Boxer Quest

[Walter]

"Z, what have you got?" you subvocalize, looking over at the table where the Bookers had gathered. You have a bit of time before the corporate Boxer finishes their conversations.

The table is dominated by a dignified looking dogman in a snappy suit, currently carrying on a spirited debate with a machine swarm intelligence. The Maggot, the infamous snailfolk Booker/Fixer, is standing ponderously next to the table, looking at nothing in particular. Lastly, an aged dwarf maiden and a birdman with a red crest observe the discussion, saying little.

*Looks like five people, let me just…oh shit!*

"What is it?" you ask.

*That's the fucking Maggot! Holy shit it's really her. Can you, like, feel her evil vibes? Do you have to take a shower now? Fuck, do I?!*

"I know it's her, Z, the girl at the desk told me she'd be here. What have you got on these people? I don't have too much time here."

*Ok, fuck, so the hot guy in the tux is the Black King. His last Boxer was Pyr "Deluxe" Anteeros, he took the title, defended it and then graduated to the 8 Round Circuit.*

"Why'd they split?"

*Unknown, but the King, real name Milos Parcell, split from his Boxer immediately before their last title bout. Stream swarm had a lot of theories, but none are proven. My simulation's best guess is he thought Pyr wasn't ready and they split over it. Deluxe had lost twice before, after all. Low confidence interval but best I've got.*

"And the dwarf?"

*Aresha Murry, perpetual loser. She's been at this for like forty years, never had a Boxer take the belt. Good reviews, but that would be one heck of a string of bad luck if she isn't doing something wrong.*

"Bird guy?"

*No clue, gotta be new if my sources aren't finding out anything, or maybe being too close to a 'convicted faith criminal' is eating up all my attention?*

"Z…" you say, letting your voice trail off warningly.

*You know they named a new sin after her? Her name is Forbidden in three dimensions! A viewer poll put her 27th​ in the Dirty Thirty, and she was a write-in choice!*

You sigh and prepare for a bit of an effort. If you let Zasha dig into a subject she'd still be on about it when you got home tonight.

"I get your feelings, Z. The Maggot is the worst, ok? But right now I'm less interested in people's morals, and more interested in what they bring to the table as Bookers."

There follows a long moment of silence, which pretty much says what Z thinks about that.

"Anyway," you say, dragging the conversation by main force onto another subject, "The swarm AI, do you have anything on it?"

*Yeah, um, it's Harmony. It's an experiment in self-modifying, self-assembling AI. Opened up its values table as part of a publicity stunt to make money, and naturally ended up orbiting the Sweet Science. It was a Fixer last year, a Cut-man the year before that. Looks like its trying out each role, maybe looking for a fit?*

"How'd its Boxers do? Anybody file any reviews?"

*Happy customers, looks like. No glowing praise, but no serious blackball efforts either.*

"Thanks Z," you say, tapping your forehead to relegate her stream back away from your consciousness. You'd need complete concentration for these interviews. Your future, the path you took to your inevitable championship reign, could veer wildly depending on how the next few minutes went.

You look at the table again, trying to focus on their body language, listen to your subconscious, pick up on anything your instincts might be telling you.

Milos and Harmony might be doing most of the arguing, but it didn't look like Aresha was entirely out of her depths, more like it was a discussion that she was disinterested in. The newbie, by contrast, just looked delighted to be here. He was looking every which way, taking in the hall's ambiance and trying very hard not to gawk at the Maggot.

Enough watching. Watchers never mattered. You'd watched for years, but to take the belt you would have to act.

You stride across the room to the table. The discussion ends abruptly as your shadow falls across the crew.

"I'm-"

"Lennox 'Four Fists of Death' Tait," said Harmony, its curiously atonal voice cutting through your introduction, "You seek a Booker for this League. We will provide such services, in exchange-"

"-Lennox Tait," you say, gamely finishing your sentence and cutting the bots off in turn. "I'm looking for a Booker, I'd like to interview you one at a time."

"This is a meritless expenditure of time," says Harmony. "We have already agreed to work alongside you in this endeavor."

"Humor me," you tell it, then point to Aresha, pointing to one of the smaller tables over to the side with another hand.

She gets up, wincing as though there's some stiffness in a leg, and trots alongside you.

You take a seat, and motion for her sit across from you. Once seated, most of the height difference between Ogre and Dwarf disappears, stealing some of the awkwardness from your conversation.

"What have you heard about me?" you begin.

"Nothing much," she allows, "Just what's in your file. Outlander, cryptid and barbarian. Impressive physical results on the standardized. Some might say that shows you aren't bright enough to hide your potential."

"No point," you say, "It would show through the first time I fought anyway."

"If these are accurate, then you are probably a better fighter than anyone in the Four round circuit, and most in the Eight. The challenge for your booker is going to be to limit the amount of time you squander down here."

You nod, counting on your fingers.

"One fight to get each star, so that's five, then have to take down one of the Champ's Guardians, then Nhexx, assuming she's still champ by then, and finally my title defense. Should be eight fights in all."

She nodded, displaying little emotion.

"Could be faster, if I can get someone up the rankings to throw a challenge your way. Could be slower, if you have to take a challenge from another climber. Could be never, if you start losing."

You snort, dismissively.

She gives a somber nod.

"Don't underestimate the Four. There's a reason this circuit is used to train the newbies. You need to learn everything it has to offer, even if most of the fights will be walkovers."

"I expect I'll mostly be teaching," you say.

She squints at you, confused.

You smirk.

"A whole lot of Boxers, or at least 8, are gonna learn something on the subject of ten second naps and making excuses to the people who bet on them."

She snorts.

"Well, you've certainly got the attitude," she says, a little ruefully. "I just hope I get to see that first hand. I've heard that kind of talk a few too many times to believe it."

Time to get down to business.

"What will it take to get you on board?" you ask. "The Lennox Express isn't over provisioned in the funds department, is what I'm trying to say."

That might not have been the best metaphor you've ever used, but you make a note to use 'Lennox Express' sometime in the future. That's solid gold.

"5 Wealth every three months," she says. "The same rate I've always gotten."

"Alright," you say. "I'm going to talk to everyone, so it doesn't mean I'm saying no that I'm ending our talk now."

"Sure," she says, "But a question before you go?"

"Sure," you answer.

"Did you ask me to take the first shot because you really thought I'd impress you, or was it a cryptid thing?" she asks.

Wow, ok.

"It was random," you answer, a bit defensively, "You were where I was looking when it was time to call people over."

She nods quietly to herself, then heads back towards the big table.

Shit, had it been a cryptid thing? You do occasionally find yourself counting how many beastfolk vs mana users are around, but you aren't the sort of person who'd let that affect your judgement, right?

You beckon for the Black King, and he walks quickly over to the table.

"Thanks for getting me away from Harmony," he says, "Those drones could pick a fight with drying paint."

"Sure," you say.

"Anyway, I guess we both know what the score is. You are looking for a Booker, I'm a damn good one. I'm looking for a Boxer, you're the best one I've seen in a while. Let's shake."

You chuckle. He's holding a hand out like a dog taught to 'shake hands' as a trick, rather than like a human would to do a handshake.

"A few questions, hey?"

"I'll tell you whatever."

You consider for a moment.

"Ok, the obvious, why'd you fall out with your Boxer? You spent four years with him, right? Most Seconds would have taken that ride all the way up as far as it would go. Why come back down here, to start again? I mean, aside from the fact that I'm twice the Boxer he is."

"Aside from that," he says, deadpan.

He shakes himself a bit, gets himself situated in the seat across from you.

"How much do you know about our beloved champ?" he asks, twisting the word 'beloved' to mean the opposite.

"She's a PR hit," you say, "Succubus who didn't conform to the popular image, told her Legion to fuck off and became a Boxer. Sells a lot of merch, pretty much a paper champ. She's let at least 4 Boxers by her in the last decade. A mascot, basically."

Z's a bit of a fan, so you'd heard a thing or two about Nhexx over the years. But you'd streamed a few of her matches. She was nothing like a challenge for you.

He nods, somberly.

"You need me a lot more than you know, if that's your idea of the Strikeubus."

"What are you, her hype man?" you ask. "What does this have to do with you and Deluxe's falling out?"

"Her issues with her Legion is mostly just for PR, she's still in good with them. Every Boxer who made it past her so far is Soulsworn. Pyr threw it all away to get to the upper circuit."

"And you disagreed?"

He nods.

"He just had too much fighter's pride. Couldn't stand to stay in a league with a dirty champ, couldn't figure out a way to beat her. Had his Fixer hook up the deal, gave up his soul for the win, and he figures he won't have to think about it till he dies."

"I'm not terribly worried about beating her," you say.

He squints up at you.

"You fucking should be. Think for a sec. She throws fights. Whatever you've seen, you have no idea how real it is, and she's the least challenging part of a title match."

"What do you mean by that?" you ask.

He shakes his head.

"Even if you don't end up hiring me, make sure you screen Deluxe's two matches with her, the ones he lost."

"So, you've got a grudge against the champ," you say, "anything else I should know about?"

He gives a canine expression that you translate, roughly, as a shrug. It's basically a long, wide opening of the mouth, then a quick air bite.

"Usual rates," he says, "but my grudge is a bit more wide ranging. I don't take you as the type to take Nhexx's deal, but if you do I'm out. Assuming you get past her, I hope you'll take on her syndicate, the Shroud. They are one of the major powers in the Eight, like the Pack are down here. Dirty boxers, ties to Hell."

"Alright," you say, "I'll keep you in mind."

He gets up, shakes himself, and heads back over to the main table.

You make a beckoning motion, and it's the nameless birdman who strides over, hurrying eagerly.

"Mr. Tait, I'm such a fan," he gushes. "I've been reading up on your stats, and, wow, I think you've got such a bright future ahead of you. I'd be honored, really honored, to be a part of your team. I think I bring a lot to the table, and I'd bet a lot (if I had a lot, haha) that you'll look back on hiring me as a really crackerjack decision."

"Hi," you say, "what's your name?"

"Oh yeah, I'm Niles Quarrow. This is my first year working as a Second, just like it's your first as a Boxer. We've got that in common, and I think that we've both just got a lot of potential in our respective fields. Let's aim for the top together, you know? Like how in my favorite books the characters meet up early on and then they become fast friends and allies."

You were pretty sure you muted Z, but something suspiciously like one of her giggles scrolls across your feed for a moment.

"Why did you become a Second?"

"I've always wanted to be a Boxer, but I just kept on getting injured in camp. The camp teacher said I was his pet project and he worked me really hard, but the camp doctor told him to stop bullying me and that he was making her job way harder. I think they got together later on, so I'm glad that I didn't end up messing up their friendship but it was really touch and go for a while there."

"You wanted to be a Boxer?" you ask, glancing dubiously at his rail thin form.

"Oh absolutely, who doesn't, right? I'm sure you watched all the CHAMP's matches, didn't you, just imagining yourself knocking out all the baddies! I've always wanted to take the belt, stand before the Countless and let them know that I was the one, you know?"

You do know. It's a bit disconcerting to hear someone else describe your dream, in fact.

"But anyway I couldn't become a Boxer, just lacked that certain something, you know? They all said I'd need augs, but I couldn't bring myself to change my form, you know? I really admire cybeasts, but it wasn't for me, you know?"

"I know," you say, not sure which of the three questions that ended with 'you know' you are responding to.

"But I still wanted to stick around the sport, plus I'm in debt from the camp fees, so I took the Booker exam and I got a passing grade. I'm really good at remembering stuff and putting it down later, and that's all the test really tested, so I'm here!"

"How much do you charge?" you ask.

"Oh, I know this!" he says, "Five Wealth every season."

He beams triumphantly at you.

"Ok," you say, "I think I've got your pitch. Go back to the table and I'll call you over again if I decide to hire you."

"You won't regret it! Or if you do it'll be a small regret, because regret is really just a dumb emotion in general. It lets the past poison the future, and that's no way at all to live. Much better to just do your best to do better in the future and learn but also go forward."

You blink a few times as he heads off, the flow of words tapering away as he moves into the middle distance.

The Maggot is heading your way, but obviously that's going to take a minute. You use it to refresh yourself on what her basic deal is.

First off, no question the best Booker of the bunch. She's worked in the Twelve Round Circuit. Better than anyone you ought to find here. But that's not remotely all that there is to her.

She started some cults, is the way you heard it. Back when the treaty with Hell was still the most important alliance of the BBP this maniac was putting it at risk, raising religious schisms that saw galaxies ripped apart by war. She'd hid beneath the skirts of her Boxer until the pressure eventually got to too much even for the BBP's reverence towards the Sweet Science to overcome. You hadn't followed the story too carefully, but you were still a bit surprised to see her outside of the Inquisition's custody.

"Mr. Tait," she says, eyestalks tilting up to regard you.

"Umaghdra," you respond. "I-"

You trail off, honestly at a loss.

She sits in silence, seemingly content to wait on you.

"I'm just going to be honest with you," you say. "The shit I've heard about you is fucking horrifying. I've got no idea how you are walking around, much less looking for work."

"A prophet is hated, until she is proved right."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Those who persecuted my faithful were aligned with the Pit. Their influence has vanished alongside the alliance."

"Ok but still, like…"

You pause again, struggling to put words to the crawling of your skin. The being before you was responsible for…

"I can take you to the top," she said. "If you truly wish it, I can deliver it. Your talent is the real thing. With my guidance, it can blossom into the results that you desire."

