Red Flux: A New Weird Quest for Justice, Freedom and the Self

[BiopunkOtrera]

A collaborative New Weird quest by @FBH and @Exhack.



----​

"Hey, Leigna! I thought I'd missed you."

The monorail snakes over the deep chasm of Kybal City's Lower Eastron, residential towers rising up on all sides, gleaming white concrete and gleaming window glass rising to tall spires, accelerating towards the skies. Above, clouds of Orgone collect around the high towers of the Central district, condensers opening like gills to catch the life giving stuff. To live among the clouds is immortality. Looking below, you can see the colourful roofs of the ground level slums,

"Morning." You stifle a yawn and look over at Cadmey, probably your best friend in the city, even though she's a cop. If you didn't know, you probably wouldn't be able to tell. She's average height, with the darker skin that demonstrates nomad blood, tattoos, body armour and muscle all concealed under the long black coat she keeps forever buttoned up. People know what she is though, and step out of her way as she comes over. "Seems like the weather's gotten a little worse. My apartment has a draft."

"You poor thing, did you sleep okay?" She sits next to you. The man who was there hurriedly rising to let her through. You were surprised to score a seat this morning but it's easier for her.

"Not really. Another bad dream."

You remember red sky over the mountains, gory clouds. The sun? No, something worse, a rain of blood, pouring down onto the valleys and mountains of the world. A rain of blood, and monsters in its wake.

It was only a dream.

"Ahah, you know it's funny you mention that. At the precinct we've had a couple of people come to us in a panic all… terrified of their own dreams."

"No…"

"Yeah." She raises a hand, throwing away the craziness of the world. "Maybe it's something in the water, or people being anxious after the stock market dropped last week. Do… you have stocks, Leigna?"

"I live in Lower Eastron, and today I'm going to steal my lunch from the library catering cart. I'm afraid your stock tips are going to have to find another home."

"...you got me there." She smiles, then waves a finger. "Although be careful. If you get caught, I can't bail you out of library jail or however it works over there."

"And here I was making friends with the tools of state violence just for that."

"I'm new. You gotta wait until I'm section chief before that's an option. Also you, I'd need to owe you some favours."

"Babysitting Gido isn't enough?"

"You do that once in a blue moon! Maybe you could fuss over my father now and then, and make sure he's fine too." She grins. "He's starved for female attention since he took sick."

"Heeh. I'm not sure you'll want me to be your stepmum."

"Oh I don't know, living together wouldn't be all-bad. You seem to keep good house on a librarian's wages."

"I just told you I'm going to steal my lunch."

"Like I said, keep good house."

"You're horrid."

"Officer Horrid, but thanks."

The rail thumps around a turn in the track, the electric arc above throwing out a spray of blue sparks. Outside, advertisements promise shiny black sky cars and expensive jewelry, an escape to the sun and the bounty of investments in the Hagioplex Energy League's new industrial complexes. It's stiflingly hot inside the train in a cold morning like this. You didn't think you'd get a seat. The rattle of the rail and the motion of the train start to merge. You close your eyes. You'll just be a second.

"Hey Leigna."

"Awuh." You blink, then shut your mouth hastily. Oh no, where you drooling? "...hm?"

"You were asleep on my shoulder."

"...I realize that. Are we at Central yet?"

"Bonamaere."

"A stop early this time. Thank you for… oh." You look down at the mark on the dark shoulder of her coat. "...sorry, I didn't realize I drooled on our jacket."

"...you did!?" She looks down then mops at it hastily. "You are so lucky these coats are waterproof."

"I am." You blush. "Sorry."

"It's alright. Well, see you tonight. Oh, are we still on for dinner on Saturday?"

"Sure. I'll see you tonight too hopefully. Unless you're stuck doing overtime again. I thought your union was supposed to be on that." The train pulls up to Bonamaere station tower. You're glad you don't have to get out here, as you hate Bonamaere station. There's no guard rails on the platform side, just a long long drop into residential towers and streets of the South Pinnacle below. Just thinking about it is enough to give you a twinge of acrophobia.

"I'll complain once I'm comfortable." She makes an 'I'll call you' gesture with a hand. "See you."

The door shuts behind her coat, people getting out of her way. You sit back, head resting against the window. Ahead of you, the great airborne disk that is central station comes into view, the entire building suspended impossibly amid the monorail tracks, seeming to hang like an airborne spider amidst the web of rails. The monorail begins to decelerate and comes to a smooth stop on the platform, most of the carriage pouring out through the doors and moving up towards the security checkpoint.

Even through the crowd, you can see it's double manned today, with four black uniformed police, two with submachine guns across their chest and a heavy silver and black Gardshells with a massive automatic rifle at port arms. There must be some kind of a security alert.

"Papers please." The cop who's doing the greeting says as you reach the glass and metal barrier of the checkpoint.

"..." You hand over your card, steeling yourself for it to go wrong.

"Librarian eh?" The cop leafs through the document. He's a big guy, muscular but also fat, chewing gum slowly as he speaks. "Surprised to see one of you types working in such a nice part of the city. Must be good pay."

"It's decent." You shrug "Air quality is folded into our benefits package, mind."

"Ah, yeah. Always like that with the upper city jobs." He grins, makes a show of checking your quota against a list.

"I have a medical… well my throat's metal as you can see."

"As I can see. I'm afraid you'll have to get screened today." He looks apologetic "You look harmless enough but I've got my quotas, same as everyone else in the transport constabulary."

[ ] Object to this and show him the security certification you took a year ago that allows you to handle restricted texts. You are above this.
[ ] Make a scene. You're clearly being singled out!
[ ] Why does this always happen to you?

"...fine."

"In here." He presses a button, opening a door to a corridor of long metallic arches, the electro scanner. "Apologies for the invasion of your privacy. It's just the constables that are privy to the results."

"...thanks."

"You'll need to take your coat off. Put it in the slot. Your bag too."

The scanner hums and thumps after you comply, flickering arcs running down the backs of each pillar. The cop rubs his face. " Okay, it looks like you're clear. For reference, it's best if you declare anomalous details such as the uhm... situation underneath your clothes in advance of passing through the electro-sweep." He coughs "We've had reports of the insurgents using disguises and concealing implants."

"It's not exactly something I carry in my medical documents." You look down, angry, angry at yourself for being angry when he's trying to be nice. "But thanks, officer."

"As long as you know. Have a nice day uhm…" He thinks as you put on your coat and grab your bag "...ma'am."

Outside you quicken your pace. You're not quite late, but you're not as early as you'd like. The skywalk out of Central Station leads into the White Plaza, the central square between most of the biggest government buildings, with the New Parliament on one side, the grand Cathedral on a second, and massive spire that holds the offices of Offices of Caltrai and Sons, the largest financial concern on a third. On the fourth is your place of work, the massive, elegant tower of the grand library, extending both up and down as far as the top of the mountain the city is built on, and high into the organe clouds above.

You use the staff entrance, down a side street between it and the ministry of defense, your ID papers opening the lock. Inside this entrance it's a lot less elegant, though the wood panel stairs still show just how expensive this building is. Really though, it's just another office, with bulletin boards and screens showing motivational government films and the news. Stocks are down, but the biggest story is streaking jet aircraft and advancing tanks out in the Ballo, our brave men and women against the sinister insurgents supported, some say, by the forces of the Crawling City.

