SandyGunfox

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

Swathe Street Commons
Reclaim Zone, South City Sprawl
April 1, 2065

The TCHD office in the Commons was a small, messy room on the third floor of an unremarkable building. The room’s sole window provided a scenic view of the wall of a parking garage, a gray slab of concrete in what could charitably be called “street art”. Crammed between a utility closet and the floor’s women’s bathroom, the room was an afterthought, something spared at the last minute for the Campaign Health Oversight Committee, which the event planning commission undoubtedly had to be reminded exists.

To the left was an incongruously neat desk, with a computer terminal connected to the TCHD’s network; the holographic Health Department logo glowed faintly red in the unlit room. Howland dismissed the rest of the room with barely a glance. Doubtless his colleagues on the Committee left it as messy as they’d found it, or worse.

The leather chair made a soft whirr when Howland sat as hundreds of tiny servo-motors adjusted the shape of his chair to the exact contours of his back. An unnecessary luxury, perhaps, but Howland wasn’t a young man anymore. The inexpensive, injection-molded hard plastic chairs the event planning commission provided on the cheap just weren’t worth the back pain the next day. He lifted his briefcase from behind the desk with utmost care, placing it gently on the desk.

The dim light from across the room startled him - nobody else should’ve been here. Yet there lay a young man, reclining against the wall, head propped up by a dark-colored backpack, face obscured by a glowing holograph. Howland took a deep breath, suppressing any reflexive response to the unexpected visitor. He was wearing a charcoal coat with a maroon shirt, the uniform of a local private academy. He didn’t visibly react to Howland’s entry, taking a few moments to speak up.

”Hey, Dad.”

Howland relaxed, careful not to show any surprise on his face. ”David.” His older son wasn’t the type to show up to a social event willingly - and his clothing suggested he’d come straight from school. Howland scrutinized his briefcase: A single strand of fine hair stuck out of the lock. Good - nobody had opened it.

”Don’t mind me,” David said, not looking up from his display. ”I’m just using Mom’s network access and your office’s terminal.”

”Does Sarah still use our anniversary as her password? I’ve told her even a teenager could puzzle that one out.” Now he recognized the display - it was an advanced anatomy reference.

He carefully opened his briefcase, keeping the lid between David and its contents. ”It was the second thing I tried,” David admitted. ”Mom’s not as clever as you are.” It wasn’t a compliment to him or an insult to her, Howland knew. David had a rather blunt way of speaking the truth.

The device was already mostly assembled - for safety, all Howland had to do was connect its components. The main charge consisted of several plastic pipes. Out of one end of each pipe jutted a small silver cylinder, with thin wires connecting them in series. The detonators relied on a crude mercury fulminate, the pipes below them filled with simple black powder. Howland very carefully connected the negative wire to the negative terminal of a battery pulled from a disposable vape pen. He spoke up as he taped the negative wire into place. ”Don’t you have exams to be studying for, rather than breaking into the Health Department’s reference library? You’re graduating next month, David.”

David’s tone was dismissive. ”Please.”

Connecting the positive terminal to the fuze was even easier - but connecting the fuze to the circuit was the dangerous part. If the fuze wasn’t wired exactly right, the device would explode right then and there. The device was crude - in fact, it was deliberately made to only partially detonate. It wouldn’t even kill David across the room. But it could very well kill him, and that would prove inconvenient. ”Getting a head start on med school, are we?”

”Leo has friends over, I didn’t want to listen to their video games all night.” David’s display floated through a cutaway spinal cord, flowing upwards towards the brain stem. His eyes scanned past displays composited from images of medical cadavers and surgical footage. ”It wasn’t difficult to walk right past the people setting up for the event this afternoon.”

”You came to a political rally for peace and quiet?” Howland’s fuze of choice for this device was a spring-loaded trigger. A spring kept under tension separated the positive and negative wires. Held there by the latch of the briefcase, when opened, the spring would snap forward, connecting the positive and negative ends and completing the circuit and powering the detonators.

David shrugged. Howland knew he couldn’t care less about the political rally. ”I was going to just watch TV. But these references are...interesting. It’s like looking at a clockwork mechanism. Every part connects to the next part. It all works in a kind of synchronicity, like a machine…”

Howland carefully closed the briefcase, holding the spring down manually until the latch came over it. Now the bomb was armed. ”It’s just like as I taught you as a boy, David.” His son finally looked up, at that, a question written on his raised brow.

Howland started to sing. ”Well the foot bone’s connected to the...shin bones! The shine bone’s connected to the...thigh bones!”

”God, now he’s singing. Dad, I will throw my coffee at you-”

”The thigh bone’s connected to the...hip bones! The hip bone’s connected to the…!” Howland ducked and laughed as an empty cup of coffee flew past where his head had been a moment earlier.

David didn’t laugh - the boy had never been as emotional as his more expressive siblings - but he did crack a smile, audibly exhaling. Howland smiled back, collecting the briefcase, his pack, and a bottle of water from his desk. ”I need to collect samples from the water fountains. Want to join me?” David didn’t bother to grace the question with a reply, turning back to the holograph. ”...Didn’t think so. Theresa’s here too, by the way. Text her if you want a ride home.”

Howland headed out, as his son acknowledged him with barely a spared grunt.

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

Swathe Street Commons
Reclaim Zone, South City Sprawl
April 1, 2065

”So, just to be clear, you were not joking about the civics lesson thing back in high school?” Theresa Howland looked around at the well-dressed crowd, and self-consciously pulled at the fringe of her dark-teal evening dress. “Dad, that was almost two years ago!”

”I wasn’t joking,” Howland replied, mildly. His eyes scanned the crowd, carefully taking in every detail. Each mayoral candidate entered the Commons one at a time, and of course, each one had to make an entrance of it - immediately abandoning any pretense that an election was about issues and ideals. It was, as all elections, all about the candidates themselves.

”Can’t you waste Mom’s time with this?” Theresa complained. ”It’s not that I don’t care about the mayoral race, I just…” She trailed off, lapsing into an awkward silence. ”...don’t...er, care...”

Howland chuckled under his breath. ”I told you when you wanted to join the SFROTC, two years ago, that you have to understand a nation if you intend to devote your life to serving it. He looked ahead, walking along the edge of the crowd with her. "Three hundred years ago, the king of Great Britain decreed the first direct tax on American colonies. It ultimately prompted a war in which the military you’re joining was founded...”

”So you haven’t forgiven me for that American History test,” Theresa replied, dryly. ”I was just too exhausted from PT to study. If I had a certain E-Brain implant I wanted, I could easily retain all that information, you know.”

Howland continued as if his daughter hadn’t said anything. ”...and that war was fought for this, right here.” With a sweep of his hand, he drew his daughter’s attention towards the center of the room, where the candidates stood in a group. His patient, Lott Ramana, ambled towards her employer amidst the crowd. Howland pretended not to notice how inebriated she was; she at least was experienced at hiding the more obvious symptoms of intoxication. ”All I’m saying is that I think a USSF cadet should experience, at the ground level, the ins and outs of what it is she fights for.”

”And that means I have to volunteer for one of their campaigns?” Theresa frowned, looking at the group of candidates skeptically. ”I’m not even sure which one I’m gonna vote for, let alone which one I should work for!”

Howland shook his head. ”I said you had to volunteer on the campaign trail; I didn’t say you had to volunteer for a specific campaign.” He paused and added, ”You could always volunteer for the TCHD. We’re concerned about legionella in public drinking fountains at campaign venues caused by insufficient chlorination - I’ll get you a few petri dishes and sample swabs.”

”...Yeah, no thanks,” Theresa shot back, unenthused. ”...which one are you going to vote for, Dad? I know you have to be neutral as a TCHD representative, but I mean, you’re too smart not to have an opinion personally.”

Howland sighed. Theresa was an intelligent and well-intentioned girl, but she didn’t understand what it truly meant to seek change in society. He refused to give any of his children cybernetic implants, but he couldn’t stop her from getting one on her own. She couldn’t be a pilot without an E-Brain and cyber-eyes, and the Space Force would augment its pilots themselves. All he could do was instill good values and sound judgment in his daughter before then. How, then, to answer such a question when his own conclusion had found every party, and the entire race, detestable?

The fatal flaws of cybernetic society were something Theresa would have to experience for herself. He would just have to trust that his daughter was intelligent enough to learn from personal experience. When she saw how corrupt, how utterly morally bankrupt, the business of politics really was - then she’d be closer to understanding what it means to oppose Futility. And besides, he had work to do tonight, and couldn’t spend the whole evening engaged in an intricate philosophical debate with her.

Howland smiled. ”That would be telling, Theresa! All I’ll say is that I think you should always be skeptical, and never fall for the lazy thinking that any one party always has the answers.”

”An inoffensive statement,” Theresa mused, ”spoken like a true Centrist Party moderate.” When Howland didn’t rise to the bait, she shook her head. ”Alright, well, every campaign, and I’m sure plenty of others too, are all here looking for local talent, right? I’d like to go and introduce myself around, see if maybe I can’t find an open position or internship or something for the campaign season.”

Howland nodded his approval. ”Good idea. I do have some work to do, anyway.” He patted his daughter’s shoulder, a gesture she had always found reassurance in. ”It’s not about a political stance, Theresa. I just think you should be involved; how you take part in society is something you’re old enough to decide for yourself. Now go on, there’s lots of important people here - go introduce yourself to some of them.”

He wasn’t discomfited with the thought of leaving his daughter in such an unsavory crowd. She was capable of handling herself, and besides, staying in a comfortable and safe bubble was how society kept most people like her in line. Behind him, Theresa looked around, obviously wondering to herself just who amidst the crowd she might possibly seek an opportunity with.

Howland, meanwhile, had other work to do...

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

Dr. Parker Howland, M.D.

Picture

Dr. Parker Howland, M.D.

41 | Male | 6'1" | AB+

Genius | Accomplished | Superficial Charm | Manipulative | Sociopath | Terrorist

General Information

"Doctors heal people. But who heals society?"

OCCUPATION:

• Practitioner of Psychiatric Medicine
• Campaign Health Oversight Committee Board Member

Psychological Profile

"They taught me to understand and treat the problems and traumas deep within people. What is society, but a collective of people? My actions are a natural extension of my practice."

Goals

PERSONAL GOAL: We must restore the purity of the human psyche. To prioritize personal desires over such a thing would be the epitome of selfishness.

CAMPAIGN GOAL: The council of a single polity is ultimately irrelevant; no outcome of the election will change society at large. Access to the campaign is merely a means to a greater end.

My goals in this campaign are tertiary to the passing question of who wins the vote. This period of heightened political tensions is potentially useful. While the system is not itself threatened by this instability, instability is a necessary prerequisite for change. I can use this political race to destabilize the comfortable status quo, and with it, show the masses that Futility can be opposed. My goals are nothing less than the inspiration of total revolution. My means for accomplishing this must involve the powers of the system being employed against one another. It is possible to turn the players of the system on one another through strategic provocations; with intelligent application of selective pressures we may use the system's own powers against it. Corporations will destroy each other. Politicians will discredit one another. And ultimately people will come to see that it isn't a matter of which side is wrong, but that every side is wrong.