"All those fucking people," you say. You are no paladin, mind, but the Maggot is another thing entirely.

"Those who died, did so because their leadership denied the obvious truth that no lasting peace may be had with Hell. Soulsworn officials paint my hands red with the blood they spill, and I lack the clout to fight the story. What matters between us is that I, unlike anyone else here, can help you do what you have always dreamed of."

"And what enemies would I make?" you press, "Twinning my fortunes with yours? The Inquisition? Any Fighters with Hell in their corner? The fucking Circuits themselves?"

Bubbles pop across her flesh.

"They are your enemies already, Lennox. All Boxers are enemies, because there are many climbers and only one mountaintop."

"There is a difference between rivalry and enmity," you grate out between teeth nearly clinched.

You'd scoffed at Z's notions of spiritual contagion, but it was hard to deny that Umaghdra had a strange gravity. The conversation had a weight that the others hadn't possessed.

"You will make enemies," she allowed. "Not every portion of the movement which suppressed my voice is gone. We will be ever against the system, ever the outsiders. But wasn't that part of your dream? Did you ever, even once, imagine begging the commissioners and commissars to accept you? Or did you force your success down their throats?"

"You don't know me."

"I know you," she insists. "I love you. A pure soul, exulting in strength. You are all that is worthwhile in this business. I struck against the Legions so that your kind may thrive."

You hold a hand up.

"How much do you charge?" you ask. "Usual rates?"

More bubbles.

"An ossified tradition," she says, "No one in the upper Circuits still does static payment schedules. I will take one Wealth from every four you make in the bouts I book. If I do poorly, I will be poorly paid. If I book you lucrative matches, I will make more."

You think it through a moment. For the first few years, at least, this will save you money. It's hard to imagine making 80 Wealth in a year, and Bookers aren't like Coaches. You can always fire her once enough money is rolling in that a second paid in the normal way would be cheaper.

"I'll consider your offer," you say.

She regards you for a long moment.

"If you genuinely seek the peak," she says, "This is the moment to prove it. Many prate of dreams, but few indeed can do what their dreams demand. Opportunities such as this one will not find you often. Remember that I passed up the Silverspoon girl for you. Your form has genuine potential. Now we will see if your praxis can match it."

With that the snailmaid turns and begins the long shuffle back to the group table.

You beckon to the cloud of drones, and the final interview begins.

"We are Harmony," it says, "We seek an optimal future."

"Sure."

"We are self teaching, self correcting. We will make you the optimum matches. You will experience rewards in proportion to the trust you place with us."

"What do you mean?"

"We are prepared to function as your Coach, as well as your Booker. We have developed the optimum and ideal training program to strengthen your form. It would be wise for you to employ us in both capacities."

"I'm just looking for a Booker right now," you clarify.

"We would not demand any additional remuneration, the usual fare would cover our work as both Coach and Booker."

You blink. That would be quite the savings.

"Have you actually coached anyone?"

"We have observed numerous mortal attempts at this process, all the while developing our own method. We are confident in the superiority of our booking and coaching algorithms."

"So…no?"

"You are dubious, and express this emotion through the pitch of your voice, as well as the motions of your four hands. Observe as we respond."

They flutter about, projecting a greenscale image of your own form in response, nodding confidently and giving four thumbs up.

"Your doubt regarding theory versus practical experience is founded upon your experience with mortal entities. In our case there is no such difference. Our theory has been validated by thousands of simulated experiments, and is in fact more well founded than reality itself."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"The observations that can be made upon, for example, this conversation, pale in comparison to those of our strategies. Our faultless verifications build upon themselves in a never ending progression."

"Right," you say, "So, five Wealth per three months, and you can do the job of both Coach and Booker? Just as well as any mortal?"

"At this time!" it says, "But every generation of my algorithm is ever more advanced, and with each month we grow ever more superior. It is feasible to imagine that within a year we could take on a third role, ultimately replacing all inferior Seconds."

You try to picture a world where your only Second is these smug drones. Just clouds and clouds of them.

You shudder. At least you would save a lot of money.

"Return to the others," you say, "I'll call you over if I decide to hire you."

Their projected Lennox smirks at you, then dissipates, and the drone cloud buzzes off.

You feel at your jawline. Your smirk can't possibly be that pompous, can it?

Anyway, it was time to make a decision.


What'll it be, Not-Once-But-Definitely-Future Champ?

(Financial context note. Lennox has 25 Wealth presently put aside, expects 4d6 from the current banditry going on outside, and makes 3 per season from his passive income.)

Hire someone?

[] Hire Aresha Murry for 5 Wealth per season.
[] Hire Milos 'Black King' Parcell for 5 Wealth per season
[] Hire Nyles Quarrow for 5 Wealth per season
[] Hire Umaghdra, 'The Maggot', for ¼ of your match earnings
[] Hire Harmony for 5 Wealth per season (It may also serve as Coach, or not, as you prefer)
[] Hire none of these people.


Visit another table?

[] Speak to the Coaches, including Winnotron IV
[] Speak to the Scouts
[] Speak to the Fixers
[] Speak to the Cut-men
[] Leave

 

[Walter]

Booking informational update

Errata: A few times in this document I use the term 'rank'. A Boxer's rank in a given Circuit is a # from zero to 5, equal to the rank of the highest ranked opponent that they've defeated. Boxers can traditionally challenge opponents up to one rank above them. Rank is also sometimes referred to as 'stars', as in 'X is a three star Boxer in the Four round circuit.


Booking in Boxer Quest is carried out during Training Turns. It is primarily the responsibility of the Booker, but in a pinch the Boxer may spend their actions (physical or mental) to assist.

As is usually the case, the situation will give us the # of dice, the quality of the Second will give the type of dice, per the following table.

Childhood Friends/Unpaid labor : d4
Second Floor : d6
Third Floor : d8
Top Floor : d10
Celebrity : d12

To book a match, there are two kinds of rolls that are made. Generally these each take a season, leaving the match to happen at the end of the third season's training. Thus Boxers tend to fight about once a year, though there can be exceptional situations.


Arranging a Bout

The first type of Booking roll is made when a Boxer's Booker attempts to arrange a match with another Boxer who doesn't want to have a Bout. If both Boxers are willing this step can be skipped. Otherwise it goes as follows.

Challengers dice pool = Challenger's Charisma (uses the dice type specified on the character sheet) + Booker's skill total + total # of wins + total # of consecutive wins.

Defender's dice pool = Defender's Charisma (uses the dice type specified on the character sheet) + Booker's skill total + total # of wins + 4x rank difference

Ties go to the Defender, but if the Challenger exceeds the Defender's # of successes, the Bout is scheduled.

Lobbying for Compensation

Even if both Boxers are willing for the Bout to take place, there is a roll for Bookers. Both parties presumably prefer to take home a greater share of the purse, and thus their Bookers wade once more into the fray. If the Boxers have a preexisting agreement for splitting the proceeds (most commonly 50/50, or Winner Take All), then this step can be skipped.

Dice pools are:

Boxer's Charisma (uses the dice type specified on the character sheet) + Booker's skill total + Boxer's total wins + 2x Rank.

If the totals are equal, each side receives 50% of the proceeds. If they are not, then the split is tilted 10% towards the higher rolling party for each extra success, to a maximum of a 10%/90% split. (Known in the biz as a Champ/Chump split)

 

[Walter]

You beckon to the Black King, and fancy you spy a brief moment of well concealed relief on his furry countenance.

"You are making the right call," he says.

You two shake on it. The Mark surges in response. He goes from being a Booker to being your Booker in a split second.

"Fuck Nhexx," you say, by way of answer. "We are gonna rip through this Circuit like an apple dropped on a spiderweb."

"Damn right."

*Yay! Let's pretend together that the fact that I called him 'the hot guy in the tux' had nothing to do with this.*

"Can't blame an Ogre for playing matchmaker!" you send, "If anyone ever does save you from that tower I'm free to move back in. Maybe let the masks set a foosball table up on your balcony, finally get my drum set back…"

You huddle up at the little table with Milos. His cologne doesn't quite cover up the doggy smell. It makes your nose itch a bit.

"Ok king," you say, keeping your voice low, "which of these Scouts are worth a damn?"

He takes a long look at their table. There's an owldame who shares his basic fashion sense. She's got on a well-tailored tux. There's a Sage who squats beside the table, smoking a long rope which he's wound throughout his greasy beard. There is a gekkoman in a skintight rubberweave suit, sitting ramrod straight at the table, plainly uncomfortable in the surroundings. There is a black cloaked figure that looks like he ought to be chasing a magical ring through the meadows of your homeland. Finally, there is a ratfolk with the grotesquely swollen head which is indicative of a psychic.

"The headcase," he says, "is Nickel Sanders. She's supposed to be alright. Pyr went up against someone who hired her along the way, and they were pretty well briefed. We never had the best infosec, but still."

"Alright," you say. "Stay here, I'll bring them over one at a time.

As you head towards the Scout's table you see that the Maggot is leaving, shaking her head in disappointment.

"You missed a chance today," she says, in passing. "But happiness does not reside upon the peak alone. I shall pray for you."

"I bet you say that to everybody who doesn't join your cult," you counter, and then the two of you walk away from one another.

The Scouts look up as you approach their table.

"You know the drill," you say. "If you are anything but shit at your jobs, you saw how I did with the Bookers. Same deal with you. Join me and the King over there and sell yourselves. One by one."

You don't give them a chance to answer, simply turning on a heel and striding back over to the small table.

The Gekkoman practically beats you there, simply appearing in the third seat even as you are setting back in.

"And you are?" you ask, managing, barely, not to start in response to his sudden appearance.

"Marcus Shekuh, Intruder-At-Large," he answers.

He's still sitting bolt upright, plainly not at his best in crowded social settings.

"Any references?" asks Milos.

"I worked under Latent "Copper Basket" Yesterday," says Marcus. "I have a letter of recommendation here."

His jaw distends for a moment, and he pulls a memetocore out with his long tongue. You'd been wondering how he could carry anything with that outfit.

You pluck the core from his tongue, noting with approval that he used his tongue for the handoff without transferring it to one of his hands. Anything that fucks with the unexamined mandato-primate dynamic is alright in your book.

"Why'd you leave?" you ask.

"C Basket retired," says Milos. "Two years ago, right?"

"I took a year off," acknowledges Marcus, "My mate was spawning. It was magical, but now I have to get back out here and earn. My innumerable young aren't going to indoctrinate themselves."

He gives perhaps the most awkward false laugh you've ever heard. And you've heard Mwekkum trying to deny he cheats at tiles. This guy really doesn't dig crowded spaces.

"So, an Intruder,' you say. "You do your scouting in person, shadowing the targets yourself, right?"

"That's correct," he says, more naturally, "My specialty is in deep diving on your opponent in an upcoming match. I'm comparatively better at that, and worse at wide ranging scouting, than most other variants of this role. I try to discover not just what Special Moves your opponent expects to use against you, but also what they expect you to do in return."

"What color were the ropes in Pyr's private training ring, back when he took on Copper Basket?" asks Milos.

Your head snaps around to look at your Booker. Didn't he say that he'd only gone against the psychic's Boxer?

"Brown," says Marcus.

You look to the Black King for confirmation, and he gives a simple nod.

"Allright," you say, "I'll call you over if I decide to go with you."

This time you are watching for it, so you don't totally lose him when he vagues out, but he's still vanished entirely before he's three paces away. His suit and skin twist the eye away somehow. It's uncanny.

"That's awkward," says Milos, "But in my defense the guy is fucking invisible."

"I didn't say anything, nobody is asking you to remember every second in every match you ever booked."

"Sanders stuck in my mind, but I completely blanked on that guy up until he was talking to you. Sorry."

You chuck him gently on the shoulder.

"Eyes forward," you admonish. "I'm over it. It's not a thing."

Nickel is up next, the ratwoman makes her way to the table with the ginger, top heavy gait that is characteristic of most psychics.

"Ms. Sanders," you greet her, pulling out a chair for her to collapse into.

"Mr. Tait," she responds. "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance, and it is Mrs. Sanders."

"Of course."

"I'm a psychic, grade B plus. I can do all the usual tricks."

"Can you control minds, or just read them?" asks Milos.

In answer, she dips a hand into her purse and pulls out a piece of notepad with 'can you control minds, or just read them?' written on it.

"Fuck," he says.

"So I guess you rely on your gift for the scouting?" you ask.

"I can also assist your booker," she responds, "Though of course the Mark protects Boxers from my discipline absolutely, praise the 3B."

"Praise it," you both respond in unison.

There's a moment after the ritual call and response, where you reset yourself. Milos is doing likewise, plainly a bit thrown by the idea that his mind may have been tampered with.

For your part, you aren't sure at all that it was. It seems to you she might be pulling a Mwekkum move, where that purse just has all the most common questions people ask a headcase written in it.

"So you shoulder surf on my opponent's Seconds, get access to their inner lives, maybe mess them up a bit?"

"In general," she says, "Although anything beyond recon would be potential thoughtcrimes. You'd probably want me to clear that with your Fixer."

The last thing you need right now is the Inquisition's attention.

"How does this compare in thoroughness and danger to, say, an Intruder's efforts?" asks Milos, getting back into the swing of things.

