Opposition

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

Welcome lurkers to my RP. I'm the Mega-GM. There are no rules and all my posts are in crayon.

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒t 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖

Yo, pass me the extra dimension

“They’re all like this…”
“That’s why we're here.”
“Or there.”
“Around.”
“Everywhere.”
“Watching...”

ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕄𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕒 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕝𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖
𝕋𝕨𝕚𝕟 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
>>> …
“Fire in the streets—more than usual even. It seems the power struggle between the two megaregions at the northwestern edge of America are growing worse by the day. Another Cipher Broadcast Tower on the contested border between the Portland and Seattle regions has been hijacked and is currently under hostile control of the infamous Portland… Uh… Group...”

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𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣 ℂ𝕠𝕣𝕡𝕠𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖"𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℙ𝕝𝕒𝕪𝕘𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕕"

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟚𝕟𝕕, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 :: 𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕖
[𝟜𝔻 ℂℍ𝔼𝕊𝕊] 𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘...

A deal’s a deal—or is it?

It wasn’t her best work, but that was about all they had to go off of. That, and a set of poorly-ciphered coordinates, clearly encoded by Serena herself on a sheet of scrap paper that the ‘campaign manager’ had uploaded and sent to everyone’s communication codes.

It had to be the spot—hidden away in the greater corporate zone at the Reclaim’s edge. Desolate. Destitute. There was hardly anything left. A passing truck of mercs skidded by, one of them spinning about on the heavy turret mounted on its back. Off to glass another near-identical group batting for the other team, most likely. It takes a bit of maneuvering to evade their gaze, but that was the spot for sure. It looked just like every other withered box-shaped building in the zone. Nevertheless the complex sets of sliding metal doors, the few paths in and out—they had to indicate that the Pirate captain had chosen the building for a reason… If she had chosen it at all.

Droplets of water echoed as they impacted the concrete, creeping from exposed pipes and deposits of acid rain leaking in, but the warehouse was otherwise dead silent. Serena led her crew into the main room which had to be the size of a few basketball courts. Shelving units and the behemoth remnants of some sort of machine shop ‘uglied up the place’, but the floor was a bit too pristine. No dust. No rubble. No glass. Petrukov used her lighter to ignite three separate Raw Toxics between her lips, letting the smoke creep up towards the distant rafters and exposed ventilation shafts.

“Alright folks,” Petrukov started. “Make yourselves at home. This is our playground for the next… length of time.”

“Miss Petrukov.” The burly man stepped up alongside his client, stretching his oversized muscles and holding out a gun that was severely too small for his massive goon hand. The Pirate Queen smiled, admiring not the man himself but the now iconic black flag rigged up to a staff on his back. It was comical. It was absurd. It was totally on brand.

“Give it a test. Make sure you know you can—”

A series of blasts echoed endlessly off the tin walls. Serena hammered the trigger wildly, aiming at every interesting object down-range until the magazine was empty. The pangs of 9mm ricocheting off of every surface around them was like an anthem—a cause for concern, but also an anthem. She blew at the tip of the non-smoking gun.

“Thanks Bannerlord, but I’mma need another clip for the gat. And also the payload, chief.”

Bannerlord fumbled around at his own sidearm to grab a spare magazine of ammunition. Serena, in the meantime, started posing with her new piece and the steel briefcase, barrel leveled against the shadows at the outer edge or haphazardly flicked towards catwalks and side doors, but something stopped her, caused her face to flush and her gun arm to waver.

“They’ll be here any minute.”

“Fuck… I forgot the most important thing. Fuck,” she repeated. Again and again. “We forgot the—”

“Boombox?”

Once again, Serena From The Past had thought of everything. Once again, the Bannerlord’s supply cart was fully stocked and strapped with every piece of kit they needed and extra snacks. The entire situation was perfectly coordinated, endlessly complex. She, the queenpin, a boss playing some extradimensional chess game. Serena took up position in the center of the room and hammered down the play button with her foot.

“Yo-ho-ho.”

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒t 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖

How do you find objectivity amongst the shifting perspective? Against the Mechanical Winds? Around the Machines That Spark?

“You wouldn’t believe the danger—the sort that doesn’t even bother hiding. Wolf in uniform. Wolf in body armor. Wolf in respirator. Wolf… Wolf with riot shotgun...”

ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕄𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕒 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕝𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖
𝕋𝕨𝕚𝕟 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
>>> …
“Tensions… In South City. Many eyes have been set upon Phoenetek and their worldwide operation of clinics as well as the production of the popular ‘super-drug’ Neurosynthase, said not only to reverse the symptoms of neural degeneration from cyberware integration, but completely reversing decay of neuron pathways. Many denizens of South City… Of the western seaboard have been affected by recent shortages. Silence from Phoenetek. In their last press conference, held three weeks ago, shipments were supposedly en route to arrive on the first of April, but no South City clinics have yet reported receiving shipments publically. The cause of this shortage is not yet known to Hart Media or the public...

And the shortages have affected more than just Phoenetek consumers it seems. The registration of Augmented Persons has skyrocketed in the past month, leaving some cyberware users to face jail time in order to acquire Neurosynth through legal, safe, and available channels. Of course, with the fear of neurodegeneration looming, many augged citizens have turned to more alternative methods…”

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𝔹𝕒𝕠𝕝𝕖𝕚 ℂ𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕔

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟚𝕟𝕕, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 :: 𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕖
[𝕄𝕒𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕤 𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕊𝕡𝕒𝕣𝕜] 𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘...

“Enter Baolei.” the monk said. There were many passers-by, but he didn’t seem to address any in particular. The Reclaim HyperHumans always seemed to have that distant-but-fixed gaze. Maybe it was a strange show of some sort of clairvoyance or omnipotence. They hardly needed to look at their surroundings. All in their presence were already observed. Others considered it a side-effect. If not of the ‘unity-with-the-machine’, then of the lack of abundant care for the cyborg sort, or of perhaps a more sinister aspect of indoctrination.

“All those who seek care may find it within the temple, man or machine.” He gestured with a dark steel arm with hydraulics big enough to question how the thin man was even holding it up, reached out towards a passerby, spoke again: “Chen Dao offers help. We offer help. The time is dire and those who harmonize with the machine will find themselves afflicted. This is not an accident. This—”

The downtrodden denizen of the Reclaim near-collapsed onto the monk’s arm. The monk hardly shifted his weight until those same desperate hands clawed up around his neck for support. Whispers eked out from his mouth—pleas for help. The monk stayed steady, and looked to the other orange-clad man flanking the temple gate. A simple gesture was all it took. Silence, eye contact, and somewhere in the void, a signal was understood. With the struggling augged man hanging on his shoulders, the first monk headed through the gate with as much a bow as he could manage. The other took his place.

“My friends,” he began. “There’s nothing to fear. In these trying times, forces beyond our control reveal their prejudice against the Machine. Care, clinical, technical, or otherwise is greedily guarded. At the Temple of Baolei, all might find themselves safe. All can find a home. All can find peace…”

The Reclaim’s wayward sort was always watching. Everywhere. Baolei was no exception, and with the culmination of events—both in the Reclaim and beyond—that seemed to claw at the back of everyone’s throats, Baolei drew a particular crowd. They watched the monk. Some murmured replies, dissatisfactions, questions, conspiracies. Few dared to approach the monk, even those whose mechanical bodies were taking their toll.

“The Reclaim… It is a sickly population, but the Machine is here to repair. To uplift.”

>>> 𝕊ℍ𝕀𝔽𝕋 ...

>>> ℝ ...

>>> 𝔼 ...

>>> 𝔸 ...

>>> 𝕃 ...

>>> 𝕀 ...

>>> 𝕋 ...

>>> 𝕐 ...

The Temple was built with classical chinese architectural technique. It stood out like a backyard in the Detroit Stacks—pillars bearing all the load, and ambient lights of orange and yellow almost mimicking primitive lanterns. The mats throughout each room were, for the most part, immaculately clean beyond the front rooms where the clinic’s patients had overflowed and crowded their newfound shelter. You’d think the paper-thin walls accentuated the simplicity of the place, but beyond the groups of Reclaimers stuck in withdraw woes and death throes, Baolei Clinic seems to absorbs sound, leaving it eerie quiet.

“This way,” he said, “Come. Learn of Mekanedo...”

Dao always attempted to live on its periphery, but even with a step as light as air, it was difficult for the abbot to evade attention of every member in his presence. He guided the benefactor towards another pair of monks. They always seemed to be waiting in the wings, ready for the abbot’s commands, as though watching.

“The people of Baolei shall care for you. Allow them to show you our mission, our reach, our access.” Dao smiled a warm smile, gently squeezed his benefactor’s hands with a pair of refined metallic hands. The South City clerk couldn’t help but feel a tinge of unease run through him. There was something that he carried—the omnipresence of wires—the subtle wave functions they emitted or the quiet whir of their servos. Something… There was something about Chen Dao.

The gesture seemed to hold the clerk's presence long enough that he hardly noticed the trio of monks step by and into the bowels of Baolei. They carried a box, the three of them. Heavy, but their steps made no indication of such.

>>> 𝕊ℍ𝕀𝔽𝕋 ...

>>> ℝ ...

>>> 𝔼 ...

>>> 𝔸 ...

>>> 𝕃 ...

>>> 𝕀 ...

>>> 𝕋 ...

>>> 𝕐 ...

>>> 𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘...
>>> 𝕎𝕖𝕝𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝔽𝕝𝕦𝕩 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕒𝕟!
>>> 𝕃𝕚𝕗𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕒 𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕚𝕞𝕒𝕘𝕖𝕤 𝕚𝕤𝕟'𝕥 𝕚𝕥? ℝ𝕖𝕡𝕖𝕥𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕔𝕖𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕠𝕗 𝕧𝕒𝕣𝕚𝕠𝕦𝕤 𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕦𝕝𝕚... 𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥'𝕤 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕤𝕖𝕖, 𝕙𝕦𝕙? 𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕕𝕠𝕟'𝕥 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟 𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕔𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕞 𝕒𝕝𝕝, 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕒𝕟… ℂ𝕙𝕦𝕟𝕜𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕞𝕖𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕪 𝕫𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕕. 𝕐𝕠𝕦'𝕝𝕝 𝕟𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕘𝕖𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕞 𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜. 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕞𝕒𝕕𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕔𝕙𝕠𝕚𝕔𝕖...

>>> ...
>>> ...
>>> ...

>>> 𝔻𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟 𝕣𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕞𝕓𝕖𝕣 𝕞𝕖? 𝔻𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕨𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕕𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕘?

The Reclaim came and went in passing splashes. Fading glimpses of its derelict corners and alleyways blurred into malformed images of streaking gray and intersected with the black of shadows. Familiar locations flickered by but don’t quite register. The burning ghosts of neon lights lingered in her eyes.

