All alone on a Friday Night? Just remember this Samurai.
Neon Lanterns Glistening ~ A Cyber-Samurai Quest
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Daily Commute
Neon Lanterns Glistening - A Cyber-Samurai Quest
In the City, there is always noise. Bustling crowds, street venders hawking anything for creds, the latest commercial featuring a pretty face with soulless eyes, music pumping from speakers, windows, open inviting doors.
The ever-present hum of neon.
The crowd is as ever-present and thick as it always is, a thick miasma of humanity washes over you, odors of all kinds assailing your senses, a constant cloud of deoderants looms over your head, cast down from the overhanging street lights, mounted on the buildings flanking the street.
It's also air filtration, if they short for longer than an hour, respirators are mandatory, on pain of a fine from the Committee for Public Health.
Not like you really needed it, to be honest.
You're a bit above such things, different from most of the encroaching mass, and they know it, too.
The blade at your waist is many things, an advertisement, a warning, a display of status, and simple self-defense. It's not flashy, or ostentatious, not a glimmering vibroblade, or hollow-hilted beam saber.
Just a length of steel and lacquer, adorned by a ribbon.
A pair of hulking men, cybered to the gills, give you a wide berth, you nod at them in acknowledgement.
Your commute was simple enough, down five flights, down the pole, hang a right and head three blocks down.
Easy, and it kept you from getting overwhelmed. Less chance for some ad to really start grinding your gears. You kept your head down, moving as quickly as you could in the mass.
Average time was about five minutes, maybe more if you felt particularly self-loathing and got some street food.
You pause for a moment as you catch your reflection in an (admittedly uncommon) reflective surface not broadcasting something, must be broken.
[] You run your hand over the faint joint-scars along your jawline, pursing your lips. You've been trying to grow your hair out to hide it some more, but to no avail, at least the ones along your temples are covered, they're a bit noticeable. But hey, silver's in right now, thanks to that new idol group, so you're not standing out too much, right? Just another chromer in the crowd!
[] You grimace as you catch a glimpse at your eyes, dilated again, you'd have to dip out for a quick fix in a couple hours. She'd understand of course, they all would, but that doesn't make it any better. You clench your fist to hide your trembling fingers, brushing your dark hair behind your ear for the third time this minute.
[] You stare blankly at your own reflection, pale skin, unblemished, natural from the day you were born. You almost wish their'd be some outside effect of the nightmares, bags, something. Not even a hair of your mane of white is out of place. People stare at you as you walk by, and you pull the hood tighter, glowering at the screen.
=======
Hi, hello, welcome to this thing that's been burning in the back of my skull. Neon Lanterns Glistening is a Cyberpunk-themed Quest starring a local badass as they try to make their way in the world after being irreversibly burned by their corporation of employment.
It is the year 2078, you live among gene-modders, cyborgs (or 'cyber-humans'), and Artificial Intelligence (commonly called Chromers, derived from a derogatory remark more common in the post war days). Privatization is rampant, and nothing is for free.
You live in the Expanse, a sprawling super-city stretching the length of the East Coast of North America, Span City (or 'The Span'), is home to countless beings living their lives, making their way in a world that has made mercy a commodity to be bought and sold.
I hope that you all enjoy, and have patience with my rambling.
In the City, there is always noise. Bustling crowds, street venders hawking anything for creds, the latest commercial featuring a pretty face with soulless eyes, music pumping from speakers, windows, open inviting doors.
The ever-present hum of neon.
The crowd is as ever-present and thick as it always is, a thick miasma of humanity washes over you, odors of all kinds assailing your senses, a constant cloud of deoderants looms over your head, cast down from the overhanging street lights, mounted on the buildings flanking the street.
It's also air filtration, if they short for longer than an hour, respirators are mandatory, on pain of a fine from the Committee for Public Health.
Not like you really needed it, to be honest.
You're a bit above such things, different from most of the encroaching mass, and they know it, too.
The blade at your waist is many things, an advertisement, a warning, a display of status, and simple self-defense. It's not flashy, or ostentatious, not a glimmering vibroblade, or hollow-hilted beam saber.
Just a length of steel and lacquer, adorned by a ribbon.
A pair of hulking men, cybered to the gills, give you a wide berth, you nod at them in acknowledgement.
Your commute was simple enough, down five flights, down the pole, hang a right and head three blocks down.
Easy, and it kept you from getting overwhelmed. Less chance for some ad to really start grinding your gears. You kept your head down, moving as quickly as you could in the mass.
