LaRed
Are you stupid or something
- Location
- Mou Ikkai hell
But I'm too lazy to pirate and none of the theaters around showed it.
Also we don't have Pay Per View.
Shadowrun: Imugi
Also we don't have Pay Per View.
Ridiculously Average Guy
I'm you, but stronger
- Location
-
[x] You still haven't seen The Captain. Jiaolong said you should. But you've already put it off so late...ugh best to get it over with you suppose.
There's no good quality pirate right now anyways. just wait until it's up on Netflix in a month.
Act One Part Eight: Weigh Heigh And Up She Rises
TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The sun's getting low, a ball of orange fire almost kissing the water; balanced between the white-capped horns of the waves. The clouds above have faded to a toxic grey-green. A heavy, sullen blanket across a darkening sky; hastening evening's approach. Bands of shadow, tiger-stripes of afternoon light, run across the sides of the distant bridge. That vast, cyclopean slab. That fortress-tower.
"I need to see The Captain." You say quietly, feeling a little foolish a little self-conscious. The Captain. Who calls themselves The Captain? Besides, y'know, kids in the green-space or broadcast trideo villains. But that's kind of what it is isn't it? A made-up moniker for playground games. A self-selected nickname. Trying so hard to say "I'm so cool, I'm so tough. Respect me. Fear me". Rawr.
But then, who calls themselves Nyx for that matter, or Fenrir?
You glance at the man by your elbow. Broad shoulders that could carry a car axle. Not just heavily built but deeply muscled. Like he was chiseled out of slabs of stone. You wonder how many pounds his armor is. How much more with all his gear. So much plate and he wears it like it's nothing. Fair enough. If he wants to dress up in wolf-shit and call himself Fenrir you're not going to be the one to call him an idiot.
He sets off, surprisingly quiet for such a big guy. You follow in his wake; hands in your pocket, thinking. You wonder what he is under that helmet. An orc? A troll? Too tall for the former, not quite tall enough for the latter but then some of that might just be the legs. You wonder if he ever does take his suit off. You wonder how bad it must smell. The Chirurgical Ward is maybe halfway down the ship; a little more a little less. The bridge is at the absolute far end, towards the stern. Towering over the little town like a medieval castle. So massive that the eye can't quite process it all. The brain searching, scouring, focusing in on little details that it can make sense of: an arclight, a wire anchor, a slender balcony; the whole only growing closer by bare degrees. It's a long walk and you spend most of it staring at the raised spine of Fenrir's armor. Thinking deep, profound thoughts.
You pass more people on the footpaths. Lights are turning on behind you; the streets coming to neon life. You see more guards -more Marines- in their greys and greens. Geodaehan is waking up.
But it all ends at the base of the bridge. Ten meters of no-man's-land between the closest communal bloc and the start of the tower. And you stare at the heavy double-doors set into the base through a screen of armored bodies.
They stand on the sloping ramps. They cover the secondary doors further up the structure. They lean behind angled barricades. And you have the oddest, queasiest, sense of deja vu, as you watch them. Faceless in their almost-matching uniforms. Fenrir stops in front of one with a particularly ornate uniform, you watch the rest. They seem...bored. Tired and disinterested. You can read it even under their armor, behind their masks. Guns loosely clasped or slung over their shoulder. You see them unhappily shift from foot to foot. See them fidget, pace back and forth. Little tells that would get your ass chewed into so much raw hamburger at Black Turtle. They don't have corp-ingrained discipline. They haven't been stamped into identical, anonymous, cogs; made deliberately interchangeable, intentionally terrifying. Yeah they're trained but they're just guys with training. Not some synaptic beast of commlinks and tactical feeds.
You feel unaccountably smug at that fact.
You see a boxy turret, anchored by broad, quadrupedal legs behind a barricade. A hideously illegal piece of weaponry and yet still badly outdated for all that. You try not to smirk.
Fenrir silently gestures at you. Points to the upper, glass-walled deck at the very top. The officer awkwardly bobs his head as he waves you through; breath hissing through boxy filters on his jaw. Fenrir just takes up a position against a nearby barricade. Leaning against the metal partition, armed folded across his chest; casual as can be. Ignoring the way the Marines edge away.
