Circ

Xenopunk Dysphoria: Tech, Slime & Bone

—— Earth-F67X: En-Route to Customs Control Hygiea

Even within a star system, space demonstrated its nigh-incomprehensible immensity.

Safety enforcement policies insisted on standard propulsion to facilitate intra-system transit. This was demanded of all commercial traffic. For alien vessels, the rule was held as even more sacrosanct.

It took hours for, as Earth alleged to Commander Efri, repair drones to intercept the the Lakretian spacecraft, itself a mere third of its way from where it dropped out of FTL to its proscribed destination. In that latter interval, the drones patched many of its atmospheric leaks with specialized aerogel and scanned its exterior. It was obvious what they were up to, and easily presumed that the machines maintained an encrypted data channel with Earth’s military command. It was also clear that the Lakretians’ lives were in the balance and, thus far, all they possessed as leverage was compliance — evidenced by the convergence of six heavily-armed destroyers that appeared alongside the alien spacecraft and escorted it along what remained of its journey.

A third further, a fully-autonomous shuttle docked with the alien vessel. Inside, the Lakretians found pallets of protein cubes and several drums of water, uv-sanitized and bountiful enough to last their reported numbers three humanoid sleep cycles.

It was made clear via radio communication that Zourn Vátne, their proposed diplomat, should board the shuttle.

Xenopunk Dysphoria: Tech, Slime & Bone

This is an Earth-F67X roleplay. For more information, refer to the Gaslands OOC ( link ). Xenopunk Dysphoria: Tech, Slime & Bone deals mainly with events happening on Earth proper, rather than Ximbic-8, Allure City, or any of the other remote settings in the F67X universe.

Xenopunk Dysphoria: Tech, Slime & Bone

Earth-F67X: Xenophobic Interplay

—— Earth-F67X: Alien Contact

Out past Neptune, a surveillance satellite detected an FTL manifestation and scanned a vessel that did not correspond to any pre-approved signature. Entangled with Earth’s defense control network, the long range satellite immediately triggered an alert in New Roswell and the Mainline Defensive Array. In response, an artificial intelligence integrated with a half-human half-cybernetic operative in an undisclosed black site dispatched a series of automation protocols. Moments later, Earth’s defense posture transitioned from passive monitoring to a CODE GESTALT active response. Generals were roused from their slumber, ops teams put on rapid standby, and massive weapon configurations pre-positioned throughout the Sol system targeted the potential threat.

At least ten-thousand people held their breath as the vessel was hailed along a bombardment of electromagnetic, psionic, thaumic, and telepathic communication channels—and more:

“UNREGISTERED ALIEN VESSEL, STATE YOUR PURPOSE.”

There was a pause.

It was always possible that communication, in that moment, was impossible.

Everyone breathed a sigh of partial relief when came the reply in radio short-band, “We request aid and supplies to help us resist tyranny on our home planet.”

Earth did not immediately answer. Agonizing seconds passed while heuristics were reduced to single-line outputs. Had the vessel so much as twitched, it would have been purged from the night sky. A team of xeno-technologists furiously scanned data as it poured in. Conclusions were drawn. The vessel was in a state of distress, with severe structural damage and multiple hull leaks of atmospheric gasses incongruous with Earth’s atmosphere and non-solid phase fuels. However, the spacecraft’s plasma shield was operational and active. An understandable caution, given its state of war-weary disrepair. Political leadership demanded more time to make a decision. Military command was compelled to send another transmission to the alien craft:

“Maintain position, await response.”

Analysts concluded the alien craft should maintain a safe distance from any significant gravitational field in the event its superstructure buckled and the whole thing crashed and burned. The military, of course, wanted to send out a team to dismantle the whole thing. Several hours passed as petabytes of data collated, analyzed, and memoized for the consumption of military and political leadership. Finally, a simulacrum of Apollo Amon, Earth’s president and final say in all matters important, appeared in New Roswell and demanded a SITREP.

He—or what appeared as him, for nobody had seen him in the flesh in a year, ordered that the vessel be relocated to Customs Control Hygiea, a minor asteroid-based facility. The smallest disclosed facility in the Sol system with teleportation technology synchronized to Earth. The vessel would take a path along a route that avoided Sol’s planetary bodies. While en-route, the alien vessel would declare its manifest of souls and supplies, identify its diplomatic contacts, power down its FTL, and turn off its plasma shields—and that it should be made abundantly clear that non-compliance would be lethal. From there, a shuttle would convey one of its diplomats from the alien craft to Customs Control where they would be screened and, if deemed safe, transported down to Earth.