Personal Philosophy

I have already come to accept that my personal philosophy will be misunderstood. My actions will be denounced as criminal, as insane. This is nothing more than the system’s means of self-defense. After all, what is a criminal but one who takes actions that the system has deemed unwanted? It is the refuge of the terminally shortsighted to confuse criminality with morality.

I am not a petty murderer, or a madman. I am a healer of the mind. The nature of my speciality is to address the deep-seated root causes of pain and suffering and eliminate it. Healing the minds of patients is often - indeed, always - a painful and ongoing process. So it is that healing the minds of society must also be painful. Just as my patients inevitably come to me only once they cross some final threshold of discomfort, so too must society be pushed beyond that boundary before it will tolerate the painful process of positive change.

What I find remarkable about my patients is that the vast majority of them can be described in the same way. My patients come to me because they are distressed. They are distressed because they no longer fit comfortably with the system’s needs. Rather than question why the operation of the system places unbearable psychological demands upon them, they accept their distress as being their own failing. In truth, distress is the natural reaction to a situation which is intolerable. Distress is the red flag that warns us of danger, and the system relies on socializing us into blaming the flag for the danger it symbolizes. Distress is to be resolved at its source, not medicated away.

Throughout history, those who most radically changed their society have always been demonized. Take the example of Julius Caesar, or Napoleon Bonaparte. Both men gave their lives to sweep away a corrupt and decadent system. Both men were consequently reviled by those who gained from that system. And both men, and countless other visionaries throughout history, met their end because they failed to appreciate one significant fact - that their true enemy was not found in political opponents, or rival nation-states, or enemy generals on the field. Their true enemy, my true enemy, is of a higher order. That is what it means to oppose Futility.

Political Philosophy

Partisan politics is nothing more than the means by which the system sustains itself. By diverting the energies of those motivated to seek change among a range of options the system deems acceptable, the system ensures that no change of a higher order may occur. This is the insidiousness of democracy. We have been given a false choice between five bad options.

The Neo-Transhumanist Party is of course the most sick of the system’s options. The NTP’s platform represents nothing more than a complete and willful surrender of one’s own psyche for the perceived ease and comfort of cybernetic society. Such surrender of personal autonomy is rooted in a deep-set assumption of inferiority, a self-hatred of man-as-animal that must be corrected technologically. The NTP’s useful-idiot supporters willingly turn a blind eye to an undeniable and self-evident truth: that its actions are not for their benefit, but for the benefit of those above them in the system’s hierarchy.

The HyperHuman Party would more aptly be named the AntiHuman Party. After all, a society dedicated to the alteration - what they term “advancement” - of the human form cannot logically also be devoted to humanity as it is. In truth, the HyperHuman Party and the NTP pursue the exact same goal: the proliferation of cybernetic society. They differ only in means. The HyperHuman party masquerades as “spiritual,” wrapping the NTP’s cause in historically-ignorant misinterpretations of eastern mysticism. Whatever one’s opinions of the teachings of Confucius, or the Buddha, or the Shinto faith, it is undeniable that the HyperHuman Party’s philosophy does little more than dress up as their ghost for its own amusement. I am not a religious man, but I shudder to think what the Buddha would make of the HyperHuman Party’s insatiable craving for ever-advancing biotics and augmentation. While chanting his name, they spit in the face of the Eightfold Path and its renunciation of power, wealth, and material desire.

The Central Party is an artifact of a previous time, clinging desperately to the system’s old ways of self-sustenance in the forms of nationalism and bureaucracy. The Central Party hypocritically stands for both “A Greater America,” in their words, and for maintenance of status quo - this dichotomy is a naked example of what Orwell called doublethink. A simple examination of their agenda and platform is enough to discredit them. To become greater, a society must by definition surpass what it has already achieved. Logically, it follows that this cannot occur through the means by which that society has already progressed; without change, progress becomes static. To attempt self-improvement through the embrace of what has already been is logically impossible. It has been said that the definition of insanity is repeating the same action and expecting a different result; to this end, I can only conclude that the Central Party is insane.

The Pirate Party foolishly makes noble demands via the very means by which those demands are robbed. So-called “hacktivists” blindly embrace and indeed advocate for the very tools of their oppression. Their very nature is self-defeating. Privacy is impossible in a society where everything is connected. Freedom of speech is impossible when everything is monitored. These so-called pirates claim to fight corruption with their thousands-dollar computers bought from the very firms that cause the corruption they claim to fight. The mechanisms of democracy are obviously unworkable when they themselves acknowledge - indeed, claim with some pride - the idea that everything can be hacked. In short, the Pirate Party is a party of prisoners who cheerfully advocate for the manufacture and proliferation of shackles.

Many would assume that I would advocate for the Neo-Luddite Party. After all, they rightly identify cybernetics as a corruption of the human body and mind. They correctly denounce our reliance on cybernetics as a threat to our very humanity. But the problem becomes obvious when the flaws of democracy are considered: a democratic system will only allow alternatives that the system deems acceptable. Ask a Neo-Luddite how technology is harmful and he will often give a fair explanation of the problems of cybernetic society. Ask a Neo-Luddite about the means by which technology causes these problems, however and he will respond with a befuddled stare or a mindless ramble about the “good old days,” or a hate-filled rant about augmented people which typically stems more from class-based jealousy than concern for the human mind. At its best, Neo-Luddites do not wish to reject the system, but merely return it to a previous stable state. This ignores the example of history showing that such a previous state leads directly to the system’s present state, and reveals the Neo-Luddites as fools incapable of learning from history.

When all options are foul, the response of the coward is to hold their nose and select the least-foul option. This cowardice is how Futility is maintained, and before this battle can be fought, society at large must first come to realize the battle even exists to be fought.

Other

SECRETS: Obviously, all of my activist actions are secret. This is not done out of shame, but rather necessity; the system of course devotes much of its efforts to correcting aberrant behavior as a means of sustaining itself.

FEARS: I fear nothing less than the total obliteration of the human soul. What truly scares me is how so many of my patients fear the mundane - death, bees, car accidents, infidelity, crime - yet comfortably accept the existential threat to mankind Futility has posed. Why is it we fear the simple robber or the inevitable end of life, yet we unhesitatingly accept the extinction of human will?

REPUTATION: I work hard to cultivate a good social reputation in the Twin Cities Sprawl. I have been active in the medical community for over twenty years, and have seen thousands of patients in my time as a private practitioner. My philosophy of medicine is the embrace of a holistic approach, and my patients know me well for caring about them beyond giving them a pill and sending them on their way. I have published many peer-reviewed papers on the importance of recovery and personal insight in the process of psychiatric care, which has distinguished me from my fellow practitioners; a majority of whom focus most on achieving and maintaining a stable status quo primarily through medicine alone. I routinely volunteer for charitable causes in the Twin Cities Sprawl community, attending fundraisers or working shifts at understaffed community clinics.

LIKES: Classical music, hiking, academic challenges, fava beans and a nice Chianti, reading, model aircraft and rocketry, historical documentaries, engaging dramas. And if we’re being honest, sappy romantic fiction.

DISLIKES: Cybernetic society, drug abusers, empty socialization, naked immorality, willful ignorance, pop music that substitutes autotune for talent, pineapple on pizza.

QUIRKS: I do not have ‘quirks’. I am a rational and well-reasoned individual fully capable of controlling my behavior and actions as however I find necessary. I typically lack the emotionally-driven impulses of many people; petty jealousies, lusts, and desires that give other people their 'quirks' all mean little to me.

Background Information

"I imagine, if you know who I really am, you were expecting some kind of Hollywood cliche about my life. Child abuse, therapists, drugs and alcohol, torturing animals as a kid, school records indicating a bright but socially isolated child… We all know the story, don’t we? Reality is often disappointing."

Howland's Origins

I was what the system would deem a profoundly normal child in most respects. I was born without complications in a local hospital on a warm spring day in May, 2023. Though I did get very good grades from kindergarten all the way through medical school, I neither graduated magna cum laude nor failed or dropped out. My mother was a server administrator for a small media distribution firm in Los Angeles, and my father works as a CPA and financial advisor. I have an older brother, John, who works as the office manager of a local data-analytics firm. I have a younger sister, Jennifer, who works as a detective for the SCPD’s burglary division. They are both married with children as well. Between my entire family, I don’t believe any of us have a more serious offense than the occasional traffic ticket or citation for online copyright infringement.

Ah, you caught that I said ‘was’, did you? Very well, no life is completely normal. My mother was killed during the 2035 riots, when rioters set fire to her employer’s data center. I suppose that was a profound moment of my life; though it was not so due to grief. That was when I began to notice how unhappy society truly is. As any reasonable individual does, I sought answers to my questions as I grew older and wiser. Why would people be so unhappy in a society where one’s basic needs are so thoroughly fulfilled? Why is it that the technological marvels of the cybernetic age never seem to actually improve our lives? Why does it all seem so...futile?

Based on the answers I came up with, I decided to seek a life of helping others heal from their most profound discomforts; I sought to heal those upsets that lead normal, everyday people to riot, loot, and murder. I met my wife, Sarah, while I was studying psychiatry in medical school. Ours is a relationship of convenience; she came to rely on my insights for her own academic success, and her family’s wealth made it easy to stay ahead of the expenses of medical school without draining my parents’ savings or spending all my time working. Our first child, Theresa, was born in 2045; her brothers David and Leo followed in 2049 and 2052. Theresa aspires to join the United States Space Force as a pilot. David wants to be a doctor like his parents. Leo wants to play video games. ...I’m still teaching that one.

And...that’s all. That’s my “origin story.” I’m not from another planet. I was never subjected to torture. I am not criminally insane. I was not bitten by a radioactive llama. In reality, those who oppose the system don’t have lurid, exceptional backgrounds that explain their aberrant behavior. I merely asked questions based on my observations of the world, and considered the implications of the answers to those questions. The inevitable result of a thorough, honest consideration of our society leads me to one simple logical conclusion.

Cybernetic society must be destroyed.

Operative Information

“It’s surprising how much one can accomplish with a basic knowledge of biology, chemistry, and psychology. Add to that a simple will to act on one’s convictions, and anyone can change the world if they truly wish to do so.”

Equipment

Though I do carry an extensive first-aid kit and samples of fast-acting, short-term psychiatric drugs for immediate medical intervention in an emergency, I bring little equipment with me other than my mind when I’m at work. About the only piece of technology I use on a daily basis is a no-frills cell phone, so that my family and my patients can always reach me in an emergency. While I wish it were still possible to find uni-task devices like the flip-phones of old, I’ll settle for a smartphone with much of its so-called “smart” features disabled and its GPS chip physically removed. To protect the privacy of both myself and my patients, I keep it offline and connect only to my office’s network, via an encrypted VPN.

