... Seriously? That's hilarious. xD
Panopticon: A Game of Posthumans, Perniciousness, Paranoia, Politics, and Plasmaguns
I wonder, were they changing clothes or changing faces? Or both?
Quantumboost
Now with 50% more dots in Dimensional Science
- Location
- Ensemble Space
Nope. Not nearly as much as one might expect, given how the Euthanatos are sometimes portrayed.
Entropy does have some influence regarding death and the undead, but not that much, certainly not enough to say it "focuses" on it; most derives from its influence over Chaos/Order, and specifically the ability to bring chaos/order to living things. There's Agama Sojourn, which requires Entropy 4 along with Spirit and Life (to keep your body in stasis), and a rote to ward against ghosts. It's also an incredibly bad idea to use Entropy in the Underworld simply because the Spectres will come eat your soul.
Luck, fortune, and manipulating complex systems have little or nothing to do with death except insofar as sometimes things that interact with those are alive and can be caused to not be anymore. The majority of stuff you'd expect a necromancer to do is actually Spirit.
Making the nWoD "Death" Sphere would take a bunch of stuff from Spirit, some from Life, and a bit from Entropy while filling in the thematic cracks.
Could be, if you for some bizarre reason want to manipulate Plasm and don't want to bother affecting the living apart from making them not anymore (or preventing the same).
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FriedIce
The Authentic Fake
- Location
- Hyperreality
This seems a bit off to me. I mean I know why you're doing it, but Henreitte is a senior member of the amalgam, a Hero of the Technocracy. She shouldn't really be needing to share a room with Antionette.
I did a price check, a 1st floor room with a sea view there is £200 pounds a night. Now this might seem like a lot to you and me but Donald should be able to afford that out of his pocket change.
Deadly Snark
Tryhard As Fuck
Who said anything about needing to share a room?
And consider that Donald, who like you said is filthy rich, might be doing this for a reason.
Sure, but then he'd lose an opportunity to find out how well they coexist - which is important if Antoinette is to join our amalgam.
FriedIce
The Authentic Fake
- Location
- Hyperreality
I don't know. Donald hasn't really struck me as the type to go in for casual Jamelia style manipulations. When he's serious he's dead serious but at the moment he's more playing. Which means I'd say its more likely he's just doing it for the lolz.
Still, having Henriette and Antoinette share a room seems like a bit of a stupid move, as the main reason for this trip in his internal monologue is because the amalgam has been put under massive amounts of stress recently - first Hong-Kong, then Moscow, then the Werewolves and Pentex - and this trip is to allow everyone to relax and get their feet back under them. However due to Henriette and Antoinette's shared Tsun tendencies its very possible that they'll play off each other and end up ruining Henriette's relaxation time. Which would be ok if she wasn't a key combat asset who's been under a tremendous amount of stress.
Testing how they deal with each other would work just as well with mandatory field trips to the beach or something (like the performance that Donald has organised later) and wouldn't potentially jeopardize Henriette's overall relaxation.
Its a shared room. Which means its a normal room with two beds instead of one double bed.
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Cornuthaum
Be kind to each other.
- Location
- Austria
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Moe Moe TSUN! -ette BEEEEAM
You missed a perfect, perfect opportunity about "You should see what Serafina is like when she's doing her nose". Henriette knows all about walking in on Progenitors.
Fix'd.
Well, tweaked that a bit. She wants them to just spend some time together, and then she can sum up the courage to talk. Hopefully.
If you ask the right people in ItX, you can probably find out that Henriette has issues and PTSD from the failed Autochtonia mission. After all, that's the reason she was moved to cross-Convention work - she attacked a Comptroller.
Hence, Henriette will almost certainly stonewall her - after all, "It's Classified" is always a valid excuse in the Union.
And when you're already learning DSci rather than Spirit, well. That means the two Spheres don't even overlap much...
He's not doing it for reasons of price. He's doing it because the amalgam which operates this safehouse and pretends to be a slightly seedy guesthouse only rents one floor out - hence why the basement is off limits if you don't have clearance.
It was either "pick here" or "pick somewhere less nice and less well-placed, but where everyone would get their own room" or "pick somewhere not Union run and have to care about security". He chose the route which maximised luxury and minimised the amount of work he had to do. After all, it's only going to be for a few nights, and then they can go somewhere nicer for a proper holiday.
Side Story: Yellowfields; Jamelia 01
Quasi-continued from here.
Yellowfields 01: The Weary Road
The fields of golden corn wave in the wind. The old black Cadillac makes its way out of town, along the dusty road. It could almost be a scene from the 1950s, if it wasn't for the billboard on the outskirts advertising a new smartphone.