You head into your office, dump your bag on the desk and almost get chance to sit down before the door opens.

"Sheridan. Great news."

Your Boss, one of the most important scholars in the city dresses like any academic would if they were married to Lord Nathiel Radesson, one of the wealthiest old money men in the city. The somber dark blue suit and gleaming glasses are both from the best Ryslain design houses. She's smiling, which is good.

"What is it boss?" You try to smile.

"It's late spring! That means the universities are flooding us with gormless youths trying to pad their resumes with internships. I've gotten you a helper clerk for the summer."

"Oh, really?"

"Quite the looker too, fit as a horse at the races. I imagine you're not disinterested in…" She gives you a sly look.

"Ahem." You decide not to respond to that. "I'll mind my manners. Is he interning to be a librarian or something else?"

"Advocacy at Kybal Metropolitan University." She puts a file on your desk. "One of those idealists with an eye for law and politics."

"Wow. What's he even doing here?"

"Oh I couldn't fathom. Read his entrance essay if you're so curious." Your Boss turns to leave. You begin to look through the file in front of you. The photo shows he is quite a looker, if you like wiry, muscular guys who look like they might spend their off hours from debating politics fighting with knives in roguish slum bars, which you do.

You're broken from these thoughts by a new arrival in your office door. "Oh, Lennie! You heard the news? Boss has set you up with an absolute hottie!" Obeah, your best friend at work looks in. She's carrying a large handful of leatherbound books, almost disappearing under them. Shorter than you, and with short hair, she looks almost stereotypically like a librarian.

"I was just told." You wave the file.

"The girls in records are sooo jealous. He's the youngest from the Sandist family. Huge financials. Have you met him yet? He's been here since dawn filing books away and the look of him is something!"

"I was actually looking through his file." Prevaricating. "I'll go find him in a minute."

"Well, better get too it, The Boss is going around with some special assignments. Something outside the building."

"Oh? Do we get extra?"

"Better, you're getting benefits." Your boss sticks her head in, Obeah ducking to get out of the way. She tosses you an envelope with an order paper and a silver debit card in it. "Treat the Sandist boy to lunches on the expenses account while you're mentoring him. Just keep it reasonable."

You nod, collect your bag again and head out through the office door into the main library. It's green carpeted wood and cream walls, mostly covered in shelving, the ceilings the only thing not covered with volumes.

The main library is so large that there are multiple sections, running up and down the building. You're fortunate enough to be in this one, high up enough to get the benefit of the organe flowing through the building, though being near the entrance means you're constantly working. You head down the steps, stepping carefully to avoid a pair of running children and head down and to the right, into the non-fiction section. Rayburn is at one end, next to a large book conveyor, directing the thing to stack books onto a set of high shelves.

When he sees you he smiles, and you decide he's even better in person, sharply dressed in simple but expensive looking clothes. He looks a little older than the photo, with a small scar above his lip.

"Ah, excuse me! Are you Miss Sheridan?"

He steps forward and shakes your hand.

"Please don't call me that." You shake, a bit at a loss, then push forward again "I'm Leigna."

"Miss Leigna."

"...Ms. is fine, but I'd rather my first name. Just Leigna. Rayburn Sandist?"

"Yes. And I'd just like to say I'm very glad to work with someone like you."

"Like me?" Your heart sinks a little. "I'm not sure if you've heard the rumors..."

"Academia is a closed garden and prejudice has kept it too long closed to the people of the sky. My instructors spoke very highly of you when I told you I was going to work here." He gives you an incredibly serious look, and you relax a little he realized what he meant. "I'm happy to be out of it and meet some real people. I'm a little surprised you're working in a city library though."

"The air is better." You adjust yourself, "for reference, we like to be called Elindove. I'm also a few generations out from skyship life."

"My apologies then." He rubs a hand across his hair, looking embarrassed.

"Don't be like that. I do have an uncle who's out there with a clan that adopted him." You smile, "I'm glad to meet someone who's… glad to meet someone like me, but remember I'm basically your boss until your internship is done."

"Yes ma'am!"

----​

For the next few hours you run the load system, slotting one book after another back into the shelves, and direct various customers who are too lazy, or stupid, to read the index to where they need to go. After a particularly dense part of the latter you decide you've had enough. "Are you hungry?"

"...yes. I was kind of hoping you'd bring it up soon." Rayburn grins, pretty white teeth like all the upper city boys you've seen. "I've been working like a horse. Are we going to be eating in the cafeteria, or…?"

[ ] You have an expense card and an empty pantry. Take advantage of this and go do your groceries, and then make something simple for him in the break room.
[ ] Take him to the cheap local corner shop that makes fried food and pasties, beloved by locals. You promised yourself not to eat from there too often but he seems the type to appreciate it.
[ ] Spoil yourself and go somewhere nice, you deserve it. Ask him for a recommendation.
[ ] No, you're not going to the cafeteria.

 

[BiopunkOtrera]

Leigna Sheridan
Occupation: Librarian/Bartender (Part-Time)
Age: 28

Height: 179 cm
Weight: 46 kg

Your willpower is STRONG, but WEAKENING. You are worried about the future, your life, your sanity and the purpose of your existence in the universe after unpleasant revelations. Sleep is no longer safe. You are slightly happy about your changing appearance.

Your health is POOR, and IMPROVING FAST. Exposure to the red rain makes you ill. Your knees and limbs no longer ache, your breathing is easy and natural, and the wounds around your respirator plate are starting to close. Chronic fatigue seems to be a thing of the past.

Your fitness is LANGUID, but RADICALLY IMPROVING.
Your coordination is CLUMSY, and RADICALLY IMPROVING.
Your reflexes are AVERAGE, but RADICALLY IMPROVING.
Your memory is GOOD.
Your perception is GOOD, and IMPROVING.

People consider you FAIRLY ATTRACTIVE, and you DO NOT. These are BOTH IMPROVING.

You have an ADVANCED knowledge of Orgonic theory and library science. You have a GOOD understanding of politics, economics, history, mixology and medicine. You have a BASIC understanding of driving, mechanical engineering and style. You are BAD at fighting and sport.

ORGONE
You do not know any theurgy.

You have orgonic script on your hands and scalp. Your right hand can levitate and move small objects, while your left hand senses marked books and can generate a volumetric display for pathfinding. Other tattoos bolstered your health and controlled your endocrine system to autoregulate your body's natural hormones.

You have a prosthetic throat piece. It previously allowed you to eat and speak after surgical treatment of throat and esophageal cancer. The corresponding tissue is beginning to regenerate.

????
You have transformed 0 times.

You have only spoken a little bit with The Watcher.

When you broke from the Watcher's control and took control of it, it granted numerous abilities.

COMPLETE FOCUS on the Ox-Blood hue has allowed you to rapidly reshape your body to your whims. With time and effort you could become anyone, anything.

FOCUS on the Amaranth hue provides nigh-unstoppable defense and regenerative power. The world around you feels less fragile.