I own four pieces of real estate in the Twin Cities area. My home, a modest two-story condominium in a middle-class district in The Bay, is small by the standards one might expect for a household with the income of two doctors. It is, however, sufficient space for a wife and three children, and conveniently located with respect towards private schools, public transportation, and the highway leading outside the city.

My practice, a private mental-health clinic just a few blocks from my condo, is a small building adjacent to a credit union on one side and a firefighting and ambulance drone platform on the other. Aside from myself, my business partner Dr. Hiroshi Saitō works in our offices as a clinical psychologist, and we often refer our patients to each other during treatment. I have a small number of employees as receptionists, assistants, and the like. Due to the time demands of the campaign trail and my other activities, I have recently hired a certified psychiatric nurse-practitioner to offload much of my less-complex, more stable caseload.

My retreat, as I call it, is a small lakeside cabin well outside of town. Nestled deep in the woods, my “lake” is in fact a manmade reservoir originally intended for a now-abandoned industrial park not far away. While I have stocked the “lake” with koi, the water is sadly much too polluted to allow for fishing; the cabin needs state-of-the-art filtration systems just to draw potable water. But this curse is also a blessing; if it were not for the land’s pollution being too extensive to be worth cleaning up, the whole land probably would’ve been bulldozed in favor of yet another shopping center by now. The cabin is where I go to escape the constant assault of the senses the city can be. I go there to be alone, and often spend time hiking the land with my wife, launching model rockets and flying remote-controlled aircraft over the lake with my daughter, and boating with my sons. Of course, there’s another purpose as well…

The abandoned industrial complex next to the woods - I own it, as well, having quietly acquired it for pennies on the dollar through a number of shell companies. The site of a toxic spill back in the 30s, the land is worthless from a development perspective. Its few buildings are run-down and condemned by the city. It hasn’t had running water in three decades. While it has electricity, it lacks a usable land-line data connection, as it was built with old standards and never upgraded. All of this makes it more unattractive for commercial development than buying pristine land, but it makes it quite useful for my...other work. It is hours away from anyone who could overhear or witness any illegal activity. Its buildings give me a quiet place to work, be it a small cabin for holding individuals or a locked-away lab for synthesizing explosives or poisons. A fence with rusted signs warning of toxic waste and some chemical dispensers distributing a faint but harmless odor and enough agents to induce minor headaches and dizziness to those unaccustomed to it keep any potentially curious souls or homeless people away, and its remoteness means anyone who does show up is immediately suspicious. Finally, its proximity to my cabin means I always have an excuse to be coming or going in that direction, just in case it’s needed.

Skills

Medical Doctor: I’m not an M.D. for show. While I’m specialized in treating the mind, I have enough medical experience to treat general illnesses and injuries, and I can apply emergency medicine if need arises. I can also typically get my hands on some controlled substances without too much suspicion.

Superficial Charm: I have always found people easy to read. It’s a simple matter of logical deduction and personal observation to determine what to say and do to get on most people’s good side and convince them to do what you want them to do.

Chemist: Explosives, drugs, poisons - these things are easy to make for yourself with a few basic tools and compounds, if you know how.

Flaws

Technologically Deficient: It is difficult to avoid technology in a cybernetic society. I may be intelligent, but no human can do mental math as fast or complex as an electronic brain can. There’s no denying the little inconveniences one faces when they’re disconnected from a connected world.

Emotionless: I know what emotions are. I know how to express the emotion I wish to show. I know how to recognize them in others. But I don’t seem to actually feel them, or if I do, they don’t change the way I think and perceive the world like they do for others.

Secret Life: My family, my employees, my associates - they don’t know what acts I really engage in. It’s an isolated life, and it requires keeping a lot of secrets.

Non-Combative: Violence will most certainly be necessary. The system uses violence to sustain itself, and we must use violence to combat it. But I, personally, am not terribly skilled in such matters. I know which end of a gun goes bang, and I know how to throw a punch. That's about it. It's important to be realistic about one's capabilities, and I know I'm no match for your typical thug, security officer, or soldier in a direct confrontation.

Notes

...I’ve told you quite a lot, haven’t I? I don’t usually talk this much. Ah, well, you won’t remember it anyway. Now take this pill and lie back; it’ll all be as a fading dream soon...

Relationship Table

Character Name	Relationship
Sarah Howland	"I first met Parker as a study partner in med school. I remember how intelligent and sincerely charming he was. Since then, he's been a wonderful father to our children and a wonderful husband. He always seems to know exactly what to say. He's always there with a warm smile or a sweet gift. And he honestly, truly cares for people - our family, his patients, everyone."
Lott Ramana	"It is so difficult to find a good doctor, and Dr. Howland is truly a good doctor. He was recommended to me by someone on the campaign trail. I owe that person a drink. Before I met him, I didn’t think I was going to make it in this scene, like, really, I was not going to make it. He’s helped make things easier, well, him and his prescription did anyway. Whenever my nerves start twitching and my heart starts racing, I know that control is just one ingestion of two small pills no more than six(ish) times a day away. Sometimes I think to myself how wonderful it would be to be that person who recommends Dr. Howland to some other lost soul, because then they would owe me a drink—while I’d still owe Dr. Howland everything else."
Dr. Gabriel Vilner	"I haven’t met anyone as smart as Howland since I left the university. When he’s not trying to diagnose my PTSD, he’s decent conversation, and I’ve loaned him my lab equipment from time to time to make meds. We’ll shoot the shit about medicine, the human condition, augments, stuff like that. It’s refreshing to find someone else who doesn’t think the solution to every medical problem is to cut it off and replace it with a machine... though I admit, that’s kind of hypocritical coming from an augmented doctor."

Scene

“Do you think I am a sadist?”

An inaudible mumble was his captive’s only answer. The man stared, glassy-eyed, at the blank walls past his tormentor. He doubted his captive could speak, anyway. His voice had long since gone out from all the screaming. Only the buzz of a single fluorescent bulb overhead and the song of thousands of crickets filled the remote cabin.

“I am not a sadist,” his tormenter insisted. “I derive no pleasure from this.”

Carefully applying a scalpel and forceps, his tormenter carefully pulled another bundle of nerve endings free of their metal contacts, pulling metal wire down the entire length of the man’s augmented arm. The room was filled with the loud rattle of metal links slamming against one another, as the chains that held his arm tightly to the blood-soaked boards underneath strained with his instinctual, futile struggle. The man began to hyperventilate from the pain, gasping for breath.

Ordinarily, a surgeon would never attempt microsurgery using hand tools - but preservation of function wasn’t really his goal, in this instance. “Do you see this?” his tormentor asked, pulling free an extremely fine, delicate thread, about the width of a human hair. “Do you know what this is?”

The man let out a long, ragged breath, shaking in place. “This is a chain of afferent nerve fibers. It connects your body’s nociceptors to your spinal cord. Thousands and thousands of these line every part of the human body. It is what proves we are alive! Without them, you could feel nothing.”

He paused, carefully setting the delicate strand aside. “...except it isn’t. This is a metal wire.”

It had taken hours, but finally, the last of the nervous connections had been carefully removed. The cybernetic arm lay on the board, bloody, fully severed, reduced to its true nature - a lifeless hunk of silicone, plastic, and metal. His tormentor stood slowly, carefully, taking the artificial limb and setting it aside on a table. “Your body’s nerve endings were ripped from their natural housing and wired into this… thing. How did this happen?”

It was a rhetorical question. One didn’t blunder into Amalgamation’s most advanced bio-active cybernetics by happenstance. This mockery of living flesh would have taken an advanced cybernetics lab hours to implant, ensuring each nerve fiber in the man’s arm was carefully mapped into place, preserving the sensations of touch, temperature, proprioception, and myriad others all within an entirely artificial limb.

With his voice completely worn out, the man could only manage a low, long moan, choked with sobs. His glazed-over eyes sluggishly turned to follow his tormentor, as he carefully placed the scalpel and forceps back on the surgical tray next to him, where all of his tools were neatly arranged. “Hhhh…” he rasped, unable to speak.

“Hm?” His tormentor turned to face him. “...Is it hard for you? You’ve probably had an Electronic Brain longer than you can remember. They are quite resistant to external interference! But once you have internal access to the body’s central nervous system, it really is quite easy to short out such a device with even a small electrical impulse.” He sits on a stool, a look of curiosity in his gray eyes. “Is it hard for you to think clearly?”

“That’s truly a shame,” he continued, after a moment. “Me? I’m used to it. All that I’ve learned, everything I think, are my thoughts, my intelligence. You...you haven’t relied on your own intelligence in decades, have you? The brain is just like any muscle. When you don’t use it, it atrophies. In a way, I’m sparing you. Even this isn’t nearly as bad as a slow, psychotic death by SPECS.”

The mention of death brought a new struggle from his captive. He shook his head slowly, sadly. “I’m sorry. You’re going to die here. Too much of you has been...replaced. When I remove the rest of your cybernetics, your remaining body won’t be able to sustain life for more than a few hours. Maybe a day.”

With that, the man grew still. Even with his compromised cognition, the resignation of impending death was easy to register in his eyes. “Now then. I’m going to take a quick break and sanitize my workspace. After that, we’ll start on your other arm.”

---

“Dr. Parker Howland, M.D.”

He smiled, waving a hand through his short, sandy-blond hair. Amusement danced in his gray eyes. “It’s a wonderful evening, isn’t it?”

Indeed it was. The city’s neon lights cast everything in a warm, multicolored glow. The vibrant hum of people filled the air with an electric energy, people filled with anticipation for the public debate. Representatives from each of the major campaigns would be in attendance tonight, to inform the voting public of their stance on the major issues in the run-up to the 2064 elections.

The security checkpoint was busy, as well. Dozens of minor staffers were coming and going, and they needed their IDs checked virtually at every turn. The security guard’s voice was bored, that of a man whose sole ambition at present was to get through the end of a long shift at work. “Which campaign do you work for, Dr. Howland?”

“Ah, I work for the Twin Cities Health Department, actually. I’m on the board of the Campaign Health Oversight Committee. I’m here to coordinate between local medical facilities, emergency services, and the campaigns’ own medical staffs. Our job is to ensure everyone is able to access city services during the-”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” the guard said, handing back his ID badge. “Look up.”

Howland obliged, smiling upwards at the lens of a conspicuous security camera.

“You’re on the pre-approved list,” the guard said with all the emotion of describing drying paint. “The venue’s security system will recognize you and let you through to the backstage area. If there’s any secured areas the door doesn’t open for you, it’s not a glitch, you’re just not allowed in there. Next!”

