Tortoise

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

_{(Starring: Yun)}

Yun hates having to go out, these days. Everything you see is a reminder. No, scratch that: everything you hear is a reminder. There is no silence on New Hollywood. The Oligarch-controlled media is everywhere, omnipresent. It stands at each street corner, shouting at you through speakers attached to the neon streetlamps. Only partially drowned out by the beat of distant music, and the little thumping of raindrops all around.

Because, of course, it's raining again.

He doesn't bother with an umbrella, or even a hood. Just like he didn't bother shaving today. Or yesterday. Or whenever it was that his facial hair started to look like a wiry jungle. He could pass as homeless, if he didn't have a home.

Is that a stupid observation? Probably. Yun doesn't care any more. He looks like a wet dog, by the time he finally gets to the little market stall- the only one nearby to have survived both the recent weather and the recent politics. Everyone else is shutting down. As soon as the White Flowers took over New Beijing, the local economy near imploded.

On a mounted screen nearby, jutting uncomfortably out of the brick wall, a new announcer has a lot to say about that. Yun tries to ignore him; Oligarch mouthpiece. He focuses on the old woman running the stall.

"Hey, uh, you happen to have any mushroom?" Some people think it's strange, but Yun always had a taste for them.

The old woman at the stall nods her head. She's so old, it's barely noticeable amongst all the shaking she's already doing. Yun nods back. Silently, trembling, the woman starts to move; it takes her a thousand years to reach down into the depths of her stall. Yun begins to wonder how long he's going to wait.

In the meantime, the news announcer keeps talking, unaware and unabated.

"You see, Leong," he's saying to another man on the screen, who must be Leong, "these White Flower rebels have no idea how to run a city. None. I'm telling you, they're running the beautiful city of New Beijing into the ground. The Colombians are having to evacuate their people from our whole planet, is how bad it's getting. It's an embarrassment."

Below his talking head, the headline "NEW HOLLYWOOD EMBARRASSMENT" appears in ultra-bold text. The old stall woman can't seem to find the promised mushrooms; but don't worry, deary, she's still looking. Yun assures her it's alright.

"And that's the problem!" Leong answers back, still on the screen. "We only barely won the Zetan war, but you know what, we went out there and we did it. We did what we had to do. Nobody else was going to stand up for humanity. No other nation cared enough. The Earth Cultural Union is the only colony in the world that has truly, honestly held on to who we are. And these White Flowers, or Mixtists, or whatever they're calling themselves these days-" he snorted, a sound that was distorted so strangely by the static and the rain- "they just have no appreciation of that. None at all. Honestly, I hope to Earth the Matuvistansa kill every last one of them. Is that too harsh? I don't think so. They've turned their back on what it means to be human. Just like the Zetans. Just like the Xandalians."

Aha, some mushrooms! They were buried underneath only five or six million pots and pans, each one styled after a different culture and time period. How much kitchen equipment does this one stall sell? Its overhead tent is tattered and full of holes, only barely holding out the water. One wonders how the uncovered screens and speakers never short out. The woman wraps up the mushrooms slowly, tenderly, each one individually.

"The Xandalians," not-Leong starts up again. "Oh, boy, let me tell you about the Xandies..."

Yun pays for his mushrooms. He holds his hands over his ears on the way home.

~~~~~~~~

_{(Addressing: @Crusader Lord)}

Floating far over the lights and joys of New Hollywood, someone is pretty bored.

Since the Zetan war ended, life as an ECU fighter pilot has not been particularly exciting. You spend half your time docked in a cruiser. You spend the other half of your time doing meaningless "patrols" around the Gateway and the planet. You do drills nobody cares about. And, if you're like Pilot Klaus, you watch anime on your infopad while the hours crawl by.

Klaus has been watching anime since he was old enough to pick his own shows. His favorite are the action-themed ones, released in Old Japan largely at the end of the 20th century. All bright colors, dramatic fight scenes and a generous helping of explosion. Part of him knows they are aimed at kids, but the rest of him doesn't care.

Beep, beep! Interrupting the anime time that Klaus takes very seriously, sensors detect something rising up out of the atmosphere of New Hollywood. Whatever it is must be relatively small, built for stealth, and highly insulated: to ECU scanners, it read like the echo of a ghost. But it's close. Very close.

Curiosity wins over. Klaus pivots the entirety of his shuttle, aiming carefully so that he might see what it is with his own eyes. And then his jaw drops.

Rising out of the hazy gray-blue atmosphere of New Hollywood, against a backdrop of wastelands and cities, is a man. But not a man: it is metal, all black, with a face almost like a knight's helmet. For a moment, the sunlight bounces off of its smooth exterior, and Klaus swears he can make out hands and feet of alloy.

It's a mech.

In shock, Klaus flies to his feet. His head bangs- ouch!- against the cramped ceiling, and the little infopad in his lap goes scattering to the floor. By chance, it lands in a very acoustic spot, so that the whole cabin is suddenly filled the sound of a familiar song that has just begun to play.

For a moment, inspired by the thematically appropriate theme song, Klaus doesn't even want to fight the creature. He just wants to stand there and stare out his cockpit, taking in the awe of a spacecraft in the shape of a robot in the shape of a man. It rises out of the hazy air, fully in space now, right alongside Klaus' ship; which now feels clumsy and garish by comparison. But then, sadly, whoever is within the black suit seems to spot him, and Klaus quickly has to jerk his ship out of the way before he is obliterated.

A missile flies through where he used to be. The moment of awe passes; panic asserts itself. With a finger jabbed on the "Comms" button, Klaus sends out a distress call, soon answered by four other fighter pilots. Together, they give chase.

The mech is not alone. Five identical comrades appear, rising up from the surface in the same way. The fighter pilots are divided in trying to catch them all. The unknown figures duck and swerve, move sometimes like humans and other times like ships. Klaus calls out, "I can't catch them!" His commander cries back, over comms: "Then just fucking shoot and hope!"

All at once, the ECU fighters open fire, releasing a motley assortment of mass-driver weapons. Bullets built for spacecraft crash into two of the mechs at lightening speed, sending them spinning. It is several seconds before they can right themselves. But the ones not hit release a kind of weapons fire that flare up in the void, like a light show in space.

"That's- so cool!"
"Klaus, they are trying to kill us. Please focus."

Klaus tries to focus. They pursue the mysterious figures for another two minutes, even though it feels more like two hours. At last, all six disappear behind the moon of a local gas giant. And when the fighters round it, they are gone.

"Who were those guys?"

~~~~~~~~

_{(Addressing: @Irredeemable and @TimeMaster)}

Far below the interstellar dogfighting, and far to the West of Yun's silent little struggle, is a man on a mission. His mission is simple, but heavier than the world. Because he is the man who will save the ECU.

Technically, that man should be Savant James Heralds. But, well, he's not. The Savant has been almost an absent commander lately, withdrawing more and more into his old passions of philosophy and engineering. He'll see nobody but his friends; and even them he mistrusts. Dark rumors swirl around his head.

In his place, an Oligarch named Jean Pierre Dupont stands tall as the new Emergency Director. Except he doesn't stand tall, because he is only 5'2, and the nickname "Neo Napoleon" has already began to haunt his every step. (He constantly reminds others that Napoleon was average height for his time, and they constantly remind Jean that he's not.)

He walks over a large, holographically enabled map that dominates the floor of the Strategic Command Warroom. As he steps, little three-dimensional displays project upwards from the floor map, responding to his presence. They display cities: seven of them. Two, labeled Neo London and New Beijing, are wreathed in a very menacing shade of red. Enemy territory.

The other five are colored after the ECU's trademarked gold. Mostly, that is: little dots of red represent where White Flower activity has created hotspots of dissent. Already, they're exporting their revolutionary ideals. If it did not frighten and anger the Oligarch Dupont so much, he would be impressed at their quick spread. The Flowers are populists to the core, promising a better life for the disenfranchised, the outsiders, and the poor. And there are plenty of those in New Hollywood today.

