So, I bought this game to fill the gaps when my D&D group has missing players. I've been reading the book and holy shit is it fantastic. The writing style is great and, as we already know, the game is solid. I don't know if I'll be able to get my group back to D&D after this.
So, I bought this game to fill the gaps when my D&D group has missing players. I've been reading the book and holy shit is it fantastic. The writing style is great and, as we already know, the game is solid. I don't know if I'll be able to get my group back to D&D after this.
When playing live is it just basically a big talking narrative story thing or do you write things out?
It sounds like a great camping game if you had some experienced players.
So, I bought this game to fill the gaps when my D&D group has missing players. I've been reading the book and holy shit is it fantastic. The writing style is great and, as we already know, the game is solid. I don't know if I'll be able to get my group back to D&D after this.
When playing live is it just basically a big talking narrative story thing or do you write things out?
It sounds like a great camping game if you had some experienced players.
I presume it's a narrative thing, though minutiae and shocks and what-not are plotted out on index cards to help keep truths solid.
OK, if this isn't what I need to be doing for a Protag post, tell me. I'm still a little unclear on some stuff.
Protag: Bogart, Team Five.
Hannah stepped off the monorail carriage and looked both ways, making sure the hood of her neoprene jacket stayed in place and her head stayed bowed. Cameras on the platform swung slowly back and forth, their glass eyes protected behind a mesh screen, passed their gaze over the passengers as they debarked. It had been a close run thing in New Chicago, but Hannah had gotten out before Kane was able to zero in on her. He'd been close, though. Too close. Hannah had spotted him leaving the apartment building of the sap she'd set up as her next mark. Grayling Danser had been about to buy five utterly worthless pieces of rubble convinced they were priceless fragments of the old Capitol Building, and she'd had to blow off four hundred thousand Adjusted Dollars by running before Kane traced her through the fat shlub.
And she couldn't rest here in Detriot, either. The tech-net might not have 100% coverage like in other cities, but Hannah wanted at least three more jumps between her and the last place she'd seen Kane. A couple of small towns next, she thought, but she'd need to switch ID's before anything else. She had to assume the ones she had were burned. And in this town that meant she needed to give Todd Runstead a call. Runstead was an obese pervert with an eye for pre-pubescent boys and kitsch TV memorabilia who made Hannah sick to look at, but he was the best man for two-hundred miles if you wanted a new identity that wouldn't trip alarms.
Runstead lived in an old manufacturing plant that had apparently made cars decades ago. When Hannah got there it was plain things in this neighbourhood had changed. A red swath of graffiti now coated the rusting doors, and heavy locks were clamped around the closed window-shutters. Surly looks came her way from rapier-thin guys with crackhead eyes who stood in groups of five or more in the derelict basketball court nearby. Great. Cultists. She'd seen a couple of these losers in the other beat-up towns as she ran across the country, but had hoped to avoid any entanglements with them if she could. She reached the door and pressed the red button on the left. A tiny camera eye that had survived the vandalism only by virtue of being behind bulletproof glass in a crevie up above the door swung her way, and a voice chopped up by static said "Well lookee here. Hannah Keogh, plain as day. Step right in, sweetheart." The door opened, and Hannah, taking one more cautious look behind her at the cultists, walked in. She had to get that ID.
NEW MINUTIAE: Detroit has recently become the rallying point of a new death cult.
Perfect, Bogart! You can keep going up until your Antag wants to butt in and give you shit somehow. Or until you say, "Right here. Gimme somethin', bad guys of the world."
I could do a on-the-spot intro if people aren't that picky. I was gonna try and fine tune something for the intro scene.
Bogart beat you to it, it seems. But your teams are posting at the same time. Remember, though, you guys are separate - pretend as if the other isn't even posting anything. Just go ahead and post a really cool first part of your story!
I could do a on-the-spot intro if people aren't that picky. I was gonna try and fine tune something for the intro scene.
Bogart beat you to it, it seems. But your teams are posting at the same time. Remember, though, you guys are separate - pretend as if the other isn't even posting anything. Just go ahead and post a really cool first part of your story!
I'll try and have it up in a few hours. I just woke up (couldn't sleep during normal hours )
I could do a on-the-spot intro if people aren't that picky. I was gonna try and fine tune something for the intro scene.
Bogart beat you to it, it seems. But your teams are posting at the same time. Remember, though, you guys are separate - pretend as if the other isn't even posting anything. Just go ahead and post a really cool first part of your story!