“Thank you for your help. Have a good night.” He took his ID badge and tucked it into his shirt pocket. Thankfully, the inside of the venue wasn’t nearly as crowded, with security controlling access and directing the public to the open seating areas. The inevitable throng of reporters inside weren’t particularly interested in a public official, and Howland walked past them with only a friendly nod of greeting. Just inside the entrance, he knew, would be plenty of virtual resources to direct newcomers and campaign staff as to where to go, but Howland ignored them. Instead, he made his way to the larger, lower-class of the venue’s catering rooms. Long years of experience had taught him the best way to orient himself at a large social function.

Standing around a table, drinking soykaf and eating cheap finger-foods, were a large gaggle of young staffers. Interns, volunteers, assistants; regardless of which campaign they worked for, they were all more or less interchangeable, and they invariably had more in common with each other than with their bosses. Lacking in real work to do, finding a congregation of them wherever catering services could be found was always a sure way to orient oneself by listening in on their un-guarded conversation.

“...Mayor Gatch is sure to have his hands full this time,” a girl with pink hair was saying.

“Nah, that’s what they said last time,” a spiky-haired twenty-something shot back, cynically. “Does anyone even remember Campbell, now?”

A skinny kid with glowing cybernetics in his eyes looked away, his eyes darting back and forth as he scanned over information only he could see. “Who?”

“Exactly!”

Pink-hair shook her head. “Yeah, but have you seen the news lately? That Amalgamation lobbyist who was found dead - they said every single one of his augs was ripped out of him and he was just left to die like that.”

Spiky-hair tilted his head. “...So? Shit happens in the Reclaim. Probably just some E-Drug junkie looking for shit to sell for a quick fix.”

Pink-hair threw her hands up, an unmistakable how do I get through to these people? gesture. “You think some stim junkie kidnapped an Amalgamation executive strapped to the nines with their best augs and pawned them off to some street ripper? I think I see why the Pirate Party doing so poorly in the polls if you’re their best and brightest.”

Howland smiled at that. “...it was Apex, that’s where the smart money would go.”

Pink-hair turned, pointing at him. “Exactly!” She looked back at the others with some triumph.

Cyber-eye nodded. “The old man’s right. Who would want a live example of Amalgamation’s best augs? Their direct competition. The police are gonna pin it on some local street tough, declare the case closed, and suddenly get a very large donation, you mark my words.”

Howland laughed. “I’m not sure old was necessary in that sentence.” All three of them gave him a look, more-or-less in unison. “...ah, well, I didn’t say it was inaccurate...hmph.” He turned, to help himself to a complimentary cup of cheap soykaf. “I’ll remember this when you lot all turn forty.”

“You’ll long be senile with SPECS by then,” Pink-hair teased.

They laughed, and Howland settled in, laughing along with them. He had plenty of time to get to work, but it was the small, human moments that always proved the most valuable.

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

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Dr. Parker Howland, M.D.

41 | Male | 6'1" | AB+

Genius | Accomplished | Superficial Charm | Manipulative | Sociopath | Terrorist

General Information

"Doctors heal people. But who heals society?"

OCCUPATION:

• Practitioner of Psychiatric Medicine
• Campaign Health Oversight Committee Board Member

Psychological Profile

"They taught me to understand and treat the problems and traumas deep within people. What is society, but a collective of people? My actions are a natural extension of my practice."

Goals

PERSONAL GOAL: We must restore the purity of the human psyche.

CAMPAIGN GOAL: The council of a single polity is ultimately irrelevant; no outcome of the election will change society at large. Access to the campaign is merely a means to a greater end.

My goals in this campaign are tertiary to the passing question of who wins the vote. This period of heightened political tensions is potentially useful. While the system is not itself threatened by this instability, instability is a necessary prerequisite for change. I can use this political race to destabilize the comfortable status quo, and with it, show the masses that Futility can be opposed. My goals are nothing less than the inspiration of total revolution. My means for accomplishing this must involve the powers of the system being employed against one another. It is possible to turn the players of the system on one another through strategic provocations; with intelligent application of selective pressures we may use the system's own powers against it. Corporations will destroy each other. Politicians will discredit one another. And ultimately people will come to see that it isn't a matter of which side is wrong, but that every side is wrong.

Personal Philosophy

I have already come to accept that my personal philosophy will be misunderstood. My actions will be denounced as criminal, as insane. This is nothing more than the system’s means of self-defense. After all, what is a criminal but one who takes actions that the system has deemed unwanted? It is the refuge of the terminally shortsighted to confuse criminality with morality.

I am not a petty murderer, or a madman. I am a healer of the mind. The nature of my speciality is to address the deep-seated root causes of pain and suffering and eliminate it. Healing the minds of patients is often - indeed, always - a painful and ongoing process. So it is that healing the minds of society must also be painful. Just as my patients inevitably come to me only once they cross some final threshold of discomfort, so too must society be pushed beyond that boundary before it will tolerate the painful process of positive change.

What I find remarkable about my patients is that the vast majority of them can be described in the same way. My patients come to me because they are distressed. They are distressed because they no longer fit comfortably with the system’s needs. Rather than question why the operation of the system places unbearable psychological demands upon them, they accept their distress as being their own failing. In truth, distress is the natural reaction to a situation which is intolerable. Distress is the red flag that warns us of danger, and the system relies on socializing us into blaming the flag for the danger it symbolizes. Distress is to be resolved at its source, not medicated away.

Throughout history, those who most radically changed their society have always been demonized. Take the example of Julius Caesar, or Napoleon Bonaparte. Both men gave their lives to sweep away a corrupt and decadent system. Both men were consequently reviled by those who gained from that system. And both men, and countless other visionaries throughout history, met their end because they failed to appreciate one significant fact - that their true enemy was not found in political opponents, or rival nation-states, or enemy generals on the field. Their true enemy, my true enemy, is of a higher order. That is what it means to oppose Futility.

Political Philosophy

Partisan politics is nothing more than the means by which the system sustains itself. By diverting the energies of those motivated to seek change among a range of options the system deems acceptable, the system ensures that no change of a higher order may occur. This is the insidiousness of democracy. We have been given a false choice between five bad options.

The Neo-Transhumanist Party is of course the most sick of the system’s options. The NTP’s platform represents nothing more than a complete and willful surrender of one’s own psyche for the perceived ease and comfort of cybernetic society. Such surrender of personal autonomy is rooted in a deep-set assumption of inferiority, a self-hatred of man-as-animal that must be corrected technologically. The NTP’s useful-idiot supporters willingly turn a blind eye to an undeniable and self-evident truth: that its actions are not for their benefit, but for the benefit of those above them in the system’s hierarchy.

The HyperHuman Party would more aptly be named the AntiHuman Party. After all, a society dedicated to the alteration - what they term “advancement” - of the human form cannot logically also be devoted to humanity as it is. In truth, the HyperHuman Party and the NTP pursue the exact same goal: the proliferation of cybernetic society. They differ only in means. The HyperHuman party masquerades as “spiritual,” wrapping the NTP’s cause in historically-ignorant misinterpretations of eastern mysticism. Whatever one’s opinions of the teachings of Confucius, or the Buddha, or the Shinto faith, it is undeniable that the HyperHuman Party’s philosophy does little more than dress up as their ghost for its own amusement. I am not a religious man, but I shudder to think what the Buddha would make of the HyperHuman Party’s insatiable craving for ever-advancing biotics and augmentation. While chanting his name, they in the face of the Eightfold Path and its renunciation of power, wealth, and material desire.

The Central Party is an artifact of a previous time, clinging desperately to the system’s old ways of self-sustenance in the forms of nationalism and bureaucracy. The Central Party hypocritically stands for both “A Greater America,” in their words, and for maintenance of status quo - this dichotomy is a naked example of what Orwell called doublethink. A simple examination of their agenda and platform is enough to discredit them. To become greater, a society must by definition surpass what it has already achieved. Logically, it follows that this cannot occur through the means by which that society has already progressed; without change, progress becomes static. To attempt self-improvement through the embrace of what has already been is logically impossible. It has been said that the definition of insanity is repeating the same action and expecting a different result; to this end, I can only conclude that the Central Party is insane.

The Pirate Party foolishly makes noble demands via the very means by which those demands are robbed. So-called “hacktivists” blindly embrace and indeed advocate for the very tools of their oppression. Their very nature is self-defeating. Privacy is impossible in a society where everything is connected. Freedom of speech is impossible when everything is monitored. These so-called pirates claim to fight corruption with their thousands-dollar computers bought from the very firms that cause the corruption they claim to fight. The mechanisms of democracy are obviously unworkable when they themselves acknowledge - indeed, claim with some pride - the idea that everything can be hacked. In short, the Pirate Party is a party of prisoners who cheerfully advocate for the manufacture and proliferation of shackles.

Many would assume that I would advocate for the Neo-Luddite Party. After all, they rightly identify cybernetics as a corruption of the human body and mind. They correctly denounce our reliance on cybernetics as a threat to our very humanity. But the problem becomes obvious when the flaws of democracy are considered: a democratic system will only allow alternatives that the system deems acceptable. Ask a Neo-Luddite how technology is harmful and he will often give a fair explanation of the problems of cybernetic society. Ask a Neo-Luddite about the means by which technology causes these problems, however and he will respond with a befuddled stare or a mindless ramble about the “good old days,” or a hate-filled rant about augmented people which typically stems more from class-based jealousy than concern for the human mind. At its best, Neo-Luddites do not wish to reject the system, but merely return it to a previous stable state. This ignores the example of history showing that such a previous state leads directly to the system’s present state, and reveals the Neo-Luddites as fools incapable of learning from history.

When all options are foul, the response of the coward is to hold their nose and select the least-foul option. This cowardice is how Futility is maintained, and before this battle can be fought, society at large must first come to realize the battle even exists to be fought.

Other

SECRETS: Obviously, all of my activist actions are secret. This is not done out of shame, but rather necessity; the system of course devotes much of its efforts to correcting aberrant behavior as a means of sustaining itself.

FEARS: I fear nothing less than the total obliteration of the human soul. What truly scares me is how so many of my patients fear the mundane - death, bees, car accidents, infidelity, crime - yet comfortably accept the existential threat to mankind Futility has posed. Why is it we fear the simple robber or the inevitable end of life, yet we unhesitatingly accept the extinction of human will?

REPUTATION: I work hard to cultivate a good social reputation in the Twin Cities Sprawl. I have been active in the medical community for over twenty years, and have seen thousands of patients in my time as a private practitioner. My philosophy of medicine is the embrace of a holistic approach, and my patients know me well for caring about them beyond giving them a pill and sending them on their way. I have published many peer-reviewed papers on the importance of recovery and personal insight in the process of psychiatric care, which has distinguished me from my fellow practitioners; a majority of whom focus most on achieving and maintaining a stable status quo primarily through medicine alone. I routinely volunteer for charitable causes in the Twin Cities Sprawl community, attending fundraisers or working shifts at understaffed community clinics.

LIKES: Classical music, hiking, academic challenges, fava beans and a nice Chianti, reading, model aircraft and rocketry, historical documentaries, engaging dramas. And if we’re being honest, sappy romantic fiction.

