Prologue 1: FNG
"Alright, we're here." Flamestrike's voice is gruff in your ear, rough from...
"Alright, we're here." Flamestrike's voice is gruff in your ear, rough from...
Cowls: A World of Supermen and Subterfuge
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Prologue; Prologue 1: FNG
Prologue 1: FNG
"Alright, we're here." Flamestrike's voice is gruff in your ear, rough from too many years of chain-smoking and drinking hard whiskey. "Good job getting us in, kiddo. Won't have to wait long for the Sleuth to patch us in, I reckon."
A loud patch of static flares through your earpiece, quickly quieted down as another voice pipes up. "I keep telling you, my codename is Shamus," the man says, agitated. "I've already patched you in. Gaining access to the security cameras on the ground floor now, and… done. Nobody else should be interfering for a while. Not everyone's as slow as you are, Flamestrike."
"Good job, Shamus," you cut in before they can start an argument in your ear. "Flamestrike, you've confirmed that Plasmius and Immolator are on the first floor. Think you'll cause too much collateral damage if your team confronts them now, or would you prefer me to make a distraction so you can engage with advantage?"
Flamestrike grumbles through your earpiece. "They shouldn't put up too much trouble," he decides eventually. "The office is on the third floor. I'll engage as you move up."
"Alright." You begin walking, gesturing behind for the AP32 units assigned to you to follow you forwards. "Remember, Flamestrike, we don't want any civilians hurt. Engage with caution."
"Yeah, yeah," he replies dismissively, before cutting the comms.
Shamus sighs. "Always so eager to get in a fight," he mumbles drily. "Accessing the second floor's security system now, one second… Aha, got it. Feeding them a loop now, and… got it. You are clear to proceed forward. "
"Excellent."
Of course, not everything had gone smoothly on your way in, not that you'll admit that to Flamestrike. You're not even sure it's possible to break into a Syndicate base without tripping up on something.
What powers do you have that you leveraged to deal with the problems you faced?
[]Enhanced Intelligence:
Being smarter doesn't just help with building things. It's a tool to use in any situation. The Syndicate's security might seem impenetrable to normal people-but when you're as smart as I am, that's not helpful. Poring over accounting manifests and order slips might not be as exciting as other, more blatant powers-but when you've figured out exactly what they'd be using to protect their operation, and bring just the right tools to disable them, it does the job just as well.
[]Technopathy:
I've always been good with machines. Very good, in fact. When I learned we'd be breaking into one of the Syndicate's hidden headquarters in the city, I built myself a small set of control drones- not the most advanced machines I can build, and not particularly smart, but they got the job done. When we encountered hidden pressure sensors and alarms, I had my control drones disable them for me, granting us access into the building.
[ ]Precognition:
I made a lot of mistakes in this infiltration. Ran into traps, got shot by guards-but it doesn't matter, because I'm a precog. It's not omniscience-it gets less reliable as I get tired, and the longer the timeframe the vaguer it is-but on a second-by-second basis, being able to correct your mistake after you make it lets you avoid a lot of problems.
[ ]Teleportation:
Teleportation with a soft cap on the distance I can travel isn't the most useful of powers, but I've made good use of it so far, and that trend continued into today. A maze of corridors like the Syndicate's headquarters isn't the best place to utilize the power of teleportation, but being able to teleport anywhere I have line of sight to allowed me to bypass many of the sensors they had set up to detect intruders.
[ ]Psychic Powers:
The implants they gave me were supposed to 'activate the potential of the human mind.' Or something. What they gave me was telekinesis and telepathy. It was child's play to sneak up close enough to an exec when we were casing them and pull the codes out of them. Psi-shielding might exist, but you can always find someone careless enough to forget their protection.
[ ]Superhuman Speed:
When you can run faster than most people can safely drive a motorbike, it's not too challenging to break into the Syndicate's headquarters unseen. Avoiding their sensors was tricky, but it was easy enough for me to avoid their guards and cameras. After all, when I'm only on-camera for a fraction of a second, even guards monitoring it will have a hard time monitoring me.
[]Enhanced Physical Capabilities:
The serum I was injected with claimed to give "enhanced physical capabilities." Such an unassuming name, but they've served me well before, and they continued to serve me well today. I wasn't able to avoid all the guards during my break-in, but does that really matter when I was able to take them out with a single blow? Even the sensors couldn't beat my enhanced agility and reflexes.
[ ]Superhuman Charisma:
The Syndicate really should pay their guards better. Or rely on robotics if they're going to be cheapskates. When you're capable of twisting human desires around your fingers like this, a disgruntled employee is a dagger aimed at your heart. I found someone willing to defect to Solidor, and he was more than willing to give us his security codes in exchange for a new job with better pay and a very large bribe.
And another pertinent question; who are you, exactly?
[] Male.
[] Female.
[] Describe your general appearance. Ethnicity? Build? Height?
[] What is your name?
[] As an addendum, what is your codename?
This is an original-setting quest co-written by @Tempera and me, about a world where superhumans are a fact of life and have been for decades, pervading every facet of culture and media, changing the world around them in unpredictable ways-some beneficial, some horrifying. Inspirations include the "World Gone Mad" setting for Wild Talents, White Wolf's Aberrant, Catalyst Game Labs's Shadowrun, and Watchmen.
"Alright, we're here." Flamestrike's voice is gruff in your ear, rough from too many years of chain-smoking and drinking hard whiskey. "Good job getting us in, kiddo. Won't have to wait long for the Sleuth to patch us in, I reckon."
A loud patch of static flares through your earpiece, quickly quieted down as another voice pipes up. "I keep telling you, my codename is Shamus," the man says, agitated. "I've already patched you in. Gaining access to the security cameras on the ground floor now, and… done. Nobody else should be interfering for a while. Not everyone's as slow as you are, Flamestrike."
"Good job, Shamus," you cut in before they can start an argument in your ear. "Flamestrike, you've confirmed that Plasmius and Immolator are on the first floor. Think you'll cause too much collateral damage if your team confronts them now, or would you prefer me to make a distraction so you can engage with advantage?"
Flamestrike grumbles through your earpiece. "They shouldn't put up too much trouble," he decides eventually. "The office is on the third floor. I'll engage as you move up."
"Alright." You begin walking, gesturing behind for the AP32 units assigned to you to follow you forwards. "Remember, Flamestrike, we don't want any civilians hurt. Engage with caution."
"Yeah, yeah," he replies dismissively, before cutting the comms.
Shamus sighs. "Always so eager to get in a fight," he mumbles drily. "Accessing the second floor's security system now, one second… Aha, got it. Feeding them a loop now, and… got it. You are clear to proceed forward. "
"Excellent."
Of course, not everything had gone smoothly on your way in, not that you'll admit that to Flamestrike. You're not even sure it's possible to break into a Syndicate base without tripping up on something.
What powers do you have that you leveraged to deal with the problems you faced?
[]Enhanced Intelligence:
Being smarter doesn't just help with building things. It's a tool to use in any situation. The Syndicate's security might seem impenetrable to normal people-but when you're as smart as I am, that's not helpful. Poring over accounting manifests and order slips might not be as exciting as other, more blatant powers-but when you've figured out exactly what they'd be using to protect their operation, and bring just the right tools to disable them, it does the job just as well.
[]Technopathy:
I've always been good with machines. Very good, in fact. When I learned we'd be breaking into one of the Syndicate's hidden headquarters in the city, I built myself a small set of control drones- not the most advanced machines I can build, and not particularly smart, but they got the job done. When we encountered hidden pressure sensors and alarms, I had my control drones disable them for me, granting us access into the building.
[ ]Precognition:
I made a lot of mistakes in this infiltration. Ran into traps, got shot by guards-but it doesn't matter, because I'm a precog. It's not omniscience-it gets less reliable as I get tired, and the longer the timeframe the vaguer it is-but on a second-by-second basis, being able to correct your mistake after you make it lets you avoid a lot of problems.
[ ]Teleportation:
Teleportation with a soft cap on the distance I can travel isn't the most useful of powers, but I've made good use of it so far, and that trend continued into today. A maze of corridors like the Syndicate's headquarters isn't the best place to utilize the power of teleportation, but being able to teleport anywhere I have line of sight to allowed me to bypass many of the sensors they had set up to detect intruders.
[ ]Psychic Powers:
The implants they gave me were supposed to 'activate the potential of the human mind.' Or something. What they gave me was telekinesis and telepathy. It was child's play to sneak up close enough to an exec when we were casing them and pull the codes out of them. Psi-shielding might exist, but you can always find someone careless enough to forget their protection.
[ ]Superhuman Speed:
When you can run faster than most people can safely drive a motorbike, it's not too challenging to break into the Syndicate's headquarters unseen. Avoiding their sensors was tricky, but it was easy enough for me to avoid their guards and cameras. After all, when I'm only on-camera for a fraction of a second, even guards monitoring it will have a hard time monitoring me.
[]Enhanced Physical Capabilities:
The serum I was injected with claimed to give "enhanced physical capabilities." Such an unassuming name, but they've served me well before, and they continued to serve me well today. I wasn't able to avoid all the guards during my break-in, but does that really matter when I was able to take them out with a single blow? Even the sensors couldn't beat my enhanced agility and reflexes.
[ ]Superhuman Charisma:
The Syndicate really should pay their guards better. Or rely on robotics if they're going to be cheapskates. When you're capable of twisting human desires around your fingers like this, a disgruntled employee is a dagger aimed at your heart. I found someone willing to defect to Solidor, and he was more than willing to give us his security codes in exchange for a new job with better pay and a very large bribe.
And another pertinent question; who are you, exactly?
[] Male.
[] Female.
[] Describe your general appearance. Ethnicity? Build? Height?
[] What is your name?
[] As an addendum, what is your codename?
This is an original-setting quest co-written by @Tempera and me, about a world where superhumans are a fact of life and have been for decades, pervading every facet of culture and media, changing the world around them in unpredictable ways-some beneficial, some horrifying. Inspirations include the "World Gone Mad" setting for Wild Talents, White Wolf's Aberrant, Catalyst Game Labs's Shadowrun, and Watchmen.
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Character Sheet; Status
You are:
Ezmeralda Eloisa Espinoza, codenamed Vector. Head of security for company [INSERT NAME HERE].
Stats:
Tactical-5
Security-2
Negotiation-4
Technical-0
Traits:
[Martial Artist]-3
[Strategist]-2
[Ex-Military]-2
Powers:
[Physical Boost]-3
[Teleportation]-4
Your Company Assets:
Legal Department-a bare-bones legal department with some secretaries and 1 attorney.
Leader: Darius Oakes/Sicarius
Security Forces-you have a security force made of hastily trained militiamen built up from ex-gang members, cops, and a special forces kill team.
Leader: You
Enhancile 1: Immolator
Biomedical Division-your biomedical division is made up of scientists and technicians you've managed to recruit, some stolen equipment, and one enhancile.
Leader: None?
Enhancile 1: Viktor Brandt/Chemist
Information Technology Division-led by an ex-criminal and ex-hacker, your IT division is enthusiastic but not particularly well staffed.
Leader: Shamus
You currently have an operating budget of $7m. Your quarterly budget is $10.5m, but an additional $2m will be subtracted from your next quarterly payment.
More to come.
Ezmeralda Eloisa Espinoza, codenamed Vector. Head of security for company [INSERT NAME HERE].
Stats:
Tactical-5
Security-2
Negotiation-4
Technical-0
Traits:
[Martial Artist]-3
[Strategist]-2
[Ex-Military]-2
Powers:
[Physical Boost]-3
[Teleportation]-4
Your Company Assets:
Legal Department-a bare-bones legal department with some secretaries and 1 attorney.
Leader: Darius Oakes/Sicarius
- Stats: TAC-3/SEC-2/TECH-2/NEG-3
- Traits: Ace Attorney 4/Top Gun 3/Military Training 1
- Powers: Precognition 4/Enhanced Reactions and Durability 2
Security Forces-you have a security force made of hastily trained militiamen built up from ex-gang members, cops, and a special forces kill team.
Leader: You
Enhancile 1: Immolator
- Stats: TAC-4/SEC-1/TECH-2/NEG-2
- Traits: Ex-Ganger 2/Down on his luck 2
- Powers: Plasma Control 3/Limited Flight 1
Biomedical Division-your biomedical division is made up of scientists and technicians you've managed to recruit, some stolen equipment, and one enhancile.
Leader: None?
Enhancile 1: Viktor Brandt/Chemist
- Stats: TAC-1/SEC-3/TECH-1/NEG-1
- Traits: Street Smarts 3/Trader 1
- Powers: Chemical Production 3
Information Technology Division-led by an ex-criminal and ex-hacker, your IT division is enthusiastic but not particularly well staffed.
Leader: Shamus
- Stats: TAC-1/SEC-4/TECH-4/NEG-1
- Traits: Hacker 3/Fugitive 2
- Powers: Mental Enhancement 2/Technopathy 1
You currently have an operating budget of $7m. Your quarterly budget is $10.5m, but an additional $2m will be subtracted from your next quarterly payment.
More to come.
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Prologue 2: Engage
- Location
- Australia
Prologue 2: Engage
The upper halls of the Syndicate's headquarters are cleaner, more sterile than the ones beneath them. It makes sense, you suppose; this is where the management works. Management always gets the best offices.
Things are eerily silent on the second floor, apart from the soft clanking of the AP32 units following behind you, and the faint hissing and pressing of their metallic limbs.
You hate it when things are silent. It never bodes well.
"Hey, Shamus," you mutter into your earpiece, as much to end the silence as to check what's going on. . He takes a few moments to respond, the faint crackling of white noise issuing through as you wait. "Shamus, are you there?"
Another moment passes, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, before his voice finally filters through the white noise. "Yes. Ah, sorry, Vector, I got a bit distracted. What do you need?"
"Would you mind doing a scan through the second floor for me? The blueprints indicated there was a security station somewhere close by on the third floor. Flamestrike hasn't done anything obvious yet, but-"
"Yes, yes," Shamus replies dismissively. "I'm well aware of all of Flamestrike's faults, trust me. Running the scan now."
"Thanks." You keep your voice low, just in case. A few moments pass, and the damned silence continues. "Do you have eyes on Flamestrike?"
"I do." Irritation is creeping into his voice, but you can't tell if it's aimed at you or the veteran accompanying the two of you. "Flamestrike is approaching the hostile's position now. Approximately one minute until engagement. Please prepare."
It's hard to stifle the eyeroll the faux-military jargon causes, but you manage, and even manage to reply without undue sarcasm, "Understood. I'll make sure my unit is prepared." The crackling in your ear abruptly ends as Shamus severs the connection on his end.
Rude.
Letting out an aggravated sigh, you turn to the machines behind you. They don't acknowledge your look at all, but you know they're listening. You could give them orders via HUD but somehow it feels better to talk right now. "Alright." Your thoughts whirl. "AP32's, prepare for hostile engagement as we move forwards. We-"
Abruptly, the floor beneath you shakes, and there is a muffled roar. The humanoid combat robots shift their weight near-instantaneously with the faint whine of servos. You sway slightly, infinitesimally, your balance just as perfect.
"Vector!" Shamus abruptly yells into your ear, evidently having reestablished the link between the two of you. "Be advised, Flamestrike has engaged the Immolator ahead of schedule, and has not stuck to advised stealth protocols. Multiple hostiles are converging from the third floor. Damn it, what are-" He cuts off with a grunt of frustration.