Inside an old, obsolete car, an old, obsolete man shifts from second to third gear, and mutters to himself as the car almost stalls. Harlan Aristide has kept this old Priest - long since replaced by the Paladin - working as best he can, but she left the production line forty years ago and the last time she broke down he had to find a young Iterator who took the job of repairing her because they wanted to do a report on machines operating past their lifespan.
Harlan is on the way to his construct for the first time in years. He hasn't been since the last of his Men in Black died of organ failure. There are a few Sympathisers who show up every week to clean the place. As far as they're concerned, it's an old federal facility kept running despite the fact that no one works there. They probably make jokes about government bloat.
The New World Order does like its bloat. It would always prefer to cut an old facility back to a shoestring budget and mothball it, than actually shut it down. Which means there are probably tens, hundreds of places like this all over the US, manned by agents out of favour or by old Men in Black given a retirement as a caretaker.
In his long career, Harlan Aristide has seen many places other people wouldn't believe. He's seen lakes of burning sulphur. He's been trapped outside reality from his own powers going haywire, barely managing to escape. He's fought terrorists armed with nuclear power robots possessed by aliens which look like classical demons.
And in his case, rural Ohio is his personal purgatory.
But for once, the higher ups have remembered he exists. That's probably a bad sign, because he's an old drunk who is the Director of a construct which was high tech in 1970 and leads an amalgam consisting of himself and the metaphorical ghosts of his past. Which means he got disrupted from his drinking and had to go change into a fresh shirt and tie in his car before he drove here.
He wonders what this is going to be. A formal reprimand for being absent from the office during working hours? Actual, formal retirement? A 9mm retirement? Maybe it's just a trick by some Virtual Adepts who found where an old enemy is and he's about to be murdered by a bunch of fanatics for things he did thirty years ago. He doesn't think it's anything to do with his attempts to get out of this deadwater which he started after the visit from Jasmine Bao. He'd just started putting out feelers when Moscow happened and any chance of attention being spared for someone like him was snuffed out.
He has a headache. The voices in his head, the ones which claim to be Control, are muttering again. Not loud enough to hear what they're saying, but loud enough to be annoying. Normally about now, he'd be ordering another drink, but work intrudes. Dammit.
He pulls off the highway, past the old rusting sign proclaiming 'DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE ARCHIVES AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY', and follows the half-mile road through the cornfields to the old barbed wire perimeter around his construct. The yellowing grass is overgrown and there are bird droppings all over the roof. It's quiet out here. The only noise is the sound of his car and the wind through the corn.
But for once, the parking lot isn't empty. There's a shiny new Paladin there, next to three large lorries with Department of Agriculture markings. That casts a distinctly... peculiar tone to the current events. Maybe they're moving something new into his construct because they need a new laboratory, and they're putting a new Director in charge. He shouldn't care, but he does. It's his construct, even if he hasn't been inside in five years. Maybe they're just dumping more stuff here for long term storage and they need him to sign the papers acknowledging receipt.
That's certainly plausible.
He parks the car, and gets out, stretching. A little bit of pride makes him dust off his faded black jacket and slick down his iron grey hair before he gets out. Time to face his destiny, it seems. Or maybe sign some paperwork. Whatever.
His arrival seems to prompt the occupants of the Paladin to get out. The driver is a tall man with the bearing of - Harlan narrows his eyes. A bearing which is somewhere between that of an Iteration X commando and a NWO Operative. Yes, the man is heavily cyberised. But he pays little attention to the man, compared to the woman beside him.
Smart black suit. Olive-coloured skin. Lilac headscarf clearly chosen to match the deep purple trimmings visible inside her sleeves. X-10 Protector at her hip, and the bulge of a second pistol inside her jacket. Mirrorshades protruding from her pocket.
She's a face from his past. Literally. She hasn't aged a day. You wouldn't believe that he's actually two years younger than her.
And then he gets closer and realises that he's wrong. One look at her eyes, and he can see the difference. The last time he saw her, she had the eyes of a pitiless meat machine. The time before that, they were hollowed and doubting, broken. And before that, they burned with the gleam of the fanatic.
Now? Now, they're more... more human than last time. But they're still colder. They don't have the fires they used to. And under the coldness, there seems to be pity in them. Yes. She's pitying him.
Her, the voices in his head scream. The Adversary!
"Director Aristide," she says. "It's been a while."
"What should I call you this time?" he asks, his voice cracking slightly. He knows the name she currently uses, of course. He might be stuck in rural Ohio, but he has so little to do that he can at least keep track of NWO internal politics. And the voices in his head hate her. Oh yes, they do.
"Jamelia will do," she says. "Director Belltower if you really want to be formal. Director Aristide, this is Jaron Belltower of Project Tyrant."