"We need to make them doubt themselves," said a voice. It belonged to a man named Aamadu, who like Dupont, was a native to Neo Istanbul; one of the cities being overtaken by a sea of red dots.

Dupont shook his head violently. "We've done that, my old friend, a trillion times. They still hear the news. And get the holo-films." Another red dot appeared, this time on the city of New Rome. An open air holo-suite had just been bombed there. "We need to use force."

"Force? Come on, Napoleon-" Aamadu is the only non-oligarch Dupont has met who's not intimidated by his title- "force is what created this problem. The protectors." He spat the word out like it was a curse. "And we are not soldiers. It doesn't matter how many maps you make, or Strategic Command Warrooms you build. The ECU is not an army. We're storytellers. We're propagandists. We are..." he smiles, clearly having an idea, "magicians."

But Jean just rolled his eyes. "Stop talking in riddles, and tell me what you think I should do."

"I don't think, I know." He tapped the hovering recreation of Neo London, which enlarged itself at his touch. Neo London was displayed in perfect, exacting detail, down to the last piece of litter on the sidewalk. And in the center of all the red lighting, New Westminster was a glowing beacon of blue. "We have powerful allies here. Far better in the art of war than we could ever, ever be. Yes, I know that our back is against the wall. But that is the time to rely on only our skills. Tell me, do you Oligarchs still have access to the media systems?"

Jean affirms that they do. And finally, Aamadu begins to spill his plan.

First, they'll pump up every light in Neo London and New Beijing, making it brighter than daylight even in the middle of the night. Then they'll crank up the volume on the street-side speakers and screens, too, so that you'll hear them indoors with a pillow over your head. Jets will fly over the two cities in random patterns, occasionally blasting off fireworks, and occasionally dropping bombs onto the homes of well-known rebels. They'll turn the public holo-suites off. The 24/7 news broadcasts are to be replaced with a constant, loud music that plays into every street and alleyway, because there is no escape from the music of New Hollywood.

And more: Jean mentions that the Flowers often communicate via electronic messages, shared through their infopads. Every citizen uses such things; it's New Hollywood's version of the internet. But loyal agents will now hack into every vulnerable White Flower message board, and flood the rest with false information, making it completely untrustworthy.

In the end? A city of uncoordinated, sleep-deprived, on-edge civilians who have no chance against any military effort. And then, then, says Aamadu, they can call in Dupont's beloved protectors to sweep everyone up.

The two men talk late into the night, until eventually, their planning turns to celebration. They order champagne and propose a toast. Not because they are certain they're going to win. No, just the opposite; because in their hearts, they know this is the last ditch effort before the rebels overwhelm them, and the last chance to save their peculiar culture. Because, if the ECU is to fall, at least it shall fall doing what it has always done.

As they clang their glasses together, golden champagne spills out over the floor.

