ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
But always ask for consent first, kids.
Shadowrun: Imugi
[] Tell him that everything he's done is coming back around. So he'd better brace for the storm.
"What the fuck did you do to my apartment, you little bitch? I'll have you know I graduated top of my class in Drake School, and I've been involved in numerous secret Shadowruns on AAA megacorps, and I have over 300 confirmed kills."
Okay more seriously I think Christoph needs to be an inadvisable, terrible show-off.
[X] Tell him you're the Snow-Eater, killer for hire, and if he wants to trade up he can get in touch.
"Look at your bodyguards lying there in heaps. Then look at me. Back to your bodyguards. Back to me. Sadly, your bodyguards aren't me. But if you paid me a large sum of money, they could be me."
"What the fuck did you do to my apartment, you little bitch? I'll have you know I graduated top of my class in Drake School, and I've been involved in numerous secret Shadowruns on AAA megacorps, and I have over 300 confirmed kills."
Okay more seriously I think Christoph needs to be an inadvisable, terrible show-off.
[X] Tell him you're the Snow-Eater, killer for hire, and if he wants to trade up he can get in touch.
"Look at your bodyguards lying there in heaps. Then look at me. Back to your bodyguards. Back to me. Sadly, your bodyguards aren't me. But if you paid me a large sum of money, they could be me."
- Location
- in the trash
[X] Tell him you're the Snow-Eater, killer for hire, and if he wants to trade up he can get in touch.
Act One Part Fifty Eight: When You Think Of Me You Should Think Of Fire
TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him
"What don't...don't you remember me?'
You're hunched over him and he's close enough that he can see you, see the real you shivering beneath the skin. Struggling to get out, straining to be free; writhing and hitching, twitching against sinew-shackles and bars of bone. Flesh ripples, flows and freezes as scale-patterns catch and drag on the underside, forming, squirming, subsiding. He can smell the cinder on your breath, see the heat-haze roll off your blackened tongue. Smoke curls from your nose and part of it is just the slow-charring cartilage. But you? You just smile, knock some of the ash free with a knuckle as your face heals. As the gouged out fissures pucker up and knit together, the skin-suit zipping up so tight you can't even see that there was ever a seam. It's a small smile, gentle and a little indulgent, the kind of "c'mon man..." thing a guy might give to a friend who hit a nerve. Who said something a little hurtful than he really meant.
Tenderly, tenderly, you wrap your half-burned hand around his mouth. Veins swelling in your wrist, a tangle of ivy forcing its way out beneath your skin; boneless tendrils that writhe and snake as the pressure spikes, qi pulses. Flex your fingers like a cat, let the curved claws prick his cheeks. He recoils but you've got a grip that could leave fingerprints in solid steel, it's kinda cute how much it doesn't matter.
"Mean I guess I look a little different when I'm not on a screen. Or...did they even show you? Did they even tell you? Or was it just 'why hello Mister CFO here's the list of people to extrajudicially executed today'?"
He tries to shake his head. You let him. Palm clamped to his face like a muzzle on a dog.
"Heh. C'mon, that was it wasn't it? Mean, maybe not in so many words but I bet you ticked that box and went off to have yourself a nice working lunch. Man..." you gently brush back a stray lock of hair with a single talon, twitch and it could cut his scalp from his skull, twitch and you could drive it through solid bone and into that fatty grey matter. But you're careful, you're gentle, and all you do is return his well groomed affect, keeping that hundred won cut pristine as can be. Like a tiger licking back a tuft of its keeper's hair with a sandpaper tongue. "That's hurtful. I-no hey don't look at me like that. I know this is hard for you too. I can't imagine how it must feel for you right now. Normally your skeletons stay in the closet where they belong right? And if they don't you've got people for that. You don't ever have to think about the things you've done. You never have to look the consequences in the eye."
Lean in: gentle, tender, like a confidant, like a lover. Your cracked, chapped lips by his long ear, soft tissues crinkled up in black carbon scales. His pupils twitching, eyes stretched so wide you can see the whites all around. And your voice is so soft, so understanding, something so so very close to soothing. Something almost kind.