In accordance, the third message was relayed to the alien vessel.

The Family Biz [Open To Apply]

Out went the lights, the glitz, the glam. Even the unnatural gritty red glow of an indeterminate building-blocked horizon faded, subdued by underworldly darkness. A chill ran through his fabric as he wrung himself dry, the piss pool beneath him extended over ancient alabaster pavers. The strange graffiti-stained city fell silent, tumult made of the soft urinal paternoster he futilely gargled.

God was neither there nor elsewhere.

Barely, he saw. Not with eyes, for none adorned him, a fallen soul, an infernal revenant; rather, by quasi-spiritual receptors sewn in the dyed wool banners and tabards of his person. As for light, evil eyes glinted malice in the dark, but he also possessed his own queer source: polonium threads that hissed away and vaporized the last particulates of piss that perfumed his person. On him blazed the crests of Óengus, Fidach, Ce, and Fib — tell-tale signs of his mortal betrayals.

“By Eóganan mac Óengusa’s florid taint and Saint Andrew’s merry horn o’ mead, ta’ch mad realm o’ despair afronts mae poo’ over-burdened senses!” he bellowed.

Words swallowed by night, he peered around horrified. Then he remembered the only grand scene he noted before his filthy bath. Foreboding faint footfalls gave him a wide berth as he rolled and tumbled theretoward, in his mind, the castle of this realm; or, of it, what he last saw before night settled sudden and sharp over the unfamiliar landscape: the Pleiades Casino & Resort.

Gaslands: a Palimpsest’s Tale

—— Ximbic-8: Tuscré, the Fae Fields

Portal light etches its way through Czes’ bestial extra-armor and into his eyes, blinding him during his superluminal transit. Though he cannot see, his journey is of no lessened intensity. Goosebumps distort his skin, his hackles rise, and his breath catches in his throat. Without warning, he is falling, spiraling, dying, yet so rife with life and expectation that, rather than dread, his soul swells with wonder. The stimuli calms — he is at peace. Cool grass traces the backs of his bare arms while alien branches sway a gentle frame around the violet-tinged night sky creeping above. Motes of amber and fuchsia drift above him, quite akin to disturbed dander or milkweed seeds. Through it, he can make out Earth; a small blue dot, the size of his thumbnail. Something is missing, he realizes: his defense, his armor, his exo-skeletal beastframe, worth billions of dollars back on his now-abandoned home world, rejected utterly by this place.

Yet it let him enter in.

Guess I’m not evil after all. Maybe ... maybe I just don’t need it anymore.

He sighs, and it is like the demon straddling his chest for the last four centuries is gone.

On the back of his hand, a glow, both in light and in warmth, distracts him.

“Constellation of a baby jaguar sound asleep beneath a shooting star, morphing into a Möbius strip and back,” he chuckles, then drops his hand down on the comfortable blanket of grass, “Sanguine, shimmering, blood. Apt. Sleep sounds good. A truly peaceful sleep, for the first time in forever.”

He nods off, alone but not lonely, bathed in the light of opalescent night.

… Ϟ

—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: Flatiron

When Dom turned the corner of Fifth and 19th, at the foot of the old 115 building, the sky was beginning to dim, which meant very little in such a city of neon night. What struck him was the garish glint of the Empire State Building so distant, yet so bright. Nearer, though, were a slew of run-down diners, salons, and dive bars. Mixed residential, not his thing. A slum, hidden from the light of day by the almost incomprehensible bulk of the Canopy — a behemoth superstructure that made him think of that pre-unification movie, Independence Day. Neither conformed to his preference of a clean and orderly barracks.

Almost immediately, he saw the Azot.

His first reaction, to his chagrin, was smiling. The Azot was in the midst of a one-handed handstand whilst balancing a frisbee on its tail tip. A performing monkey in a dirt-stained little Ronald McDonald costume, green of fur rather than the typical black or brown found to Earth. Same as the color infiltrating clothing design these days, skobeloff. He planned to buy Vesca a scarf in that color.

Get a grip, Dom. You’re here because that alien trash is taking business away from the people and animals that belong on this planet.

He leaned against the brick facade of a building and observed. The crowd seemed pleased, a few creds thrown in the Azot’s pot. Odd, really. Physical money, still a thing? Then it hit him, all of these people were dirt poor. Their coins were probably ancient, found in la-z-boy cushions and between the pages of old books. Everyone here was.