You are ATTUNED to the Crimson hue, which allows you to perceive and manipulate water and orgone. You suspect you can heal creatures and draw orgone out of things that do not resist it.

You are WEAKLY ATTUNED to the Flame hue, which allows you to perceive and understand primordial fire and prima materia, as well as the world that originates from it.

You are DISCONNECTED from the Vermillion hue. You may only access liminality at sunrise and sunset, transporting yourself and others between spaces.

 

[BiopunkOtrera]

Placeholder for Glossary

 

[Exhack]

Leigna Sheridan
Prof. Afaris
LBS 1004-05
13 Germinal, 553

The Stuff of Life
The Geopolitics of Orgone
(First Draft)​

Orgone is a substance of contrasts. It is the very stuff of life, the engine that drives our commerce and the fuel of every conflict in the last decade. Our advanced technology and theurgy would fail to function without it.

No substance has impacted the development and organization of our civilization more than the self-organizing bionic ether, also known as the orgone. It drives industry, enables theurgy, and the refinement of its various forms it for medicine and technology is what drives progress. The world's nations have adopted fiat currencies fixed to the value of this substance.

Our cities and agriculture are planned to capitalize on the beneficial health effects of high-altitude "pure" or "sky" orgone. Low-altitude work such as mining and scavenging have become conflated with monstrosity and sacrilege due to the presence of "impure" or "pelagic" orgone, which has teratogenic effects on sapient life and is responsible for a host of monstrous life that has arisen from afflicted animalia and plantids. Further compounding this is the historage usage of civic and political undesirables such as criminals and resettled Elindove sky nomads in low-altitude work camps.

In warfare orgone is utilized in the enhancement of the merely mortal to superhuman, in the creation of weapons both technological and biological. The industrialized exploitation of deep pelagic orgone and its refinement into safe forms has resulted in yet another revolution in industrial machinery, allowing cities to rise to unseen heights.

Society itself has developed a moral sense of right and wrong, good and bad from the perceived consequences of living at different altitudes. It equates affluence and ritual purity with the right to live in the upper strata of the atmosphere, where these seemingly beneficial forms of orgone bestow superior physical capabilities, beauty and longevity. Deformities and disabilities caused by exposure to Pelagic Orgone are taboo in modern society and subject to censure by elites by society, resulting in generational ghettoization in ground-level settlements. Taboos are only beginning to evaporate as the value of pegalic orgone rises with the new trends in technology.

Resource wars over Orgone appear to be becoming less common as exploitation methods improve. The Great Mistake waged by the Hagioplex League against the sky nomads of the southearn hemisphere, who call themselves the Elindove, driven by a ccombination of religious fervor against the "heethen" nomads and their monopolization of several unsettled deepsky orgone gyres- as the substance is wont to aggregate in tempestuous pockets.

Resource wars over Orgone appear to be becoming less common as exploitation methods improve. Improvements in skyship technology and ground-based logistics have made it easier to access deepsky gyres- where much of the world's pure sky orgone collects, evaporating prior monopolies on the substance. The Great Mistake the Pacification Wars waged by the Hagioplex League against the sky nomads of the southern hemisphere, who call themselves the Elindove, driven by a combination of religious fervor against the "heathen" nomads and resentment over their monopolization of several unsettled gyres as harbor zones.

It appears that as technology improves and production increases, these resource wars will become less likely.

 

[Exhack]

​

[x] Take him to the cheap local corner shop that makes fried food and pasties, beloved by locals. You promised yourself not to eat from there too often but he seems the type to appreciate it.

"I know a place nearby. You like pasties right?"

[Rayburn liked that.]​

"As it happens. Especially fresh."

You lead Rayburn out of the main doors and along the block, down past several imposing government buildings and up some steps into a small shopping arcade on the third story of a converted building. There's a pharmacy, a coffee shop, and then Deloy, an old style corner shop that sells, among other things, some pretty amazing home made pasties. Beyond the various produce there's a set of brown wooden tables, their surfaces whirled and stirated the orgone that wafted through the high-altitude forest that spawned them.

There's only one person on in the time after what most people would consider a lunch hour, and apparently some people have decided to take a late lunch like you. There must be half a dozen people snaking along the counter.

"Ah, rats. We'll be queued for a little." You join the back of the cue, taking the opportunity to check Rayburn out without being too obvious about it. His muscles are very impressive up close, and you wonder how much time he spends in the gym. "So why exactly would someone with a bright career in law or politics poke his nose in our neck of the bureaucracy?"

"The older boys at KMU told me all the pretty girls in the civil service crowd around the archives and libraries."

"...!" You fluster for a moment. "Well that's not true at all. We're old nans."

"I'm teasing."

"Oh good~. So I have permission to put insubordinacy your dossier?"

"...ahah, please don't. I was just thinking you can't be that old." He considers you. "Twenty-two?"

"Please, you're flattering me." You cough "A little higher."

"I don't believe you." He blinks "Twenty… five?"

You make a gesture for higher

"Twenty eight?"

"...mmmh. Yes. Not quite old enough to be your mum, but I'd be grateful if you did entreat with me as your proper senior."

Even if it does shut down the impossible potentiality of romance, when else are you going to get a chance to boss someone around.

"Heh, not much more than my twenty-four. And I was just thinking you're a little more wilful than you let on." He looks at the line of government types getting their food. They're dressed mostly in sharp blue business wear of the latest fashion. "Care much for politics?"

"A little old to still be in school then."

"I changed disciplines. Politics you know, it was a late awakening." A shrug "Not keen to talk about yours?"

"Not especially, particularly with a junior colleague. Bad mix as a civil servant."

"I won't be for long."

You look at him for a long time, not sure how much to trust. "I suppose I have lots of reasons to not have much affection for the way things are, but I'm content with my situation. I'm safe, I can eat most meals and the library air is good for my health."

"That's… respectable." He looks out the window at the orgone clouds breaking around the towers in the distance "So what, would you take up arms if the services stopped paying?"

"I'm not much of a fighter, no." You cup your bicep with your other hand and curl it sheepishly. "Rail-thin if you hadn't noticed."

"Fighting's about more than muscles. Reach and leverage count for a lot. And if things were to go hot, the partisans would likely have guns and gardshells."

"Spoken like a partisan. I thought you came from a moneyed family."

"I do, but the theory makes you a little aware of everything. Not like there isn't a proud tradition of wealthy academics leading the charge to reform elsewhere." He pauses, as if reconsidering what he's saying. "Still, too many of the elites still think about economics in mercantilist terms. Zero-sum wealth. It's holding progress and equality back."

"Fancy yourself the founder of another Ean-Saffe?"

"Never. I'm a son of the Commonwealth through and through." He becomes more animated "That's why reform matters. I love the country but we need to make it possible for people to rise above their station with effort. For the ones who can't, we need social services to keep people healthy and safe."

"Or the proles will rebel and overthrow you all?"

"I just think the way society treats the poorest and most vulnerable is despicable. And you said you didn't like poli-"

"NEXT!"

You're up to the counter now, and order several pasties, a sausage roll and drinks. "Eating in? I'll have the girl bring them over to your table." The man behind the counter smiles at you. You know him by sight, if not by name. You're a regular when you can afford to be.