DISLIKES: Cybernetic society, drug abusers, empty socialization, naked immorality, willful ignorance, pop music that substitutes autotune for talent, pineapple on pizza.

QUIRKS: I do not have ‘quirks’. I am a rational and well-reasoned individual fully capable of controlling my behavior and actions as however I find necessary. I typically lack the emotionally-driven impulses of many people; petty jealousies, lusts, and desires that give other people their 'quirks' all mean little to me.

Background Information

"I imagine, if you know who I really am, you were expecting some kind of Hollywood cliche about my life. Child abuse, therapists, drugs and alcohol, torturing animals as a kid, school records indicating a bright but socially isolated child… We all know the story, don’t we? Reality is often disappointing."

Howland's Origins

I was what the system would deem a profoundly normal child in most respects. I was born without complications in a local hospital on a warm spring day in May, 2023. Though I did get very good grades from kindergarten all the way through medical school, I neither graduated magna cum laude nor failed or dropped out. My mother was a server administrator for a small media distribution firm in Los Angeles, and my father works as a CPA and financial advisor. I have an older brother, John, who works as the office manager of a local data-analytics firm. I have a younger sister, Jennifer, who works as a detective for the SCPD’s burglary division. They are both married with children as well. Between my entire family, I don’t believe any of us have a more serious offense than the occasional traffic ticket or citation for online copyright infringement.

Ah, you caught that I said ‘was’, did you? Very well, no life is completely normal. My mother was killed during the 2035 riots, when rioters set fire to her employer’s data center. I suppose that was a profound moment of my life; though it was not so due to grief. That was when I began to notice how unhappy society truly is. As any reasonable individual does, I sought answers to my questions as I grew older and wiser. Why would people be so unhappy in a society where one’s basic needs are so thoroughly fulfilled? Why is it that the technological marvels of the cybernetic age never seem to actually improve our lives? Why does it all seem so...futile?

Based on the answers I came up with, I decided to seek a life of helping others heal from their most profound discomforts; I sought to heal those upsets that lead normal, everyday people to riot, loot, and murder. I met my wife, Sarah, while I was studying psychiatry in medical school. Ours is a relationship of convenience; she came to rely on my insights for her own academic success, and her family’s wealth made it easy to stay ahead of the expenses of medical school without draining my parents’ savings or spending all my time working. Our first child, Theresa, was born in 2045; her brothers David and Leo followed in 2046 and 2048. Theresa aspires to join the United States Space Force as a pilot. David wants to be a doctor like his parents. Leo wants to play video games. ...I’m still teaching that one.

And...that’s all. That’s my “origin story.” I’m not from another planet. I was never subjected to torture. I am not criminally insane. I was not bitten by a radioactive llama. In reality, those who oppose the system don’t have lurid, exceptional backgrounds that explain their aberrant behavior. I merely asked questions based on my observations of the world, and considered the implications of the answers to those questions. The inevitable result of a thorough, honest consideration of our society leads me to one simple logical conclusion.

Cybernetic society must be destroyed.

Operative Information

“It’s surprising how much one can accomplish with a basic knowledge of biology, chemistry, and psychology. Add to that a simple will to act on one’s convictions, and anyone can change the world if they truly wish to do so.”

Equipment

Though I do carry an extensive first-aid kit and samples of fast-acting, short-term psychiatric drugs for immediate medical intervention in an emergency, I bring little equipment with me other than my mind when I’m at work. About the only piece of technology I use on a daily basis is a no-frills cell phone, so that my family and my patients can always reach me in an emergency. While I wish it were still possible to find uni-task devices like the flip-phones of old, I’ll settle for a smartphone with much of its so-called “smart” features disabled and its GPS chip physically removed. To protect the privacy of both myself and my patients, I keep it offline and connect only to my office’s network, via an encrypted VPN.

I own four pieces of real estate in the Twin Cities area. My home, a modest two-story condominium in a middle-class district in The Bay, is small by the standards one might expect for a household with the income of two doctors. It is, however, sufficient space for a wife and three children, and conveniently located with respect towards private schools, public transportation, and the highway leading outside the city.

My practice, a private mental-health clinic just a few blocks from my condo, is a small building adjacent to a credit union on one side and a firefighting and ambulance drone platform on the other. Aside from myself, my business partner Dr. Hiroshi Saitō works in our offices as a clinical psychologist, and we often refer our patients to each other during treatment. I have a small number of employees as receptionists, assistants, and the like. Due to the time demands of the campaign trail and my other activities, I have recently hired a certified psychiatric nurse-practitioner to offload much of my less-complex, more stable caseload.

My retreat, as I call it, is a small lakeside cabin well outside of town. Nestled deep in the woods, my “lake” is in fact a manmade reservoir originally intended for a now-abandoned industrial park not far away. While I have stocked the “lake” with koi, the water is sadly much too polluted to allow for fishing; the cabin needs state-of-the-art filtration systems just to draw potable water. But this curse is also a blessing; if it were not for the land’s pollution being too extensive to be worth cleaning up, the whole land probably would’ve been bulldozed in favor of yet another shopping center by now. The cabin is where I go to escape the constant assault of the senses the city can be. I go there to be alone, and often spend time hiking the land with my wife, launching model rockets and flying remote-controlled aircraft over the lake with my daughter, and boating with my sons. Of course, there’s another purpose as well…

The abandoned industrial complex next to the woods - I own it, as well, having quietly acquired it for pennies on the dollar through a number of shell companies. The site of a toxic spill back in the 30s, the land is worthless from a development perspective. Its few buildings are run-down and condemned by the city. It hasn’t had running water in three decades. While it has electricity, it lacks a usable land-line data connection, as it was built with old standards and never upgraded. All of this makes it more unattractive for commercial development than buying pristine land, but it makes it quite useful for my...other work. It is hours away from anyone who could overhear or witness any illegal activity. Its buildings give me a quiet place to work, be it a small cabin for holding individuals or a locked-away lab for synthesizing explosives or poisons. A fence with rusted signs warning of toxic waste and some chemical dispensers distributing a faint but harmless odor and enough agents to induce minor headaches and dizziness to those unaccustomed to it keep any potentially curious souls or homeless people away, and its remoteness means anyone who does show up is immediately suspicious. Finally, its proximity to my cabin means I always have an excuse to be coming or going in that direction, just in case it’s needed.

Skills

Medical Doctor: I’m not an M.D. for show. While I’m specialized in treating the mind, I have enough medical experience to treat general illnesses and injuries, and I can apply emergency medicine if need arises. I can also typically get my hands on some controlled substances without too much suspicion.

Superficial Charm: I have always found people easy to read. It’s a simple matter of logical deduction and personal observation to determine what to say and do to get on most people’s good side and convince them to do what you want them to do.

Chemist: Explosives, drugs, poisons - these things are easy to make for yourself with a few basic tools and compounds, if you know how.

Flaws

Technologically Deficient: It is difficult to avoid technology in a cybernetic society. I may be intelligent, but no human can do mental math as fast or complex as an electronic brain can. There’s no denying the little inconveniences one faces when they’re disconnected from a connected world.

Emotionless: I know what emotions are. I know how to express the emotion I wish to show. I know how to recognize them in others. But I don’t seem to actually feel them, or if I do, they don’t change the way I think and perceive the world like they do for others.

Secret Life: My family, my employees, my associates - they don’t know what acts I really engage in. It’s an isolated life, and it requires keeping a lot of secrets.

Non-Combative: Violence will most certainly be necessary. The system uses violence to sustain itself, and we must use violence to combat it. But I, personally, am not terribly skilled in such matters. I know which end of a gun goes bang, and I know how to throw a punch. That's about it. It's important to be realistic about one's capabilities, and I know I'm no match for your typical thug, security officer, or soldier in a direct confrontation.

Notes

...I’ve told you quite a lot, haven’t I? I don’t usually talk this much. Ah, well, you won’t remember it anyway. Now take this pill and lie back; it’ll all be as a fading dream soon...

Relationship Table

Character Name	Relationship
Sarah Howland	"I first met Parker as a study partner in med school. I remember how intelligent and sincerely charming he was. Since then, he's been a wonderful father to our children and a wonderful husband. He always seems to know exactly what to say. He's always there with a warm smile or a sweet gift. And he honestly, truly cares for people - our family, his patients, everyone."
Lott Ramana	"It is so difficult to find a good doctor, and Dr. Howland is truly a good doctor. He was recommended to me by someone on the campaign trail. I owe that person a drink. Before I met him, I didn’t think I was going to make it in this scene, like, really, I was not going to make it. He’s helped make things easier, well, him and his prescription did anyway. Whenever my nerves start twitching and my heart starts racing, I know that control is just one ingestion of two small pills no more than six(ish) times a day away. Sometimes I think to myself how wonderful it would be to be that person who recommends Dr. Howland to some other lost soul, because then they would owe me a drink—while I’d still owe Dr. Howland everything else."

Scene

“Do you think I am a sadist?”

An inaudible mumble was his captive’s only answer. The man stared, glassy-eyed, at the blank walls past his tormentor. He doubted his captive could speak, anyway. His voice had long since gone out from all the screaming. Only the buzz of a single fluorescent bulb overhead and the song of thousands of crickets filled the remote cabin.

“I am not a sadist,” his tormenter insisted. “I derive no pleasure from this.”

Carefully applying a scalpel and forceps, his tormenter carefully pulled another bundle of nerve endings free of their metal contacts, pulling metal wire down the entire length of the man’s augmented arm. The room was filled with the loud rattle of metal links slamming against one another, as the chains that held his arm tightly to the blood-soaked boards underneath strained with his instinctual, futile struggle. The man began to hyperventilate from the pain, gasping for breath.

Ordinarily, a surgeon would never attempt microsurgery using hand tools - but preservation of function wasn’t really his goal, in this instance. “Do you see this?” his tormentor asked, pulling free an extremely fine, delicate thread, about the width of a human hair. “Do you know what this is?”

The man let out a long, ragged breath, shaking in place. “This is a chain of afferent nerve fibers. It connects your body’s nociceptors to your spinal cord. Thousands and thousands of these line every part of the human body. It is what proves we are alive! Without them, you could feel nothing.”

He paused, carefully setting the delicate strand aside. “...except it isn’t. This is a metal wire.”

It had taken hours, but finally, the last of the nervous connections had been carefully removed. The cybernetic arm lay on the board, bloody, fully severed, reduced to its true nature - a lifeless hunk of silicone, plastic, and metal. His tormentor stood slowly, carefully, taking the artificial limb and setting it aside on a table. “Your body’s nerve endings were ripped from their natural housing and wired into this… thing. How did this happen?”

It was a rhetorical question. One didn’t blunder into Amalgamation’s most advanced bio-active cybernetics by happenstance. This mockery of living flesh would have taken an advanced cybernetics lab hours to implant, ensuring each nerve fiber in the man’s arm was carefully mapped into place, preserving the sensations of touch, temperature, proprioception, and myriad others all within an entirely artificial limb.