"In another life my name was Petty Officer Christoph Esser. You blew up my apartment. You almost killed my fox. You tried to kill me."
He tries to shake his head again, denying it, more strenuously this time. You just nod and mouth "yes", grinning so wide that the corners of your mouth are starting to split again. You can smell the desperation oozing, dripping from every pore in his body, mingling with the raw savory stink of fear. Poor guy, he really thinks you're going to kill him. If you let him fall he'd kiss your feet, hug your shins and beg for his billionaire life. Does he disgust you? He doesn't does he? You just feel...pity heh. Pity, for the man who has everything he wants, everything but you. He can't make what you are, he can't buy it or steal it or take it. He's never going to fly like you have. He's never going to change like you have. He's always going to be what he is right now. And ultimately what he is right now is just. Not. Enough. It's never going to be enough to measure up to the monster you've become.
You know it.
He knows it too.
And as you pat him consolingly on the shoulder something in his expression, some last bit of defiance crumples at the realization.
"Shh, shhh hey I'm not angry man. I'm not angry. It's going to be okay alright? I mean if you killed Emil I'd be eating, uh, whatever it is that moves blood around your body right now. But he's fine! So you're fine. And you're still rich and famous and all that good stuff. So things really aren't so bad, right Mr. Park? The point is- well I don't have to tell you the point do I?"
He nods slowly, eyes glittering as tears gather.
"Think of it as a new lease on life. No matter what you do there's some heights you just can't reach, no matter how many guard dogs get there first. And that's okay. Part of happiness is coming to terms with who you are."
A sick hiccup.
"I know I did."
You release your grip on his mouth and let him slump against the sink, coughing wetly. Pull a few paper towels from the dispenser and pass them to him. He takes them with a shaking hand after a second and presses them to his eyes. His PDA is already tucked securely in your pocket, a silver backed slate of obsidian glass. His guards are still groaning on the floor. Just now getting movement back in their limbs, wrestling with the sudden flash of pins and needles. You hope none of them get fired. They really were doing the best they could.
Jiaolong paces past you, jammer secreted away somewhere back up his sleeve, a pair of boots in his hands. Utterly indifferent as the elf's blurry, bleary gaze follows him. Confused, still a little shell-shocked. You pull away from the executive, claws coming up to your brow in a mock salute. Flesh wraps around your fingertips, the black arcs folded back by the time they come away.
"Seeya around Mr. Park. S'a great party."
And then the two of you leave. Less than five minutes from start to finish.
In the hallway you give Jiaolong the personal assistant. He shrugs off his coat and passes it to you, you're already stripping off your shredded jacket and shoving it in a trash bin with your shoes, one utterly ruined, one only ("only") frozen in a distorted ripple, shockwaves captured in leather creases. Splitting at the seams. You would've balked at this once. A couple months salary just dumped in the garbage. Now it's just its own little thrill. You don't need it. You could walk out into that party in your skin and it wouldn't bother you at all. The Drake breathes the image into your brain and your nails crack a bit at the base as your talons tap-tap-tap from inside the cage. Swallowed back but not digested, gone but not forgotten.
God it would be fun wouldn't it?
You finish sloppily lacing up your borrowed boots. They don't quite go with your outfit but it's not too bad.
"...Wait whose shoes are these?"
"Shaman's."
Oh. Well okay then. You wriggle your toes a bit, it's a little tight on the sides, just short enough on the front to make it feel cramped. But it's not too bad, you can manage it's just to cross the party area right? You don't have to fight in them right? Well alright then. You reach up to brush back your bangs as a pair of women cross the entrance before you, turning down the other hallway. That's good. Park'll have a few minutes. God you're still giddy.
The two of you walk past the synthetic falls, the party glittering, gleaming, in front of you. Its pavilions and warm, intimate light, everything in the shadow of that vast twisting statue, everything in the shade of the monolithic building rising behind it. The first few drops of rain starting to fall, vanishing as they strike the barrier. The journalists still on the steps, still just barely glimpsed when you look back out the fortified gates. It's all private photographers here. Wandering little islands, cradling complex holo-captures in their hands, braced to their arms with spiderlike support-drones hovering behind them. Here to give you the glossy-slick, immaculately groomed memories you want and need. Letting you commemorate this night however you'd like, at your leisure, at your discretion.