"Thanks," you walk to a back table and sit down. You can't help notice Rayburn sits against the wall, able to watch both doors at once.

"I've wondered since I met you, but is it hard to eat with that?" He points at your throat prosthetic, and you find yourself fingering it, self conscious.

"I've gotten used to it. I used to love eating spicy and sour foods, but it aggravates the junction between my flesh and the collar."

"It's in your esophagus too?"

"Yeah."

"Ouch." Genuine concern. "What happened?"

"Respiratory issues. I was originally from Haleston, a mining settlement, and most of the eli- my people have a sensitivity to pelagic orgone. Especially the impure stuff that stagnates in pools in the wastelands." You blanch, shake your head. "Sorry. We're eating, and it's a little gross if you want to know...?"

"I'm not squeamish."

"It's obstructive tumors, mostly. Lung and throat diseases are common. My father and older sister passed from it."

"I'm sorry." He looks like he genuinely is.

You make a gestured 'it's in the past'. "I got off well enough. Had some nodules taken out, but my natural voice went with it. Had to spend much of my time in university as a mute, 'till a wealthy donor paid for a prosthetic."

"It's really inconceivable to that your people still haven't be released from the forced relocations."

"Nobody's keeping us, but train tickets out of the company town cost a lot of company vouchers. Most people can't tighten their belts for two weeks to save for one, and wages don't get any better out in those remote settlements. More than that, the war destroyed a lot of the ships and skydocks." You shake your head. "There's just not enough room for everyone who wants to return to nomadic life. That uncle I mentioned won a lottery the ones who still live up there run for those of us who got taken."

"Maybe the system doesn't need reform. If we tore it all down, we might have the conditions necessary to fix every single rotten thing about it." He smiles a little, his face saying it's a joke.

"You sound like a radical."

"Sometimes direct action is necessary. That's what I think, anyway."

How do you feel about what he said?
[ ] You strongly agree with him. Things aren't great or even good for most people, and is necessary to organize before the crisis begins so you can push your agenda of reform or revolution.
[ ] You agree. The government and elites can't be relied upon to do everything for regular citizens, so we should look out for themselves and eachother. When a crisis happens, these groups can help to keep people safe.
[ ] You can't completely agree. The system is flawed and racism undermines the intended equality of democratic society, but the fragile peace upon which people depend to live needs to be protected.
[ ] You disagree. As corrupt as the government is, it's still a democracy. You can only use peaceful means for reform.
[ ] Who are you kidding? You told Cadmey you were going to steal lunch today. Even if you think your life can get better you can't say things are perfect.

How will you answer him?
[ ] Answer him completely honestly, because that always goes well.
[ ] Answer him with only a little self-censorship.
[ ] Give him the answer you think he'll like.
[ ] Give him the answer you think is politically safe.

 

[Exhack]

Wonbise Occupational Clinic
1410 Huvram Avenue, E4Q-7002
Kybal, Upper Eastron
Commonwealth of Free Tarven States

Discharge Summary
Admission Date: 24 Nivose, 558
Discharge Date: 03 Pluviose, 558

Admission Diagnosis: Patient reports no outstanding or urgent medical issues. Patient has previously received dermal xerography (torso, scalp) from an endocrinological clinic for cosmetic/mental health purposes, and receives bi-weekly dosing of refined orgone distillates. Mechanical prosthesis (throat) causing no complications that warrant delay of procedures, recommend observing oxygen levels during treatment.

Discharge Diagnosis: No complications, skin on hands and fingers healing adequately. Sky nomad skin type unlikely to scar or deform from treatment with orgonic inks.

Consults
- 7.50, 04 Thermidore, 557: Initial consultation, standard physical and allergenic testing. Patient has prior history of receiving dermal xerogaphy for cosmetic reasons, good response to treatment.
- 6.35, 29 Fructidore, 557: Second consultation, confirmation of payment by patient employer (Kybal City Central Library).
- 3.50, 11 Vendemiaire, 558: Small-patch test xerography with sourced orgonic inks, confirmation of final procedure day. Test area has healed within hours, registering functional orgonic tubules and channels.

Procedures
- 4.00, 24 Nivose, 558: Thumb, index and middle finger of dominant hand are prepared for dermal xerography. Antiseptic treatment and hair removal of target skin areas, patient is brought to a comfortable lounge environment to permit extended sitting.
- 4.25, 24 Nivose, 558: Patient thumb, index and middle finger of dominant hand are etched in phases by xerographer. Control conduits linking intended psychokinetic factors with hand motions, specific twitch motions in shoulder and neck established.
- 6.00, 24 Nivose, 558: Second phase of inking begins. Artist embellishes functional work with non-orgonic inks in accordance with patient desires.
- 7.13, 24 Nivose, 558: Second phase concludes, dermatologist oversees protection of hand in UV-resistant bandages, orgonic healing gel.

- 3.00, 25 Nivose: Patient palm and back-of-hand of non-dominant hand are prepared for dermal xerography. Antiseptic treatment and hair removal of target skin areas, patient is brought to a comfortable lounge environment to permit extended sitting.
- 3.21, 25 Nivose: Patient palm and back-of-hand of non-dominant hand are etched in phases by xerographer. Control conduits linking intended psychometric lattice with shape-memory inks established.
- 5.70, 25 Nivose: Psychometric lattice coated with color-adjusting orgonic inks, creating a full-color display pattern. Light-emitting crystals embedded underneath the skin create functional holography for the user interface of the intended object-finding system.
- 6.80, 25 Nivose: Procedure completed, dermatologist oversees protection of hand in UV-resistant bandages, orgonic healing gel.

- 4.00, 26 Nivose: Hands unbandaged, patient allowed to care for themselves in a controlled environment. Ambient orgone restricted to prevent accidental activation of psychokinetic ability while engaging in activities (eating, bathing, etc).
- 27 Nivose to 02 Pluviose: Patient undergoes occupational therapy and training during medical leave.

Summary: The patient is a 26 year-old ____ (?), currently working at the Kybal City Central Library. __ will be receiving standard augmentations for workers in the archive, consisting of a Mani-Kaja psychokinetic array and Q-Horoo psychometric lattice.

The M-K augmentation will be built to standard specifications with a range of __m and pull/push effect of ___N, and embedded in the skin via dermal xerography. As the intended target will be books and other archival media, the range and power of this array will be limited in favor of precision. The Q-H lattice will allow for short-range location of target objects using using a psychometry-compatible fragments. The city's bell-chime network will augment the range and precision of location scans. The patient's employer has specified that we lock certain functions (tracking of living organisms) for legal reasons.

Discharge Diagnosis Assessment: The patient has adapted to the treatment quickly and is unlikely to need revisions.

Discharge to: Patient is discharged to home, counseled to avoid concentrations of raw pelagic orgone. A rigorous skincare regimen is suggested for the next 2-3 weeks. No rest days necessary before return to work.