With his voice completely worn out, the man could only manage a low, long moan, choked with sobs. His glazed-over eyes sluggishly turned to follow his tormentor, as he carefully placed the scalpel and forceps back on the surgical tray next to him, where all of his tools were neatly arranged. “Hhhh…” he rasped, unable to speak.

“Hm?” His tormentor turned to face him. “...Is it hard for you? You’ve probably had an Electronic Brain longer than you can remember. They are quite resistant to external interference! But once you have internal access to the body’s central nervous system, it really is quite easy to short out such a device with even a small electrical impulse.” He sits on a stool, a look of curiosity in his gray eyes. “Is it hard for you to think clearly?”

“That’s truly a shame,” he continued, after a moment. “Me? I’m used to it. All that I’ve learned, everything I think, are my thoughts, my intelligence. You...you haven’t relied on your own intelligence in decades, have you? The brain is just like any muscle. When you don’t use it, it atrophies. In a way, I’m sparing you. Even this isn’t nearly as bad as a slow, psychotic death by SPECS.”

The mention of death brought a new struggle from his captive. He shook his head slowly, sadly. “I’m sorry. You’re going to die here. Too much of you has been...replaced. When I remove the rest of your cybernetics, your remaining body won’t be able to sustain life for more than a few hours. Maybe a day.”

With that, the man grew still. Even with his compromised cognition, the resignation of impending death was easy to register in his eyes. “Now then. I’m going to take a quick break and sanitize my workspace. After that, we’ll start on your other arm.”

---

“Dr. Parker Howland, M.D.”

He smiled, waving a hand through his short, sandy-blond hair. Amusement danced in his gray eyes. “It’s a wonderful evening, isn’t it?”

Indeed it was. The city’s neon lights cast everything in a warm, multicolored glow. The vibrant hum of people filled the air with an electric energy, people filled with anticipation for the public debate. Representatives from each of the major campaigns would be in attendance tonight, to inform the voting public of their stance on the major issues in the run-up to the 2064 elections.

The security checkpoint was busy, as well. Dozens of minor staffers were coming and going, and they needed their IDs checked virtually at every turn. The security guard’s voice was bored, that of a man whose sole ambition at present was to get through the end of a long shift at work. “Which campaign do you work for, Dr. Howland?”

“Ah, I work for the Twin Cities Health Department, actually. I’m on the board of the Campaign Health Oversight Committee. I’m here to coordinate between local medical facilities, emergency services, and the campaigns’ own medical staffs. Our job is to ensure everyone is able to access city services during the-”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” the guard said, handing back his ID badge. “Look up.”

Howland obliged, smiling upwards at the lens of a conspicuous security camera.

“You’re on the pre-approved list,” the guard said with all the emotion of describing drying paint. “The venue’s security system will recognize you and let you through to the backstage area. If there’s any secured areas the door doesn’t open for you, it’s not a glitch, you’re just not allowed in there. Next!”

“Thank you for your help. Have a good night.” He took his ID badge and tucked it into his shirt pocket. Thankfully, the inside of the venue wasn’t nearly as crowded, with security controlling access and directing the public to the open seating areas. The inevitable throng of reporters inside weren’t particularly interested in a public official, and Howland walked past them with only a friendly nod of greeting. Just inside the entrance, he knew, would be plenty of virtual resources to direct newcomers and campaign staff as to where to go, but Howland ignored them. Instead, he made his way to the larger, lower-class of the venue’s catering rooms. Long years of experience had taught him the best way to orient himself at a large social function.

Standing around a table, drinking soykaf and eating cheap finger-foods, were a large gaggle of young staffers. Interns, volunteers, assistants; regardless of which campaign they worked for, they were all more or less interchangeable, and they invariably had more in common with each other than with their bosses. Lacking in real work to do, finding a congregation of them wherever catering services could be found was always a sure way to orient oneself by listening in on their un-guarded conversation.

“...Mayor Gatch is sure to have his hands full this time,” a girl with pink hair was saying.

“Nah, that’s what they said last time,” a spiky-haired twenty-something shot back, cynically. “Does anyone even remember Campbell, now?”

A skinny kid with glowing cybernetics in his eyes looked away, his eyes darting back and forth as he scanned over information only he could see. “Who?”

“Exactly!”

Pink-hair shook her head. “Yeah, but have you seen the news lately? That Amalgamation lobbyist who was found dead - they said every single one of his augs was ripped out of him and he was just left to die like that.”

Spiky-hair tilted his head. “...So? Shit happens in the Reclaim. Probably just some E-Drug junkie looking for shit to sell for a quick fix.”

Pink-hair threw her hands up, an unmistakable how do I get through to these people? gesture. “You think some stim junkie kidnapped an Amalgamation executive strapped to the nines with their best augs and pawned them off to some street ripper? I think I see why the Pirate Party doing so poorly in the polls if you’re their best and brightest.”

Howland smiled at that. “...it was Apex, that’s where the smart money would go.”

Pink-hair turned, pointing at him. “Exactly!” She looked back at the others with some triumph.

Cyber-eye nodded. “The old man’s right. Who would want a live example of Amalgamation’s best augs? Their direct competition. The police are gonna pin it on some local street tough, declare the case closed, and suddenly get a very large donation, you mark my words.”

Howland laughed. “I’m not sure old was necessary in that sentence.” All three of them gave him a look, more-or-less in unison. “...ah, well, I didn’t say it was inaccurate...hmph.” He turned, to help himself to a complimentary cup of cheap soykaf. “I’ll remember this when you lot all turn forty.”

“You’ll long be senile with SPECS by then,” Pink-hair teased.

They laughed, and Howland settled in, laughing along with them. He had plenty of time to get to work, but it was the small, human moments that always proved the most valuable.

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

94 days after the Collapse

Aboard the frigate Kyselica

Hiss!

Golden ether flared beneath metal, flowing through it in the form of radiating heat; it was enough to make Mother Alya shrug off her overcoat. As the black iron was quenched with oil, it instantly conjured a loud hiss of steam. The aroma of charred roots flooded the room.

Slash! Slash! Slash!

Just a foot away, Alya wielded her blade with practiced ease. The knife was a well-made piece of Laonstran-forged steel, and its strictly-maintained edge sliced through flesh as easily as butter. With each strike, another strip of her blade’s target fell away. Her eyes stung from the acrid steam to her right, and blurring her view of her target. Alya ignored the distraction. To lose one’s attention while wielding a knife was a good way to lose a digit - or worse.

Craaack!

The sound of wrenching metal finally caught Alya’s attention. With a final thwack! she sliced the last of the meat into thin strips, and looked over. “Damn it, Zviera, don’t open the can of broth yet! That comes after browning the meat!”

The Omestrian servant immediately set the can opener aside, bowing in apology. “Forgive me mistress. I’m finding it hard to focus…”

“It’s the onions,” Alya replied. “They’re making my eyes water, too.”

Zviera raised his head, sparing a long look at the vial of golden ether plugged into the stove. Alya didn’t rebuke him for the distraction - just twelve hours earlier, that ether had been flowing in his veins, after all. “Of course, mistress.”

“Just keep an eye on the pan and add these strips of meat once the mushrooms have browned. It won’t take long, so be careful not to overcook it!”

With her wayward servant straightened out, Alya turned her attention to the herbs. The dried, crumbled leaves of thyme and dill elicited a sigh. She would prefer fresh herbs, of course, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made in the name of practicality…

In her head, Albina’s familiar voice silently chided her. It’s not the onions. He was in the ether extraction machine all night. He could barely stand this morning even after Father Boris healed him. Obviously he can’t focus.

Alya giggled to herself, slightly. Obviously he’d been ether-drained - where else could the precious golden fluid have come from? She didn’t bother to answer Albina, instead looking towards Zviera with a smile. “It’s alright. All you need to do is watch and stir. Once you’re done with that, I’ll mince the meat for the pelmeni while you prepare the dough.” She paused, though, watching the exhausted man as he stirred the onions and mushrooms.

Zviera nodded silently, focusing on the rapidly-browning mushrooms. His golden eyes appeared sunken back in his head, dull and listless with dark, puffy skin drooping under them. His hands trembled slightly, and he was already sweating and panting. He offered no complaint about the work, despite it all. She smiled. She liked that about him. It seemed like so few Omestrians knew their place, these days, and even fewer were content with it.

After just a couple of minutes, Alya held the wooden cutting board up, scraping the strips of meat into the pan. “I know you’re tired, Zviera. But it’ll be good for your recovery to be in a warm room and move around. It keeps the blood flowing. And I’ll save you some of the leftovers! It’s doubtless going to be better for your recovery than simple nutrient mash.” With that, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. Even a slave deserved the occasional reward for loyal service, after all.

“Thank you, mistress.” Zviera hesitated. “...may I ask you something?” The question was just a formality, of course - Alya routinely spoke freely when she and her servant were alone. Alya nodded in reply, so he continued. “Why do you cook for the Warband and the crew of the Kyselica? I mean no complaint, just, I always understood this to be the work of men like me.”

“Because I love them, Zviera!” She could see he didn’t get it, though, even before he asked anything further. How frustrating. So few people understand such a simple concept. How could she possibly explain it any more simply than that?

“But…” Zviera frowned, pausing to focus on the meat, ensuring each piece browned thoroughly without burning. Alya allowed a few minutes’ lapse in the conversation. Her servant wasn’t a very good cook even at full strength, let alone nearly falling asleep standing up. No reason to distract him. Zviera only continued once he was satisfied with the state of the meat, carefully removing it from the heat. “...I am doing the same work, mistress. That doesn’t mean-”

“Ah!” Alya said, with a wag of her finger. “That’s where you’re wrong, Zviera! You and I aren’t doing the same work at all!” Zviera looked from the pan to the cutting board and back, in visible confusion. “Right, deglaze the pan with virrika and then we’ll add the broth.”

By now, the pungent smell of cooking meat and spices filled the air, making Alya’s mouth water. The pan hissed with vigor as a cup of top-shelf virrika hit the hot metal, evaporating the alcohol within almost immediately. Alya waited a moment for the noise to die down, as Zviera gently scraped the burned pieces of meat and onion into the liquid. “You’re a cook. I’m a chef, Zviera.”

Zviera kept his eyes firmly fixed on his work as he replied. “I don’t understand, mistress. We are both cooking.”

She pondered how to respond. With the exception of some of her Inquisition peers, Omestrians weren’t the cleverest or smartest people. No need to launch into an explanation that might go over his head, she decided. “If you paint my bedroom wall, and I go and paint a painting, we’re both painting. Does that mean we’re doing the same thing?”

“No, but…” His brow furrowed in thought.

Albina spoke up again, determined as always to ruin Alya’s good cheer. You’re not smarter than him just because you’re educated, well-rested, and in full possession of your own ether. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t throw a feast when everyone is on reduced rations.

