tankdrop24
Tread First into Hell
- Location
- The Center of the Universe: Toronto, Canada
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X]- Your Section Leader
HOW TO KEEP YOUR HEAD DURING A CRISIS: A HIGH STAKES SCI FI OFFICE POLITICS QUEST
- Location
- boundless optimism
Votes closed. Update in the middle of the week.
Chapter 3: BUT YOU'VE DONE NO CRIME
- Location
- boundless optimism
"VIVA OPTIMA! VIVA OPTIMA! VIVA OPTIMA!"
The crowd chants with the beat of the music. You elbow your way forward, eager to get a good look at the DJ. All thoughts of framing Mr. Ardhak is gone, if you can just give Seubi the face of the big boss, then it's back to your regular nine to five. No more of this spy shit, because you're not being paid for it.
The lights gyrate and flow through an obnoxiously bright spectrum of colors. It's good that you're not drinking, otherwise you'd be puking right now.
A figure steps up to the podium behind the speakers. They raise their hands like a conductor, or a messianic cult leader. You are assailed with the loud, rapturous wailing of the crowd. Feedback squeals, and then you hear the voice. "Once again," the DJ begins, "you are here, gathered in defiance of the Triumvirate. Once again, you arrive, fresh faced and newly born, celebrating life and joy."
Okay, so far so good. You can't make out anything, nothing about their face, their voice is under six, seven layers of obfuscation. Veteran spy, or seasoned underground DJ? You've seen some of the latter up on stakes, especially in the bad old (new) days before the civil war and the Triumvirate.
"Out there," the DJ continues, voice disjointed from their body, sounding from all around you in surround sound, "there is the populist, the tyrant, the brute. You can feel his iron boot on your neck, the scowling face demanding obedience. There is power within you. To resist, to hope, to dream. Every action or disaction you can take to frustrate the enemy, take it! You only live for a flickering moment, but the great state they're plundering lasts forever!"
The music cuts. The room fades into a dark, silent, pre-creation blackness.
"But here and now, we're alive."
You experience the rough equivalence of several rainbow flashbangs going off in your ears as the DJ revs up the music, a hard, trance style beat that's probably ripped off of an acoustic warfare module.
"If you're a real gangster," they shout, "raise your hands up!" The crowd doesn't cheer, they scream, a senseless caterwauling, just screaming to exercise the vocal cords.
"If you're a real patriot, raise your hands up!" You nearly get a black eye from a hyped up fist pump.
"If you're a real terrorist--"
You do not know what real terrorists do, because it is at this moment that the breaching charges detonate, a wall turns into a loose association of dust floating in the air, and several cyborgs storm in, each step thudding. "Terrorists! Hands in the air! I said now. Right fucking now!"
In the EMPIRE, means of enhanced interrogation are many and varied. It is a field of popular study, with roots in the classic Masked Man With A Rubber Hose to hundred page synthesis of neurology, psychology, sociology, and biology, all the better to impel responses in a truthful and timely fashion. Advances in Interrogation Science has peaked at the neurotrawl, allowing the Interrogator to surgically cut open psyches with a minimum of screaming, pain, and only a mild to moderate chance of brain cancer and irreversible hard bricking of the psyche.
The classic Masked Man With A Rubber Hose still remains a staple, stubbornly resisting all attempts at modernization. Proponents extol the personal touch, the cost effectiveness, and other such features. They now come with exciting variations such as Masked Man with a Scalpel, Masked Man with a Police Baton, et cetera.
These thoughts and more are running through your brain. You are locked in a communal cell with many other members of the Conspiracy. If you are hoping that any of them has some sort of ninja-big dick spy tricks tucked up their sleeves, your hopes are frustrated. If you blended all of them together, and by some arcane process separated their qualia, you would possibly obtain one and a half fluid ounces of deceit, a quarter of bravery, and none of self-sacrifice. Naturally, you are withholding yourself from the blender. With Advanced Interrogation Science occurring just down the hall, you are attempting to not think about grody shit and failing.
There is a moment of begging, and several meaty thumps.
"Listen, we can't let them scare us. They wouldn't actually do it to us, right?" A mellow looking guy chatters against a wall. "It's just psychological tricks. And it was just a rave…"
You idly note that there is a rust red stain on the wall behind you. "Just a fucking rave," he continues, bitter as anything. "It was just a party, I mean, they can't blame us for having fun, can they?"
