I'm tired and it's getting late, so I will post information about the update cycle and game mechanics tomorrow. Probably. In the meantime...
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[X] Emergency worker
- [X] What happened?
[X] Dealan
- [X] What's in [the] bag he rescued?
You lean forward in your seat, momentarily clutching your abdomen in pain. You must've been injured before you were knocked out in the warehouse, because as the adrenaline wears off, your body starts aching in places you didn't know could ache. No broken bones, you muse, but such a fact is little consolation when considered alongside your pounding headache and worn-out body.
The emergency worker, on the other hand, looks merely stressed and tired. Dressed in the typical blue outfit, he sports the city's – Hatteras' – emergency services emblem, a stylized rocket circling a moon, with the Rod of Asclepius layered over it.
"What happened here?" you ask. The worker raises both eyebrows in a gesture of "I-don't-know-where-to-start" that leaves you even more curious.
"There was an explosion. What caused it, we don't know. It killed nearly everyone within twenty meters and a good few more outside of that radius from all the falling debris, not to mention all the ones who suffocated afterwards. A lot of people are calling it corporate sabotage – someone out to cripple Welrukken – but the company hasn't made a statement yet."
The Welrukken Group, you recall, is one of the megacorporations with a presence on the planet. Its monopoly is on starship design and distribution – the destroyed star yacht in the warehouse must've been a Welrukken vessel. The company has been reportedly facing some financial troubles planetside for the past quarter, but nothing too serious. If the explosion in the warehouse was planned, though, then perhaps the company is in a worse state than the public is being led to believe.
You turn to the Dealan next to you. The fresh air has made him look a little less sickly, though his skin remains dry and quite unhealthy. His burnt clothes look like the hazard yellow fatigues of a warehouse worker, and you figure that he could've been present at the time of the explosion. He would certainly remember more than you – you can't recall anything about the incident whatsoever.
The bag he rescued from the warehouse is resting in his lap. You turn to him and gesture toward the pack. "So, what was worth the effort?"
"–Well," rasps the Dealan, "My company ID, wallet, PDA, and some work supplies… it'd be a pain to file for a new ID and bank card, and I don't think I have the money to put down for a new PDA, so I'm glad I got it out."
As he speaks, the alien opens the back and looks inside, checking to make sure everything he said was there. You look front again to see that you're nearing the exit of the warehouse service hallway. The great, hangar-sized door has been pulled away so vehicles can enter and exit the corridor from the outside. An even cooler breeze ruffles your singed clothes and hair as you pass over the threshold.
Once outside, you can see what the situation is like. The gargantuan staging area typically used for transport vehicles has been cleared and repurposed as a temporary emergency services headquarters for the fire. Several large medical units have set up shop closest to the corridor exit, while the fire department's communications and coordination center has been conveniently placed at the center of the entire police and fire department setup. Hundreds of humans and aliens in uniform and out mill about, running between locations as they update each other on the situation, greet friends and family, and receive medical attention.
The emergency worker stops at the nearest empty ambulance and stops the cart, gesturing for you and the Dealan to get out. Two paramedics rush over, one escorting the Dealan to what looks like a large aquarium while the other approaches you.
"Form of injury?" she – a Tarassian – asks.
"I was burned on my hand, and it feels like I fell ten meters."
"You probably did," the paramedic says dryly, taking your hand in hers and turning the palm up. The furred alien's paw-like appendages are pleasantly soft. "If you're walking and breathing normally, then I think you'll be fine. We've got a diagnostic station free, though, so might as well give you a check-up while it's possible."
You follow the paramedic over to the ambulance, next to which is a man-sized cylindrical structure. Following her gesture, you stand in the cylinder and wait as she gets ready to start the check-up.
"Well, first things first. You have your UID on you?"
You check your pockets for the universal ID, but find nothing. Given the tattered state of your uniform, it was expected, but you're still muffed that you've lost it. After all, as the Dealan mentioned, it's quite the pain to procure a new ID.
"Nothing? Well, a name will suffice. We've got access to the whole civilian profile database."
It's time for the first part of the profile construction: information about your past!
What is your name?
Humans in this universe continue to use names from today, but obviously new naming conventions have filtered in from other species as well as sociological drift. You are welcome to come up with something conventional or new – maybe a combination of both! Let us assume that the character for this story will be male (though rest assured that gender will have an imperceptible impact on the story).
What is your origin? (The origin you choose can have an effect on your options later on in the story, though the effect is not stated here.)
[ ] Immigrant. You're not a native of Verne, but were instead part of the constant flow of immigrants onto the planet. There's always people looking for something better, and whether or not you came for money, for opportunity, in exile, or all of it, you're a resident of the planet now. It was a lonely life at first, but as a first-generation resident, you've grown accustomed to fending for yourself and as a result are quick to learn something you might need down the road.
[ ] Native. You were born and raised on Verne, and as such you're intimately familiar with the planet as well as its myriad inhabitants. Even if you haven't visited every location, you've at least seen or read of them, which is more than immigrants could say. On a planet where nothing is permanent except the buildings themselves, it pays to be able to call yourself a native when surrounded by merchants and immigrants from out of the system. You'll always know more about Verne than them.
