNGED]: TRAINED - SKILLED
UP
WINDFALL: PR-451 has been granted clearance to sector ISL-45.
Owner of ISL-45 set to PR-451.
SecurityBot.Cover=0;
SectorISL45.Priv=1;
BODY UP: Preliminary medical reports show PR-451's new body is abnormally resistant to harmful chemicals.
DOWN
UNTRUSTED: Initial SecurityBot disposition LOW.
ADDICT: PR-451 requires ONE dose MED-3 (Alias Temperdown) every THREE days; REASON: Min. onset paranoid schizophrenia; treatable, non-interfering, non-threatening
The man lie low in his room. His notebook was torn apart by it's own creator. It withered away because it's own god destroyed it with his overwhelming and terrifying creativity. The man dug up dirt from his nails, and flicked them off to the corner of the room. A strange creature buzzed around and bumped into the lightbulb. Light flickered like fire, danced like snakes. The what seemed to be a mechanic fly fell down, and it's noises died off.
The mind crippling work poured into the lifeform which was no bigger than a candy died off as quick as it was given birth. The giant, huddled before the strange machine with it's lights flickering from blue to orange, stroked his shabby, brown hair. Beep. He felt a little uncomfortable, edged a little closer. A small glance at his pinky made him turn back in an instant. "An accident?" He spoke to himself, but adressed to the machine recording him. "No, haha. This is the jokes of my fellows over there back at security division. Especially that brute, Maxim." He spoke in a funny eastern european accent, his swollen, tired eyes pacing around the room. "They didn't throw this mess on the floor on accident, that is because they mock me."
"But I refused to clean it, said they should help me out instead of playing this stupid game, and in response.." he needed not to explain the aftermath, just looked at his bandaged finger. A ragged sigh scattered across the dimly lit room. He stared at a strange contraption of sorts that he kept innovating. He started creating the strange thing some time ago, mostly out of boredoom. The only thing he was conversing with was this stupid, recording machine. And he needed a friend, oh how he wanted someone to help him out. His whole life was working, sleeping, eating, and being picked on. He slowly felt the meaning of life fade away from him. It was slowly turning him paranoid, depressed. But he found his hyperactivity when it came to making the strange contraption. He felt he was making a friend. The rational thoughts left him after he finished working, all he would do is create and create and create. It was his small world he loved with all his heart. And for as he felt like a king, he began to question the reality.
He began thinking.
Welcome back, I0-N4! I see you're accessing crew records for Designate ID: TRT-377
It has been 2 days since this record was last accessed. TRT-377 has been regenerated XX times.
Please input GAMMA clearance access code. This information is Restricted: Personnel file. DNR, SEC
Security code accepted. Code overwritten: DNR. New code: ROD.
TRT-377
PULM_WORK: 0
set.Pulm_Rev_Complete "1";
TARGET: TRT-377;
ARE YOU SURE? Y
ERROR: Header file ("Specifics") not found; manual entry required
Current Status: ALIVE, FRESHLY REVIVED
Current Locale: MECHANUS SERVICE BAY
Gender MALE
Nationality: MISSING_REF
Height: EXTREME (ABOVE 6'5")
Body Type: AVERAGE
Body Age/Wear: EQUIVALENT TO HUMAN, AGED: 20-26
Hair: BROWN
Eyes: GREEN
BIOMETRICS
Strength: AVERAGE-HIGH (3)
Agility: LOW (1)
Health: AVERAGE-LOW (2)
Mind: AVERAGE-LOW (2)
SKILL-SPEC
Comp-Sci: UNTRAINED - LOW COMPETENCE
Mechanics: UNTRAINED - MEDIUM COMPETENCE
Med/First Aid: UNTRAINED - LOW COMPETENCE
Security: UNTRAINED - HIGH COMPETENCE
Survival: UNTRAINED - LOW COMPETENCE
[EXPUNGED]: UNTRAINED - MEDIUM COMPETENCE
UP
POWER PLAYER: TRT-377 is a full-fledged member of the SECURITY division. TRT-377 is able to access BETA clearance security lockers and retrieve ONE set of appropriate gear: OMNIFLEX ANTI-RIOT ARMOR and STUNRODS. Tech-pad allows access to EMERGENCY broadcasting channel and SECURITY BREACH ALERT channel.
CLEARANCE: TRT-377 is a BETA clearance station employee under the SECURITY division.
DOWN
RESOLVE: TRT-377's neurolinks have shown him to be potentially unreliable in the face of extreme peril. Recommended security clearance review and possible SECURITY status revocation pending performance.
NON-DANGER SAVVY: TRT-377's mental state often leads to the misconception of ongoing events, ranging from misreading simple social cues to a complete lack of awareness about impending states of danger. SECURITY assignment questionable.
ADDENDUM, Cloning Overseer I-113: TRT-377's biometrics barely passed acceptable levels for SECURITY access. Cloning tank sixteen has been scrubbed and re-primed to avoid future pairings of SECURITY clearance and his preliminary performance issue potential.
Another day in paradise.
X-1's eyes opened. Taking a moment to acclimate to the sudden illumination of her living quarters, she blinked again. It was either the bright fluorescents or the pure ridiculousness of her cynical thoughts that had pulled her from sleep.
Paradise. This place is too dismal to compare to paradise even in my ever growing cynicism.