"To our final act!"

~~~~~~~~

His office isn't as clean as it used to be, Tanaka thinks, correctly. And it smells like oil. Both these observations are true, but he will not say them. You can't say these sorts of things to a Savant.

The Savant in question, James Heralds, is leaned over the metal carcass of his most recent project. Even if there were a gun aimed at Tanaka's mechanical heart, he couldn't guess what it was for. It's something with spindly, leg-like appendages that jitter and jump while Heralds prods at them. It reminds you of a patient on an operating table.

He does not like that thought, and quickly brings up the subject he came here for.

"Savant Heralds," he says, in a carefully modulated tone, "I was sent by the Noocratic Counc-" but he is interrupted.

"Tanaka, my youthful friend!," Heralds exclaims, without bothering to turn around from his twitching metal abomination, "It has been too long since we've seen each other. You've been so preoccupied. The Meeting Place is a harsh world."

The young man smiles. (Heralds, still having his back turned, has not bothered to wear one.) "Indeed, Savant. I'm glad to be on temporary leave. And as I was sayi-"

"Are you now? That doesn't sound like the Tanaka I know. In fact, I'm positive you still want to be up there." Tanaka feels a stab in his chest, and at that same moment, remembers what it's always like to talk to the Savant. Heralds goes on: "But I don't mean to contradict you, my youthful friend. You know, you've always been my favorite. Have you gotten the chance to visit Old Japan since you've been back?"

The youth shrugged. "I have never been one for culture parties, Savant." Or for Old Japan. "And of course, in the holo-suites, I prefer-"

"The Wild West!" Heralds turns around. His face is wearing that smile now, for the first time in three or four weeks, and is also covered in grease and oil. Almost nothing is left in him of the Savant, genius leader of the ECU: he looks more like a deranged mechanic. Tanaka wonders how long Heralds has been stuffed up in here. The Noocratic Council contacted him specifically to check on the Savant. They said...

"Oh, yes, cowboy shoot outs and wandering heroes. Yes, very playful. Quaint. Childish. Not," he promises, "that there's anything wrong with that." But his eyes say otherwise.

Tanaka swallows it. "Savant, may I ask-" he gestures to the room at large, as grandly as he can without feeling like he's taking too many liberties- "what is all this?"

"Just projects," Heralds answers immediately. And when he talks next, his voice is somehow harder. Like gray iron: "Why? What did they say? Who have you been talking to?"

This time, the other man doesn't even get the chance to be interrupted. Heralds has resumed before he can open his mouth. "That's why you're here, isn't it? My enemies. They got to you? Who got to you?" Tanaka notes the scattered language. He has never heard the Savant speak so messily. "The Noocratic Council? The ex-protectors? That crazy woman, Kayla? The... White Flowers?"

Tanaka's face goes near as white as those flowers, when Heralds says that, and then the Savant is laughing loudly. He turns and picks up a little box made completely of gears. He tightens one screw, then another, then places it down to whir loudly on the table. "I know you're not my enemy, Tanaka. Not you. But you must be aware. There are some who would kill me, if they could. And you are so foolish. So young. They would use you to spy on me. Don't tell anyone a word. Don't trust anyone who is not me." He rubs his gray, stubbly chin. "If they kill me, they will kill you. Never forget that. You are my closest ally. They know this. My life is your life."

Tanaka looks down at the floor.

"My youthful friend," Heralds repeats again, "don't be so discouraged. This is the way things must go. You see, I am the Savant. I know things. I've read all the histories of Old Earth. Every nation, every culture, every war. Even the ones we censure from the public. I alone know them all. I am the Savant. And I know something else," he steps over scrap metal, leaning in close to Tanaka, and speaks in a conspiratorial whisper, "I know how this revolution will end. There's only so many ways these things can happen. And once certain evens have begun, and indeed passed, the outcome of any war is all but determined. Oh, those stupid, superstitious Mixtists may talk of 'prophecy,' but I know a real prophecy. I know how the White Flower Revolution ends."

Is it too much to hope for? Tanaka meets Herald's eyes. "How, Savant? Do... we win?" He wants to believe. So, so much he wants to believe. In the Savant, in the Noocracy, in all of it. His heart- robotic as it might be- is still fully loyal.

Herald's smile falters. "You've always been so... naive."

With that, the Savant turns to work on his miscellaneous projects again. Gears, wires and engineering consumes his world. Try as he might, and as he does, Tanaka can't stir the Savant to conversation again. It is a steel wall.

He turns to leave, at last. But as soon as he reaches the cramped office door-

"Tanaka, look!" He turns around, and Heralds is holding... something. A misshapen lump of metal and plastic, beating rhythmically, bouncing the cords that dangle off of it. "It's your heart!"

He feels sick to the stomach. He walks out of the room without saying another word. When the Noocratic Council contacts him to ask if the Savant is still stable- because all the whispers suggest he is not- he will lie and say that Heralds is fine. Everything is fine.

Everything is fine, everything is fine.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

Announcements

Hey y'all. Most of this gets discussed in Discord, but just so that we can have it in a more permanent, less-cluttered format, I'm making some major RP announcements here.

To start with: a Time Skip is planned. Following the conclusion of the White Flower war and preceding the introduction of Sigma's Gaians, there will be a 6 month skip. Everybody can use this time to say that they've been working on their military, or developing major projects, or restructuring their society to better deal with the post-Gateway world, or whatever else.

Secondly- drum roll please- Irredeemable is now co-GM! Why should be obvious to everyone. Irr has been here since the very start, made more IC posts than I can possibly count, and has been a part of every major plotline. Me, them and Sigma will be collaborating on major discussions and future events.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

White Flower Revolution

(Part 2)

There's supposed to be stars in the sky. Not the big spheres of burning gas that planets orbit around, that you see in astronomy maps, but stars. Real stars. The little twinkling lights in the sky that you wish upon. But you can't see any tonight- or most of the nights that Li has seen. Not that she's worried about it.

"Isn't it beautiful up here?" she asks.
"Yeah," he answers.

It's the cities, they say. New Beijing, like every New Hollywood city, is an endless parade of light and noise. Li likes it like that; even if all that brightness hides the night. It might be near to midnight, but the sky overhead is only a plain gray sheet.

"I would stay up here forever, wouldn't you?" she asks.
"Sure," he answers.

Her boyfriend has never been as enthusiastic about these things as she is. She was hoping they could really enjoy the Ferris wheel together, or any part of Nosi Amusement Park, but he's been distracted the entire time. No reaction to anything. It's all that news he watches, she decides. Hearing revolution this and Gateway that, he never thinks about anything else any more. He pinned a white flower on to his shirt a week ago. It's still there- Li truly does not like that.

They're coming to the peak of the Ferris wheel now, riding slowly up to its zenith; the ever-present carnival music picks up the pace a little, like it's playing just for them. And it might be. Late on a Monday night, following an entire day of solid rain, almost nobody is still here. It's just Li, Ramesh and the staff. And a lot of animatronic clowns. They move in strange dances.

Honestly, there's too many for comfort. The fear of clowns has never been as rampant on New Hollywood as it might be in other places (strange costumes and bright colors are too common to be scary) but there's just something in the way they move that puts Li on edge. Robotic. All wearing those poofy clothes and those plastic masks. Why couldn't they just use holograms?

"I don't like the clowns," she says.
"Then don't look at them," he answers. She tries not to.

Ah, there. That's a sight that puts even the clowns out of her mind. Gorgeous. Her and Josh have now reached the precarious tip of the Ferris wheel, and they can see everything. To their left, the lights and joys of New Beijing. To their right, a vast open wasteland dotted with Bezian ruins. And right in front of them, the war between them both: the little bits of grass encroaching on the wasteland, the little tale-tell signs of terraforming and buildings making this alien world into something human. Li, the true New Hollywoodite that she is, sheds a tear at the sight. This ride was worth the price.

Below, some clowns stop dancing. But Li does not notice, because she's still watching the view.

"Look!" Li tells her boyfriend. He looks. He nods. She jostles his arm: "No, really look! Can't you see it?" He nods again, faster, with a little latent irritation behind it that she pretends not to notice- but she does.

Below, some clowns take off their plastic masks.

"Listen," Li says, "we paid a lot of money to come here today, okay? We've been planning it for, like, three weeks. It took us both forever to get this day off."

Below, the clowns aren't really clowns any more. They were never animatronic. Li hasn't looked yet.

Ramesh finally smiles back at her, but in a sad kind of way. "You're right, Li," he says. "I've just been thinking a lot lately. With all the stuff on the news channels. It gets you going, you know?" He forces a laugh. "I'm sor-"

The Ferris wheel stops. It's a creaking, shuttering stop that feels very unintentional; it cuts Ramesh off in the middle of his apology. It cuts Li off, too, from milking it. It's silent for a moment. Nothing but the whining of the wheel. Some puddles splash.

"Uh... hello?" Li is shouting down the side. "Hey, we're still on this!"

The wind blows as an answer. It's not a very articulate one.

"Hello!" She shouts again. Ramesh has to be elbowed in the side before he joins in. "Uh, hey... hey, me and my girlfriend are up here!"

"You're not being loud enough, Ramy!"

Splash, splash. Far beneath, something is running through the rain puddles. An army is on the move, an unknown one that can't be seen in their dark robes. They're almost to the Ferris wheel.

"I can't be louder, I have vocal cord damag-"
"Oh, shut up, you've been complaining about that for ten years."
"I've had it for ten years."
"Ju- woaaahh!"