I'll try and have it up in a few hours. I just woke up (couldn't sleep during normal hours )
Cool stuff. Add and add to your stuff, and I'll jump in when I want to cause trouble :twisted:
I told summery, but sorry for a slight delay, a project is due on Monday (class I got INC for) that will kinda determine if I graduate college or not. :O So you can understand if I might be a little later than desired in my posting. I have the groundwork laid out. Just not the verbal accompaniment...
So I did a trial run of this game with a couple friends. It was pretty rough. We had a difficult time coming up with openning conflicts that would give way to dynamic situations. It was also tough for us to come up with appropriate intents along the way.
Ultimately, the others were happy with how the story came out, but I didn't feel it went too well. I'm gonna have to review the rules again, I guess.
Hannah was sitting in a battered swivel chair in a white plastered room on the makeshift second floor of the warehouse. Duct tape covered wide rips and several suspicious stains on the black psuedo leather. Runstead sat opposite, fiddling with wires that travelled from his pristine black laptop and a small portable printer. His set up was accompanied by mumbling grunts and muttered oaths. Eventually, he was happy, and he fished a small camera out of a shirt pocket and raised it up to his eye. "Smile, babe."
Hannah attempted a look of bland ordinariness, a task made more difficult by the green contacts she now wore. Her hair was tied back in brutal fashion, making her face much more severe. The change of clothes she'd bought in the bag itched, and the hair dye still felt wet to the touch. Still, it was an acceptable enough persona change, and with the biometric passport Runstead was creating, it should be good enough to get her out of Detroit.
The fat schlub was still as repellant as ever, but when he beckoned her over with a manicured finger to show off his work she had to admit that he was worth every penny. She nodded, and he printed off the new ID, then went to work on affixing the small chip to the printed data.
Hannah left him to it and risked a glance out of the window. The cult members from across the street had grown in number, and were talking and pointing to the door of the warehouse. This didn't bode well.
NEW MINUTIAE: Biometric passports are standard for long trips.
simonwolfi can feel a differencetoday, a differenceRegistered Userregular
edited October 2009
ANTAG: simonwolf, Team Five
Kane was lost in the cotton-soft future-memories that his favourite android provided when something shrill pierced his ear. He tried to ignore it, tried to stay watching his death come again, and again, and again... but that high-pitched whining didn't stop, refused to give him any peace. Picturing his command thought, the softness was cut suddenly, replaced with a dull iron taste and the smell of diesel fuel mixed with sawdust and piss.
Reality was a hell of a place.
Sprawled out on the sheets of his dingy hotel bed, Kane pushed himself up and blinked, slowly. Standing on all sides, surrounding his bed, were his five angels. His beauties. The loves of his life. Brynhildr. Eir. Herja. Hildr. Mist. The five hunter-killer androids he'd been assigned to help perform his... duties. Now they were following him on his personal mission.
Eir was at the foot of the bed, where Kane had been resting. Eir gave him a softer death-vision, an almost comforting version - stretched out and smooth, you couldn't help but feel that what you were seeing was what was, and what shall ever be. Brynhildr was the worst of the lot - her visions left an alkaline taste in your mouth that stayed with you for days afterwards, reminding you of the cold, metallic death you had been presented with. Brynhildr was in Kane's bad books, until she proved herself the most combat-efficient again.
The shrill, piercing wail kept on going.
Someone was calling Kane.
With a groggy hand, he stretched out and grabbed his phone. It was a smart little thing, packed with every consumer and confidential-level program and information it could handle. Right now, it was telling him that Agent Wilkinson, from Detroit, was trying to get in contact with him. Kane pressed the green button and, clearing his throat, answered with a cordial, "Yes?"
"Feeds have buzzed in," came the voice on the other end, "Subject has made contact, our informant has supplied her with the tagged passport. Chip should be online and traceable in five minutes, once it starts chattering with the ear-rigs."
"Good, good," replied Kane, rubbing his eyes, "Get a plane ready, I'll be at the transport hub in twenty minutes."
Click. The phone went quiet.
Rising to his feet, Kane walked over to Eir and stroked her metal cheek with the back of his hand. Hannah, Hannah, Hannah. You knew it would come to this, in the end - Eir is going to hunt you down, and you will die by her hand. Or any of the valkyrie's hands, it didn't matter.
How about this! Everyone can just go ahead and post, because I don't think this is going to get as bad as I thought it would, confusion-wise.