Oh, what would she know anyway? Alya set her knife aside, clinging to her good mood defiantly. “Aside from teaching you,” she added with a poke to his chest, “how to cook, what I’m doing is an art! These are classical Varyan dishes! We may have had to substitute icekin meat for the more traditional beef and pork, but sacrifices need to be made, and we’re otherwise preparing these things according to Varyan tradition.” She paused, glancing at the thawing filo dough. “Well, maybe with some T'saraen mixed in there. Those sheets of dough are for a dish called baklava, which we’ll be making as well. Because the dough is so thin, it doesn’t require a long time to bake. We have to conserve energy at a time like this, after all!” Take that, she thought back to Albina.

Zviera glanced back at the vial of golden ether. “...of course, mistress,” he said, dubiously.

His obvious recalcitrance elicited a giggle. “Well, we do need to eat, and I’m going to lose my mind if I have to subsist on nutrient mash alone. Besides, this serves another, more important function! Aside from maybe military conquest, I can think of no better way to honor the Ravenous Lord than with a good meal, artfully prepared, shared with His chosen warriors! Don’t you wish to honor Lord Varya in a time like this?”

You’re a fool. Varya will abandon you just like he abandoned me. There is no reason in praying to a god who does not care.

She sighed. “Once the food is ready, we’re going to gather a war council and discuss how to proceed from here. You were in the ether extractor when I did the last assessment of the Kyselica’s hull, so maybe you didn’t see…” She paused. Well, there went her good mood. “It really is important that we make sound decisions and please Lord Varya, Zviera. The hull can’t repel icekin attacks indefinitely, and we can’t even run the hearth system anymore. To be honest, if I weren’t absolutely needed on the defense, I’d take a turn in that terrible machine myself to keep Mother Faina’s aegis up longer. Most of that ether we collected isn’t going to be used on the stove - it’s for Faina.”

Zviera’s voice was so faint, it was hard to hear over the bubbling of the pan full of broth. “...are we going to die here, mistress?”

Alya smiled, resting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it for reassurance. “Lord Varya will provide. Have a little faith. And don’t forget to add the mustard while the broth is simmering.”

---

The large man sat in the middle of a spartan cell, his eyes closed as he listened to the crying of the dying. Around him, bodies, many bodies covered by blue and white sheets, some sheets covering up to five men or several sheets covering a pile. Most of the sheets had red stains blotching each one. The door in front of him, locked with the warning written in blood, 'Restricted : Officers Only.'

"In the morning of the light, in the fuel of our bodies, in the strength in our hearts, in the goodness of our souls. Our comrades fall, and the light shines on the few survivors here... if I do not cast you to the world then I have failed my job, and you all… for now I can only give the light that remains from your dying moments back to the world… but soon I shall give your bodies.”

The door would open and the bloody priest would step out, and his hands held together with light between them. "I must see the sky!"

To one side of the room, Zviera silently entered, keeping his head low and his dull golden eyes fixed firmly on the floor. He knew better than to interrupt any religious or spiritual observance - disrespect to Lord Varya remained the only offense for which his mistress had ever physically struck him. Everyone knew he was Mother Alya’s servant, and his presence was enough to silently demand attention without needing to verbally interrupt his superiors. He waited to be acknowledged.

He would look to his side and nod to the individual standing there, “Servant of Mother Alya, would you wish to take me to the defenses… I require to see the sky to shine the light upon the day, then I will begin doing my work in the infirmary. So let us get this dirty work finished for the day so it does not linger on the mind.”

Zviera shook his head. “We’ll need to go outside to board the Kyselica, where Mother Alya requests your presence, sir.”
“Do you know what for?”

Father Vladivosi turned slowly toward the bulkhead and began his march forward past Zviera to the stairs to the deck above.
“But come… the sky first, then I will go to meet with your master.”

He nodded his head, reluctantly. “Yes, sir. Mother Alya wishes your presence at a war council to discuss…” He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to. What else could a war council be called to discuss, if not the Icekin and the camp’s failing defenses?
“That, and…” He hesitated. “My mistress would also like you to taste her baklava, sir.”

Father Vladivosi raised an eyebrow and started up the stairs, the light in his hand shining lightly, “Baklava, I am surprised we have any left.” he said as he moved down the hall to where the breach in the ships hull was.

“But I am surprised they desire me for a war council, I have barely fought in any sense and I know that I am a superior to most of those here… but that is why, but let us hope it is quick, I must tend to those wounded, and maybe melt the ice once more to make sure of our lines… but not a moment longer.” Vladivosi would finish before the Father entered the open space of the breach in the ship, moving past several soldiers that were coming from their watch.

The Omestrian led the way out of the ship, visibly having some difficulty moving around. It was no secret he’d been “volunteered” by Alya for ether extraction, as an emergency measure. In fact, it was only due to Father Boris’ own healing that very morning that the man was even ambulatory. Despite being more suited to a bed than trekking across ice and snow, Zviera voiced no complaint. “My mistress says there will not soon be a...shortage of wounded to attend to.”

He held his hand out, and the light from his hand maybe went a foot above him, and he sighed softly as his head leaned to face up into the sky.

“I am sorry this is all I can give… but it is the last in me.”

He started walking towards the Kyselica, his eyes now baggy and sagged. His body slowly lumbering towards as the rags that encompassed his feet ragged across the snow. He looked to the staff he placed in the ground in the center of the three ships, and took it as he walked past.

“As long as there are wounded I know there are people alive… if people are alive then I shall continue to stand, I would have collapsed already of exertion if there were not, or whatever is said about that my mind is blank...”

Zviera just nodded, not offering an opinion. He headed not to the briefing hall, or any large seating area, where a war council may be expected - but instead to the officer’s mess. The real officer’s mess had long since been crushed in the Kyselica’s impact, but a storage room and some furniture had made for an ersatz replacement. Before they could enter, the savory smell of cooked meat and spices wafted in the air.

Zviera held the door open for Father Boris. “Mistress, I have returned-”

“Boris!” Alya’s discordantly chipper voice greeted. Before the man could possibly react, a fork with a steaming piece of sauce-covered meat emerged at the end of her hand, popping itself directly into his mouth. “Taste this. It’s beef Stroganoff.”

“Alya.” the tired man would speak as he entered, immediately finding a mat to sit on rather then a chair of any sorts. “Just let me sit here for a moment, I just committed three more memories of man to the world. Maybe this luxury will allow me to burn another hole through the ice to commit the bodies of the ninety two inside my room.”

“They served Lord Varya well, and deserve to be honored,” Alya replied, seriously. After a moment’s reflection, though, she brightened. “It’s nice to think my cooking can help that much! You’re sweet to say that.” She knelt down and kissed his cheek.

“They did, but for now I shall wait until the other third of the occupants of the fleet are healed or dead… healing or easing them is what I should be saving myself for, the flare of light in the dawn morning is “

He thought to himself for a moment, turned his head towards the woman, “A bowl? Of this food I would enjoy, is it a last meal since it smells so fine?” he asked with a slight smile on his face.

“Don’t talk like that,” she admonished, arms folded. “It’s just a treat for Lord Varya’s champions. I can think of no better way to honor the Ravenous Lord than with a good meal, after all! In times like these, it’s of utmost importance that we keep faith.”

“That is something you should know I will never lose Mother Alya, but do you not think that the standard men are the ones who need to keep faith more?” Vladivosi asked softly, “though I do believe that we should all have first servings, since you are the one who made this, I am the one… who commits the dead, and the rest keep us alive.”

“So I am the first to this meeting?”

“I’ve been here all morning!” Alya replied. “And anyway, I would never forget the men. Here, try this.” She produced a small dumpling, a typical Varyan pelmeni. “If I were being most traditional I would leave them uncooked and frozen...but I’ll freeze them fully cooked. They’re for the men on watch. During an Icekin wave, they can’t exactly leave their posts to replenish their strength. Something portable that can be eaten cold if need be will help.”

He looked up at her, and took it from her slowly before eating it quickly, and his stomach rumbled harshly. “If it wasn’t for the other inquisitors, and officers I would engorge myself on whatever is left of that.” he said as he looked up at her.

“But with more men in my care… there are less on the defenses, I wish for the others to be here before we indulge ourselves with your dumplings.” he said yawning.

“Just as long as you save room for my baklava, Boris.” Alya turned. “Zviera, go and escort the rest of the Warband...”

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 [Accepting 2nd Wave of Applications] - Cyberpunk Political Roleplay

I'm definitely interested!

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

Name: Mother Albina ‘Alya’

Age: Twenty

Height/Weight: 5’8” (173cm) / 145lbs (66kg)

Race: Varyan

Appearance

Alya’s face sports golden blond hair, bright clear-blue and curious eyes, and almost always a proud, extroverted smile. Her hair is worn almost impractically long for a warrior, falling straight well past her shoulders; Alya only occasionally nods to the practicality of keeping her hair out of the way with a black ribbon tying her hair back. Strong cheekbones and a narrow chin complete the look of a well-off ethnic Varyan.

Alya keeps her body muscular and well-toned, her black coat form-fitting and tight, and her armor light and nimble, with reinforcing plate or chainmail only covering the most vital areas. She usually presents a well-groomed image, bearing a few visible scars from training as nearly all Inquisitors do. Under her unnecessarily-luxurious coat, though, is a different story - her torso and especially her back sport dozens of marks and scars from lashing, all results of her confrontational energy, sharp tongue, and rules-flouting tendencies.

Disdaining heavy armor and shields, she focuses on powerful two-handed offensive weapons, keeping a pump-action shotgun on a sling over her shoulder and a large halberd tipped with a twelve-gauge powerhead in lieu of a spearpoint. The halberd’s axe-head sports a unique identifying feature - forged of a blood-red metal, its blade spreads wide in the shape of a phoenix’s wings, the symbol of Lord Varya.

Image

Personality

Emotional and boisterous, Alya is hard to miss, for better or worse. Alya is playful, domineering, forward, brash, proud, outspoken, and opinionated. A high-energy woman, it’s rare to see her act completely serious or calm if she can possibly help it, and her willpower is seemingly inexhaustible. However, she is no socially-inept goofball - quite the contrary, spending her formative teenaged years constantly toeing the line has left her with a painfully-earned ability to read exactly how far to push the limit, and Alya can frequently resort to manipulation and social pressure to ensure things go her way. In the field, though, her loud and aggressive style often serves her well, able to rally men with a fearless charge where more cautious individuals would likely retreat.

Somewhat surprisingly given her indifferent attitude to rules of conduct, Alya displays a high degree of Varyan ethnic and religious pride, which can often put her at odds with Inquisitors and clergy of other races, especially Omestrians, a race she both looks down upon and yet seems to take peculiar personal interest in. Never lacking in self-confidence, Alya can be domineering and occasionally offensive in conversations, especially towards social inferiors or the subordinate ranks of the SA. This behavior is more due to brashness than racism, though, and her quick and sharp tongue usually lacks a favored target beyond “whoever reacts to it the most.” This isn't out of a pure social viciousness, however; Alya easily gets emotionally attached to those she gets along with, and considers herself highly loyal to her warsiblings in particular.