Their stomachs fly into their throats as the wheel drops. A lever has been pulled.

This is not the gentle, playful kind of ride down that the advertisements promised. It's a screaming, screeching, grabbing-each-other kind of ride down where both people briefly think they're going to die. Bang, banging against their metal seats. Plummet hits several Gs. Ramesh sprays the contents of his stomach onto a neon poster on the way down, but has just enough presence of mind to realize it might be an improvement.

They groan in unison when, after swinging back-and-forth like a pendulum, their cart comes to rest at the bottom. The spinning in their heads makes the carnival around them look like watercolor; it takes them both more than a moment to realize what is standing in front of them.

"Oh, uuuugh, it's you guys," Li says. She moans the words.

The guys in question are Mixtists and Flowers- two of the former, and a dozen of the latter. More of both are scattered across the park. They've been planning this 'take over' for three weeks: not only of the Amusement park, but of all New Beijing. Neo London, too. At midnight, every major business and political office is to be seized. And then held- indefinitely. The Oligarchs will all wake up to find a world run by the rebels.

The clown costumes came in to the plan only recently, as a last resort. Security around the Nosi Amusement Park had jumped up lately; some over-zealous, would-be rebel sent in a bomb threat. It nearly stopped the plan in its tracks. But then someone realized: on a dreary Monday night, after rain? Nobody would notice a few extra robo-clowns. They sneaked in, deactivated security cams, and flung the central gate wide open for the small army of rebels waiting outside. A brilliant plan, executed brilliantly.

Then they spotted Josh and Li still on the Ferris wheel.

"By Earth, y'all, what are you doing here?" asked a man named Jeb, a Mixtist who normally did not use such Oligarch expressions. But by Earth, y'all, everyone should have left the park an hour back.

"We didn't leave the park yet," Ramesh says, stating the very obvious. "She thought it would be more romantic at midnight."

"It's more romantic than staying in for the eighty-seventh ni-" but Li is cut off. Jeb has clasped his hand over her mouth. "Shhh, he hisses. "Do you hear that? Listen!"

They listen. There is a faint sound, just on the edge of hearing. It's something repetitive, something high-pitched, something getting louder, getting closer... it is...

Even from under the hand, Li bursts out laughing. Jeb pulls his arm back. "It's carnival music!" she declares. "We're at a carnival, and you're surprised to hear carnival music!" Ramesh toys with the white flower on his shirt, and doesn't laugh along.

Jeb whirls around, to the baker's dozen of rebels behind him. It looks like they think of him as an authority figure. Everybody's spine straightens up a little when he glances over them. "Which one of y'all forgot to turn off the music?" Nobody answers. "Come on, who was it?"

A girl's hand is slowly raised. "It was my responsibility," she says, "but... I did it, I swear. I double checked!"

"What about..." the Mixtist starts, hesitates, stops, and starts again. He feels uneasy; he couldn't explain to you why. "What about the staff? We've got them all locked in the office, right?"

"Under lock, key and death threat," says a man. "We triple checked." Some people look over at the girl again, with those looks that say Well, you must have been the one to mess up. She shirks away from them.

Li rolls her eyes so hard, they should fall out of her sockets. "You guys have no idea what you're doing. Come on, Ramy. Let's just go home. We're loyal citizens. We'll let these morons stay here and play rebel."

She pretends not to notice the hesitation in his movements. He climbs out of the Ferris wheel cart like he doesn't really want to go. Like he wants to stay here and play rebel, too. She takes him by the arm, a white-knuckle grip on his wrist, and practically pulls him along with her to the main gate.

That's when they see it. Hear it, too. It really does sound like carnival music. But it looks like an army.

And that's what it is. An army, all dressed in black, their metallic armor being three inches thick, some carrying speakers that blast music very appropriate to the setting. They march in-line with the clownish beat. Classic ECU: crash the party, but keep with the theme. The only thing that still marks them as protectors is a little gold badge, pinned where their hearts should be. It is molded in the shape of a fist.

"Oh, f-"

Ramesh finishes that word. Then finishes it a few more times. It's fortunate that will not be the last word he ever says, if only because next he has to beg his girlfriend not to go up to the army and ask them for help. "Are you insane!" He hisses into her ear, more animated than he's been all night. "Those are protectors. I don't care what you learned in school, they aren't on our side. And-" he looks down at that white flower on his shirt, now the same as a target on his back, "-they will kill me, Li. Is that what you want?"

They're only a few steps away. The protectors have seen them; their mass fills the gate. There is no exit, there is nowhere to hide. Ramesh grabs his girlfriend's arm, this time, and they run as fast as either can.

The black-gold horde marches behind them, lock-step, unflinching. They don't even speed up. After all, where are the two going to run? Back to the rebels, they go, and frantically recite everything they just saw. Jeb's face goes white. (Really, it goes a shade even lighter than that, for which there is no word but 'terror.')

There is, for half of half of a second, talk about who leaked information, and who the traitor must be- but Jeb silences it. That's not important right now. From what Ramesh and Li say, at least fifty protectors stand out there, and only fifteen rebels- Li bristles at being included in the rebels, but doesn't argue- are here to stand against them. That makes strategy vital, he says. So for just a moment, everyone stops to listen closely to what this supposed strategy is, this thing that will save them from a squad of professional murderers.

It can't be said whether Jeb's plan would have worked, sadly. Because even though they listen, nobody hears him speak. They hear two other things, instead. The first is a man with a deep voice and an American accent shouting: "Initiate Motion 10-A, boys!"

And the second is an unintelligible, horrific wailing. It fills the atmosphere. The speakers have stopped playing circus music; they're playing this instead. This sound that finds you and crawls under your skin, so that you want to claw your ears off to make it stop. This wail that lies somewhere between an infant screaming and a tornado warning. The rebel's flight-or-fight instinct is beyond triggered.

Another command is given, which none of the rebels know of, but the protectors can hear just fine in their protective ear-pieces. "Motion 10-B." Now yellow and red lights are strobing, frantically fast. All the world becomes wailing and flashing. Logic is gone, and instinct takes over.

Just as the protectors intended, the White Flowers break. The girl, the youngest and least ready for this, is the first to run. She doesn't know why she's running, or where to, only that every cell in her body tells her that she must. Seeing her flee strikes the boy beside her in the heart- he runs too. One by one, great and small, the Flowers fall apart. Like roaches when you turn the light on. The proctors laugh, but nobody can hear them.

Li grabs Ramesh's hand again, and for the first time in years, he doesn't pull back. Neither of them can see anymore. With eyes closed, they grope around the amusement park, only knowing to get away from that wailing sound. Their feet scrape and stumble awkwardly against the concrete. They're trying to walk together, but neither knows where the other wants to go. When the couple finally stumbles into something cold- a flagpole?- they silently agree to make this their stopping point.

The wailing has calmed down. Not stopped. Not even close. But it's quieted to the point of only being an awful background sound, instead of the intense, mind-breaking experience it was just twenty seconds ago. Feels like an hour. Ramesh opens his eyes to see Li trembling all over, her feet and her hands. Every one else in view is the same.

The protectors round them up, after that. The Mixtists are too shaken to put up much resistance. Only Jeb escapes, climbing over a lower section of fencing and fleeing into the wasteland. Every one else is taken into custody. After talking to interrogators, and expressing much loyalty to the state, Li is released; but she never sees Ramesh again.

He's not the only one. All over New Beijing and Neo London, the White Flowers are met with these kinds of sudden, psychological attacks. The protectors in black uniforms, the wailing and the flashing. And many do die; but when dawn comes, the rebels have claimed just enough to take control. Neo London and New Beijing, two of the largest ECU cities, are now White Flower territory.

Back in their apartment- now her apartment- Li decides Ramesh would have been happy to hear that.

An Unseasonable Chill: A Horror RP

Present.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

@Liotrent

Sure! You might want to write first about the Gateway reopening, and your people's reaction to it. Here's some descriptions of what that looks like:

In the depths of space, ancient machines whir to life. A signal has been received, written in a language of code that only the Gateways know, that says: Come back. And they do. From one end of the Galaxy to the other, overlooking worlds of hostile deserts or sunken marshes, they come back. First with a spark, a wavering in space- and then a flash of blinding light and heat, a storm in the void, a celestial crescendo like a sun being born. And then only a steady light. Billions of lifeforms witness it. They wonder for a moment, perhaps, but then they go back to their lives, not knowing that over their heads now sits a portal to countless other worlds.

A spark started in the Collective's processing. It was lit on a small scientific space station, hanging in orbit above Zeta's sandy surface, gazing out at the universe around the small, yellow dot. The spark, once lit, blossomed immediately. It grew from an ember to a conflagration in only a few moments, a flame racing across the minds of the Consciousness. On the moons of Z and 3, workers moved to see through the translucent hab-domes, on the surface of Zeta, they stared upwards, organic and biomechanical eyes adjusting to the brightness, and deep beneath the planet's surface, those that could not afford to rapidly emerge instead stared through the eyes of their friends, out onto a second sun, burning bright in the sky.

The flames said only one thing- just one short sentence. The Gateways are back.

