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Polluted Jianghu: 新年少鹏

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[x]- "Didn't want to do this." {Chase the Red Sun}
[x]- Stay a While. +Thought: Failed Art Student {You know, your train of thought does get pretty florid. Maybe you were an art student that flunked out of college. Or you did graduate and never found a job. Either way, you love art. Probably. Intensity: 1}
 
Adhoc vote count started by Laplace on Feb 7, 2021 at 7:54 PM, finished with 6 posts and 5 votes.
  • [x]- "Didn't want to do this." {Chase the Red Sun}
    [x]- Get it Together.
    [x]- Stay a While. +Thought: Failed Art Student {You know, your train of thought does get pretty florid. Maybe you were an art student that flunked out of college. Or you did graduate and never found a job. Either way, you love art. Probably. Intensity: 1}
    [X]- The words died in your mouth. {Harmonious Society}
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Votes closed. Expect the update tomorrow or the day after.
 
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Artist's Abattoir Pt. 1
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    • Bleh. You gotta move on. You didn't come here to do some amatuer art critique shit, you came here to use a laptop without permission. So you move on, trying to find a door in this darkness. The first door is to a bathroom- a mirror, a sink, and a toilet. The second to a small kitchenette. The refrigerator has some assorted greens, a case of Qingdao, and half a Harbin sausage. You steal it on the basis that you've already broken into this house. The third room has someone snoring in it. The door squeaks as you open it, but the sleeper hasn't noticed. There's also no computer or anything in it. Maybe they've got a phone in their hand but you don't want to check.

    The fourth door gives you what you want- a home office. On the opposite wall, underneath a garret window, a desk. The room is packed like matchsticks. The left wall is full of bookshelves- actual books! What an expense. The right wall is a mess of binders and loose draft paper. This guy is pretty morbid. Detailed sketches and studies of anatomies starting with the skin and working down to the bone. You'll call him Michelangelo.

    Michelangelo has a password on their computer, a middling fifteen cm model that could almost be mistaken for a chopping board. Makes sense, you think to yourself as you thumb the power button. They're an artist, they want some power to process their renders. A bright blue light fills the room. You wait for the computer to get to the login screen, nibbling at the pastelike sausage.

    Tastes like heaven.

    Well, more like wheat based filler and the faintly slimy taste you get from licking cans of spam.

    The machine asks you for a password. This time, you're prepared. You just have to look for this guy's birthday and test that. If that fails, you just dig a little deeper and- "I have a knife to your head." A sharp spike. A voice like sleeping water. "Don't move. Don't breathe. Make a move I don't like and I'll kill you."

    You freeze.

    "Who are you?"

    You don't do anything. The knife slackens. "Is this because I told you to don- is that my fucking sausage?"

    You nod. "Motherfucker." He's almost laughing, you realize. "Give it here." Before you can respond a hand plucks your food out of your grip like a famished deep sea eel. That was covered in tattoos that remind you of those fancy iron fences around walled burbplexes. "Okay. Talk. Reason, rationale, whyfor. On the double."

    "I have no idea who I am, what I did, but this Neo-Maoist seemed like he knew what he was doing, so I was hoping that I'd use your computer to find a strike and find another Neo-Maoist to…"

    Now that you've said it it sounds dumb as a sack of puppies that's been beaten with a sack of bricks. "That's dumb," Michelangelo further elaborates.

    "Thank you. I know that."

    "It's like… we still have internet cafes, you know?"

    "I did just take an inordinate amount of crack, smack, or crank last night. I'm still hungover."

    Silence rules. You look into the screen. Michelangelo hasn't let the canvas of his skin go unpainted. A bloom of roses covering skulls creeps from his left shoulder to his neck, stopping at his cheek. On the right, waves descend from his lips. Fish dance between white foam. There's more, but without a proper light you can't get a good look at them.

    "Can I have some?"

    "What?" You blink.

    "The drugs. I'm out."

    "Is this some artist shit?"

    "No, I just like the high."

    You shrug. "Zhenyan stormed my apartment. They probably have it."