The Yarniverse: Circ & Anshin

Of the eclectic coterie to disembark at La Cantina, only two elected for the safety of the spacecraft Tabris Ruzgar. No surprise there, as the parted ways drew from a logic rift between evolved and synthetic lifeforms; a wordless agreement to disagree, one group left behind on Eqiko-4’s spur-station and cantina roundwhich the galaxy unfamiliar morphed, the other secured in the presumed shelter of Eti’s transport. As for arcanely-animated Kukull, unburdened by motive, it sat rapt and rocky in celestial observation, quite forgotten in the hole it ate through the spaceport tarmac.

“Are you shh—errrrp, sure?” Eti slurred, not yet sober in the wake of his milk binge. He’d nearly fallen on his way to the helm, but the articulating aerogel interior squeezed comfortably around his brief frame, much like a big fluffy translucent white pillow.

“Quite sure,” intoned the Tabris Ruzgar’s artificial intelligence, optimistic and calm.

“How leaving Eqi—eqik—fraaaak. Cantina, but not in the right galaxy?” Eti pondered as he irresolutely struggled against the shuttle’s built-in safety systems. Perplexed, he raised a sharp black claw and supported the nub of his chin.

“Your thinking pose? Really? And we’re abandoning them, of course,” Tob Ydrian, aka ‘Boomslang’, grumbled, as he looked through the viewport at the spur-station, “Xo’pil and the others. Probably won’t miss Ulu’gol, bad luck, that unlucky sot. Kirri, either. Okay, most of the organics. Still, damn.”

“But what fate!” Eti exclaimed, his clenched paw vaulted forward in a dramatic pose, “Take us somewhere, Ruzgar. A galaxy far, far, faaaar away. Through a wooooormhole, maybe! The closest one!”

“Affirmative,” replied the Ruzgar. Then, as lithe as a cream and vermilion metal microraptor, it tucked its four wings and surged through the night sky, a faint prismatic coma emitted by its primary thruster.

“What, no! Belay that, Ruzgar!” Boomslang huffed, “We don’t know where a random wormhole might take us!”

Contrariwise, the Ruzgar implored, “Sorry, Captain Eti has given his order. Please sit back and relax for the duration of our flight! Entering spatial anomaly in 32 minutes and 67 seconds, approximately.”

Boomslang glanced across the cabin at Eti, but his travel companion was already slumped over and unconscious. He looked very much like a toy, a small soft stuffed animal, stitches and all, fashioned in the likeness of a red panda and anthropomorphized as a valiant gunslinger adorned in a red leather trenchcoat, bandoleers, and belts replete with flashy brass buckles and silk straps.

“Frick’n Cizrans, why’d they make us—and choose to make us ridiculous?” Boomslang muttered rhetorically to himself, crossed his arms, and settled in for the ride.

. . . . . . .
. . .

— 32 minutes and 66 seconds later:

Eti opened his eyes, fully sober and recharged. Boomslang snored across the cabin, self-propelled into an automated sleep to bypass the boredom of interstellar travel. Everything seemed normal.

Eti blinked.

Everything seemed abnormal. Once-smooth surfaces were overlain by a twine-like substance. Textures once unique all exhibited an odd sense of sameness. Boomslang was somehow even more adorable than before, like one of the cheap toys made for children of one of the Cizran’s biological slave species kept around—well, Eti wasn’t sure why.

“Ruzgar, status?” Eti inquired, momentarily disoriented.

“Well, I’m glad you asked!” the Ruzgar replied excitedly, “As requested, we’ve entered the nearest wormhole. I am attempting transit, but there’s been a probabilistic mishap. We are no longer in space nor time. What we see is neither real nor unreal, but it does appear to be yarn. A royal yarn wedding. A temporary pseudo-reality manifesting around us until we finish transit.”

“In that case I’m going to disembark and explore. Principles of Entanglement Cosmogony, once the probability field collapses, we’ll revert to our pre-pseudo environment states and relative locations.”

With that, Eti disembarked the spaceship.

The Family Biz [Open To Apply]

At the intersection of Sodomy and Skeet, a fountain dominated the muddy rutted foot traffic; ancient porcelain riddled with varicose cracks and pungent stains. It was plain, or would have been were it not gaudily-painted and gilded in a style describable with two appalling words: Frida Kahlo. Apt, given its placement above the city of Aeternus’ central sewage line. From the “art project” erupted a constant, but irregular, discharge of deep yellow urine, much of which aerosolized in the hot humid stale air while the rest splashed rudely back into the basin.