>>> ...
>>> ...
>>> ...

>>>𝕊𝕙𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕡𝕒𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕤𝕚𝕘𝕟𝕤...
>>>𝕆𝕣 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟 𝕒 𝕃𝕒𝕓𝕪𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕙?

Action or inaction?

The sweat clung to her skin, chilled her, but her insides were boiling a boiling red mess. She could see, somehow, the constricted veins within. It didn’t quite matter. She managed to escape the memory chasms, and was sure of her destination. A soft hand contacted her and tried to enwrap her jacket, but she just walked past. He spoke after her.

The soft light was nice on her eyes. She could track things more easily, differentiate the maze splayed before her via various doorways. She could accurately choose and move to the one which would take her to her destination. No doors, just the frames. She nearly hit one in her investigation of each passageway. She would have moved on, too, but she saw them. Unified. Divine formation, movements harmonized. Each robed figure stood rank and file in the dojo. Every stroke of movement flowed like water, but they carried the force of ceaseless electrons. Powerful servos, grinding motors, and sparking steel held a sort of hypnotic power unlike any other. Human and industry had combined.

Someone grabbed her shoulder. Instinctively, her hand cut around and threw his grip from her body. The colors were too warm. They melted together and her senses betrayed her, but she still had signals. 𝔸 𝕄 𝔸 𝕃 𝔾 𝔸 guided her way.

Blindness?

Death in this world?

Or resurrection in the next?

Guided by firing signals and wires...

She did find him.

ℙ

ℍ

𝔸

𝕊

𝔼

>>> 𝕊ℍ𝕀𝔽𝕋 ...

>>> ℝ ...

>>> 𝔼 …

>>> 𝔸 ...

>>> 𝕃 ...

>>> 𝕀 ...

>>> 𝕋 ...

>>> 𝕐 ...

“What are you—”

Trying to 𝕖𝕤𝕔𝕒𝕡𝕖 the coming onslaught.

Metal 𝕗𝕚𝕤𝕥

put through paper wall.

Blurred shape. Colored 𝔹𝕝𝕦𝕖 and ℝ𝕖𝕕.

>>> 𝕊ℍ𝕀𝔽𝕋 …

Dao hardly turned when he heard the wall tear. He saw. The trio of monks present that weren’t hauling the payload let their bodies flow into a graceful, readied stance. A Way. A combination of liquid formlessness and machine rigid structure...

ℙ

ℍ

𝔸

𝕊

𝔼

_{Seeing ℝ𝕖𝕕…}

“𝕎𝕙𝕒t the hell are you doing here, Shade?”

Delilah paused. The injured runner before her was stumbling and fumbling over his response. She was somewhere. She came for a reason, but everything only came back to her piece by piece.

“Shaman, I—”

“You’re a fiend. Hunting another fix. Clinics abandon you. Scam your friends, then go onto—” She looked around. More details. More gaps filled in. “This‽”

“What did you expect me to do? I’m dying. We’re all dying. Look around!”

They had drawn plenty of eyes by then—those patients and staff who were up to the task of sitting up, directing their eyes towards the commotion at least.

“You owe me.” Delilah’s brow was half-drenched in sweat. She didn’t wipe it away. Maybe she didn’t notice, just another detail whisked as a wisp into infinite forgetfulness...

“Another favor.”

“For your tab? I just ran that job with—”

“Are you really gonna talk about that here?”

“Fuck, Shade. I lent you the last of what I had. You said you could get more. Where are your ‘connections to the city?’ ”

“Shaman,” he said and coughed. The force of his breath seemed to cause an explosion of sparks from his chest that trailed along his dirty sweatshirt. “The city ruins everything…

“Miss? One of the monks almost made the gamble of reaching towards the netrunner’s shoulder to calm her. His hand froze in air and he reconsidered. “Your friend is in a dire condition. He may need treatment now.”

>>> 𝕊ℍ𝕀𝔽𝕋 …
>>> …
>>> …

“Come one, come all…
“Enter Baolei…”
“All those who seek care may find it within the temple, man or machine.”

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒t 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖

Tensions, Dust Gathering, Hellfire on the Horizon, But the Worst of it all Hides INSIDE

“Scarcely a news report would escape. Scarcely a journo would go unscathed. Welcome to N0 Man’s Land. The Reclaim is a dangerous place, where careful 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖𝕤 are therein played...”

ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕄𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕒 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕝𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖
𝕋𝕨𝕚𝕟 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
>>> …
“Unrest seems to be stirring in front of APEX Industries R&D complex and offices on the edge of the underpopulated Reclaim Zone. Headquarters of Reclaim mayor and South City Sprawl council candidate Joshua Gatch, many wonder the implications for tomorrow’s debate.”

“The crowd seems to have gathered from nowhere. The cracks in the dead zone. Silence… Then the two armed APEX door guards were surrounded. Currently the crowd is swelling and we can hardly see what’s become of the doormen. It’s anyone’s guess—…”

“Are we getting signal?”

“We gotta get out of here…

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𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣 ℂ𝕠𝕣𝕡𝕠𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖 “ℕ𝟘 𝕄𝔸ℕ'𝕊 𝕃𝔸ℕ𝔻”

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟚𝕟𝕕, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 :: 𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕖
[𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕤] 𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘...

No Man’s Land wasn’t the place you roam without a strict, specific goal in mind and a will to see it through by any means. On municipal maps, the outer mess of Reclaim streets was the richest district. It was true. Gatch willed it so when the empty blocks of derelict property were turned into opposing strongholds. There wasn’t much sign that the corps were there. Rather, they were like ghosts embedded in the empty streets of those empty seas. Occasionally, the purpose-filled walker would catch a glimpse—bright fluorescent lights illuminating the debris-dotted streets. They might hear the buzzing of thick power cables drawing environmentally-castrating volumes of volts just beneath the asphalt.

Stella thought it was a strange place for the services of such a specialist.

A tumbleweed of some official paper report rolled by in the dust and she knew it had been a long time since anyone had cleaned up. Stella thought about reaching to pick it up, but it skittered away and fell into a small crater in the road, blackened by what she could only imagine was an airborne dose of burning plasma.

APEX, of course, had the biggest complex of all in the corporate warzone. It probably spanned a block or something ridiculous. No one could really tell from the outside what any of the buildings in No Man’s Land were. It helped the companies keep their cover from ill-intentioned actors, the Mixologist supposed. That was also the general reason the homeless droves of the zone tended to linger closer to the Central Square. Over there, you may get hassled, but there’s a significantly lower chance of entering what looks like an abandoned factory only to get zapped.

The place was marked out front by degraded metal letters. A-P-E-X. To find it, she just followed the distant sounds of dissent. It was like a chorus of voices you’d hear in a loud auditorium, but mottled by the doppler. You would have missed them if there hadn’t been two men strapped in Exo-suits out front. Their strangely bulky rifles were trained on the gathering mass of protestors, whose shouts grew louder as the bartender neared. Either way, she couldn’t really make out what they were saying, but they were angry, and their numbers were growing. Occasionally, a few of the protestors would step towards the stairs, stare down the barrel of the blaster, and dare to hassle the mercs.

“Come out planet killers!”

“Where’s Gatch?”

“Stop hoarding the power!”

“Green energy for the populace!”

It wasn’t that the Mixologist wasn’t used to rowdy customers, but it definitely wasn’t her usual crowd. In fact, she could really get further from the sort that frequented Alexandria unless they went underground, which may have in fact been their intention. Thankfully, all the rocks, bottles, and other projectiles were directed towards the building, which looked pretty impenetrable save for the door. Those that had solid enough aim to hit near the exo-geeks were rewarded by getting pistol whipped until skin, bones, or skulls split. Stella was lucky enough to set up down-range.

Outsiders were never safe in the Reclaim’s No Man’s Land. When outsiders were the ones who flooded the district and did their best to take control of No Man’s Land, other outsiders were even more at risk it seemed. There were plenty of protestors who bathed more in the chaos than in any moral objective behind it. Unlucky journos or counter-protestors were jostled around, prevented from leaving… or worse by the sort that weren’t too keen on facing down uber-strapped mercs. A few burly hounds even bothered the Mixologist while she was setting up.

“Welcome to the Reclaim. You don’t belong here.” The man let his bat drag along the ground for additional horror-villain effect. She saw straight through his green bandana, into his soft soul. She was good at that.

“No I’m not.” Stella pointed to the sign. Emblazoned upon the two-wheeled cart was a clear 3-lettered neon sign running on some unknown source. The whole thing looked like it was rigged up out of one of Central Square’s old street-food carts, but repurposed for just the UltraB - A - Rtender’s style.

“I’m the bartender.”

“For the…”

“. . .”

“For the riot?”

---

---

Joshua Gatch had that executive habit of being surrounded by the sort of people who read too many self-help books. Not just that, but the sort who followed through on the guru’s advice. The sort that would share life tips with you at cocktail parties. He was the kind of guy that went to cocktail parties, so he was also the kind of guy that dealt with stress by taking a deep breath and exhaling as slowly and obnoxiously as possible for all the room to hear.

The APEX megacenter was a maze that even the mayor didn’t brave. The maze of factory blocks had become only a greater mess when higher-ups moved in all sorts of disjointed operations. Some of them employed the denizens of the Reclaim, but a majority were defense-oriented. At least, that’s what he was told. An unregulated, underwatched area in the middle of South City was the perfect place for APEX to jam all sorts of metal into magic boxes and that sort of thing. Gatch didn’t mind. His penthouse was atop the highest levels—the offices for APEX officials, management, and on-site scientists. He tried to interact with as few of them as possible, but in the ‘situation room’ he couldn’t help but deal with the concerned sort that got big heads about their projects. He managed to narrow the lot down to those that deemed themselves ‘most important’ in their individual departments.

They surround the complex one time and suddenly everyone starts to take those classic APEX ‘expendability’ rumors seriously. This wasn’t the time.

“If this botched shit gets brought up tomorrow and our projects get cancelled…”

“Are you kidding? Your project is going to get cancelled if they bust open the doors and fucking trash the lower blocks.”

“What about us? I don’t see any of those promised mercs that are getting a portion of the quarterly…”

“Look at where you are. Gatch gestured to the surprisingly furnished room. A few screens along the wall were lit up with views of the growing crowd. “APEX’s presence in the Reclaim Zone is as volatile as it was before I showed up. We’re in a bunch of empty factories.”

“Just don’t step outside, they tell us… Fantastic…”

“They’ve got more guards around the alleyways than we do...”

“What do they want, Gatch? You?”