    Michelangelo swore. "Aw. Hey, is that a Zhenyan jacket? Did you steal it?" You nod. "Nice. Alright, stand up."

    You do so. The knife at your head disappears. Michelangelo steps back to give you some room and he puts the knife back at your throat the moment you face him. He's even got eye tattoos in both senses. His eyes are jet black and an inked eye stares down at you from his forehead. "...Nice tats," you try.

    "Thank you. It's a statement."

    There's nothing you can say about that.

    "Are you going to let me go?"

    Michelangelo shrugged. "I'm thinking about it. Usually- urgh, this is stupid." He closes his eyes. "Alright, fine. But only 'cause I'm missing breakfast."

    SET A CONVERSATION
    []- Where's the Neo-Maoists?
    []- What do you do, specifically?
    []- Write In: Ask Any Question
    Scheduled vote count started by Laplace on Feb 6, 2021 at 10:23 PM, finished with 6 posts and 5 votes.
    • [x]- "Didn't want to do this." {Chase the Red Sun}
      [x]- Get it Together.
      [x]- Stay a While. +Thought: Failed Art Student {You know, your train of thought does get pretty florid. Maybe you were an art student that flunked out of college. Or you did graduate and never found a job. Either way, you love art. Probably. Intensity: 1}
      [X]- The words died in your mouth. {Harmonious Society}
    Click to expand...
     
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    • Well, seeing as there's not a lot of votes and that the next update is probably a slow one, I'll take both votes. Update probably coming within the week.
     
    Artist's Abattoir Pt. 2
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    • Michelangelo sits down in his studio, munching on the sausage. The Sausage. You just now realize how hungry you are. And how hungover. Is hypersensitivity one of the symptoms of a hangover? You can smell the wheat based filler in the sausage. And the ink in his tattoos. And… "Why're you looking at me like that?" Michelangelo demands. "Like you're about to eat me."

    You shrug. "I'm hungry. Give me half and I'll stop."

    He stares back. "No," he decides with finality. You take a seat opposite him. Ivory ribs stretch into the air. Wire thin lines of marble (how'd he do that?) dangle into the cavity. "Actually, wait. How many Zhenyan kneecappers did you kill?"

    "Just the one," you mumble. It didn't make you feel good. Queasy at the stomach. Maybe it's 'cos he didn't put up a good enough fight.

    "Weak," he says past a mouthful, but he gives you the last inch of the sausage anyway. "You should've killed more. They're all turtle egg bastards anyway. The last set of rentacops were bribable. Can't make these motherfuckers look the other way with anything short of a billion yuan. They're good at their jobs, too, which is the worst thing. If they sucked arse at the fighting thing like the Five Element Sect I could deal with that. If they couldn't play politics like the Liminal Beast Sect I could deal with that. But they're disgustingly perfect and I hate it."

    The Five Elements Sect is dead. Lin Rouzi, you remember, the thought bubbling from the stew of your mind, the former heir, left the Sect after violently propelling her suitor through a small dam. That sent shocks through Weibo and the Jianghu, and she just… never returned. Too busy living off of simp money, wandering around, and drinking Pina Coladas in somewhere tropical to give a shit about restoring the name of the Sect. The Liminal Beast Sect, now, is still extant, but their masters all died because they refused to play politics, to make allies. They were wild beasts, you remember Uncle (who is he) saying, and they died like one. They still think it's 1930. The grandmaster never did manage to break out of that rut.

    "Anyway," Michelangelo continues, a bit more friendly now, "if you're looking for a Neo-Maoist, Sunflower Medical's big office building has been under siege for a month now."

    "Under siege?" You're not used to that language next to a strike. "Why haven't they been crushed by now?"

    "You must really have amnesia. Sunflower Medical fucked up on the last batch of measles vaccines. The workers struck just when everyone wanted to murder the board, and now the old men want to see Sunflower squirm a bit before they bail them out."

    You nod. That almost makes sense. Still, something seems off. But then you shrug. Not your problem. "Sweet." You approve. "But did the strikers get in yet?"