Most denizens rarely noticed it anymore, beyond its presence as an obstacle to circumnavigate. Or a convenient urinal. Unless their tongue became an unfortunate host to a particularly zesty particulate.

Yet, at this unusual moment, it was ringed by a small audience.

Yes, some were merely there to relief themselves. Others, however, were given to quite the show. Its jaundiced depths churned and splashed, the primordial ectoplasmic sediment of urea, kidney stones, and coins disturbed. Why would anyone wish in such a foul thing? Foul wishes bode foul deeds. Within, engaged in the utmost of existential warfare, thrashed something that appeared wrapped in several bands of heavy wool. No onlooker stirred, transfixed as they were. Until, bored, they sauntered off. Such is the way of things. It mattered not to them whatever drowned in the vile drink, harangued by scat cassowaries: the hell-born shit-sculpted and animated variation on the species one might find were they to traipse a mere block away, enter the elevator in Vileiro’s — known by tourists as The Pleiades Casino & Resort —, and ascend to the upper mezzanine.

Whatever was was hot as, above it, the fountain’s fluid boiled and popped.

After an unforgivable amount of time in which no assistance was lent, a wet drape flung itself over the brim of the fountain, and the mass heaved itself up, over, and out. In a viscous ripe pool that spread and grasped at the heels of those roundabout, it rung itself out and bellowed,

“Horruh! Absolute horruh! Ma vestments befouled! It wis a dire situation, like nae other! Against ma will, befouled by pure foulness. Ye heard it richt, piss from the nape of Satan himself!”

“Twas a fine evenin’ in the Scottish highlands, yet but a moment ago. There I was, standin’ on the edge of’ a bonnie ole loch, takin’ in the serene beauty o’ the land. Out o’ nowhere, this fierce urge tae relieve meself consumed me in a raw instant! I scoured the area, desperate for a wee place tae answer nature’s caw.”

“Finally, a wee bush, shrouded in secrecy, appeared tae be the ideal spot. Ah, relief! I unbuckled me kilt, whipped it up, and began the blessed act o’ releasing’ Grendel’s mighty arm. But ye ken, sometimes nature has a cruel sense o’ humor, ye see.”

“Wi' a gust o' wind, which I swear felt like the roar o' a Clydesdale, me urine took on a life o' its ain. It twisted and turned, as if tae mock me feeble attempt at aimin' correctly. The golden stream strayed fae its intended path, arched through the air, and bathed me in its warmth.”

“That’s when I felt the knife in me spine, cretins, and fell o’er dead!”

Gaslands: a Palimpsest’s Tale

—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: New Venice

Dom exited HKT HQ with Han at his side. A sidelong glance. Not his type. Kind of an airhead, although that category of beautiful woman had its niche too. They made their way through the half-flooded subway tunnels of New Venice. At one point, Dom waved at a restaurant named The Frier’s Tuck and said, “Don’t eat there. Was on that show, Bad Dream Cuisine. Their meat is all spoiled, which says something for stuff grown in a lab parasite-free. But the real reason not to go is that they, uh, what’s the word, oh yeah — they garnish with pubic hair if they think you’re Catholic. They think everyone is Catholic.”

Eventually, the pair came to a flight of stairs leading back up to the surface, or at least what use to be the surface. Good luck seeing sky from there. Two perpendicular signs illuminated in harsh yellow neon read Fifth Ave and 19th ST.

“Got a few hours before, well, that’s my business. Keep your eyes peeled. You know what it is we’re hunting yeah? Azot?”

To Dom, Han’s expression seemed incapable of change. Blank, perpetually confused. That’s at least how he read it. Maybe that’s why he identified as a man. They were easy, understandable, relatable. Women were fucking Sphynxes.

“Monkey people, blue and green fur. Well, we see an alien, we’ll know. They aren’t us. Far cry from it.”

Dom turned around and started walking away, watching for any activity. Maybe they’d come across the little bugger.

Gaslands: a Palimpsest’s Tale

—— Earth-F67X: New New York City, Chinatown

It took nine hours, well after business rush. The genetic tweakers finally subsided. Mateo lay on warm white tile, curled in the fetal position, automation rinsing the transient fur off his body. Every bone and muscle was in agony, morphing from wolf anatomy to human. In particular, his asshole stung. This was the type of spa he personally avoided, the type where horny patrons saw a wolf chained to the floor and decide to let their deviant kinkster natures run wild.

Bastard! I’m going to kill him. Does Fesyen think my wrath can be quelled by cheap bling? No, it’s not that. He doesn’t take me seriously. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of. Well, the prick is going to find out!