"They can," another opines, similarly curled up to the wall. You're not sure who she is. "Did you hear the things that DJ said? I'm going into fucking jail,"
Yeah, you are, you think. You, Cylange, on the other hand, will surely be rescued from this dank and disinfectant stinking pit by the hand of God, or the next best thing, a duly constituted authority of the EMPIRE, themselves. "We're all going to get beaten and then we're going to be fired. We'll be out on the street."
That's something to chew on. Poverty. And even worse, you might have to consider taking one of the Triumvirate's make work jobs. You look down at your hands. Could you imagine them operating a paving machine? Maybe next time they'll flip burgers, how about that, Cylange? No, and thank Seubi vi Markoviz that you're separate from the suckers over there, ha!
There's a third person here, and he's as optimistic as you are, just in the other direction. "Why is all this crying?" he demands, pushing up from beside you. This cell doesn't have mics, does it? Oh man, more balls than brains, this guy. "I can tell you one thing. Crying won't save you from the Advanced Interrogator out there. In fact, they'll just take it as encouragement. Be lionhearted! We're all sons and daughters of the EMPIRE here, aren't we?"
The second person lifts their head in the gloom. "Why don't you go first? I mean, listen to yourself. It was fun, the music was good, the booze was free, but it's over, alright? Once they bring out the knives," she predicts, "we will scream and they will get whatever they want signed out of us. That is why it would be better to capitulate early and capitulate hard. They might even let us go free."
"Free is a lifetime in jail. They might even just pack you off to a penal battalion."
"That's still a life."
The door rattles open. Whatever debate, which you are certain would have eventually reached a point of argument where the irrepressible/fickle human nature would be raised as a point on both sides, is cut by a Masked Man holding a list. "Cylange!" He barks. "You're up."
"Stand fast," someone whispers to you.
You're hustled away from the cell. Along the way, your prayers are answered. "Got the message from the brass. Sorry for wrapping you up over this, but uh, you know, the operation."
"No, I don't know. It was my first time going into that place, you know?"
"For real? Damn, that's unlucky." He guides you to a room with a bloody chair nailed to the center. You feel your gut drop. "I could let you out," he says apologetically, "but they'd sniff a rat. So I figure I better give you a couple of shiners, some stab wounds, and then we can release you."
You put your back to the wall. "I would rather go intact?"
"Yeah, but they'd figure you out and interrogate you with an untrained personnel. Would you rather get it from me or them?"
"No one!"
"Well, we don't get that. Nobody gets what they want today," the interrogator's getting more snippy. "Just get in the chair, I'll do it quick, you'll see the medicos, we'll turn you out in the streets. Hey, what's that sound?" There's a sharp, sudden boom and then a rumble. The interrogator heads back out into the hallway to see what's up. It is at this point that there is a sudden bright flash of light, a telltale report from some sort of handheld DEW, and the interrogator falls to his knees. There is a steaming skull where his masked head is.
In pokes a new head, this time with skin. "Hey! Get out! You're free, comrade!"
DO YOU STAY OR DO YOU GO
[]- STAY
[]- GO
The crowd chants with the beat of the music. You elbow your way forward, eager to get a good look at the DJ. All thoughts of framing Mr. Ardhak is gone, if you can just give Seubi the face of the big boss, then it's back to your regular nine to five. No more of this spy shit, because you're not being paid for it.
The lights gyrate and flow through an obnoxiously bright spectrum of colors. It's good that you're not drinking, otherwise you'd be puking right now.
A figure steps up to the podium behind the speakers. They raise their hands like a conductor, or a messianic cult leader. You are assailed with the loud, rapturous wailing of the crowd. Feedback squeals, and then you hear the voice. "Once again," the DJ begins, "you are here, gathered in defiance of the Triumvirate. Once again, you arrive, fresh faced and newly born, celebrating life and joy."
Okay, so far so good. You can't make out anything, nothing about their face, their voice is under six, seven layers of obfuscation. Veteran spy, or seasoned underground DJ? You've seen some of the latter up on stakes, especially in the bad old (new) days before the civil war and the Triumvirate.
"Out there," the DJ continues, voice disjointed from their body, sounding from all around you in surround sound, "there is the populist, the tyrant, the brute. You can feel his iron boot on your neck, the scowling face demanding obedience. There is power within you. To resist, to hope, to dream. Every action or disaction you can take to frustrate the enemy, take it! You only live for a flickering moment, but the great state they're plundering lasts forever!"
The music cuts. The room fades into a dark, silent, pre-creation blackness.