You walk past him, sketching an awkward little wave as you pass him a sleepy Emil. He takes the fox. Lifts a few fingers in a lazy, disinterested reply and anger surges. Searing, scorching in your chest before you turn away and let it subside; diminishing to embers. The doors are simple and utilitarian, cargo-bay things scoured by salt; they open at your approach. Sliding back on recessed rails. Inside there's another checkpoint. Another pair of turrets covering a bank of elevators; another set of double-doors flanked by smaller alcoves. A Marine says something in Korean and you halt, uncertain, before she exasperatedly pushes you through. You get onto a lift. Turn around to say something, to mutter thanks, but the doors are already closing behind you. Leaving you locked in the metal closet.
It's cramped, almost claustrophobic. You feel the walls pressing in on you. The air still and stagnant. You wish you were on the big, broad, monster next door; a cargo lift that could haul men and material en masse. Plenty of room to stretch your arms. Test your wings against the sheathe of skin. You look at the door panel, hunting for the right button. It's already lit; the elevator starts it's gentle ascent.
You do your best to calm your nerves. You try, you really do. You close your eyes and visualize the river. You imagine immersing yourself in the current. Letting the steam soak through your scales, the water right at that sweet spot of warm and cool; like spring rain. You try to let your anxiety leave you, let it flow out. You're a river. That's how it's supposed to go. But the fear lingers, blocky boulders in the current. You open your eyes. Disheartened you study the walls and try to ignore the way your innards squirm. There's a map on the walls. The words are in Hangul. But you tilt your head and study at the little cartoony diagrams. The structure contains crew quarters, kitchens, and general amenities; plus the command center at the very top. Someone's carefully titled the map with painted characters. A recent addition, still in Hangul. But there's English beside it.
Spine of the Sea.
The elevator dings. You've arrived.
You step out into a little antechamber; a dark green rug underfoot. The edges frayed and the surface moth eaten. Soft lighting sits in recessed scones. The walls are utilitarian steel. Someone's made the effort to paint the walls in shades of somber brown. A mockup of antique wood paneling. It just looks terribly grand and shabby all at once. Locked doors on either side, you hear the faint murmur of conversation in the distance. The hum and musical chatter of holographic interfaces. The door in front of you is open. Light spills out.
You catch a glimpse of a desk; the corner of a rolled up rug and a sparse, industrial floor. A figured walks past the gap with heavy tread; floor length coat swaying behind him. You hear Korean. Loud and angry, a rushing, rising cadence; a man's voice. The coated figure passes by again. Their pace slow and measured, almost military. You freeze, unsure of whether or not to go in. Wanting to wait. Wanting more than anything to get back in the elevator but you can't, you can't you're already here and returning empty handed would be worse. So you just stand there. Stock still, caught between decisions.
The footsteps stop. There's a muted, mechanical sound. Another pair steps forward. A heavy thwack. The sound of a hard gunbutt against malleable flesh. The tide of Korean cuts out. There's a wet, hacking cough. Someone, a new voice, moans.
Your stomach curdles.
There's silence. A reply, sullen and savage, thick and nasal; as if the speaker recently had their nose broken. They hock up phlegmy wad. You hear them spit. Hear it splatter on the ground.
Silence.
You hear a few syllables, that same nasal tone. Spiteful and smug and-
Fast footfalls. Drawing close, drawing near. The rippling, rubbery impact of a shoetip in the gut. You hear him grunt in pain. Metal clashes against metal; loud enough to ring against your teeth. Something heavier splatters across the floor.
Silence, broken only by the hiss of steam.
Your hand is clamped to your mouth. Your fingers digging into your cheek. Thumb pressed to your nose. You're shivering, shivering beneath your skin. You smell something...ripe. Something burning. The air is laced with the reek of organic offal. So much copper its like you're breathing pennies. The second voice is crying, sobbing in sick little hitches. They gradually taper off into miserable little hiccups.
A short exchange of Korean. You hear the suction suck of window-seals disengaging. The low moan of the breeze outside. The smell of brine. More boots crossing the floor, covering the sound of metal sawing meat. A pair breaks off, a lighter tread. The doors swing open the rest of the way. There's an elf standing in the entryway; a flawless metal mask over his face. He's small; lean and lean. Slim, rectangular cases hang from his belt. The inside of his jacket click ever so slightly and you see the way the fabric lies over a dozen knife-handles. Maybe more. Long, luxurious hair falls to his shoulders.