Well.
That's definitely not according to plan. You immediately leap into action. "AP32s, weapons hot." Your voice is calm, assured- you hope.There's a faint click-too faint for human hearing-as the mechanisms of their weapons unsafe.
You're not overly worried, of course. AP32 units might not be top of the line, but they're certainly well-designed enough to take out squads of regular security, especially when supported by a superhuman such as yourself. But whatever's in this base might rate more than regular security.
"Vector, there's hostiles up ahead." Shamus says. "Look at their gear. They're just standard corporate security. Take a look." In your HUD, they're wearing white hardshell armor, wielding assault shotguns with underbarrel submachine guns. You're familiar with the design- dual feed, one magazine full of lethal fragmenting rounds, the other filled with nonlethal stun bombs. Their faces are covered with reflective visors. Professional, but not truly deadly.
Your thoughts spin around in circles for a moment before you finally begin snapping out orders. "AP32s! Engage hostiles immediately!"
[] How did you prepare your machines for hostile engagements?
[ ] How are you going to approach this engagement? Note that the top 3 traits will be used to build your character's career traits and backstory, even if only the most popular one decides how the actual engagement will go. Again, these traits will play a larger role in your leadership style and the agents you have in the future, so keep in mind that it's not just about this engagement (in fact, they're of about equal effectiveness in this engagement).
The upper halls of the Syndicate's headquarters are cleaner, more sterile than the ones beneath them. It makes sense, you suppose; this is where the management works. Management always gets the best offices.
Things are eerily silent on the second floor, apart from the soft clanking of the AP32 units following behind you, and the faint hissing and pressing of their metallic limbs.
You hate it when things are silent. It never bodes well.
"Hey, Shamus," you mutter into your earpiece, as much to end the silence as to check what's going on. . He takes a few moments to respond, the faint crackling of white noise issuing through as you wait. "Shamus, are you there?"
Another moment passes, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, before his voice finally filters through the white noise. "Yes. Ah, sorry, Vector, I got a bit distracted. What do you need?"
"Would you mind doing a scan through the second floor for me? The blueprints indicated there was a security station somewhere close by on the third floor. Flamestrike hasn't done anything obvious yet, but-"
"Yes, yes," Shamus replies dismissively. "I'm well aware of all of Flamestrike's faults, trust me. Running the scan now."
"Thanks." You keep your voice low, just in case. A few moments pass, and the damned silence continues. "Do you have eyes on Flamestrike?"
"I do." Irritation is creeping into his voice, but you can't tell if it's aimed at you or the veteran accompanying the two of you. "Flamestrike is approaching the hostile's position now. Approximately one minute until engagement. Please prepare."
It's hard to stifle the eyeroll the faux-military jargon causes, but you manage, and even manage to reply without undue sarcasm, "Understood. I'll make sure my unit is prepared." The crackling in your ear abruptly ends as Shamus severs the connection on his end.
Rude.
Letting out an aggravated sigh, you turn to the machines behind you. They don't acknowledge your look at all, but you know they're listening. You could give them orders via HUD but somehow it feels better to talk right now. "Alright." Your thoughts whirl. "AP32's, prepare for hostile engagement as we move forwards. We-"
Abruptly, the floor beneath you shakes, and there is a muffled roar. The humanoid combat robots shift their weight near-instantaneously with the faint whine of servos. You sway slightly, infinitesimally, your balance just as perfect.
"Vector!" Shamus abruptly yells into your ear, evidently having reestablished the link between the two of you. "Be advised, Flamestrike has engaged the Immolator ahead of schedule, and has not stuck to advised stealth protocols. Multiple hostiles are converging from the third floor. Damn it, what are-" He cuts off with a grunt of frustration.
Well.
That's definitely not according to plan. You immediately leap into action. "AP32s, weapons hot." Your voice is calm, assured- you hope.There's a faint click-too faint for human hearing-as the mechanisms of their weapons unsafe.
You're not overly worried, of course. AP32 units might not be top of the line, but they're certainly well-designed enough to take out squads of regular security, especially when supported by a superhuman such as yourself. But whatever's in this base might rate more than regular security.
"Vector, there's hostiles up ahead." Shamus says. "Look at their gear. They're just standard corporate security. Take a look." In your HUD, they're wearing white hardshell armor, wielding assault shotguns with underbarrel submachine guns. You're familiar with the design- dual feed, one magazine full of lethal fragmenting rounds, the other filled with nonlethal stun bombs. Their faces are covered with reflective visors. Professional, but not truly deadly.
Your thoughts spin around in circles for a moment before you finally begin snapping out orders. "AP32s! Engage hostiles immediately!"
[] How did you prepare your machines for hostile engagements?
[ ] Your combat robots have been reinforced with armor jackets and heavy ceramic plating, carrying boxy black guns firing thick fat shells. The magazines are red-banded, explosive rounds, capable of maiming you or any other physical enhanciles. They're banned as war crimes-not that anyone follows those rules anymore.
[ ] Your machines are running 'clean,' white plastic plating and exposed servos. They're using standard security weapons-solid-core ammunition, good against soft targets and against robots with good enough aim. You're not expecting too much trouble here, but you want firepower in case that happens.
[ ] This is supposed to be quiet and non-lethal, a raid rather than an assault. They've been clad in sound-dampening fabrics and are loaded with shotguns and "riot control" submachine guns-electrical stun rounds. You're secretly glad-you don't want anyone to get hurt when it isn't necessary.
[ ] Your machines are running 'clean,' white plastic plating and exposed servos. They're using standard security weapons-solid-core ammunition, good against soft targets and against robots with good enough aim. You're not expecting too much trouble here, but you want firepower in case that happens.
[ ] This is supposed to be quiet and non-lethal, a raid rather than an assault. They've been clad in sound-dampening fabrics and are loaded with shotguns and "riot control" submachine guns-electrical stun rounds. You're secretly glad-you don't want anyone to get hurt when it isn't necessary.
[ ] How are you going to approach this engagement? Note that the top 3 traits will be used to build your character's career traits and backstory, even if only the most popular one decides how the actual engagement will go. Again, these traits will play a larger role in your leadership style and the agents you have in the future, so keep in mind that it's not just about this engagement (in fact, they're of about equal effectiveness in this engagement).
[ ] I might be physically enhanced, but I've always been more of a leader than a frontline type. I order the AP32s in first to draw fire via my data glove and command them as I take out targets of opportunity. They're expendable, the team is not. And I'm skilled enough that I can manage them better than their hive-mind AI can. (Strategist)
[ ] Back in Grenada, I was point man for a Ranger team. The gun in my hands is familiar from those days-a special forces Varigun-with settings from 'plain old bullets' to 'mini-rockets' to plasma flashbangs and 'sonic riot control.' I switch it to (high-explosive swarmers/5-millimeter slugs/nonlethal riot control) and open up on the Syndicate soldiers. (Ex-Military)
[ ] My employers have given me this nice artificial muscle suit-boosting my strength and durability even further than normal. It runs hot-too hot for normal people, and even my enhanced physiology is sweating as I push it to the limits, but in a blink of an eye I'm in the midst of the enemy formation, and I draw my (vibrosword/impact baton/stun stick). When you're as skilled and enhanced as I am, never bring a gun to a knife fight. (Martial Artist)
[ ] They wanted me here to replace their combat medic-and I am a trained bioengineer. We've all been inoculated against the chemical weapons I'm about to deploy. I unlimber the magnetic grenade launcher from my back, load in a magazine of (nerve gas/sleeping gas/riot agent) and start emptying the magazines. Even if they're wearing NBC gear, any damage to that will make them vulnerable. (Biotech Expert)
[ ] I'm a combat engineer, of course. That means they gave me the finicky weapons that require constant monitoring to use right. Like this variable-lethality plasma caster. It's rare to find someone with the technical capabilities to make use of it and the physique to carry the 30-kilo blaster, but here I am. (Engineer)
[ ] Back in Grenada, I was point man for a Ranger team. The gun in my hands is familiar from those days-a special forces Varigun-with settings from 'plain old bullets' to 'mini-rockets' to plasma flashbangs and 'sonic riot control.' I switch it to (high-explosive swarmers/5-millimeter slugs/nonlethal riot control) and open up on the Syndicate soldiers. (Ex-Military)
[ ] My employers have given me this nice artificial muscle suit-boosting my strength and durability even further than normal. It runs hot-too hot for normal people, and even my enhanced physiology is sweating as I push it to the limits, but in a blink of an eye I'm in the midst of the enemy formation, and I draw my (vibrosword/impact baton/stun stick). When you're as skilled and enhanced as I am, never bring a gun to a knife fight. (Martial Artist)
[ ] They wanted me here to replace their combat medic-and I am a trained bioengineer. We've all been inoculated against the chemical weapons I'm about to deploy. I unlimber the magnetic grenade launcher from my back, load in a magazine of (nerve gas/sleeping gas/riot agent) and start emptying the magazines. Even if they're wearing NBC gear, any damage to that will make them vulnerable. (Biotech Expert)
[ ] I'm a combat engineer, of course. That means they gave me the finicky weapons that require constant monitoring to use right. Like this variable-lethality plasma caster. It's rare to find someone with the technical capabilities to make use of it and the physique to carry the 30-kilo blaster, but here I am. (Engineer)
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The difference between 'military' and 'non-military' supers
Oh, to clarify this a bit more-basically all military-grade enhanciles will be resistant to mundane weapons to a significant degree. Think how people who don't have 'super durability' as a power can get punched by strong guys and not instantly die in comics. Moderate physical boosts like Ezmerelda are significantly more durable than that, especially since most of them are going to be wearing very good armor (a superhuman is expensive). 'Civilian' supers won't have as extensive treatments and redundancies, so they'll still be effective in their field but won't be nearly as tough-but on the other hand, civilian biomods are generally designed for better cross-compatibility with each other, while military grade mods require a lot of skilled people to install and require significant 'buy-in' from the subject because they're much more powerful, integrated, and durable.
Flamestrike, for example, isn't shooting plasma because he's bought arm-mounted plasma cannons. He's shooting it because pyrokinetic abilities are a good fit with his physiology and psyche, and without those fits you'll tend to get very unstable people. He'll probably have some related powers because he's also compatible with them and maybe secondary, minor powers-things you can install because the dissonance is minor even if they don't purely fit, but generally a superhuman will have a 'suite' of powers which makes sense to them, and trying to build past this suite to a major degree gets incredibly expensive both in the technicians you need and in the sanity cost. Sometimes this suite doesn't make sense outside of the superhuman themselves, but most of the time the theme's clear.
So going back to the durability question, a 'civilian' phys boost might be an athlete or professional hunter, and they'll probably be inhumanly strong and fast-but if their hunting partner shoots them in the face with a shotgun, they're probably in big trouble, while even the non-phys boosted members of the team are probably safe against something like a hunting shotgun-although they'll start worrying if someone starts firing 'cape-killer' APDS ammo at them and definitely will be very sad if they face a tank. There are 'Threat Level GODLIKE' type supers who are basically the Superman or Thor of the setting who require tanks and gunships to match, but they're extremely rare and expensive, and tend to spend more of their time in maintenance than actually deployed. Getting someone with the right personality type to match the sheer amount of custom biotech and cybertech you're shoving into them is very difficult and basically all down to luck.
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Prologue 3: The world calls for wetwork, and we answer.
Prologue 3: The world calls for wetwork, and we answer.
When you were a kid, you could have ended up a delinquent, one of those types who got themselves killed before their thirtieth birthday doing something stupid for a boostergang. Instead, you found another place to channel that aggression. You like winning fights, always have. Martial arts gave you a way to do that that wouldn't inherently lead to you being arrested or shot. Which is why you're still alive now, to do something that's likely to get you shot, possibly repeatedly.
You charge into view first, trusting in speed and close quarters to make you dangerous, the AP32s following. The crystal polymer fibers in the suit you're wearing bulge and flex as they push against its support struts and your reinforced bones. Someone less hardy than you would have to grit their teeth against the heat and pressure at best, feel their bones snap and their skin burn at worst-the costs of using muscle designed to support a 3 ton exosuit in a package that fits on your 5' 3" frame.
They open up at you, armor-piercing slugs firing through the walls, and you realize that they're not using standard loads for their riot shotguns. Your speed and reflexes mean most of them miss, the ones which don't glancing off the smartplastic that makes the outer layer of your uniform-normally bright with identifying logos and your sigil, now set to plain gray. They have a good defensive position, numbers, competent training, and loyalty on their side. They've designed this building well-there's no cover, the only concealment on your end are thin walls transparent to wall-penetrating sights, and they've already deployed a sentry turret to cover your approach.
You have yourself and six killer robots. It's not a fair fight. You vanish, and then appear right next to them. Armor-piercing slugs and airbursting frag rounds shatter the offices where you were in a storm of smoldering paper and sparking electronics, while your AP32s fill the offices with the snap-hiss of 10-mil electroshock bullets and riot agent. In a split-second, you're on the first guard, stun stick out, its tip crackling with power. You remember the lessons in nonlethal fighting that they gave you. Always aim for the limbs, never the body. Don't hit with full strength unless you want someone dead or you know they're augmented. You can punch through concrete, through metal. What do you think that does to a human body that isn't augmented, isn't loaded full of super-juice and intramuscular nanoweave and armored bones?
You jam the stun stick into the armpit of the first security guard as you duck below his line of fire, and he shudders satisfyingly, then goes limp. You notice that shots from the other guards conspicuously miss your first victim, and grin. They're running smartguns, with IFF cutoffs. Your new friend is going to be useful as a human shield. You charge with him into the sentry gun, bowling it over before someone can try to override its safeties, smashing the barrels with a kick as it falls.
You pull the pins from some of the grenades on the man's belt. They're concussion grenades, not fragmentation-those would be too indiscriminate, too likely to destroy something valuable. Which means that someone in armor could be at point-blank range to a half-dozen of them and not suffer major injury. A few broken bones, probably a concussion. You throw him, and there's a blinding flash. You vanish, reappearing to take out the disoriented ones and-
whip-crack. The hypersonic sniper round hits you in the shoulder.
You hit the ground sprawling, turning the fall into a slide before the Syndicate guards can draw a bead on you. You're not invincible, not to multiple high-caliber armor-piercing slugs in the span of seconds. Especially not if the piezoelectric armor is recovering from an sniper railgun fired through several floors. "AP32s! Take out that sniper!" You yell. You don't wait to see how they act. You could command them, micromanage them better than their AI can, but you're too busy dealing with the security here. They should be able to handle a sniper-even a minor enhancile.
You don't even notice the pain. You've taken blow after blow in fights. Some of them were for good reasons. Many of them-not so good. But the only thing you consider a bad fight is one that kills you. And with the sniper distracted, you're in your element. You shatter bones and leave people on the ground screaming. You rip the gun out of someone's hands with the sound of their fingers breaking, then throw it at another man hard enough that the weapon breaks on impact. You fastball a ceramic coffee mug lying on the ground into someone's armored visor hard enough that their visor cracks, blinking right next to him to push him through a wall fast enough that he should be unconscious or stunned by the end of it.
