Random Member
Gardener of Human Happiness
- Location
- Behind You
[X]- CAREER
[X]- OVERCOMPENSATORY ULTRA MEGA DREADNOUGHT
[X]- ITS HIS FAULT
[X]- OVERCOMPENSATORY ULTRA MEGA DREADNOUGHT
[X]- ITS HIS FAULT
HOW TO KEEP YOUR HEAD DURING A CRISIS: A HIGH STAKES SCI FI OFFICE POLITICS QUEST
- Location
- Norway
[X]- CAREER
[X]- OVERCOMPENSATORY ULTRA MEGA DREADNOUGHT
[X]- ITS HIS FAULT
[X]- OVERCOMPENSATORY ULTRA MEGA DREADNOUGHT
[X]- ITS HIS FAULT
- Pronouns
- It/Its
[X]- CAREER
[X]- NEXT GENERATION COMBATANT UNIT
[X]- ITS HIS FAULT
[X]- NEXT GENERATION COMBATANT UNIT
[X]- ITS HIS FAULT
[X]- CAREER
[X]- NEXT GENERATION COMBATANT UNIT
[X]- ITS HIS FAULT
[X]- NEXT GENERATION COMBATANT UNIT
[X]- ITS HIS FAULT
UrsaTempest
Don't Panic!
[X]- CAREER
[X]- MOBILE OPPRESSION PALACE/SATELLITE- THE SELF IS NOT SAFE
[X]- ITS HIS FAULT
This seems the option that'll get the most laugh.
[X]- MOBILE OPPRESSION PALACE/SATELLITE- THE SELF IS NOT SAFE
[X]- ITS HIS FAULT
This seems the option that'll get the most laugh.
- Location
- an unseen void
- Pronouns
- Any
[X]- COERCION
[X]- MOBILE OPPRESSION PALACE/SATELLITE
[X]- ITS HIS FAULT
[X]- MOBILE OPPRESSION PALACE/SATELLITE
[X]- ITS HIS FAULT
- Location
- boundless optimism
Votes closed. Update this Friday or Saturday.
This is a different tone than A Beautiful Year, but I like this quest. It'll be interesting to see where this goes.
- Location
- USA
This is a sequel quest. Not a direct sequel, because the protagonist of the previous one [SPOILERS REDACTED]. But it's the same setting and time frame as the QM's HOW TO TURN A PROFIT OUT OF A CRISIS.
Chapter 2: YOU JUST SING SONGS
- Location
- boundless optimism
Just as you were standing up, thanking all the gods and the state that you lived, the door bangs open on the wall. In strides Triumvir General Luca gens Abunco, so mad she's steaming in a literal way. It happens, especially if you've got a combat shell and you've been overclocking your cognitive cores for a while. "That fucker, Krazny. What the fuck is he playing at?" she demands, bulling over your presence with the purposeful ignorance that comes naturally to gens and career military officers.
Seubi shrugs. "He's probably turned traitor. I told you we should have killed him ages ago."
"Look, you can't do that to the Gall- who's this little prick?"
"Armillary company rep," the plant tells his fellow officer.
This does not do anything to calm her down. Your heart rate spikes as she lays her hands on your shoulders, steam hissing from between her teeth. "Armillary, huh? Good company. Well, only company. So my question is to you, what happened to my ultradread, huh? You know the pricks out there got their own? Tell this to your board: when the warlords come, we're conscripting them first."
You are seized with entirely understandable fear and also of sharp, shooting pain from your shoulder blades. Thankfully, Seubi vi Markoviz is there to help. "Hey, ease up," he says, standing up and pulling her off of you. He's also laughing. "He's my new spy. Ferreting out the traitors! Look, you can go now," he tells you, turning to his fellow officer. "We're talking big boy stuff now. Go on, get!"
You get quite happily.
The center of Empire is called CENTRE. Like most things in the Empire, it's named simply, prosaically. When you are the biggest kid on the block, you define the block. Why call your capital city any other name than what it is? The center of the world. Why allow other nations to call themselves an empire, when it's clear that your's is the only one worth talking about? Your state embodies and encompasses the world.