Average time was about five minutes, maybe more if you felt particularly self-loathing and got some street food.
You pause for a moment as you catch your reflection in an (admittedly uncommon) reflective surface not broadcasting something, must be broken.
[] You run your hand over the faint joint-scars along your jawline, pursing your lips. You've been trying to grow your hair out to hide it some more, but to no avail, at least the ones along your temples are covered, they're a bit noticeable. But hey, silver's in right now, thanks to that new idol group, so you're not standing out too much, right? Just another chromer in the crowd!
[] You grimace as you catch a glimpse at your eyes, dilated again, you'd have to dip out for a quick fix in a couple hours. She'd understand of course, they all would, but that doesn't make it any better. You clench your fist to hide your trembling fingers, brushing your dark hair behind your ear for the third time this minute.
[] You stare blankly at your own reflection, pale skin, unblemished, natural from the day you were born. You almost wish their'd be some outside effect of the nightmares, bags, something. Not even a hair of your mane of white is out of place. People stare at you as you walk by, and you pull the hood tighter, glowering at the screen.
=======
Hi, hello, welcome to this thing that's been burning in the back of my skull. Neon Lanterns Glistening is a Cyberpunk-themed Quest starring a local badass as they try to make their way in the world after being irreversibly burned by their corporation of employment.
It is the year 2078, you live among gene-modders, cyborgs (or 'cyber-humans'), and Artificial Intelligence (commonly called Chromers, derived from a derogatory remark more common in the post war days). Privatization is rampant, and nothing is for free.
You live in the Expanse, a sprawling super-city stretching the length of the East Coast of North America, Span City (or 'The Span'), is home to countless beings living their lives, making their way in a world that has made mercy a commodity to be bought and sold.
I hope that you all enjoy, and have patience with my rambling.
Character Sheet
Dramatis Personae
[x] You stare blankly at your own reflection, pale skin, unblemished, natural from the day you were born. You almost wish their'd be some outside effect of the nightmares, bags, something. Not even a hair of your mane of white is out of place. People stare at you as you walk by, and you pull the hood tighter, glowering at the screen.
- Location
- Texas
[X] You stare blankly at your own reflection, pale skin, unblemished, natural from the day you were born. You almost wish their'd be some outside effect of the nightmares, bags, something. Not even a hair of your mane of white is out of place. People stare at you as you walk by, and you pull the hood tighter, glowering at the screen.
- Location
- New York
[X] You stare blankly at your own reflection, pale skin, unblemished, natural from the day you were born. You almost wish their'd be some outside effect of the nightmares, bags, something. Not even a hair of your mane of white is out of place. People stare at you as you walk by, and you pull the hood tighter, glowering at the screen.
- Location
- United States
[X] You stare blankly at your own reflection, pale skin, unblemished, natural from the day you were born. You almost wish their'd be some outside effect of the nightmares, bags, something. Not even a hair of your mane of white is out of place. People stare at you as you walk by, and you pull the hood tighter, glowering at the screen.
thePUNisher
Unbothered. Moisturized. Happy. In My Lane
- Location
- Brazil
[X] You stare blankly at your own reflection, pale skin, unblemished, natural from the day you were born. You almost wish their'd be some outside effect of the nightmares, bags, something. Not even a hair of your mane of white is out of place. People stare at you as you walk by, and you pull the hood tighter, glowering at the screen.
[X] You grimace as you catch a glimpse at your eyes, dilated again, you'd have to dip out for a quick fix in a couple hours. She'd understand of course, they all would, but that doesn't make it any better. You clench your fist to hide your trembling fingers, brushing your dark hair behind your ear for the third time this minute.
[X] You run your hand over the faint joint-scars along your jawline, pursing your lips. You've been trying to grow your hair out to hide it some more, but to no avail, at least the ones along your temples are covered, they're a bit noticeable. But hey, silver's in right now, thanks to that new idol group, so you're not standing out too much, right? Just another chromer in the crowd!
Silently Watches
Professional Stalker
- Location
- Right behind you
[X] You grimace as you catch a glimpse at your eyes, dilated again, you'd have to dip out for a quick fix in a couple hours. She'd understand of course, they all would, but that doesn't make it any better. You clench your fist to hide your trembling fingers, brushing your dark hair behind your ear for the third time this minute.