He doesn't ask if they're married. New World Order agents get over the idea that a shared surname means you're related. What this does mean, however, is that he has two Belltowers visiting him. That's a big deal. In the post '99 New World Order, Belltowers and former Belltowers are senior staff.
"And here you are, Hyena, here to scavenge off the dead," he mutters.
"You're not dead, Aristide," she said in that exceptionally annoying calm voice she's prone to using. "Why don't we step inside? We should talk."
"The coffee machine broke years ago," Harlan Aristide mutters, turning on his heel and heading towards the entrance. Time to see if his swipe card still works.
"Oh, don't worry," the other Belltower, Jaren, says. He gestures at one of the lorries, and the doors are swung open. Men in Black in coveralls get out, and start unloading... well. A lot of things. "I'm sure we have a new coffee machine somewhere in here."
Yellowfields 01: The Weary Road
The fields of golden corn wave in the wind. The old black Cadillac makes its way out of town, along the dusty road. It could almost be a scene from the 1950s, if it wasn't for the billboard on the outskirts advertising a new smartphone.
Inside an old, obsolete car, an old, obsolete man shifts from second to third gear, and mutters to himself as the car almost stalls. Harlan Aristide has kept this old Priest - long since replaced by the Paladin - working as best he can, but she left the production line forty years ago and the last time she broke down he had to find a young Iterator who took the job of repairing her because they wanted to do a report on machines operating past their lifespan.
Harlan is on the way to his construct for the first time in years. He hasn't been since the last of his Men in Black died of organ failure. There are a few Sympathisers who show up every week to clean the place. As far as they're concerned, it's an old federal facility kept running despite the fact that no one works there. They probably make jokes about government bloat.
The New World Order does like its bloat. It would always prefer to cut an old facility back to a shoestring budget and mothball it, than actually shut it down. Which means there are probably tens, hundreds of places like this all over the US, manned by agents out of favour or by old Men in Black given a retirement as a caretaker.
In his long career, Harlan Aristide has seen many places other people wouldn't believe. He's seen lakes of burning sulphur. He's been trapped outside reality from his own powers going haywire, barely managing to escape. He's fought terrorists armed with nuclear power robots possessed by aliens which look like classical demons.
And in his case, rural Ohio is his personal purgatory.
But for once, the higher ups have remembered he exists. That's probably a bad sign, because he's an old drunk who is the Director of a construct which was high tech in 1970 and leads an amalgam consisting of himself and the metaphorical ghosts of his past. Which means he got disrupted from his drinking and had to go change into a fresh shirt and tie in his car before he drove here.
He wonders what this is going to be. A formal reprimand for being absent from the office during working hours? Actual, formal retirement? A 9mm retirement? Maybe it's just a trick by some Virtual Adepts who found where an old enemy is and he's about to be murdered by a bunch of fanatics for things he did thirty years ago. He doesn't think it's anything to do with his attempts to get out of this deadwater which he started after the visit from Jasmine Bao. He'd just started putting out feelers when Moscow happened and any chance of attention being spared for someone like him was snuffed out.
He has a headache. The voices in his head, the ones which claim to be Control, are muttering again. Not loud enough to hear what they're saying, but loud enough to be annoying. Normally about now, he'd be ordering another drink, but work intrudes. Dammit.
He pulls off the highway, past the old rusting sign proclaiming 'DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE ARCHIVES AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY', and follows the half-mile road through the cornfields to the old barbed wire perimeter around his construct. The yellowing grass is overgrown and there are bird droppings all over the roof. It's quiet out here. The only noise is the sound of his car and the wind through the corn.
But for once, the parking lot isn't empty. There's a shiny new Paladin there, next to three large lorries with Department of Agriculture markings. That casts a distinctly... peculiar tone to the current events. Maybe they're moving something new into his construct because they need a new laboratory, and they're putting a new Director in charge. He shouldn't care, but he does. It's his construct, even if he hasn't been inside in five years. Maybe they're just dumping more stuff here for long term storage and they need him to sign the papers acknowledging receipt.
That's certainly plausible.
He parks the car, and gets out, stretching. A little bit of pride makes him dust off his faded black jacket and slick down his iron grey hair before he gets out. Time to face his destiny, it seems. Or maybe sign some paperwork. Whatever.
His arrival seems to prompt the occupants of the Paladin to get out. The driver is a tall man with the bearing of - Harlan narrows his eyes. A bearing which is somewhere between that of an Iteration X commando and a NWO Operative. Yes, the man is heavily cyberised. But he pays little attention to the man, compared to the woman beside him.
Smart black suit. Olive-coloured skin. Lilac headscarf clearly chosen to match the deep purple trimmings visible inside her sleeves. X-10 Protector at her hip, and the bulge of a second pistol inside her jacket. Mirrorshades protruding from her pocket.
She's a face from his past. Literally. She hasn't aged a day. You wouldn't believe that he's actually two years younger than her.