At some point, unnoticed, the loader relieved Mateo of his bonds. Alone, he needed some time to recover, so he found a private booth and locked himself inside until the tremors lessened. Once his fingers were servicable, he took the collar off. He glared at it in his grip. Yeah, it looked sick, favorite color and pattern and all. Matched his drip. But wolfing out without warning was not cool.

Waiting outside the booth, he found his socks and swim trunks atop a teakwood chair; as promised, pristine clean. Clothed, he returned to Feysen’s warehouse.

He didn’t make eye contact with Fesyen or say a word. Just started shopping. He’d pick things up, take a gander, and put them on or put them down if they weren’t to his liking or he heard a chirp of disapproval from the watchful designer. First, he slipped on some a-low kicks with built-in phase-step, then a vintage Arivex air force A2 leather bomber jacket with activatedc camouflage and climate control.

“Good taste for street such pretty trash,” Fesyen purred, “Now sit down and let me do your hair, just as I promised.”

“We’re all street trash,” Mateo mumbled, plopped down on the ripperdoc surgical station.

Including his mastoid implant, this was his second mod. The first that altered his appearance in any meaningful way. Cyber hair. Programmable to look however he wanted. Taken off the day old corpse he dragged in here, now maggot shit. Maybe it wasn’t wise to wear something off a dead body, not because of any serial signatures — long gone, those were — but the karma. Not that karma was a friend to his sorry ass. Anyway, it took three hours of laser-searing his existing follicile roots, shaving his head, applying a cutaneous grid, and then meticulously grafting the synthetic hair into his scalp. A miraculously bloodless affair. The grid meshed with his mastoid implant, which meant Mateo could reprogram his hair with a thought: spiked, forward, linear, neon red.

“Any recommends? Weapons?”

“Mateo, baby, I’m an artist — a collector, not an arms dealer. The best I can do is a Fairbairn-Sykes. A knife, good quality. Worth a prize at the right auction, no doubt. Built-in razzle-dazzle. Mmm. You need pants. Maybe a shirt. Although you have such lovely skin. Covering it would be criminal. Tragic, even. Nano body sleeve, the anti-rape variety gives quite the shock to anyone who touches you without permission. Resembles a tattoo, your choice of pattern animation. Powered by body heat.”

“Fine. And charcoal gray cargo pants,” Mateo included, “light arms resistant, minimum. Better if you have the military grade they give to war journos that can stop mortar shrapnel.”

“Nothing but the best,” Fesyen promised.

Mateo stretched in front of a full-length mirror, flicked the blade in front of him and caught it deftly, well-balanced, and asked, “Remaining credit?”

“I do~o have the right to a profit,” Fesyen answered.

“Then we’re done here,” Mateo agreed, flicked the blade out again, and left a red smile under Fesyen’s chin. He wiped it clean on a bright stack of polylinen on the way out. Didn’t wait to hear the body hit the floor. The loader and warehouse cameras saw him, but their memory units were fried. His A2 made him unrecognizable to the city-level cameras stationed outside.

Gaslands: a Palimpsest’s Tale

—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City: New Venice

Damn, she’s fake, but — what was that quote about Hepburn’s character in Breakfast at Tiffany’s? A real fake. Nothing fake about her, just, well, almost more mannequin than human. Yeah, that describes this Han girl pretty well; mannequin.

“Performer? That Azot? Seems easy pickings. Frankly, we don’t need to, err, off it. We can probably trick it through one of those portals, send it to the pink piss streak in the sky. It wouldn’t even want to come back, stinkin’ rat. Bet on it.”

He glances at Han to see if there is any sort of affirmation, even though it was technically him agreeing her to suggestion, then scrawls the number 27 on a sticky and slaps it on the cork board underneath the word Azot and the address 20th and Fifth.

“Altuve’s jersey, good luck. Usually. Pick a word, number, whatever. Random. Somewhat. Easy to recall. They’ll set that as your contact. Anyway, we should get going. Unless you’re still hungry,” Dom finishes, noting the ravenous intake of hotdog and remembering Han’s comment about needing money so she wouldn’t starve or whatever. She is by no means anorexic, but she could use a few more curves. Odd girl. Maybe an immigrant from some impoverished Scand NatStat struggling to compete against Apollo’s government.

Maybe something sinister. A plant.

Dom’s dark eyes narrow in concentration, then he laughs at nothing.

“But yeah, eat and walk. Grab whatever, get steppin before these other Knights beat us to the punch.”