Okay, and also, everyone bear with me while i clean-up the OP and add characters and shit. i'll get it done!
All Protags, go! GO! NOW! GODDAMMIT!
Also!
NEW MINUTIAE: Detroit has recently become the rallying point of a new death cult. (Fanatacism - Egos)
NEW MINUTIAE: Biometric passports are standard for long trips. (Reynolds - Surveillance)
Reynolds and Egos, you'll need to revise (if you want) and okay these, and we can make 'em official.
Outside of town, Starshine is hiding from a police tank-cruiser, a big flying vehicle used for constant patrol. Its spotlights scan the sandy brush, and the pilots do wide sweeps of the area. Nowadays, such vehicles can scan and identify androids due to the energy signature of the batteries - almost every android uses a special rechargeable battery, big and bulky where their organs should be. It radiates an aura that can be picked up on. That was the first thing Starshine went and changed - he met "a guy", one of the many shady dealers in the catacombs of the city, who pumped him full of fluid that dulled out the battery, making him invisible to such scans, but also requiring him to charge a lot more frequently.
He skirts from brush to brush, dodging the spotlights, while someone from inside the T-C, some tall guy standing right inside the big open bay doors, announces instructions to his invisible prey through a megaphone.
Please do not resist. Come out in the open and Shut Down all Systems.
It takes every ounce of control not to. He's used to following orders.
Straight ahead is a tunnel, and through that, the city. If he can make a break for it, he's home free - the flying patrol vehicle needs to get at least half a mile in before it can scan the streets proper, and that's plenty of places to hide.
Failure to do so will result in force.
Starshine stares up. A spotlight meets him. Like staring into the sun, he gazes into it. His pupils don't dilate, and he doesn't blink.
The spotlight moves on.
We WILL open fire on the area.
They're coming in, smaller circles now, closer to the ground. The flimsy scrubs of foliage can shelter him from a distance, but up close, he's totally visible.
He has to make a break for it.
We repeat:
He has to make a break for it.
...we WILL open fire on the area.
NEW MINUTIAE: the police fly the skies in giant tank-cruisers, watching the city, commonly called T-Cs. (Surveillance)
NEW MINUTIAE: androids have big batteries instead of organs (General)
A crumb falls to the youth's tie and he brushes it away with a look of cold disdain.
"Starshine?" He asks with disbelief.
"Well, it's a SRSHN, but you know how these things are. Branding."
"Yes, I'm aware. So why was I transferred to this one?" William Young takes a sip from a steaming mug.
"This one has been out and about a little longer than most. We have T-Cs on it but... well, they say you can seal the deal."
An amused smile crosses Young's face. "Yes, I suppose you could put it that way. 'Seal the deal.' I like that."
"So you'll do it?"
Young stands, leaving half an egg biscuit on the plate before him.
"I had already decided when you called me. I was already doing it as soon as it escaped. I just didn't know then."
"Send me the coordinates of the T-Cs. I'll get it in my vehicle."
NEW MINUTIAE: Detroit has recently become the rallying point of a new death cult. NEW MINUTIAE: Cults range in methodology and mentality. Some perform the kills purely with a sense of duty others see fulfilling the kills as a way to get their sadistic urges out. The later are a tad more fringe.
Potential NEW MINUTIAE (unless others object): Some "Cult Leaders" have taken their morally reprehensible position even further by offering people to place bids in order to be a "re-enactor". Others just require a nominal fee or allow people to a pay a members fee in order to view the event.
"Why Detroit?" Joe asked between bites of a turkey sub. "That seems so random."
"It totally isn't, Joe!" Penny said excitedly. She had already finished her sandwich and was playfully flicking crumbs at Joe, who did his best to ignore the assault. "If you pay attention, you can see that huge things are going to go down there!"
"I don't really get it."
"It's hard to explain, but you'll see."
"Penny..."
"Joe, I.."
"No, Penny, you shouldn't go. You have a job here. That's not something you should throw away for.. for vague notions of adventure."
"Listen to you, Mr. Stuffy. I remember a Joe Lawrence who wanted to be a hero, who wanted to go where no one else would dare to find the truth."
"And all that netted me so far is a half-decent unemployment check. You've got a good thing here, Penny. Don't give it up."
--
"We're here, Mister. This is your stop, right?"
Joe grumbled as he was roused from his sleepless memories. He thought he had just gotten on the bus, but already he was in Detroit. With bus fare paid, he had maybe enough money for a sandwich for a few days, and a cheap place to sleep.