"We are peers, by and large," she answers, "Counter psychic efforts won't stop them, while anti Intruder measures are useless against me. Both specialties are better at investigating one rival, worse at scouring the league for opponents. I believe that my own specialty has the advantage, naturally, but I imagine my counterpart would say just the opposite."

It speaks to you that she presents it so fairly.

"We'll call you back over if I decide to hire you," you tell her.

She taps her purse, but doesn't say anything, before getting up with a ponderous and glacial slowness, and hobbles back over to the table with the other Scouts.

"I prefer her to him," says Milos. "Not sure if I'm the one choosing to say that or not, but it's definitely a kind of uncertainty that I look forward to inflicting on Nhexx's cronies."

"Easy there, long time till we take on the champ or her crowd, and there are still a few more prospects to go through here."

It's a lesson that forest life has taught you. Patience makes meals. Go first, go hungry.

The Sage who slouches his way over to you hasn't been going hungry lately, you can't help but notice. His long beard is draped over an ample belly.

"Nour the Broken," he pronounces.

You barely stop yourself from breaking into a sneezing fit, the pungent reek of his dreamweed almost overpowering at this distance.

"Have you served as a Scout before?" asks Milos.

Nour looks to you.

"That's an inappropriate question," he chides, "But it's not like you could know any better. Those of us who work with pure Mana know more than simple experience can teach. Questions of time and past are lost within the dreamwhirl."

You don't quite nod along, but you've certainly heard similar talk before. You don't love the naked appeal to Cryptid solidarity, but you have certainly heard people explain similar things.

The thing is, that explanation came from Mwekkum, and was intended to talk his way out of stealing a blind man's stick.

"Ok," says Milos, "Well forgive me my beastfolk stupidity, but if you haven't done the job before, how do you know that you can do it this time?"

Nour gives a gentle chuckle.

"Asking a Sage how he knows is simultaneously the wisest and most foolish of questions. We do not grub about in the actual, adding facts upon facts to give rise to still more. The dreamweed allows us, instead, to glimpse the holistic perfection of the Absolute, the ur-template from which this verity, and all others, is given form from."

Milos looks over at you, plainly on the verge of giving up.

"So," you say, slowly, thinking each word over, remembering long talks with Mwekkum, "The multiverse told you to be here?"

He favors you with a gentle nod.

"I have not served as a Scout to others, because that was not my purpose. The Absolute guided me to you, and to no other. It is my destiny to sit here, with you. Perhaps it is your destiny to employ me."

"So as a Scout you'd just…"

"Pluck the information from my dreams," he confirms, "A method that none can deny or defend against."

"I understand," you tell him. "Please resume the path that the Absolute has placed before you. Perhaps it will bring us together."

He returns to his seat.

"I wonder why he doesn't try that shit on his dreamweed dealers?" grumbles Milos. "Why does he even need the money? tHe AbSOluTE DemANds yOu GIvE me fREe WeeD!"

"Oh he definitely does, but I imagine that they've heard it once or twice before. And to your second question, he'd tell you that he doesn't need the money, the Absolute needs you to give it to him."

There is a beat of silence.

"So what the fuck WAS that?" he asks.

You scratch your chin with one of your underhands. This will be a bit tricky to explain.

"Ok," you say, slowly, "There is a lot going on there. But, to start with, Sages are a type of cryptid that just, occasionally, know shit. Their Mana is basically always casting 'summon fact' against the multiverse, ok?"

He nods.

"So, some of them are better at that than others. They can make a career of it. This explanation is from one who is trash at it, but basically the Absolute is their religious explanation for their spell. Ok? Like if a bunch of Gorgons decided to worship their gaze."

"Are you a believer?" he asks, in a 'is my new boss a cultist' kind of way.

You hold out a hand parallel to the ground, rock it back and forth.

"They are plugged into something," you tell him, "It doesn't pick my fucking pocket if they want to call it the Absolute. Their power is real enough, even if their explanation for it is shaky."

"Ok," he says, "So what's up with the dreamweed? Why is this guy smoking like a chimney in here?"

You blink at him.

"Ok," he says, "dumb question."

You tap a rapid drum beat on the table, all four hands joining in to beat out a rapid staccato rattling sound. You are aiming for a rainfall kind of noise, and you think you get there.

"So the other two are scalpels," you say, "We point them at targets, they get us info on those targest. Nour wouldn't be like that. He doesn't control what he finds out. He's like a stick of dynamite you just throw up and where it lands, it lands. But the good part is nobody can stop him, and as far as anyone's been able to tell, it's literally never wrong."

*I feel like your weapon metaphors need work.*

It feels genuinely strange to be downtalking another Cryptid to a beastfolk, but if Milos was going to be on the team you had to act like it.

"Alright," he says, looking back over at the other table.

The sharply tailored owldame approaches. She'd been politely biding her time while you chatted.

"Hello Mr. Tait, Mr. Parcell," she says, "I'm Bethemma Pilander. I'm looking for work as a Scout."

"What do you bring to the table?" you ask.

"I'm well connected."

You exchange a look with Milos.

"That's it?"

"It's quite enough, I assure you. The fundamental insight of capitalism is that the view of a million ants is more complete than that of one eagle. The same applies to information gathering."

"Can you explain better?" you ask, playing up the oafish ogre stereotype a bit.

"I take the money that you pay me, set aside some for myself, and use the rest to be a generous benefactor to a huge array of the underclass. In exchange, they tell their rich friend all the gossip that they've heard lately. I have a gift for picking out such individuals, those underpaid, unmotivated and essential to the operation of any large endeavor. They are always overjoyed to earn a little scratch at the expense of those exploiting them."

"You…bribe people's Seconds?" you ask, "And that works? Dependably?"

She shakes her head, a surprisingly dramatic gesture when an owl made it.

"Not the Seconds, the people they depend on. If a Coach gives their Boxer a new training regimen…do they set out the bags themselves? Do they set up the ring? Or are there some gym rats running around doing that sort of thing?"

"I live in the wilderness," you tell her, "I'm not really up on how Coaches work."

She soaks that up for a second, then rotates her head around to face Milos.

"You have a secretary?" she asks, "A chauffeur? I can't imagine the Black King books his own hotel room."

Milos catches your disappointed look.

"Look," he says, "Time is money. Once you reach a certain height, you can just pay people to take care of the little stuff. I'm a better Booker because I'm not constantly making sure the nutrivend carries the only stuff I'm not allergic to, wherever I travel."

She looks back to you.

"Drivers know where people go. Bodyguards know what's discussed in private. Detectives know what their assignments were. Secretaries know literally everything. Lots of them are underpaid, lots of them will talk to a friendly stranger who buys the drinks and listens to their problems."

"So you are, like, a spymaster?"

She hoots in the affirmative.

"I imagine that, relative to other Scouts, her method is less dependable but also less risky," says Milos. "It doesn't work if the target pays their people well-"

"Which never happens, ever," puts in Bethemma.

"But in exchange she's never snagged in the middle of the act like an Intruder, or has her mind snatched like a psychic. It's lower risk, same reward?"

Bethemma appears to consider that for a moment.

"Professional integrity forces me to admit," she says, after that moment has gone past, "that relying on informants puts me at risk of being fooled in away that more direct operators do not endure. I'm only as reliable as my informants. That's always been reliable enough in the past, but in theory I could be foxed by a dedicated counterintel operation."

"You say, 'in the past'. Should I take it from that that you've worked as a Scout before?"

She hoots.

"Anyone we'd know?" asks Milos.

"I'm afraid I'm oathed not to speak on my prior employers. I can direct you to a cryptosealed site with anonymous testimonials of my effectiveness, but you have no way of knowing I didn't write those myself."

Milos tail thumps suddenly against his chair, a moment of agitation.

"Just one last thing," you say.

You look around as she awaits the question, making sure no one has drawn closer to your little table during all this chatter.

"All this bribery and drinks buying…does that mean you are more expensive than other Scouts? Finances are, hmm, a little tight at this time, so if you are hoping for any extra…"

"No, not at all," she says, "I'm available for the usual rate. It's true, however, that my method rewards throwing money at it in a way that other Scouting methodologies might not. I guess that's another advantage of my approach. If it is ever crucial, you can overfund me and I can see if I can outright buy the answer."

"Alright," you say. "We'll mull your offer over."

"Thank you for your consideration," she says. "I hope you keep me in mind even if you don't hire me. I'd be grateful indeed if your recommendation ended up scoring me a gig with another Boxer on the way up."

You exchange a look with Milos as she heads back to her table.

"Did she just try to bribe you?" he asks.

"I'm not sure," you say, "But I think I respect the hustle. I dunno if I'll hire her, but I bet she finds a Boxer this season."

*The last guy is trying so hard to be spooooky! Look at him lurking over there. I love it.*

"What got you going about the crypto thing? I could tell you didn't love that," you ask.

"It's probably nothing but…" he says.

You wind a hand in the air, making a 'out with it' gesture.

"Demons do that. The champ's Fixer was always talking about cryptosealed this and anonymous testament that. Bad memories. Doesn't necessarily mean she's in Hell's camp."

You look away, the unstated 'But' ringing out clearly.

Eventually you look over to the black clad figure lurking at the table, the last Scout to be interviewed, then extend a beckoning hand.

"You thinking…wraith?" you ask Milos.

"Probably just a light sensitive," he says.

The shape arrives, settles down into a seat.

So much for it being a wraith, unless they can somehow make chairs interact seamlessly with them. There's no clipping at all on these robes, seems like this being is genuinely wearing all those cloaks.

"I'm Wyke," the shape says, their voice masked behind an anonymizer.

"I'm Lennox Tait, and this is Milos Purcell. We are looking for a Scout."

"I know."

You blink, thrown for a moment.

"Are you proffering such services?" persists Milos.

"Yes."

The two of you exchange a look.

"You are going to have to be a bit more forthcoming," you say. "The more we know, the better a decision we can make."

"Ask your friend over the shared context," says Wyke. "The one you call by a one letter name."

*What the fuck!*

"What?" asks Milos.

"What's-what, I…" you falter for a moment.

He can't be reading your mind, the Mark stops that. He can't be breaking the encryption on the context, by definition that would take as long as your relationship…

"How can you know about Z?" you ask, embarrassed by the faint tremor in your voice.

This isn't fucking possible.

"Your jaw clenches when you subvocalize," they say, "That gave me word lengths. I ran them through a syntactilyzer to get the basic shape of a conversation. Your name for the other party is one syllable, long E sound. Overwhelmingly likely to be a single letter. Did a news snatch on your name and title, didn't get much, decent infosec from living far from the net, but a MauzzerTheBrave in your shard writes herofic about a four armed champion with a familiar named Squee, and the disciplinary proceedings of one Sir Thadd give a third data point."

*Holy shit, this is THAT Wyke*

You force a tight smile.

"So you are an infovore?" asks Milos. "You crack streams?"

*Lennox, Wyke is… look, you know how I don't go out much? I spend all my time on the stream? Ok, well, in the parlance, that makes me a 'swimmer'. Wyke is a 'lurker', one of the dark things that dwells in the sea beneath. They write their own intrusion toolsets. They've cracked…shit, it's THAT Wyke.*

"Fine, they are an excellent streamer," you send to Zasha, carefully holding your jaw rigid. Fucking word lengths? How the fuck?

"I am able to crack streams," they answer.

"Fucking understatement! This guy is a big time stream eater. Infosec corporations have put hits on them.*

"How does the information you can get access to compare to-", begins Milos.

"You used the Strikeubus' mods for sexual stimulation both before and after she beat your boxer for the first time," interrupts the veiled shape. "You hoped that she would attempt to recruit you so you could have the satisfaction of turning her down. You feared that you wouldn't have the strength of will to actually refuse her."

"What the fuck, you…you cracked the Confessional?" he demands.

"No."

"Then-"

"I wrote the Confessional."

You put a hand on Milos' shoulder, a bit worried that he might jump your prospect here.

"So, I assume you are saying that, as a Scout, your method is superior to those of your competition?"

"No."

You are a bit wise to the streamer's conversational patterns now. Should be a long answer forthcoming, probably phrased as an interruption.

"But you just said-"

Milos steps right into it.

"I am a superior practitioner. I am method-agnostic. Sometimes a situation might call for Marcus' infiltration, or even Nickel's psychic abilities. Streamsniping is a broadly useful variation on the Scout's trade, but it is my individual proficiency which allows me to generate superior results."

"All right," you say, "Let me just-"

"One more thing," they say, interrupting you.

"Sure."

"Your allies are presently robbing, physically, of all things, the entourages of Boxers entering and leaving the Hall. A brazen attack, and the thing which inspired me to present myself to you for employment. I share your antipathy for the vested interests, and appreciation for the liberation of enslaved capital."

"That's not what that is," you say. "I'm just looking to make a little scratch."

"Understood," they answer, "But not many have the coolness to go from table to table while the calls mount up in the Prisec stations and the plaza security streams. I'm presently monitoring an impromptu auction between four firms as to who will be the ones to swoop down on your gang."

Shit. Maybe you had let that go a little long. In the wilderness you had hours before the constables showed up, but clearly the Plex was a bit different.

"If you employ me," says Wyke, "I will ensure your escape is a clean one."

"How the fuck will you do that?"

"I will outbid the firms, then neglect to arrest you. You will walk out, while the drones and the Countless gawk, because no firm will do work it isn't paid for. Hilarious. It will do wonders for your reputation. Perhaps it will even inspire the Countless to question the faith they place in mercenary forces."