"But here and now, we're alive."
You experience the rough equivalence of several rainbow flashbangs going off in your ears as the DJ revs up the music, a hard, trance style beat that's probably ripped off of an acoustic warfare module.
"If you're a real gangster," they shout, "raise your hands up!" The crowd doesn't cheer, they scream, a senseless caterwauling, just screaming to exercise the vocal cords.
"If you're a real patriot, raise your hands up!" You nearly get a black eye from a hyped up fist pump.
"If you're a real terrorist--"
You do not know what real terrorists do, because it is at this moment that the breaching charges detonate, a wall turns into a loose association of dust floating in the air, and several cyborgs storm in, each step thudding. "Terrorists! Hands in the air! I said now. Right fucking now!"
In the EMPIRE, means of enhanced interrogation are many and varied. It is a field of popular study, with roots in the classic Masked Man With A Rubber Hose to hundred page synthesis of neurology, psychology, sociology, and biology, all the better to impel responses in a truthful and timely fashion. Advances in Interrogation Science has peaked at the neurotrawl, allowing the Interrogator to surgically cut open psyches with a minimum of screaming, pain, and only a mild to moderate chance of brain cancer and irreversible hard bricking of the psyche.
The classic Masked Man With A Rubber Hose still remains a staple, stubbornly resisting all attempts at modernization. Proponents extol the personal touch, the cost effectiveness, and other such features. They now come with exciting variations such as Masked Man with a Scalpel, Masked Man with a Police Baton, et cetera.
These thoughts and more are running through your brain. You are locked in a communal cell with many other members of the Conspiracy. If you are hoping that any of them has some sort of ninja-big dick spy tricks tucked up their sleeves, your hopes are frustrated. If you blended all of them together, and by some arcane process separated their qualia, you would possibly obtain one and a half fluid ounces of deceit, a quarter of bravery, and none of self-sacrifice. Naturally, you are withholding yourself from the blender. With Advanced Interrogation Science occurring just down the hall, you are attempting to not think about grody shit and failing.
There is a moment of begging, and several meaty thumps.
"Listen, we can't let them scare us. They wouldn't actually do it to us, right?" A mellow looking guy chatters against a wall. "It's just psychological tricks. And it was just a rave…"
You idly note that there is a rust red stain on the wall behind you. "Just a fucking rave," he continues, bitter as anything. "It was just a party, I mean, they can't blame us for having fun, can they?"
"They can," another opines, similarly curled up to the wall. You're not sure who she is. "Did you hear the things that DJ said? I'm going into fucking jail,"
Yeah, you are, you think. You, Cylange, on the other hand, will surely be rescued from this dank and disinfectant stinking pit by the hand of God, or the next best thing, a duly constituted authority of the EMPIRE, themselves. "We're all going to get beaten and then we're going to be fired. We'll be out on the street."
That's something to chew on. Poverty. And even worse, you might have to consider taking one of the Triumvirate's make work jobs. You look down at your hands. Could you imagine them operating a paving machine? Maybe next time they'll flip burgers, how about that, Cylange? No, and thank Seubi vi Markoviz that you're separate from the suckers over there, ha!
There's a third person here, and he's as optimistic as you are, just in the other direction. "Why is all this crying?" he demands, pushing up from beside you. This cell doesn't have mics, does it? Oh man, more balls than brains, this guy. "I can tell you one thing. Crying won't save you from the Advanced Interrogator out there. In fact, they'll just take it as encouragement. Be lionhearted! We're all sons and daughters of the EMPIRE here, aren't we?"
The second person lifts their head in the gloom. "Why don't you go first? I mean, listen to yourself. It was fun, the music was good, the booze was free, but it's over, alright? Once they bring out the knives," she predicts, "we will scream and they will get whatever they want signed out of us. That is why it would be better to capitulate early and capitulate hard. They might even let us go free."
"Free is a lifetime in jail. They might even just pack you off to a penal battalion."
"That's still a life."
The door rattles open. Whatever debate, which you are certain would have eventually reached a point of argument where the irrepressible/fickle human nature would be raised as a point on both sides, is cut by a Masked Man holding a list. "Cylange!" He barks. "You're up."
"Stand fast," someone whispers to you.
You're hustled away from the cell. Along the way, your prayers are answered. "Got the message from the brass. Sorry for wrapping you up over this, but uh, you know, the operation."
"No, I don't know. It was my first time going into that place, you know?"