    "Naw." A slash of light falls across an inked scorpion. "Sunflower got this guy, Metalhead. He's been holding the only bypass to the entrance for a month now. You know, I never saw him take a break. He's been standing out there all the damn time."

    That name refuses to jog your memory. "For the entire month? God."

    "Tough customer," Michelangelo agrees. Something doesn't add up. "Pretty sure nobody can take him." A laugh flutters out. "The Unmovable Metalhead! That sounds like a comic, doesn't it?"

    You nod, still thinking, rattling those chains of logic. Michelangelo. Knows his way around a knife, and is a pretty sneaky bastard, if he could steal up on you. Well, that part wouldn't be hard. Hates Zhenyan, but that could just be because he's a druggie. But if he was a druggie, why'd he mention fighting them?

    "Are you-" you start.

    "Fei Dao!" Someone yells from the door. "What happened to the-" you turn. "Who the fuck is this bum?"

    Rude. There's a tall westerner standing in the doorframe. Her arms are cybernetic, body held perfectly still. No micromovements. Wired reflexes, and pretty good ones. You heard that the latest gen were biotech- artificial neurons grown from a slime mold, forming a distributed brain that could acquire targets in milliseconds and plug their head. Too advanced for a freelancer to have easily. The westerner is in a gunfighter's stance, ready to demonstrate her 'ware if you twitch. "Hey, Bobbie. Close the door?" Fei Dao waves.

    "How? It's broken." But she relaxes and does so anyway, moving into the kitchenette. "You still haven't explained!" The fridge door opens and plastic rustles. "Is this a charity case?"

    "No, it's an art case."

    "That is probably the most frightening thing you could have said. The last time you asked me to help you on an art case I was stuck explaining why this creepy stickman was digging up corpses to the night guard. Did you eat breakfast?"

    "I told you you should have just knocked her out. And yeah, I did. Thanks, mom."

    "She was cute, man. I couldn't do that." There was a flow to the conversation. It made you uncomfortable to be there, an intruder in their private lives. "Anyway," Flay continued, leaving the kitchenette. "Bobbie Flay. I guess you figured I was a freelancer the moment I walked in." She stuck her hand out. You took it.

    "Yeah. I'm between names." Her hand is cold reinforced steel.

    "He's got amnesia," Fei Dao yawned. "Wanted to know where a Neo-Maoist is for… I forgot the reason but it was pretty dumb."

    "Whack. If you're looking for an infobroker, the Neo-Maoists are pretty crap at it if it's not about unions. The big three here are the Hotel Faberzhe, the Colored Wolf Pagoda, and Iron Guanyin of Compassion. "

    Fei Dao frowns. "I don't trust the Iron Guanyin. Creepy kids They put me off the tea forever."

    "Don't be mean. Without them I'd've never cracked the server."

    "I have no idea what these names mean," you butt in.

    Flay raised a hand. You're pretty sure the fingers contain mono-razor cartridges. The first finger went up. "Hotel Faberzhe is a Russian mob. They smuggle guns across the Trans-Siberian, cyberware, too. They got more hackers than they know what to do with, so they could probably crack the Zhenyan servers to figure out why you got caught."

    You'd also need money for that. No money, no dice. There's no crime syndicate under the sun that does charity except to evade taxes. "Now, the Colored Wolf Pagoda is headed by this old master, Si Fei. Golden Toad Cauldron, yeah?" Fei Dao nods. Interesting. You're surprised Sunflower didn't nab him. Golden Toad Cauldronists could refine all sorts of medicine in their own bodies, better than any lab. Put one under a knife, even an acolyte, and you could jump ten generations in front of the cutting edge.

    "He's got dirt on everything, and being the sadistic bastard that he is, you could get an audience by putting on a good enough show against his gene freaks." That's not ominous at all. "Aaand then there's the Iron Guanyin."

    "The tea?"

    Flay shook her head, blonde curls bouncing around in a Loreal ish way. "Nah. It's this giant statue these two kids built from scrap. They can answer any question you ask. Just uh, you have to give the Iron Guanyin an arm."

    You blink. "Okay."