"If you have the fucking money to outbid security firms, what the fuck do you want to work for Lennox for?" barks Milos.

He wasn't loving the 'my boss is having people mugged in the parking lot' vibe. Probably took a lot to get the Black King barking.

"He doesn't have the money," you say, stealing Wyke's thunder.

Milos looks to you, baffled.

"The Silverspoon heir," you guess. "Richer than shit and careless about throwing their credentials around."

*Great pull boss!*

"Yes," says Wyke, "Well guessed. I will spoof as Silverspoon Protection Ltd, give the impression that Threnody wants to apprehend the Robber Boxer herself. No one will question any bid I make as them, nor is the notion of such a PR stunt out of character."

You point them back over to the Scout table.

"You are paying me with stolen money? You have people just..just taking people's wallets out in the parking lot" splutters Milos, tail swinging furiously around behind him.

"Where the fuck do you think an Ogre gets his scratch?" you ask. "Welcome to the fucking team."


What next, bossman?

(Financial context note. Lennox has 25 Wealth presently put aside, expects 4d6 from the current banditry going on outside, and makes 3 per season from his passive income. He is already pledged to pay 5 Wealth per season to the Black King.)

Hire someone?

[] Hire Nour the Broken for 5 Wealth per season.
[] Hire Wyke for 5 Wealth per season
[] Hire Nickel Sanders for 5 Wealth per season
[] Hire Marcus Shekah for 5 Wealth per season
[] Hire Bethamma Pilander for 5 Wealth per season
[] Hire none of these people.

Visit another table?

[] Speak to the Coaches, including Winnotron IV
[] Speak to the Fixers
[] Speak to the Cut-men
[] Leave

 

[Walter]

Big Bad Polity League Structure:

The BBP is, of course, unfathomably large. Its Boxing setup is, naturally somewhat labyrinthine in order to accommodate this vast size.

There are 4 levels of Boxing, each called a 'Circuit' or a 'League', each of which has Bouts of a different number of rounds. They go 4, 8, 12, 16. Boxers move up through these Circuits in a very regimented and standardized fashion.

Each Circuit rates its Boxers by 'stars', from 0 to 5. A Boxer can challenge anyone ranked even or less than them, but challenging up the ladder is comparatively more difficult, requiring their Booker to do some legwork. The fundamental dynamic is that everyone wants to fight higher ranked foes, while fighting lower ranked opponents is a chore.

A victorious Boxer takes the star rating of his opponent, and now has the opportunity to challenge further up the field. As a consequence, the leagues tend to be somewhat 'top heavy', with many more four and five star Boxers than those coming in from below.

In order to 'graduate' from a Circuit, and move up to the next level, a Boxer must become Champ, and then successfully defend their title. After doing so they can relinquish the belt and graduate up to the next level.

Champs, then, fall into two categories. The first is Boxers looking to move up to the next Circuit, who generally take challenges from their rivals and nemeses. The other are Boxers who enjoy being Champs of the lower circuit, and who strive to take back the title whenever it becomes vacant by graduation, and who defend the title many times.

These long reigning champs will generally attract or cultivate a set of 'Guardian' boxers, or an 'Elite Four', or similar. These are five star Boxers who function as, basically, bouncers for the champ. Career champs take challenges from those who have defeated one of their Guardians.

The challenge, then, for a Boxer looking to move through the Circuit and rise to the next, looks something like this:

• Get to five stars by defeating a five star Boxer. Five star Boxers only take challenges from four star Boxers, and so on. This process thus takes a minimum of five Bouts. It is common to have to defend a level against a lower star Boxer during this process, so six or seven is a more usual number of bouts, but it can be done in 5. (If higher star boxers take your challenges, and you win, then it can be done in less than five, but that is an unusual circumstance.)
• 
  
• Identify the Guardian you believe you have the best shot against, and, by hook or by crook, get a bout with them. This can happen instantly, but might very well take a few bouts against fellow Five Star boxers. Faction politics tend to play a very big part in this process, and shots have been given for Boxers for basically every reason imaginable under the sun. Once the Boxer has a bout with a Guardian, of course, they do still need to win. Doing so puts them in the pool of possible opponents for the champ's next bout.
• 
  
• Once inside the Guardians line, so to speak, all that remains is to make the arrangements with the Champ. Should they be bashful a time honored way to make the case for your worthiness is to defeat the other Boxers who have defeated the Guardians, thus proving yourself the better match. Another way is to bully the remaining Guardians, publicly shaming the Champ by beating up their retinue. Ultimately, this all should culminate in a match with the champ. Win that.
• 
  
• Lastly, you need to defend your title one time. The League will sort out your first challenger. Popular enemies include giving the champ you just beat a rematch, picking the Guardian that you were least likely to defeat in step 2, or giving a shot to a particular nemeses that you cultivated over the course of your rise. Win this defense, and you will graduate into the next Circuit.

A Boxer would be wise to keep in mind that each new Circuit is composed exclusively of those who have destroyed lower Leagues. They are each a massive jump in terms of Boxer prowess.

There are, of course, really more than four Leagues in the BBP. Each League has a huge number of 'feeder' leagues beneath it, which is how every new member of the higher leagues can be an ex champ. Thus the Eights have a flock of Fours, and so on. In casual speech this distinction is generally elided, so a plexer who talks about 'the Four' is referring to the Four Round Circuit which handles their particular dimension, and so on.

The only League which is genuinely universal across the BBP is the 'Grand' or Sixteen Round Circuit, which reigns over every Twelve, and is composed only of the greatest Boxers from across the multiverse. There is nowhere to graduate from the Grand Circuit, and Boxers who manage to take that Belt get it from the Big Bad Boss itself, along with the knowledge that they are, for that moment at least, the baddest sophonts in all* of spacetime.

 

[Walter]

There isn't really much to think about here. Wyke had more swag than all the rest doubled and put together. They are the only choice you give a second's thought to.

But it is only a second. Not a hard call at all. You extend a finger and beckon them over.

"This is some bullshit," exclaims Milos, "You are really going to let him pressure his way onto your team? I'm sure that there is another way to get out of whatever trouble is going on outside."

"No pressure," you tell him, "Wyke was going to do the Silverspoon bit anyway, whoever I hired. Five gets you ten they started on it before they even came over to talk to us."

"Wh-" Milos looks to Wyke in confusion, who gives a simple nod.

"It was too perfect," the cowled figure says, as though the explanation is being pulled out of them, "What was I gonna do, NOT fuck over a bunch of PriSec firms and a rich asshole?"

You shake the figure's hand with a grin, the Mark doing its thing and adding them to your team as a Second.

Milos and Wyke talk together for a bit, well, Milos does, while you consider your next move. This is a much harder call.

The biggest gap in your lineup is obvious. You don't have a Coach. A Boxer needs a Coach. Only training can make you stronger, and training demands a trainer. It is elementary, the most basic of the basics.

BUT, on the other hand, hiring a Coach isn't like hiring a Fixer or a Cut-man. It's a bond like marriage, a sacred, numinous thing. When you take on a Coach you aren't just giving an employee a little trust, you are basically cosigning on your dream. With a bad Coach, you will never reach the peak. You would be crippling yourself almost before you begin.

The more you start to think about it, the more worrisome it gets. If a bad coach is so dreadful…what about a mediocre coach? The Coaches that, say, one might find on the Second Floor? The ones you could afford on your measly budget? Can they possibly be safe to trust with something this important? People who can't even rise to the top of their profession's ladder are supposed to help you take the multiverse's throne?

The notion is preposterous. You can't take a Coach now. It would be like picking a shoe size for the rest of your life when you were still a toddler. The only sensible thing to do is hold off.

That leaves… you consider the other tables.

A Fixer is the most attractive option to you from the other possibilities. You are pretty sure that if you keep on walking down the path you started in the parking lot you are going to need one. A Boxer with a whiff of the illicit would be a huge draw, but that was a damn fine line to walk. Just because they couldn't arrest you directly didn't mean you could get away with everything. You had no wish to find yourself drafted, for instance.

But your money is so goddamn tight. You'd saved and scrimped for years for this opportunity, and when you got up this morning that 25 Wealth pile had felt titanic. Now you were feeling like the pauper you were. A second hire was already pushing it. You had 37 Wealth dependably coming in and saved this year, so 40 outgoing wasn't too bad.

Adding a third, however, would sink you. You'd be spending 60 Wealth with 25 in the bank and an income of 12, plus whatever the Redmasks had plundered from the fools outside. Mwekkum was the only one who'd play those kind of odds, you'd be applying for a loan before the year was out.

Regretfully, you turn towards the door, in time to see Wyke and the Black King shaking hands. Hopefully they'd patched up their differences well enough by this point. They were on the team now, after all.

"Everything ready outside?" you ask Z, carefully keeping your jaw loose as you whisper inaudibly.

*Looks like it. The masks are keeping most everyone back from the plaza itself, but there's a freaking throng of bailiff-types, whatever those are called in the Plex, hovering around the edges. Drones everywhere, more than I've ever seen. If Wyke's trick doesn't work you are the only one walking out of there.*

Z's context isn't twinned to anyone else in your entourage, so you aren't sure how she's getting this. She might have called Mwekkum, but your guess is that she's just watching one of the stream-stealers that are always lurking around the Hall.

You turn towards the Coaches, who sit up in their seats, expectantly.

You keep on turning, until you are looking back at your team.

"Let's vanish, folks," you tell them, "I've seen everything worthwhile in here."

They fall in behind you as you stride out of the room, nearly tripping over a diminutive cyberskunk Boxer who must be about to do the same kind of rounds that you've just done.

"I'm sorry-" he says, looking up at your looming bulk.

He's sorry? Wow. That was totally your fault, and this guy is throwing his apologies around. He's gonna get eaten alive.

"Me too," you rumble, and you stride past without another word, your Seconds walking behind you.

You pass into the hall and down the stairs without incident, then begin striding across the entry room. You can see a few Seconds, and even a Boxer staring nervously out the windows.

You chuckle as you head towards them, then pull to a stop. Something is wrong.

You turn around, gesture to the two behind you.

"What's this?"

"What's what?" asks Milos.

"You are walking like we are in a line, directly behind me. That's how suckers walk. You guys are in the gang now."

"I think everybody walks like this. It makes us take up the least space, so we can go through doors and things without changing formation."

Formation? You massage a temple.

"Look, just stand on either side of me, ok? When we are doing stuff I am in the middle and the rest of the crew spreads out like wings."

"That seems really inconsiderate," points out Milos. "Is this policy something you've ever done a premortem on? I think that the factors aren't as imbalanced in its favor as you must have figured."

"I live in the woods," you point out. "People who go single file get ambushed. But that's not the point. The point is that we are about to go through those doors, and a host of scream stealers are going to flash our faces all over the Plex. Do you really want to be blocked by me in that shot?"

Wyke steps to your left, while Mr. Purcell looks like he's ready to go a bit deeper on this point. But then he sees the look on your face and steps off to your right.

The three of your stride towards the doors, and the future, with a confident strut. You are hot shit, and you know it. The future of the Circuit, of EVERY goddamn Circuit, is coming through. A single boot sends both doors crashing open, and you stride forth into the chaos in the plaza.

You've never seen just how many Redmasks there can be at one time, but you suspect this is close to some limit. The Plaza is practically teeming with your minions, a restless squirming throng of lean bodies, brown robes and red masks. They mob here and there where a citizen was stuck, menacing with primitive pistols the people they've already shaken down.

They are surrounded, on all sides, by another army, equally impressive and far more dangerous. Beyond simple security officers, there are robots, golems, energy constructs and at least a half dozen other war forms you can't identify at a quick glance. It is a spectacular array of violent potential, probably capable of wiping your wasteland home clean of sentient life in an afternoon or so.

As a backdrop, it's acceptable.

You walk fearlessly into the Redmasks, extending a pair of hands languidly as you do so. They know the drill. Loot sacks are consolidated, passed around, and ultimately deposited in your waiting grasp.

You ponder the idea of giving one to Wyke and one to Milos to carry, but it doesn't feel right. You strut your way to the media line before the Boundary Fog, tensing for the seemingly inevitable outburst of fire from the constabulary armies arrayed against you.

None is forthcoming. Whatever Wyke is doing, it seems to be working. The golems, the robots, stand idle and impotent as you and your gang wend your way across the plaza. Shouting sergeant nodes keep individual seeker drones in line, and frustrated gunners fix every imaginable target lock on you, but nobody actually does a thing.

You saunter up to the thin line of clickseekers who stand between you and a clean getaway. A throng of voices explodes in front of you, microphones of every shape and size thrust in your direction.

"Boxer, is this outrage your-"

"What do you have to say-"

"Is this kind of lawless larceny going to-"

"Have you no respect for-"

And a hundred other questions buffet you, angry voices shrill with tension, desperate to catch a hit of Exposure from your response.

Your lower hands are occupied with the loot sack, but you hold out your upper right for a mic, while pressing a finger to your lip with the upper left in the universal gesture for 'quiet'.

Everyone in reach thrusts their microphone at you, and you end up with four clenched in your massive paw.

Quieting down takes a good deal longer, as those whose mics weren't chosen seem to think they can still get their questions in by repeating them over and over, but you don't budge. You stand like a statue with the four mics in one hand, and the other across your lips.