"Sir, there's a problem." The older man looked away from the information scrolling across the wallscreen, charts and graphs disappearing as the woman running the meeting ran her hand across the touch controls. He was grateful for the younger man butting in on the meeting, and the others seemed similarly excited about any excuse to take a break. Most stood, talking amongst themselves as he exited the cramped meeting room. "What now?"
The older man couldn't help but growl out the question, annoyed after wasting most of his day in meeting after meeting. The younger worker adjusted his tie nervously. "It's Detroit, sir...we're having problems with Adam." The senior slowed, frowning. "What kind of problems?"
"He's...exceeded his quota." "You mean he's killing too many of those idiots with low self-esteem he attracts? Or is he starting to mess with the bums again?" The younger man flinched at the blunt words, hesitant to speak as they continued to walk. "That's his job....that's what we pay the son of a bitch for." "No, he's...they're all women, sir."
The older man stopped dead in his tracks. "...what...all of them?" "For the past two weeks. High school and college age, sometimes older." "...that bastard. Nobody minds a few hobos or losers disappearing. But pretty girls?" He shook his head. "Mr. Black doesn't like anything that obvious..." He mumbled, mostly to himself. The younger man went pale at the name.
"What should-" "Get that asshole back in line! Send Paulson to straighten him out! We can't have him fucking things up in Detroit, not with what we spent getting him a foothold there." The older man started walking, gesturing for the other not to follow. "I'm going to find out if Mr. Black wants us to speed things up. Get some use out of Adam while we can..." He turned away, smirking to himself as he headed off. "...before Paulson makes the dumb bastard the next sacrifice.
NEW MINUTIAE: Adam, leader of the rising cult in Detroit, has begun heavy recruitment (and, therefore, the deaths) of young women.
NEW MINUTIAE: Paulson, one of Mr. Black's operatives, is also operating in Detroit.
Then again, he was always nervous. Sharing his rundown apartment with a fugitive android just exacerbated the problem. "I think it's time to go." He'd been saying the same thing for days, but Marjorie seemed to be ignoring him. "Midge, get your head out of that book and listen to me." Sometimes it was like talking to a brick wall. A brick wall that could debate you to a standstill, if she didn't make you want to buy her candy first. She probably had her 'ears' turned off again.
Dobbs snapped his fingers at her, before sighing. Walking in front of her, she finally looked up. "Yes?" "I think it's time to go." "You've been saying the same thing for days." This did seem a bit familiar.
"Right. But something's different now. This guy I used to work with..." He ran his fingers through his hair, letting out a tired breath. "...he's was asking about me in my department. I'm about out of sick days...he's going to come looking for me, soon. He's going to figure out I don't really have a niece."
Marjorie closed her book. "...I think it's time to go."
Potential shock/surveillance question (posting because I think it affects simon's character a bit)
With the idea of the hounds hunting down androids. Is there a surveillance tool that monitored the androids visions (e.g. surge) - so say incredibly smart hackers may be able to find names or something of that sort? And thus find the Androids associated with someone's death?
Or if you were looking for someones info would it be a complete guess who has it?
Also its safe to presume androids have more than one vision (right?) - since I can't imagine the android population is equal to humans?
I don't think I understand what you're talking about. I don't think androids get visions, just people. Something about their inhuman perfection lets them monitor and manipulate a human's pulse to let the human experience their vision with better clarity.
Once someone found one android, I'm guessing they could pull info from it. Which would tell them what humans interacted with it, and what other androids were involved.
hmm I think it was the androids going batshit crazy when a vision didn't go the right way. For some reason I took the fact androids are being imprisoned + being used as hunting beasts (singular) + going batshit - that each android had a particular tie to some individual/s.
Since I figured if every time a person avoid their death, every android goes batshit. That would make the setting and playing an android unmanageable?
I remember that, it was never really detailed beyond that. It's probably something like, any androids that assisted in viewing a person's vision malfunction when the human dies in a way that doesn't match the vision. We could even make a simple minutiae out of it, but I'll leave that up to the GM, I think he wrote that bit of info up.
the process is this. We all have this visions. Just humans, not androids. Androids can touch you and reveal more about your vision. When a vision doesn't come to pass, androids go crazy. It's all very broad and vague and open, and that was intentional. Leave it that way until it comes up in the story, and make the suggestion you think would be coolest.
if you ask my opinion? and this counts for shit, as as I said above, I'm following everyone else's leads on it, then it's all about androids being connected to your life. your vision doesn't pass, and say forty-six androids freak the fuck out. and this is weird, because you don't know forty-six androids, how are they connected to you? it's another part of the big mystery. but i'm not ready to shoulder the responsibility of that, so, it's up to whoever encounters it in a story first.