Those are written by me and Irr, who were both waxing poetic, but you could always go with something simpler. The agreed upon traits is that the Gateway is bright, and that it wavers and "sparks" before it opens.

------

Now, with your Gate up and running, it's fully up to you where you go. The Gateway automatically "links up" to incoming ships (don't ask me how, it's a plot device ) and presents them with a list of star systems with active Gateways. In practice, that means your people can now reach any other nation. You could pop over to visit the One or the Undefeated or the Xandalians or whoever.

Buuuuut the Meeting Place is recommended because that's where all nations gather and conduct diplomacy. Going there allows your people to be seen and received by the whole galactic community, without us having to write our your meeting everyone individually. It's in orbit of Earth, so following are descriptions of what Earth and the Meeting Place have been said to look like:

But it's all ashes now, gray and still. Sorrowful.

Earth, that defeated lump of clay outside

Earth, the blue planet that was depicted in old pieces of art, in various media back home, and from tales passed down from generation after generation. It was...dead, a world covered in gray and muck, no life to be seen. "Oh no.." Julian uttered to himself. Small droplets of tears running down his cheek.

When he emerged, he wasn't entirely certain what he was going to find, but it certainly wasn't this. A swarm of vessels, of many and varied designs shuffled to and fro through the gateway, all heading towards a lump of steel...

You'll notice we haven't actually described the exterior of the Meeting Place a ton. But hey, maybe you'll be the one to fill in the gaps ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Either way, your colony can easily get started in the RP by going there and reaching out (with a message, or sending a diplomat, or whatevs) to the Meeting Place. Then we'll have our nations reach out back to them, starting the diplomacy and interaction and war and so on.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

@Liotrent

Approved! You can drop them in the char tab and start posting whenever.

It'll be interesting to see how a more normal, science-focused nation reacts to all the weirdness of the other colonies. We've got clones, cyborgs, and... whatever the ECU counts as, I guess.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

Collab between @Tortoise and @Irredeemable

Isabella was having a wonderful evening. She had managed to wrangle herself aboard the Santa De Angelo’s prestigious gala, not as one of the entertainers, but instead, simply to enjoy the evening. Not even just the evening too- the journey out here had been a sumptuous experience filled with fine alcohol and wonderful food, and she’d gone to countless practises and rehearsals. Now, with the gala in full swing, she had given herself a personal mission.

In her pocket was a metal capsule of ‘Alicia.’ Among the various…. Extramedical pharmaceuticals that Matuvista’s chemical plants produced, Alicia was new, unique and pricey. It was the designer drug to beat all designer drugs, a full audiovisual hallucinogen that allowed for mutual hallucinations. Isabella didn’t understand it of course, she was no mathetes and had not the attention to figure out how it worked. She would merely enjoy it with a foreigner. Speaking of which, here came two now, leaving one of the poetry readings.

“Hello there,” she said pleasantly. She looked ravishing; the Lobasla family was more than wealthy enough to afford to have her in fine clothes for the main event, and the muscle and scars that marked an experienced jetknight were neatly hidden behind her clothing. “I hope you’re enjoying the festivities…” She paused for a moment. “And I was wondering if one of you would be interested in enjoying a… New sensation with me. It’s freshly approved for human usage, as safe as could be.” She procured the small metal cylinder, which sat innocently in the palm of her hand.

Tanaka and Abadi quirked eyebrows at each other, but Abadi's eyebrow quirked noticeably faster. She was much quicker on the uptake with that kind of thing.

New Hollywood had drugs, although they were (of course) of the Old Earth variety. And since many of those were narcotics, they were also of the illegal variety. Some criminal gangs pushed them around here or there; nobody cared enough to stop them. For an Oligarch, it started and stopped with alcohol or tobacco.

Well, officially. Many Oligarchs went in further behind the scenes. But since they were powerful, nobody commented on it. Abadi didn’t go that far, but her family sometimes said she was too fond of the 1960's Rock Culture Parties, and a few of them guessed at the reason. She occasionally came home smelling a little herbal.

"A... new sensation?" She asked. "That sounds like a euphemism for something."

“Ah yes! I forgot! I heard that you ECU types weren’t all that big on narcotics. A shame really, but luckily for you, this is Matuvistan territory!” She smiled. “And we’ve gotten very good at what we do. This is a capsule of Alicia: one of the latest and greatest inventions from our pharmacological mathetes. I’ve never tried it before, and I’ve heard the greater the difference between the people taking it, the wilder it is. And who’s more different from me than a total foreigner?” She gave the capsule a soft shake, although it didn’t rattle.

“So, what do you say? Interested in seeing what happens when things go topsy-turvy?”

Tanaka and Abadi gave each other another look; and then a few more, more intense looks during the argument that ensued. It was done quietly, off to the side and in English- which they both secretly hoped Isabella didn't speak.

Abadi wanted to try it, but Tanaka thought it was dangerous, and "beneath her status." Abadi asked if Oligarch status would ever start being a privilege for her instead of a burden. Tanaka said that Heralds wouldn't like it. Abadi said that nobody has cared what Heralds thought since they lost a war on his watch- and you know, maybe she wanted to use her position to try something fun for a change, instead of just covering for Tanaka every single day.

And at that Tanaka's face fell, Abadi felt very guilty, and they both silently agreed to go separate ways for the evening.

Abadi returned to Isabella and, with no preamble, said "Sure, why not, sounds fun."

Isabella thought it best to not reveal that she understood what they were saying. Yes, the plebeians spoke Tongue Nuevo, the bastardised mixture of Spanish, Portuguese and English that had slowly subsumed the planet to become its dominant language, but patricians learned English as it was spoken back on Earth, along with proper Spanish, Portuguese, and even a little Latin on top.

So it was that when they returned from their argument, she pretended she hadn’t understood a word. “Just you then?” She said innocently. “Wonderful! Now, please don’t take this the wrong way: would you like to come to my berth?”

"Just me then," Abadi confirmed. She struggled only slightly in making out Isabella's words; Spanish was her third language, after English and Arabic, and this woman's speech sounded like some fusion of English, Spanish and something Abadi didn't fully recognize. Like you put three languages in a blender and left it on for a few centuries.

The ECU phrase for that kind of language-mixing, "Dog Tongues," was not considered polite.

Abadi laughed a little when she heard the offer. Well, she did come to meet another culture. "Alright, amiga, lead the way."

The patrician grinned and, just as promised, guided Abadi through the Santa De Angelo. Unlike all the other guests, they took a peculiar little elevator-shuttle away from the main event and to the accommodation hub of the craft, and then wandered through abandoned, hotel-like halls until they reached one innocently marked 129B. There was a mechanical clunking sound as Isabella opened the door, implying some kind of locking system, but the patrician hadn’t drawn anything out or spoken a command, indicating that whatever kept this door shut was doing so through a much more sophisticated system than normal, and then the door clunked close behind them.

Inside was, unusually for a berth in a spaceship, although perhaps not for the Oligarch, room and comfort. It was a peculiar cross between a teenager’s dorm room, a colonial-era boudoir and a barracks. A rapier hung above a double postered bed, jetbike schematics were affixed, poster-like to the walls, a partially disassembled rifle sat next to a pile of physics textbooks, a small electronic machine sat next to what was unmistakably a bong, despite three hundred years separating it from the old world, and, of course, like any good Matuvistan, a golden cross hung on the wall, just above a shelf that had been populated with various common religious texts. Exaltations of the Saints, On The Nature of The Divine, Standing in The Saint’s Garden, Life Beyond Life, and so on. To a Matuvistan, the bare minimum a patrician’s religious education should have covered.

“Alejandro,” she called out to the room, and a series of lights embedded in the walls faintly glowed in response. “Put on my… Eh... “ She paused for a moment. “Why not. Put on playlist: Songs To..” She turned towards Abadi, suddenly feeling self conscious. “Songs To Get Railed On A Jetbike To.” The walls lit up for a brief second again, and then a flamenco guitar broke through the quiet of the room, lonely and mournful, then joined by trumpets, a drum machine, synthesisers and a heavily autotuned voice.

Abadi might recognise it, if not for the content, than for the style. This was a throwback to years bygone, a peculiar retrofuturistic flavour of what the music of tomorrow would sound like. She restrained the urge to laugh at the name of the playlist: she’d made several, all labelled things like "Playlist A3" just to avoid that situation. She considered it to be her lifetime smartest decision.

“Alejandro?” she joked. “Mine’s just called ‘Butler.’”

“Yours? Oh, no.” She grinned for a second. “Alejandro isn’t a unique system or anything. Santa Alejandro was De Angelo’s squire, and his name is used for these types of systems all over Matuvista. He comes with the ship. In Lobasla we have unique pseudo-AIs though.”

But, that was irrelevant. Isabella set the capsule she had in her pocket down atop the physics textbooks and flicked a switch on the device, causing it to open up into… What looked like a harmonica had been welded to an inhaler’s canister. “I guess it’s a little unhy-… Oh, no, wait! Here! ‘Room setting.” She grinned, then gave the mouthpiece a twist, opening it up like a flower’s petals.

“Alright, and then just…” She depressed a button, and the capsule let out a slow, soft hiss, a visible purple haze seeping out of it. “Should just now fill the room. Effects begin between five and ten minutes after activation, and last between one and two hours.” She examined the capsule carefully one last time, then eased her shoes off and hopped up onto her bed.