"Mm, apologies sir." His voice is light and airy, fey and almost feminine. You hear the rustle of plastic behind him. Low chatter in Korean. You hear the window resealing; that mechanical mutter again. He glances over his shoulder and steps back. "The Captain will see you now."
You pry your hand from your face. You stare at your feet. Willing them to carry you away. Back into the elevator, down to the ground floor, out the doors and far far away. They take a step forward instead, the traitorous things. Through the doorway, leaning away from that mask; the silvery lips curled up in a faint, frozen smile. Mirroring the expression beneath you're sure.
There are three wads of tarp on the other side. Folded on the floor, big enough for...big enough for a man to lay down flat. One is sticky with darkened, long congealed blood. The other is coated with fresher matter. Bits of bone, globs of gristle. The third one is occupied. A hollow-eyed orc, gang tattoos peaking past the collar of his sweat-stained shirt. Trembling like a leaf, staring bleakly at nothing in particular. Mouth pressed together; a small, sticky, red mark across his lips. You can smell the acrid notes of urine, see the shadow in the crotch of his jeans. There's a cast-iron box before him.
Marines start rolling up the tarps. One draws a small metal atomizer from a cabinet and starts spraying a chemical mist in the air. You smell something tropical. Spicy and sweet and fruity. Another Marine hauls the orc to his feet and passes him the box. He clasps it limply, eyes on the ground as he's marched out. Others follow out in file; giving you the room. The elf closes the door behind them.
You look outside. Look down. Outside the window and far below you see the broken masts of listing, rusting ships. Beached in dilapidated berths, half-broken down. The shipyards, the maritine scrapyards, mingling with the border of the slums. Home to so much ruin, so much wreckage. The elf comes over with a chair in his arms. A cheap, mass-fabbed thing. He sets it down. Gestures for you to sit. You do. Your arms tingling, claw-points pressing against your fingertips.
A figure walks across your field of view and takes a seat behind the desk. You look from the window at the shape, dreading what you might see.
His coat is dark green with curling, silvery designs. He wears it over his shoulders; the sleeves hanging loose. A military vest beneath. Grey material over greyish-green flesh. The skin split by neon-green, glowing designs; geometric whorls and calligraphic characters. He has a peaked sailor's cap. A badge of some skeletal beast spewered by spears on the front. He has no face. Just a metal grilled plate. A hell-red glow pouring through the circular perforations. No eyes. No nose. Nothing. A bone pipe clenched in unseen teeth, behind metal lips.
He leans back without saying anything, sets one arm on the desk. You hear the elf moving behind you. Hear the scratch-hiss of cheap matches; hear wicks catching and smell the cedar scent of candles. Further banishing the reek of death. The Captain raises his other arm; a bulky, brutal, cybernetic. Larger than its twin. Almost overmuscled in comparison. A metal spur juts from the elbow, the fingers are covered in clotted red. The elf circles around the desk, wet cloths in hand. He starts cleaning the gore as The Captain studies you.
Lights flicker by his jaw. Sketching words in the air with holographic ink. A soft pulsing, like a murmur filtered through a vocodor.
[Hello Mr. Christoph Esser. It seems I am to be your fixer.]
"...Um." You croak.
[ :X ]
It takes you a second to recognize the symbol. You shut up.
[I understand that you're frightened. You're new to all this. Your adjustment will be necessarily harsh.] The Captain's head tilts. [The King in Yellow has shared some details of your situation with me. I know that you are ex-Corporate. I know that you are a Physical Adept. I know that you are anomalous in some way and are to be handled with commensurate care. I have no issue with this. Please understand Mr. Esser, my relationship with The King in Yellow is mercenary. But he /has/ paid for my loyalty.]
You hesitantly raise a hand. Like a scared schoolboy.
[Yes?]
"I...who are you?"
[I am The Captain. I lead the men and women of the North Pacific Whaling Co. We are the Whalers. We own Geodaehan.]
"Oh."