You hang half a step behind your principle and breathe it all in as the two of you mingle back into the crowd, melt back into the slow cycling press as people murmur beneath the music. Drinking it down: this warmth, this heat, everything about this silly fucking vanity-play where you can beat a man bloody in the bathroom and the smartest, richest, most utterly untouchable people in Pyongyang won't even notice. You smile and this time it's genuine, self-satisfied, just for you, not putting on a show for anyone else. Lips parting as you exhale, your tongue tracing a slow circuit of your chops.
It tastes like…
Oil.
That's the thing about out of context shit, there's that precious few fractions of a moment where your world has to adjust. A few slivers of a second where you're just standing there, Jiaolong pulling ahead, the space between you widening; surrounded on all sides by millionaires and paramilitary soldiers in a swirl of fine dresses, rich suits, and body armor. Your tongue caught between your front teeth. Lids slowly creaking wider. A stillness, a greyed out absence in your head. Your body knows even if you don't. The Drake knows, even if you don't.
And then it carves into you.
It's almost intimate isn't it? The way it just...sinks inside you like a jagged knife, pushing just below your navel and then curving up, cutting up, parting skin and muscle and tendon and catching on your ribs and it won't stop and you can feel it scraping on your scales. On your soul. On your self. Sparks falling from the grinding point of contact, points of heat flickering, fading, lost in the cold.
God you're so cold.
Feel it reach inside you, gently pulling you open; feel it slip beneath the skin, nestling itself within you like it's trying to keep warm too. You're being hollowed out, you're being honeycombed, your insides are being filled with ash and oil and sizzling, crawling, electric wires. With a distorted digital haze of fracturing, guttering advertisements; sickly sweet candy colors wrapped around broken projectors and outstretched hands. With the chemical laced wind that rolls down a hundred highway and a hundred blind streets, howling and moaning beneath a sullen, polluted sky. Concrete drips inside you, stone foundations crushing your chest. Crushing you beneath the weight of the city. This city. You've always been a part of this city. This city's always been a part of you. You were born in its guts, in the emptiness, alone among the millions. You'll live in that emptiness. You'll die in that emptiness. And skyscrapers will be built over your bones.
You don't call the river, the river finds you. A distant rumble rising to a raging roar. It slams into you and you stumble, hacking, gagging qi coursing through your veins. Muscles bulging as burning, cleansing mana works through you from head to heel and the Drake snarls in your ears.
You're at the party. You're at the party and you're half-doubled over. You're at the party and you almost fell for a second. But it's fine, it's fine, you let the qi wash away as quick as it came and stand up, straighten yourself, controlling your breathing and adjusting your clothes. A few bodyguards are looking around. Heads turning, systematically scanning the crowd: they felt it, felt the uncontrolled, nearly naked surge, even if it called and gone in the same instant. On the balconies you feel attention sharpen, feel pressure on the nape of your neck as mages above look down on the crowd. One walks to the edge and rests a gauntlet on the metal rail, helmed head cocked at an angle. Listening to something on the comms. Do they know? Did they see you?
No. You can't think about that now. It won't matter in a minute anyway, you'll be gone and anything they scramble will come too late to catch you. No you need to find...it.
It takes a bit to get it again. The scent, this one single note hanging in the aair. This one, individual, wavelength, lost in the coruscating rainbow of sensation and emotion. It's slender. It's fine. You'd never see it if you weren't like this, weren't like you. It's almost a little funny to think of it as dangerous it's so thin, but razor-wire is thin too, nearly invisible too unless you see it just right in the light and that can slice skin from bone all the same.
Slowly, slowly, turn your head and follow it to its source; it's not hard it's where everyone's looking anyway. Where the crowd is clumping together, clotting, to pay their respects to their gracious hosts To the owners of this spire, this complex, and Yellow Sea Consolidated.
The Seaonwoo are a handsome family.