[X] You grimace as you catch a glimpse at your eyes, dilated again, you'd have to dip out for a quick fix in a couple hours. She'd understand of course, they all would, but that doesn't make it any better. You clench your fist to hide your trembling fingers, brushing your dark hair behind your ear for the third time this minute.
Dirty Screens and Neon Dreams
[X] You stare blankly at your own reflection, pale skin, unblemished, natural from the day you were born. You almost wish their'd be some outside effect of the nightmares, bags, something. Not even a hair of your mane of white is out of place. People stare at you as you walk by, and you pull the hood tighter, glowering at the screen.
People are already wary of you just for the sword, but you look perfectly ordinary, aside from your white hair. Which, really, just makes you even weirder.
Sams are either cybered to hell and back, or high off of some combat drug that's got them dying in a decade.
You, though, are neither. Naturals are freaks among freaks, monsters among monsters.
You'd know.
You frown at the screen, then grimace as it flickers to life, neon blaring over your eyeballs like electronic knives, the faint heat from the diodes noticeable even at this distance.
Blasts of pastel pink and soft yellows burst through the screen, and your ears ache under the sudden barrage.
Cutesy, diabetes-inducing junk food pop. You don't even bother listening to the lyrics, you've heard them too many times, enough corp-sponsored spam and you go deaf to it. Sure enough, after a moment, they show up, a gaggle of girls, somewhere between 18 and Too Young prancing about, make-up and clever camera tricks making their augmentations and vat-grown musculature almost impossible to see.
Almost.
Poofy sleeves cover up the engorged veins, long thigh-highs topped with lace elegantly divert attention from leg muscles that look subtly wrong, densely packed with muscle fiber to maintain a slender look.
Faces are perfect, but that's obvious, that's what people look for. Touch-ups like that barely take a couple grand these days, chump change with corp backing.
Looks like this one's some sort of advert for a new VR thing, as if it wasn't hard enough to go out and deal with this shit every day, a couple of them cutely stumble around for show, the headsets blocking their views.
A cheap gag, obviously fake, too, leg movements too practiced, firm. Ingrained training to deal with kidnapping attempts, VR Training.
Sifu smiles at you with red, red lips.
You shake your head, it's already been long enough, a crowd was gathering, and if you waited much longer it'd be a real pain to get out. You start pushing through the crowd, grumbling at the resistance, freakin' gawkers, staring at some girls like you don't have anywhere to be.
You pass through the crowd irritably, there was some sort of special announcement after this, so people were all wrapped up, it was all over the net, so even you, who studiously ignores such things and barely browses at all, had to hear something.
You hunched your shoulders and kept moving, work called, after all.
Best to be punctual.
You keep moving down the streets, head down, eyes forward, passing the older storefronts in this part of the city, fine lines developed through garish paint and fuzzy screens, the fine sheeting distorting where the new synth-screens meets the old.
You don't particularly live in the finest of places, but this part of the borough is particularly lived-in, some even have wooden signs, half-faded and broken away. Ad-Screens are only thrice every block down past the line, but they're moving in, the air more obviously filtered, a removal of scent rather than a pleasant perfuming, lending the air a certain unnatural hollow feeling, even the street foods are muted, only a faint scratching at your nostrils rather than the wave you want.
Still, despite the occlusion and your biases, it's not unpleasant, just somewhat worn down, a bit sad.
Then you are greeted by the familiar olfactory punch to the face that is your place of work.
It's the smell that makes it stand out, grease and sauce and freshly baked dough, raucously authentic and garish upon garish, overwhelmingly unhealthy just by its sheer weight, but having a charisma for its boldness.
The sign above is out again, and instead there's a 'temporary' stand-board out front proclaiming the forbidden fruit within.
PIZZA
That's all there is, and all there needs to be.
Of course, it also has pasta, some sandwiches, and even the occasional salad, but the five-hundred pound heavyweight demands to be heard.
You can already hear her from down the block, idling noting the large crowd of people bunched up the street, murmuring quietly, the faint chimes of exchange already drifting to your ears.
Oh boy, this outta be good.
"-orio, listen to our business proposition before you go making any rash decisions, Narwhal Securities has a wide array of beneficiaries and bonuses for just a simple payment of-"
The carefully articulated buzzing monotone of a cheap 'bot, not even real intelligence, I was kind of offended just hearing it.
Course, that means that she doesn't have the slightest bit of respect or care when dealing with it.
Which was the intent.
"Get the hell outta my face!"
There's a whirl of faint motion behind the glass and then the expected.