 

[BiopunkOtrera]

​

[X] You agree. The government and elites can't be relied upon to do everything for regular citizens, so we should look out for themselves and each other. When a crisis happens, these groups can help to keep people safe.
[x] Answer him with only a little self-censorship. (Decided by Coin Toss)

[Rayburn will remember that.]​

You look past him at the stream of civil servants, the tall buildings, the power and affluence running through this small, old style shop. How do you feel about this question? This spoiled rich kid talking to you about politics. You're not sure he's ever bled for someone else, or convinced he'd do it for you if the revolution you're sure he wanted swung by. As long as he can stay uncontroversial and free of scandal, he has a bright career ahead of him. A shoe-in for Civic Humanist MP in a milquetoast upper-city constituency fully of bougie liberals.

A position of power, a good salary. Will he remember you then?

"We both went to Keemu. I'm overqualified for the work I do, Rayburn." You vocalize, trying to not sound cartoonishly exasperated as your shoulders deflate in the admission. "But I'm also an immigrant from a nomad family with a serious health issue. Add to it that I'm not exactly gender-conforming and my documents give enough conflicting accounts to draw attention, so I get constant police interest."

"So what do you want?" He looks at you, earnest but slightly nervous. Like he doesn't want to contradict you.

"Same as almost every other girl in Lower Eastron, Ray. I'd love to breathe easy, sleep easy, always have food to eat and not have to worry about much more than my job and social life. I want to feel like I Iive in a just society and not just be told I do."

He looks pleased, but you go on, cutting across whatever he might be going to reply, aggressive. "But you know, there's absolutely no chance of that happening. There are three political options: the Constitutionalists who are bad, the Restorationists who are worse, and the Civic Humanists who don't have a chance. And the last time the Tarveni had a revolution and overthrew their unrighteous rulers, they killed all of their foreign advisors and labour. So, no, frankly, I don't think grand scale politics has a chance of doing anything. If we win it'll be small, and local. It'll be getting people into better jobs and winning legal issues. By influencing, not by voting or whatever. If people stick together, then maybe they can score victories. That's all we can really hope for."

Rayburn looks contrite, and raises his hands, placating. "Sorry. I see why you would think that."

"I don't hate my job or anything but I'm working this and another one to keep food on the table and pay for my medical bills. I'm angry, but government isn't going to make it any better one way or another."

Rayburn seems about to say more, when your glass beeps. It's a text from your boss. "We'd better go back in." You finish the last bite of your pastie. "She'd only text us at lunch if it was important."

"Alright." Rayburn gets up as well, following you out. You head back to the library, stopping at the corner as a long, heavily escorted road convoy roars past, hovercycles on one side and a pair of police gun trucks in front of a trio of armoured limos heading in towards the Prime Minister's residency.

"Lot of traffic today." Rayburn looks up, shading his eyes. You follow his gaze to a pair of military looking ornithopters, spiked with sensor antenna and fueling probes moving through the upper residential districts.

"It might be an anti-terrorist exercise. There've been a lot of those lately." You walk back up the steps and into the library proper, taking the staff lift up and walk directly into your Boss's office. When you get inside, she's sitting behind the desk, looking through a list on her desk screen, finger running along it. "Ah, Leigna, Mr. Sandist. Please sit down." She indicates the chairs. "We've got a little problem. I'm going to need the pair of you to go outside the library." She frowns. "A book is missing, from the restricted section." That's quite serious, restricted section books are not usually allowed out. "It appears it was loaned out by accident to one Atyche, no other name given. We have an address, in the bottom area of the city."

"Have you contacted the police?" You ask. You have a sinking feeling you know where this is going.

"No, and frankly, I don't intend to unless this goes further. If it becomes known something from the restricted stacks was borrowed…" She trails off, shaking her head. "Let's just say that it wouldn't look good for my career, or my husbands, and it might well get everyone who works here fired. We need to get this book back without anyone knowing we allowed something like this to happen."

"How could it have happened?" Rayburn asks. "In my training, they said that restricted books would have a special black cover, to show they couldn't be leant."

"I suspect they used one of these damn new automated checkout systems. I swear, machines will be the death of us all," she sniffs. "As I said, I don't believe this is anything more than a misunderstanding. I want you two to go down to the address given, find this… Atyche, and retrieve the book, then bring it back here. We'll reshelve it, and no one will be any the wiser."

You feel conflicted. This could be dangerous, not because you think the bottom of the city is particularly more crime infested than anywhere else. There is crime down there, but you know what to look for. More though for your lungs, orgone sumps could be dangerous. You're thinking hard about refusing, your job be damned, when your Boss drops the other side of it. "I really hope you can do this Leigna, otherwise I'd have to send Obeah."

You couldn't stand to do that to your friend. "Alright, I'll do it."

"I'll accompany you." Rayburn says.

"Excellent. I obviously can't pay you an official bonus for this, but I do believe I can find you a little something extra for the end of the month. You tell me you have trouble sleeping, one of my friend's companies does a great line in rectifying censors. It would do wonders for your sleep."

The carrot follows the stick. A good rectifying censor would give you the equivalent air you get at the library even in your apartment. Your old breathing problems might finally become a thing of the past. You hate the way they same to lose capacity at weekends or during holidays, the way you end up constantly short of breath. Better still, if the air clears up you might be able to buy and keep more fresh food in your apartment, allowing you to eat more than shelf-stable rice and awful tinned goods during your weekends. You could keep a pet. You could even grow your own vegetables in the windowsill!

"Thank you." Better to be diplomatic.

"I'm counting on you Leigna, we all are."

The question now is, what should you do first.

[ ] Go see if you can find out what happened to the book, or if anyone saw this Atyche.
[ ] Head straight down to the address given.
[ ] Go get some supplies first.
[ ] Ask Rayburn for advice.

 

[Exhack]

​

[x] Go see if you can find out what happened to the book, or if anyone saw this Atyche.

"Which clerk was running the tills for our automated checkout?" you ask. "Enzik? Or one of the others?"

"Pavel, I believe. He was the one who circled the accidental checkout for me." Your Boss gets up and pours herself half a glass of a fragrant and tawny-looking liquor from one of the intricate crystal decanters. She considers the liquid a moment then uses a pair of elegant silverware tongs pull out a few ice cubes, adding them to the glass to chill and dilute. She takes a sip and considers, before looking back to you.

You nod, not really surprised she didn't offer you a drink. "Haven't met him."

"He's one of our exchanges from the Novid City Library, in Ryslain." She sits halfway on the edge of her desk, looking back to the windows. Traffic has thinned out as the mid-day rush passes, likely to be slow for a few hours. Another of those black military ornithopters waits over the air traffic like a crow. "A bit boorish, but good-natured."

"I'll go see to him, then. Thanks for your help, boss."

She smiles around the glass "You're the one accepting this absurd mission, I really couldn't depend on anyone else." You almost feel like you're suddenly doing a friend a favor. That familial relationship she maintains with the employees is a trap, of course, but you still can't help but get ensnared in it. "You have a few days before we're obligated to report it to the police, but do hurry. It's going to do terrible things for my skin if I lose sleep over this mess."

You nod and take your leave, Rayburn following you out. He speaks up about halfway down the stairwell. "While you do that, you don't suppose I should ask the guards and other staff?" "

"Taking initiative." You look over your shoulder at him, smiling to make sure he knows its a joke. "I'll put that in my review notes."