You're not here to kill anyone, after all. You've seen enough death in Panama and the Philippines. Even on a bare-bones medical insurance plan for corpsec, the stuff you're doing to them will heal in a week or two. One of them throws a concussion grenade, and you kick it back at her, the detonation sending her flying into the ceiling hard enough to send tiles spiraling away. Another goes down when you blink behind them and punch them in the shoulder, clutching their limb in agony.
It's over quickly, leaving you with the warm afterglow of an adrenaline high. The remaining handful of guards are surrendering, having been given enough time to decide that whatever they're being paid, being in agony until EMS comes around isn't worth it. The sniper is unconscious and still breathing, having been hit with enough shock rounds to bring down an elephant. The AP32s have taken damage, one of them inoperative from a railgun shot that blew through its central CPU, another having lost its legs, half its sensors, and an arm from security fire. The remaining ones start stripping their dead and crippled for parts.
It creeps you out, how they 'recycle' their dead comrades and hot-swap parts. It feels like watching a family tear open a loved one for organ transplants. Burned-out motors are discarded, shrapnel-damaged sensors removed and replaced by fresh ones, like someone putting an eye back into its socket. Thankfully the sounds are those of machines and computers, sparking and whirring and hissing. Eventually the two crippled AP32s are a mess of discarded parts and opened armor plates, and you have four intact units to continue on. There's a moment of silence over your earpiece, finished by a soft "Huh" and the faint sound of whirring you recognize as a HUD playing through a video faster than you can process it. "That was a nice job, kid," he finishes a few moments later. "Very efficient. Just make sure the evidence is gone."
"You don't need to sound so surprised," you reply drily. "I'm not a fresh-faced newbie, Shamus, and Syndicate goons aren't all that tough." You idly throw an incendiary grenade each onto the dead AP32s, melting them into puddles of scrap, impossible to identify.
"Hm," he hums in reply. "Right. Right. I remember you talking about your military experience." But it isn't just your military experience that made you who you are. You...
(This vote determines your stats. There are four basic stats-Tactical, Security, Technical, and Negotiation. Tactical is your ability to kick ass, Security governs your stealth and intrusion ability [as well as your ability to detect threats and prevent infiltrations], Technical governs your savviness with technology and science, and Negotiation governs your ability to convince people. Stats, Traits, and Superpowers are what give you your basic dice pool.)
[ ] Grew up poor with wastrel parents who forced you to fend for yourself. You learned to steal, learned to look innocent, learned to be invisible. You had to if you didn't want to die. When the chance came to leave them, you jumped at it. You were living in the dojo almost full time when you were 13, and you only left to join the military the moment you turned 17.
[ ] Your family was involved in those immigrant groups which rapidly become ethnic gangs. You were pressured into doing the same by your siblings, and you did-although your sifu kept you from doing anything too rash, probably saving your life. You left when your older brother was gunned down in the street-and nobody cared-not the police, not the news, not the politicians. You didn't want to die in a ditch as a nameless statistic, so you left that life, found the one gang that was big enough that some juvies with plastic guns wouldn't dare fuck with it.
[ ] Were the only child of a working-class family. They might not have been the richest, but they were good people, and they believed-believed in the American dream, believed in themselves, believed in you. They insisted you should be the first person in the family to go to college, and made you study day and night. Martial arts was your one vice, something your parents tolerated because it built discipline, and you joined the military for the GI Bill and technical training.
[ ] Grew up rich, a corporate brat. Discrimination and prejudice are nasty-but your parents beat the odds against them. They taught you the right way to talk to important people, how to behave yourself in the presence of multi-millionaires and billionaires and government higher-ups. You never wanted for anything-except freedom to be yourself. You saw the rigid discipline of martial arts and the military as an ironic escape from the endless bullshit of the rich and powerful, a chance to express yourself, a rebellion against the world you didn't fit into. Your parents have forgiven you for that. Mostly.
"I'm pulling up the third floor schematics now, and... Visual scans aren't showing indications of any further life scans. Thermal scans initiated, ETA seven minutes and thirty-six seconds. Uploading building schematics... now." Sure enough, a miniature map of the building flickers on in your HUD. It's nothing fancy, a barebones upload of the building's blueprints, but it's better than nothing. "Tell me what you're supposed to be looking for. I'll mark your map with the relevant location." His voice is studiously businesslike. You find his lack of knowledge odd, but don't say anything about it. But in your mind, you wonder what exactly is going on that your intelligence support doesn't even know your objective. Someone up high has probably screwed up. Or worse.
But right now, you don't have enough information to know what people's game is. You knew better to expect total honesty, but you don't think they'd tell you and not everyone else. According to the documents they gave you, your employers were looking for quite a lot in this raid, though-they hadn't explicitly given any priorities for acquisition. Just "grab anything important-looking and make it look like an anti-corporate attack." It's cops and robbers writ large, except the kids have a lot more firepower than cap guns. Sometimes you're a "superhero." Sometimes, like right now, you're a "supervillain." It all depends on what the corporation needs and whether you look good on camera.
"Vector?" Shamus asks again. "What are we looking for?" You of course know what your employers seek. You just need to decide whether you want to tell him.
How forward are you being?
[] Tell Shamus what you're after. Your bosses haven't explicitly forbidden you from telling anyone, after all, and you don't want to hurt your dynamic with him this early.
[] Tell Shamus what you're after, but keep the most important stuff from him. Privacy is a virtue, and paranoia is a habit- and one you don't intend to break, at that.
[] Withhold the information from Shamus. If your bosses haven't told him, they obviously don't want him to know. You don't want to hurt your standing with the company over something as minor as this.
Choose one of those 'few things' your employers are interested in. Again, the top 3 of these will show up as priority targets.
[ ] They're interested in weapons- a collection of high-caliber guns, neurotoxins and prototype strength-enhancing exoskeletons owned by the Syndicate. A collection of weaponry is worth hundreds of thousands, even millions, on the black market. Chump change to a corporation like Sydonia, but an opportunity to equip dozens with high-end gear without spending a dime is always a good one.
[ ] They're interested in the shield generators the Syndicate have recently collected during a raid on Pellicle, a mid-sized company. They're not the most powerful, but they're free and there might be some novel tech in them that bears reverse engineering.
[ ] They're looking for a collection of dossiers the Syndicate had collected on local PMCs and low-level enhanciles. While the Syndicate's intelligence network probably hasn't collected the kind of blackmail necessary to force them into service, knowing their names and general location would put someone in an excellent position to recruit them.
[ ] They want a collection of files from the headquarter mainframe, containing information the Syndicate was using to blackmail local scientists, businessmen and politicians. Anything really juicy would be hidden better than Shamus could find during a short trip like this, but even less-secured files would be useful.
[ ] They want to cause financial damage. If you can break into their servers and steal their records and keys, the money gained would probably be in the seven figures range, easily. It's not money that your employers need-but if you cause them enough operating losses you can force their dissolution-and make an acquisition much, much easier.
[ ] They want schematics for low-level cybernetic enhancements, the kind usually provided to recruits in startup PMC corporations. None of these mods have been developed and debugged yet, but they could potentially contain innovations that could be applied to higher-level enhancements, and could prove useful if your bosses wanted to expand into the security industry.
[] They want designs for a simple series of civilian-level enhancements that would provide low-level enhancements to physical strength and endurance, reflexes, and sight. Performance-wise, they're nothing you can't get at any hospital if you slipped a nurse some cash, but rumor is that the ones the Syndicate's been providing are cheaper to install and maintain than what you're selling.
When you were a kid, you could have ended up a delinquent, one of those types who got themselves killed before their thirtieth birthday doing something stupid for a boostergang. Instead, you found another place to channel that aggression. You like winning fights, always have. Martial arts gave you a way to do that that wouldn't inherently lead to you being arrested or shot. Which is why you're still alive now, to do something that's likely to get you shot, possibly repeatedly.
You charge into view first, trusting in speed and close quarters to make you dangerous, the AP32s following. The crystal polymer fibers in the suit you're wearing bulge and flex as they push against its support struts and your reinforced bones. Someone less hardy than you would have to grit their teeth against the heat and pressure at best, feel their bones snap and their skin burn at worst-the costs of using muscle designed to support a 3 ton exosuit in a package that fits on your 5' 3" frame.
They open up at you, armor-piercing slugs firing through the walls, and you realize that they're not using standard loads for their riot shotguns. Your speed and reflexes mean most of them miss, the ones which don't glancing off the smartplastic that makes the outer layer of your uniform-normally bright with identifying logos and your sigil, now set to plain gray. They have a good defensive position, numbers, competent training, and loyalty on their side. They've designed this building well-there's no cover, the only concealment on your end are thin walls transparent to wall-penetrating sights, and they've already deployed a sentry turret to cover your approach.
You have yourself and six killer robots. It's not a fair fight. You vanish, and then appear right next to them. Armor-piercing slugs and airbursting frag rounds shatter the offices where you were in a storm of smoldering paper and sparking electronics, while your AP32s fill the offices with the snap-hiss of 10-mil electroshock bullets and riot agent. In a split-second, you're on the first guard, stun stick out, its tip crackling with power. You remember the lessons in nonlethal fighting that they gave you. Always aim for the limbs, never the body. Don't hit with full strength unless you want someone dead or you know they're augmented. You can punch through concrete, through metal. What do you think that does to a human body that isn't augmented, isn't loaded full of super-juice and intramuscular nanoweave and armored bones?
You jam the stun stick into the armpit of the first security guard as you duck below his line of fire, and he shudders satisfyingly, then goes limp. You notice that shots from the other guards conspicuously miss your first victim, and grin. They're running smartguns, with IFF cutoffs. Your new friend is going to be useful as a human shield. You charge with him into the sentry gun, bowling it over before someone can try to override its safeties, smashing the barrels with a kick as it falls.
You pull the pins from some of the grenades on the man's belt. They're concussion grenades, not fragmentation-those would be too indiscriminate, too likely to destroy something valuable. Which means that someone in armor could be at point-blank range to a half-dozen of them and not suffer major injury. A few broken bones, probably a concussion. You throw him, and there's a blinding flash. You vanish, reappearing to take out the disoriented ones and-
whip-crack. The hypersonic sniper round hits you in the shoulder.
You hit the ground sprawling, turning the fall into a slide before the Syndicate guards can draw a bead on you. You're not invincible, not to multiple high-caliber armor-piercing slugs in the span of seconds. Especially not if the piezoelectric armor is recovering from an sniper railgun fired through several floors. "AP32s! Take out that sniper!" You yell. You don't wait to see how they act. You could command them, micromanage them better than their AI can, but you're too busy dealing with the security here. They should be able to handle a sniper-even a minor enhancile.
You don't even notice the pain. You've taken blow after blow in fights. Some of them were for good reasons. Many of them-not so good. But the only thing you consider a bad fight is one that kills you. And with the sniper distracted, you're in your element. You shatter bones and leave people on the ground screaming. You rip the gun out of someone's hands with the sound of their fingers breaking, then throw it at another man hard enough that the weapon breaks on impact. You fastball a ceramic coffee mug lying on the ground into someone's armored visor hard enough that their visor cracks, blinking right next to him to push him through a wall fast enough that he should be unconscious or stunned by the end of it.
You're not here to kill anyone, after all. You've seen enough death in Panama and the Philippines. Even on a bare-bones medical insurance plan for corpsec, the stuff you're doing to them will heal in a week or two. One of them throws a concussion grenade, and you kick it back at her, the detonation sending her flying into the ceiling hard enough to send tiles spiraling away. Another goes down when you blink behind them and punch them in the shoulder, clutching their limb in agony.
It's over quickly, leaving you with the warm afterglow of an adrenaline high. The remaining handful of guards are surrendering, having been given enough time to decide that whatever they're being paid, being in agony until EMS comes around isn't worth it. The sniper is unconscious and still breathing, having been hit with enough shock rounds to bring down an elephant. The AP32s have taken damage, one of them inoperative from a railgun shot that blew through its central CPU, another having lost its legs, half its sensors, and an arm from security fire. The remaining ones start stripping their dead and crippled for parts.
It creeps you out, how they 'recycle' their dead comrades and hot-swap parts. It feels like watching a family tear open a loved one for organ transplants. Burned-out motors are discarded, shrapnel-damaged sensors removed and replaced by fresh ones, like someone putting an eye back into its socket. Thankfully the sounds are those of machines and computers, sparking and whirring and hissing. Eventually the two crippled AP32s are a mess of discarded parts and opened armor plates, and you have four intact units to continue on. There's a moment of silence over your earpiece, finished by a soft "Huh" and the faint sound of whirring you recognize as a HUD playing through a video faster than you can process it. "That was a nice job, kid," he finishes a few moments later. "Very efficient. Just make sure the evidence is gone."
"You don't need to sound so surprised," you reply drily. "I'm not a fresh-faced newbie, Shamus, and Syndicate goons aren't all that tough." You idly throw an incendiary grenade each onto the dead AP32s, melting them into puddles of scrap, impossible to identify.
"Hm," he hums in reply. "Right. Right. I remember you talking about your military experience." But it isn't just your military experience that made you who you are. You...
(This vote determines your stats. There are four basic stats-Tactical, Security, Technical, and Negotiation. Tactical is your ability to kick ass, Security governs your stealth and intrusion ability [as well as your ability to detect threats and prevent infiltrations], Technical governs your savviness with technology and science, and Negotiation governs your ability to convince people. Stats, Traits, and Superpowers are what give you your basic dice pool.)
[ ] Grew up poor with wastrel parents who forced you to fend for yourself. You learned to steal, learned to look innocent, learned to be invisible. You had to if you didn't want to die. When the chance came to leave them, you jumped at it. You were living in the dojo almost full time when you were 13, and you only left to join the military the moment you turned 17.
[ ] Your family was involved in those immigrant groups which rapidly become ethnic gangs. You were pressured into doing the same by your siblings, and you did-although your sifu kept you from doing anything too rash, probably saving your life. You left when your older brother was gunned down in the street-and nobody cared-not the police, not the news, not the politicians. You didn't want to die in a ditch as a nameless statistic, so you left that life, found the one gang that was big enough that some juvies with plastic guns wouldn't dare fuck with it.
[ ] Were the only child of a working-class family. They might not have been the richest, but they were good people, and they believed-believed in the American dream, believed in themselves, believed in you. They insisted you should be the first person in the family to go to college, and made you study day and night. Martial arts was your one vice, something your parents tolerated because it built discipline, and you joined the military for the GI Bill and technical training.
[ ] Grew up rich, a corporate brat. Discrimination and prejudice are nasty-but your parents beat the odds against them. They taught you the right way to talk to important people, how to behave yourself in the presence of multi-millionaires and billionaires and government higher-ups. You never wanted for anything-except freedom to be yourself. You saw the rigid discipline of martial arts and the military as an ironic escape from the endless bullshit of the rich and powerful, a chance to express yourself, a rebellion against the world you didn't fit into. Your parents have forgiven you for that. Mostly.
"I'm pulling up the third floor schematics now, and... Visual scans aren't showing indications of any further life scans. Thermal scans initiated, ETA seven minutes and thirty-six seconds. Uploading building schematics... now." Sure enough, a miniature map of the building flickers on in your HUD. It's nothing fancy, a barebones upload of the building's blueprints, but it's better than nothing. "Tell me what you're supposed to be looking for. I'll mark your map with the relevant location." His voice is studiously businesslike. You find his lack of knowledge odd, but don't say anything about it. But in your mind, you wonder what exactly is going on that your intelligence support doesn't even know your objective. Someone up high has probably screwed up. Or worse.