You've read through Jiaolong's notes enough to recognize their faces, remember their names. Staring at them on a screen and now they're here, less than a hundred feet away, surrounded on three sides by Knight Errant soldiers. Smiling and shaking hands and greeting all their guests. That toxic, tainted smell staining the air around them.
You shouldn't look. It's dangerous to look. If you can see them they might see you, really see you, and you don't have the Tick to hide behind. But you need to know, need to see this thing, this cipher the King in Yellow was trying to warn you about.
Skin your eyes and study:
[ ] Dae-Hyun Seonwoo. The patriarch of the family and the founder of the chaebol; wheelchair bound and aging but with plastic surgery and leonization he still looks closer to forty than eighty. Stepped back from active management of the megacorp years ago for a life of leisure.
[ ] Min-seo Seonwoo. The current CEO of Yellow Sea Consolidated and Dae-Hyun's daughter by an unknown, long-dead mother. Architect of much of the company's recent growth she takes an active hand in the corporation's affairs and is regarded as an inspirational leader and keen strategist by Pyongyang's elite.
[ ] Augustine Miller III. Knight-Errant Marshal and commander of all Ares Macrotech military assets in the city, on contract with the Metropolitan Council. Corporate royalty; his family has an entire building on the University of Michigan campus bearing their name. Married to Min-seo.
[ ] Sang-jun Seonwoo. Movie star, supermodel, and singer; he dominates the Korean media scene and is regularly cast as an icon of the "New North". A region rising to international prominence, competitive and enviable even in the face of war, chaos, and its own history. Eldest child of Min-seo.
[ ] Mi-ran Seonwoo. VPO of Yellow Sea Consolidated and heir apparent to her mother's throne (though, by all reports, she lacks Min-seo's raw charisma). Dedicated, diligent, and frighteningly intelligent she has the reputation of an unfeeling, untiring, machine. Youngest child of Min-seo.
You're hunched over him and he's close enough that he can see you, see the real you shivering beneath the skin. Struggling to get out, straining to be free; writhing and hitching, twitching against sinew-shackles and bars of bone. Flesh ripples, flows and freezes as scale-patterns catch and drag on the underside, forming, squirming, subsiding. He can smell the cinder on your breath, see the heat-haze roll off your blackened tongue. Smoke curls from your nose and part of it is just the slow-charring cartilage. But you? You just smile, knock some of the ash free with a knuckle as your face heals. As the gouged out fissures pucker up and knit together, the skin-suit zipping up so tight you can't even see that there was ever a seam. It's a small smile, gentle and a little indulgent, the kind of "c'mon man..." thing a guy might give to a friend who hit a nerve. Who said something a little hurtful than he really meant.
Tenderly, tenderly, you wrap your half-burned hand around his mouth. Veins swelling in your wrist, a tangle of ivy forcing its way out beneath your skin; boneless tendrils that writhe and snake as the pressure spikes, qi pulses. Flex your fingers like a cat, let the curved claws prick his cheeks. He recoils but you've got a grip that could leave fingerprints in solid steel, it's kinda cute how much it doesn't matter.
"Mean I guess I look a little different when I'm not on a screen. Or...did they even show you? Did they even tell you? Or was it just 'why hello Mister CFO here's the list of people to extrajudicially executed today'?"
He tries to shake his head. You let him. Palm clamped to his face like a muzzle on a dog.
"Heh. C'mon, that was it wasn't it? Mean, maybe not in so many words but I bet you ticked that box and went off to have yourself a nice working lunch. Man..." you gently brush back a stray lock of hair with a single talon, twitch and it could cut his scalp from his skull, twitch and you could drive it through solid bone and into that fatty grey matter. But you're careful, you're gentle, and all you do is return his well groomed affect, keeping that hundred won cut pristine as can be. Like a tiger licking back a tuft of its keeper's hair with a sandpaper tongue. "That's hurtful. I-no hey don't look at me like that. I know this is hard for you too. I can't imagine how it must feel for you right now. Normally your skeletons stay in the closet where they belong right? And if they don't you've got people for that. You don't ever have to think about the things you've done. You never have to look the consequences in the eye."