Joe sighed over a steaming cup of coffee and a newspaper. A woman who wore a tag professing her name as "Melba" offered him a refill, which he declined. Didn't these waitresses understand that adding more coffee to an unfinished cup that has sugar and cream ruins the ratio?
The paper was filled with words about women gone missing in Detroit. Vague connections to an up-and-coming cult movement. Names and phone numbers of loved ones were plastered all over desperate ads for help in finding these lost souls. No mention of Penny.
Of course there wouldn't be. She's not from around here.
Joe grumbled and attempted to take a sip from his cup, finding it empty. Don't these waitresses even try to keep his cup full?
ok before I make my first post, because its gonna involve a scan. I want to make sure the following are ok
Minor or Major Avoidances of Death awaken (Random) android to a state of panic.
Names of those who avoided their death in either a major (kill the murderer) or minor (those who avoided death but death could still come for them) are recorded by the government. If the android has a name.
Alternatively traces of imagery can be found for those who minorly avoided death (as opposed to exact names).
Androids can be illegally hacked or have data removed so their tracking process is askew.
ok before I make my first post, because its gonna involve a scan. I want to make sure the following are ok
Minor or Major Avoidances of Death awaken (Random) android to a state of panic.
Names of those who avoided their death in either a major (kill the murderer) or minor (those who avoided death but death could still come for them) are recorded by the government. If the android has a name.
Alternatively traces of imagery can be found for those who minorly avoided death (as opposed to exact names).
Androids can be illegally hacked or have data removed so their tracking process is askew.
these ok?
First, everybody, sorry for being inactive so much with this thread. We're entertaining friends from out of town until the weekend is over, so by Monday, this thread will be in tip top shape and I'll be here, I swear it.
Second, for Egos, those were already answered, so I'll just confirm for you. :
Alternatively traces of imagery can be found for those who minorly avoided death (as opposed to exact names). (I like this. The strength of the death and your avoidance determines how well the androids can track you. Calls for lots of sleuthing on the government's part!)
Androids can be illegally hacked or have data removed so their tracking process is askew. (People might have missed it - I only control androids in regards to how the death visions affect them. Anything else about androids is up to whoever is writing about them at the time. They aren't the shock, Death Visions are. So, Egos, if you like that option, go right ahead.)
Posts
Egos and Bogart are doucheotrons, everyone, condemn them.
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When playing live is it just basically a big talking narrative story thing or do you write things out?
It sounds like a great camping game if you had some experienced players.
PSN - sumowot
I presume it's a narrative thing, though minutiae and shocks and what-not are plotted out on index cards to help keep truths solid.
Protag: Bogart, Team Five.
Hannah stepped off the monorail carriage and looked both ways, making sure the hood of her neoprene jacket stayed in place and her head stayed bowed. Cameras on the platform swung slowly back and forth, their glass eyes protected behind a mesh screen, passed their gaze over the passengers as they debarked. It had been a close run thing in New Chicago, but Hannah had gotten out before Kane was able to zero in on her. He'd been close, though. Too close. Hannah had spotted him leaving the apartment building of the sap she'd set up as her next mark. Grayling Danser had been about to buy five utterly worthless pieces of rubble convinced they were priceless fragments of the old Capitol Building, and she'd had to blow off four hundred thousand Adjusted Dollars by running before Kane traced her through the fat shlub.
And she couldn't rest here in Detriot, either. The tech-net might not have 100% coverage like in other cities, but Hannah wanted at least three more jumps between her and the last place she'd seen Kane. A couple of small towns next, she thought, but she'd need to switch ID's before anything else. She had to assume the ones she had were burned. And in this town that meant she needed to give Todd Runstead a call. Runstead was an obese pervert with an eye for pre-pubescent boys and kitsch TV memorabilia who made Hannah sick to look at, but he was the best man for two-hundred miles if you wanted a new identity that wouldn't trip alarms.