---

---

The mob amassed via a number of approaching groups, many staggered in their arrivals, but when his entourage showed up on the scene, the crowd seemed to double. Perhaps, though, it was not the number of the protestors that changed the streets, but their purpose. They were masked, and for good reason, but anyone beyond his immediate circle could hardly tell. Any good journalist’s view was blocked by the close conglomerate of operators that surrounded them and whatever improvised and jaggedly sharp tools they opted to lash out with.

He didn’t need a megaphone, just a transmitter mic blasting to the crowd from an unseen source.

“The people of the Reclaim have shouldered the burden of power rerouting for far too long. APEX is a scourge, Gatch, and you are but their puppet. These men and women dare to say it’s time we change who’s pulling the strings.

And that served as a great signal for the first cocktail thrown. Gatch’s cameras were blinded by the light of flames erupting over the door guards. They braced. One raised his rifle towards the source.

“Wait, man! Wait. We just gotta hold out.”

“They’re going to hit—”

“Think about what they’ll do… If you fire without support…”

The Mixologist instinctively shifted the cart back a bit as the fire bottle blew. One loss to the vortex was enough already, but she was already posted up on the opposite sidewalk, fending off the cowardly sorts with cocktails. It wasn’t her first time around this sort of crowd—the angry sort, she meant. They were never quite so unruly and unmannered.

But that was the job. The crowd stole the show from the B - A - R when other projectiles were prepped. She palmed the console the goons had given her just as it started vibrating. Its indicator light flickered on and off for a few moments before one of the internal chambers opened and a vial slipped into her hand. The time to serve, it seemed, grew ever closer…

closed or whatever don't look at this

---

---

Agents of the Void call and receive.
Listen in, hear the pleas.
Give into the interim or play its aberrant games.

The more the misfit platoon spoke on the topics of intelligence—paranormal or otherwise—regarding the situation, the more Mao wished for a coveted clarity in whatever end she found herself in. Magic and monsters. Each new character in her new world had their take on the fate that awaited the condemned. In other words, them, the whole lot. Mao pressed the top of her fist against her chin and pursed her lips. Everyone seemed a bit desperate to splay out their knowledge of purgatory all too competitively, ‘Eldritch Shifters’ or not.

As much as she wasn’t particularly fond of any of her new companions, Mao did rise from the bar when Zoey and Penny headed for the door. She fancied another escape. It was always like that with her—one escape after another. This one would be into the empty city. It was just her aesthetic, she thought, but plans changed as the living embodiment of darkness bared down on them.

When it spoke, Mao’s eyes transfixed upon the spot where the creature’s visage should have been. She lingered for a moment, but Penny’s voice jostled her back into reality. It seemed that life in death wasn’t meant to be so easy. Mao didn’t have much a choice but to remain still as the creature’s hand shot past her and straight for Stacey. She slipped under the spindly arm without thinking. It probably wasn’t the smartest move to near it at all, but Mao figured that Mr. Special Agent Prescott had the right idea on this one.

“Not the line I would have gone for, really,” Mao said, to perhaps no one in particular. By the time Mao had reached the stairwell that led back up and out, she turned back just missing Penny’s rather magical endeavor to create a distraction. She didn’t really notice Penny at all. Again, she just stared into the blackness, like she was looking for its eyes or something. At least that would have given her a fixed point to focus on. Its smokey form just caught her, reminded her of something and left her reminiscing.

空　　道　　　和

Emptiness. Path. Harmony. A strange configuration and stranger reading.

As Mao started to realize how swiftly the others made their exit, she didn’t linger either, though opted to take the same route in and out. Who knew what awaited at the back door after all? She figured instead that purgatory wasn’t the place to make things so easy if dark demons dared to devour any denizens freshly dropped off from other worlds. She darted up the stairs towards the balcony.

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒t 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖

It Watches

Welcome to this place,
The Hellscape!
Shit’s dangerous,
But here we are still grinding.
Still stepping in time.
Still somehow unified?

Sister, get woke to the fancy games everyone is playing. It’s amazing, how chaos is still reigning, but we keep on blasting back against that strange force that keeps us all down. Without whatever psychokinetic connection goes beyond gravity and attracts the companionship of biotic life, the Alexandria would have dumped us generations back. Be active. This is an extropian realm, here in space, and we’ve got to stay intact! So—

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕃𝕚𝕞𝕓𝕠 ℂ𝕝𝕦𝕓

ℍ𝕚𝕘𝕙 𝕆𝕣𝕓𝕚𝕥𝕒𝕝 𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝔸𝕝𝕖𝕩𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕣𝕚𝕒
∞∞∞, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝

”Wake up, sister!” His Mixologists’ cybernetics alternated slapping either side of her face in rapid succession. Her eyes rolled back. Limbo’s tables were drenched in velvet red, but took their toll on any patron or player that didn’t make it back to the exits. The whole bar was on fire. He was on fire. She was on fire. “Get ready. That was only night one. The Mixologists are mounting a siege on Casino Dorado.”

“Just…” she started, “Leave me. I’ll just…” Stella squirmed on the table, doing her best to curl into a ball. Her muscles hardly reacted to commands. “I’ll stay here and let death take me.”

“Not an option sister.” He turned into a demon, tripled his size, and grew deadly sharp spikes. He jammed one of the spikes into her arm. The pain receded. The fire receded. As if having rested for a few infinities, she sat right up. “No one gets left behind. Can’t let the world win, Stell. Extropy. It’s just a bunch of humans, but it’s all futile unless we’re bunched up. Does that make sense?”

She didn’t respond, but he started backstepping, waving his hands as he went. Little clouds of sparkling blues and purples hung in the air, fired from his wrists to entice his old friend.

“No Mixologist left behind! That’s one of the only keys! It’s time for Dorraaaaaaaddddooooo!”

“Smell the Dust, and just—

𓇽𝔻𝕦𝕒𝕥𓇽, 𝕃𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕕

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟙𝕤𝕥, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 𝟙𝟠:𝟚𝟘

[𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝔾𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕤], 𝕋𝕖𝕣𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘...

“Wake up.”

Stella sequenced a series of commands, Mixologist’s forearm slapping against the bottle in her grip with just the precision to graze its cap. The little glass top spun, slid off, and clinked against the helmet she had safely tucked next to the pair in the open street. Vodka—cheap vodka—was all she had to do the job of the medics. She started waterboarding him, just like the movies, until the bottle was empty.

“Wake up and drive another day. Death is waiting in the wings and it’s up to you to fight it off.” Stella thought the rain might have played a part in his refusal to awaken at her commands. The aesthetic though, backed by the blaze that still raged in spite of any fireteam calls, was just lovely. The fallen driver’s head was propped up on the pristine briefcase. The perfect hiding place, she figured. The Goons hadn’t emerged from the fires. She hadn’t seen them escape, at least. Goons had one of those dark, faustian pacts with resilience, though.

“Wake up,” she said. “Combat Entropy.”

As if his day couldn’t get any more aberrant, Olex’s mostly calm walk to the Duat was interrupted by a ground-shaking explosion that almost knocked him off his feet. The explosion he heard walking away from the Square could easily be shoved to the back of his mind and ignored, but this one was much too close and loud to do the same. As he gathered his bearings, and began scanning the surrounding street as a few of the other citizens scattered, he thought he saw something. Some lucky patron had managed to exit the bar at the exact moment it exploded, but now that Olex looked around, he was nowhere near the street. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air.

Shoving yet another thought to the back of his head, Olex bounded across the street, pulling open one of the doors with his left, as he right reached inside and pulled his handgun from it’s holster, weary of what further surprises lay inside.

The onyx black handle on the door was hot, absurdly so, and Olex instinctively yanked his arm away before simply turning his arm’s sensors off. The heat was further exacerbated when he fully opened the door, a wave of warmth washing over his chest and face, causing him to recoil for a moment. The usual multicolored neon lights were accompanied by an unfamiliar orange glow, the light of multiple open flames and a-

Giant flaming car?

Dead center of the Duat sat the burning carcass of what seemed to have been a nice car, and beyond it a similarly sized hole in the side of the bar. The entire club was absolutely destroyed, patrons still stuck in booths covered in rubble. A few people here and there crawled from under tables or sat on the floor trying to either mend their friends’ wounds, or to shake them awake. Though, many looked like they weren’t going to get up any time soon.

Silhouetted amongst the chaos were two figures on the floor, not a far distance directly in front of Olex. The familiar face, albeit covered in soot, of Stella, emptying a bottle of alcohol over the face of a man who looked to be nearly dead. Olex’s breathing stood still, as the image almost drew a laugh. A cold, rather emotional woman very hastily emptying an entire bottle of vodka over a still, lifeless body. The cherry on the large, burning cake that he stood in front of. From the doorway, he spoke up.

”Stella! What the fuck happened in here? Did you guys get attacked by a terrorist or something?”

---

Loading…….Drift_Demon v1.23.exe

---

Drowning. Torn asunder by a dying world. Going onboard a capsized ship. Drowning again. Rising to the fire. The burning. The heat -

The foul odor of spirits opened Keah’s eyes, making him sputter. He pulled himself up, gasping and retching for sweet oxygen. Everything before seemed like one of those shitty matrix interrogation programs, designed to psych you out. He wasn’t 10 years old. He wasn’t in Hawaii. He was too busy wandering in the Reclaim Zone.

“Helmet, need - “ His gloves pawed the clammy skin of his cheeks. Ignoring the UltraBartender, he grabbed his helmet, his breathing slowing down to a calm pace in the disinfected, pressurised safety of EngiTech’s oly-laminate headgear. The indistinct boundaries and borders of the Reclaim Zone, muddled all the more by the rain, became sharper through the helmet. Made thinking easier.

OverDriver was linked with Samsara. Samsara was linked with the missing Islanders. The Ark. The Pirate Party. Him. The election. Shortcuts and roads between all of them he couldn’t make out. Deciphering them now was useless. He clenched his fist in anger, OverDriver’s last words mocking him.

“ Amalgmation” He hissed out, clenching his gloved fist. “ It’s always been Amalgmation…..” Amalgmation who ferried them away. Amalgmation who set up homes for them. Amalgmation who experimented on them. Kidnapped them. Used them.

Keah turned to look at the burning remains of the Duat and signed. The bar was currently smouldering, a bonfire of burnt dreams and excess going up in smoke. So much for a simple delivery job. What Keah now feared more than conspiracies and the games of giants was having to explain to the Iron Itamae about his unsuccessful delivery. Hopefully, the Jury Rigg was unscathed throughout the whole incident.

“ You could say something like that.” he spoke to the figure in the doorway. He then glanced upwards at the porcelain expression of the UltraBartender “ Sorry about your bar.”