So it hurts, just a little, in the black and bloodless cockles of your corporate ladder climbing heart to see how far the city's fallen.
You take the aerotrans, speeding through the upper levels of the city, weaving through skeletons of great skyscrapers reaching into the stratosphere. Portions of the city are still smoking from the war. It was like everyone was waiting for Archon 5 Endasian to die to start doing some sicko shit to each other. Honor guards smoking their rivals with weapons that weren't even rated for atmospheric deployment. One of the gens crashed a starship at hypersonic speeds into their rival's manors. The less said about the verminous, rioting masses of the urban poor taking their chance to let out some of their frustration, the better.
They stacked the bodies up like firewood.
Oh well.
As a popular rec spot for the upper crust of the corporate and civil service nobility, the Rose's plaza was rebuilt lickity split. You are aware that disaster-gramming was an incredibly popular trend in your circles, but you refrained because you were piss scared of some radical taking offense and rigging up a carbomb.
The Rose is a three story tall restaurant, offering a stunning view of what was formerly an artificial lake, currently a giant pile of rubble. You walk in, noting that there's not a lot of people here, which is pretty strange for a popular spot in the rush hour, making for the countertop. The man manning it is wearing the uniform-- a plastic, mass marketed full body shell. You hear it's great because you can scream all you want at your customers and they can't tell.
"One affogato, with chocolate rum."
He stares at you for a while. You realize you forgot the second bit. "Oh, and I want the expensive vanilla."
You think the codeword can do with a little help. The cashier wordlessly directs you to an open door behind him. You stare in silence at him. "Do I not get my affogato?" You ask after it's become awkward. "I am gonna pay."
Coffee covered ice cream in hand, you continue to the backrooms. You shoulder open… okay, you have no idea what to call this thing. A vestibule? Honestly, it looks more like a theatre backstage. Like they busted down the walls to reach some disused party venue.
Pretty smart.
A hard, steady beat pulses through the floorboards. Are you entering a conspiracy or a rave? Did you get the address wrong?
The sound waves hit you like a fist. You're more and more sure that the resistance group is just some edgy indie music label that has incredibly bad taste and incredibly bad risk assessment. The entire room is lit up with black lights, neon glow snaking over the walls and shining off of unidentifiable stains or artistic paint flecks.
Bodies writhe and puke and drink their guts out. A waving sea of hands reach to the ceiling. At the end wall there lies a slogan painted in vivid red-- VIVA OPTIMA.
"Hey!"
You jump. You keep your hand on your affogato. "Sorry?" you nearly yell back.
You can't see who's talking to you, but they're shorter than you. Anything else is covered in fast, strobing lights, dappled shadows, and glowing teeth. "You new here?"
"For what, the party or the conspiracy?"
"Why not both? C'mon, let's start dancing!"
"Look, I thought we were planning to overthrow the Triumverate--"
They slap you around the head. "Get real! Loosen up!" they shout back. "Live a little, you prig!"
You can't argue with that. You blend with the anonymous crowd. You think whoever's operating this thing has mixed some ewar programs with the strobe light. It's an enjoyable experience. You haven't clubbed in ages. The lights are bright, the drinks are nice, there's a lot of pain in this world, but not in this room.
Your mind, reptilian and treacherous, begins to paint a picture of the Conspiracy. Here's what you hear:
"Oh, I'm just here for the vibe. It's exciting, isn't it?"
"I'm just proud to be part of something," a guy in a flared ultrapink frill tells you. "Shit, man, those Nazi bastards are ruining the Empire!"
"What's a Nazi?" you have to ask.
"I dunno, but I heard someone call the Triumvirate that, so it's gotta be pretty bad!"
In tones of eager conspiracy: "I hear the boss is the DJ." She points with her chin at the empty behind the speakers. "He's the real ring leader."