But right now, you don't have enough information to know what people's game is. You knew better to expect total honesty, but you don't think they'd tell you and not everyone else. According to the documents they gave you, your employers were looking for quite a lot in this raid, though-they hadn't explicitly given any priorities for acquisition. Just "grab anything important-looking and make it look like an anti-corporate attack." It's cops and robbers writ large, except the kids have a lot more firepower than cap guns. Sometimes you're a "superhero." Sometimes, like right now, you're a "supervillain." It all depends on what the corporation needs and whether you look good on camera.
"Vector?" Shamus asks again. "What are we looking for?" You of course know what your employers seek. You just need to decide whether you want to tell him.
How forward are you being?
[] Tell Shamus what you're after. Your bosses haven't explicitly forbidden you from telling anyone, after all, and you don't want to hurt your dynamic with him this early.
[] Tell Shamus what you're after, but keep the most important stuff from him. Privacy is a virtue, and paranoia is a habit- and one you don't intend to break, at that.
[] Withhold the information from Shamus. If your bosses haven't told him, they obviously don't want him to know. You don't want to hurt your standing with the company over something as minor as this.
Choose one of those 'few things' your employers are interested in. Again, the top 3 of these will show up as priority targets.
[ ] They're interested in weapons- a collection of high-caliber guns, neurotoxins and prototype strength-enhancing exoskeletons owned by the Syndicate. A collection of weaponry is worth hundreds of thousands, even millions, on the black market. Chump change to a corporation like Sydonia, but an opportunity to equip dozens with high-end gear without spending a dime is always a good one.
[ ] They're interested in the shield generators the Syndicate have recently collected during a raid on Pellicle, a mid-sized company. They're not the most powerful, but they're free and there might be some novel tech in them that bears reverse engineering.
[ ] They're looking for a collection of dossiers the Syndicate had collected on local PMCs and low-level enhanciles. While the Syndicate's intelligence network probably hasn't collected the kind of blackmail necessary to force them into service, knowing their names and general location would put someone in an excellent position to recruit them.
[ ] They want a collection of files from the headquarter mainframe, containing information the Syndicate was using to blackmail local scientists, businessmen and politicians. Anything really juicy would be hidden better than Shamus could find during a short trip like this, but even less-secured files would be useful.
[ ] They want to cause financial damage. If you can break into their servers and steal their records and keys, the money gained would probably be in the seven figures range, easily. It's not money that your employers need-but if you cause them enough operating losses you can force their dissolution-and make an acquisition much, much easier.
[ ] They want schematics for low-level cybernetic enhancements, the kind usually provided to recruits in startup PMC corporations. None of these mods have been developed and debugged yet, but they could potentially contain innovations that could be applied to higher-level enhancements, and could prove useful if your bosses wanted to expand into the security industry.
[] They want designs for a simple series of civilian-level enhancements that would provide low-level enhancements to physical strength and endurance, reflexes, and sight. Performance-wise, they're nothing you can't get at any hospital if you slipped a nurse some cash, but rumor is that the ones the Syndicate's been providing are cheaper to install and maintain than what you're selling.
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Prologue 4: Accounting
- Location
- Australia
Prologue 4: Accounting
"Information, primarily," you reply. "Rumours back in the office are that the bosses want to recruit someone for a job. There should be some files hidden on the mainframe on local figures, politicians, businessmen, and the like. Nothing big, but if you could mark the mainframe for me, that's help."
It's all technically true, too; you are actually after those files. You just... don't tell him that some of the files are intended for less-than-legal uses.
Discretion is the better part of valour, after all. Spilling secrets isn't a good habit to get into, even if-maybe especially if-you hadn't been asked to keep them.
Shamus grunts in reply. "Just some files, huh. Are you sure that's all they're after? It seems like a lot of effort to set up a raid like this."
You purse your lips. "It's not all I'm after," you reply grudgingly. "This is a fairly active branch, so there's a few targets we can hit. Flamestrike's already engaged two targets, though, and we knew from the outset that we wouldn't be able to maintain stealth with how paranoid the Syndicate is about security. If we stick around for too long, we're going to draw more attention than we can handle."
"Right," Shamus mutters. "Opsec concerns, got it. I've marked the mainframe's position on your map. Get me there and I'll get you your files. Is there anything else you'd like me to nab while I'm in there? We should have enough leeway for a little on-the-job snooping."
Your thoughts race as you try to recall what else was on the dossier your boss had handed to you.
"There might be some schematics for bio-augs," you answer cautiously. "Our primary concerns are those files, so make their acquisition your priority, but if you get that done quickly enough then I'd appreciate a copy."
"Understood." Shamus' voice is cool in your ear. "You should make your way to the mainframe, then."
"Sure." He can't see you shrugging disdainfully, but you don't let that stop you from doing it anyway.
You make your way up to and through the third floor. The rooms up here are designed chaotically. Hallways branch off to nowhere, meeting rooms connect directly to both bathrooms and executive offices, and rooms scattered throughout the floor probably shouldn't even exist- at least, you're fairly certain that your parents' offices had never had operating rooms installed beside their break rooms.
It's not hard to pick your way through the rooms with the building's blueprints open, though.
Occasionally, locked doors attempt to bar your way, but liberal application of force opens the way easily enough.
A few minutes later, you finally arrive in the room your ally had marked. It's a cramped room, filled with machines crammed against the walls and stacked six high.
"This isn't a mainframe," you say disapprovingly to Shamus. "It looks like a storage cupboard for old tower cases."
You hear a disappointed sigh over your connection. "Don't judge it by its appearance," he replies reprovingly. "It's a closed system. If you want me to search the system for these files, I'll need a physical access point. Plug my jack in and I'll get to work."
"Right." You retrieve the cord Shamus had handed you prior to the mission's start. It's a simple plug, from what you can see. Usable even for someone as technologically disabled as you. One end slots into the keyboard port on the machine, one end slots into your earpiece, and Shamus does his magic. Simple.
After a few moments, you're reminded why you'd always have made a terrible stealth operative; you can't stand silence. From the time you were a kid, you'd always been surrounded by sound. The omnipresent sound of machinery on the Upper Level. The shouts and whimpers in the dojo. The sound of rowdy soldiers and gunfire during your time in the military. Standing around in silence just seems wrong.
You hold out as long as you can, but eventually, the silence gets to you. Your thoughts begin to spin around in circles, and you're having trouble shaking off the tiredness that's creeping over you.
"Hey, Shamus?" you venture.
He responds with an annoyed grunt. "Yes? I'm busy here, Vector. Make it quick."
You pout. "I was just wondering why you signed up with Cydonia," you justify yourself quickly. "If we're going to be teammates-"
"I know how team bonding works," he replies curtly. "I have your files, by the way. They're being uploaded to your commlink's storage unit now. There's a lot of information there, so I suggest searching through them later. I will search for the bio-enhancement schematics now. Inform me if we run out of time."
A large frown makes its way over your face. "You're not very good at being subtle," you complain. "If you don't want to tell me, just say so."
It seems like every sound you're drawing from him lately is an aggravated sigh, or close to it. "I'm not dodging your questions, I am trying to concentrate." He sounds like he's talking through clenched teeth. "I approached our employers with my resume because they offered a good paycheck, and I was tired of being chased by the police all the time. Okay?"
It's not okay, not really, but you force yourself to calm down some anyway. You're not very good at the whole technology thing, but from what you understand, forcing your way through cyber-security like this is really tough. You probably shouldn't be distracting him like this. "Okay," you reply.
You idly wonder if you might be able to "obtain" a copy of the videotape of his interview, later. You really should know more about him, if you're going to be working with him regularly. And you're interested in comparing his interview to your own. After all, they couldn't be too similar, given how different your backgrounds were.
You close your eyes, thinking back to your own interview. Many of the questions asked by corporations like Cydonia related back to your history, and how you felt about it. It was rather important that they do so, as you'd later found out; your compatibility with the augmentations you'd been given depended largely on your mindset.
When you had talked about your past, you'd told them…
You grew up rich. You...
You ended up doing martial arts-not the McDojo kind, the real kind which involved learning to hurt people. Why?
Then you joined the military, because...
And now you're here.
"Information, primarily," you reply. "Rumours back in the office are that the bosses want to recruit someone for a job. There should be some files hidden on the mainframe on local figures, politicians, businessmen, and the like. Nothing big, but if you could mark the mainframe for me, that's help."
It's all technically true, too; you are actually after those files. You just... don't tell him that some of the files are intended for less-than-legal uses.
Discretion is the better part of valour, after all. Spilling secrets isn't a good habit to get into, even if-maybe especially if-you hadn't been asked to keep them.
Shamus grunts in reply. "Just some files, huh. Are you sure that's all they're after? It seems like a lot of effort to set up a raid like this."
You purse your lips. "It's not all I'm after," you reply grudgingly. "This is a fairly active branch, so there's a few targets we can hit. Flamestrike's already engaged two targets, though, and we knew from the outset that we wouldn't be able to maintain stealth with how paranoid the Syndicate is about security. If we stick around for too long, we're going to draw more attention than we can handle."
"Right," Shamus mutters. "Opsec concerns, got it. I've marked the mainframe's position on your map. Get me there and I'll get you your files. Is there anything else you'd like me to nab while I'm in there? We should have enough leeway for a little on-the-job snooping."
Your thoughts race as you try to recall what else was on the dossier your boss had handed to you.
"There might be some schematics for bio-augs," you answer cautiously. "Our primary concerns are those files, so make their acquisition your priority, but if you get that done quickly enough then I'd appreciate a copy."
"Understood." Shamus' voice is cool in your ear. "You should make your way to the mainframe, then."
"Sure." He can't see you shrugging disdainfully, but you don't let that stop you from doing it anyway.
You make your way up to and through the third floor. The rooms up here are designed chaotically. Hallways branch off to nowhere, meeting rooms connect directly to both bathrooms and executive offices, and rooms scattered throughout the floor probably shouldn't even exist- at least, you're fairly certain that your parents' offices had never had operating rooms installed beside their break rooms.
It's not hard to pick your way through the rooms with the building's blueprints open, though.
Occasionally, locked doors attempt to bar your way, but liberal application of force opens the way easily enough.
A few minutes later, you finally arrive in the room your ally had marked. It's a cramped room, filled with machines crammed against the walls and stacked six high.
"This isn't a mainframe," you say disapprovingly to Shamus. "It looks like a storage cupboard for old tower cases."
You hear a disappointed sigh over your connection. "Don't judge it by its appearance," he replies reprovingly. "It's a closed system. If you want me to search the system for these files, I'll need a physical access point. Plug my jack in and I'll get to work."
"Right." You retrieve the cord Shamus had handed you prior to the mission's start. It's a simple plug, from what you can see. Usable even for someone as technologically disabled as you. One end slots into the keyboard port on the machine, one end slots into your earpiece, and Shamus does his magic. Simple.
After a few moments, you're reminded why you'd always have made a terrible stealth operative; you can't stand silence. From the time you were a kid, you'd always been surrounded by sound. The omnipresent sound of machinery on the Upper Level. The shouts and whimpers in the dojo. The sound of rowdy soldiers and gunfire during your time in the military. Standing around in silence just seems wrong.
You hold out as long as you can, but eventually, the silence gets to you. Your thoughts begin to spin around in circles, and you're having trouble shaking off the tiredness that's creeping over you.
"Hey, Shamus?" you venture.
He responds with an annoyed grunt. "Yes? I'm busy here, Vector. Make it quick."
You pout. "I was just wondering why you signed up with Cydonia," you justify yourself quickly. "If we're going to be teammates-"
"I know how team bonding works," he replies curtly. "I have your files, by the way. They're being uploaded to your commlink's storage unit now. There's a lot of information there, so I suggest searching through them later. I will search for the bio-enhancement schematics now. Inform me if we run out of time."
A large frown makes its way over your face. "You're not very good at being subtle," you complain. "If you don't want to tell me, just say so."
It seems like every sound you're drawing from him lately is an aggravated sigh, or close to it. "I'm not dodging your questions, I am trying to concentrate." He sounds like he's talking through clenched teeth. "I approached our employers with my resume because they offered a good paycheck, and I was tired of being chased by the police all the time. Okay?"
It's not okay, not really, but you force yourself to calm down some anyway. You're not very good at the whole technology thing, but from what you understand, forcing your way through cyber-security like this is really tough. You probably shouldn't be distracting him like this. "Okay," you reply.
You idly wonder if you might be able to "obtain" a copy of the videotape of his interview, later. You really should know more about him, if you're going to be working with him regularly. And you're interested in comparing his interview to your own. After all, they couldn't be too similar, given how different your backgrounds were.
You close your eyes, thinking back to your own interview. Many of the questions asked by corporations like Cydonia related back to your history, and how you felt about it. It was rather important that they do so, as you'd later found out; your compatibility with the augmentations you'd been given depended largely on your mindset.
When you had talked about your past, you'd told them…
You grew up rich. You...
[ ] Liked it enough that you at least tried to get along with your parents and extended family.
[ ] Wish you were more suited for that life. You tried as hard as you can, but some people are just born misfits.
[ ] Didn't like it. It was too formal, too stuffy. You left it the moment you could.
[ ] Didn't like it. It was too Machiavellian, even if your education is the only reason you know what 'Machiavellian' means.
[ ] Don't really care about it either way. You had your interests, your parents didn't bother you the moment they realized you weren't going to be a great heir to their name.
[ ] Write-in
You ended up doing martial arts-not the McDojo kind, the real kind which involved learning to hurt people. Why?
[ ] You already knew how to hurt people. What martial arts taught was when not to do it.
[ ] Because you wanted something that you owned, something you mastered that wasn't because of your upbringing.
[ ] Because you wanted to be like the heroes you saw on TV. You wanted to defend the weak and espouse truth and justice and the American Way.
[ ] Because you were the competitive type, and needed to win. And the kind of 'formal' stuff that your parents wanted you to learn? That didn't teach you how to really win.
[ ] Write-in
Then you joined the military, because...
[ ] You wanted something more meaningful than an invisible but well-paying corporate job. You found that.
[ ] You wanted something more meaningful than an invisible but well-paying corporate job. Turns out that bullshit is bullshit, whether the guy spewing it wears a suit or a uniform.
[ ] To try to do some good in the world. "I just figure that we have two things we can do. Help, or we can sit back and watch a country destroy itself on CNN. Right?" You helped, you think. You made a bit of a difference.
[ ] To try to do some good in the world. "I just figure that we have two things we can do. Help, or we can sit back and watch a country destroy itself on CNN. Right?" Should have stayed back home and watched CNN.
[ ] Write-in
And now you're here.
[ ] Where else were you going to go? You didn't want the military anymore, they didn't want you, you didn't exactly have any other marketable skills. It was either something like this or being a full-time outlaw.
[ ] You thought it was going to be more 'superheroics' than 'corporate raiding, emphasis on the raiding.' That's how they sold it to you. You should have listened to your parents.