A shape of metal and shaped plastic crashes into the street, skidding across the pavement, the crowd applauds, hollering praise and jeers alike, more credits are exchanged and a large portion of the crowd bustles inside.
You shake your head, snowy tresses flailing disdainfully, she didn't even hit anything special, no bonus points.
You slip into the back of the crowd with ease, shucking your hood as you passed the threshold.
She's already back behind the counter, bawling something into the back kitchen, one of the new hires, a short-haired waif, sweeps up the left-overs.
Her red-orange ponytail lashes like a whip as she turns back up front, nostrils flaring, and searing yellow eyes meet your own.
Your boss, Missus Valentine Vittorio, former champion of the Inter-Corp Worldwide rolls her eyes and jerks her thumb at the kitchen, "It's about time you showed up, primadonna. You know he's useless with anything besides toppings, get your ass back there."
You wave two fingers in greeting and acknowledgement, "Always a sucker for a maiden in distress."
You're already ducking to avoid the coaster she chucks at you.
"Two-hundred years too early," But you dance into the backroom before getting her really revved up.
Your stomach growls as the overwhelming scent parks itself on your chest like a fat, gregarious uncle.
The kitchen is a disaster-area, and the epicenter of the cataclysm stands by the counter, weapons of destruction in his hands.
"Donny, what the hell."
[ ] - Donald Whisberg grimaces at you through his wire-framed glasses, a bit of red sauce marring his usually immaculate hair. The scar on his face passing through the expensive-looking cybernetic is one of the only things that keeps him from looking like a boardroom exec.
[] - Don Chessman frowns at you, hairless save for extremely expressive eyebrows, his hands are working constantly, preternaturally sharp claws, capped by black safeties, slice through cheese, fruit and more.
[] - Domhnall Walsh flips you the bird over his shoulder, spiked hair dangling limply as he curses over some pineapple, he's gotten yet another tattoo and is using one of his large selection of knives on the poor, innocent fruit, a bowl of crisp cuts lies nearby.
People are already wary of you just for the sword, but you look perfectly ordinary, aside from your white hair. Which, really, just makes you even weirder.
Sams are either cybered to hell and back, or high off of some combat drug that's got them dying in a decade.
You, though, are neither. Naturals are freaks among freaks, monsters among monsters.
You'd know.
You frown at the screen, then grimace as it flickers to life, neon blaring over your eyeballs like electronic knives, the faint heat from the diodes noticeable even at this distance.
Blasts of pastel pink and soft yellows burst through the screen, and your ears ache under the sudden barrage.
Cutesy, diabetes-inducing junk food pop. You don't even bother listening to the lyrics, you've heard them too many times, enough corp-sponsored spam and you go deaf to it. Sure enough, after a moment, they show up, a gaggle of girls, somewhere between 18 and Too Young prancing about, make-up and clever camera tricks making their augmentations and vat-grown musculature almost impossible to see.
Almost.
Poofy sleeves cover up the engorged veins, long thigh-highs topped with lace elegantly divert attention from leg muscles that look subtly wrong, densely packed with muscle fiber to maintain a slender look.
Faces are perfect, but that's obvious, that's what people look for. Touch-ups like that barely take a couple grand these days, chump change with corp backing.
Looks like this one's some sort of advert for a new VR thing, as if it wasn't hard enough to go out and deal with this shit every day, a couple of them cutely stumble around for show, the headsets blocking their views.
A cheap gag, obviously fake, too, leg movements too practiced, firm. Ingrained training to deal with kidnapping attempts, VR Training.
Sifu smiles at you with red, red lips.
You shake your head, it's already been long enough, a crowd was gathering, and if you waited much longer it'd be a real pain to get out. You start pushing through the crowd, grumbling at the resistance, freakin' gawkers, staring at some girls like you don't have anywhere to be.
You pass through the crowd irritably, there was some sort of special announcement after this, so people were all wrapped up, it was all over the net, so even you, who studiously ignores such things and barely browses at all, had to hear something.
You hunched your shoulders and kept moving, work called, after all.
Best to be punctual.
You keep moving down the streets, head down, eyes forward, passing the older storefronts in this part of the city, fine lines developed through garish paint and fuzzy screens, the fine sheeting distorting where the new synth-screens meets the old.