Lean in: gentle, tender, like a confidant, like a lover. Your cracked, chapped lips by his long ear, soft tissues crinkled up in black carbon scales. His pupils twitching, eyes stretched so wide you can see the whites all around. And your voice is so soft, so understanding, something so so very close to soothing. Something almost kind.
"In another life my name was Petty Officer Christoph Esser. You blew up my apartment. You almost killed my fox. You tried to kill me."
He tries to shake his head again, denying it, more strenuously this time. You just nod and mouth "yes", grinning so wide that the corners of your mouth are starting to split again. You can smell the desperation oozing, dripping from every pore in his body, mingling with the raw savory stink of fear. Poor guy, he really thinks you're going to kill him. If you let him fall he'd kiss your feet, hug your shins and beg for his billionaire life. Does he disgust you? He doesn't does he? You just feel...pity heh. Pity, for the man who has everything he wants, everything but you. He can't make what you are, he can't buy it or steal it or take it. He's never going to fly like you have. He's never going to change like you have. He's always going to be what he is right now. And ultimately what he is right now is just. Not. Enough. It's never going to be enough to measure up to the monster you've become.
You know it.
He knows it too.
And as you pat him consolingly on the shoulder something in his expression, some last bit of defiance crumples at the realization.
"Shh, shhh hey I'm not angry man. I'm not angry. It's going to be okay alright? I mean if you killed Emil I'd be eating, uh, whatever it is that moves blood around your body right now. But he's fine! So you're fine. And you're still rich and famous and all that good stuff. So things really aren't so bad, right Mr. Park? The point is- well I don't have to tell you the point do I?"
He nods slowly, eyes glittering as tears gather.
"Think of it as a new lease on life. No matter what you do there's some heights you just can't reach, no matter how many guard dogs get there first. And that's okay. Part of happiness is coming to terms with who you are."
A sick hiccup.
"I know I did."
You release your grip on his mouth and let him slump against the sink, coughing wetly. Pull a few paper towels from the dispenser and pass them to him. He takes them with a shaking hand after a second and presses them to his eyes. His PDA is already tucked securely in your pocket, a silver backed slate of obsidian glass. His guards are still groaning on the floor. Just now getting movement back in their limbs, wrestling with the sudden flash of pins and needles. You hope none of them get fired. They really were doing the best they could.
Jiaolong paces past you, jammer secreted away somewhere back up his sleeve, a pair of boots in his hands. Utterly indifferent as the elf's blurry, bleary gaze follows him. Confused, still a little shell-shocked. You pull away from the executive, claws coming up to your brow in a mock salute. Flesh wraps around your fingertips, the black arcs folded back by the time they come away.
"Seeya around Mr. Park. S'a great party."
And then the two of you leave. Less than five minutes from start to finish.
In the hallway you give Jiaolong the personal assistant. He shrugs off his coat and passes it to you, you're already stripping off your shredded jacket and shoving it in a trash bin with your shoes, one utterly ruined, one only ("only") frozen in a distorted ripple, shockwaves captured in leather creases. Splitting at the seams. You would've balked at this once. A couple months salary just dumped in the garbage. Now it's just its own little thrill. You don't need it. You could walk out into that party in your skin and it wouldn't bother you at all. The Drake breathes the image into your brain and your nails crack a bit at the base as your talons tap-tap-tap from inside the cage. Swallowed back but not digested, gone but not forgotten.
God it would be fun wouldn't it?
You finish sloppily lacing up your borrowed boots. They don't quite go with your outfit but it's not too bad.
"...Wait whose shoes are these?"
"Shaman's."
Oh. Well okay then. You wriggle your toes a bit, it's a little tight on the sides, just short enough on the front to make it feel cramped. But it's not too bad, you can manage it's just to cross the party area right? You don't have to fight in them right? Well alright then. You reach up to brush back your bangs as a pair of women cross the entrance before you, turning down the other hallway. That's good. Park'll have a few minutes. God you're still giddy.