[ ] You remember your old history lessons-how the supermen of WW2 used that power and influence to put themselves into politics, had a hand in making the world the way it was. The world's fucked up, and the system's fucked up, but you need to do something like this to get any real chance at making the world a better place.
[ ] You were an idealist. Once. Not anymore. The world's made you stop giving a fuck-and this job pays well and lets you look good on camera.
[ ] Write-in
Prologue 5: Men like gods
Prologue 5: Men like gods
The minutes tick by as you scan the halls, idly bouncing your rifle off your leg. You're growing a bit antsy. Nearly ten minutes have passed.
"Time's nearly up," you warn him. "One more minute and we're extracting."
"Hold on," Shamus replied, strain evident in his voice. "I am nearly done searching these files now. If you give me just two minutes, I will have the information you need."
You frown, looking over to your mechanical servitors. A small window pops up, superimposed over their image. Battery levels at 78%, it flashes at you. Assault Platform v. 32 units at combat readiness. Please advise- and you terminate the connection, turning away and blinking your eyes to lose the afterimage.
The seconds tick down slowly. Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five.
"AP32 units," you say out loud. "Prepare for extraction. Maintain sensors, and extend sensor range to maximum."
"Acknowledged," they reply as one. You shudder a little. Mechanical voice modulation just sounds wrong. "Sensor range: nine hundred twenty-two meters. No irregularities."
Sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three.
You touch your earpiece anxiously. It's been ten minutes since you first gave Shamus access to the building, and twenty since you broke into the building. A ten minute extraction window makes it thirty minutes between entry and extraction.
Typical Justice Brigade response times are twenty-seven minutes.
"Shamus." You try your best to keep your voice calm and collected. "Are you done yet?"
"I am very close," he snaps. Worry and frustration are warring for supremacy in his voice. "Just a few more moments and you will be free to leave. The files are being uploaded to my server as we speak."
One hundred and eight, one hundred and nine, one hundred and ten.
One of your robots speaks up in its crackly synthetic voice. "Sensors indicate falling lifesigns on ground floor."
"What's takin' you so long?" You're almost startled as Flamestrike speaks gruffly over your earpiece. "Immolator's done, moving in to clean up now. Plasmius won't be a problem much longer. Got anything to report, or are you just fuckarsin' around?"
"Security on the mainframe was tighter than expected," you reply, standing and straightening. One hundred and seventy-seven, one hundred and seventy-eight. "Beginning extraction now."
"Meet you in the foyer then. Don't take too long, kid." He ended the connection abruptly.
One hundred and eighty-eight, one hundred and eighty-nine, one hundred and ninety.
"We're extracting now, Sh-"
There's a soft click in your ear, and a notification in your HUD reads, Commlink switched to secure channel.
"Proceed with caution, Vector," Shamus warns you. "Syndicate frequencies are indicating signs of increased chatter. Something is happening."
"Got it," you reply, brow crinkling. "Why are we speaking on a secure channel, Shamus?"
He hesitates just long enough that you catch it. "... Please don't worry about it."
Two hundred and sixteen, two hundred and seventeen, two hundred and eighteen.
You abandon all notions of stealth as you sprint down the hallways. The sound of metal scraping against metal betrays that even the advanced AP32 units are having trouble keeping up with you.
"Not good enough," you tell him coolly, vaulting over a table as you do so. "Don't think I didn't notice you going off comms earlier. Explain yourself."
His hesitance is much more noticeable this time.
Two hundred and thirty-one, two hundred and thirty-two, two hundred and thirty-three.
"I am probably just being paranoid," he says slowly. "I have to wonder, however, what kind of covert operation is assigned a pyrokinetic without restricting him from using explosives. It rather defeats the purpose of acting covertly, doesn't it?"
You rush down the stairs to the second floor, bounding down them six at a time. One of your robots missteps, his legs buckling beneath him. He recovers in seconds, but by then, you're three corridors down.
Two hundred and forty-five, two hundred and forty-six, two hundred and forty-seven.
"And if this operation were concerned with opportunistic power grabs," he continues, "why would they send only a single agent? Robotic units like those aren't cheap, after all. They could hire some mercs to do the same thing and not pay out for replacing RIUs. So why only send you?"
Two hundred and sixty, two hundred and sixty-one, two hundred and sixty-two.
"So what?" you reply somewhat breathlessly. "So they didn't tell us what their real goals are. Who cares?"
"I do. I do not like being used, Vector. So I went digging a little while I was in the mainframe."
"You what?"
"I stole some of, well, a lot of their files while I was there," he continues over you. "Honestly, every file that was small enough to steal in the miniscule timeframe you afforded me. Including their employee files."
That catches your attention.
Two hundred and seventy-three, two hundred and seventy-four, two hundred and seventy-five.
"So what?" you ask, ducking around another corner and finding yourself at the first floor stairwell. You slow down some. You still have time.
"So," Shamus explains condescendingly, "I scanned through them, looking for anything that might be relevant. And I did."
You're near the foyer now. Fifteen seconds away at your current pace.
"Did you know that Plasmius is classified as having been outfitted with G5X augmentations?"
That makes you stop. You remember the classifications from your military days. Generation 1, the first guys. Human-plus. The guys who fought in WW2. Generation 2, taking biology to the limits. Acid spit and spider-senses. Generation 3. The first cybernetic integration, the rise of 'mil-spec' biomods. Generation 4, 'modern' augmentation, the cool non-linear, non-straightforward stuff like broad-scale psionics and element control. Generation 5 is rare. Cutting edge. Powers that let you walk into a megacorp like Cydonia and get an interview immediately. G5X means the cutting edge of the cutting edge. The kind of technology used in NATO's attempts to build artificial gods.
"What?"
"Yes," he says grimly. "That caught my attention, too."
Two hundred and ninety, two hundred and ninety-one, two hundred and ninety-two.
"It might be paranoia speaking," he enunciates slowly, "but I rather doubt it. I don't think this was a covert raid, Vector. I think this was a recruitment mission, and we're here as the cover."
Two hundred and ninety-eight. Two hundred and ninety-nine.
"The fall guys," you correct him.
Three hundred.
Your earpiece crackles again.
"I can see you out there, Vector." Flamestrike sounds annoyed. "Immolator's being an annoying fuckwad and won't show his face. Come on in and give us a hand."
You close that channel, reopening Shamus' secure one.
"Well," you say hollowly, "I guess we're out of time."
"Hacking into the security feeds now," he says in response. "I'll do what I can to support you from here."
"Thanks."
You step forwards into the room.
It's been destroyed. Debris lies everywhere, the wreckage of walls and pillars, of desks and chairs and benches. Smoke wafts all over the room from small fires, some still burning despite the lack of combustible materials amidst the wrecked room. And, worst of all, you can hear the faint shoom-sha sound of energy shields, humming from in front of the building. No escape by teleporting out, then.
In front of you, a boy stares up at you from his position hidden behind a fallen pillar, a horrified look on his face. Blood drips down his nose, and his jacket has been burned off, revealing hideous burns over his right arm.
And there, in the middle of the room, stand Flamestrike and Plasmius. You're relatively sure you could handle Flamestrike alone, even clad in power armor as he is. But a GODLIKE?
Your earpiece crackles. "I have broken the Syndicate's commlink encryption." Shamus' tone is businesslike now. "They are reporting the Justice Brigade en route. ETA five minutes and counting. I doubt Cydonia wants their recruitment of Plasmius publicized, so I believe they will extract prior to their arrival."
So you don't have to kill a GODLIKE, then. Just survive against him and a Gen-4 for four minutes. Great.
Your earpiece crackles.
"Okay," Shamus mutters into your ear. "Remember our ex-buddy Flamestrike? Real name redacted. Powers… psychokinesis, ranked minimally, pyrokinesis, ranked at a solid 4 on the Kane-Siegel scale-a bit higher than your teleportation. Damn. Physical augmentation, civilian-level. Equipped with a Mark 7 Behemoth-class exoskeleton. Not as fast as yours, but stronger."
"And from the files we have Plasmius, real name- I don't think I've ever seen anything that redacted before. Powers- control over some form of matter, provisionally labeled "ectoplasm" in employee notes. Matter exhibits properties of both physical and gaseous matters. Enhanced physical capabilities, rank 3, higher than mental augmentations, which are only rank 2. Capable of- the physical reanimation of corpses. What? Summons ectoplasmic "wraiths", capable of walking through walls- and this is just the stuff that isn't redacted."
"GODLIKEs are bullshit," you both say simultaneously.
"Alright," he finishes in a rush. "Remember, they might be more powerful, but they're constrained too. Anything too flashy might draw more attention than they can handle, or leave traces behind."
"Yeah." Your thoughts race.
You don't have many assets open to you right now. Your four AP32 units have followed you down, but they will be of somewhat… limited use. They're intended for use against low-level superhumans, not GODLIKEs. They certainly won't be very threatening with their current loadout. At best, they might provide a distraction. At worst, they might prove a hindrance. Of course, you don't necessarily have to have them provide direct combat support.
Shamus is still muttering away in your ear as he assumes control over what remains of the building's security systems. Most of them are down, but he might be able to scramble up something. Anything will be of help. At minimum, he's gained access to the camera feeds, and has a direct commlink to you.
Immolator… isn't even an asset. He's a Syndicate asset. Still, the enemy of your enemy. If you can provide him with a persuasive argument, he might stick around and give you a hand in the fight. He's obviously held his own for over twenty minutes, even if Flamestrike must have spent much of that time giving Plasmius his recruitment pitch. And, frankly, anything is better than nothing.
[] Write-in. What is your plan? What are you going to do? How are you going to approach this combat?
A system post will follow this one shortly, to tell you how the operations system works and how rolls are resolved. It's not really complicated.
The minutes tick by as you scan the halls, idly bouncing your rifle off your leg. You're growing a bit antsy. Nearly ten minutes have passed.
"Time's nearly up," you warn him. "One more minute and we're extracting."
"Hold on," Shamus replied, strain evident in his voice. "I am nearly done searching these files now. If you give me just two minutes, I will have the information you need."
You frown, looking over to your mechanical servitors. A small window pops up, superimposed over their image. Battery levels at 78%, it flashes at you. Assault Platform v. 32 units at combat readiness. Please advise- and you terminate the connection, turning away and blinking your eyes to lose the afterimage.
The seconds tick down slowly. Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five.
"AP32 units," you say out loud. "Prepare for extraction. Maintain sensors, and extend sensor range to maximum."
"Acknowledged," they reply as one. You shudder a little. Mechanical voice modulation just sounds wrong. "Sensor range: nine hundred twenty-two meters. No irregularities."
Sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three.
You touch your earpiece anxiously. It's been ten minutes since you first gave Shamus access to the building, and twenty since you broke into the building. A ten minute extraction window makes it thirty minutes between entry and extraction.
Typical Justice Brigade response times are twenty-seven minutes.
"Shamus." You try your best to keep your voice calm and collected. "Are you done yet?"
"I am very close," he snaps. Worry and frustration are warring for supremacy in his voice. "Just a few more moments and you will be free to leave. The files are being uploaded to my server as we speak."
One hundred and eight, one hundred and nine, one hundred and ten.
One of your robots speaks up in its crackly synthetic voice. "Sensors indicate falling lifesigns on ground floor."
"What's takin' you so long?" You're almost startled as Flamestrike speaks gruffly over your earpiece. "Immolator's done, moving in to clean up now. Plasmius won't be a problem much longer. Got anything to report, or are you just fuckarsin' around?"
"Security on the mainframe was tighter than expected," you reply, standing and straightening. One hundred and seventy-seven, one hundred and seventy-eight. "Beginning extraction now."
"Meet you in the foyer then. Don't take too long, kid." He ended the connection abruptly.
One hundred and eighty-eight, one hundred and eighty-nine, one hundred and ninety.
"We're extracting now, Sh-"
There's a soft click in your ear, and a notification in your HUD reads, Commlink switched to secure channel.
"Proceed with caution, Vector," Shamus warns you. "Syndicate frequencies are indicating signs of increased chatter. Something is happening."
"Got it," you reply, brow crinkling. "Why are we speaking on a secure channel, Shamus?"
He hesitates just long enough that you catch it. "... Please don't worry about it."
Two hundred and sixteen, two hundred and seventeen, two hundred and eighteen.
You abandon all notions of stealth as you sprint down the hallways. The sound of metal scraping against metal betrays that even the advanced AP32 units are having trouble keeping up with you.
"Not good enough," you tell him coolly, vaulting over a table as you do so. "Don't think I didn't notice you going off comms earlier. Explain yourself."
His hesitance is much more noticeable this time.
Two hundred and thirty-one, two hundred and thirty-two, two hundred and thirty-three.
"I am probably just being paranoid," he says slowly. "I have to wonder, however, what kind of covert operation is assigned a pyrokinetic without restricting him from using explosives. It rather defeats the purpose of acting covertly, doesn't it?"
You rush down the stairs to the second floor, bounding down them six at a time. One of your robots missteps, his legs buckling beneath him. He recovers in seconds, but by then, you're three corridors down.
Two hundred and forty-five, two hundred and forty-six, two hundred and forty-seven.
"And if this operation were concerned with opportunistic power grabs," he continues, "why would they send only a single agent? Robotic units like those aren't cheap, after all. They could hire some mercs to do the same thing and not pay out for replacing RIUs. So why only send you?"
Two hundred and sixty, two hundred and sixty-one, two hundred and sixty-two.
"So what?" you reply somewhat breathlessly. "So they didn't tell us what their real goals are. Who cares?"
"I do. I do not like being used, Vector. So I went digging a little while I was in the mainframe."
"You what?"
"I stole some of, well, a lot of their files while I was there," he continues over you. "Honestly, every file that was small enough to steal in the miniscule timeframe you afforded me. Including their employee files."
That catches your attention.
Two hundred and seventy-three, two hundred and seventy-four, two hundred and seventy-five.
"So what?" you ask, ducking around another corner and finding yourself at the first floor stairwell. You slow down some. You still have time.
"So," Shamus explains condescendingly, "I scanned through them, looking for anything that might be relevant. And I did."
You're near the foyer now. Fifteen seconds away at your current pace.
"Did you know that Plasmius is classified as having been outfitted with G5X augmentations?"
That makes you stop. You remember the classifications from your military days. Generation 1, the first guys. Human-plus. The guys who fought in WW2. Generation 2, taking biology to the limits. Acid spit and spider-senses. Generation 3. The first cybernetic integration, the rise of 'mil-spec' biomods. Generation 4, 'modern' augmentation, the cool non-linear, non-straightforward stuff like broad-scale psionics and element control. Generation 5 is rare. Cutting edge. Powers that let you walk into a megacorp like Cydonia and get an interview immediately. G5X means the cutting edge of the cutting edge. The kind of technology used in NATO's attempts to build artificial gods.
"What?"
"Yes," he says grimly. "That caught my attention, too."
Two hundred and ninety, two hundred and ninety-one, two hundred and ninety-two.
"It might be paranoia speaking," he enunciates slowly, "but I rather doubt it. I don't think this was a covert raid, Vector. I think this was a recruitment mission, and we're here as the cover."
Two hundred and ninety-eight. Two hundred and ninety-nine.
"The fall guys," you correct him.
Three hundred.
Your earpiece crackles again.
"I can see you out there, Vector." Flamestrike sounds annoyed. "Immolator's being an annoying fuckwad and won't show his face. Come on in and give us a hand."