Runstead lived in an old manufacturing plant that had apparently made cars decades ago. When Hannah got there it was plain things in this neighbourhood had changed. A red swath of graffiti now coated the rusting doors, and heavy locks were clamped around the closed window-shutters. Surly looks came her way from rapier-thin guys with crackhead eyes who stood in groups of five or more in the derelict basketball court nearby. Great. Cultists. She'd seen a couple of these losers in the other beat-up towns as she ran across the country, but had hoped to avoid any entanglements with them if she could. She reached the door and pressed the red button on the left. A tiny camera eye that had survived the vandalism only by virtue of being behind bulletproof glass in a crevie up above the door swung her way, and a voice chopped up by static said "Well lookee here. Hannah Keogh, plain as day. Step right in, sweetheart." The door opened, and Hannah, taking one more cautious look behind her at the cultists, walked in. She had to get that ID.
NEW MINUTIAE: Detroit has recently become the rallying point of a new death cult.
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Bogart beat you to it, it seems. But your teams are posting at the same time. Remember, though, you guys are separate - pretend as if the other isn't even posting anything. Just go ahead and post a really cool first part of your story!
I'll try and have it up in a few hours. I just woke up (couldn't sleep during normal hours
Cool stuff. Add and add to your stuff, and I'll jump in when I want to cause trouble :twisted:
Ultimately, the others were happy with how the story came out, but I didn't feel it went too well. I'm gonna have to review the rules again, I guess.
Hannah attempted a look of bland ordinariness, a task made more difficult by the green contacts she now wore. Her hair was tied back in brutal fashion, making her face much more severe. The change of clothes she'd bought in the bag itched, and the hair dye still felt wet to the touch. Still, it was an acceptable enough persona change, and with the biometric passport Runstead was creating, it should be good enough to get her out of Detroit.
The fat schlub was still as repellant as ever, but when he beckoned her over with a manicured finger to show off his work she had to admit that he was worth every penny. She nodded, and he printed off the new ID, then went to work on affixing the small chip to the printed data.
Hannah left him to it and risked a glance out of the window. The cult members from across the street had grown in number, and were talking and pointing to the door of the warehouse. This didn't bode well.
NEW MINUTIAE: Biometric passports are standard for long trips.
Choose Your Own Chat 1 Choose Your Own Chat 2 Choose Your Own Chat 3
Kane was lost in the cotton-soft future-memories that his favourite android provided when something shrill pierced his ear. He tried to ignore it, tried to stay watching his death come again, and again, and again... but that high-pitched whining didn't stop, refused to give him any peace. Picturing his command thought, the softness was cut suddenly, replaced with a dull iron taste and the smell of diesel fuel mixed with sawdust and piss.
Reality was a hell of a place.
Sprawled out on the sheets of his dingy hotel bed, Kane pushed himself up and blinked, slowly. Standing on all sides, surrounding his bed, were his five angels. His beauties. The loves of his life. Brynhildr. Eir. Herja. Hildr. Mist. The five hunter-killer androids he'd been assigned to help perform his... duties. Now they were following him on his personal mission.
Eir was at the foot of the bed, where Kane had been resting. Eir gave him a softer death-vision, an almost comforting version - stretched out and smooth, you couldn't help but feel that what you were seeing was what was, and what shall ever be. Brynhildr was the worst of the lot - her visions left an alkaline taste in your mouth that stayed with you for days afterwards, reminding you of the cold, metallic death you had been presented with. Brynhildr was in Kane's bad books, until she proved herself the most combat-efficient again.
The shrill, piercing wail kept on going.
Someone was calling Kane.
With a groggy hand, he stretched out and grabbed his phone. It was a smart little thing, packed with every consumer and confidential-level program and information it could handle. Right now, it was telling him that Agent Wilkinson, from Detroit, was trying to get in contact with him. Kane pressed the green button and, clearing his throat, answered with a cordial, "Yes?"
"Feeds have buzzed in," came the voice on the other end, "Subject has made contact, our informant has supplied her with the tagged passport. Chip should be online and traceable in five minutes, once it starts chattering with the ear-rigs."
"Good, good," replied Kane, rubbing his eyes, "Get a plane ready, I'll be at the transport hub in twenty minutes."
Click. The phone went quiet.
Rising to his feet, Kane walked over to Eir and stroked her metal cheek with the back of his hand. Hannah, Hannah, Hannah. You knew it would come to this, in the end - Eir is going to hunt you down, and you will die by her hand. Or any of the valkyrie's hands, it didn't matter.
Kane leaned forward and kissed Eir's cheek.
"Time to play, girls."