[Our relationship with Jiaolong's crew and the King in Yellow is purely transactional. The King has made arrangements for them to stay here for several months, in some measure of secrecy. Over the course of that time they have access to the suite of rooms in the Leviathan's Maw and all facilities and vendors here on the ship. But there are still economic considerations. There are fees and cost of living expenses. Runners and fixers alike must eat you see. And The King has provided only the...let's call it a downpayment.]
"S-so they get jobs through you. And you take a percentage as...what their agent?" You focus on this. Seize on this. A little, pragmatic fact; something you can understand.
[Exactly. They earn their keep. You are expected to contribute as well. But I do not believe you will find this burdensome; I strive to be reasonable.]
You want to laugh. Laugh hysterically. Laugh forever. But you clamp down on the urge, you don't think it'd be that wise.
[Oh! That reminds me, what I wanted to speak to you about.] He sits up a little straighter, his cybernetic arm glistening with suds. The elf fastidiously wipes them away. [We do have some rules here in Geodaehan. What you might expect: pay for your goods. Abuse of citizens is not tolerated. Seoulpa Ring interference is not tolerated. Any fight you start my Marines will end. I don't believe that will be a problem with you will it Mr. Esser?]
You shake your head desperately. "Nosir."
[Excellent. :] That makes this next part much more enjoyable! The King in Yellow has allocated a small sum for your comfort and care. Something to get you settled over the next few days. Anything you cannot find here I will order for you.]
"...Wait wha-"
[Is there anything in particular you would like Mr. Esser? A lump payment is an option of course. It's not a terribly large amount but it's enough to have a good time.]
You stare at him blankly. Your heart still thudding away in your chest. Brain slack. But the Drake coiling and growling, simply pleased. You feel it's jaws move, feel it whisper in your ear.
[ ] Ask...ask for it in a lump sum? Fodder for a night on the town. Blow it all on whatever vice you like. Spend it easily.
[ ] Ask...ask for a game system? A-and a library too! It's been a really long time since you had anything nice like that.
[ ] Ask...ask for a fine meal? All to yourself. It's been awhile since you've really eaten well and you, you should indulge.
[ ] Ask...ask for fine clothes? Fine clothes in your size. You've never had cause or the temperament to dress fashionably.
[ ] Ask...ask for pretty things? Jewels and talismans. Maybe a little gold. A little hoard yeah, just for you. Just for yourself.
[ ] Write-in. It can't be anything practical.
"I need to see The Captain." You say quietly, feeling a little foolish a little self-conscious. The Captain. Who calls themselves The Captain? Besides, y'know, kids in the green-space or broadcast trideo villains. But that's kind of what it is isn't it? A made-up moniker for playground games. A self-selected nickname. Trying so hard to say "I'm so cool, I'm so tough. Respect me. Fear me". Rawr.
But then, who calls themselves Nyx for that matter, or Fenrir?
You glance at the man by your elbow. Broad shoulders that could carry a car axle. Not just heavily built but deeply muscled. Like he was chiseled out of slabs of stone. You wonder how many pounds his armor is. How much more with all his gear. So much plate and he wears it like it's nothing. Fair enough. If he wants to dress up in wolf-shit and call himself Fenrir you're not going to be the one to call him an idiot.
He sets off, surprisingly quiet for such a big guy. You follow in his wake; hands in your pocket, thinking. You wonder what he is under that helmet. An orc? A troll? Too tall for the former, not quite tall enough for the latter but then some of that might just be the legs. You wonder if he ever does take his suit off. You wonder how bad it must smell. The Chirurgical Ward is maybe halfway down the ship; a little more a little less. The bridge is at the absolute far end, towards the stern. Towering over the little town like a medieval castle. So massive that the eye can't quite process it all. The brain searching, scouring, focusing in on little details that it can make sense of: an arclight, a wire anchor, a slender balcony; the whole only growing closer by bare degrees. It's a long walk and you spend most of it staring at the raised spine of Fenrir's armor. Thinking deep, profound thoughts.
You pass more people on the footpaths. Lights are turning on behind you; the streets coming to neon life. You see more guards -more Marines- in their greys and greens. Geodaehan is waking up.