"For real? Damn, that's unlucky." He guides you to a room with a bloody chair nailed to the center. You feel your gut drop. "I could let you out," he says apologetically, "but they'd sniff a rat. So I figure I better give you a couple of shiners, some stab wounds, and then we can release you."
You put your back to the wall. "I would rather go intact?"
"Yeah, but they'd figure you out and interrogate you with an untrained personnel. Would you rather get it from me or them?"
"No one!"
"Well, we don't get that. Nobody gets what they want today," the interrogator's getting more snippy. "Just get in the chair, I'll do it quick, you'll see the medicos, we'll turn you out in the streets. Hey, what's that sound?" There's a sharp, sudden boom and then a rumble. The interrogator heads back out into the hallway to see what's up. It is at this point that there is a sudden bright flash of light, a telltale report from some sort of handheld DEW, and the interrogator falls to his knees. There is a steaming skull where his masked head is.
In pokes a new head, this time with skin. "Hey! Get out! You're free, comrade!"
DO YOU STAY OR DO YOU GO
[]- STAY
[]- GO
- Location
- USA
[x]- GO
- Pronouns
- It/Its
[X]- STAY
This sounds like an invitation to a rebellion, which does not pay well and will not buy our impractical superweapons
This sounds like an invitation to a rebellion, which does not pay well and will not buy our impractical superweapons
- Location
- an unseen void
- Pronouns
- Any
[X]- GO
gotta maintain our cover! this is for the cause! whichever cause proves relevant!
gotta maintain our cover! this is for the cause! whichever cause proves relevant!
- Location
- New York
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X]- GO
Nothing but bad decisions in a Laplace quest!
Nothing but bad decisions in a Laplace quest!
bookwyrm
Doom of Public Libraries
- Location
- Wichita, Kansas
[X]- STAY
Honestly for shit like this like at least one guy in every room is a fed, including the room that planned this breakout, we're here to do the exact bare minimum required to stay alive and wealthy remember? Let some other undercover asset kill themselves in the chaos of this Bastille-and-or-Prague.
Honestly for shit like this like at least one guy in every room is a fed, including the room that planned this breakout, we're here to do the exact bare minimum required to stay alive and wealthy remember? Let some other undercover asset kill themselves in the chaos of this Bastille-and-or-Prague.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X]- GO
Someone thinks we're worth rescuing. That means we can get closer to the culprit and satisfy Seubi.
Someone thinks we're worth rescuing. That means we can get closer to the culprit and satisfy Seubi.
Yes, but I suspect one guy in every room is a rebel, including the room that hosts the Triumvirate, so who knows?
In any case, whether the guy with the weapon shooting people is going to shoot anyone looking like they're defecting to the feds is answered by how short the quest would be if they were, but she doesn't know that.
[X]- GO
- Location
- Great Khanate of Scotland
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X]- GO
[X]- GO
We should do whatever the man with the gun says.
We should do whatever the man with the gun says.
- Location
- USA
[X]- GO
FUCK IT WE BALL
FUCK IT WE BALL
- Location
- Phoenix, Arizona
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X]- GO
BoSPaladin
The Paladin
[X]- GO
- Location
- in the trash
[X]- STAY
Time to play the double double agent game. Also, it's less work.
Time to play the double double agent game. Also, it's less work.
silverpower
Communism is yuri and nothing else!
- Location
- Portland
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X]- GO
This is a wonderfully bad idea.
This is a wonderfully bad idea.
- Location
- in the trash
The third member of the Triumvirate is almost certainly not an oily, backstabbing snake plotting to overthrow the other two.
tankdrop24
Tread First into Hell
- Location
- The Center of the Universe: Toronto, Canada
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X]- GO
- Location
- Oregon
- Pronouns
- Any/All/Allowed
[X]- GO
I think staying sounds fascinating, but both carry risks. It'll be interesting either way
EDIT: yeah, maintain cover. can still rat out as planned, but this'll get some juicier info sooner or later, right? Probably would get punished for blowing our cover, right?
I think staying sounds fascinating, but both carry risks. It'll be interesting either way
EDIT: yeah, maintain cover. can still rat out as planned, but this'll get some juicier info sooner or later, right? Probably would get punished for blowing our cover, right?
Last edited:
- Location
- Norway
[X]- STAY
UrsaTempest
Don't Panic!
[X]- STAY
I think, on balance, this is more hilarious. I want to see how Cylange will justify this.
I think, on balance, this is more hilarious. I want to see how Cylange will justify this.