The two of you walk past the synthetic falls, the party glittering, gleaming, in front of you. Its pavilions and warm, intimate light, everything in the shadow of that vast twisting statue, everything in the shade of the monolithic building rising behind it. The first few drops of rain starting to fall, vanishing as they strike the barrier. The journalists still on the steps, still just barely glimpsed when you look back out the fortified gates. It's all private photographers here. Wandering little islands, cradling complex holo-captures in their hands, braced to their arms with spiderlike support-drones hovering behind them. Here to give you the glossy-slick, immaculately groomed memories you want and need. Letting you commemorate this night however you'd like, at your leisure, at your discretion.
You hang half a step behind your principle and breathe it all in as the two of you mingle back into the crowd, melt back into the slow cycling press as people murmur beneath the music. Drinking it down: this warmth, this heat, everything about this silly fucking vanity-play where you can beat a man bloody in the bathroom and the smartest, richest, most utterly untouchable people in Pyongyang won't even notice. You smile and this time it's genuine, self-satisfied, just for you, not putting on a show for anyone else. Lips parting as you exhale, your tongue tracing a slow circuit of your chops.
It tastes like…
Oil.
That's the thing about out of context shit, there's that precious few fractions of a moment where your world has to adjust. A few slivers of a second where you're just standing there, Jiaolong pulling ahead, the space between you widening; surrounded on all sides by millionaires and paramilitary soldiers in a swirl of fine dresses, rich suits, and body armor. Your tongue caught between your front teeth. Lids slowly creaking wider. A stillness, a greyed out absence in your head. Your body knows even if you don't. The Drake knows, even if you don't.
And then it carves into you.
It's almost intimate isn't it? The way it just...sinks inside you like a jagged knife, pushing just below your navel and then curving up, cutting up, parting skin and muscle and tendon and catching on your ribs and it won't stop and you can feel it scraping on your scales. On your soul. On your self. Sparks falling from the grinding point of contact, points of heat flickering, fading, lost in the cold.
God you're so cold.
Feel it reach inside you, gently pulling you open; feel it slip beneath the skin, nestling itself within you like it's trying to keep warm too. You're being hollowed out, you're being honeycombed, your insides are being filled with ash and oil and sizzling, crawling, electric wires. With a distorted digital haze of fracturing, guttering advertisements; sickly sweet candy colors wrapped around broken projectors and outstretched hands. With the chemical laced wind that rolls down a hundred highway and a hundred blind streets, howling and moaning beneath a sullen, polluted sky. Concrete drips inside you, stone foundations crushing your chest. Crushing you beneath the weight of the city. This city. You've always been a part of this city. This city's always been a part of you. You were born in its guts, in the emptiness, alone among the millions. You'll live in that emptiness. You'll die in that emptiness. And skyscrapers will be built over your bones.
You don't call the river, the river finds you. A distant rumble rising to a raging roar. It slams into you and you stumble, hacking, gagging qi coursing through your veins. Muscles bulging as burning, cleansing mana works through you from head to heel and the Drake snarls in your ears.
You're at the party. You're at the party and you're half-doubled over. You're at the party and you almost fell for a second. But it's fine, it's fine, you let the qi wash away as quick as it came and stand up, straighten yourself, controlling your breathing and adjusting your clothes. A few bodyguards are looking around. Heads turning, systematically scanning the crowd: they felt it, felt the uncontrolled, nearly naked surge, even if it called and gone in the same instant. On the balconies you feel attention sharpen, feel pressure on the nape of your neck as mages above look down on the crowd. One walks to the edge and rests a gauntlet on the metal rail, helmed head cocked at an angle. Listening to something on the comms. Do they know? Did they see you?
No. You can't think about that now. It won't matter in a minute anyway, you'll be gone and anything they scramble will come too late to catch you. No you need to find...it.
It takes a bit to get it again. The scent, this one single note hanging in the aair. This one, individual, wavelength, lost in the coruscating rainbow of sensation and emotion. It's slender. It's fine. You'd never see it if you weren't like this, weren't like you. It's almost a little funny to think of it as dangerous it's so thin, but razor-wire is thin too, nearly invisible too unless you see it just right in the light and that can slice skin from bone all the same.