"I have a great mentor." He grins, showing all those perfectly straight white teeth once again.

What a flatterer. You part ways once you reach the checkout area, Rayburn making a beeline for the security gate. There are glimpses of him chatting up one of the security guards, a young man of about his age while you strut over to the checkout terminal. A youngish man, maybe a few years older than you and with greying platinum hair and gorgeous blue eyes is wiping down the keys with a soapy-smelling disinfectant mist.

He notices your footsteps and turns, wiping his hands off. His face is sort of average, broad-lipped and just a little frostbitten around the nose and brow, but richly-colored eyes continue to draw your attention.

He nods, offering a hand. "Ah, hello."

"You must be Pavel. We haven't been formally introduced, but I'd like to welcome you to Kybal Central." You shake and give a hint of a curtsey, arching your back. "I'm Leigna Sheridan, one of the librarians here."

He smiles tensely, slightly yellow but not unpleasant. His accent is distinct, but comprehensible. "This is about the book and the woman, isn't it?"

"It is. What can you tell me about her?"

"Strange one. She came to me with a license to access the restricted section, so I escorted her in." He sets his cleaning supplies aside and waves an upper-city woman through as she swipes a stack of novellas through the checkout station. "Watched her the entire time. Enzik was on my station while I was away."

"You're saying you didn't see her take the book?" You wonder.

"She read it and put it back. I saw everything." He shrugs, pacing on a track of a dozen or so steps. "Hours later, it turns up missing."

"...strange." You nod. While you can't refute your only eyewitness account, there must be more to it. "What did she look like?"

"Hmm, someone from the highlands maybe? I don't know Tarven looks that well. Sun-kissed skin, darker than you and covered in tattoos. Her clothes were… less normal than yours. Tunic and slacks, lots of rips." He sounds like he might be self-censoring a bit, maybe on account of who's questioning him. It's still more frustrating than flattering to be told all this with juicy details omitted. "Too much jewelry too. Looked cheap."

"Cheap?" You ask.

"Glass and wooden beads on rope." He wags a hand in front of his nose. "Tarnished silver. It has a bad smell."

"Did you speak to her about anything?"

"She asked me about Ryslain, that's all." The tension evaporates a little, his visibly unclenching. A happier topic given the circumstances. "I started daydreaming about home…"

"Daydreaming?"

"Yes. I was taking to her about growing up on a barley terrace in the highlands around Novid City… growing up with so many pets, hunting wolves with my baba to protect the herds." He beams, turning a little nervous as your questioning makes him more aware of appearances. "I suppose I'm a little homesick. Easy to become nostalgic."

"Interesting. How did that come up?"

"She asked suddenly." He shrugs, a little confused about that himself and trying to rationalize that. "I suppose I look a bit like the stereotype. Blonde, blue eyes, cheekbones."

"Uh huh…" While he does, you're beginning to suspect appearances are only part of it and something else is going on. Given the apparent gap in his memory, you have reasons to suspect the errant borrower may not have wholly innocent methods or motives.

Pavel's expression turns to one of concern, as he catches your introspection. "Something the matter?"

"It's probably nothing. Did anyone else see her?"

"Some of the guards, maybe." He paces again, sighing. He sounds tired. "...sorry, I should have been paying more attention but I haven't been sleeping well lately. Distractions are harder to ignore."

"It's fine, Pavel. I think that's been going around."

He smiles, more genuinely. "Thanks."

"I'm going to head out, but it'd be great if you could write down anything else that comes to mind. Leave it on my desk?"

"Of course, Miss Sheridan."

You catch up with Rayburn outside the library, in one of the plazas it shares with several government buildings. The suns are at their highest in the sky, or a little past it. It feels warm on your overcoat, heating your shoulders and the crown of your head. He grins, his clothes smelling like fragrant smoke and his breath like cheap liquor.

"Find anything?" You level a glare at him.

He holds his hands up like you're aiming a pistol at him, his smile turning a little guilty. "Yeah. The guards say a sexy woman dressed like a bonepicker witch walked out with a heavy-looking bookbag. She was a license holder though, so they ignored it."

"They told you Atyche was a witch?" You pause, considering his words until all of that catches in your head. Unpleasant heat spreads across your face, reaching to the tips of your ears. And this guy can see all of it. "...they told you she was sexy?"

"Oh yeah. I offered them cigarettes and we traded stories about girls. Your security guards are really underpaid."

You sigh, scratching your cheek. "Not my problem, though I guess I should pass that on."

"You should. They were a big help." He suggests, looking sincere. "Nedwan, the one who's ex-military. He says she had some pretty serious tattoos, lots of orgonic ink. Not just for show."

"I was just speaking to Pavel and he mentioned not noticing her grab the book. He was too busy waxing nostalgic about his hometown." You lean on the railing, letting the updraft from the lower sections muss your hair. "So from the sound of it, we have either a magical practitioner or a real slick operator."

"Maybe both." Rayburn seems thoughtful. To your mild surprise he doesn't look at all worried about this, like it's just another obstacle. "I don't like police but are you sure this isn't their job?"

"If the police catch wind of this we'll be scrutinized for weeks and the city might finally slash the library's funding. No, this isn't their job." You shake your head. "As far as anyone should care it's just an overdue book that was taken out by… someone of rare and exceptional talents. We have no proof of any crimes. Witches can still apply for citizenship in Tarven and hold important positions in government."

"And you say I have radical politics."

"Oh shush."

From the library, you head back down to the station, Rayburn at your side. Traffic is as heavy as usual, with a constant stream of cars and people moving down the narrow skyways between the towers.

"I don't like the look of this." Rayburn winces as you approach the station. It's packed. A huge backlog up to the security gate, and an arrival board that announces a raft of delayed services. You wince. It's going to take forever to get through. You just hope you're not scanned again. That'd take even longer.

"I'm sorry if what I said over lunch upset you."

"It didn't upset me." You push a strand of hair back, a gesture of dismissal. "There's just not much I can do about politics you know?"

"I guess I'm sorry you feel that way. I've always been involved in politics a bit, to piss off my family I suppose. Student activism and the like. Demos and whatever."

And yet he doesn't get his papers checked and the cops smile at him.

"So how about your family? How did you get your way into the upper city? Or have you always been here?"

"Not here, no... " he looks off into the distance, remembering. "We weren't really ever badly off. My Dad operated a business selling laborshells to salvage crews. I was too young to really know much about it. I remember we had a huge gas stove that was always hot, and one time when the storms took the power out, I camped next to it and built wooden blocks. There were a lot of fields, a lot of areas you couldn't go because you got sump orgone collection in some of the clefts. It was good though, we were fine."

"He must have struck it big, during the archeology boom right?"

"Yeah. Just like everyone else already in the business. One minute we were just doing okay, detached house and a big garden with a creek at the bottom. Then suddenly we had our own tower. I was so excited." He smiles, but there's a ruefulness to it, as if he's ashamed of his own nostalgia. "Dad was determined not to let it go to his head. He said he'd work even harder, use what he'd got by luck to get a true fortune. Decided to stop just being a salesman and suddenly our name was attached to a company developing gardshells for deep ruins exploration."