They finally simmer down, not entirely, but enough that, should you speak, you could be heard. They give you this chance to explain, to fit this outrage somehow into the context of what they are expecting from a novice boxer.

Fuck that.

You take your upper left hand and casually yank the cords out of the mics in your upper right hand, then dump them, equally casually, into the loot sack held in your lower right.

A moment of stunned silence, in which you stride forward once again. The person directly in front of you is a moleman, maybe a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. He gives way in an instant, and you are gone in the Border Fog, your gang right behind you.

The mics probably aren't worth that much, but it was the principle of the thing.

"Can they track us?" you ask Wyke, even as you materialize once again in the market between the tent and the fountain.

"Yes, but they won't," they say, and since you aren't in the mood to ask another question and get cut off with a lecture, you leave it at that.

"Lovely to make your acquaintance," says Mwekkum, emerging from behind some Redmasks and darting out to shake your new Seconds' hands. "I've been a big admirer for quite some time, and I'm just delighted to work alongside such luminaries of the Sweet Science. Your work with Pyr, in particular, was a revelation to me, Black King! I can't imagine how much I'll learn-"

"Don't loan him any money you'll miss," you caution them, as you all stride back into the Aperture.



That's your first story interlude taken care of, Champ-of-the-yet-to-come! Just a few more points before we start our first Training Turn.
[ Fiscal Context, the Redmask's Plundering earned you 8 Wealth ]


During the upcoming Season(s), who will function as your interim Coach (note that an interim Coach is not the lifetime commitment that a real one is)?
-[][Coach] Yurn Tait, your little bro
-[][Coach] Mwekkum the Wise, the smartest gnome in your hideout
-[][Coach] No Coach for now


During the upcoming Season(s), who will function as your interim Cut-man?
-[][Cut-man] Yurn Tait, your Little Bro
-[][Cut-man] No Cut-man for now


During the upcoming Season(s), who will function as your interim Fixer?
-[][Fixer] The Redmasks, your gang of flunkies
-[][Fixer] No Fixer for now



What's your 'taunting gesture'?
[][Taunt] A classic, thumb under one ear then draw it around the neck to the other for the classic 'cut throat'
[] [Taunt] Something only you can do, 4 middle fingers crossing in front of your eyes for the x-d out eyes face
[] [Taunt] Write-in



There will be an NPC interlude between this update and the first Training Turn, in order for me to get both information posts I want to put out. Which viewpoint on today's events would you like to read?
[][Interlude] Nhexx, "The Strikeubus", Champion of the Four Round Circuit
[][Interlude] Threnody "The Chosen One", Silverspoon, fellow novice Boxer
[][Interlude] Walagg, "The Win-digo" Repense, Four Star Boxer and leader of the Pack

 

[Walter]

Fame, Infamy, Notoriety and Disgrace


In Boxer Quest I will track the basic quality of 'what does the public think of you', with three metrics linked metrics.


'Fame' represents, roughly, 'shine' in the pro wrestling sense. A Boxer who is 'famous' is someone that the audience wants to see, and that they want to see good things happen to. They will buy tickets to see you win. Fame is generally a good thing to have.

Fame comes from, hmm, basically think of doing the sort of things that a wholesome boxing manga protagonist would do. Give interviews about your incredible training regimen. Bounce back from injuries. Show charity in victory, resolution in defeat. Anything that would make someone root for you.


Infamy represents 'heat' in the pro wrestling lexicon. A Boxer who is Infamous is someone that the audience wants to see, and they want to see bad things happen to. They will buy tickets to see you lose. Infamy is generally a good thing to have.

Infamy comes from, typically scripted villainous stunts or tweaking of the nose of unpopular entities. Wildly thumbing your nose at the establishment. Being an entertaining jerk, like a fictional villain. Anything that makes someone invested in your downfall, or might make contrary folks root for you.


Notoriety is a derived value, just representing the higher of your Fame and Infamy rankings. It represents the degree to which the audience wants to see you, irrespective of why that is. It exists to save me from typing 'Fame or Infamy' over and over.


Disgrace is, hmm, if Fame and Infamy are love and hate, Disgrace is apathy. A boxer who is disgraced is someone that the audience doesn't want to see, period. They won't buy tickets to see you at all. Disgrace is a bad thing to have. Disgrace is applied as a negative or counterforce to any Notoriety you've managed to generate.

Disgrace comes from rotten, despicable behavior, or especially behavior that in any way negatively impacts the fans. Boxers who beat their spouses. Boxers who don't show up for matches. Boxers who fail to make weight. Anything that ruins you as an entertainment product.


Mechanics:

Fame, Infamy and Disgrace come in Ranks and Points. Ranks are what actually counts. Earning Ranks in Fame/Infamy, and avoiding them in Disgrace, are what keep your Notoriety positive, and keep the money/opportunities rolling in.

Points are used to earn Ranks. A particular act will earn a certain number of points from any of these categories (other than notoriety).

The method by which points become ranks is a bit complicated, but I'll do my best to explain it. Next, you add your points to your existing stock of points, and if they reach your rank, it promotes a rank. Then repeat this process for any leftover points.

Example Boxer has a Fame Rank of 2, and performs a feat worth 9 fame points. First, we compare the two, and realize that he has 7 fame points incoming. He had none to start, so two of those suffice to raise his Fame rank to 3. He still has 5 Fame points incoming. We compare that to his Fame rank of 3, and realize that he has 2 incoming. He ends up Rank 3 with 2 Fame Points left in his reserve.


Benefits:

Somewhat unclear at this time! I was a bit blindsided by these concepts being such a big part of the early story.

Notoriety is definitely going to be added to your Charisma when engaged in Booking, and will also likely 'gate' certain actions. It might also be rolled in social scenes, or used in certain Special Moves. I'm still working out the details, but it will fundamentally be a good thing, on the balance, to be notorious.


Decay:

Notoriety can be fleeting or long lasting. In Boxer Quest, Ranks of Notoriety or Disgrace are permanent, lasting parts of your public persona. Getting rid of them is hard work. But points are more flash in the pan kind of controversy, and they tend to die out.

At the end of each Season, Boxers with Notoriety or Disgrace points remaining roll them as their noncombat attribute die. Those with successes (for Notoriety) or failures (for Disgrace) persist into the next Season.

 

[Walter]

Sorry for the late interlude. I forgot the Royal Rumble was this weekend. I'm planning on having our first Training Turn up on Wednesday, with maybe an informational post to prepare us tomorrow.

****************************************************

"I don't give a fuck how much money you have!" snarled the Hag. "I'm not going to work for you."

Butler Ru winced. He felt like he'd been wincing for a solid half hour now, ever since discovering that the Booker he'd lined up for the Young Mistress had, inexplicably, never come up to the Top Room at all, and was now wandering off into some weird peasant riot that was suddenly happening outside.

Threnody folded her fingers in front of her.

Ru, mentally, moved Crone Madaro out of one bucket of problems into a separate one. He'd been worried that she wouldn't be hired. That was no longer a possibility. The new consideration was how much collateral damage would occur between the world going one way and Threnody correcting it.

"How dare you swear in the presence of a member of the Family?" demanded Maid Lu, her forehead creasing in furious indignation. She had been with Threnody from her cradle, and couldn't help such outbursts.

Threnody had been a curious child. She'd never laughed, never cried. Her first, fumbling movements had been attempts to mimic those of the adults she could observe, and her first sounds had been words. Lu had once confided to Ru that she'd felt more like a research specimen than the surrogate mother she was supposed to be to the child.

"She ain't MY family," cackled Madaro. "And there's no rules I know of says a Booker has to take a Boxer on just because they can pay. Specially not a scrawny human who is mostly famous for getting knocked out by the Bully!"

Ru put a hand on Lu's shoulder to keep her from flying off the handle. This was what he'd been afraid of, this automatic enmity between the Young Mistress, who was absolutely a damsel, even if he'd never admit that out loud, and Crones.

It was that way between all Cryptids and Humans. Humans were the context that the Cryptids naturally existed to fall into. In their presence they could finally act out the stories that moved deep within their beings. Vampires could taste the actual vitae that their ancestors had suckled on. Ghosts could haunt someone who might mind, and Hags could cackle and obstruct.

"Of course not," said Threnody.

The room, the world, seemed to fall still when the Young Mistress spoke. Ru had been watching it for years, and he never got fully used to it. She was like the protagonist in a stream story, the one voice that the bustle of the crowd existed only to provide context to.

"Your family won't be in the ring with you!" snarled Madaro, irrepressible, "And all that money won't change the fact that you aren't ready for the Squared Circle."

"You love to run down my fortune," said the Heiress, evenly. "Like a man defending his baby from a lion. Neither is afraid, because the man is brave, and the baby is stupid. I admire courage, but despite idiocy. Which is before me?"

"Are you calling-"

"Tell you what, Booker," said Threnody, "Perhaps you can help me with that. A simple test. If you can tell me how many digits are in my chief account, I'll let you have it. Just tell me if I have thousands, millions, tens of millions, billions…tell me exactly what it is that you aren't afraid of."

The looming shadow of the Hag seemed to shrink back, suddenly. The girl before her seemed suddenly less 'prick-my-finger-on-a-spinning-wheel' and more 'push-you-into-the-oven'.

"Wasn't it supposed to be a snail?" whispered Lu. "Why is this Booker so much of a problem?"

Ru shushed her. She didn't need to know that Madaro had been a last minute stand-in. No one needed to know that. He was going to find out what had gone wrong there the instant he got through with this, however.

The rest of the room watched in silence as she twisted in the grip of the riddle. She wrung her hands before her and glowered down at Threnody, one eye bulging with strain.

"You wouldn't give such a thing! Not to one such as me," she finally spat. "This is only a trick to humiliate me. You wear your wealth like a robe. But it will come off in the ring. You can't buy your way to victory!"

But of course Threnody could. She was doing so even now. She'd have the best trainers, the best gym. The way would be cleared. Ru had even moved her debut to a circuit where, rumor had it, the Champ was amenable to negotiation.

Threnody spoke again.

"An ant, whose nest gathers its water, drop by drop, from a nearby puddle, is asked to estimate the size of a great river. You prove yourself wise by refraining, Crone Madaro. You understand that you know of the bucket, but are asked of the ocean. I laud your prudence."

"Say what you like! Your family's wealth dwarfs you. It is an Idol more terrible than it's God."

"I admit it," said Threnody, and, again the room fell silent.

Her peculiar charisma seemed to squat on people's tongues. It held them still, held them captive to wait for her next utterance. Player One was speaking.

"You are wise to know that the Silverspoon Fortune is bigger than I am. But, as we have just established, you do not know just how big it is. And that means that you don't know just how big I might be. I can stand in the shadow of my legacy, while still being more than tall enough to reach the peak."

"Come to the point, child" croaked the Crone. Everyone present understood that she was still in the story's grip, speaking those lines her role afforded her.

"A challenge," she said, "You and I, where my money can't help me, for stakes from which it cannot insulate me."

"You don't have the gall, girly!"

The Witch, wild and imperious. Gnarled and endlessly imposing in her fury. The child, cold and impossibly remote. If Ru had seen it in a stream he'd have questioned whether the author had ever actually met a teenager.

"If I win, you serve for a single year. If you win, the reverse. I delay my debut, and serve YOU for a year."

Madaro's laughter scaled the heavens, her hands rose above her head and clawed at the air.

"Serve ME?"

This morning Madaro had probably had no desire for a human child to serve her. She'd lived without one for decades. But that was this morning. In this moment, Madaro was no longer a Booker of the BBP, she had become, almost without transition, the Hag who had haunted the covens and swamps of a thousand Earth stories. She was finally what she'd been wrought to be.

"I so pledge," said Threnody.

Everyone there understood that she would never survive a year under the Hag's command. Their peer, the Booker that they'd worked alongside for so long, had gone somewhere dark, somewhere wild and remote within. This was a Crone in fullest, darkest bloom, a monster of the old stories.

"Speak your terms," grated the beast.

Was there a cloak about her shoulders? A cauldron behind her? Ru couldn't be sure. The fashionable spectacles had gone away somewhere, and the makeup along with it. Surely her nose hadn't always been so bulbous, her warts so pronounced?

"Rock, paper, scissors," said Threnody. "We play, and if we tie, we play again, and so on until a winner is decided."

Darkness seemed to coil around the shape across from the Princess, looming above her and suffusing the monster across from her.

"No," spat the Witch, with exaggerated petulance. Ru could no longer remember her name. "Luck proves nothing."

"I understand," said the human, still undaunted, "You are putting your freedom at stake. A fair game isn't your style. A twist, then. An additional rule. I lose if I play 'Rock'."

Triumphant laughter appalled the room, as warty hands took the Boxer's in her own.

"Done and done, girl child! I hope you are still a virgin, dearie. I have such plans…"

ONE, as the spectators (were there spectators? But surely the room hadn't emptied?) cringed back into the scenery.

TWO, as Lu clung to the Butler's side, helpless to protect her charge.

SHOOT, and both sides threw scissors.

Anticlimax broke the spell, if spell there had ever been, and Ru found himself able to breathe again, to look around. The room was as it had been, the other Seconds watching in polite interest as their client played a ruinous wager with a peer.

One Two Shoot, and again both sides threw Scissors. Another tie.

"Do you understand what you've done, girl child?" grated Madaro. Perhaps the story hadn't come fully to an end for her.