You close that channel, reopening Shamus' secure one.
"Well," you say hollowly, "I guess we're out of time."
"Hacking into the security feeds now," he says in response. "I'll do what I can to support you from here."
"Thanks."
You step forwards into the room.
It's been destroyed. Debris lies everywhere, the wreckage of walls and pillars, of desks and chairs and benches. Smoke wafts all over the room from small fires, some still burning despite the lack of combustible materials amidst the wrecked room. And, worst of all, you can hear the faint shoom-sha sound of energy shields, humming from in front of the building. No escape by teleporting out, then.
In front of you, a boy stares up at you from his position hidden behind a fallen pillar, a horrified look on his face. Blood drips down his nose, and his jacket has been burned off, revealing hideous burns over his right arm.
And there, in the middle of the room, stand Flamestrike and Plasmius. You're relatively sure you could handle Flamestrike alone, even clad in power armor as he is. But a GODLIKE?
Your earpiece crackles. "I have broken the Syndicate's commlink encryption." Shamus' tone is businesslike now. "They are reporting the Justice Brigade en route. ETA five minutes and counting. I doubt Cydonia wants their recruitment of Plasmius publicized, so I believe they will extract prior to their arrival."
So you don't have to kill a GODLIKE, then. Just survive against him and a Gen-4 for four minutes. Great.
Planning Time
Your earpiece crackles.
"Okay," Shamus mutters into your ear. "Remember our ex-buddy Flamestrike? Real name redacted. Powers… psychokinesis, ranked minimally, pyrokinesis, ranked at a solid 4 on the Kane-Siegel scale-a bit higher than your teleportation. Damn. Physical augmentation, civilian-level. Equipped with a Mark 7 Behemoth-class exoskeleton. Not as fast as yours, but stronger."
"And from the files we have Plasmius, real name- I don't think I've ever seen anything that redacted before. Powers- control over some form of matter, provisionally labeled "ectoplasm" in employee notes. Matter exhibits properties of both physical and gaseous matters. Enhanced physical capabilities, rank 3, higher than mental augmentations, which are only rank 2. Capable of- the physical reanimation of corpses. What? Summons ectoplasmic "wraiths", capable of walking through walls- and this is just the stuff that isn't redacted."
"GODLIKEs are bullshit," you both say simultaneously.
"Alright," he finishes in a rush. "Remember, they might be more powerful, but they're constrained too. Anything too flashy might draw more attention than they can handle, or leave traces behind."
"Yeah." Your thoughts race.
You don't have many assets open to you right now. Your four AP32 units have followed you down, but they will be of somewhat… limited use. They're intended for use against low-level superhumans, not GODLIKEs. They certainly won't be very threatening with their current loadout. At best, they might provide a distraction. At worst, they might prove a hindrance. Of course, you don't necessarily have to have them provide direct combat support.
Shamus is still muttering away in your ear as he assumes control over what remains of the building's security systems. Most of them are down, but he might be able to scramble up something. Anything will be of help. At minimum, he's gained access to the camera feeds, and has a direct commlink to you.
Immolator… isn't even an asset. He's a Syndicate asset. Still, the enemy of your enemy. If you can provide him with a persuasive argument, he might stick around and give you a hand in the fight. He's obviously held his own for over twenty minutes, even if Flamestrike must have spent much of that time giving Plasmius his recruitment pitch. And, frankly, anything is better than nothing.
[] Write-in. What is your plan? What are you going to do? How are you going to approach this combat?
A system post will follow this one shortly, to tell you how the operations system works and how rolls are resolved. It's not really complicated.
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Personal-Scale Rules Summary
Rules Update
Basic Rules
The basic unit of actions in Cowl is an operation. That's, more or less, "a series of related rolls and updates with a clear goal in mind for the characters involved." Actions in an operation are resolved via rolling a dice pool of d6s. 4-6 is a success. 1s and 6s lead to bad and good things, respectively, although oftentimes they'll cancel each other out. You create this dice pool by using one of the core stats-Tactical, Negotiation, Security, or Technical, and then adding bonuses. Stats normally go from 0, which means that you are basically completely untrained in that area, to 6, which means you're one of the best in that category.
Tactical is the stat used to govern your capability of handling yourself in a fight. If it involves getting into a beat-down, you use Tactical-whether that beatdown involves a knife fight in a back alley or a jet fighter duel in the friendly skies.
Negotiation provides you a guide as to how good you are at winning friends and influencing people. It's used for social interactions when you want to get something from someone.
Security is the stat that governs being sneaky or detecting being sneaky. It involves picking locks, computer hacking, sneaking around, and detecting people doing the same.
Technical governs your aptitude with high-tech equipment, from maintenance to customization and repair.
Now, you can always roll your stats 'clean' if you think you have to. But you probably don't want to. That's why Traits exist. If you can suggest a way a trait is applicable-it only has to be one sentence, although more detailed write-ins are always appreciated, and that makes sense, you can add your trait to the roll. If multiple traits are applicable, the highest trait is added to the roll, and another +1 or +2 bonus is granted to that roll depending on the sum rating of the applicable traits. Traits are rated from 1-6, where '1' is "this is a thing I did that I learned something from" and '6' is "people have written books about this trait of mine."
And then, there's powers. Unlike traits or attributes, a power adds straight-up successes to the roll. No rolling, nothing. Just straight up successes because of your posthuman might. Again, you need to say how the power's applicable. This can be straightforward (like it is right now), or it has to involve some creativity. Powers on the sheet represent 'primary' powers-things which are very, very big and meaty and impressive. 'secondary' powers tend to be folded into attributes and/or traits. If you have multiple applicable powers, they don't stack linearly. The most powerful power gives its full bonus, the second gives half its bonus, the third a quarter... all power bonuses are rounded normally.
Support Assets
Being a cyberpunk superhero game (capepunk?) you're not just going to be relying on Ez and her quirky superpowered buddies. Sometimes you will have situations where your team of carefully picked mentally questionable superheroes will not have any applicable talents. Other times you're going to need additional bonuses to your rolls. Yet other times you're going to need just another pair of hands.
Support Assets are those extras. They're the nameless mooks who exist to do all the things that nameless mooks do-typically the unglamorous, high-risk, low-reward things. Or simply playing second fiddle to your agents. They are generally outclassed by agents individually in their areas of expertise to the point where they're deployed as teams, they probably won't ever have 'superpowers' and if they do they'll be really low-rank stuff that's also super-specific, and will never get names.
However, they provide two benefits. First, they can be used to substitute rolls. If you guard your hacker with a killer robot squad, and they get into a fight, they can use the killer robot squad's Tactical rating and pertinent traits instead. Secondly, they can be used to enhance someone else's roll via the power of teamwork. A teleporting superpowered ninja is deadly. A teleporting superpowered ninja backed by an attack helicopter is more deadly. However, support assets are not infinite nor indestructible. Right now, your only support asset is the AP32 team, which has already taken a hit. For the purposes of this scenario, 2 more 'hits' will take them out of play for good.Support Assets are those extras. They're the nameless mooks who exist to do all the things that nameless mooks do-typically the unglamorous, high-risk, low-reward things. Or simply playing second fiddle to your agents. They are generally outclassed by agents individually in their areas of expertise to the point where they're deployed as teams, they probably won't ever have 'superpowers' and if they do they'll be really low-rank stuff that's also super-specific, and will never get names.
Character Sheets
Powers:
Physical Boost [3]
Teleportation [4]
Traits:
Martial Artist [4]
Strategist [2]
Ex-Military [2]
Stats:
Tactical [5]
Negotiation [4]
Security [2]
Technical [0]
Codename: Shamus
Powers:
Mental Boost [2]
Technopathy [1]
Traits:
Hacker [3]
Fugitive [2]
Stats:
Security [4]
Technical [4]
Negotiation [1]
Tactical [1]
Codename: Immolator
Powers:
Plasma Control [3]
Limited Flight Capabilities [1]
Traits:
Ex-Gang Member [2]
Down On His Luck [2]
Stats:
Tactical [4]
Negotiation [2]
Technical [2]
Security [1]
Support Asset: AP32 Team
Traits:
Remorseless Killer Robots (Last Year's Model) [3]
Automated Sentry Mode [3]
Stats:
Tactical 5/+2
Negotiation 0/+0
Technical 1/+0
Security 1/+0
Prologue 6: Burned
- Location
- Australia
Prologue 6: Burned
You stand in the entryway, all eyes on you. It's not quite tense, not quite fearful. It's more a sense of vertigo, the world coming unmoored. The situation slipping through your fingers as you teeter on the edge of the precipice. Motion with a pair of fingers, hand on the hilt of your shocksword. The 'bots retreat, following your commands to retreat and retrieve weaponry. You think Flamestrike sighs, you can't quite hear him over the blood rushing in your ears.
Fuck Cydonia, fuck the Syndicate, and fuck Flamestrike with a rusty chunk of rebar.
Ideally in that order.
"Hey. Immolator." You say, a rictus forced onto your face. Teeth gritted, grinding, you don't glance his way. You don't dare take your eyes off of the pair of enhanciles. "Way I see it, shits hit the fan a bit and we're in the same boat, yeah? Cydonia wants my ass. Syndicate's going to rip you a few new ones. So, here's your choice: you come with me and we both walk away. Or you stay here. Alone."
You jerk your chin at the pair of figures in the center of the wreckage, the ruins of the lobby. Your free hand extended, outstretched to the burned boy huddled behind the rubble.
"With them. What's it going to be?"
He looks up at you, and a wave of fire washes towards you. Fast. Too fast. Instinctively, you glance to the side and shift, but even in that fraction of a second, the fire reaches you.
The world shifts, blurs, and pain lances up your arm for a moment before the sensation is replaced by the dull icy cold as your trauma compensators kick in. A terrified shriek emanates from the ruins of the pillar Immolator was hiding behind as you stagger against a wall, biting back a loud cry as your charred arm crashes against it.
The flames shift, changing course towards your new position. You bite back a vicious swear and glance off to the side again, reappearing back where you were standing. Plasma shimmers, a failing shield thrown in a dome over the teen's position. The teen's eyes are still wide open, his chest still rising and falling. Good.
The flames shift again, rushing back towards you.
You look forwards, and shift.
Reaching out, feeling the tearing of dead muscle and skin, you reach out with your right arm, not your ruined left, and grab Immolator by the shoulder, spinning as you do so. Your gaze falls down the hall you'd just passed through.
You shift.
Warning, blares a red warning on your HUD. Internal power storage at 81%. Power stores falling at unsafe rates. Cease overuse of-
You dismiss the warning, shifting your grip on the teen. With your ruined arm, the bridal carry is out. Over the shoulder it is.
"Oh, come on." Flamestrike's voice echoes out of the room behind you, and over the sound of crackling flames, you can hear the heavy thoom-thoom of his footsteps. Lighter footsteps follow them, likely those of Plasmius. "I am not getting paid enough for this shit, seriously."
You swear softly, looking back down the hall. Another shift, and you're at a crossroads, halls stretching left and right. Behind you, flames begin to crackle again. They must have exited the room already.
Internal power storage at 66%. Power stores falling at unsafe rates. Overuse of class-F Dimension-Shift Augmentations may void warranty.
"Shamus!" You scream. "If you have any tricks you can do with building security, now's the time!"
"Working on it." He manages, irritatingly calm. "And- oh fuck." That's uncharacteristic.
"Oh fuck?"
"Plasmius has rebooted the building's security. All of it. In autistic mode. It's not listening to any outside signals. If you can interface with it-"
"I don't do tech!" You scream at him. "All I know is that whatever he did should be impossible!"
"It would be, but apparently one of those redacted augmentations he has is a strategic-grade EWar suite."
"What." You manage, before a pair of autocannon drop down from the roof and you aren't doing much talking. You run as fast as you can, breathing labored. They're powerful, but not quite fast enough to track you.
"I know." Shamus says. "Take the right. The defenses are less dense there." You corner, almost skidding like a motorcycle, depleted-uranium rounds ricocheting all around you. Antipersonnel lasers come online, and you almost stop before Shamus responds. "They're not rated to deal with you. Go through them." You do-but your hesitation costs you, as one of the autocannons wings you as you run. Your vision goes black in one side, and there's another brief jolt of pain and then the strangely detached iciness as your augmentation blocks it out.
You can hear footsteps behind you as the autocannon die down. You know from the tread that it can't be Flamestrike. There's no mechanical thoom-thoom-thoom from a heavy exoskeleton, so it has to be the other. The GODLIKE. Plasmius.
Wraithlike things, with disturbing features and long ethereal talons, chase you. Inaccurate but voluminous fire comes from the things which were once men, now dead and defiled-Plasmius's former coworkers, turned into little more than military assets. You dodge the wraiths, striking back with kicks and headbutts when you can. They slacken and shatter-at least they're not incorporeal. Or not capable of turning incorporeal like him.
You dare to look back as the fire slackens. Plasmius is on the floor. There's a wound on his head, with almost no bleeding, and a crater in the far wall. He staggers for a moment. You look at your HUD-your AP32s have followed your orders-retrieved the weapons from the unconscious security, and are using them to lethal effect. Grenade after grenade, railgun after railgun, starts pounding the wraiths and Plasmius's position.
"He's distracted. What do I do?" You ask. You know for a fact that something like this won't kill him. You, certainly. But not someone like him. They'd have designed him to survive on a battlefield. Bones made out of matter alien to the universe until decades ago. Flesh rewoven, barely even human. Brain reinforced, bit by bit, by nanotech scaffolding until you could probably bounce a bullet off of his gray matter. Organs replaced by superior machinery, the space freed up used for all the technology necessary to create a demigod.
Plasmius reappears, phasing back into reality, and a lance of the same pseudomatter the wraiths were made of spears out of the ground, impaling one of your AP32s. They won't last very long. You need another distraction.
"Plug the interface into the nearest security console." Shamus says. "Now. Get me a direct line." You don't question him, you just act. You jam the plug in so hard you're afraid you've broken it. But you haven't, as the building's security shuts down and reboots. Turns on Plasmius. A blast wall seals itself. "I've powered up phasic disruptors on the building. They should slow him down a little. Make it harder for him to phase through things." Blast doors shut. "Now run."
You run. It's all you can do. Every instinct in you tells you to go and fight, but you can't. Not against an enemy like this, not carrying a crippled super. Even so, it's a close thing. The zombies swarm at you, getting cut down by security turrets or antipersonnel grids, and the wraiths might not be capable of dematerializing before they get hit-unlike Plasmius, evidently-but they're definitely capable of dematerializing enough to pass through walls. Your stun stick runs out of charge when you're almost out of the building.
"Incoming QRF." Shamus says. "You need to get out now. The shield is going down."
You bite back another soft curse as you slide, one-handed, down a disabled elevator shaft, body straining as you kick the doors again and again-and are rewarded with the sight of the moon. Of other buildings. Of the now-very-abandoned lobby. It's quiet behind you. Flamestrike and Plasmius are already making their escape, you think.
"ETA thirty-five seconds and counting," Shamus says softly. "The shield is down. Get out of there, Vector."
"On it," you grit out. Turning away from the incoming lights, you look off to the right, towards the apartment buildings over there. It's farther than you'd like, especially with an unconscious Immolator over your shoulder, but you shift. The sky blurs, night sky suddenly lit bright orange as you fall to your knees on the roof of an apartment building.