You sort of get the sinking feeling that the conspiracy you picked up is a sort of abalative baffle for the big boy players. You refuse to believe that the people that the Coalition of nineteen warlords have in Centre are people like you: mediocre career climbers who decided to overthrow governments instead of hunting poor people for sport.
(To clarify, you do not hunt poor people for sport.)
The chances of actually finding someone in here that you want out of the way is poor to nil.
But fine, you can tar and feather people with this. This is still a win. So you're going to
TAR AND FEATHER
[]- Your Immediate Boss: Sinbak is Armillary's Lead Government Coordinator for Centre: in short, she's the bribe man to the government, which makes you her mafia underling. It's a bit of a too obvious play, but hey, her seat is big, it's comfortable, and it's obscured from the pointy talky end that you have to play. If you don't take some risks, you'll never make anything out of yourself.
[]- Your Coworker: Tzhin is a former military officer pursuing a career in the private sector. It's rather annoying how good he is at his job. You blame military nepotism. It's incredibly unfair and not at all like good old civilian nepotism. Any day now you think Tenzhyn is gonna fire you and keep him. That won't do. Too bad, so sad.
[]- Your Section Leader: Okay, this is a big money play. You're gunning for Operations Director for Centre, Mr. Ardhak. He's a big old slime, a quarry worthy of hunting. In fact, given his rank, maybe Mr. Ardhak is the one running this thing? Yeah, you'll be feasting when the top guy for Armillary is gone.
And in any case, you think to yourself as you stagger off of the dance floor, who's to say that they're not hear? I mean, it's so dark. You could have grinded next to them and not even notice. Ergo, you're not really lying to them, heh.
The music changes beats. From a wild, party beat, to an almost militaristic one. You think you know this, it's the progression to one of those tiresome patriotic operas they put out. The audience is expectant, heads turned like sunflowers at the DJ booth. You too, lean forward in anticipation. Could this be the ringleader?
Seubi shrugs. "He's probably turned traitor. I told you we should have killed him ages ago."
"Look, you can't do that to the Gall- who's this little prick?"
"Armillary company rep," the plant tells his fellow officer.
This does not do anything to calm her down. Your heart rate spikes as she lays her hands on your shoulders, steam hissing from between her teeth. "Armillary, huh? Good company. Well, only company. So my question is to you, what happened to my ultradread, huh? You know the pricks out there got their own? Tell this to your board: when the warlords come, we're conscripting them first."
You are seized with entirely understandable fear and also of sharp, shooting pain from your shoulder blades. Thankfully, Seubi vi Markoviz is there to help. "Hey, ease up," he says, standing up and pulling her off of you. He's also laughing. "He's my new spy. Ferreting out the traitors! Look, you can go now," he tells you, turning to his fellow officer. "We're talking big boy stuff now. Go on, get!"
You get quite happily.
The center of Empire is called CENTRE. Like most things in the Empire, it's named simply, prosaically. When you are the biggest kid on the block, you define the block. Why call your capital city any other name than what it is? The center of the world. Why allow other nations to call themselves an empire, when it's clear that your's is the only one worth talking about? Your state embodies and encompasses the world.
So it hurts, just a little, in the black and bloodless cockles of your corporate ladder climbing heart to see how far the city's fallen.
You take the aerotrans, speeding through the upper levels of the city, weaving through skeletons of great skyscrapers reaching into the stratosphere. Portions of the city are still smoking from the war. It was like everyone was waiting for Archon 5 Endasian to die to start doing some sicko shit to each other. Honor guards smoking their rivals with weapons that weren't even rated for atmospheric deployment. One of the gens crashed a starship at hypersonic speeds into their rival's manors. The less said about the verminous, rioting masses of the urban poor taking their chance to let out some of their frustration, the better.
They stacked the bodies up like firewood.
Oh well.
As a popular rec spot for the upper crust of the corporate and civil service nobility, the Rose's plaza was rebuilt lickity split. You are aware that disaster-gramming was an incredibly popular trend in your circles, but you refrained because you were piss scared of some radical taking offense and rigging up a carbomb.