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How about this! Everyone can just go ahead and post, because I don't think this is going to get as bad as I thought it would, confusion-wise.
Okay, and also, everyone bear with me while i clean-up the OP and add characters and shit. i'll get it done!
All Protags, go! GO! NOW! GODDAMMIT!
NEW MINUTIAE: Detroit has recently become the rallying point of a new death cult. (Fanatacism - Egos)
NEW MINUTIAE: Biometric passports are standard for long trips. (Reynolds - Surveillance)
Reynolds and Egos, you'll need to revise (if you want) and okay these, and we can make 'em official.
Outside of town, Starshine is hiding from a police tank-cruiser, a big flying vehicle used for constant patrol. Its spotlights scan the sandy brush, and the pilots do wide sweeps of the area. Nowadays, such vehicles can scan and identify androids due to the energy signature of the batteries - almost every android uses a special rechargeable battery, big and bulky where their organs should be. It radiates an aura that can be picked up on. That was the first thing Starshine went and changed - he met "a guy", one of the many shady dealers in the catacombs of the city, who pumped him full of fluid that dulled out the battery, making him invisible to such scans, but also requiring him to charge a lot more frequently.
He skirts from brush to brush, dodging the spotlights, while someone from inside the T-C, some tall guy standing right inside the big open bay doors, announces instructions to his invisible prey through a megaphone.
Please do not resist. Come out in the open and Shut Down all Systems.
It takes every ounce of control not to. He's used to following orders.
Straight ahead is a tunnel, and through that, the city. If he can make a break for it, he's home free - the flying patrol vehicle needs to get at least half a mile in before it can scan the streets proper, and that's plenty of places to hide.
Failure to do so will result in force.
Starshine stares up. A spotlight meets him. Like staring into the sun, he gazes into it. His pupils don't dilate, and he doesn't blink.
The spotlight moves on.
We WILL open fire on the area.
They're coming in, smaller circles now, closer to the ground. The flimsy scrubs of foliage can shelter him from a distance, but up close, he's totally visible.
He has to make a break for it.
We repeat:
He has to make a break for it.
...we WILL open fire on the area.
NEW MINUTIAE: the police fly the skies in giant tank-cruisers, watching the city, commonly called T-Cs. (Surveillance)
NEW MINUTIAE: androids have big batteries instead of organs (General)
A crumb falls to the youth's tie and he brushes it away with a look of cold disdain.
"Starshine?" He asks with disbelief.
"Well, it's a SRSHN, but you know how these things are. Branding."
"Yes, I'm aware. So why was I transferred to this one?" William Young takes a sip from a steaming mug.
"This one has been out and about a little longer than most. We have T-Cs on it but... well, they say you can seal the deal."
An amused smile crosses Young's face. "Yes, I suppose you could put it that way. 'Seal the deal.' I like that."
"So you'll do it?"
Young stands, leaving half an egg biscuit on the plate before him.
"I had already decided when you called me. I was already doing it as soon as it escaped. I just didn't know then."
"Send me the coordinates of the T-Cs. I'll get it in my vehicle."
Post will be coming up today, sorry for the delay guys.
NEW MINUTIAE: Cults range in methodology and mentality. Some perform the kills purely with a sense of duty others see fulfilling the kills as a way to get their sadistic urges out. The later are a tad more fringe.
Potential NEW MINUTIAE (unless others object): Some "Cult Leaders" have taken their morally reprehensible position even further by offering people to place bids in order to be a "re-enactor". Others just require a nominal fee or allow people to a pay a members fee in order to view the event.
"Why Detroit?" Joe asked between bites of a turkey sub. "That seems so random."
"It totally isn't, Joe!" Penny said excitedly. She had already finished her sandwich and was playfully flicking crumbs at Joe, who did his best to ignore the assault. "If you pay attention, you can see that huge things are going to go down there!"
"I don't really get it."
"It's hard to explain, but you'll see."
"Penny..."
"Joe, I.."
"No, Penny, you shouldn't go. You have a job here. That's not something you should throw away for.. for vague notions of adventure."
"Listen to you, Mr. Stuffy. I remember a Joe Lawrence who wanted to be a hero, who wanted to go where no one else would dare to find the truth."
"And all that netted me so far is a half-decent unemployment check. You've got a good thing here, Penny. Don't give it up."
--
"We're here, Mister. This is your stop, right?"