But it all ends at the base of the bridge. Ten meters of no-man's-land between the closest communal bloc and the start of the tower. And you stare at the heavy double-doors set into the base through a screen of armored bodies.
They stand on the sloping ramps. They cover the secondary doors further up the structure. They lean behind angled barricades. And you have the oddest, queasiest, sense of deja vu, as you watch them. Faceless in their almost-matching uniforms. Fenrir stops in front of one with a particularly ornate uniform, you watch the rest. They seem...bored. Tired and disinterested. You can read it even under their armor, behind their masks. Guns loosely clasped or slung over their shoulder. You see them unhappily shift from foot to foot. See them fidget, pace back and forth. Little tells that would get your ass chewed into so much raw hamburger at Black Turtle. They don't have corp-ingrained discipline. They haven't been stamped into identical, anonymous, cogs; made deliberately interchangeable, intentionally terrifying. Yeah they're trained but they're just guys with training. Not some synaptic beast of commlinks and tactical feeds.
You feel unaccountably smug at that fact.
You see a boxy turret, anchored by broad, quadrupedal legs behind a barricade. A hideously illegal piece of weaponry and yet still badly outdated for all that. You try not to smirk.
Fenrir silently gestures at you. Points to the upper, glass-walled deck at the very top. The officer awkwardly bobs his head as he waves you through; breath hissing through boxy filters on his jaw. Fenrir just takes up a position against a nearby barricade. Leaning against the metal partition, armed folded across his chest; casual as can be. Ignoring the way the Marines edge away.
You walk past him, sketching an awkward little wave as you pass him a sleepy Emil. He takes the fox. Lifts a few fingers in a lazy, disinterested reply and anger surges. Searing, scorching in your chest before you turn away and let it subside; diminishing to embers. The doors are simple and utilitarian, cargo-bay things scoured by salt; they open at your approach. Sliding back on recessed rails. Inside there's another checkpoint. Another pair of turrets covering a bank of elevators; another set of double-doors flanked by smaller alcoves. A Marine says something in Korean and you halt, uncertain, before she exasperatedly pushes you through. You get onto a lift. Turn around to say something, to mutter thanks, but the doors are already closing behind you. Leaving you locked in the metal closet.
It's cramped, almost claustrophobic. You feel the walls pressing in on you. The air still and stagnant. You wish you were on the big, broad, monster next door; a cargo lift that could haul men and material en masse. Plenty of room to stretch your arms. Test your wings against the sheathe of skin. You look at the door panel, hunting for the right button. It's already lit; the elevator starts it's gentle ascent.
You do your best to calm your nerves. You try, you really do. You close your eyes and visualize the river. You imagine immersing yourself in the current. Letting the steam soak through your scales, the water right at that sweet spot of warm and cool; like spring rain. You try to let your anxiety leave you, let it flow out. You're a river. That's how it's supposed to go. But the fear lingers, blocky boulders in the current. You open your eyes. Disheartened you study the walls and try to ignore the way your innards squirm. There's a map on the walls. The words are in Hangul. But you tilt your head and study at the little cartoony diagrams. The structure contains crew quarters, kitchens, and general amenities; plus the command center at the very top. Someone's carefully titled the map with painted characters. A recent addition, still in Hangul. But there's English beside it.
Spine of the Sea.
The elevator dings. You've arrived.
You step out into a little antechamber; a dark green rug underfoot. The edges frayed and the surface moth eaten. Soft lighting sits in recessed scones. The walls are utilitarian steel. Someone's made the effort to paint the walls in shades of somber brown. A mockup of antique wood paneling. It just looks terribly grand and shabby all at once. Locked doors on either side, you hear the faint murmur of conversation in the distance. The hum and musical chatter of holographic interfaces. The door in front of you is open. Light spills out.
You catch a glimpse of a desk; the corner of a rolled up rug and a sparse, industrial floor. A figured walks past the gap with heavy tread; floor length coat swaying behind him. You hear Korean. Loud and angry, a rushing, rising cadence; a man's voice. The coated figure passes by again. Their pace slow and measured, almost military. You freeze, unsure of whether or not to go in. Wanting to wait. Wanting more than anything to get back in the elevator but you can't, you can't you're already here and returning empty handed would be worse. So you just stand there. Stock still, caught between decisions.