The Rose is a three story tall restaurant, offering a stunning view of what was formerly an artificial lake, currently a giant pile of rubble. You walk in, noting that there's not a lot of people here, which is pretty strange for a popular spot in the rush hour, making for the countertop. The man manning it is wearing the uniform-- a plastic, mass marketed full body shell. You hear it's great because you can scream all you want at your customers and they can't tell.
"One affogato, with chocolate rum."
He stares at you for a while. You realize you forgot the second bit. "Oh, and I want the expensive vanilla."
You think the codeword can do with a little help. The cashier wordlessly directs you to an open door behind him. You stare in silence at him. "Do I not get my affogato?" You ask after it's become awkward. "I am gonna pay."
Coffee covered ice cream in hand, you continue to the backrooms. You shoulder open… okay, you have no idea what to call this thing. A vestibule? Honestly, it looks more like a theatre backstage. Like they busted down the walls to reach some disused party venue.
Pretty smart.
A hard, steady beat pulses through the floorboards. Are you entering a conspiracy or a rave? Did you get the address wrong?
The sound waves hit you like a fist. You're more and more sure that the resistance group is just some edgy indie music label that has incredibly bad taste and incredibly bad risk assessment. The entire room is lit up with black lights, neon glow snaking over the walls and shining off of unidentifiable stains or artistic paint flecks.
Bodies writhe and puke and drink their guts out. A waving sea of hands reach to the ceiling. At the end wall there lies a slogan painted in vivid red-- VIVA OPTIMA.
"Hey!"
You jump. You keep your hand on your affogato. "Sorry?" you nearly yell back.
You can't see who's talking to you, but they're shorter than you. Anything else is covered in fast, strobing lights, dappled shadows, and glowing teeth. "You new here?"
"For what, the party or the conspiracy?"
"Why not both? C'mon, let's start dancing!"
"Look, I thought we were planning to overthrow the Triumverate--"
They slap you around the head. "Get real! Loosen up!" they shout back. "Live a little, you prig!"
You can't argue with that. You blend with the anonymous crowd. You think whoever's operating this thing has mixed some ewar programs with the strobe light. It's an enjoyable experience. You haven't clubbed in ages. The lights are bright, the drinks are nice, there's a lot of pain in this world, but not in this room.
Your mind, reptilian and treacherous, begins to paint a picture of the Conspiracy. Here's what you hear:
"Oh, I'm just here for the vibe. It's exciting, isn't it?"
"I'm just proud to be part of something," a guy in a flared ultrapink frill tells you. "Shit, man, those Nazi bastards are ruining the Empire!"
"What's a Nazi?" you have to ask.
"I dunno, but I heard someone call the Triumvirate that, so it's gotta be pretty bad!"
In tones of eager conspiracy: "I hear the boss is the DJ." She points with her chin at the empty behind the speakers. "He's the real ring leader."
You sort of get the sinking feeling that the conspiracy you picked up is a sort of abalative baffle for the big boy players. You refuse to believe that the people that the Coalition of nineteen warlords have in Centre are people like you: mediocre career climbers who decided to overthrow governments instead of hunting poor people for sport.
(To clarify, you do not hunt poor people for sport.)
The chances of actually finding someone in here that you want out of the way is poor to nil.
But fine, you can tar and feather people with this. This is still a win. So you're going to
TAR AND FEATHER
[]- Your Immediate Boss: Sinbak is Armillary's Lead Government Coordinator for Centre: in short, she's the bribe man to the government, which makes you her mafia underling. It's a bit of a too obvious play, but hey, her seat is big, it's comfortable, and it's obscured from the pointy talky end that you have to play. If you don't take some risks, you'll never make anything out of yourself.
[]- Your Coworker: Tzhin is a former military officer pursuing a career in the private sector. It's rather annoying how good he is at his job. You blame military nepotism. It's incredibly unfair and not at all like good old civilian nepotism. Any day now you think Tenzhyn is gonna fire you and keep him. That won't do. Too bad, so sad.