“So, now I guess we just wait for it to kick in.”

It struck Abadi as a little odd, the way Isabelle could combine such clinical language with such a casual setting. She was used to performing roles, being fully this, or fully that. The "Liaison" role had taken up her mind fully lately. Whatever this Alicia stuff is, hopefully it’s strong enough to take her mind off of it?

It was.

It started with the floor falling out. Although she was sitting on her bed, Isabella suddenly became aware that she was actually plummeting down through the floor, into what appeared to be an endless black void. Too shocked to say anything, she tried scrambling forward and only succeeded in toppling off her bed (which now didn’t exist any more,) and landing on the floor hard enough to hurt her tailbone.

And then… They were… In… Space? She looked around; up above her was the floor of the Santa De Angelo, notably without a hole in it. The milky way swarmed around her, far more stars than she’d ever seen looking out of the ship blanketing space in a thick cloud of brightness, and the sun’s light, gloriously incandescent, brighter than all the others combined, all shining upon…

“Hijo de puta, the fuck kinda Earth do you think about?”

It was Earth, but not Earth, because it was without any flaws. Like the world seen through a nostalgia-tinted filter: even from this distance, they could both make out shimmering blue seas, golden shores and impossibly green forests that went deeper than the imagination. It was a kaleidoscope of colors that never clashed.

"That," Abadi said, trying to sound casual even though she felt anything but. "That's the kind of Earth I think about."

Their descent looked slow at first, but only because of the distance. By the time they passed through the atmosphere- that may have smelt a little like lilacs- they were clearly hurdling into Earth like little comets.

Isabella’s mind was struggling to keep up with what was going on. Not only was she dealing with the conflicting sensations she was getting from her aching rear, but this… This was definitely a foreign look at Earth. A gorgeous one, nonetheless, but a foreign one. As the duo hurtled down through the atmosphere, the patrician’s instincts kicked in and she reached for a jump pack that wasn’t there, her eyes widening as the two careened wildly towards a strange, square-shaped peninsula on the western coast of one of the continents.

“GAH!” She screamed, a second before the duo smacked into the ground, but, of course, no harm came to them, even if she swore she could feel the branches whipping past her face and the crunch of undergrowth beneath her. Both her hallucinated form and her real one pushed themselves up to their feet, looking around. “Mi madre…”

"What does your mom have to do with this?"

Abadi leaned over to the side, running her fingers over the emerald-shade grass shining underneath them, and-

She burst out laughing. "It's foam! Girl, the grass is made of foam! Oh, that's gotta be a metaphor for something, I swear." She dug deeper, and the dirt was definitely some kind of soft plastic, and she’s pretty sure those trees they felt on the way down were… well, wooden, but not alive wood. Not a tree. Just wooden.

“That’s not what that means.” Isabella frowned, then looked as Abadi dug into the ground and discovered it to be… “The perfect Earth is fake, eh?” She raised an eyebrow. “Shit amiga, you’ve got some funky thoughts banging around up there.” The track had changed now, their soundtrack as they explored this bizarro Earth filled with electric guitars and psychedelia.

Looking up from the ground, Isabella paused. Those trees… Weren’t… As she looked up, the trees seemed to elongate and extend, rising up higher and higher as she craned her head. Falling back down, this time, thankfully, back on her bed, she gazed up, to where even the sky itself had been blotted out by these towering creations.

Then, through the forest, figures emerged, sat astride horses. They were shimmering and pale, so much so that it hurt Isabella’s eyes to look at them for too long, and she had to squint and shade her gaze. “Dios mio…”

Now, Abadi knew that had to be an addition of Isabella's; the New Hollywoodite had never imagined something like this in her life. Her eyes didn’t even want to look at them. They were stars made into people. Spectacular, in a completely alien and terrifying way. These guys probably were not foam.

"Hey, you're not made of foam, right?" she asked anyway, for some stupid reason.

Even squinting as she was, Isabella could make out recognisable faces among the crowd. Santa De Angelo, of course, leading the host. “Santa Jorge. Santa Alejandro, Santa Don Juan, Santa Pedro…” She hadn’t even realised she was saying their names out loud, the host pressing past and through the two women. Turning around, Isabella’s eyes widened as she saw…

That was a monsturo. Like the kind she had trained to fight back on Matuvista. Towering. Imposing. Nigh indestructible without struggle and sacrifice. She had never fought one herself, thank the lord, but their mere existence reduced humanity to ants… and here it was, down on Earth? If this trip didn’t give her a heart attack, maybe it was time to go and visit a psychiatrist.

Abadi stumbled backwards in shock. (Somewhere in the real world, her body knocked a jetbike schematic off of Isabella's wall.) She looked up at the towering creature, and kept looking up, because it kept going. That thing reached high as the sky- did it still smell of lilacs up there?- and she found herself shouting "Hologram: Exit!" by instinct. It's what you say to end a holo-program when it's gone a good bit farther than you would've liked.

The program didn't end, since there was no program. The air did shimmer and mist exactly like a hologram turning off, but instead of vanishing and leaving a plain white room behind, as Abadi thought it well should have, it simply morphed into another world completely.

The world was clouded with fog and mist, blanketing the duo. Reeling further back, until she hit the headboard of her bed, Isabella paused, looking wildly about for what was next to come. Half of her was confused and wanted off this ride, whilst the other half was almost eager to see what their combined subconscious would drag up next.
Street signs formed. Neon advertisements hanging off nondescript skyscrapers and apartment complexes, their colours a swirling kaleidoscope. Above them, she heard the distinctive roar of jetbikes zooming by, but this wasn’t Matuvista… Or at least a Matuvista that she knew. Gold-armoured officers strode through in lockstep formations, against… Colonial protesters?

Abadi recognized this particular variety of neon vomit: the many clashing colors of New Hollywood. With jetbikes added.

“The men in gold are protectors,” Abadi realized and explained at once. “They put down dissidents. Like those people over there must be?”

“They’re…” Isabella paused. She was dragged back to a news article, and even as she remembered it, the same footage was pulled into the hallucinations. One chant in particular, ‘Hell no, we won’t go!’ She remembered that one. It had been after a large Yyasum incursion across the four celestial bodies, and mandatory conscription had been instated for the first time in fifty-six years. On Matuvista, it had been orderly and neat. Offworld, it had been… Well… This.

The protectors moved forward in lockstep, wielding batons. Intermingled with them, men-at-arms, dressed in riot equipment, activated stun-maces and hefted riot shields. Despite their differences in appearance, they were as one.

This is so trippy, Abadi thought. Isabella knew that the colonial protestors were rebels, and Abadi knew that the protectors put rebels down. But how did the drug know those two concepts had a connection?

And more than that, how did she see what Isabella was thinking? It played like a holo-film in her mind, the footage of the colonial conscription protestors. It reminded her of the White Flowers she’d watched and read about. They always sprinkled petals on the ground, for some reason, coating the streets in…

There they are. Abadi looks down at her shoes, and white petals are on them. From the opposite end of the distorted neon-lit street they’re standing on, a familiar marching sound beats out, and a crowd of White Flowers and Mixtists round the corner.

They exchange glances with the colonial protestors, and with mutual nods, it's obvious the two kinds of dissident understand one another. They charge together in a riotous roar. Abadi thinks they're going to attack the protectors and men-at-arms, but her heart skips a beat when she realizes- they're rushing directly at herself and Isabella. A thousand imagined footsteps, coming to kill them.

"Protectors!" She called out, panicked, as she was taught to do if her life was ever in danger. And as she said it, the golden men formed around her and Isabella to protect them both; and the men-at-arms came with. Together, they stood in a circle around the two, shielding them from mutual threats. The rebels could never break through their combined ranks.

A chill went down Abadi's spine. Is this a drug, or a vision? Because she thinks she sees an answer here.

“To me” Shouted Isabella, and just like that, her steed had arrived, hurtling through the air along with a host of other jetknights, set astride their bikes. As the men-at-arms and protectors lashed out, clubs and maces beating back the crowd around them, and the riot descended into a bloody street brawl, Isabella clambered atop her bike and kicked the ignition, offering a hand down towards her new friend.

“We are peculiarly alike,” she mused as the other woman clambered aboard the vehicle, and even as the jetknights on either side drew out their carbines and began to fire into the crowds, she was lifting off, up, into the rain and the strangely logic-defying colours of the advertisements. Flying like this was an instinct so ingrained into the patrician that her body was fooled along with her mind.

They both left behind the messy streets, people of lower classes fighting beneath them. While they soared higher and higher into the sky, into the horizon, into…

Reality. The scene faded, gently returning to normalcy. The walls of room 129B were back, with their decorations and schematics and rapiers, and Isabella in the midst of it, leaned against the headboard of her bed. Abadi's hands were grasping against the wall, which she now realized was not actually her friend’s jetbike, and very quickly straightened herself. What to do now? Her whole life was based on assuming roles: the dutiful student, then the fresh new Oligarch. The girl at the party, and then the Liaison at the Meeting Place. But she didn’t know what role this was. How do you behave after an experience like that?

“So, that was… cool,” she started, awkwardly. Testing the waters.