    "Doesn't have to be yours," Flay adds. "They wanted me to off this gang boss. Kirisaki affiliate?" She looked at Fei Dao, who nodded. "So yeah. There you go."

    "You could come with us," Fei Dao suggests. "We have to take Sunflower anyhow, so you can ask around the strike. Another guy with us would help us out a lot against Sunflower's security force."

    Next Step
    [1.1] {Chase the Red Sun} Go to the Sunflower Medical Building.
    [1.1] {Harmonious Society} Get a quote from Hotel Faberzhe.
    []- Check what the Colored Wolf Pagoda is about.
    []- The Iron Guanyin of Compassion sounds pretty cool.
     
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    • [X] {Chase the Red Sun} Go to the Sunflower Medical Building.

    I'd be inclined to HARMONIZE except for the minor issue we don't have any money right now, as pointed out in the narration.
     
    [X] {Chase the Red Sun} Go to the Sunflower Medical Building.
     
    Adhoc vote count started by Laplace on Feb 11, 2021 at 1:57 PM, finished with 6 posts and 6 votes.
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    Well, once again communism triumphs. There's a metaphor here. The update will likely be delayed to Saturday given that it's the New Year tomorrow.
     
    Point the Sun
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    • It doesn't look like what you think a riot looks like. "Are we getting invaded?" you ask as the taxi driver enters the business park where Sunflower built their central HQ. Under the shade of a giant shard of steel and glass there are squat buildings, six floors tall at the highest. Trees shade parks and cafes for employees. A gated microcosm, five square kilometers, within another gated microcosm. Someone could live here their entire life. Probably the higher ups in the company wanted it. Corporate espionage got wild, you dimly remember. Weihai Computing had their techies nabbed off the streets and tortured for source code once.

    Of course, the gates were besieged. The driver, an old ex-PLA trucker who tried to sell you supplements the second you stepped onboard, spat out the window as he took the car off a ramp. The streets are crawling with strikers, rioters, whatever, milling around like ants. Smoke rises like inconstant chimneys. What's with your diction? "Who's we?"

    Good question. The car, a black sedan with tinted, radar absorbent windows crunches to a stop in front of a checkpoint where three old men leave their cards on the table to greet you. Fei Dao pops his head out the window first. "Hey, fellas!"

    "You're late," the first one grumbles. There are stick grenades strapped to his chest. Grenade Vest. "You were supposed to be here an hour ago."

    "Yeah, yeah," Fei Dao shrugs as he and Flay leave the rear seats. Flay had a long case balanced across her knees. "I got another guy, though. You can feed him to Metalhead or whatever. C'mon out."

    The second one is a bit squatter. Fatty. And the third one, boots propped up on the table, that's Mute. "He looks a little skinny. He's an afternoon snack for Metalhead. I hope you didn't pay it, Xiao Fei, cause he doesn't look like you got your money's worth."

    "Fuck you," you butt in. You're still wearing the Zhenyan jacket. It's like war spoils. And it's also really warm. You do have proper shoes now, and one of Fei Dao's track pants. "Metalhead ain't shit. I could break Metalhead over my knee."

    The only thing that breaks is laughter. "Alright, you can shut up now," you say testily.

    "Right," Grenade Vest wheezes, tears in his eyes. "You're fucking confident. I'll give you that. But just as a disclaimer-" he put up his hands, serious all of a sudden. "Metalhead is unbreakable. Unkillable. Untouchable. You might be tough shit, kid, but if you go up against Metalhead he will take your head and smash it into a pancake." His voice is like a funeral shroud and he grinds his thumb against the palm. "You will die and nobody will bother to clean up the corpse. They fucking pile them up like logs out on the steps to psyche us out. Would you like to reconsider?"

    You pause. You think about it. Really chewed it to the bone.

    "He still ain't shit."

    Grenade Vest shrugs. "Your funeral. Anyway, g'wan, Xiao Fei. The boss is getting antsy."

    Fei Dao knuckles his temples, gesturing you to follow as he strides past the checkpoint. "Roger." You and Flay do so too.