[]- Your Section Leader: Okay, this is a big money play. You're gunning for Operations Director for Centre, Mr. Ardhak. He's a big old slime, a quarry worthy of hunting. In fact, given his rank, maybe Mr. Ardhak is the one running this thing? Yeah, you'll be feasting when the top guy for Armillary is gone.
And in any case, you think to yourself as you stagger off of the dance floor, who's to say that they're not hear? I mean, it's so dark. You could have grinded next to them and not even notice. Ergo, you're not really lying to them, heh.
The music changes beats. From a wild, party beat, to an almost militaristic one. You think you know this, it's the progression to one of those tiresome patriotic operas they put out. The audience is expectant, heads turned like sunflowers at the DJ booth. You too, lean forward in anticipation. Could this be the ringleader?
- Location
- New York
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X]- Your Section Leader
Fuck it, maximum chaos.
Fuck it, maximum chaos.
[X]- Your Section Leader: Okay, this is a big money play. You're gunning for Operations Director for Centre, Mr. Ardhak. He's a big old slime, a quarry worthy of hunting. In fact, given his rank, maybe Mr. Ardhak is the one running this thing? Yeah, you'll be feasting when the top guy for Armillary is gone.
UrsaTempest
Don't Panic!
[X]- Your Section Leader: Okay, this is a big money play. You're gunning for Operations Director for Centre, Mr. Ardhak. He's a big old slime, a quarry worthy of hunting. In fact, given his rank, maybe Mr. Ardhak is the one running this thing? Yeah, you'll be feasting when the top guy for Armillary is gone.
Again, this seems most amusing.
Again, this seems most amusing.
[X]- Your Section Leader: Okay, this is a big money play. You're gunning for Operations Director for Centre, Mr. Ardhak. He's a big old slime, a quarry worthy of hunting. In fact, given his rank, maybe Mr. Ardhak is the one running this thing? Yeah, you'll be feasting when the top guy for Armillary is gone.
- Location
- USA
[X]- Your Section Leader
what's the point of being a subhuman careerist slime mold if we're not willing to go for the big chair
what's the point of being a subhuman careerist slime mold if we're not willing to go for the big chair
Deadly Snark
Tryhard As Fuck
[X]- Your Section Leader: Okay, this is a big money play. You're gunning for Operations Director for Centre, Mr. Ardhak. He's a big old slime, a quarry worthy of hunting. In fact, given his rank, maybe Mr. Ardhak is the one running this thing? Yeah, you'll be feasting when the top guy for Armillary is gone.
[X]- Your Section Leader: Okay, this is a big money play. You're gunning for Operations Director for Centre, Mr. Ardhak. He's a big old slime, a quarry worthy of hunting. In fact, given his rank, maybe Mr. Ardhak is the one running this thing? Yeah, you'll be feasting when the top guy for Armillary is gone.
- Location
- USA
[x]- Your Immediate Boss
- Location
- an unseen void
- Pronouns
- Any
[X]- Your Section Leader
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X]- Your Section Leader
We're Seubi's new spy, after all, so in theory this could actually work.
We're Seubi's new spy, after all, so in theory this could actually work.
silverpower
Communism is yuri and nothing else!
- Location
- Portland
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X]- Your Section Leader
It's back! The quest where there are no blorbos to worry about, no wrong moves because everyone involved is FUCKING AWFUL and DESERVES FAILURE or FAILURES THAT LOOK LIKE SUCCESS or SUCCESSES THAT LOOK AWFULLY LIKE FAILURES, and we can get on with the true business of serving the EMPIRE - MAKING BANK OR MAKING RANK!
It's back! The quest where there are no blorbos to worry about, no wrong moves because everyone involved is FUCKING AWFUL and DESERVES FAILURE or FAILURES THAT LOOK LIKE SUCCESS or SUCCESSES THAT LOOK AWFULLY LIKE FAILURES, and we can get on with the true business of serving the EMPIRE - MAKING BANK OR MAKING RANK!
[x]- Your Section Leader
- Location
- Phoenix, Arizona
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X]- Your Section Leader