And at last, the veil was lifted. “That was fucking insane chica.” Isabella looked to the oligarch. “How the fuck does that even work? Those pharmacy mathetes are crazy fuckers.” She shook her head as if to clear out the last of the hallucinations, realising as she did so that there was a faint smell of… Lilacs? In the air?

Lilac in the air, thought Abadi, at the same time. Funny. A little bit of the hallucinations left-over? She realizes now how fried her brain feels.

“Yeah, they must be. This is why we have restricted research back home.” Abadi rubbed her temples. “That, and protectors to enforce it. But I guess you saw what they are already.”

“Those your men-at-arms. Yeah? Fighting the protestors?” She eased herself down from the headboard and lay supine on her bed, a hand slung underneath her head. “Restricted research just means you don’t get shit like that.” Isabella laughed a little. She was exhausted: she felt totally fucked in the head, but at the same time the whole thing had been more than she possibly could have expected.

“You got a riot problem eh? My papa’s in the Upper Senate back home. Think that would be a good idea?”

Abadi thought about it. The recent news had White Flower “protestors” organizing into cohesive groups much larger than protests; rumors were that they’d try and take over areas of Neo London, Neo Paris and New Beijing soon. That’s three major cities crippled by... well, maybe it’s time to just call them what they are: rebels.

Abadi didn’t like the idea of dragging foreigners into this. It didn’t work so well last time. But something strange lingering in the air made her trust Isabella just a little more, and made her just a little more anxious at the thought of rebellion. That hallucinated image of charging discontents flashed back through her mind.

“You’re offering back-up? Yeah, yeah, we’ll take it.”

Isabella promised she would talk to her Papa about it. Abadi said thank-you, and offered support in kind. The conversation gradually drifted from there, skipping semi-randomly around different subjects while both women dealt with the aftereffects of Alicia. Somewhere in this, Abadi couldn't help but notice that the Matuvistan didn't seem to go more than three sentences without some reference to "Santa" whoever. Santa Pedro, Santa Teresa of Ávila...

Really, Abadi had no idea what a Santa was, except a myth about a guy who gave children presents by going down their chimney in a way that totally, definitely wasn't terrifying. Supposedly he did that on December 25th, but she didn’t know what was special about that date. Anymore then she recognized the golden cross on the other woman’s wall. But she liked the color, and- perhaps this is because of the lingering high- somehow felt herself striding across the room to touch it. "What is this?"

Isabella froze for a moment. Right, of course. This foreigner wouldn’t know about the saints. “Don’t touch that please,” she requested quietly.

“It’s the Matuvistan Cross. A symbol of the saints, taken from Old Earth.” She paused. “It reminds me that there is always something greater looking down upon us, shining light into darkness, truth into lies.” She paused for a moment. She was unsure exactly how she should go about introducing her own religiosity to a woman who had no clue about any of it.

“You don’t worship anything?” She eventually asked.

“Earth,” Abadi answered, without being sure why. Nobody ever said that they worshiped Earth, out loud, but it felt so true that her lips said it for her.

Isabella’s mind was dragged back to that first hallucination. The Earth. Gold. Shiny. ‘Pure,’ and yet at the same time totally fake. Was that really what the oligarchs believed in?

Abadi felt high-jacked, and immediately covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry,” she said, recovering from the embarrassment just a bit, “don’t know why I said that one. No, I don’t worship anything. New Hollywoodites don’t.” Except the Mixtists.

“You ca-” Isabella was cut off. Alright, sure, they didn’t worship anything, she guessed. Reluctantly, she reached up towards the shelf and took down Exaltations of the Saints, flipping to a random page. The Selfless Conscription.

We, the saints of the sea and sky.
We who have heard our descendants cry,
All who dwell ‘neath tyranny
Our hands shall save…

She handed the book almost gingerly over to Abadi. “Be careful with that please. Mama’d kill me if I got it damaged.”

Abadi took it just as gingerly, even though she didn't fully catch what could be so delicate about a book. There have to be other copies of it, right? If you spill coffee or something on it, you just buy a new one. That was elementary.

But she didn't argue. And out of politeness, flipped through the pages meanderingly. Faith, prayers, saints, faith. It all reminded her of exactly one thing back on New Hollywood.

"You know, this feels like Mixtist stuff. They're a religious group on New Hollywood, the only one. But they're dangerous. They encourage dissent. You can't be loyal to your nation and to- gods, or whatever- at the same time. You have to value one over the other, right?" This was a commonly held belief back home, one of the usual justifications for keeping Mixtists down, which she never thought would be seriously questioned.

“You…” She paused, blinking a few times. The idea of splitting your loyalty like that… It confused Isabella. “No? I follow my government and the saints equally. I am loyal to the former, and I love the latter, with all my heart.” She smiled.

“But what if they, I don’t know, disagree? Like if the government asked you to do something you don’t think the saints would like?” But then Abadi stopped, and smiled back. “You know, it’s not that important. Have there been any new saints, since the Tragedy?” She cleared her throat. “I mean, since the Fall of Earth?”

If they disagreed? Isabella thought on this for a while, and was about to reply before Abadi retracted the question and gave her a new one. “Oh yeah! Lots! The one this ship is named after is the most famous: Santa De Angelo. Without her, we’d still be living under a series of idiotic, uncultured tyrants.”

A series of idiotic, uncultured tyrants. A rough way to paint your own history- but then, ECU history was taking its own turn for the worst lately. Abadi and Isabella kept talking about these things, for far longer than either of them realized, and both latched on to those things they did agree intimately on. Rebels are a threat, culture is important, and force is sometimes required to stop the first from destroying the second. The lines were drawn; the Matuvistans would help the ECU keep their dissidents down.

Abadi left the party with a strange feeling. Neither her nor even Tanaka had seriously expected to win over anything more than empty words and pleasantries, but it looked like a real- alliance, friendship, bargain?- had been formed. The two obviously most cultured nations had found each other.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

White Flower Revolution

(Part 1)

Streets on New Hollywood are different without protectors. They're louder, for one- nobody likes to talk with an armed guard three steps away. In the days before, people shuffled along crowded intersections with their eyes down. It wasn't a crime to talk, but then, the protectors never needed you to be a criminal.

"To Preserve Society," that was their slogan. They were created during the worst of the New Beijing riots, generations ago, when bombs were set under Oligarch's vehicles and blood was spilled by drunken rioters. A beautiful young Oligarch was murdered back then, one Ai Zhang, and the media plastered her photograph everywhere. Protectors were meant to be the solution; a policing organization willing to force down dissenters. Kill them, if you have to. Ensure it could never happen again.

Rubbish.

Yun is watching the city from the rooftops, like a character in a superhero story. Only he feels less like a character in an supehero story and more like some sad guy sitting on a roof. Oh well. He's taken to coming up here to think; most of his teachers had always said he could hardly think at all, but he's found the thin, atmospheric air clears his head wonderfully. Even today, when he can sense a storm brewing in the sky.

He's been trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle for- count 'em- one, two, three hours now. So many times he's wanted to give up, throw it off the roof and watch it soar into the horizon, but something keeps pressing him to keep trying. Maybe he'd never solved a puzzle in his life, but somehow, this feels like the time and place to do it. It's free up here.

Not like down on the streets.

He looks over the edge, craning his neck, and watches a crowd of thousands marching through. It looks like the whole city is marching along. They step in unison, shaking the ground, making his eardrums tremble even from far off. Some of them are sprinkling white flowers onto the pavement- a symbol of democracy on New Hollywood. They used to lay those at the graves of people killed by protectors.

How many people has Yun buried? Eta-Theta wasn't his first kill. Or his second, or his fifth. But it was part of the job- they expected you to do it. "To Preserve Society." And then grieving loved ones left white flowers on their graves.

In these rare, free moments, Yun has thought a lot about that. And he's decided that a normal person couldn't have done it. Does that make him abnormal? Maybe, but he wasn't born that way. He was born stupid, sure, or so his grades told him. And he was born big- bigger than most people, and stronger than is fair. But it was the ECU indoctrination that made him a murderer.

Now, the murderer hears something. Another rhythm, not quite as organized as the pro-democracy crowd, but louder, brasher and... well, more familiar. He knows that beat.

When he cranes his neck over another part of the rooftop, he spots another crowd, but this one isn't carrying any white flowers. They have golden flags raised over their heads, and some have weapons at their hips. They step out of unison, fight with each other, shout, and carry speakers that blast chaotic music all through the streets.

Yun's comrades. Ex-protectors. On a march of their own, it looks like. He'd heard something about it from his old buddy. Apparently, a lot of the other protectors were mad about being laid off by the government, and intended to "do something" about it. Nobody knew what that something could be, though, so it basically amounted to roaming through the streets and calling it a protest.

He'd declined to join. But those men down there didn't, and judging from their trajectory, it looks like they're heading on a crash course straight for the White Flower protesters. He knows what'll happen when they meet: it's what you call a blood bath.

Yun takes another breath of that electrified, ozone-heavy air, and sighs. He pushes the half-finished, never-to-be-completed puzzle to the side. He heads for the elevator. He presses "first floor."