He began to pull himself up from the ground, but pain pulled him back down. The adrenaline from his encounter with the OverDriver wore off, revealing the fragilities of his body. Broken ribs. Shards of glass stuck in his ankle. Burns on the side of his neck. He coughed, a splatter of red coating the inside of his Iconoclast.

“ I...need repairs. Quick.”

Stella let the bottle fall from her hand as the driver sputtered to life. He’d reached for his helmet just in time for the glass to clunk off of its metal and split in two on the wet asphalt. She dusted the fragments around with her foot as Olex approached.

“I got attacked by a car,” she said. “And a clone of this sorry state.” Stella leaned in over the Drift Demon. His ramblings weren’t that of a madman. Rather, the sort of a mad man. It almost angered Stella. The destruction almost angered her. Almost. Alas, staying unphased was too easy. Wasn’t her bar. Wasn’t her enemy. She got the briefcase. Her habit-haven was sustained, if only for the foreseeable future. Addicts had a practice of not looking too far ahead.

“It’s always megacorps that you Earth-folk blame for your problems. Maybe it’s an issue with perspective. Amalgamation hasn’t ever heard of you, Car Guy. Just like the bar.” She stepped back from the near-corpse and stared into the fallen eye of 𓇽𝔻𝕦𝕒𝕥𓇽. That was a perk of her optics. She could gaze into the neon, let the light-stimuli overwhelm her, ignite a series of sensors that signified pain, but there was no pain. “It’s not mine. I’m not from here. The Mixologist is a distant, eldritch creature.”

“Should have dodged that car, too,” she added.

“ Try it yourself, ultrabartender ” Keah grunted, not even bothering to correct her misinterpretation of his situation. Though it was hard to admit, her ramblings had a speck of truth in them. His word enough wouldn’t be enough to take down Amalgmation. Luckily, the OverDriver was stupid enough to show him photographic evidence.. All he needed to do was get it to the Pirate Party and -

Wait. Something was off. The evidence. He craned his head slowly to look at the smouldering inferno of the Duat. The evidence which was currently burning along with everything else in there.

“ Fuck!” He punched the pavement out of frustration. Then, again. And again. He continued until a spider web of cracks began forming in the syncrete. It was only until his arm began to ache that he stopped. Nothing. That was all he got from the Duat. Everyone by now had scattered from the Duat. They were alone, but not for long. He could hear sirens in the distance, noise coming their way, eyes that saw more than they should. Causing such a ruckus brought unnecessary attention. He needed to leave the scene.

“ Return,” he whispered out, hoping that his helmet’s internal uplink to the Jury Rigg was still functioning. His car remained still, unmoving. He would have to drag his broken body across the wet pavements just to unlock it. He tried to stand up again, falling back down again this time hissing as his left arm hung limp by his side. Broken wrist. Great. He would have to drive with one hand. He then stared at both of them before settling his gaze again on the UltraBartender.

“ Thanks for waking me up, but I’m didn’t come here to be lectured by you.” For the third time, he stood up, partially succeeding as his knees quivered. “ If both of you don’t want to help me out, then stay out of my way.”

Nothing more had exploded, and the fires continued to burn, some already turning into smoldering piles of ash. Olex’s initial apprehension eased and he finally entered the Duat, taking the surrounding destruction in completely. The bar was nearly unrecognizable. Even the disco ball he’d spent many a night staring at as he drank was gone. In its place, just a burnt, crispy set of metal wiring, errant sparks flickering out every now and again.

The entire bar was in a state of complete ruination, few bottles had been spared in the mayhem. Underneath his boots, the floor was slick with a variety of spirits, a small dash of blood entering the mix here and there. The smell of exhaust and burnt rubber permeated every nook and cranny, slowly bringing water to Olex’s eyes. He finally holstered his pistol, and helped the struggling man nearby get steady on his feet. Wrapping an arm around the man’s back, Olex held him steady, giving Stella a closer look up and down.

The man Olex currently had his arm wrapped around was clearly injured, motors whirred quietly trying to maintain a steady by gentle grip. Stella had seen better days, but didn’t look as badly injured as biker helmet. Soot, glass dust, dirt and liquor. A coat of paint Olex was familiar with, but not used to seeing on Stella. Olex sighed before he spoke.

”I’m sorry about the bar, Stell. Only place in town that had shit better than that swill they serve everywhere else.” More than a formality, there was genuine sadness in Olex’s now soft, quiet voice. Feeling nostalgic was strange, considering Olex hadn’t even been in the Reclaim for any sort of considerable time yet, but he couldn’t find any other way to describe the emotion that had washed over him.

A change of scenery was nothing new. He’d moved from region to region, town to town, many times over. Being somewhere new with no friends and no home was a familiar experience, one that he’d welcomed and thrived off of. But the Duat was something different. A small spot of luxury and intrigue nestled in the middle of another seedy hellhole, just like the one he’d left almost two decades ago.

Same as the luxurious mansion, fitted with polished doorknobs and a heated pool, the Duat felt like a small slice of home in the middle of ever present squalor. An ephemeral return to the luxury he’d shunned so far back in the past but had embarrassingly come to miss, even if only the slightest bit. A bit of familiar comfort in a life that had grown so accustomed to feeling strange and out of place. He could only hope this only meant the beginning of a new chapter and not the end of the book for his favorite slice of the highlife in the middle of Shittown.

Finally bringing his gaze back down to the people in front of him, he spoke again.

”I can tell you don’t seem eager to stick around for the lawmen, Biker Helmet. You got your own ride? ‘Cause if you don’t, you better get to limping away pretty quick. And what about you, Stella? Anything you need me to do?”

Stella smirked. She was tempted to say she did dodge the car. It was a more roundabout way of not getting targeted in the first place, the sort of thing the odd Reclaim street samurai would babble about when drunk, but she thought it applied. Earth, she thought. It had the strangest sorts. Everyone with a complex story, a vendetta, something to gain, something to lose. Someone to kill. This was Earth.

Olex was eager to help the downed demon driver. Stella was hesitant, content for the moment to wistfully stare at her fallen place of work and then back to the broken man, wondering if this was really what the rest of her time on the planet would be like. She did help the struggling pair. They definitely needed it. While Olex did most of the heavy lifting, Stella leaned over with that immaculate posture and offered her hand for the dying driver to take. The stability in her grip was unwavering, but a single hand was all she could offer. The other was occupied by that briefcase and its ever-alluring, mysterious contents. She was sure to keep it back from the two men, concealed behind her body as best as she could.

“Duat was just another name, Olex. Just a place for congregation for the people speaking in dirges. Another church. Another Land of the Dead.” She met the gaze of Duat’s fallen sign one last time, letting that glow overload her optics and overpower even the dulling blazes. That hazy glow pervaded even through the thickening smoke. It watched them walk away as it did. Like an eye…

>>>...
>>>...
>>>...

closed or whatever don't look at this

---

---

45

Movement overcomes cold,
Stillness overcomes heat.
Clear stillness is right for the world.

And She did well to bathe in the stillness, let herself embody it and, in turn, allow its objectivity to funnel into her senses. In chaotic places, She found, the Way helped quite often to make things a bit clearer. This situation—this chaos—was a bit of an exception. There were too many factors to keep track of, too many names and faces all vying to proclaim themselves as real creatures in their newfound Limbo. She preferred the opposite—would have rather lived in the negative space. The Stillness.

The mute girl, who introduced herself as Lillith based on a squinted reading of her scrawling, also seemed out of her mind. Much like Zoey, it was straight to magic, or in this case ‘the Extra-Normal’. She supposed she wasn’t much better, but it made sense that others sought a bright billboard welcoming them to their death, or whatever was next, wheresoever you choose to call it…

Zoey’s own appraisal of her manner of speech brought a smile to the enigmatic girl’s face. All too often, her progenitor sages were lumped together. The Old Master, the Lord of War, and… Haiku master Basho, it seemed. Any excuse to recede into the watcher was comforting enough. This was not the time or place, she thought, for elaborating on foundational principles. Alas, the maelstrom exchange game of names, and faces, and final resting places continued to reign; and up next was Stacey Gray.

His meek voice hardly carried, and as the doors propagated more and more new subjects of conversation, his words seemed swiftly overlooked. He did, however, manage to direct a modicum of attention in her direction, and she couldn’t quite deny the question. Was she afraid of being painted suspicious? No. Not in Limbo, but courtesy and poise couldn’t be foregone. Not even in some simulated abandoned place—their new hellscape. The girl slid her hand across the bar where she sat and secured a barback’s receipt pad. For a moment, it appeared as though she ignored Stacey, occupied instead with little, fervent slashes across her new canvas. 34 in total. It was just long enough, she hoped, for the attention to be eschewed elsewhere. Only then could the sage retain her constant state. Better off unknown... Better off dead...

It read: “魔緒”
The sort of characters daddy bribes the priest to paint on your grave.

“Mao.” She nodded to Stacey, not much caring to pursue the topic further. It was interesting, that subtle ability of hers to drop her words into the offbeats—as though waiting for moments when few were listening. Something else caught her attention. The jukebox activated just at the right moment—a sort of saving grace for Mao faux-focus on. Instead, her eyes lingered on the newcomer who entered purgatory dressed to head to the heavens. Mao knew her bet.

“Here for a reason,” she said. “Clever...” Mao started tapping arrhythmically against the bar as the music began to play. She wasn’t paying much mind to the words or even its musical measures for that matter. That was the Way of Niten, after all. Keep no distinct rhythm. Reinvent. Find your own. The investigator speech continued, and Mao only grew more amused as she followed along. It was getting harder to hide it all. She furrowed her brow, showed an angled grin.

“He’s dead,” Mao echoed, and couldn’t help but chuckle a bit. It only picked up when he withdrew the badge and proclaimed his position. “Occult and Paranormal Activity, yes.” Mao showed the slightest sign of second-guessing herself, bringing a palm against her cheek. They were all out of their minds, she thought, but perhaps that was the way to be. When met with the void, eschew the self. The sage assimilates with the Way.

“It just sounds professional...” Mao shifted herself up atop the bar, setting the empty drink down next to her. “We’re all agents of something these days. Aren’t we? Some more delusional than others... My money’s on the Void, investigator—give it one of a thousand different names.”

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒t 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖

_{@Opposition@SandyGunfox@Valor@MagratheanWhale@Atrophy@DeadDrop}

A Great, Great 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖

So that’s just it, isn’t it?
Any kami be damned to flames.
All falls in favor of the 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖.

>>>𝔸𝕓𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕠𝕟...
>>>𝔸𝕝𝕝...
>>>ℍ𝕠𝕡𝕖…

We, the people be the tools of entropy. That’s it. We are the pawn pieces. It all came crashing into the damn E-Brain that day. He was the ℍ𝕒𝕞𝕞𝕖𝕣. I was the 𝔸𝕟𝕧𝕚𝕝.