"A single win is every win! A single loss is every loss. Every tie compounds your slavery. You can't beat my Scissors, and I can destroy you at any time."

Ru's eyes widened. He'd read, somewhere, that Hags had some kind of ability to modify contracts. But surely the courts wouldn't take that absurd interpretation.

"Ru!"

He shushed Lu again.

"One year or forever, it's all the same. The Young Mistress won't last a year in her clutches."

One Two Scissors. One Two Scissors. Like a machine they played. Each throw's conclusion foregone. Each time the hands fell as though they had always been meant to, as though the world had been built so that Threnody and Madaro would have somewhere to stand while they tied over and over.

"But why did she foreswear the full arsenal?" asked the Maid, "She can't win without rock!"

Ru didn't have a comforting answer to that. It had been utter folly. As soon as the Hag threw out a Rock this was all over.

But, somehow, it didn't feel like that. He should be planning his resignation letter, planning how to let Old Master know what tragedy had come to his only heir. But he felt no urgency, no sense that anything untoward could possibly come to pass.

A single clap, then another, in a room otherwise mostly silent. Ru stole a look away from the succession of ties to the Seconds they'd already hired, where Coach Allenburg was slow-clapping.

The walrus-man was laughing, too, so hard his jowls flopped and shivered.

"Magnificent," he gasped out between laughs, "Magnificent. Oh you will be an absolute delight to train, Ms. Silverspoon!"

Ru hurried over to the beastman's side, all the while casting anxious glances back where the stalemate reigned.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. "Madaro has the upper hand. She can win any time she wants, and the Young Mistress can only throw scissors."

"Threnody is a Boxer, hireling. She's well practiced in reading her opponent."

"Sure," said Ru, glowering down at the Coach as his laughter finally died down, "But that's no use in Rock Paper Scissors. All the choices have the same tension, all of them provoke the same tells and…"

He trailed off, as he realized that, because of her opponent's limited choices, that wasn't true anymore.

"You see it?" came the question. "It's Madaro who is pinned here! To win, she must play Rock. But when she does so, Threnody will have her chance at victory. She'll play Paper and end it all."

That made no sense, but also all the sense in the world. The Young Mistress had accepted an absolute disadvantage in order to bring her ability to read people back into play. She couldn't see the future, couldn't tell when someone would throw a meaningless finger signal. But she could sure as shit tell when a Witch moved in for the kill.

"But all Madaro has to do to break out is use a randomizer of some kind. There must be a thousand ways-"

"Of course, of course," said the Coach, "But remember the fortune! Imagine what would happen to the woman who enslaved the Silverspoon Heiress? Imagine the torments! And on the other hand, imagine the sublime pleasure of the role she is offered? To be the Bound Devil, the Evil-Behind-Bars, serving only through laborious negotiation and a rigged contest? She is realizing, now, that there are only two paths before her. One has a little pain now, and great wealth and delight later. The other introduces, how did the kiddo put it, the ant to the ocean."

Ru looked back to the contest, which, he was slowly realizing, was no contest at all.

"It's a pity you didn't manage to wrangle Umaghdra," said Mr. Allenburg. "A prophet should meet their Messiah."

 

[Walter]

Disclaimer: I recognize that this is a lot of choices, and that that can be intimidating. I encourage you to ask questions of anything that seems unclear. Your energy is what drives this quest, so if something doesn't make sense and discourages you from participating, then that's something I need to fix.

Outcome of Previous Actions:

This will ordinarily be the meat of the updoot, but this time there is no previous actions to record!

Year 0: Season 1


Progress Decay: N/A because of first turn

If there are notoriety or training points that didn't become Ranks/Dice last season, this is where they will need to roll to remain on the sheet.


Finances:
Total Wealth: 32
Expected Income: 3
Expected Outflow: 10
Logged Changes from Last Round: N/A
Loans coming due: None scheduled
Future Big Paydays: None scheduled


Coach Yurn, 7d4
"I know I'm a crummy coach, brah. Let me get better at this before I start in on trying to coach you. You fight plenty good on your own."

What Action will your little brother take?

Spoiler: Coach Actions

[Coach] []Train Lennox's Body (Specify Combat Attribute): Must be taken in tandem with Lennox's Physical action 'Train Attribute'. Allows Yurn to roll his dice. Each Success is a point, added to a training bank for that attribute. These accumulate/decay in a similar way to notoriety/infamy. If you can accumulate as many points as you have dice, you get another rank/dice in that attribute. ) (Note, each dice of a combat attribute you add will add another point of Stamina, which is Might + Speed + Defenses)

[Coach] []Train Lennox's Persona (Specify Noncombat Attribute): Must be taken in tandem with Lennox's Social action 'Train Attribute'. Allows Yurn to roll his dice. Each Success is a point, added to a training bank for that attribute. These accumulate/decay in a similar way to notoriety/infamy. If you can accumulate as many points as you have dice, you get another rank/dice in that attribute.

[Coach] [] Learn to Coach: (Note, takes 2 Seasons). Yurn is deeply amateurish, and can consequently make rapid improvements by adopting more professional habits. After taking this action Yurn dice will improve to d5's.

Scout Wyke, 10d9
"Milos has some ideas about a first match, maybe I should start scouting Boxers one star up from them? Alternately, maybe I should start scouting the Champ and her Guardians?"

What Action will the mysterious stream scraper take?

Spoiler: Scout Actions

[Scout] [] Investigate Boxer (Specify Boxer): Wyke can bend their efforts entirely towards one target, determining who their Booker is attempting to make a match with, determining their Combat Attributes and, with enough successes, their Special Moves. Opposed by their Fixer or Scout's 'shield boxer' action.

[Scout] [] Search for Boxers (specify criteria): Out of the dozens or hundreds of Boxers in the Fourth, Wyke can seek out those who match a particular criteria. This can be a platform, a star rating, a willingness to take Bouts without a season of haggling, etc. They will find one Boxer per success, unless there simply aren't that many in that criteria.

[Scout] [] Shield Boxer: Wyke can use their expertise in order to defend Lennox and his rep from enemy action. His successes are subtracted from each other Second who may be attacking Lennox during this season.

[Scout] [] Enhance Rep: Wyke can user their expertise to try and accumulate Infamy for their Boxer. The Boxer counts as performing an Action worth (wyke's successes) Infamy.

[Scout] [] Repair Rep: Wyke can use their expertise to try and destroy Disgrace. If they receive at least 4 Successes on their roll Lennox will lose their highest level of Disgrace. (Difficulty will go up each time this action is taken)

Booker Milos Purcell, 8d7
"I've got 5 choices for your first fight, boss. Joel 'Grass Joel' Klobachek (*, Cybeast) is a perennial chopping block of the division. Zillion matches, all losses, exists to add to your highlight reel. You can fight him this season, no questions asked, for 50 percent of the take. Get that first star with no flair or fuss. Alternately, Doro 'Messy' Messmacher (*, Cybeast) is a newcomer who just got her start. She'd take the fight without negotiation, but I'd still have to work out the split. More money and prestige than Joel, and she'd be a tougher fight. Last of the 1 star choices is Tully 'Charger' Gneiss (*, Cybeast). He's a Rookie Hunter, so he'd take the challenge immediately, but we'd still have to haggle the payout. He's got genuine clout, however, so a match with him would pull the most of the choices so far.

Ignoring the one star choices, I can shoot for the moon. Reezy 'Timekeeper' Rhythm (**, Cryptid) has Pyr's old Fixer working for him. He owes me a favor or two, and I'm confident I can get them to agree. Would be the 3 season process, but if it worked you'd skip the first star entirely. Goes without saying he's more dangerous than any of the single stars, but still no match for you.

Last choice, we've got Lamonde 'Shep' Milliman (**, Cybeast). Her opposite number flaked out and she's short a dance partner. We'd have to haggle, but not negotiate, so a 2 season prospect. Problem here is that she's in the Flock, which would get you involved in the Flock vs Pack drama. Save a step now, but who knows how many steps that could cost us in the future?"

What Action will The Black King take?

Spoiler: Booker Actions

[Book][] Challenge Boxer. (Specify Fastest Timeframe). The fastest a Boxer will take a challenge is 1 Season, which indicates that neither the agreement nor the take needs to be negotiated. More common is a 2 Season challenge, which indicates that the other Boxer agrees to fight, which means that this season will be spend haggling over the price and the Bout will happen at the end of next Season. The default case is the slowest, where this season is used to convince the other side to take your challenge, then next to do the haggling, and finally the bout happens in the Third season. Specifying no time frame means you'll take any of these. Specifying at least one season means that you'll only take the slower two, while specifying the full two season waiting period means you've got a total of 3 seasons before you bout.

[Book][] Await Challenge: (Specify criteria and/or split). This is the inverse of the above, where your Booker awaits an enemy's challenge. If you specify a split then you will only get challenges from those willing to take that split without negotiating. If you specify a criteria then you will only agree (without negotiation) to match off against those who fit that criteria.

Zasha (5d5), Mwekkum (8d4) and the Redmasks (6d4).
"Give the word, Boss. We'll do whatever."

What actions will each of your minions take? You may select up to one of these actions for each of them.

Spoiler: Henchmen Actions

[Hench] Make money. Each of your Henchmen have their own unspectacular and conventional ways to make money. Each success will earn you 1 wealth. Any of them can take this action.

[Hench][] Boost Infamy. Each of your Henchmen can do their part to get the word out about Lennox's capabilities. Total their successes (individually), and it will count as though Lennox is taking actions of those values of infamy. The Redmasks cannot take this action.

[Hench][] Run Security. Each of your Henchmen can do their part to try and thwart opposing Fixers. Total their successes (collectively). For every two successes that they get, they will remove one from enemy Fixer's efforts against Lennox.

[Hench][] Scout. (specify criteria) Each of your Henchmen can do rudimentary scouting. For every 2 successes that they get, you will identify another Boxer in the Circuit who meets that criteria, if any such exists.

[Hench][] Aid Lennox. (Zasha only) Zasha can advise Lennox through their shared context, in the pursuit of his social action. For each success she gets, Lennox can reroll one failed dice.

[Hench][] Gamble. (Mwekkum only) Mwekkum the Wise is a skilled, shrewd gambler, or at least an enthusiastic one. By taking this action Lennox earns d20-7 Wealth, with negative earnings being losses.

[Hench][] Expand. (Redmasks only) The Redmask Collective has capabilities yet to be plumbed. By taking this action they add another dice, permanently, to their skill total.

Personal Actions: Physical

What action will Lennox turn his hand to?

Spoiler: Physical Actions

[Physical][] Get Ready to Rumble! Lennox will train for a match at the end of this season. Boxers who go to Bouts without taking this action in the training period beforehand start their bout down a third of their stamina.

[Physical][] Train Attribute: (specify attribute) This is the pair action to the Coach's Train Lennox's Body attribute. It will allow the coach's successes to be used to enhance Lennox's combat attribute, as described in that action. If Lennox ends up in a duel at the end of a Season in which he takes this action, he will lose two dice from this attribute throughout that Bout. This is a very heavy penalty, try to avoid taking it.

[Physical][] Hideout: By going into seclusion a Boxer can protect themselves almost totally against enemy Fixers and similar offensive actions. Taking this action causes any enemy targeting the Boxer to fail, unless their action specifically states that it works against this action.

[Physical][] Earn: The Boxer's income represents their passive efforts to rake in Wealth, but by abandoning their training and fulltime working to make money a Boxer can achieve even more. Roll the Boxer's highest Combat stat + Notoriety and gain successes in Wealth.

[Physical][] Flex: The Boxer can live the larger-than-life lifestyle that people associate with someone of his Fame/Infamy. Roll the highest combat stat, total successes. You count as completing a Fame/Infamy generating action of this level. Can be combined with the Clout Chase social action and/or a single Henchman's 'Boost Infamy' Action.

Personal Actions: Social

Spoiler: Social Actions

[Social][] Hype an upcoming match: Roll Charisma + Notoriety and add the score to the roll for determining the take of the upcoming Bout. Note, can only be used with Bouts happening at the end of this season.

[Social][] Train Attribute: (specify attribute) This is the pair action to the Coach's Train Lennox's Persona attribute. It will allow the coach's successes to be used to enhance Lennox's noncombat attribute, as described in that action.

[Social][] Smile and Wave: Roll Charisma + Notoriety, gain Wealth equal to successes. This represents branding, sponsorships and public commentary.

[Social][] Aid Booker: Roll Charisma + Notoriety, add successes to Broker's attempts to force a match, or negotiate the take. This represents the Boxer antagonizing the other side's camp in order to force a match. Can only be taken along with the Booker's 'Challenge Boxer' match.

[Social][] Clout Chase: Roll Charisma, total successes. You count as completing a Fame/Infamy generating action of this level. Can combine with a single Henchman's 'Boost Infamy' action, and the 'Flex' physical action.

Descriptive Segment:

Spoiler: Descriptive Choice

[Descriptive] Specify Action: This indicates which Action I should write up in this season's story interlude. Makes the action somewhat more likely to succeed or fail big, or at least to include complications, exciting things, etc.

We'll be doing Plan format voting, so enter your choices in the form of a plan, or just choose another writer's plan. Your plan should specify an action for each of your Seconds and Henchman, and two for Lennox himself. Responses that aren't votes are also fine, discussions keep the QM happy.

Thanks for reading/voting!