And then he gets closer and realises that he's wrong. One look at her eyes, and he can see the difference. The last time he saw her, she had the eyes of a pitiless meat machine. The time before that, they were hollowed and doubting, broken. And before that, they burned with the gleam of the fanatic.
Now? Now, they're more... more human than last time. But they're still colder. They don't have the fires they used to. And under the coldness, there seems to be pity in them. Yes. She's pitying him.
Her, the voices in his head scream. The Adversary!
"Director Aristide," she says. "It's been a while."
"What should I call you this time?" he asks, his voice cracking slightly. He knows the name she currently uses, of course. He might be stuck in rural Ohio, but he has so little to do that he can at least keep track of NWO internal politics. And the voices in his head hate her. Oh yes, they do.
"Jamelia will do," she says. "Director Belltower if you really want to be formal. Director Aristide, this is Jaron Belltower of Project Tyrant."
He doesn't ask if they're married. New World Order agents get over the idea that a shared surname means you're related. What this does mean, however, is that he has two Belltowers visiting him. That's a big deal. In the post '99 New World Order, Belltowers and former Belltowers are senior staff.
"And here you are, Hyena, here to scavenge off the dead," he mutters.
"You're not dead, Aristide," she said in that exceptionally annoying calm voice she's prone to using. "Why don't we step inside? We should talk."
"The coffee machine broke years ago," Harlan Aristide mutters, turning on his heel and heading towards the entrance. Time to see if his swipe card still works.
"Oh, don't worry," the other Belltower, Jaren, says. He gestures at one of the lorries, and the doors are swung open. Men in Black in coveralls get out, and start unloading... well. A lot of things. "I'm sure we have a new coffee machine somewhere in here."
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My only comment (other than acute pangs of jealousy at your prolific writing and the accompanying skill with which you carry it out) is to point out that in rural Ohio he's probably not going to be calling them 'lorries', but rather more likely 'trucks' or 'semis', unless Harlan Aristide is explicitly being singled out as being quite British.
Also, thank you for the view of what an old agent put out to pasture looks like. It sounded very lonely.
I did link that post above for a reason, you know. It has been a while since he showed up in any real way (ie, all the way back on spacebattles in a non-main-story post), so it helps to remind people of the established facts about him.
FunkyEntropy
Occasionally insightful, possibly grumpy
- Location
- Los Angeles
Out of curiosity, why doesn't Aristide follow the usual NWO J.B. naming convention?
Sirrocco
Pedantic
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I remember @MJ12 Commando mentioning something about non-J.B. NWO names meaning something in particular back when the General (Augustine Aleph) was being discussed, but I never saw where what it actually meant was laid out.
- Location
- National Capital Region, USA
Might be indicative of him not being an Operative like the Belltowers or the other JBs. He's a psychic NWO agent, so would that mean he falls more under the Ivory Tower section of things?
More like ... well imagine if an intangible ghost had solid dust imbedded in it, only the reverse
Bursting Eagerness Soul
Threadwalking Rating Machine
- Location
- Wisconsin
Inverse Dresden Files ectoplasm then?
It would explain why Control is close enough to whisper in his head.
- Location
- National Capital Region, USA
I think that's due to 'psychic' in WoD meaning he has talents (Spirit/DSci) that let him hear/see/penetrate the Gauntlet, and that goes both ways. He can't help but hear on the 'frequency' that the mad ghosts that were Control keep talking on.
Bursting Eagerness Soul
Threadwalking Rating Machine
- Location
- Wisconsin
I think that 'phsycic' is just the Paradigm that the NWO uses to justify using straight up magic instead of hypertech. You know, for when they need things straight out of Carrie or Firestarter.
So does Jamelia, right?
And yet the only ghosts she has spoken to was that of Senex, who apparently had an intimate connection to her via her past life(s).
So it's possible that the reason Aristede is tapping into the Control frequency(and they into his) is because he had intimate connections to the mad EDEs who used to be Control.
Quantumboost
Now with 50% more dots in Dimensional Science
- Location
- Ensemble Space
There are a couple differences. For one, Aristide by his character sheet has Spirit 3, so he's both capable of two-way communication and more inclined towards the "Entity Contact" side of things. ...He also isn't "the Adversary", likely had personal contact with Control while they were human and while he had his psychic powers, and has Correspondence (hence distant psychic contact) integrated into his psychic paradigm, where Jamelia probably doesn't have it as neatly linked.
Also, he's been isolated from anyone else for who-knows-how-long.
Any number of those could plausibly contribute to him hearing Control while Jamelia doesn't.
Also, he's been isolated from anyone else for who-knows-how-long.
Any number of those could plausibly contribute to him hearing Control while Jamelia doesn't.