>>>𝔻𝕠...
>>>ℕ𝕠𝕥...
>>>𝔻𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖...
>>>𝕎𝕚𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟…

Back then, I thought I was lucky to even see him strike. To enter it all and have a chance to be integral to the waves—that vast array of information. My eyes staring into the camera… He invaded like a parasitic thought, didn’t even have to open the door and face the old monoblade persuasion…

>>>𝔼𝕤𝕔𝕒𝕡𝕖...
>>>𝕎𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕖...
>>>𝕐𝕠𝕦...
>>>ℂ𝕒𝕟…
At least I got the information. Just a IV drip of intrigue—of what was hidden. He was already a conduit, surfing the digital landscapes. He was a pest, really. Pragmatic parasite, thinking that information could save him. He was weak. Even before I ever saw him, I could see, just as he could see the weakness in me.

>>>𝔼𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪...
>>>ℂ𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕖...
>>>𝕄𝕖𝕖𝕥𝕤...
>>>𝔸𝕤...
>>>𝔼𝕢𝕦𝕒𝕝…

Partners… I never thought I’d have one, but in the face of something 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥, there’s no choice but to huddle in hives or stand subject to Mother Fate. That was the beginning of something. A unity of lost souls against some esoteric ‘Entropy’ entity that ran like live current through all of us. We were just tools, observers, seekers, naive, weak, baseless beasts intruding from a land of mediocrity. The ℍ𝕒𝕞𝕞𝕖𝕣 and 𝔸𝕟𝕧𝕚𝕝, but we weren’t yet complete. We couldn’t compete.

But all I needed was a glimpse.

>>>𝕊𝕖𝕖 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝔸𝕄𝔼...
>>>𝕀𝕥'𝕤 𝕁𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝔸 𝔾𝔸𝕄𝔼...
>>>𝕊𝕥𝕖𝕡 𝕀𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔸𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕒...
>>>ℙ𝕣𝕠𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝕋𝕙𝕪𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕗 𝔹𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝔸𝕄𝔼...
>>>𝔻𝕆 ℕ𝕆𝕋 𝔼𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝔸𝕄𝔼..
>>>𝔼𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝔸𝕄𝔼…
>>>𝔼𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝔸𝕄𝔼...
>>>...

𝕊𝕨𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕥𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕥 ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕞𝕠𝕟𝕤

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟙𝕤𝕥, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 𝟙𝟠:𝟛𝟘
[ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕖, 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕕𝕠𝕨 ℂ𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕧𝕒𝕟] 𝕋𝕖𝕣𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘...

Nobody really noticed the final flash of orange until he was out the door. The moment panic wove its way into the suites, the monk was on his way. Anyone who might have spotted him must have wondered what the straggler was doing after his procession had already gone off to do things that were certainly esoteric and probably a little creepy.

Samsara had taken to kicking Delilah every few beats of the music that played regularly in his head. It was rock music. Super cool stuff. Behind those hi-tech corpo glasses, though, he was having one of those staring deathmatches with Faren. Some of the NLP roadies had already lost interest in the scene, though most were focused on the show, considering it was blocking their way to the drinks. Faren had started smoking inside. Ironic.

Samsara held a dataslate in his hand. It went off, buzzing, though no one could really be sure if that wasn’t the effect of a well placed finger or an actual call. “The looming overlords call, D.” He fished into his pocket, but the show had already taken off before he could wrangle it.

Delilah had already started to drag herself up to her feet with handfuls of Samsara’s jacket when another one of the elite had infiltrated the domain of the bourgeoisie. She didn’t notice the ‘doctor’ at first, focusing her eyes instead into the ether. All too often, shitposting in response to Citizen K took precedence over any job, any Councilman Washington, or any wild west gun standoff, but the doctor came straight for her. It was way too suspicious. Medical emergency? she thought. He definitely wasn’t the navy.

”𝕨𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕟𝕖𝕕?"<<<
”𝕦𝕣 𝕗𝕒𝕧𝕠𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝕡𝕚𝕫𝕫𝕒 𝕡𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕖𝕥 𝕗𝕝𝕒𝕧𝕠𝕣 𝕘𝕖𝕥 𝕟𝕚𝕩𝕖𝕕?"<<<
...<<<

>>> “𝔸𝕝𝕞𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕕𝕚𝕕 𝕚𝕥 𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟… 𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕧𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕕... 𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕠𝕣𝕡𝕠𝕤 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕤𝕦𝕣𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕕 𝕞𝕖...”
>>> “𝕀'𝕝𝕝 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕗𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕞 𝕠𝕗𝕗...”
>>> “𝕎𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕞𝕪 𝕗𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕤...”
>>> “𝕆𝕣 𝕞𝕒𝕘𝕚𝕔...”
>>>...

Phase shift. Back to reality.

Two completely conspicuous sorts approached Faren and his horde from either staircase that led further into the suites. You could tell they were with the NLP because of their hipster glasses and black turtlenecks.

“Everything we needed?” The candidate asked. Both of his goons nodded, and a good portion of the NLP crowd started to disperse, finally intent on doing something useful besides warming up the room by standing together like a bunch of bees. Faren and a few others stayed, sizing up Samsara.

“Ma’am?” Delilah almost audibly scoffed, but opted for a sick hair-flip, devious-laugh combo instead. He was definitely a cop. She pushed herself off of Samsara and adjusted her glasses, trying to decipher whether he was red or blue or what. “Alright?”

Samsara shook his head. The moment his companion had finished using him as a support crutch, he stepped back, nudging Delilah with an elbow and pointing to his dataslate. An infallible excuse. “On to more important things.” He extended his hand and between his two fingers was a nondescript drive of black plastic. “Let me know when you get back to being useful.” Delilah begrudgingly accepted the drive, but her eyes never left Howland.

“What’s with all these questions?” Delilah leaned back, and tried to get a read on the guy. “What’re you a cop? I’ll be asking the questions here.” She was rather light on her feet with a bit of a sway to her step, but Delilah had always been a timebomb waiting to explode in motion… At least, if she had her snack that day.

Glory had resolved to keep herself occupied by maintaining a perimeter while she waited for the medical team to arrive after picking up Lott’s left-behind phone and pocketing it. It was a part of the unit tactics that she had been trained in for use on deployments: If you weren’t relevant for the task at hand, you kept an eye out for the people who were relevant. Fortunately, assistance arrived faster than Glory anticipated. It had only been a few moments when her ear perked up as she heard a voice begin speaking from within the crowd that had formed as people departed.

Glory’s eyes flicked over to Howland as he arrived on scene. Dr. Parker Howland, member of the health oversight committee and quite possibly the best person to arrive on scene at that moment. Glory blinked, but nodded. Her first-aid training was superficial at best, but if needed she could at least reliably perform CPR. ”Yes sir. My training in first-aid is limited, but I will assist you to the best of my ability on request.”

Due to her attention being on Howland’s arrival, Glory missed the black plastic drive that Samsara passed Delilah. Though if she had seen it, Glory wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Delilah was most likely going to be arrested and brought in for interrogation, but Glory couldn’t just declare everything she touched as evidence.

As Howland began to assess Delilah, Glory placed herself nearby. She still needed to provide overwatch, but was ready to respond if Howland presented a request.

Well, her airway and breathing were clear - and she was clearly intoxicated, too. Howland shook his head, gently placing two fingers on her neck. "I'm a doctor, ma'am. Did you say you suspected a heart attack?"

That man is more interested in the ridiculous glasses on his face than the woman in front of him, Howland observed. He consciously kept a sour expression from his face. Pulse elevated, but consistent. Pupils dilated - she was probably on drugs. As he spoke, he tried to guide her to a seat - sitting would be easier on her heart than standing.

A doctor, Delilah thought. It was a clever disguise, but she was always prepared with a clever-er reaction. Always stay strapped. That’s what the Crocodiles used to say. She jerked back a bit as his hand met her neck. Her left hand slipped up to grab his hand. “Heart attack? I’ve seen Death, cop, and the flatline doesn’t scare me anymore. I’m too powerful.”

Her other hand rose this time, she formed her gat once more, placing it just beneath his chin and tried to perform a dramatic pass-through to switch places with Howland, as if she were pushing him up against a wall. “Now where were you on November 8th, 2064 at approximately 1900 hours?”

"At the dinner table with my wife, at my home," Howland answered unexcitedly. He shifted his weight, using his greater size to absorb Delilah’s momentum as she pushed into him for some reason. He didn’t think this was a heart attack - this was most likely nothing more than the security guard overreacting to an even-greater idiot’s drunken rambling. All the same, this woman was wasted - she probably needed medical attention. His tone of voice didn’t change at all. "You do seem quite powerful, ma’am. Please don’t shoot me." He glanced over to the security guard, catching her eye and throwing a meaningful look towards the intoxicated woman.

Delilah’s flustered expression was evident the moment Howland resisted her slick moves, though it could have just been her body betraying her to the dehydration and heat exhaustion. The Shaman didn’t bother herself with worldly matters. “Likely story… Everyone in the Reclaim was busy that day. I bet you don’t even have a wife, cop. What’s your wife’s maiden name?”

She was always quite adamant about her positional advantage, and Delilah knew not to give any cop the upper hand. After a few steps, she planted her feet firmly, dropping her grip on Howlands wrist and exchanging it for another gun. “I’m very powerful. Magic as fuck, in fact, but don’t worry.” She turned her wrist as if to show him her weapon. “The safety was on.” Until she clicked it off, the menace.

Glory caught sight of Howland’s glance between her and Delilah and responded with a blink. The signal might’ve gone unnoticed, but it was indeed a signal. Most of the security team was aware of the idea that one blink was a confirmation, and two blinks was a denial. Moving subtly, Glory shifted a hand to one of her belt pouches. Popping it open, she retrieved one of the two pairs of handcuffs she kept on hand. Her motions would have to be swift.

Glory’s primary concern was the “gun” that Delilah had pressed to Howland’s chin, so it would be the first thing she dealt with. Unlocking both ends of the handcuffs, Glory mentally planned out her actions for a moment, and then executed them swiftly. With a single step and one swift arm motion, Glory moved behind Delilah and attempted to slap one end of the now-open handcuffs around Delilah’s “gun” hand...

One cop was bad enough. Two cops was a whole ordeal—the sort where the Shaman and her cronies began the reeeaaall hustle. Delilah knew that much from her circuit in Neo Orleans with the Crocodiles. She lost all interest in Howland when the security officer clearly started approaching with silent intent. Everyone wanted to dance with her, it seemed. Things always seemed to work out that way.

As Glory reached for Delilah’s main firearm, handcuffs already in hands, Delilah knew she was coming for some of that sweet heat. Her gun hand merely twisted, gripped the center of the handcuffs and Delilah spun into Glory so the two were face-to-face. Of course, she lost her suave Samsara coat in the process, but the expression on her face read stone-cold smooth.