Power stores at critical levels, your HUD notes. Shutdown imminent in ninety-six minutes.
The sound of keys tapping is audible over your earpiece. Shamus must be typing furiously for it to be audible over that.
"There is a clinic on the corner of three-thirty-ninth and seven-sixty-seventh," he mutters into your ear. "Your vitals are dropping. Can you survive long enough to make it there, or do you need me to find you somewhere safer?"
"No," you groan. Immolator seems to be growing heavier by the moment, although you know that's just an illusion. He might only be a teenager, but he's augmented, and cybernetics weigh a lot more than regular tissue does. With the stresses you've been putting your body under, you're not surprised that your body is beginning to give out. "I'm not the only loose end, they'll send somebody after you too. Tell me where-"
"Stop worrying, Vector," he drawls. "Of course Cydonia will have sent somebody to eliminate me. I am not stupid enough by half to sit around waiting for them. Ah, but for the glory of portable machinery." You relax. Marginally. "I've contacted a taxi company. They'll make it between three-nineteenth and three-twentieth within the next fifteen minutes. Make your way to them. It'd be rather inconvenient for you to die now."
"Alright then," you exhale. "Give me a moment and I'll head off. See you soon."
"Please stay safe." You wait for the sound of him disconnecting, but it doesn't come.
Far down the street, you can see the faint light of a hover transport in front of the building you'd just abandoned, painted in bright, patriotic colors. The Justice Brigade, then, rather than any military or paramilitary QRF. Not close enough to see you make your escape, you hope. You'd check, shift closer or scan in closer with your optical cameras, but you're having a hard time focusing at the moment. It's hard to see when your vision is this dim, anyway.
Immolator twitches over your shoulder. You reflexively shift him back into position, then immediately regret it when the movement rubs the remnants of your power armour against the wreck of your arm.
Ten minutes, Shamus had said. You need to make it four blocks in ten minutes, with your vision slowly going black, a teen slung over your shoulder, and your teleportation out of juice. You stagger back to your feet, leaning precariously against a low-rise satellite dish as you do so. You're pretty sure you have enough juice in you to make it that far without collapsing. And so you stumble forwards, ignoring the sounds of your laboured breathing and the pain lancing from your ruined eye.
Two lives saved, three corporate secrets stolen, and all you had to pay was an arm, an eye and three hundred thousand dollars worth of military-grade hardware.
Not the worst trade you've ever made.
[] [Write-In] How do you feel about the betrayal you just experienced?
[] [Write-In] In light of the assistance he just offered you, what is your opinion on Shamus, and how do you feel about him?
Additionally, this is the last update in the prologue of the quest. Beginning in the next update, Ezmerelda is going to be entangled in the creation and running of a corporation. Fortunately for you, her background is very helpful for that. Ezmerelda's corporation will start off with a respectable amount of money, an office building, and enough employees to run the skeleton of a corporation.
In addition, Ezmerelda has recently stolen some dossiers on local assets, including PMC companies and low-level enhanciles, some files containing blackmail materials on local politicians and businessmen, and some civilian-level biotech schematics.
However, this alone isn't enough to run a business with. It's a good thing, then, that Ezmerelda has a background as varied as she does. Over her life, she has collected an eclectic mix of friends, assets and materials.
[] How many of her assets is Ezmerelda willing to contribute towards the development of her corporation?
[] What does Ezmerelda offer the business? Vote for one, but the total number of assets donated will be determined by the above vote.
You stand in the entryway, all eyes on you. It's not quite tense, not quite fearful. It's more a sense of vertigo, the world coming unmoored. The situation slipping through your fingers as you teeter on the edge of the precipice. Motion with a pair of fingers, hand on the hilt of your shocksword. The 'bots retreat, following your commands to retreat and retrieve weaponry. You think Flamestrike sighs, you can't quite hear him over the blood rushing in your ears.
Fuck Cydonia, fuck the Syndicate, and fuck Flamestrike with a rusty chunk of rebar.
Ideally in that order.
"Hey. Immolator." You say, a rictus forced onto your face. Teeth gritted, grinding, you don't glance his way. You don't dare take your eyes off of the pair of enhanciles. "Way I see it, shits hit the fan a bit and we're in the same boat, yeah? Cydonia wants my ass. Syndicate's going to rip you a few new ones. So, here's your choice: you come with me and we both walk away. Or you stay here. Alone."
You jerk your chin at the pair of figures in the center of the wreckage, the ruins of the lobby. Your free hand extended, outstretched to the burned boy huddled behind the rubble.
"With them. What's it going to be?"
He looks up at you, and a wave of fire washes towards you. Fast. Too fast. Instinctively, you glance to the side and shift, but even in that fraction of a second, the fire reaches you.
The world shifts, blurs, and pain lances up your arm for a moment before the sensation is replaced by the dull icy cold as your trauma compensators kick in. A terrified shriek emanates from the ruins of the pillar Immolator was hiding behind as you stagger against a wall, biting back a loud cry as your charred arm crashes against it.
The flames shift, changing course towards your new position. You bite back a vicious swear and glance off to the side again, reappearing back where you were standing. Plasma shimmers, a failing shield thrown in a dome over the teen's position. The teen's eyes are still wide open, his chest still rising and falling. Good.
The flames shift again, rushing back towards you.
You look forwards, and shift.
Reaching out, feeling the tearing of dead muscle and skin, you reach out with your right arm, not your ruined left, and grab Immolator by the shoulder, spinning as you do so. Your gaze falls down the hall you'd just passed through.
You shift.
Warning, blares a red warning on your HUD. Internal power storage at 81%. Power stores falling at unsafe rates. Cease overuse of-
You dismiss the warning, shifting your grip on the teen. With your ruined arm, the bridal carry is out. Over the shoulder it is.
"Oh, come on." Flamestrike's voice echoes out of the room behind you, and over the sound of crackling flames, you can hear the heavy thoom-thoom of his footsteps. Lighter footsteps follow them, likely those of Plasmius. "I am not getting paid enough for this shit, seriously."
You swear softly, looking back down the hall. Another shift, and you're at a crossroads, halls stretching left and right. Behind you, flames begin to crackle again. They must have exited the room already.
Internal power storage at 66%. Power stores falling at unsafe rates. Overuse of class-F Dimension-Shift Augmentations may void warranty.
"Shamus!" You scream. "If you have any tricks you can do with building security, now's the time!"
"Working on it." He manages, irritatingly calm. "And- oh fuck." That's uncharacteristic.
"Oh fuck?"
"Plasmius has rebooted the building's security. All of it. In autistic mode. It's not listening to any outside signals. If you can interface with it-"
"I don't do tech!" You scream at him. "All I know is that whatever he did should be impossible!"
"It would be, but apparently one of those redacted augmentations he has is a strategic-grade EWar suite."
"What." You manage, before a pair of autocannon drop down from the roof and you aren't doing much talking. You run as fast as you can, breathing labored. They're powerful, but not quite fast enough to track you.
"I know." Shamus says. "Take the right. The defenses are less dense there." You corner, almost skidding like a motorcycle, depleted-uranium rounds ricocheting all around you. Antipersonnel lasers come online, and you almost stop before Shamus responds. "They're not rated to deal with you. Go through them." You do-but your hesitation costs you, as one of the autocannons wings you as you run. Your vision goes black in one side, and there's another brief jolt of pain and then the strangely detached iciness as your augmentation blocks it out.
You can hear footsteps behind you as the autocannon die down. You know from the tread that it can't be Flamestrike. There's no mechanical thoom-thoom-thoom from a heavy exoskeleton, so it has to be the other. The GODLIKE. Plasmius.
Wraithlike things, with disturbing features and long ethereal talons, chase you. Inaccurate but voluminous fire comes from the things which were once men, now dead and defiled-Plasmius's former coworkers, turned into little more than military assets. You dodge the wraiths, striking back with kicks and headbutts when you can. They slacken and shatter-at least they're not incorporeal. Or not capable of turning incorporeal like him.
You dare to look back as the fire slackens. Plasmius is on the floor. There's a wound on his head, with almost no bleeding, and a crater in the far wall. He staggers for a moment. You look at your HUD-your AP32s have followed your orders-retrieved the weapons from the unconscious security, and are using them to lethal effect. Grenade after grenade, railgun after railgun, starts pounding the wraiths and Plasmius's position.
"He's distracted. What do I do?" You ask. You know for a fact that something like this won't kill him. You, certainly. But not someone like him. They'd have designed him to survive on a battlefield. Bones made out of matter alien to the universe until decades ago. Flesh rewoven, barely even human. Brain reinforced, bit by bit, by nanotech scaffolding until you could probably bounce a bullet off of his gray matter. Organs replaced by superior machinery, the space freed up used for all the technology necessary to create a demigod.
Plasmius reappears, phasing back into reality, and a lance of the same pseudomatter the wraiths were made of spears out of the ground, impaling one of your AP32s. They won't last very long. You need another distraction.
"Plug the interface into the nearest security console." Shamus says. "Now. Get me a direct line." You don't question him, you just act. You jam the plug in so hard you're afraid you've broken it. But you haven't, as the building's security shuts down and reboots. Turns on Plasmius. A blast wall seals itself. "I've powered up phasic disruptors on the building. They should slow him down a little. Make it harder for him to phase through things." Blast doors shut. "Now run."
You run. It's all you can do. Every instinct in you tells you to go and fight, but you can't. Not against an enemy like this, not carrying a crippled super. Even so, it's a close thing. The zombies swarm at you, getting cut down by security turrets or antipersonnel grids, and the wraiths might not be capable of dematerializing before they get hit-unlike Plasmius, evidently-but they're definitely capable of dematerializing enough to pass through walls. Your stun stick runs out of charge when you're almost out of the building.
"Incoming QRF." Shamus says. "You need to get out now. The shield is going down."
You bite back another soft curse as you slide, one-handed, down a disabled elevator shaft, body straining as you kick the doors again and again-and are rewarded with the sight of the moon. Of other buildings. Of the now-very-abandoned lobby. It's quiet behind you. Flamestrike and Plasmius are already making their escape, you think.
"ETA thirty-five seconds and counting," Shamus says softly. "The shield is down. Get out of there, Vector."
"On it," you grit out. Turning away from the incoming lights, you look off to the right, towards the apartment buildings over there. It's farther than you'd like, especially with an unconscious Immolator over your shoulder, but you shift. The sky blurs, night sky suddenly lit bright orange as you fall to your knees on the roof of an apartment building.
Power stores at critical levels, your HUD notes. Shutdown imminent in ninety-six minutes.
The sound of keys tapping is audible over your earpiece. Shamus must be typing furiously for it to be audible over that.
"There is a clinic on the corner of three-thirty-ninth and seven-sixty-seventh," he mutters into your ear. "Your vitals are dropping. Can you survive long enough to make it there, or do you need me to find you somewhere safer?"
"No," you groan. Immolator seems to be growing heavier by the moment, although you know that's just an illusion. He might only be a teenager, but he's augmented, and cybernetics weigh a lot more than regular tissue does. With the stresses you've been putting your body under, you're not surprised that your body is beginning to give out. "I'm not the only loose end, they'll send somebody after you too. Tell me where-"
"Stop worrying, Vector," he drawls. "Of course Cydonia will have sent somebody to eliminate me. I am not stupid enough by half to sit around waiting for them. Ah, but for the glory of portable machinery." You relax. Marginally. "I've contacted a taxi company. They'll make it between three-nineteenth and three-twentieth within the next fifteen minutes. Make your way to them. It'd be rather inconvenient for you to die now."
"Alright then," you exhale. "Give me a moment and I'll head off. See you soon."
"Please stay safe." You wait for the sound of him disconnecting, but it doesn't come.
Far down the street, you can see the faint light of a hover transport in front of the building you'd just abandoned, painted in bright, patriotic colors. The Justice Brigade, then, rather than any military or paramilitary QRF. Not close enough to see you make your escape, you hope. You'd check, shift closer or scan in closer with your optical cameras, but you're having a hard time focusing at the moment. It's hard to see when your vision is this dim, anyway.
Immolator twitches over your shoulder. You reflexively shift him back into position, then immediately regret it when the movement rubs the remnants of your power armour against the wreck of your arm.
Ten minutes, Shamus had said. You need to make it four blocks in ten minutes, with your vision slowly going black, a teen slung over your shoulder, and your teleportation out of juice. You stagger back to your feet, leaning precariously against a low-rise satellite dish as you do so. You're pretty sure you have enough juice in you to make it that far without collapsing. And so you stumble forwards, ignoring the sounds of your laboured breathing and the pain lancing from your ruined eye.
Two lives saved, three corporate secrets stolen, and all you had to pay was an arm, an eye and three hundred thousand dollars worth of military-grade hardware.
Not the worst trade you've ever made.
End Prologue
[] [Write-In] How do you feel about the betrayal you just experienced?
[] [Write-In] In light of the assistance he just offered you, what is your opinion on Shamus, and how do you feel about him?
Additionally, this is the last update in the prologue of the quest. Beginning in the next update, Ezmerelda is going to be entangled in the creation and running of a corporation. Fortunately for you, her background is very helpful for that. Ezmerelda's corporation will start off with a respectable amount of money, an office building, and enough employees to run the skeleton of a corporation.
In addition, Ezmerelda has recently stolen some dossiers on local assets, including PMC companies and low-level enhanciles, some files containing blackmail materials on local politicians and businessmen, and some civilian-level biotech schematics.
However, this alone isn't enough to run a business with. It's a good thing, then, that Ezmerelda has a background as varied as she does. Over her life, she has collected an eclectic mix of friends, assets and materials.
[] How many of her assets is Ezmerelda willing to contribute towards the development of her corporation?
[] Ezmerelda is willing to donate one portion of her assets towards the running of her business. She would prefer not to invest too much of herself in a corporation, even one run primarily by people she trusts.
[] Ezmerelda is willing to donate two portions of her assets towards the running of her business. Such an investment represents a significant investment on Ezmerelda's behalf, and will surely help the business get off the ground quicker. Note that this represents emotional investment on Ezmerelda's part, as well as financial investment.
[] Ezmerelda is willing to donate three portions of her assets towards the running of her business. Such an investment represents investing a great deal of Ezmerelda's assets into the corporation. Such an investment will surely help the business grow as fast as possible, allowing Ezmerelda to confront a corporation as powerful as Cydonia as fast as possible.
[] Ezmerelda is willing to donate two portions of her assets towards the running of her business. Such an investment represents a significant investment on Ezmerelda's behalf, and will surely help the business get off the ground quicker. Note that this represents emotional investment on Ezmerelda's part, as well as financial investment.
[] Ezmerelda is willing to donate three portions of her assets towards the running of her business. Such an investment represents investing a great deal of Ezmerelda's assets into the corporation. Such an investment will surely help the business grow as fast as possible, allowing Ezmerelda to confront a corporation as powerful as Cydonia as fast as possible.
[] What does Ezmerelda offer the business? Vote for one, but the total number of assets donated will be determined by the above vote.
[] Ezmerelda has a lot of money saved away. A lot of money, between her trust fund, her pay from her time in the military, the various hush moneys paid to her when she left the military, and the pay from her short stint at Cydonia. She invests most of it in the business, leaving herself with only enough to maintain a comfortable standard of living. (Doubles initial starting resources.)