The footsteps stop. There's a muted, mechanical sound. Another pair steps forward. A heavy thwack. The sound of a hard gunbutt against malleable flesh. The tide of Korean cuts out. There's a wet, hacking cough. Someone, a new voice, moans.
Your stomach curdles.
There's silence. A reply, sullen and savage, thick and nasal; as if the speaker recently had their nose broken. They hock up phlegmy wad. You hear them spit. Hear it splatter on the ground.
Silence.
You hear a few syllables, that same nasal tone. Spiteful and smug and-
Fast footfalls. Drawing close, drawing near. The rippling, rubbery impact of a shoetip in the gut. You hear him grunt in pain. Metal clashes against metal; loud enough to ring against your teeth. Something heavier splatters across the floor.
Silence, broken only by the hiss of steam.
Your hand is clamped to your mouth. Your fingers digging into your cheek. Thumb pressed to your nose. You're shivering, shivering beneath your skin. You smell something...ripe. Something burning. The air is laced with the reek of organic offal. So much copper its like you're breathing pennies. The second voice is crying, sobbing in sick little hitches. They gradually taper off into miserable little hiccups.
A short exchange of Korean. You hear the suction suck of window-seals disengaging. The low moan of the breeze outside. The smell of brine. More boots crossing the floor, covering the sound of metal sawing meat. A pair breaks off, a lighter tread. The doors swing open the rest of the way. There's an elf standing in the entryway; a flawless metal mask over his face. He's small; lean and lean. Slim, rectangular cases hang from his belt. The inside of his jacket click ever so slightly and you see the way the fabric lies over a dozen knife-handles. Maybe more. Long, luxurious hair falls to his shoulders.
"Mm, apologies sir." His voice is light and airy, fey and almost feminine. You hear the rustle of plastic behind him. Low chatter in Korean. You hear the window resealing; that mechanical mutter again. He glances over his shoulder and steps back. "The Captain will see you now."
You pry your hand from your face. You stare at your feet. Willing them to carry you away. Back into the elevator, down to the ground floor, out the doors and far far away. They take a step forward instead, the traitorous things. Through the doorway, leaning away from that mask; the silvery lips curled up in a faint, frozen smile. Mirroring the expression beneath you're sure.
There are three wads of tarp on the other side. Folded on the floor, big enough for...big enough for a man to lay down flat. One is sticky with darkened, long congealed blood. The other is coated with fresher matter. Bits of bone, globs of gristle. The third one is occupied. A hollow-eyed orc, gang tattoos peaking past the collar of his sweat-stained shirt. Trembling like a leaf, staring bleakly at nothing in particular. Mouth pressed together; a small, sticky, red mark across his lips. You can smell the acrid notes of urine, see the shadow in the crotch of his jeans. There's a cast-iron box before him.
Marines start rolling up the tarps. One draws a small metal atomizer from a cabinet and starts spraying a chemical mist in the air. You smell something tropical. Spicy and sweet and fruity. Another Marine hauls the orc to his feet and passes him the box. He clasps it limply, eyes on the ground as he's marched out. Others follow out in file; giving you the room. The elf closes the door behind them.
You look outside. Look down. Outside the window and far below you see the broken masts of listing, rusting ships. Beached in dilapidated berths, half-broken down. The shipyards, the maritine scrapyards, mingling with the border of the slums. Home to so much ruin, so much wreckage. The elf comes over with a chair in his arms. A cheap, mass-fabbed thing. He sets it down. Gestures for you to sit. You do. Your arms tingling, claw-points pressing against your fingertips.
A figure walks across your field of view and takes a seat behind the desk. You look from the window at the shape, dreading what you might see.
His coat is dark green with curling, silvery designs. He wears it over his shoulders; the sleeves hanging loose. A military vest beneath. Grey material over greyish-green flesh. The skin split by neon-green, glowing designs; geometric whorls and calligraphic characters. He has a peaked sailor's cap. A badge of some skeletal beast spewered by spears on the front. He has no face. Just a metal grilled plate. A hell-red glow pouring through the circular perforations. No eyes. No nose. Nothing. A bone pipe clenched in unseen teeth, behind metal lips.