“Careful what you’re doing there, miss,” the Shaman said. “S’venia always said it was dangerous to mess with a wizard.” There was a clear click from behind her back of handcuffs clinching shut and Delilah jingled her wrist a bit before letting all of her weight slump backwards. If Glory wanted to maintain control of the ‘criminal’ magician, she’d have to stumble with Delilah as she went to the ground or drop the cuffs.

“I’m the worst kind, too.” Delilah winked shut her eye on the blue side, because she saw only red. “And only I get to arrest me...”

Glory was genuinely caught by surprise as Delilah managed to twist her hand into position to grab at the oncoming cuff. ”Damn. For someone that genuinely looked to be on death’s door a few moments ago she sure does recover fast.” flicked through Glory’s mind as Delilah spun into her. Glory glared angrily at Delilah as she spoke, though she happily retained her height advantage at this distance. As Glory heard the clicking of cuffs behind Delilah’s back her mind began to race with possibilities. ”Did she cuff herself? Did she just close them? Did she try to cuff me?”

All of these thoughts were pushed aside as Delilah pushed herself backwards and began to fall. Glory had a few scenarios play through her head. In scenario one, she released her grip on the handcuffs and allowed Delilah to fall before attempting to restrain her again. However, this presented the possibility of Delilah utilizing the same swiftness she had made use of to grab the handcuffs in the first place to scamper away, and losing a piece of kit as abusable as handcuffs would come with a sharp penalty.

On the other hand, if Glory allowed herself to fall with Delilah, that allowed her to keep hold of the handcuffs and would most likely allow for her to prevent Delilah from scampering away. But it presented an uncomfortable amount of contact between the two of them and Della could try to pull some other trick. It would be incredibly bad if Delilah had a syringe filled with unknown chemicals at her disposal.
However, Glory also reasoned that with Howland present and the coat she had been previously wearing discarded on the floor, anything she had on hand would’ve likely been inaccessible and would likely be easy to diagnose and fix. Glory mentally nodded as she made her decision, and deliberately allowed Delilah to pull her down with her.

This deliberate motion allowed Glory to avoid falling harshly as she ended up largely on top of Delilah. Glory wasn’t happy being there, but it was needed to avoid her escaping. Glowering at Delilah, Glory used her free hand to push herself up and attempted to plant her left knee on the base of Delilah’s sternum as she shifted to the right to largely remove herself from being in contact with Delilah. Looking up at Howland, Glory motioned to the presumably now-pinned Delilah and spoke quickly. ”Doctor, if you’d like to continue your examination, she’ll probably not be able to do much else.”

Delilah sputtered in the face of her captor as she fell. The metallic arm clasped within the cuff became visible only as she stifled her fall, but Delilah shunted her prosthesis beneath her deck soon after, the bulky console nearly covering Delilah’s entire torso. Netrunners were always a strange sort, and even the Shaman herself felt the taxing effects of her Amalga’s weight everywhere she went. That didn’t much matter. She was always fully strapped.

“Oh, poor decision, miss.” Delilah looked all too content in her prone position, and the numerous wires enwrapping her form were plugged so haphazardly it was hard to tell what equipment was running and what she was actively operating.

”Wow, I came for a drink now I got girl on girl?” Johnny said finally walking over, Manhattan in hand. His other hand gripped onto his phone as he pulled it from his jacket and started recording the two flailing about.

Howland rubbed his forehead. He'd just wanted help holding the drunk still, and now all of… this. "Ah, thank you, miss." He stepped back, opening his medical case and pulling out that most advanced of pharmacological wonders - a tablet of aspirin. "That's all we can do here - she should be examined at the hospital. Here, get her to chew this, please. Aspirin can protect the heart from further clotting." He thought a moment, then held the bottle out where Delilah could see it. There was nothing more to do than wait for an ambulance. Howland was pretty certain she didn't need it, but he rather wanted to see the drunken woman admitted anyway. A toxicology report would, he guessed, make for interesting reading…

The Amalga Deck seemed almost to be a conduit for Delilah’s feelings, as much of a silly cyberjockey metaphor as that was. Nonetheless, the moment Howland stepped forward, the bulky gunmetal box whirred to life. While the Machine raged with life, however, Delilah appeared quite the opposite. She’d zoned out entirely, lost in the maze of cords and connections.

>>> 𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘…
>>> 𝕎𝕖𝕝𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝔽𝕝𝕦𝕩 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕒𝕟! 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕗𝕦𝕔𝕜𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕦𝕡...
>>> "ℍ𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕠 𝕞𝕖,”
>>> "𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕠𝕜𝕒𝕪?”
>>> “𝕆𝕣 𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕀 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕞𝕪 𝕔𝕣𝕚𝕞𝕖-𝕗𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕝𝕚𝕗𝕖 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦? 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕀 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕣𝕪 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕣 𝕠𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖?”
>>>...

>>>𝕊𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕄𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕒𝕘𝕖 𝕥𝕠 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕤:
"𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕋𝕣𝕦𝕥𝕙"
>>> ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾...
>>> "𝕀 𝕄 𝔹𝟛𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕣𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕓𝕪 𝔾𝕒𝕥𝕔𝕙'𝕤 ℝ𝕖𝕟𝕥-𝕒-𝕔𝕠𝕡...”
>>> "ℙ𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕞𝕪 𝕦𝕝𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕒𝕟 𝕞𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕤...”
>>> “𝕀 𝕣𝕖𝕢𝕦𝕚𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕦𝕟𝕓𝕚𝕒𝕤𝟛𝕕, 𝕧𝕚𝕣𝕥𝕦𝟘𝕦𝕤 𝕄𝟛𝔻𝟙𝔸!!!”
>>>...

Howland lowered the bottle as it became clear the woman was no longer paying attention. "...Ma’am?" Howland prompted. He did his best to ignore the camera and act professional. His job was first aid - let the security officer worry about the laws.

As Della revealed the prosthetic arm, Glory raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Delilah had, in fact, cuffed herself. What was this mad-woman’s end goal? Glory was about to reply to Howland when someone spoke behind her. Taking a moment to look over her shoulder, Glory scowled at Johnny and gave him a curt reminder. ”All non-essential personnel are supposed to be out of this area. This includes you. Please vacate the area promptly, thank you.”

”You’re mistaken miss, I’m essential as legal counsel. Thank you”” Lovecraft said professionally as he continued to record her.

Glory grumbled at Johnny’s answer, however she really couldn’t do anything as he was pretty much correct. At least in this scenario anyway. Turning her attention back to Delilah, Glory was surprised to see that she was totally zoned out, having apparently plugged herself into the cyberdeck that had whirred to life beneath her knee. Looking to Howland, Glory asked an important question. ”Doctor Howland, I’ve heard through word of mouth that pulling the plug out of someone that’s jacked into a cyberdeck can have some nasty biofeedback issues. Is that true? I ask because of the fact that every moment she’s plugged into that deck she’s potentially attacking some other electronic device and if I can put a stop to that possibility I’d like to.”

”As a security contractor you have no police powers or a Deck-warrant to stop her from decking even if she is blowing up the entire building. You need to call and report her to the police otherwise you would be violating her right to privacy on the net.”” Johnny said almost quoting the law itself.

Delilah smiled at the words of the lawman or whatever they called themselves these days. Her deck wasn’t quite the usual FuryTech hardware. Glory must have already been feeling the heat emanate from Delilah’s web of cables. “Oh, don’t want to mess with a Netrunner’s deck. This one especially. That’s the quickest way to get a curse cast upon you by a vile magician of the net.”

"And it can stress the heart - not a good idea if any cardiac symptoms are suspected." Howland shook his head - he was putting it mildly. The insidious connections an e-brain held could have serious effects if it were active enough. "Leave her be; the paramedics will have equipment for safely disconnecting without causing a feedback or power surge."

S’venia’s smile faded as she read the message, a smile made late by her desire to track a story. S'venia had thoughts about leaving this alone. Delilah was capable enough in her mind. If Gatch had hired someone to protect him, then they must have been the lowest common denominator. At the same time this text was unlike anything Del had sent before. Curious. Delilah was much more durable than others gave her credit. From her wacky mannerisms to her off putting nature, she always had a way to rub the wrong persons the wrong way. S'venia once again had thoughts of leaving the matter to its eventuality. The Truth of the matter, a friend was in need, and this was new. She needed to be sure.


ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾...
>>> "𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕣 𝕦??"

“𝕀 𝕒𝕞 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤. 𝔽𝕣𝕠𝕟𝕥 𝕕𝕠𝕠𝕣 𝕚𝕤 𝕦𝕟𝕘𝕦𝕒𝕣𝕕𝕖𝕕.”<<<
...<<<

“Lions den Deli,” S’venia thought as she turned her head towards the doors of the hotel. What could have compelled her to go back into that horror show? Her eyes shifted as she unrolled her computer once more and tapped on two icons, one with the name R1 and the other R2. Soon her computer was alive with various bits of data. “Alright RR’s,” S’venia spoke as she began to type various commands into the screen, “time to join the party,” she finished as she rolled her computer backup and started towards the front door. “Lead me in,” she commanded.

Glory nodded to Howland’s information. Unfortunately, that meant that she couldn’t stop Delilah from accessing her deck. However, that problem was rendered secondary by the problem of Johnny attempting to give her grief for doing her job. Glory was naturally less than pleased at his assertion that she was doing her job incorrectly, and thus her limit was finally reached as she looked over her shoulder once again to confront Johnny on his incessant disturbances. “Firstly, deliberately hacking into security systems qualifies as a major cybercrime and a public offense. Secondly, a citizen has the capability to arrest if a public offense has been committed in his or her presence. Thirdly, I have authority to detain anyone in this building for questioning should circumstances arise that place them as a viable suspect in blackmail, cybercrime, bribery, espionage, or theft. I know what I am doing, and what I’m doing is in accordance with the authority I have been granted.”

Giving an exhausted sigh, Glory returned her attention to Delilah. The cords that her leg was partially resting on were getting quite warm, but that didn’t dissuade Glory from keeping her knee planted on the bottom of Delilah’s sternum. More than anything, Glory wanted no more tricks out of the woman with infinite surprises.

”You have no idea what she’s doing in their decking, you aren’t plugged in like a data-cop would so you can’t even touch her in the real. For all you know she could be playing pong in the Labyrinth. The worst she has done was molest that guy, if you do anything to her she’ll sue the socks off you or maybe cast a spell. ”” Within a flash Johnny threw a business card on Del’s jacked in corpse.