Slowly, slowly, turn your head and follow it to its source; it's not hard it's where everyone's looking anyway. Where the crowd is clumping together, clotting, to pay their respects to their gracious hosts To the owners of this spire, this complex, and Yellow Sea Consolidated.
The Seaonwoo are a handsome family.
You've read through Jiaolong's notes enough to recognize their faces, remember their names. Staring at them on a screen and now they're here, less than a hundred feet away, surrounded on three sides by Knight Errant soldiers. Smiling and shaking hands and greeting all their guests. That toxic, tainted smell staining the air around them.
You shouldn't look. It's dangerous to look. If you can see them they might see you, really see you, and you don't have the Tick to hide behind. But you need to know, need to see this thing, this cipher the King in Yellow was trying to warn you about.
Skin your eyes and study:
[ ] Dae-Hyun Seonwoo. The patriarch of the family and the founder of the chaebol; wheelchair bound and aging but with plastic surgery and leonization he still looks closer to forty than eighty. Stepped back from active management of the megacorp years ago for a life of leisure.
[ ] Min-seo Seonwoo. The current CEO of Yellow Sea Consolidated and Dae-Hyun's daughter by an unknown, long-dead mother. Architect of much of the company's recent growth she takes an active hand in the corporation's affairs and is regarded as an inspirational leader and keen strategist by Pyongyang's elite.
[ ] Augustine Miller III. Knight-Errant Marshal and commander of all Ares Macrotech military assets in the city, on contract with the Metropolitan Council. Corporate royalty; his family has an entire building on the University of Michigan campus bearing their name. Married to Min-seo.
[ ] Sang-jun Seonwoo. Movie star, supermodel, and singer; he dominates the Korean media scene and is regularly cast as an icon of the "New North". A region rising to international prominence, competitive and enviable even in the face of war, chaos, and its own history. Eldest child of Min-seo.
[ ] Mi-ran Seonwoo. VPO of Yellow Sea Consolidated and heir apparent to her mother's throne (though, by all reports, she lacks Min-seo's raw charisma). Dedicated, diligent, and frighteningly intelligent she has the reputation of an unfeeling, untiring, machine. Youngest child of Min-seo.
Last edited:
LupineVolt
Now with 200% more Puns
- Location
- Michigan
Ooooh, interesting, interesting...where to take our first stab at these people, hrm. This is only examining right now but I have a feeling it'll develop into something more.
I'm tempted to go with the American, Augustine Miller. Considering we'd be able to actually talk shop. But you don't get where he is by being stupid; no, I think what I'd do is examine and get close to San-Jun Sweonwoo. Entertainers are all about selling something. Its reasonable enough for anyone to approach him, and if he's the one introducing us to the others, we can let that natural charisma carry us inside.
At least that's what I'd plan for if I was trying to get information about these people up close and personal.
Also c'mon like Christoph wouldn't look at the pretty man.
[X] Sanj-jun Seonwoo. Movie star, supermodel, and singer; he dominates the Korean media scene and is regularly cast as an icon of the "New North". A region rising to international prominence, competitive and enviable even in the face of war, chaos, and its own history. Eldest child of Min-seo.
I'm tempted to go with the American, Augustine Miller. Considering we'd be able to actually talk shop. But you don't get where he is by being stupid; no, I think what I'd do is examine and get close to San-Jun Sweonwoo. Entertainers are all about selling something. Its reasonable enough for anyone to approach him, and if he's the one introducing us to the others, we can let that natural charisma carry us inside.
At least that's what I'd plan for if I was trying to get information about these people up close and personal.
Also c'mon like Christoph wouldn't look at the pretty man.
[X] Sanj-jun Seonwoo. Movie star, supermodel, and singer; he dominates the Korean media scene and is regularly cast as an icon of the "New North". A region rising to international prominence, competitive and enviable even in the face of war, chaos, and its own history. Eldest child of Min-seo.
- Location
- Italy
[X] Sanj-jun Seonwoo. Movie star, supermodel, and singer; he dominates the Korean media scene and is regularly cast as an icon of the "New North". A region rising to internationalprominence, competitive and enviable even in the face of war, chaos, and its own history. Eldest child of Min-seo.