[] Ezmerelda herself didn't go to university, but she was not completely friendless as a child, and many of her childhood friends did. Many of them are bored and restless enough to sign on with an old friend, although you suspect some of them may have ulterior motives. With many of them being engineering and electrical design majors, you know exactly what to do with them. (Start with a basic Cybernetics R&D Department.)
[] Ezmerelda herself didn't go to university, but she was not completely friendless as a child, and many of her childhood friends did. Many of them are bored and restless enough to sign on with an old friend, although you suspect some of them may have ulterior motives. With many of them being chemistry and bioengineering majors, you know exactly what to do with them. (Start with a basic Biotech R&D Department.)
[] Many of the people in her dojo were jealous of her talent and prowess- but not all of them. Some of them were willing to associate with her, and a few of them even liked her. The most important of these was Alice Starling, the daughter of a local businessman. She never introduced herself on-screen, but you'd recognize Phoenix's profile anywhere. Enough positive sentiment lingers between the two of you that she's tentatively willing to sign up with you… if offered a large enough starting bonus.
[] You may have left the military, but it didn't abandon you. Sublime Starlight, the support team assigned to you in Panama, might have been torn apart by your higher-ups after the kerfuffle there, but you still keep in regular contact. Many of them have jobs by now, but they will be willing to drop them... if you can offer something competitive. They do have families, after all.
[] The reputation of your parent's company, Greenlight Industries, precedes you. Down here in the Lower City, many people are willing to jump at any chance for what seems like a decent job. By capitalizing on your parent's reputations (no matter how much it galls you), you think you can hire enough people to fill out the ranks of your company. No more working with a skeleton staff for you!
[] Ezmerelda herself didn't go to university, but she was not completely friendless as a child, and many of her childhood friends did. Many of them are bored and restless enough to sign on with an old friend, although you suspect some of them may have ulterior motives. With many of them being engineering and electrical design majors, you know exactly what to do with them. (Start with a basic Cybernetics R&D Department.)
[] Ezmerelda herself didn't go to university, but she was not completely friendless as a child, and many of her childhood friends did. Many of them are bored and restless enough to sign on with an old friend, although you suspect some of them may have ulterior motives. With many of them being chemistry and bioengineering majors, you know exactly what to do with them. (Start with a basic Biotech R&D Department.)
[] Many of the people in her dojo were jealous of her talent and prowess- but not all of them. Some of them were willing to associate with her, and a few of them even liked her. The most important of these was Alice Starling, the daughter of a local businessman. She never introduced herself on-screen, but you'd recognize Phoenix's profile anywhere. Enough positive sentiment lingers between the two of you that she's tentatively willing to sign up with you… if offered a large enough starting bonus.
[] You may have left the military, but it didn't abandon you. Sublime Starlight, the support team assigned to you in Panama, might have been torn apart by your higher-ups after the kerfuffle there, but you still keep in regular contact. Many of them have jobs by now, but they will be willing to drop them... if you can offer something competitive. They do have families, after all.
[] The reputation of your parent's company, Greenlight Industries, precedes you. Down here in the Lower City, many people are willing to jump at any chance for what seems like a decent job. By capitalizing on your parent's reputations (no matter how much it galls you), you think you can hire enough people to fill out the ranks of your company. No more working with a skeleton staff for you!
[] Ezmerelda isn't willing to spend all of her resources on the company. Not right now. It might not be the best choice for the growth of the company, but she has much less to offer if she's forced to fight with civilian-grade cybernetic limbs. It'll be expensive, but she needs better replacements.
[] [Write-In] How does Ezmerelda find someone skilled enough to make replacement limbs strong enough to stand up to the stresses she's likely to put them under?
[] [Write-In] How does Ezmerelda find someone skilled enough to make replacement limbs strong enough to stand up to the stresses she's likely to put them under?
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Act 1: Downzone; Downzone 1: Interdiction
- Location
- Australia
Downzone 1: Interdiction
Forty-two days later
"I'm not comfortable with this," James tells you again as you approach the glass doors of the office. You glance at him, catching him fidgeting with his cuffs again. He flushes as he sees you looking and shoves his hands into his pockets, turning his head to hide his scowl from you.
He does look very uncomfortable, you have to admit. The suit you'd bought for him is well-fitted, and its typical blacks and whites complement him quite well, but he doesn't wear it well. He's not the kind of person who wears suits regularly, and it shows.
"I know," you reply soothingly. "You don't have to wear it for long, I promise, just while Alfonso shows us around the office."
He ducks his head, scowling furiously at the floor, but doesn't say anything further as the automatic door slides smoothly open in front of you. You've already explained why the two of you had to dress up, anyway- it's hard to explain away replacement limbs like yours to office workers.
As you enter the office, you see heads swivel towards you, straining to take in the new arrivals. Anyone the boss is standing around to greet must be important, after all.
"Hi, Alfonso," you greet him, adroitly drawing the room's attention to yourself and away from James. "Rolling out the welcome mat for us, huh?"
Your brother pushes himself off the desk of the receptionist he'd been flirting with. "The red carpet's at the dry cleaners," he replies smoothly. "I meant to have it ready for you, but my gofer is intolerably slow."
"Haha," you say dryly. "Planning on introducing us, Alfonso, or are we going to get on with the tour?"
He lets out a long sigh. "Always business, business, business with you," he complains. "Never have time for anything fun these days." You have to bite your cheek to keep from smirking at him in front of his employees. He turns back to the receptionist for a moment. "I guess I'd better go, love. My sister wants a tour of her new workplace."
Alfonso blows the man a kiss as he turns and walks away, gesturing for the two of you to follow him. As you move to follow him, you shoot the receptionist a sympathetic look. Nobody should have to put up with your brother's flirting, even the kind of man who actually wears argyle sweaters in public. He returns your look with a strained grimace.
"There's not much to show you at the moment," Alfonso admits when you catch up to him, moving into a room filled with partitioned cubicles. "You've seen the reception area. This is the main office, where our employees spend their time working and not staring at my sister, people."
The room is suddenly filled with the sounds of rustling paper and awkward coughing. Your cheek is going to start bleeding if you keep biting down on it this often.
"The break room is over there," he continues, gesturing towards the far wall, where an innocuous blue door opens into a room painted bleak white. You can see a microwave sitting on top of a refrigerator across from the door, and the edge off a coffee machine. The rest of the room is blocked off from view. Probably for the better; that coffee machine looks depressingly off-brand.
"Wait, we get breaks?" James pipes up, shooting a longing glance towards the coffee machine.
You have to shut that down, now. No teenaged enhancile will ever have to suffer generic brand instant coffee again while you have anything to say about it.
"No," you say sharply. "Next room."
You catch a smirk at the despondent look on James' face as Alfonso spins around,walking down a path in the middle of the cubicles. He leads you out a red-painted door, down a hall, and past a scattering of doors, introducing each room to you as he goes. Supply closet. Staff toilet. Other supply closet. Security's office. Another supply closet. Filing room. Yet more supply closet.
A sneaky suspicion creeps up on you.
"Alfonso," you ask, frowning, "did you spend all the funds I provided you with on supply closets?"
"Probably not," he answers evasively.
The tour continues as he leads you to an elevator. He presses the button for the fifth floor immediately- "Biotech's on the second floor," he whispers conspiratorially to you, "but they're damn creepy, better to skip them before one of them abducts me in my sleep."- and leads you out as soon as the doors open.
"And this is our floor," he concludes. "Top floor of the building."
"Wow," you deadpan. "You really went all-out with the decor, didn't you?"
If anything, this floor is even more spartan than the first. The first floor had at least had a few paintings hanging on the walls, and the sounds of people desperately trying to sound busy as the boss walked past. This one doesn't even have that- just standard white walls and the occasional pointless window.
Alfonso rolls his eyes. "It's not much to look at, but it works. And, more importantly, it's private up here. All employees have been told that entering this floor without explicit written permission from either you or I is grounds for immediate termination. We can talk freely here."
"Oh, thank god," James groans. "I was worried you'd try to make us be secret and shit. I ain't good at that kind of stuff."
You chuckle a little. "Don't worry, James. We might make you wear a suit, but that's it, you don't have a second identity or anything to live up to."
"Good," he grouses. "Gets way too complicated if you try that kinda stuff."
You hum in agreement. "Yeah. So, Alfonso, where's your office?"
"Oh! Right." He's visibly startled, having apparently tuned the two of you out when James began speaking. "Follow me. I'll lead you to my office."
His office is down the hall and to the left, directly across from a dingy blue door. It's a fairly cluttered room. Stacks of paper flow off every surface, consuming his too-large computer desk and the table beside it, even overflowing from the top of a series of filing cabinets against the back wall.
A quick glance at one of the papers reveals it to be an invoice. For what, you're not sure- "LG PPRCLPS Ct 2000 x 100", it reads, with a cross beside it drawn in red pen. Probably written in Greek.
"And your office is just across the hall," Alfonso concludes. "Sorry it's not much, but I figured you wouldn't be spending too much time here."
He's right; it really isn't much, you find out when you duck your head inside, a stark contrast to his cluttered office. There's a desk with a simple computer on it- even the mousepad is a plain black thing. A filing cabinet has been shoved in the back corner. The only amenities are a potted fern sitting on the edge of your desk, and…
[] You've invested so much money into the corporation that Alfonso has decided to upgrade your office. Hooray! Today's upgrade is…
[] A laser printer. Three times as efficient as your old one, and it prints in color. Now you can continue to be just as unproductive, but you'll be quicker about it!
[] An ergonomic chair. It's pretty damn ergonomic. It even has squishy gel armrests- just the kind of feature you like in your office chairs, and it spins!
[] An ergonomic chair. It's pretty damn ergonomic. It even has squishy gel armrests- just the kind of feature you like in your office chairs, and it spins!
"Right." You step back out of your office, turning to give him a serious look. "What's up with the plant?"
"It came complementary with the coffee machine down in the break room." He ignores the horrified and slightly betrayed look you shoot at the fern. "Alright. I assume you want to get down to business."
You try to force yourself back into serious mode. It's hard- you've really missed being able to goof off with your younger brother. It's been far too long since you were able to catch up with him last. But you have bigger issues to deal with.
The thought of Cydonia is enough to sober your mood immediately.
"Yeah." You step back out of your office, swinging the door closed, and move into Alfonso's office. "Probably a good idea. Where do you want to start?"
"Well, for starters, the company isn't in really good shape." Alfonso moves to his computer, booting it up from sleep mode, and begins to rapidly open up a series of documents for you. "We're running low on most things- money, employees, and assets to capitalize on. The money you gave me was enough to kickstart a biotech department, and those friends of yours have really followed through, but we won't be seeing any returns on that for at least another three weeks."
"What about the blackmail stuff she gave you?" James asks, lounging against a wall. His tone isn't insolent, exactly, but it's worryingly belligerent. He doesn't like you being challenged.
Alfonso nods. "They've been useful, yes," he acknowledges. "I wouldn't have been able to acquire a building as large as this so quickly without being able to apply some pressure to the mayor of the prefecture, and a few local security companies have switched their contracts over to our biotech department after I threatened to expose some dirty secrets. It's enough to keep us in the black, for the moment."
"But I'm not satisfied with us being in the black," you conclude. "Cydonia betrayed Shamus and I, and fucked you over. I want revenge. I want them to know they screwed with the wrong people. If we want to seriously challenge them, we need to get bigger, and that means getting more money."
"Or more assets, but yes, Ezmerelda is correct."
James shakes his head, letting out a tired little sigh. "Fine," he mutters. "How are we supposed to get our hands on that kind of money? I mean, I'm pretty good, but I don't see how throwing plasma around is supposed to rake in the big bucks."
"You're just not imaginative enough," you reply in a sing-song voice. "But we do need more information before we can start, I agree. What's the situation around here, Alfonso?"
He clears his throat. "Gang warfare has been increasing lately," he begins. "Westhill has always been infested with them, but they've been getting worse. The economy is crashing around here. Businesses are closing, people are being mugged left and right, and the few people who still have any money are afraid to admit to it by buying anything.
"If we want to get anywhere, we're going to have to stabilise the area somehow. I'm not sure where to begin with that. That's your area of expertise, Ez, not mine."
You nod. "What do you know about the gangs in the area?"
"Not much," he says despondently. "I've had people asking around, but it's dangerous for us normal folk to poke around in those kind of affairs. From what I've been able to gather, the three big gangs in the area are the Snakes, the Rollers and the Specters. They're all drug-pushers, and the market there's getting increasingly competitive, so they've been trying to eliminate their competition. There's a few smaller gangs, but I'm not sure what's up with them."
"Right," you mutter. "Well, alright then."
If that's all the information you can get, then that's all the information you can get. You've worked with less before.
[] Now that Vector understands the situation in the area, she needs to decide how she's going to approach it. Please vote for Vector's priorities in the area; note that you can vote for more than one option this vote. The more votes an option receives, the higher it will be on Vector's list of priorities- but if she has too many high priorities, she will get bogged down and become less effective. Please choose carefully.
[] Vector will move to begin investigating the area. James- Immolator- can probably help you out with this; he might not be from the immediate area, but he's an ex-ganger. He knows how they operate. If you can figure out what the big gangs in the area are after and how they operate, you can deal with them more effectively. If she has time, she can probably gather information on local businesses and corporations, too.
[] Vector will move to begin eliminating gangs in the area, starting with the numerous smaller gangs. She probably won't make it to eliminating the bigger gangs in the area, but eliminating the smaller gangs should help the local economy to begin to recover in the short term, and make it easier to eliminate the larger gangs later. Some of them might even have supplies she can liberate- drugs for the biotech department to take apart, and money to fund the growth of the corporation.
[] The gangs can wait; Vector needs the business to grow, and grow quickly. Luckily, while Alfonso might not know a lot about gangs, he knows a lot about local businesses. An enhancile making contact with them will generate a lot of interest, potentially making new contracts or allies for the corporation. More money can only help.
[] Vector will move to begin eliminating gangs in the area, starting with the numerous smaller gangs. She probably won't make it to eliminating the bigger gangs in the area, but eliminating the smaller gangs should help the local economy to begin to recover in the short term, and make it easier to eliminate the larger gangs later. Some of them might even have supplies she can liberate- drugs for the biotech department to take apart, and money to fund the growth of the corporation.
[] The gangs can wait; Vector needs the business to grow, and grow quickly. Luckily, while Alfonso might not know a lot about gangs, he knows a lot about local businesses. An enhancile making contact with them will generate a lot of interest, potentially making new contracts or allies for the corporation. More money can only help.
[] Vector stole a series of dossiers from the Syndicate headquarters. If she spends time analysing them, she can investigate interesting assets in the area. Enhanciles, groups of gang members who may be willing to be hired on, potentially even people who might lead her to criminal operations she can destroy- or take over.
[] Stealing money will help in the short term, but long-term growth will lead to better financial stability. Vector will go and investigate local schools and universities, looking for people with talent and skills she might poach for her business. She might not have a cybernetics department yet, but it's a good idea to start recruiting people now before she ends up with an unstaffed one, and she does have a biotech department. Plus, even if she can't find people who are good in those departments, she can always find people who are just good at administration- or punching people in the face.
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