He leans back without saying anything, sets one arm on the desk. You hear the elf moving behind you. Hear the scratch-hiss of cheap matches; hear wicks catching and smell the cedar scent of candles. Further banishing the reek of death. The Captain raises his other arm; a bulky, brutal, cybernetic. Larger than its twin. Almost overmuscled in comparison. A metal spur juts from the elbow, the fingers are covered in clotted red. The elf circles around the desk, wet cloths in hand. He starts cleaning the gore as The Captain studies you.
Lights flicker by his jaw. Sketching words in the air with holographic ink. A soft pulsing, like a murmur filtered through a vocodor.
[Hello Mr. Christoph Esser. It seems I am to be your fixer.]
"...Um." You croak.
[ :X ]
It takes you a second to recognize the symbol. You shut up.
[I understand that you're frightened. You're new to all this. Your adjustment will be necessarily harsh.] The Captain's head tilts. [The King in Yellow has shared some details of your situation with me. I know that you are ex-Corporate. I know that you are a Physical Adept. I know that you are anomalous in some way and are to be handled with commensurate care. I have no issue with this. Please understand Mr. Esser, my relationship with The King in Yellow is mercenary. But he /has/ paid for my loyalty.]
You hesitantly raise a hand. Like a scared schoolboy.
[Yes?]
"I...who are you?"
[I am The Captain. I lead the men and women of the North Pacific Whaling Co. We are the Whalers. We own Geodaehan.]
"Oh."
[Our relationship with Jiaolong's crew and the King in Yellow is purely transactional. The King has made arrangements for them to stay here for several months, in some measure of secrecy. Over the course of that time they have access to the suite of rooms in the Leviathan's Maw and all facilities and vendors here on the ship. But there are still economic considerations. There are fees and cost of living expenses. Runners and fixers alike must eat you see. And The King has provided only the...let's call it a downpayment.]
"S-so they get jobs through you. And you take a percentage as...what their agent?" You focus on this. Seize on this. A little, pragmatic fact; something you can understand.
[Exactly. They earn their keep. You are expected to contribute as well. But I do not believe you will find this burdensome; I strive to be reasonable.]
You want to laugh. Laugh hysterically. Laugh forever. But you clamp down on the urge, you don't think it'd be that wise.
[Oh! That reminds me, what I wanted to speak to you about.] He sits up a little straighter, his cybernetic arm glistening with suds. The elf fastidiously wipes them away. [We do have some rules here in Geodaehan. What you might expect: pay for your goods. Abuse of citizens is not tolerated. Seoulpa Ring interference is not tolerated. Any fight you start my Marines will end. I don't believe that will be a problem with you will it Mr. Esser?]
You shake your head desperately. "Nosir."
[Excellent. :] That makes this next part much more enjoyable! The King in Yellow has allocated a small sum for your comfort and care. Something to get you settled over the next few days. Anything you cannot find here I will order for you.]
"...Wait wha-"
[Is there anything in particular you would like Mr. Esser? A lump payment is an option of course. It's not a terribly large amount but it's enough to have a good time.]
You stare at him blankly. Your heart still thudding away in your chest. Brain slack. But the Drake coiling and growling, simply pleased. You feel it's jaws move, feel it whisper in your ear.
[ ] Ask...ask for it in a lump sum? Fodder for a night on the town. Blow it all on whatever vice you like. Spend it easily.
[ ] Ask...ask for a game system? A-and a library too! It's been a really long time since you had anything nice like that.
[ ] Ask...ask for a fine meal? All to yourself. It's been awhile since you've really eaten well and you, you should indulge.
[ ] Ask...ask for fine clothes? Fine clothes in your size. You've never had cause or the temperament to dress fashionably.
[ ] Ask...ask for pretty things? Jewels and talismans. Maybe a little gold. A little hoard yeah, just for you. Just for yourself.
[ ] Write-in. It can't be anything practical.
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LaRed
Are you stupid or something
- Location
- Mou Ikkai hell
???
????????
That being said, let's go clubbing.
[X] Ask...ask for it in a lump sum? Fodder for a night on the town. Blow it all on whatever vice you like. Spend it easily.