~~~~~~~~

When the door opens, he almost wishes it hadn't.

The elevator was slower than Yun had anticipated, and the crowds much faster. He steps out of his apartment building right into the midst of a war about to happen. On the right side of Echo Avenue, the wide street Yun lives on, are the White Flowers, sprinkling the ground with petals like girls at a wedding, and chanting pro-democracy, anti-Oligarch rhymes. A few flecks of brown robe hint at the Mixtists among them.

Advancing on his other side are the ex-protectors. They need little description, except that the predominate color is gold, and the predominate attitude is "break stuff." Without their uniforms, it's amazing how much they seem like common thugs. (Is that who they've always been?)

The two crowds are about to meet. Yun stands in the middle of them both, and up in the sky above, deep gray clouds promise a downpour.

"Hey, Flower, Flowers, come over here!" one protector calls, spotting the protestors on the other side. Another says "Hey, y'all the ones that cost us our jobs!" At that, boos and jeers break out across the line. Someone starts laughing manically: "Nobody to keep 'em safe now! Shouldn't have got rid of us!"

An empty liquor bottle flies over Yun's head, and breaks apart at the feet of a young man with messy hair. He looks back at the man who threw it, raising his fist into the air as answer- half the White Flower crowd joins him. The other half seem to start looking around quickly for avenues of escape, but there aren't many.

"Oh, oh, whatchya gonna do?" More laughter. More fists thrown into the air. They draw closer- slowly, testing the waters- they eye each other, curse each other, hands go to hips to grasp for clubs, swords, knives. With a deep, sinking feeling in his gut, Yun spots out a few guns in the throng.

He watches himself step out into the middle of it.

He doesn't even know what he's doing; why is he here? What, is he gonna stop a riot on his own? But something inside Yun, the same thing that came to life that day in the desert with Eta, won't let him do otherwise. That cyborg told him "And try living as best you can. Because one day, I will find you again, and I will make good on my promise."

If he's already a dead man, what does he have to lose? With a hoarse voice, hands spread out to either side of him, Yun shouts "Stop!" The crowds almost seems to hesitate: being directly in-between them, everyone can see and hear him. Does he have their attention?

"Stop!" he says again into the crowds. Yun is not an eloquent speaker. Right now, he's just a desperate one. "Don't do this, don't. It'll just be..." what'll it be? "Just more bodies in the ground. Just more dead people. Stop, everyone, stop. Walk away. Go home."

For a moment, everyone is silent. Maybe this guy is right. Even some of the protectors glance down at their feet and seem almost ashamed. But then just as Yun dares to think he's succeeded, a gun goes off.

Bang! Nobody sees who shot it. But the man hit is a protector, and it's a perfect shot- a hole is in his neck. Blood spurts from his throat onto the ground, splattering through his golden t-shirt on the way, and the sound he makes is truly awful. A sputtering, desperate choke. He thrashes around, grabs at his comrades for support, falls to the ground- his eyes go wide as he realizes what's happening- and it's all too late.

As the White Flowers pull back in shock and fear, a protector shouts "Kill 'em, boys! Vengeance!" The golden crowd surges forward with a ferocious, angered roar, and the Flowers aren't fast enough to escape.

The rain starts to fall. Yun doesn't know what to do. But on instinct, or maybe loyalty, he runs along behind the protectors. They dart through neon-lit alleyways and dodge under exposed wiring, stepping over curbs made of a wild mix of concrete and metal. They jump down stairs and dart past open doorways.

They're chasing a White Flower; Yun doesn't know which. He only figures it out as they finally corner him in an pitch-dark alley, where some busted old screen still bathes everything a blue light. The falling rain reflects it, bounces it around, giving the whole scene a dream-like aura.

"Found you, Flower, Flower," taunts one of the other protectors, and Yun realizes what they've been chasing. It's just a kid. Maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen. Messy hair. Is that the one who raised a fist? Too young to be involved in all this. Why do kids always want to go to protests? He looks afraid.

"Boys," Yun says quietly, to the other two men, "he's just a kid. Maybe we should back off, huh?"

But when they look back at him, he knows in his heart that they won't listen. The light of this alleyway makes their gold bandanas look like a sickly green-yellow, and makes their faces seem strange and demonic. When they smile, their teeth glow. "Come on, Officer Yun," the younger one grins, "I heard about you. You've done worse." Without waiting for Yun to answer back, they both reach down to grab the kid by his throat.

There's one real benefit to the holo-indoctrination protector's go through. Although it drives them nearly to insanity, by running through combat scenarios again and again and again, it also hones their reflexes. In his time, Yun must have participated in tens of thousands of fictional fights. After even a few hundred, everything is muscle-memory. By your second or third thousandth, it's faster and deeper than instinct. Lighting-quick.

It's funny: for all the ECU's emphasis on 'maintaining humanity,' to watch the way a seasoned protector moves, anyone would think they're genetically modified.

So, perhaps the other two protectors shouldn't have been so surprised, when Yun attacked them from behind and threw them to the ground. Or when he moved quicker than either of them (being less experienced protectors) could keep up with, or when he knocked them unconscious with a swift kick each. But the messy-haired kid was certainly surprised.

"What... what happens now?" he just barely chokes out. He's still not sure if this man is a friend or a foe.

"Now, kid," Yun answers, "you go home. Do you know the way?"

He didn't, but Yun led him out. He grew up on these neon streets, and knew every little nook and curve and cranny. They stumbled back onto the main walkway after just a minute or two, each leaning a little on the other for support. (Running for your life and beating men unconscious are both a little tiring.) An older man in a brown robe intercepts them then, and the young man seems to recognize him.

"Hey, uh, Yan or, or whatever your name was," the kid says, "I think I'm good from here. I know this guy."

Yun relieves him into the custody of the 'guy,' who is obviously a Mixtist. Yun has his own thoughts on the 'Mixies,' encouraging protests like this one, getting youth involved in it. But he bites his tongue. There's been enough fighting tonight.

"You know, I'm glad this happened," the kid says, before leaving. "I mean, I'm not glad glad. But the news will talk about this. The more they talk about us, the more people might stop to listen." He smiles weakly. "Thanks, man."

On his way back home, Yun walks through the downpour, spotting drenched white flowers clogging up gutters, noticing flecks of blood mingling with the water. He has no idea how many died tonight. Tomorrow, he will hear that his fellow ex-protectors killed twenty-four White Flower protestors in revenge for the one shot. This will spark retaliation around the globe, bringing anti-protector and anti-Oligarch sentiment to an all-time high. Within a week, the revolution will grow to encompass all of New Hollywood.

But tonight, he doesn't know any of that. He only knows the blood still on his boots, and the rain soaking him down to the skin. He stands in it, alone, and lets it wash over him.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

<Snipped quote by Tortoise>

Post a week if I can manage it. Beyond that I won't appear much.

@Sep

Don't stress yourself about it. This is a game, after all, not a job.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

It's a short post but I just need to get some minor details out, working on a collab right now anyway.

If anyone wants to come chat with some mad production peeps just hmu.

Sad I missed the party.

@Sep

Pfft, the party missed you.

Does your recent post signal that you're back in? Or should we still consider you in low activity for the time being?