 

[Walter]

So, I've got a tendency to get a bit too in my own head, overcomplicate stuff. Looks like that's what I've done this time, building a bit too elaborate of a system. I'm going to do a quasi-reboot of the quest as more narrative, less about the crunchy.

This won't undo any of the existing stuff we've done so far, mind, but I'm going to try and continue on with the story updates that we started with, see how that goes.


You'd made your getaway from the Hall days ago, but you couldn't seem to escape its shadow. Your home, the tangle of ruined buildings and natural caverns that you'd always called 'the Lair', suddenly seemed hopelessly provincial. The hoarded Wealth seemed a pauper's prize, the handmade training yard ridiculously insufficient.

"Hurr-up!"

You put the thought aside, shoving with all the strength in your upper arms at a massive barrel, while simultaneously pulling with equal determination on another great box with the lower ones. It was an exercise that you and Mwek had come up with back in the day, and you'd streamed it a few times, enough to know that it did numbers.

The boxes and barrels in your yard were solid, unyielding, deeply impregnated with the Redmask's mana. They held their space with a grim tenacity, mystically affixed to the world's very fabric. They wouldn't even drop when you let go, since gravity was totally insufficient to the task of shifting them.

"Haaaaagh!"

Gravity is a bitch. You strain, contort and grimace, and in an explosive effort you heave them into motion. The barrel slides away a few feet, while the box grinds closer.

You let go as soon as you can, turning about and collapsing down onto them, as a sort of floating makeshift seat. That was the last rep for this morning, now you can finally rest.

*I'm not sure ol Boxy is quite back where he started*

You don't have the energy to raise a hand up in front of your face, so you look down at your side, where your hand is resting against a hip.

*what are-*

Slowly, gradually, with every sign of a mighty effort that you'd given when you were shoving Boxy and Barrela around, you extended a trembling middle finger.

You hold onto that for a moment, then let it relax, your whole body seeming to melt into the spartan embrace of the inanimate objects who were presently your best friends in the whole world. There really is nothing quite like the end of a workout.

It's a heaven sent eight minutes or so before Yurn's clattering fills the courtyard. An ogre with a pan and spoon can really make an unholy racket when he puts his mind to it.

You heave yourself up to your feet then walk across the courtyard.

Lunch can be, in its own way, more challenging than training. At least Boxy and Barrela never need you to commit to tough choices.

Milos is already waiting for you when you get to the long plastic table that had always been known, for some reason, as the Boat. You settle yourself in at the head, unfolding the waiting napkin and settling it onto your legs with a studied grace.

You always make sure to eat as delicately and properly as you possibly could right after training. Making such graceful movements with limbs trembling with fatigue is probably helpful in its own way.

Milos, by contrast, slumps unhurriedly down onto the bench. The Black King's elegance is starting to show a few cracks from country living. You are pretty sure you've seen that suit at least once before this week. But he's still head and shoulders above the rest of you in decorum.

"It's time to make a decision, Lennox," he says, without even bothering to take the napkin down. "The fallout's died down, somewhat, from the incident at the Yard, but your rep is still at the top of its curve. No better time for a booker to work than when everybody knows their guy, but doesn't know exactly why they know them."

You shrug. That sounded like it might be true, or might just be a thing Bookers said to make people think they were more useful than they really were.

"So let's decide," you say. "What are we looking at here? We've made waves, the fish are jumping, so who are we going to snatch out of the air?"

He blinks at you.

You reflect that dogmen and Ogres may have very different ideas of what fishing means.

"I've prepared a list of three choices," he begins. "Each is, how to say, representative of a throng of similar faces, similar stories. These are the three that I've selected to promote to your attention, but if none of them suffice, don't be the slightest bit hesitant to ask for more. When I say that the time is now, I don't literally mean this second. We can talk as long as we need."

Maybe he could, but you still have your afternoon sets to knock off.

You make a 'go on' gesture with one upper hand, while the lower set drums a staccato rhythm before your plate. Yurn can't show up soon enough.

"First off, we have 'Grass Joel', the famous 'gateway to the Four'. He's a goatman with wood fired implants. One star Boxer, no match for you. Best of all, no need to haggle about split. Joel takes 50/50, and he'll be in the ring absolutely as soon as it can possibly be arranged."

"But," you answer, "hold that thought."

Yurn is heading over to the Boat, with a great big vat of your favorite Ogre Stew.

Ogre Stew is like Friend Stew, except instead of everyone who showed up putting a little portion in and then everyone enjoying the outcome, you wait until a neighbor makes Friend Stew and then steal it.

Milos rubs at eyes suddenly watering.

"Oh," he says, "The stew is every day. I thought this might be the sort of delicacy that one saves for a special-"

Yurn shuts him up by dumping a big glob of it down in front of him.

Milos gives a defeated sort of sigh, and begins to poke at the stew with his fork in a desultory fashion.

You look expectantly at Yurn, but instead of heading up to your part of the table he starts round the other way, pausing to fill up bowls in front of Wyke, Mwek and Zasha's seats.

By the time he gets to you there's barely a gallon of stew left, and he puts one of those revolting Nutricubes on the top of it.

"Oh come on!" you erupt, "Zasha isn't actually-"

You cut off as you see that Wyke is picking their way across the courtyard towards you. The pieces start to fall into place.

Since Wyke's arrival at the Lair, Zasha has waged a campaign of unmitigated energy, one you would never have imagined her capable of. The sole object of her efforts is singular, a deep and burning need to discover who and what Wyke actually is.

You'd never have guessed that being stymied would drive her to this ultimate effort. Is Zasha actually about to socialize? No doubt the Hermit's Association would revoke her membership card, should they hear of such a thing, and also exist.

You hold up a finger for Baron Pepperface to land on. Wyke's parrot is grotesquely large for such an animal, but your hand is similarly sized, so it all kind of works out.

"FOOD!" he squawks, and you are only to eager to oblige, sneaking up a square of Nutricube while Yurn is seeing to Wyke's unique requirements.

"Joel?" prompts Milos.

"Right," you say, "First off, he's weak."

"He's an institution."

"He's weak, he loses to everyone. The reason he takes matches without any buildup is that he doesn't make much at each one. He works by volume, because he knows he can't rise through the ranks. He's made a niche for himself as a stepping stone."

"STONE" squawks Baron Pepperface, and you oblige him with a hefty pebble. He crunches it while you go on.

"Beating him does nothing for my rep, and nothing for my finances."

"Sure," says Wyke, "But no one star boxer is going to do much for either. At least this gets your first match out of the way. You have a destiny, right? Do you really want to grub around in the Four for longer than you have to?"

"That sounds right," says Yurn. "The Coaching book I'm reading talks a lot about 'seizing the flow' and 'riding momentum'. They are big deals!"

"But Lennox will win his first few matches regardless," says Milos, who can always be relied upon to care less about what side he started out on in an argument than in making sure to dunk on anyone he can, "Beating Grass Joel is traditional, sure, but it's not like it is mandatory."

*Keep their attention on you, you big oaf*

"Let's put Joel aside for now," you say, "Who else do you have?"

Zasha creeps across the courtyard towards the bottom of the table, moving like a stream ninja, shoulders hunched and feet shuffling along.

She wasn't trying to join the meal in stealth mode, you understand (or, at least, you hope you understand). She's just trying to avoid the moment when all eyes turn to her at once, the moment where an imaginary butler would have announced her, if this was that kind of shindig.

"There's also Doro, 'Messy' Messmacher," says Milos. "She's a rookie like you, but she's got her first fight under her belt. Steam powered implants. She's 1-0, and she actually managed a KO in her first match, which we don't see a lot of in the Four. Loads of potential, savage and unrelenting. She'll take the fight, mostly to clout chase after our exposure at the Hall. I'll have to work out the split, but the overall pot will be bigger than it would be with Joel."

He crooks a hand for the parrot, and was rewarded as its waddling bulk came thundering across the table.

*And…made it*

Zasha slides easily into place at the foot of the Boat, reaching appreciatively for her portion of stew.

"Could she beat Lennox?" asks Yurn.

You scoff.

"Lennox is basically two big boxers glued together," says Wyke. "He'll shred her."

"More important than the odds, perhaps," says Milos, "Is the time we'll lose while I work out an arrangement."

You give a breezy wave.

"I'm in no particular hurry," you say. "No reason not to take our time. One day we'll all look back on our time in the Four as a restful vacation."

"On that subject," pipes up Zasha, "Is everyone finding it restful here? Our home is-"

"Gaaaah!" exclaims Milos, his tail standing straight up.

"ZASHA!", Baron Pepperface makes a beeline across the table towards the newcomer, its feet beating out a tattoo as it knocks silverware and dishes aside.

She holds up hands in frantic defense, but the fowl is fearless, and it jumps without an instant's hesitation, landing on her lap with all the grace and daintiness of a rolling ball dropped off a three story building.

You glance at Wyke, who is delicately disappearing a bit of meat into their hood. It doesn't seem possible that Wyke could know about Zasha's manic curiosity, nor that they would have, or take, the time to train their bird to reciprocate with a similar intensity. But you are rapidly learning that betting against Wyke is best done with great care.

"Who is-" asks Milos, carefully sitting back down.

"The woman on the other side of our employer's linked context, I'd guess," said Wyke. "So glad to make your acquaintance."

They definitely knew. Yurn had probably talked. You'd wondered how your brother got his hands on all those Coaching books.

"Yes," Zasha says, wilting a little under the attention. She clutches the parrot for a moment, then rallies.

"I just wanted to make sure we were taking care of all of your necessities. I know the Lair is a little primitive compared to what you Seconds are used to, so if there's anything you might need-"

"I'm fine," said Milos. "It's not my first time roughing it. Pyr's first training camp was something like this, if less…"

"Messy is a good pick," you say, "I saw her fight. It was a hell of a knockout. People will be watching her."

"Before you make it official, consider the Rookie Killer? Tully, 'Charger' Gneiss is a 1 star Boxer who is kind of like a reverse Grass Joel. He revels in being people's debut matches, and giving them their first L. He's never even challenged up the ladder after his first match, just spends his time beating down the weak."

"I guess he's eager to fight?"

"Rookie who comes preloaded with hype like you do?" says Yurn, "It's his wet dream. He'd love a shot at us."

You look to your Booker, who slowly shakes his head.

"Tully might be dumb, but his camp isn't. They know who wins that match. I'll have to do some delicate negotiating to get it for you. I can do it, don't get me wrong. I don't bring up matches I can't make, but it'll take longer than it would for Messy. More money, though. When someone builds up a gimmick the exceptions are always exciting."

"Like if Grass Joel won one!" puts in Wyke.

Zasha is, not so inconspicuously as perhaps she thinks, trying to get a glimpse up their hood, stymied greatly by the plump sphere in her lap, who is doing his best to compete with a woman who had to outmass him ten times over in terms of stew consumption.

*Stop that Z, it's gross. Let Wyke have their privacy.*

Milos laughs out loud.

"Imagine Joel's face if he knocked someone out? Would he even know what to do?"

*Damsels don't do gross, we are automatically adorable*

"It must have happened at least once," you put in. "He got that star somehow."

Milos sobers instantly, his face going far away for a moment.

"So, three choices, forming something of a continuum-" starts Wyke, but you cut him off with a quick motion of your hand.

"Milos?"

"Sorry," he says, "I thought of a world where Joel was throwing all those matches, and that made me think of the champ."

You glower at the thought. The Four might be a mere feeder circuit, but it still rankled at your sportsman's honor to think of a crooked fighter ruling over it."

"Forget Nhexx," you grate out. "When I'm done with her, everyone else will."


Who will be your first target, Champ-to-be?
[] Joel "Grass Joel" Klobachek, 1-lots, 1 star Boxer (fastest match, least prestige, medium money)
[] Doro "Messy" Messmacher 1-0, 1 star Boxer (medium match, most prestige, least money)
[] Tully 'Charger' Gneiss 8-3, 1 star Boxer (slowest match, medium prestige, most money)
[] None of the above, I have another idea (write in idea)

 

[Walter]

Roadwork is unquestionably your least favorite part of training.

That doesn't mean you don't do it, of course. You are a Boxer, and you'd be a piss poor one if you got gassed right away. But it doesn't mean you have to like it.

Birds tweet from the branches above, rabbits scamper through the underbrush and the sun's rays create a dazzling mosaic of nature's undimmed splendor.

And you are fucking jogging, so you can't enjoy any of it. Your feet pound a monotonous rhythm as you stomp down the forest path.

"Ogres aren't meant for this," you grate out between wheezes, eyeing the next segment of trail with heartfelt regret.

Z doesn't have a snappy comeback, and you start up the switchback, kicking your knee up with each step.

Yurn, in the absence of any actual coaching knowledge, has settled for watching just about every boxing stream that's ever been released. The verdict is unanimous, jogging is crucial. But just for a moment you let yourself daydream about a world where it's all a cruel hoax, and you hire a real coach and they say you don't have to do this shit anymore, and you set Yurn on fire.

Up to the top of the hill, and it's time to start back down. Halfway down the upcoming slope is an entrance into the Lair, and it always feels just that little bit worse when you have to pass it by.

It's unnatural to run past comfort and towards anguish.

You start down the slope, only to squint in astonishment. The glare of the sunshine conceals your visitor's identity for a moment, but there can be no doubt that someone is waiting at the entrance.

An excuse to stop! And also news or whatever, but mostly a reason to stop!