Her impulsiveness, aggression, and self-pride are, however, also weaknesses. In either a fight or an argument, she isn’t always difficult to bait into a hard situation. She is only of average intelligence by the high standards of Inquisitors, and lacks specialized training or knowledge in many fields outside of battle, though she does have some knowledge of summoning and demons from her time in the Summoner’s Circle. When worked up or emotional, she has a propensity to talk herself into trouble, as well, be it agreeing to an unwise bet or volunteering for a dangerous assignment out of bravado. Her impulsiveness is a consistent habit - she often pursues a goal or takes an action without entirely understanding why, simply because it felt like a good idea at the time.

She also behaves in ways others may consider not befitting of an Inquisitor. She can be frivolous and petty, enjoying luxury and impatient with hardship she considers unnecessary. This leads her to be wasteful, willing to spend money or supplies on unnecessary comforts. Outside of the field, she often engages in unbecoming conduct - smoking, drinking, gambling, sexual promiscuity, and risky behaviors aren’t uncommon for Alya. Nor is it uncommon for her to invite her fellow Inquisitors into these pursuits, leaving her somewhat of a "bad influence" on her friends.

Background

With an older sister, Elisheva, in the Inquisition already, Albina was certain to be evaluated at a young age, and she was taken into the halls of the Red Seminary at the tender age of seven. Her family is a minor Varyan noble family, one with history but unexceptional by the standards of their peers. With two daughters in the Inquisition, however, their fortunes have been on a rapid upswing - a pressure the young Albina was always acutely aware of.

In the Red Seminary, Albina distinguished herself as a precocious, serious, and devoted acolyte, spending nearly every waking minute in training, study, or prayer. Even under the harsh tutelage of Father Gregoroth, Albina typically thrived in the face of challenge, taking every beating, failure, and harsh lesson in stride as best a child could.

All but one failure, that is. Albina, distinguished by her serious nature, academic achievement, and ethereal control, was accepted into Mother Indira’s Summoning Circle for many years. However, she was dismissed from the Circle shortly after her fourteenth birthday, after failing the final Third Test. Mother Indira’s strict, exacting standards sensed danger in, as the older Inquisitor put it, “a War Priest that is both good and not as good as she thinks,” and the older Inquisitor decided to take Tatiana and Dara under her wing instead. Raised under Father Gregoroth’s harsh tutelage, Albina comes from a world where failure wasn’t only emotionally painful, but physically excruciating, and Mother Indira’s rejection was a turning point in Albina’s development.
“I’ll show her…” Quietly stealing an old, forgotten, and dusty tome from the Circle, Albina didn’t give up. If she couldn’t learn the ways of fighting and controlling demons under Mother Indira, she’d just have to teach herself. Unfortunately, the tome she'd selected contained more than text...

After leaving the Circle, Albina seemed to loosen up, her personality beginning to improve over time. However, the reason for this was not appreciated by anyone. After her illicit experiments, Albina was possessed by an intelligent being - one she identified as a demon. An emotional and active creature, "Alya" as she came to call herself gradually exercised increasing control over the real Albina, eventually banishing her into a dark corner of her own mind, apparently permanently. With no convenient means of escaping the Red Seminary and fearful of being discovered as a foreign being, "Alya" continued her development as an Inquisitor, secretly disdaining any religious loyalty to Varya, church, or family, or anyone or anything she wasn't personally attached to.

Under this influence, Alya gradually lightened up emotionally. She finally began opening up to some of her warsiblings, with whom she’d spent an entire childhood refusing to play or bond emotionally. She even began to allow, and then encourage, calling her by the diminutive Alya, an informality that had previously been staunchly denied them. Gradually, she grew from a humorless and dour child to the wild one of Warband Goliath, fun-loving and adventurous, always the one to push boundaries with those around her for better or for ill. Though her studies suffered - she dropped from one of the leading acolytes academically to a decidedly middling student - and though she suffered many lashings and other punishments for misbehavior, Alya seems content with the tradeoffs of this personal path.

Culmination is an emotional event for all Inquisitors, but Aspect I-XV’s vision seems to have had a particularly profound impact on Alya in spite of her true nature. Having always been unenthusiastic towards religious duty, Alya quickly became one of the more fervent and outspokenly faithful Inquisitors of Warband Goliath. Today, despite her propensity for wild and inappropriate behavior, Inquisitor Alya is seen to be deeply religious and is quite loyal to the Inquisition as a whole.

Talents/Ethereal Abilities

With a heavy emphasis on front-line combat, Alya isn’t the greatest spellcaster in the Inquisition by any means. While lacking in a versatile array of spells, Alya is an exceptionally talented and well-armed hand-to-hand fighter adept at manipulating the flow of ether to give herself an edge in combat. She typically carries two primary weapons and two backup weapons. The first is her signature halberd - with a crimson-red metal blade in the shape of a phoenix in flight, with a secondary spike atop one wing, topped with a single-shot smoothbore gun in lieu of a spear-point. In battle, she focuses on swinging the heavy axe with powerful, heavy blows, bludgeoning as much as cutting.

Her other main weapon is a pump-action large-bore shotgun. In contrast to her distinctive and flamboyant halberd, this gun is standard SA issue, her only personal modification being removal of the stock in favor of a pistol grip. Carried on a sling over a shoulder, she can quickly switch to it in battle. She carries two more weapons - a small handgun, also SA issue, and a field knife, as much a practical tool as a weapon.

While not a significant caster, Alya does have a few ethereal abilities beyond the norm. She focuses primarily on self-enhancement with ether, finding value in swinging her heavy halberd as though it had little weight at all, and especially in maintaining rapid motion to avoid the blows of the enemy. She is, however, supernaturally socially savvy, able to pick up on even extremely subtle emotional cues and read well how far to push people in order to get what she wants out of them. With the use of ether, lies stand out to her as much as actions do, though she must hold eye contact to read truth or lies unerringly.

Possessed by a demon, Alya has a powerful additional ethereal capacity as well. It is not known what Alya could do with the abilities of a demon, and even she doesn’t actually know what she could do - as any such ability is immediately recognizable as demonic ether, with no realistic way of hiding its nature from anyone with ethereal talents of their own. As such, she would have to be extremely pressed to attempt it.

Alya doesn’t have many talents outside of battle, not having devoted much time to extra studies. Machines are only of interest to her insofar as whether they work for their intended purpose or not, and if they don’t, that’s work for mechanics as far as she’s concerned. Philosophy and other high-minded academic subjects are an obscure mystery to her, and while she has a solid command of tactics, she rarely pays much mind to broad strategy in a military context.

She also considers herself an amateur gourmet, teaching herself to cook in a land where most people are content with bland nutrient intake.

Personal Seal

WIP.

Character Relationships

Warband Goliath Members

Mother Faina
Alya and Faina have a friendly and trusting relationship as warsiblings. Both of them encourage a strong sense of loyalty to the warband in one another, and both exude strong confidence in their faith even in the face of hard trials like months spent on the ice. However, despite her best efforts, years of Alya's trying has generally failed to encourage the reserved Faina to cut loose; instead she has frequently been the one to guide Alya back to the safety of the Goliath compound after a night spent in pursuit of vice. This history has instilled a deep trust in Faina, who Alya feels she can turn to at times of emotional vulnerability or plain old intoxication. In return, Alya pushes Faina to express her feelings more, something the Inquisitor often struggles with on her own.

Father Tàerlach
Alya and Tàerlach have a somewhat stormy relationship as warsiblings. Though they are both outspokenly devout - a facet that, in the months since Culmination, have begun to bring them closer together - Alya's frequent antics and emotional behavior is at odds with Tàerlach's reserved and serious personality. The rest of the warband has seen this clash of personalities butt heads time and time again. Alya frequently finds his seriousness annoying, and Tàerlach frequently finds her antics and behavior baffling. However, in the field they get along much better - Alya has visible respect for his tactics and his strategic ability, while Alya's courage and unshakable morale in a fight quickly distinguished herself in turn.

Father Solim
WIP

Summoner's Circle

Mother Indira
WIP

Tatiana
At the time they shared in the Summoner's Circle, Albina was quite aloof towards Tatiana, rebuffing attempts at friendship in favor of long hours alone spent studying. After being cut at the Third Test and leaving the Circle, however, Albina steadily begin to relax and open up towards others emotionally, and ironically Tatiana and Alya became better friends after she left the Circle than when they were classmates.

Others

Father Hassan
An old friend from the Seminary days, fellow cut-ups Hassan and Alya frequently got each other into trouble with their mutual antics. Finding in him a kindred spirit in Hassan amongst the many serious-minded students of the Inquisition's ways, Alya and Hassan were good friends and, it was rumored in hushed whispers, briefly lovers.

Zviera
Her personal servant, Zviera is a young Omestrian man Alya purchased shortly after hearing word that she was to join an expedition to Eluria. He is a quiet and meek man, too unnerved to meet any Inquisitor’s eyes. He lacks any apparent talent or trained skills other than the work of servants - preparing food, cleaning, tending to Alya’s things, delivering messages, and the like. He frequently works for other members of Warband Goliath as well, though he considers Alya his owner and first priority. Alya doesn’t treat Zviera harshly, in fact being seen to enjoy his company and casually talk things over with him.

Animals
Odd as it may seem, Alya tends to have strained relations with just about any wild animal. Animals seem to instinctively dislike her on sight, often becoming uncharacteristically defensive, aggressive, or scared. Alya can overcome this first-impression reaction, with effort, but she generally avoids interacting closely with animals and can generally expect bites and scratches to be an inevitable part of any introduction.

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

Edit:

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The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

Hiya!

Lovejoy said to direct general OOC questions here, so I'll post this here as I didn't immediately see it - what are the general content guidelines for this game?

In brief - if this game were a movie, what would its rating be? What level of violence are people comfortable with? What level of realism is expected towards things like injury or gore? Do sexual issues come up? Do any real-world political or social issues come up? Is drug use shown? Are there any particularly emotionally-weighty or personal topics that need to be avoided, like any player having an issue with abuse or addiction or mental illness or anything like that? I don't mean general rules of conduct for us personally, but content guidelines for IC posts specifically.

Do understand, I ask solely as I think it better to have a clear policy. I do think I have a general notion of the answer from a mixture of common sense and what I've read of the IC posts so far. But, since the game's been going on for a long time now, us newcomers might conceivably blunder into an expected but unwritten rule or perhaps be ignorant of something written a long time ago buried under a lot of OOC posts. And of course people from different backgrounds may have very different assumptions as to what is or isn't normal.

Or to put it another way, it's better to ask than to find out the hard way.