"Oh? I heard Obeah say your family was in finance."

"She's not wrong. My siblings play the market. The family business is definitely the shell industry though, along with other industrial machinery."

"You must be proud."

"I am, but… it was nice having a father." The smile fades. "After a while, we barely got to see him he was working so long. Honestly, I barely know him anymore. He's never home, always at some conference or the other. My mother barely knows him either. They built wings onto the family home just to house their affairs. My brothers and Sis went our separate ways. When we do meet mostly they seem to want to talk about how scared they are of losing things, not getting promotions, of market crash."

"They don't ask you about school? Or girlfriends?"

"Dad talks about how a brushfire war would do wonders for his contracts with the Commonwealth military."

"...hm." You mouth, looking at him.

"It sort of feels like getting rich broke us a little."

"My heart bleeds for you."

"Yeah. As sob stories go, it's pretty entitled." He laughs, self-effacing. "I don't worry about anything besides school and our holiday dinners are pretty nice."

You relent a little. "Just because you don't have it as bad as some other people doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."

"I dunno, it makes me sound like any politics I have are just a complex about my Dad doesn't it?" He shrugs. "If I was going to pathologize my own politics I'd say they're based on loneliness. The city is strange. You're around all these people but no one knows one another."

"So what, build urban villages? Collective spaces?"

"Maybe." He looks like he wants to say more but doesn't. "Looks like it's clearing enough for us to get through."

"Sure."

You pass through the barrier, thank god without another scan, and onto the main platform. "What the heck is going on?" Rayburn asks, then turns to a blue uniformed guard standing nearby and asks the same question. "Why is there so much delay?" You feel a little thrill of worry, but the man seems unaffected by the question.

"Priority trains. Military. It's some kind of a mobilization drill."

"Nice of them to do that on a work day."

"Yeah." the policeman laughs. A heavy armoured train hurtles down the monorail, full of green uniformed troops. Another follows. Finally, a civilian down train pulls in and you begin to push forward.

"So how do you want to approach this? Do you have papers to get into the under city? I suspect they'll be heavy check ups going down with the military exercises."

"Hmm." You consider.

[ ] You have contacts that can get you into the slums, but that involves introducing Rayburn to people from your other job.
[ ] You can probably risk moving around on your own using public transit, since you have Rayburn.
[ ] Rent a vehicle at a station in the lower city. It should be a lot more convenient than using public transport.
[ ] Charter a taxi to drive you around. The drivers are reliable and tend to keep safe from the slumlords, but it's liable to max out the expenses card before long.

 

[BiopunkOtrera]

​

[x] Rent a vehicle at a station in the lower city. It should be a lot more convenient than using public transport.

You consider for a moment. You know a certain someone, a doctor, who could probably get you into the slums pretty easily but it would require you introducing Rayburn to another side of your life, and you're not comfortable with doing that. He seems nice enough, but he's also someone of privilege, and even if his politics are kind of radical, you've been with enough leftists who turn pretty awful at that side of your life.

The truth is, it's just not worth the risk.

"Why don't we rent a sky car? We can get down into the slums easier that way. We'll put it on my expense card."

"It's okay to burn through your expenses like that?"

"Yeah. I mean, it's only for a day right? We just need to make sure we don't trash it or anything."

"Sure." Rayburn nods. "I don't want to be rude, but have you ever hired a car before?"

"Not really." You admit. "I've never had the money."

"The thing to remember is that everyone renting a car is trying to rip you off." He hunts through his glass for a rental place, then leads you towards the train exit. "There's a place near the next stop. You need to make sure you take pictures of everything in it, inside and out, before you leave, so they can't tell you there's damage that was already on it."

You smile a bit. "The things rich people know."

"It's actually cause I was always the guy who was in charge of doing transport for the debate club at university."

You step out onto the Yarbridge Station platform. It's starting to rain. You extend your umbrella and Rayburn keeps close, heavy drops pouring across the street in a film. It's so dark that the street lamps start to come on. A police ornithopter moves slowly over, its spotlight seeming to point directly at you, as if you're held at the centre of some vast stage.

You blink, feeling a strange disquiet.

The rental place turns out to be a flattened off mountain peak, dozens and dozens of shining red and blue air cars standing in neat rows in the rain. Higher up, the city lights shine down like a thousand eyes, regarding you.

"Are you okay?" Rayburn asks.

"I." You try to shake the feeling off, blinking a few times. Awakening lamplight scatters in the downpour, bathing the air in a ruddy haze. The air smells of salt spray and copper, your stomach and shoulders seizing with nausea. "I don't know. I feel a little strange. I'm going to do a self check. Maybe I ate something I'm allergic to." Your list of food intolerances is distressingly long.

"I'll take care of getting us a rental."

"Thanks." You roll up your sleeve and put finger and thumb against two points of the diagnostic tattoo on your wrist, checking your body's orgone levels, heartbeat, blood pressure and blood oxygenation. All of them seem normal. No strange proteins or the like that might suggest new cancer. You repeat the process on the tattoos on your temple, which your hair usually hides, and find nothing again.

Maybe you're just stressed. It's not like the slums are a place you have a particularly good set of memories of. Or maybe it's the rain. The air tastes strange, there could be high altitude orgone mixed in with it. You've heard that certain rich people drink the stuff down for euphoric effects, a truly decadent abuse of their position in the city.

Still, you can't help keep looking around you, watching each ornithopter as it passes, feeling like the spotlights are aimed specifically at you.

"I've got it." Rayburn waves as he walks back out, He presses the keychain and one of the blue sky cars blinks and the doors hinge open. You get in the passenger seat, letting him drive, and belt on. Force of habit from when you could briefly afford a car makes you check the mirrors and you jump, thinking you see something, a figure in the distance, but it's just a flash of distant lightning.

Rayburn gets in, cursing at the rain, his glass in hand. "No idea if anything will come out in this weather. It's horrible out there." He takes another picture of the inside then looks at you and smiles. "Mind if I take a picture of you as well?"

"Bedraggled librarian in a hire car? Sure to take society by a storm."

"I've seen worse in my travels. I actually meant to ask earlier, when the boss called."

[ ] Accept. Option available because you like Rayburn.
[ ] Decline.

He puts the camera away. "Let's get this show on the road then, before the weather gets worse." The car's turbines spin up and it takes off, Rayburn dropping it in a lazy spiral towards the bottom of the city. Even down this low, the buildings are tall by the standards of what you remember as a girl, dilapidated, too square apartment buildings rising twenty or thirty stories tall out of the haze. Gravel and cracked asphalt streets winding between them, alleyways choked with foul sluice and garbage tossed from the windows.

"You ever been to the Bottom before?" you ask him.

"A few times. A few of my starving artist friends live down here." He guides the car in towards one of the landing stages. It can be difficult to find a safe landing zone in the Bottom with all the wires, clothes lines and the like that tend to turn up between buildings, so almost everyone lands on one of the landing stages.

The woman who borrowed the book, at least according to her pass, lives in South End, which is perhaps the worst neighbourhood down here, an almost continual mass of apartment buildings which has accreted to the point where the streets between them are no more than corridors. It looms up outside the landing stage, a vast tomb of brick and steel, a monolith of a thousand watching eyes.