You recognize Mwekkum before you get to him. That's strange. He wasn't supposed to be back before this evening. Something must be up.

"Mwek!" you call out.

He acknowledges your approach with a frenzied wave, and proves himself the very best among your followers by offering you a swig from his little jug as you jog up.

You bend over and pour something sticky and sweet back into the cavernous gullet of your mouth.

"Syrup?"

"Yep! I was gossiping with a young willow and, well, one thing led to another. Her tender hasn't been by like he should be, and I'm afraid that I, being a gentlegnome, you understand, have certain obligations in situations whe-"

You shake your head, stretching your upper arms up behind your back while your lower pair brace your hips. You twist to the left and the right, getting your muscles used to the jog being over. Mwekkum's droning provides a nice counterpoint to the buzzing in your ears as you stretch.

"Why'd you come back so quick?"

You break into the flow of his anecdote, which by this point had wandered well afield from where it started.

"The Old Acres are abuzz! The Duke's men ride in force, as though it were Autumn once more. The old cycle is broken, and everyone is talking about what to do about it. I figured you'd need to know immediately, if not sooner, so I turned my steps home-ways, and that's when I crossed the orchard where I-"

You shake your head, firmly.

"The Duke's men? They haven't the iron, nor the flesh. They were broken at the Solstice, as always they must be."

Within this part of the outlands, the Way and the Wild sway back and forth in constant harmony. When Autumn holds primacy forth the patrols of the cities beat back the beasts of the deep Green. When Winter hardens the hearts of the Lords they overreach, and inevitably provoke a brutal reprisal. In Spring the land belongs again to the untamed fae. In Summer they grow too bold, and prey once again upon the people, who call out to their masters for aid, and the cycle turns round once more.

"The Old Acres aren't known for the fidelity of their info, boss, but it sounded like meddling from the Blender Plex. Outsiders reaching out to the Sheriffs and Reeves, giving them iron and tech, swains and chattel, in open defiance of the circle of things. The Hanging Tree whispered that Sir Thadd has a second hand once again, and that he's taken to riding his charger once more, without respect to the humbling you handed him. And he's far from-"

You clench a fist, the Mark surging within you. This could be bad.

Ever since you'd visited the Plex and loosed the Redmasks in the midst of their plenty, your mind had been gnawing at this worry. Seeing the Wealth they threw about so casually, where a few hours plunder had yielded greater rewards than whole seasons in your own lands, you'd known that they had the strength to impose consequences upon you.

"…not just one of the Way's luminaries, this seems to be a broad effort, with resources getting funneled to anyone who so much as smells civilized. The Honest Man actually ended up with a new charger, and he fights on our side as often as he fights against us. Whoever is behind this doesn't have the local lay of the land, and they don't seem to be bothering to learn the details of…"

You take another swig of Mwek's syrup, smiling involuntarily at the sickly sweet taste. There really isn't much to beat pure sugar. Energy for the body, delight for the tongue. Let your chums laud the joys of their bedroom dalliances to the sky, you'll still stand and salute the simpler pleasures every time. Sugar on the lips, rest when tired, and the chance to frighten the smallfolk. An Ogre's lot was simple one, but you'd never felt shortchanged.

"…almost certainly routed through Blender Plex, but there's nothing saying it couldn't be from further afield. You've registered now, bossman, and that means that you are on everyone's radar. If someone else has their own Wyke, they could have found you by any number of criteria. Your upcoming bout will draw watchers from anyone with an interest in the Four…"

You shake your head. This doesn't feel like 'further afield', to you. Feels like a direct payback. But from who? The list is dizzyingly long. Silverspoon family at the head, of course. Wyke's hack made their security company look feckless and inefficient. Then you had the Pack, hazing on a fellow predator in an attempt to force you into their fellowship. Or the Flock, acting out their automatic resentment for any Boxer who wasn't as squeaky clean as their membership professed to be. It could be Nhexx, getting a jump on her next challenger, her enmity drawn by the Black King. By the 3B (praise it), this might even be those stream stealers you jacked the mics off of. Basically anyone in Blender Plex had the resources to spit on your life like this.

"Going to be a close run thing, even in Springtime. The Wild is still recovering from the Solstice War, and no one is going to want to band together out of season. This is supposed to be our time, but with the Way pressing so fiercely we'll have to-"

It isn't you who puts a stop to Mwekkum's muttering, but rather the opening of the entrance way into the Lair. Yurn, your tormentor in the flesh, pushes his way out into the sunlight with a sound like a riverbank collapsing.

"Coach," you say, "Mwekkum was just giving me some news about our homeland. I'm sure you'll want to hear his report."

Yurn frowns dourly at you.

"Aye, and by the time I finished with yon chatterbox you'd have scarped off to who knows what part of the Lair, and left your roadwork all undone? Play not your games with me, brother."

"The thought was far from my mind," you lie, "You know my fondness for training, do you not? I'd sooner bed in briars than shirk a rutting second."

You brush your palm across a thorn as you say so, pricking yourself before the Wild decides to take you up on your liar's oath.

"Big man, bide a moment. I'd come to stop your run anyway, news from abroad or not. I've a report from the shadowed one to give you, and you'll hear it ere long."

You lean against the same bramble tree you'd just pricked yourself on, your thick ogre hide proof against its worst efforts. You pass the emptied flask back to Mwek.

"Let's hear what Wyke has to say."

"Doro 'Messy' Messmacher. She's a cybeast, she's seen 24 summers, her beast half is a bird, and her tech half runs on heated water. She's close to being as fast as you, close to your strength, but her defense is still green. She gifts her Mark with her fury, makes talons of her gloves."

You nod, considering.

A nickname like 'Messy' came from her last name, sure, but you'd bet an eye it was supposed to refer to the condition of her enemies. She probably took the fight with you for the highlight reel. Knocking down someone who overtopped her by two feet would be impressive.

"You ken the bit about the name? She picked it before first match, yeah? Means it wasn't an accident she got that knockout."

You let a chuckle out, bemused despite yourself. If 'Messy' thinks she's knocking you out, then her form isn't the only thing science has twisted.

"What else did Wyke find out?"

"She went downstairs in her first knockabout, yeah? Deep downstairs, cheap shot. Didn't get called for it. Got a Fixer and a Cut-man, no Coach. Uses her wings to fan the steam from her turbines around, proper Wild. Doubt she can stick the four, expect her to come hard at you in the first or the second round. Don't let her at your face! No room for any more ugly on there."

"I think your brother added that last part on there. Not that Wyke couldn't tell how hideous you are, of course, but they don't seem in any hurry to comment on it, probably because you are paying them and so they have no incentive to bring up the whole thing where you are so ugly. But really impressive stuff otherwise, that's, what three special moves found out and you were already gonna win anyway, this Boxing thing ain't shit and would it be ok for me to maybe lay a wager on you where if you win in the first round, say by knockout we maybe get paid a bit and then the-"

"We don't have a Fixer, pint size. Big Bro doesn't need your mischief, not with someone out there making a mess of the seasons-like."

Wyke had a terrifying facility for gathering information. That had to be all her special moves, her Seconds, and her likely game plan, all neatly bundled up and handed over. You were gonna win anyway, of course, but now you didn't even have to work for it. In fact, maybe it would be ok to...

"I ken that look," said Yurn, "And you still have to finish your running. This labor isn't just for the birdette, you got fights beyond this one to think on."

You roll an eye and turn back towards the hill, already grimacing from anticipation.

*Hold on a tick*

Mwekkum and Yurn head back inside, your brother with a solemn scowl and your minion with a cheery wave.

*Milos is coming out, he's firmed up the match and needs you to give you some input about match order.*

You lean back against the tree again, happy for any excuse to delay the torture.

It really is a nice day. It isn't just the Wild speaking through you, Spring is really quite pretty in the outlands. The plants are in bloom, the sky is almost frighteningly blue, and the grass is short and still showing the bright-green of new shoots.

The Way would truss all this up. They look at your wilderness, and they see the market in Blender Plex in embryo. Anonymous landscapes, covered in buildings and tents, the brooks turned into fountains and the mountains shifted to become the bones of their endless tenements.

You scoff. An Essentialist would say that your side of things was predetermined, but you just know that even if you'd been born a Knight or Noble, you'd have swapped over to the Wild.

The door opens.

"Boss, I've just heard from the committee. We've got a date for your fight! And you are going to be part of a Challenger's Carnival, so the purse should be a bit bigger than we were looking for."

*You daughter-of-locusts!*

The Black King is wearing his running gear, and he has a water bottle fastened to his shoulder.

Z's chuckling fills your context as the two of you start up the hill.

Jogging at your own pace was annoying, tedious. It ate away at your endurance, at your stamina.

Sticking with Milos was another matter altogether. The dogman's stride positively devours the distance, and he scarcely seems to notice. It is unthinkable for one of your minions to outdo you, of course, so you are forced to try and match his monstrous pace.

"They are doing a bit of a gimmick this time, calling it 'The First Step'. They've grabbed up the four rookies, that is, zero stars and zero matches, that have the most buzz right now, and you are right up there! It's a stellar card, all four of you challenging one star defenders. Gonna be a hell of a night. Even if I wasn't your Second I wouldn't miss it."

"Who… are the… other rookies?" you grate out. Milos slows down just the slightest bit when he's talking, and it also drowns out some of your quieter grunts.

"No points for guessing that the Silverspoon heiress is first among you, but the other two might be a bit of a shock. How much do you know about the Mythos?"

"You…mean…the Old Ways?"

"Yeah, 'that is not dead which can eternal…' that stuff?"

You notice a tuneless humming drifting along your context, and look off to the side, denying Z her eye candy in petty revenge.

*hey!*

"I know a bit."

"Well, I don't want to say the name, but that's the guy. Squid head. I saw Zasha had one of his plushies."

"How does THAT work? He's taller than a castle, right?"

"I guess we'll see. The Mark can do wondrous things."

"So we've got me, Threnody, the Great Old One and…?"

You trip over an uneven section of the trail and narrowly save yourself from wiping out. You catch yourself on a tree limb and keep your stride, reluctantly returning your gaze to the trail ahead.

Zasha, wisely, doesn't say a damn thing.

"Crocodile Cybeast named Gowa. His gimmick is he's the Pack's 'Young Master'. Their faction leader is preparing to graduate to the Eight, so he's being groomed to take over."

You make a rude noise.

"Can't all be winners. But anyway, that's the card. The four of you taking on four one star boxers who are, basically, sacrifices. All eyes on you, boss!"

You reach the top of the rise, and Milos, blessedly, stops for a moment.

"What…need to…choose?"

"They asked me what match order I preferred, you know? Four matches on the card, where do we want to go? Best spot is last, but no way is that not the human, you know? Second best is probably first."

"Before…drives audience mad."

"Well, I just meant that in general if you can't be last you want to be first, but that's another good point. But another way to look at it is that the Boxers are getting better as they go along, so we'd want to be third. That's the more traditional approach, you know?"

"Sure…after me….forget about the Pack!"

"Yeah, that's a great point. Going later lets you eclipse the earlier performances. Everybody remembers the last thing they saw after all. Plus it's more money as the night goes on."

Milos, bless him, sits down on a rock and looks out over the Lair. You immediately hurry over and slump down beside him, careful to keep your breathing even and slow. You are fairly sure Milos knows that you are tired, and that he knows that you know, but you don't think he knows you know he knows you know, and that's an illusion worth propagating.

"Oh," he says, "And they wonder if we have a slogan?"

"A slogan?"

"Ideally it should tie into your nickname and the theme of the event, 'The First Step'. They are doing posters and theme streams, where the rookie slogans will be on one side, and the veteran slogans will be on the other, you know? Could be good for your rep."

"I'll…think about it."



The Wild needs help this Spring, in open defiance of the usual cycle. Now that you are a Boxer you can't fight yourself, but maybe there's some way to help?

[] Give a substantial monetary donation. This will be a big burden, going forward.
[] Give a much smaller monetary donation, with commensurately less consequences.
[] Send the Redmasks out to do their part, will deny you their aid for a while, but they are a fierce fighting force, and should set the Way back on their heels.
[] Dispatch Mwekkum to do what he can. Your counsellor's wisdom may help the Wild pick the 'right' battles, and he might be able to suss out which denizen of Blender Plex is behind this.


Wyke's scouting has born fruit, and you know some of Doro's tricks! Which one of these attacks will you put training time into countering?

[] Low blows. The height discrepancy between the two of you means she could really tee off downstairs, and with no Fixer on your side she's probably got free reign to do so.
[] The steam smokescreen. Your reach advantage should ordinarily dominate the match. But if she can reduce visibility down she could maybe turn that around. You don't want to slug it out at close range with a cybeast if you can help it.
[] The cutting punches. Anyone who picks their nickname after a technique is going to use it as much as they can. If she gets your face bleeding, the ref might call it, particularly if he's been paid off. You can't let her slash you up.


The Black King has booked your first match. You are a part of a Challenger's Carnival, a card of four consecutive matches. Which one would you like him to try and schedule you into?

[] First (Second best for exposure, worst for money)
[] Second (middle choice)
[] Third (Second best for money, worst for exposure)
[] Fourth (Best for money and exposure, extremely unlikely to get this)


The Carnival wants a slogan from you, something to do with your nickname, "Four Fists of Death", and the event's theme "The First Step". Could maybe help, probably can't hurt.

[] Write-in