You don't particularly live in the finest of places, but this part of the borough is particularly lived-in, some even have wooden signs, half-faded and broken away. Ad-Screens are only thrice every block down past the line, but they're moving in, the air more obviously filtered, a removal of scent rather than a pleasant perfuming, lending the air a certain unnatural hollow feeling, even the street foods are muted, only a faint scratching at your nostrils rather than the wave you want.
Still, despite the occlusion and your biases, it's not unpleasant, just somewhat worn down, a bit sad.
Then you are greeted by the familiar olfactory punch to the face that is your place of work.
It's the smell that makes it stand out, grease and sauce and freshly baked dough, raucously authentic and garish upon garish, overwhelmingly unhealthy just by its sheer weight, but having a charisma for its boldness.
The sign above is out again, and instead there's a 'temporary' stand-board out front proclaiming the forbidden fruit within.
PIZZA
That's all there is, and all there needs to be.
Of course, it also has pasta, some sandwiches, and even the occasional salad, but the five-hundred pound heavyweight demands to be heard.
You can already hear her from down the block, idling noting the large crowd of people bunched up the street, murmuring quietly, the faint chimes of exchange already drifting to your ears.
Oh boy, this outta be good.
"-orio, listen to our business proposition before you go making any rash decisions, Narwhal Securities has a wide array of beneficiaries and bonuses for just a simple payment of-"
The carefully articulated buzzing monotone of a cheap 'bot, not even real intelligence, I was kind of offended just hearing it.
Course, that means that she doesn't have the slightest bit of respect or care when dealing with it.
Which was the intent.
"Get the hell outta my face!"
There's a whirl of faint motion behind the glass and then the expected.
A shape of metal and shaped plastic crashes into the street, skidding across the pavement, the crowd applauds, hollering praise and jeers alike, more credits are exchanged and a large portion of the crowd bustles inside.
You shake your head, snowy tresses flailing disdainfully, she didn't even hit anything special, no bonus points.
You slip into the back of the crowd with ease, shucking your hood as you passed the threshold.
She's already back behind the counter, bawling something into the back kitchen, one of the new hires, a short-haired waif, sweeps up the left-overs.
Her red-orange ponytail lashes like a whip as she turns back up front, nostrils flaring, and searing yellow eyes meet your own.
Your boss, Missus Valentine Vittorio, former champion of the Inter-Corp Worldwide rolls her eyes and jerks her thumb at the kitchen, "It's about time you showed up, primadonna. You know he's useless with anything besides toppings, get your ass back there."
You wave two fingers in greeting and acknowledgement, "Always a sucker for a maiden in distress."
You're already ducking to avoid the coaster she chucks at you.
"Two-hundred years too early," But you dance into the backroom before getting her really revved up.
Your stomach growls as the overwhelming scent parks itself on your chest like a fat, gregarious uncle.
The kitchen is a disaster-area, and the epicenter of the cataclysm stands by the counter, weapons of destruction in his hands.
"Donny, what the hell."
[ ] - Donald Whisberg grimaces at you through his wire-framed glasses, a bit of red sauce marring his usually immaculate hair. The scar on his face passing through the expensive-looking cybernetic is one of the only things that keeps him from looking like a boardroom exec.
[] - Don Chessman frowns at you, hairless save for extremely expressive eyebrows, his hands are working constantly, preternaturally sharp claws, capped by black safeties, slice through cheese, fruit and more.
[] - Domhnall Walsh flips you the bird over his shoulder, spiked hair dangling limply as he curses over some pineapple, he's gotten yet another tattoo and is using one of his large selection of knives on the poor, innocent fruit, a bowl of crisp cuts lies nearby.
- Location
- United States
[X] - Donald Whisberg grimaces at you through his wire-framed glasses, a bit of red sauce marring his usually immaculate hair. The scar on his face passing through the expensive-looking cybernetic is one of the only things that keeps him from looking like a boardroom exec.
[X] - Don Chessman frowns at you, hairless save for extremely expressive eyebrows, his hands are working constantly, preternaturally sharp claws, capped by black safeties, slice through cheese, fruit and more.
- Location
- St. Petersburg
- Location
- United States
[X] Donald Whisberg grimaces at you through his wire-framed glasses, a bit of red sauce marring his usually immaculate hair. The scar on his face passing through the expensive-looking cybernetic is one of the only things that keeps him from looking like a boardroom exec.
[X] - Don Chessman frowns at you, hairless save for extremely expressive eyebrows, his hands are working constantly, preternaturally sharp claws, capped by black safeties, slice through cheese, fruit and more.