"Argh, what the hell is this?" Rayburn mutters.

Following his eyes you see a dozen unhealthy looking but heavy set men in police uniforms standing between the exit to the landing stage and South End. Rayburn gets out and walks over, with you following him.

"Sorry sir," a moment's hesitation. "Ma'am." The lead man is all fat and muscle, taller even than Rayburn. His homely uniform doesn't quite fit but the shotgun across his chest looks new enough. "Department of Vice Management, field unit. We've got orders to not let anyone into South End right now."

He leans close. "Course, if you make it worth our while, we could make an exception."

[ ] Bribe the "police" to let you through.
[ ] Try to sneak around them.
[ ] See if there's another angle you can come in on.
[ ] This is outrageous! Call the real cops.

 

[Exhack]

[Rayburn will remember that.]​

[X] Accept.
[X] See if there's another angle you can come in on.

"Ehhh," you purse your lips and suck air through your teeth. "I guess our business isn't that important."

Your ponderous obstacle tilts his head in surprise, and smiles, a too-friendly expression on a mouth full of decay and gold teeth. "Are you sure? I'll let you through two-for-one, special price."

"If 'Vice Management' is telling us the area is dangerous…"

He laughs. "Of course, of course. We are a very important department, after all."

"Well, have a nice day officer."

"I know you might be considering taking one of the back alleys to get into this superbloc: I wouldn't do that."

"Oh? Why not?"

"Cultists you know, with knives and clubs and what have you." He shrugs, starting to sway a little with anxiety. It's obvious from his tone that he's a little disturbed by the topic. "They think the world is going to end. Unclean, twitchy.. The Department of Vice Management is keeping the streets clean and safe so that good citizens like you can come and go without being attacked."

"Uh huh." You smile thinly and wave. "Well, good luck with that."

"Have a nice day."

"Just so we're on the same wavelength, you know that cop was a fake right?"

"I did." Of course you knew: police deployed to the Bottom always have a vehicle and at least one Gardshell to every squad, if not a proper Strider to break riots. You've seen enough uniforms and heard enough gossip from Cadmey to know better. Rayburn's gaze turns frustratingly curious after you answer, and you decide to clarify. "There's a Vice Squad in the Kybal police and my friend is in it."

"Wow. He must be pretty tough. I've…" He stretches as if to conceal the pause he's taking to consider his words. "...heard those guys deal with the orgone black market."

"She is."

"She, huh?" He nods approvingly and shoots another flawless grin at you. "You keep interesting company."

"I do, but that's besides the point. What are we doing?" You cross your arms, finding a little less amusing to have this chatty guy trying to gauge your associations for the second or third time. "I don't feel like going to a cashpoint and draining this expense card to pay past a fake security checkpoint."

Rayburn picks the pace up and starts to circle the vacant roadway, making out alleys and fire escapes that connect the ground to the labyrinthine walkways that run through and around the apartment blocks. He seems to have a plan. "We can look around. How well do you know this area?"

You wince. "I used to live on this level, though a few districts over."

"Hmm. I'm actually pretty familiar."

"And?"

"If we leave the car here it'll probably be safe. Rentals come with security features and it'll autopilot back if it gets damaged." Rayburn beams, practically oozing confidence. "I can take you around the alleyways too."

"That's good." You nod, tilting over to him. "Is there a 'but' here?"

"Well, just be careful. I heard Stolen Valor over there talk about the gangs and he's not lying."

"I'm surprised an upper-city scion would be in the know about gangs in the Bottom. What's up with those?"

"This whole area used to belong to the Mazulan Families, but I guess they've made for greener pastures. My guess is our guy over there is a lookout for a smuggling outfit that weren't a Family-owned enterprise, trying to keep their spaces safe." He frowns, running his hand along the back of his neck like he's revealing illicit information. "There's a big group of up-and-comers, aggressive and expanding their influence in this part of town. They're called the Sicklemen."

"Because they use sickles?"

"Because they use sickles."

"I'm not armed."

"Neither am I, but we should be fine." He pats his coat for emphasis and smiles like the expression alone could disarm a would-be mugger. Maybe it could. "Let's just keep quiet and move fast. Don't let them see your nice city worker uniform under that raincoat."

You put your finger through a hole in your sleeve and mouth a comment without saying it aloud.

The pair of you hurry through the winding alleys, stepping along islands of intact cobble spacing unpleasantly deep puddles of filthy water. Your shoes click along the stone, while Rayburn's steps ahead of you are surprisingly quiet. The narrows open to a courtyard resting between several towers strung with wires and now-empty clotheslines, vacant save for a few figures milling around a desiccated old oak.

Your left palm glints, icons directing you forward and above. Atyche, or her stolen book at least, is in the apartment closest to where you emerged. This is all almost over.

As you stride in, Rayburn puts a hand over your shoulder and guides you to putting your head down. As you turn to protest, you notice his posture has sunk noticeably. Over his shoulder, a sickly trio of rain-soaked men in threadbare clothes are staggering over to you. The outfits are strange for down here, uniform, the clothes sewn together from ruffles of cloth. Mottled skin and sunken cheeks. Each bears a curved blade that curves forward past the grip, making a half-moon shape.

"Just keep quiet and don't look at them." He says. "Whatever you do, don't get their attention."

"Excuse me! Sir! Sir!" One of them yells.

"...shit." Rayburn mutters.

"I heard you tell your woman not to look at us!? Why? Why sir? We would not harm the lady. The illuminated lady. Watched by eyes." The man looks at you, his eyes intense, the pupils dilated completely.

The others nod, stepping forward.

"I say sir! I am offended!" He gestures with his sickle. "Draw your knife sir! That knife you've hidden in your sleeve, and the other in your boot! Show us that high-city damascened sir!"

Rayburn blows out his breath slowly, and rolls his shoulders. "...alright. No point in whispering, but when they rush, run for the door and block it however you can."

"Rayburn, don't be crazy."

"Crazy would be asking you to help. It'll be easier to deal with them if I don't have to worry." A whalebone knife appears in his hand, he flicks it around into a downward grip and the blade extends out, "I'll come around with the car after this, so hurry."

"You…" You want to tell him you've lived down here. That you've survived things he doesn't even understand, that you can look after yourself, but you don't get the chance. You want to ask him why he has something like that lethal, straight bladed sword. The first man comes at Rayburn, who dodges back, his knife carrying the sickle past, and this other snaps forward, stabbing twice under the man's arm. The sickleman shrieks and falls over, clutching his side.

"I had one up the other sleeve too bastard." Rayburn says, then kicks the man hard in his cut side. He lifts his knives, guarding with one, the other extended for threat. More of the sickles are appearing, their dilated eyes fixed on you like the spotlights above.

You glance back at the building and see a figure in the window of the apartment. Tattoos glitter in relief against dark skin. You feel an instant, desperate desire to go to her.

Rayburn curses as two of the sickles come at him. You're torn between a desire to help and the strange desire to rush into the building.

[ ] Resist, Rayburn needs your help!
[ ] Give in. Atyche awaits.
[ ] Why are these the only choices? These aren't the things I want to do! I hate my life and I hate this job!