Joe grumbled as he was roused from his sleepless memories. He thought he had just gotten on the bus, but already he was in Detroit. With bus fare paid, he had maybe enough money for a sandwich for a few days, and a cheap place to sleep.
C'mon, Joe... you're used to working on a hunch.
"Sir, there's a problem." The older man looked away from the information scrolling across the wallscreen, charts and graphs disappearing as the woman running the meeting ran her hand across the touch controls. He was grateful for the younger man butting in on the meeting, and the others seemed similarly excited about any excuse to take a break. Most stood, talking amongst themselves as he exited the cramped meeting room. "What now?"
The older man couldn't help but growl out the question, annoyed after wasting most of his day in meeting after meeting. The younger worker adjusted his tie nervously. "It's Detroit, sir...we're having problems with Adam." The senior slowed, frowning. "What kind of problems?"
"He's...exceeded his quota." "You mean he's killing too many of those idiots with low self-esteem he attracts? Or is he starting to mess with the bums again?" The younger man flinched at the blunt words, hesitant to speak as they continued to walk. "That's his job....that's what we pay the son of a bitch for." "No, he's...they're all women, sir."
The older man stopped dead in his tracks. "...what...all of them?" "For the past two weeks. High school and college age, sometimes older." "...that bastard. Nobody minds a few hobos or losers disappearing. But pretty girls?" He shook his head. "Mr. Black doesn't like anything that obvious..." He mumbled, mostly to himself. The younger man went pale at the name.
"What should-" "Get that asshole back in line! Send Paulson to straighten him out! We can't have him fucking things up in Detroit, not with what we spent getting him a foothold there." The older man started walking, gesturing for the other not to follow. "I'm going to find out if Mr. Black wants us to speed things up. Get some use out of Adam while we can..." He turned away, smirking to himself as he headed off. "...before Paulson makes the dumb bastard the next sacrifice.
NEW MINUTIAE: Adam, leader of the rising cult in Detroit, has begun heavy recruitment (and, therefore, the deaths) of young women.
NEW MINUTIAE: Paulson, one of Mr. Black's operatives, is also operating in Detroit.
Dobbs was nervous
Then again, he was always nervous. Sharing his rundown apartment with a fugitive android just exacerbated the problem. "I think it's time to go." He'd been saying the same thing for days, but Marjorie seemed to be ignoring him. "Midge, get your head out of that book and listen to me." Sometimes it was like talking to a brick wall. A brick wall that could debate you to a standstill, if she didn't make you want to buy her candy first. She probably had her 'ears' turned off again.
Dobbs snapped his fingers at her, before sighing. Walking in front of her, she finally looked up. "Yes?" "I think it's time to go." "You've been saying the same thing for days." This did seem a bit familiar.
"Right. But something's different now. This guy I used to work with..." He ran his fingers through his hair, letting out a tired breath. "...he's was asking about me in my department. I'm about out of sick days...he's going to come looking for me, soon. He's going to figure out I don't really have a niece."
Marjorie closed her book. "...I think it's time to go."
Or if you were looking for someones info would it be a complete guess who has it?
Also its safe to presume androids have more than one vision (right?) - since I can't imagine the android population is equal to humans?
Once someone found one android, I'm guessing they could pull info from it. Which would tell them what humans interacted with it, and what other androids were involved.
Since I figured if every time a person avoid their death, every android goes batshit. That would make the setting and playing an android unmanageable?
if you ask my opinion? and this counts for shit, as as I said above, I'm following everyone else's leads on it, then it's all about androids being connected to your life. your vision doesn't pass, and say forty-six androids freak the fuck out. and this is weird, because you don't know forty-six androids, how are they connected to you? it's another part of the big mystery. but i'm not ready to shoulder the responsibility of that, so, it's up to whoever encounters it in a story first.
Joe sighed over a steaming cup of coffee and a newspaper. A woman who wore a tag professing her name as "Melba" offered him a refill, which he declined. Didn't these waitresses understand that adding more coffee to an unfinished cup that has sugar and cream ruins the ratio?
The paper was filled with words about women gone missing in Detroit. Vague connections to an up-and-coming cult movement. Names and phone numbers of loved ones were plastered all over desperate ads for help in finding these lost souls. No mention of Penny.
Of course there wouldn't be. She's not from around here.
Joe grumbled and attempted to take a sip from his cup, finding it empty. Don't these waitresses even try to keep his cup full?
these ok?
Second, for Egos, those were already answered, so I'll just confirm for you. :