”If you’re going to detain someone maybe you should follow the procedural rules of fed-law and inform her she’s being detained all you did was handcuff her and then touch her when she was jacked in. You could be sued civilly for violating her while she was jacked in, see Fairview Clearwater Sec vs. T. Thunderlane, 2034.”” Johnny finished his Manhattan finally, tasted like Buka backwater. He tossed the plastic martini-weeny drink holder-gadget away towards the ‘bar’ as it fell into obscurity.

”You’re young, beautiful but inexperienced miss. You’re doing too much, especially for a corpo party like this.””

Delilah snapped her free hand up and caught the business card between her fingers, and pulled it in front of her glasses, reading through it a good few times in her prone and immobile condition. “Lovecraft the Lawyerman… Solid choice. You will be remembered in the ether, when my magic consumes the rest of them.” She pocketed the card, stowing it in Samsara’s fallen coat. “And it’s no party anymore, Lawyerman. Strictly business.”

”Maybe you can buy me a drink at the Duat sometime and we’ll make it a party?”” He said looking at his dwindling sad-boy stash of cigarettes, the carton was in a No-Americana language which reminded him of how long he had had such an awesome & stoic pack of cigs.

S’venia had now found herself in the hallway adjacent to where the common areas used to be, guided by her reporter drone through the hallways and away from any crowded sections that remained. Her drone allowed her to see which way the cameras faced on her way to the area. The front door really was wide open. The place was practically a ghost town at this point without a hint of the campaigns present. She unrolled her computer, before raising her glasses upward, once again and looked over the streams of data, namely their locations, of her two other drones. Both were where they were supposed to be, hidden thick amid the actual reporter drones. Perfect. She typed a few more commands into her console, and soon, two separate video feeds appeared on the device. While the quality was not excellent, she was able to see what they saw.

"Well you're in a pickle," S'venia thought as she saw the goon on top of Delilah, and another off to the side. There was another figure, she couldn’t make out who they were but an educated guess meant he was there to help in some capacity. She used her hand to motion for her drone to come closer. Once it was in range, she smiled as she began to whisper. "Paparazzi mode, full video," she paused as various cameras, cameras with flashes, and actual flash devices erupted outward. "Quarter second bursts, full flash," she paused once again as she lowered her glasses. The video feed from the drone lit up her vision. She taped a few more commands into her computer, and the RR's now saw the two goons highlighted in red. "Targets identified, shift focus each burst." The drone shifted its front back towards the door. "On my command, execute."

She then entered a command called "Fly-by" to the two drones outside, and tagged the command to the phrase "two".

>>> "𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕪?"

“𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕒𝕟 𝕔𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕤 𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕝𝕝!”<<<
...<<<

Glory thought about what the surprisingly well versed merc behind her had mentioned. The case he had specifically mentioned was indeed quite relevant. As were the other things that he had mentioned before. Now that her haze of justice and righteousness was broken, things were beginning to click into place. Why had she seized Lott’s phone? She didn’t know if it had actually been assaulted by the person pinned under her knee. She didn’t even know for sure if the person pinned under her knee was in fact responsible for the earlier cyberattack. What if she had been defending against it? What had even led to this course of events? Glory had called for medical assistance since she had mentioned a heart attack, and then Howland had asked for assistance when she was interrogating him, but was going for her handcuffs really the right idea?

”I screwed up. I screwed up. Oh shit. I screwed up. My first ever job where it’s not just ‘stand here and look tough’ and I screwed up. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fu-” Glory’s mental fortress began to collapse as the chain of realizations hit her as to how badly she had overreacted. Her eyes glazed over as she felt a massive wave of anxiety roll over her as her mind went back to the same desperate state that had landed her this job in the first place. Delilah would probably notice that the pressure being applied to the base of her sternum was rapidly decreasing at this point. Glory gave a small yet visible shudder as her self confidence shattered like a pane of glass. Her eyes darted about the room, first to Delilah, then to Howland, then to the crowd. Her mind raced as she struggled to think of a way out of this situation.

Glory’s head began to spin. Details began to blur together as she felt a strong rushing sensation overtake her as her anxiety reached critical levels. Moments before she went limp, Glory managed to utter one word. ”No…” After that, Glory went limp and collapsed harshly onto where Delilah’s legs would be. Out cold.

”Wow, what the drig did I just witness.”” He said taking out an ancient 427 Lucky cigarette and dropping it on Glory’s body for future smoking or sentimental value. Seeing that the big goon was down and a future client has his number he turned to walk out of the suites. ”Call me if you want to take me out for drinks Wire Girl.” He said putting a Red Devil cigarette in his mouth, he lit it with a match from The Departed. Exhaling smoke he walked towards the exit, maybe to find Lott for once.

S’venia counted down. >>> "𝕆𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕜,
𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖... 𝕥𝕨𝕠.."

“𝔽𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝔽𝕝𝕦𝕩 𝔽𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕪 𝔽𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕤 ℍ𝕖𝕣 𝔽𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕝 𝔽𝕚𝕘𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 ℙ𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕒𝕤𝕞𝕤!”<<<
“[[[𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥'𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕠𝕕𝕖 𝕡𝕙𝕣𝟜𝕤𝕖]]]...”<<<
...<<<

As she said the command the two drones reacted. In an instant fury, they flew themselves towards the windows of the lobby. Accelerating at a pace allowed by their repulsorlifts, they found themselves closer, and closer, and even closer still to crashing through the windows of the lobby. Suddenly, and as soon as they reached the predetermined metrics of their command, they flipped. Instead of crashing through the windows they floored their engines in an attempt to reverse their chosen path. The increased powerload from their engines roared against the glass of the lobby, causing the glass to react violently. The noise was loud. Those in the lobby would hear the sound of a machine of war reacting violently to a stress it was not designed to endure.

>>> "𝕆𝕟𝕖."
S’venia made one fast motion with her hand, the sign of a gun, and her drone went through the door.

“𝔽𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝔽𝕝𝕦𝕩 𝔽𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕪 𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽𝔽—...”<<<
...<<<

Delilah, taking note of the slack of Glory’s hold and whatever chaos The Truth was busy stirring, threw all of her weight to the side to roll from the security guard’s pin. Her deck input was momentarily ignored, leading her ‘code phrase’ to turn instead into the interconnected cyberdeck equivalent of a pressed-down key.. Delilah started to press herself up to her knees, taking the deck in both hands. Anyone who managed to keep their eyes on the wild shaman would have noticed the handcuff merely fall off of her hand, as though by magic. “Anarchy!” the vile shaman yelled as her battlecry.

Howland had only just started to react to the security guard’s sudden collapse when noise and light flooded the refreshments area. He reeled back in surprise as Delilah shot upwards, shouting for some reason. He reflexively threw out his hands as a loud noise emanated from the windows. He was unarmed, and whatever this drunken hacker had just done, he wanted no part of it!

S'venia watched through her glasses as her drone entered the room. "Shit," she thought as she turned her head as one of the goons had gone missing. Her drone, however, still executed her command. The drone began to send bright lights toward goon #1 and the man with his hands up. S'venia took a second to realize the situation, "freeze," she commanded, and her drone obeyed. She rotated her hand, and her drone shifted its focus towards Delilah. With a raise, and then soon followed by a lowering of her hand, her drone responded. It went up, then down as it caught the sight of the anarchy.

"Where did goon two go," she asked as she shifted her attention down the hallway.

Delilah stumbled. Despite her miraculous handcuff escape, the cords of her Amalga rigging was a trap in and of itself. She flinched as she rose to her feet, grabbing the handle-side of her deck in one hand and bringing her gun-hand back level with the cop doctor. The nausea was already starting to take hold, but the flashing lights only made it worse.

“Come in, ally. I’ve neutralized the situation and the cops are on the backfoot.”

S’venia, upon hearing the all clear, issued a new command to her drone. “Cover me.” As her drone slid back towards the door S’venia made her way towards it. A few steps later she turned the corner, entered the room, with most of her face more or less blocked by the drone. While it hid the full frame, it still left enough to be seen. Her head still shifted from the sudden transition, eventually it settled on the backside of the drone.

Howland backed away, keeping an eye on the drone and blinking to clear spots from his vision. "Excuse me..." he started, keeping his voice even and unexcited. He wasn’t sure who this woman was or why she had burst onto the scene - clearly the drunk woman had backup of some kind. "I’m a doctor. I’m trying to bring this woman to medical attention."

“You’re excused,” S’venia paused for a brief second, head shifting out of position ever so, “hi Delilah.” She gave a small half wave as she returned her focus back to the rear of the drone. “Made a friend,” S’venia asked as she took another step into the room. “A doctor even? Look at you, trading up,” she finished as she stared down the ‘Doctor’ through her glasses.

"...Yes, quite." Howland lowered his hands. What more was there to say? "Although with her level of activity, I don’t think the cardiac problem I was summoned here for is a pressing issue, I still think she should be checked out in an emergency department."

“Don’t listen to him, S’venia. He’s undercover—a doctor, but also a cop. A Cop-Doctor. I think he might even have been the assassin that killed Dex. He’s got no alibi.” Delilah squared off with Howland, weapons at the ready as she closed the distance between herself and The Truth. “Hospitals are a scam anyways. Use black clinics, you cop.”

With the drunk woman moving away, Howland slowly walked over and knelt next to the fallen security guard. The woman seemed intent on pointing her fingers at him, for some reason, but he wasn’t about to let a drunken attempt at a threat come before his duty as a medical professional. "I’m also not sure why this woman fainted - I’m just going to check and see that she’s alright." With practiced ease, Howland checked her vitals. Pulse steady. Airway unobstructed. She was breathing. "My name is Dr. Parker Howland - I work with the Twin Cities Health Department." Between that, a private practice, and his other activism, he didn’t exactly have time for a career in law enforcement anyway. Perhaps this newcomer could talk some sense into the woman.

S’venia smile faded for a brief second before it resumed in full. The mention of the assassin had forced her hand up to adjust her glasses in a quick fashion. She took a few seconds and waited with baited breath as she examined the face of the cop-doctor. “Oh he’s,” she paused for a second as a quick chuckle came out, “he’s not the assassin, Delilah.” She shifted her head towards the Shaman, noticing her moving towards her. “His eyes are all wrong.” She took a step backwards and soon found herself leaning her back against the door frame, her drone still following her movements. “I doubt our new friend knows much about that creature, do ya mister...” she paused as she let the question hang in the air.

Howland’s voice remained flat. "I’m afraid no assassins rank among my professional contacts." He gently rolled the unconscious security guard on her back.