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
This may be a stab in the dark but I think The Captain has a pilebunker in his arm, in which case he earns about 200 spare Cool Points. Another 100 for the Zer0 setup with the text and emoticons.
[X] Ask...ask for a game system? A-and a library too! It's been a really long time since you had anything nice like that.
Hey don't you look at me like that, videogames are probably awesome in the Shadowrun world what with holographic 3D technology and shit.
Wait by the time of Shadowrun all videogames are probably fee-to-pay cancer WHOOPS
[X] Ask...ask for a game system? A-and a library too! It's been a really long time since you had anything nice like that.
Hey don't you look at me like that, videogames are probably awesome in the Shadowrun world what with holographic 3D technology and shit.
Wait by the time of Shadowrun all videogames are probably fee-to-pay cancer WHOOPS
LaRed
Are you stupid or something
- Location
- Mou Ikkai hell
No, worse.
They're all David Cage games.
(Or NBA 2K16 Livin Da Dream.)
notthepenguins
Neither Spherical Nor Frictionless
- Pronouns
- He/She/They
[x] Ask...ask for a game system? A-and a library too! It's been a really long time since you had anything nice like that.
- Location
- Italy
What will we do with a drunken whaler~?
[X] Ask...ask for a game system? A-and a library too! It's been a really long time since you had anything nice like that.
We are a nerdy Drake.
[X] Ask...ask for a game system? A-and a library too! It's been a really long time since you had anything nice like that.
We are a nerdy Drake.
- Location
- in the trash
[X] Ask...ask for a game system? A-and a library too! It's been a really long time since you had anything nice like that.
Electronic Arts voted Worst Company in the UCAS for the year 2060
Electronic Arts voted Worst Company in the UCAS for the year 2060
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ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
To be fair, their new policy of sending a corporate black ops squad to raid your house and shoot your dog if you ever try to play one of their products offline is considered to be on the extreme side.Electronic Arts voted Worst Company of the Year 2060
LaRed
Are you stupid or something
- Location
- Mou Ikkai hell
Monsanto's been beating them as worst outside of gaming though.Electronic Arts voted Worst Company of the Year 2060
- Location
- in the trash
On the bright side, we can probably guess that Valve released Half-Life 3 on the 23rd of December, 2011 in the Shadowrun universe.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] Ask...ask for a game system? A-and a library too! It's been a really long time since you had anything nice like that.
-[jk] Make sure to also have porn holovids or whatever, I know they exist. Give them to us. Now.
@TenfoldShields , is this an acceptable write-in?
-[jk] Make sure to also have porn holovids or whatever, I know they exist. Give them to us. Now.
@TenfoldShields , is this an acceptable write-in?
LupineVolt
Now with 200% more Puns
- Location
- Michigan
[X] Ask...ask for pretty things? Jewels and talismans. Maybe a little gold. A little hoard yeah, just for you. Just for yourself.
Time to start our downward spiral into drakedom. I'm all about that struggle against monstrous impulses. Sure, we can't do anything with it, but isn't that the point of a hoard? To be wasteful and extravagant?
Time to start our downward spiral into drakedom. I'm all about that struggle against monstrous impulses. Sure, we can't do anything with it, but isn't that the point of a hoard? To be wasteful and extravagant?
- Location
- England
Electronic Arts voted Worst Company in the UCAS for the year 2060
Pfft, everyone knows that EA doesn't exist in 2060. Ares destroyed them after it turned out they were an insect shaman front all along.
You didn't think the beings in charge of EA were human, did you?
[X] Ask...ask for fine clothes? Fine clothes in your size. You've never had cause or the temperament to dress fashionably.
Ridiculously Average Guy
I'm you, but stronger
- Location
-
[X] Ask...ask for fine clothes? Fine clothes in your size. You've never had cause or the temperament to dress fashionably.
So do you think Chris is more of a Giorno, or a Joseph?
So do you think Chris is more of a Giorno, or a Joseph?
LaRed
Are you stupid or something
- Location
- Mou Ikkai hell
Well we went with lustful thing iirc and Giorno's outfit is more revealing so...[X] Ask...ask for fine clothes? Fine clothes in your size. You've never had cause or the temperament to dress fashionably.
So do you think Chris is more of a Giorno, or a Joseph?