Boxer Quest
- Thread starter Walter
- Start date
- Original
-
- Tags
- quest from zero to hero
- Location
- USA
Alright, vote is closed. Something strange is going on with the tally, so I had to do it manually.
I make it:
Bookofportals
Hire Harmony
Speak to Scouts
DangerKitty
Hire Umaghdra
Hire Milos
Speak to Scouts
Wynter
Hire Umaghdra
Speak to the Coaches
Ameraaaaa
Hire Milos
Speak to the Scouts
Negation
Hire Milos
Neville
Hire Milos
If I'm counting it right, that makes it a win for Hire Milos and Speak to the Scouts.
I make it:
Bookofportals
Hire Harmony
Speak to Scouts
DangerKitty
Hire Umaghdra
Hire Milos
Speak to Scouts
Wynter
Hire Umaghdra
Speak to the Coaches
Ameraaaaa
Hire Milos
Speak to the Scouts
Negation
Hire Milos
Neville
Hire Milos
If I'm counting it right, that makes it a win for Hire Milos and Speak to the Scouts.
DangerKitty
shoddy writter
- Location
- lala land
1.4 The Room where it Happens
- Location
- USA
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
"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
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DangerKitty
shoddy writter
- Location
- lala land
[X] Hire Wyke for 5 Wealth per season
He was a fun character and seems to fit our established themes so far.
[] Speak to the Fixers
Im ok with either the fixers or the cut men. Id like to save the coaches for last. Get the rest of the team assembled and fit our choice of coach to the team.
EDIT:
[X] Speak to the Coaches, including Winnotron IV
reasonable points presented.
He was a fun character and seems to fit our established themes so far.
[] Speak to the Fixers
Im ok with either the fixers or the cut men. Id like to save the coaches for last. Get the rest of the team assembled and fit our choice of coach to the team.
EDIT:
[X] Speak to the Coaches, including Winnotron IV
reasonable points presented.
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- Location
- Singapore
I've watched enough Rocky movies and Ippo to know that it's Coaches who decide the best Cut men since both have to work together in the Corners.
Fixers I'm not sure of.
[X] Hire Wyke for 5 Wealth per season
[X] Speak to the Coaches, including Winnotron IV
[X] Hire Wyke for 5 Wealth per season
[X] Leave
We have very little money. Best to wait till we are more profitable before hiring the rest i think. It will make sure they are higher quality probably.
[X] Leave
We have very little money. Best to wait till we are more profitable before hiring the rest i think. It will make sure they are higher quality probably.
- Location
- St. Petersburg
It's Wyke talking.
[x] Hire Wyke for 5 Wealth per season
Infamy is good, and getting away with it is even better.
[x] Speak to the Fixers
...should we do it within Black King's earshot, though? The guy seems to have scruples, and the desire for vengeance can only do so much.
Still, we have a good force and with Wyke, a solid backup when it comes to operation security. And we are in need of money.
Do we even need a coach at this point in time?
I'd take this to heart. We have a combination of both skill and lack of a reputation that should let us win a few matches easily even without one.
- Location
- USA
Thanks Nevill! I really appreciate it when people help me correct stuff like this. Please everybody continue to do so. I don't have a proofreader, so on longer updates errors like this can easily creep in. I need you folks' help to fight typos.
BBP Circuit Setup
- Location
- USA
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:
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.
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.
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.
- Location
- USA
Alright, votes closed
Edit: Tally remains borked, keeps giving me all votes that have ever happened in the thread. I should probably look more carefully at what I'm clicking.
My manual count gives me:
DK
Wyke, Coaches/Fixers
Negation
Wyke, Coaches
Amera
Wyke, Leave
Neville
Wyke, Fixers
Wynter
Wyke, Leave
Wyke has a resounding win, and 2 votes each for leave, fixers and coaches.
Loot value: 8
Edit: Tally remains borked, keeps giving me all votes that have ever happened in the thread. I should probably look more carefully at what I'm clicking.
My manual count gives me:
DK
Wyke, Coaches/Fixers
Negation
Wyke, Coaches
Amera
Wyke, Leave
Neville
Wyke, Fixers
Wynter
Wyke, Leave
Wyke has a resounding win, and 2 votes each for leave, fixers and coaches.
Loot value: 8
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Holy shit the quest master got a drawing of our mc as his profile pick! Talk about dedication! Respect!
1.5 Making an Exit
- Location
- USA
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
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
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DangerKitty
shoddy writter
- Location
- lala land
[] Nhexx, "The Strikeubus", Champion of the Four Round Circuit
[] Threnody "The Chosen One", Silverspoon, fellow novice Boxer
Im not sure about the other stuff just yet, but i lile these two options, thinkin silverspoon maybe. Ugh both are good tbh.
[] Threnody "The Chosen One", Silverspoon, fellow novice Boxer
Im not sure about the other stuff just yet, but i lile these two options, thinkin silverspoon maybe. Ugh both are good tbh.
- Location
- St. Petersburg
That's what a fixer is for! They fix the odds!
Oh well, we'll make do.
I'll vote on the most important thing on the list.
[x] [Taunt] Something only you can do, 4 middle fingers crossing in front of your eyes for the x-d out eyes face
And maybe the interlude.
[x] [Interlude] Threnody "The Chosen One", Silverspoon, fellow novice Boxer
The tally isn't going to like two identical choices for Yurn Tait. That's why Task votes exist, these won't be confused with any other votes:
[] [Coach] Yurn Tait, your little bro
[] [Coach] Mwekkum the Wise, the smartest gnome in your hideout
[] [Coach] No Coach for now
[] [Cut-man] Yurn Tait, your Little Bro
[] [Cut-man] No Cut-man for now
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[X]Mwekkum the Wise, the smartest gnome in your hideout
[X] Yurn Tait, your Little Bro
[X] No Fixer
[X] Something only you can do, 4 middle fingers crossing in front of your eyes for the x-d out eyes face
[X] Threnody "The Chosen One", Silverspoon, fellow novice Boxer
[X] Yurn Tait, your Little Bro
[X] No Fixer
[X] Something only you can do, 4 middle fingers crossing in front of your eyes for the x-d out eyes face
[X] Threnody "The Chosen One", Silverspoon, fellow novice Boxer