    The snow covers the streets. The district here was luxuriant. There are holographic panels, ritzy boutiques- beauty salons, private clinics, bars, all that stuff, underneath mirror-shard skyscrapers. But the panels are deactivated and the boutiques have their windows smashed. Chem-plant workers and other hangers on wave at the three of you, spitting the shells of sunflower seeds on the floor of places where they would have gotten hauled out by the ear, courtesy of the rentacops. You think some of the men with clean shaves and expensive watches might be cadres, buttressing their communist resume for the next debate.

    A red banner flutters in the wind, over a square with a pile of expensive, smashed up chairs in the center.

    You salute. Fei Dao and Flay try to look like they're not with you.

    "This comrade demonstrates good revolutionary spirit!" A voice, raw from years of yelling, floats in the wind wrapped in irony so thick you could build warship hulls out of it. "Introduce me, you amenable running dogs of capital." The two freelancers play a quick game of rock paper scissors. Flay won, but you're pretty sure that's because of her wired nerves. She slips out, muttering something about finding a sniper perch as the person who spoke storms in.

    She is a weathered middle aged woman. Her years have etched themselves onto her face and her hands. Age should have broken her down, reduced her to a hunched over wreck. Yet, she is defiant, standing like a hero's hero. A biker's chain snakes across her black leather jacket. An outrageous red and orange mohawk towers over her shaven head. Punk ain't dead. It's reincarnated into this exemplar standing in front of you.

    "This is uh," Fei Dao starts. "He's between names."

    The old punk roars with laughter. You watch with interest as the stones on the ground rattle around. "Fantastic. Why is the Jianghu such a clown show? Can't find a single normal guy without tripping over nine crazed shitgibbons screamin' something about how you killed their master. I'm Hong Ernu. And I'm the 'boss.' I have a bitch ass title the United Front assigned me but I don't give a shit about them."

    You salute again. "May a thousand red flowers bloom under heaven, comrade! We'll drive out all the pig demons by year's end!"

    The old Neo-Maoist squints at you. "I don't know if you're being serious or if you're fucking with me."

    "No fuckery intended. By the way," you say, finally remembering why you wanted to find the Neo-Maoists to begin with, "do you have a record of who got nabbed? I saw a comrade in a Zhenyan transport this morning. The one that got shot up with arrows?"

    Hong shrugged. "Not off the top of my head. I keep that shit to the secretaries, 'cause I was organizing in Hangzhou before this." She claps her hands together. "But let's get down to brass tacks. The government is getting annoyed and our fund money is going low. Our position is untenable, so I want to have one last push to make our bargaining position iron strong. So, I want you to kick down the doors and help us nab their servers."

    "Don't you have hackers for that?"

    "It's airgapped," Hong waved. "No connection, no hack. There's a specific server here." She passes you and Fei Dao a map of the fiftieth floor of the Sunflower building. "Locked down tight." The map has red blocks outlined, and circles marked with question marks. Cyborgs? Practitioners? Both? "Our guy on the inside says that the server hosts the internal emails."

    "I can see where this is going."

    "Yeah, but you have to get past Metalhead first. Then the Sunflower security guards and Zhenyan. And then the gun turrets. And the razor mines. Oh, and the electric panels. And the biotoxin vents."

    []- Metalhead Ain't Shit: Assert your dominance by beating Metalhead first. +Thought: Wrathful Manifestation {Destroy the walls between you and Enlightenment. Strike the bell until the true light of Amitabha Buddha fills you with the resolve to cast out demons. Mara is a maze and has a thousand temptations but you will ignore them because the noble truths are fires in your mind. Intensity 1}
    []- Executive Route: Some of the other skyscrapers look tall enough that you could leap from one of them to the Sunflower Building.
    [1.1] {Chase the Red Sun} Night Assault: You have a Zhenyan jacket, with Zhenyan ID's. Sneak inside and go from there.
    Scheduled vote count started by Laplace on Feb 10, 2021 at 4:30 PM, finished with 7 posts and 6 votes.
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    • there really needs to be a functionality where you can open and close voting without posting

    now watch as someone tells me there is and i've just been a dumbhead
     
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