“As expected,” S’venia responded as she shifted along the frame until she was almost out the door. “In that case it’s been a pleasure to meet you Dr. Parker Howland.” After a short pause, his name started to tingle in the back of her mind. She knew it somehow but at the same time did not know from where. A curiosity. She had met an enigma earlier and now she has met a curiosity. S’venia wanted to probe further but the thought of the second goon was still on her mind. “Delilah,” S’venia spoke as she motioned towards the door.

The netrunner steadied her lopsided deck, still dangerously close to hanging herself in the cords. “Security neutralized,” she said, stepping around Howland and his newfound patient. “I would say they’d need more for the debate, but I’m sure Gatch has plenty of plans.”

As Delilah reached the door, she glanced back to the cop-doctor. The Reclaim was full of odd sorts, but it was their place. In the midst of the frying pan, the burning lunatics did well to survive together, even if that survival was wrought with chaos and deception. Delilah didn’t appreciate the sort who didn’t know the status-quo, but then again, she wasn’t a Reclaim-native either. She stepped through the door. Maybe they were all outsiders. Maybe that was the point.

“I’ve found something, S’venia. About the debate. About art...”

Walmageddon: Day of the Discount (Post Apocalyptic Supermarket Simulator)

<Snipped quote by Opposition>

I really love that fluff text in your Resume about the inner workings of the Stationary Shogunate. Shit like this is what the Wal was made for. There were ideas that I had for a faction that lived in the vents and on the Roof Tops but I digress. I could nitpick stuff like Bushido having been bastardised into Brushido by the Stationary Shogunate and other minor things, this is a really good sheet.

My only complaint is that you didn't make this more insane that it already is.

@Commander Lazer

That's to come in the next one.

Walmageddon: Day of the Discount (Post Apocalyptic Supermarket Simulator)

Here is sheet #1, boss. I had two different ideas vying for control, and may try to formulate the other next week when I have time. Let me know what you think.

I would like my Wal-Coupons now.

Runs-With-Scissors

---

PERSONAL ACCOUNT

NAME: Origami Runs-With-Scissors

GENDER: Female

DEPARTMENT: Stationary Shogunate

AGE: 18

APPEARANCE:
Origami, despite her offbeat appearance, is the type to be looked over as though part of the environment. If she stood still, she could easily be mistaken for some sort of cardboard cut-out. She certainly has that mascot look, after all. The first thing anyone will notice about the girl is that she wears a brown paper bag over her head. Most often, it is quite simple, bearing two immaculately circular eyeholes and a slit for a mouth.

What lies beneath the mask is a mystery to even the most sage denizens of the Wal. Occasionally, tufts of black hair stick out from beyond its opening and fall along Origami’s shoulders. Everything below the mask looks like it was peeled right off a stock character design and pasted on. She is a relatively small girl with no distinct musculature, and she wears a plain uniform with a white shirt, black skirt, and black knee-socks. Often, every pocket, waistband, or opening in her clothes is overflowing with miscellaneous stationery.

---

RESUME

Runs-With-Scissors was born into a humble family of papersmiths that had carried their craft for countless generations. Some would go as far to say that their modest hamlet “hidden in the sheafs” produces some of the best folders in retail. The hamlet, believed to be directly under a massive pneumatic tube that leads to the Recycler, is filled with excess paper and must fight just to avoid being buried in the miscellaneous sheets and scraps. Her family is renowned for their talents to turn even piles of scraps into the finest sporting goods. As such, Runs-With-Scissors was raised to be a great artisan, taught the Way of classical folding and penjutsu from birth. It is rumored that the first time Runs-With-Scissors was left alone, she folded her first 999 cranes with no instruction.

Despite their grand talents, Runs-With-Scissors’s clan, the KamiKami were devoted to their craftsmanship and had little interest in the unvirtuous realms of politics and territorial feudalism that seemed to guide the shogunate. Guided by ancient Bushido doctrines, the clan of masters retained their neutrality, making their great tools of war for only the most worthy warriors. Their rectitude, however, would ultimately lead to the scheming of their enemies, and thus, the downfall of the hamlet ‘hidden in the sheafs’.

While Runs-With-Scissors occupied her idle time with fervently decorating her village and folding new plantlife into the mounds of sheafs, the elders of the KamiKami clan were caught in heated negotiations between various Daimyo of the office supplies. While KamiKami refused to provide aid to the troops of Bic’s vast army, they were humiliated and shunned from the greater summits of the shogunate. As tensions with the Tronic Temple increased, however, the shogunate knew that the skills of the KamiKami were necessary for victory. Spitefully refusing once again to give up their masterworked art in favor of mass-produced weapons, any dissenters of the KamiKami clan were sentenced to be scrapped along with their village. KamiKami’s Old Masters fought bravely for 8 ½ days and 11 nights, but the village hidden in the sheafs inevitably fell to the vile new world tactic of pyrotechnics.

The young Runs-With-Scissors watched the Old Masters fall one-by-one in the attack. Those who managed to beat back the Bic troops would give up on the 11th night, committing Hara-Kiri as a final dignified act of KamiKami unity. Of course, there were remnants. The wise old ronin ‘Origami Spills-His-Ink’ knew it was unwise to die with the village, and sought to save the youth before he escaped. Just as the village hidden in the sheafs was surrounded and a final charge of Stationari Samurai came to run through any survivors still writhing in the flames, Spills-His-Ink, in a ditch effort to save the young Runs-With-Scissors, undertook the greatest fold he had ever attempted: the Million-Fold Crane Technique. In an ultimate display, Spills-His Ink folded a massive bird mounted atop a paper balloon and lashed young Runs-With-Scissors to his project with a roll of wrapping-paper. As she rose into the sky, the great bird taking flight due to lift generated by her burning village, great ronin Spills-His-Ink turned and leveled his mache-blade against the approaching horde.

Runs-With-Scissors, one with her fate, had no choice but to sail up into the monolithic looming vent of the Recycler. The millionth crane of the mysterious ronin sailed through the air for days before it was taken down by the biting winds of the Recycler pipes and Runs-With-Scissors was set free. She soon found that attached to the ground was Spills-His-Ink’s final draft of the ‘calligraphic experimental memoir’ he told everyone he was working on. They all thought he was just lazy, but now Runs-With-Scissors held the manuscript in her hand, and it was much more than a manuscript. It was a collection of all the ronin’s knowledge about the eldritch nature of the Wal, and it was a guide to his esoteric way: The Way of the Million Folds.

Ever since then, Runs-With-Scissors has become infatuated with the mysteries of the great Wal and its interworkings. Taking up Origami’s name, she has also taken it upon herself to finish the great guidebook ‘Codex OmniWal’. Residing in the vents, Origami Runs-With-Scissors uses the overly-complex piping system to navigate the Wal and document her encounters while mapping the nigh endless maze.

---

RECEIPT

PERSONAL GOAL:
Origami has taken up his mantle after her final encounter with Spills-His-Ink, aiming ultimately to complete the Codex OmniWal and uncover the complex’s Great Mysteries. It is not uncommon to see the enigmatic ronin frantically scribbling in her mystic guidebook. To unravel its grand plan and complete the instructions on “the Way” is Origami’s purpose. She also has a great penchant for collecting souvenirs of her journeys like a pack rat, which she stores in her impressive collections within the beast’s ventilation shafts for careful study and addition to the Codex.

LIKES:
►Paper Fortune-Telling
►Recycling
►Collecting Trinkets
►Graffiti
►Petty Theft
►Staying Smooth
►Staying Strapped

DISLIKES:
►Typing
►Shredders
►Using Computers

REPUTE:
Origami is generally unknown to the denizens of the Wal. While Runs-With-Scissors may be known to a select few Stationari in the shogunate involved in the execution of the KamiKami Clan, she has since become nothing more than a fly on the Wal. Those who have managed to glimpse the elusive Origami know little of her origins or motivations, though legends may circulate regarding a strange shoplifting ronin the roams the Wal with mysterious goals.

HEEL: “No Thoughts Head Empty”
Having very little formal education about the world, save for intensive training in her Arts and the knowledge pulled from the Codex OmniWal, Origami is extremely naive to the general order and structure of the world. While she is known to be extremely independent, that has left her with an extreme degree of naivety. She lacks a capacity to judge people accurately, and often takes things at surface-level. A woman of few words and many actions-per-second, Origami doesn’t strike anyone as the ‘thinking type’.

CODE: “Dao of Wal”
Guided by the esoteric doctrines penned by a lineage of outcast ronin, Origami follows the Way. In her complex, confusing (and perhaps contradicting) Way, the ronin covets harmonizing with Wal. To achieve perfect understanding of the Wal’s machinations allows for perfection of the self. It is the ronin that accepts the Wal’s chaos as the Way that can operate in complete unity and harmony with her environment. To achieve this, Origami aims to empty herself of ‘self’ and exist only as the Way.

QUIRKS:
►Origami collects as many Crayola colors as possible.
►Due to her excessive Art, Origami has a tendency to leave a trail of dropped, lost, or forgotten stationary wherever she goes.
►Origami often marks where she’s been throughout the Wal by defacing it with whatever supplies she has on hand, often being various crayons.
►Origami is constantly taking down notes in her Codex, drawing maps of her surroundings, and sketching pictures when not occupied. This often draws her attention away from important things.

---

PERFORMANCE REVIEW

The Way of a Thousand Folds ► Guided by the ancient doctrines transcribed by Spills-His-Ink, Origami is a practitioner of The Way of a Thousand Folds. The martial virtue instilled in her by KamiKami and the Codex OmniWal have provided Origami with just the regimen to perfect her Arts and Crafts. Her speed with paper is immaculate, often producing deeply intricate folded works in the blink of an eye. Origami’s use of papercraft provides the basis and majority of her arsenal and tricks. She relies on endless supplies of discarded stationary taken from wherever she can find it to fuel her craft.

Crouching Paper Tiger, Hidden Dragon ►
Having lived her life as a ronin, Origami has spent an inordinate amount of time traversing the Wal’s eldritch ventilation shafts, scavenging, and shoplifting to survive. To even stay alive, Origami has had to develop a honed sense of stealth, polished reflexes, and quick thinking skills. Moving through the Wal, evading potential dangers, infiltration, and exfiltration are all her specialty.

Journey to the Text ►
Hidden within the Codex OmniWal is Spills-His-Ink’s collection of maps, techniques, and tactics for operating within the Wal. Because of her careful study of the text, Origami has a vast knowledge of many pieces of the Wal’s layout and functions. She uses the Codex’s wisdom to exploit the Wal and use it to her advantage. An example of this would be her use of the ventilation and recycler shafts for traversal unnoticed. This is how she has evaded the Sec-Bots for so long.

GROCERIES

(ITEM NAME) ► (DESCRIPTION)

(ITEM NAME) ► (DESCRIPTION)

(ITEM NAME) ► (DESCRIPTION)