X-1 stood up, her black hair disheveled, falling to her shoulders, and turned to face the door of her quarters. The person she saw standing there caught her attention. Blue eyes locked onto blue eyes as she was once again startled by the individual she found in front of her. It was all strangely foreign to her. As if she expected to see someone else standing there in her own reflection.
She gave her body a once-over in another effort to force herself to fully assimilate this form as her own. Her defined figure, muscular and toned, added a certain strength to her demeanor while at the same time not taking away from her femininity -- a balance rarely found. Augmenting her strength, although maybe not her beauty, was her robotic arm and leg. Each of which were made to fully replicate their organic counterparts with the exception of being constructed of a metal alloy exterior. An exterior that only broke at the various joints allowing but a glimpse into it's advance robotic interior of electronics, hydraulics, and mechanics.
Her face was just beginning to show signs of aging as her body moved out of its prime and into its more mature years, and her complexion bore a sickly, pale shade slight enough to not cause alarm while at the same time evident enough to, upon inspection, beget mild anxiety. X-1's health was not as it should be.
She coughed and coughed again breaking out into a fit of uncontrollable sputtering. As quickly as it came it subsided and looking down she knew the outbreak's genesis. Her hand was coated in wet crimson.
Damn. I forget to take my STABILIZER.
With all the perks that came from being outfitted with robotic limbs there came a downside as well. It was simple checks and balances. An unforgiving natural law that the universe never allows its occupants to violate. In full compliance with this, there is only one thing that prevents her body from rejecting it's new appendages, the C-9 provided medication, STABALIZER designation XM-1.
X-1 took the XM-1 she had placed on the table the night before, quickly throwing it back and swallowing it.
Damn this place. Damn their medications. Damn their clones, their machines, their jobs. Damn it all.
There was something wrong about C-9. Whatever and where ever it was. This base that they had all been forced to call home. It doesn't sit well with any of its inhabitants, and it doesn't sit well with X-1.
She didn't care so much for her own designation. She was human, of that she was certain, and assuming that this certainty of hers' wasn't unfounded - which was an assumption she had taken the liberty of adopting if only for the sake of her sanity - then a human should not be given a serial number. That is all these designation were to her -- serial numbers not unlike the one found imprinted on the blue and white pills that hold her together.
So she decided, several incarnations ago, to adopt a self-proclaimed name. It would have to be a fitting name. No matter what body she found herself inhabiting it would persist. Whether man or woman. Old or young. Fit or dying. The name would stick. It would stick to this incarnation and it would stick to the next.
The name X-1 had chosen was Artemis. It was the name of someone who will one day leave this dismal hell called C-9.
Welcome back, I0-N4! I see you're accessing crew records for Designate ID: X-1.
It has been ∞ days since this record was last accessed. X-1 has been regenerated ∞ times.
Please input ZETA clearance access code. This information is BLACK SECTOR: ????? DNR, ???
Security code accepted. Code overwritten: DNR. New code: ROD.
X-1
PULM_WORK: 0
set.Pulm_Rev_Complete "1";
TARGET: X-1;
ARE YOU SURE? Y
ARE YOU SURE? Y
ARE YOU SURE? Y
BLACK SECTOR PROTOCOL BREAK
PLEASE SEEK OVERSEER FOR ORDERS
ERROR: Header file ("Specifics") not found; manual entry required
Current Status: ∞, FRESHLY REVIVED
Current Locale: MAINTENANCE STORAGE: RESEARCH LABS
Gender FE∞MALE
Nationality: NULL
Height: AVERAGE/HIGH (AB∞OVE 5'8", BELOW 6')
Body Type: WELL-BUILT
Body Age/Wear: EQUIVALENT TO H∞UMAN, AGED: 32-40
Hair: BLAC∞K - SOME/DAMAGED
Eyes: BLUE
PURGE_BUFFER
BIOMETRICS
Strength: HIGH (4)
Agility: AVERAGE-LOW (2)
Health: LOW (1)
Mind: HIGH (4)
SKILL-SPEC
Comp-Sci: TRAINED - UNSKILLED
Mechanics: UNTRAINED - MEDIUM COMPETENCE
Med/First Aid: UNTRAINED - LOW COMPETENCE
Security: TRAINED - UNSKILLED
Survival: UNTRAINED - MEDIUM COMPETENCE
[EXPUNGED]: UNTRAINED - HIGH COMPETENCE
UP
ALTERED: ‡µÑ?H¤¨ s ‡àouw ²Î‘ \8ݱ“µtbš‹ô4±öSÃ??????{q$ÊP¬a #C“œƒé¶{Au5§2Bp…•yŠqñÀùÑìàKk~`|'bIØuÖªøù¸fŠ-!ÿ õä???•D§¾{˜SØÉ5À’[£ #RFûzSÆ1-ËJ¨‘ð0‹°??????????????????????????????????
EXPERIMENT: X-1 is equipped with the following CHORON MIL-SPEC limb/organ replacements: ARM - LEFT, LEG - LEFT, HEART. These replacements ARE obvious to casual view. Exception: HEART.
CLEARANCE: X-1 is cleared to purchase STABILIZER from any WAYSEC machines on C-9.
DOWN
ADDICTION: X-1 requires ONE dose of STABILIZER (ALIAS: XM-1) daily. Failure to comply might result in TISSUE/IMPLANT REJECTION.
NEVER ALONE: Be wary, X-1.
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Other Information
Header image by DeviantART artist Bukarus.
Paranoia
System Shock 2
Deus Ex
Dead Space
I, Robot
I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream