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
I think Christoph just mentally destroyed that man. When he's awful it's the greatest thing and I will gain endless pleasure at the thought of Park staying up late in one of his several luxury penthouse suites, chugging 800-year-old cognac or whatever just depressed and butthurt he never gets to be a cool dragon.
*chef kiss*
The Drake's right thought. We should've walked out and to the street buck-ass naked the entire way. Make eye contact. Assert dominance.
TOO MUCH DOMINANCE TOO MUCH DOMINANCE
Right so it probably goes without saying but just for everyone in the back row, that was the Seonwoo family exuding enough of an aura of menace that flying strings of ゴゴゴゴ hit Christoph in the stomach and nearly made him violently ill. This is a very bad thing and brings to mind stuff like "an entire family of Insect Shamans" but the imagery of Christoph's reaction makes me think more like... toxic spirits of the city in general. Like the place itself briefly grew a consciousness with which to try and hate him to death. Either way this speaks to some very badwrong woogieness coming from the family and they definitely warrant that closer look.
[X] Sang-jun Seonwoo. Movie star, supermodel, and singer; he dominates the Korean media scene and is regularly cast as an icon of the "New North". A region rising to international prominence, competitive and enviable even in the face of war, chaos, and its own history. Eldest child of Min-seo.
An entertainer in the public eye from a wealthy dynasty. Highest chance of secretly being a strung-out drug-addled nightmare one bad day away from the "audio of drunken rant full of racial epithets released to the media" stage. At minimum insane, because just one of the three high-stress high-visibility jobs he has turns people crazy. He'll be the weak link of the family, mark my words.
[X] Sang-jun Seonwoo. Movie star, supermodel, and singer; he dominates the Korean media scene and is regularly cast as an icon of the "New North". A region rising to international prominence, competitive and enviable even in the face of war, chaos, and its own history. Eldest child of Min-seo.
LaRed
Are you stupid or something
- Location
- Mou Ikkai hell
[X] Sang-jun Seonwoo. Movie star, supermodel, and singer; he dominates the Korean media scene and is regularly cast as an icon of the "New North". A region rising to international prominence, competitive and enviable even in the face of war, chaos, and its own history. Eldest child of Min-seo.
Acatalepsy
Firewall Proxy
- Location
- The Diamond Age
[X] Mi-ran Seonwoo. VPO of Yellow Sea Consolidated and heir apparent to her mother's throne (though, by all reports, she lacks Min-seo's raw charisma). Dedicated, diligent, and frighteningly intelligent she has the reputation of an unfeeling, untiring, machine. Youngest child of Min-seo.
The heir is interesting. Because being the heir has a lot of implications, the "dedicated, diligent" thing is almost so boring there's got to be something there.
(Look I know the rest of you just want to seduce poor Sang-jun)
The heir is interesting. Because being the heir has a lot of implications, the "dedicated, diligent" thing is almost so boring there's got to be something there.
(Look I know the rest of you just want to seduce poor Sang-jun)
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
LaRed
Are you stupid or something
- Location
- Mou Ikkai hell
I'm just going with it because I agree with everyone that he's probably the easiest to deal with (Not pictured: me eating those words later on)
I mean we're already dating a fishman, why seduce some random k-pop singer when we've pretty much already won
[X] Mi-ran Seonwoo. VPO of Yellow Sea Consolidated and heir apparent to her mother's throne (though, by all reports, she lacks Min-seo's raw charisma). Dedicated, diligent, and frighteningly intelligent she has the reputation of an unfeeling, untiring, machine. Youngest child of Min-seo.
What if shes actually a robot
What if shes actually a robot
Professor Vesca
Good News Everyone!
[X] Sang-jun Seonwoo. Movie star, supermodel, and singer; he dominates the Korean media scene and is regularly cast as an icon of the "New North". A region rising to international prominence, competitive and enviable even in the face of war, chaos, and its own history. Eldest child of Min-seo.
[X] Mi-ran Seonwoo. VPO of Yellow Sea Consolidated and heir apparent to her mother's throne (though, by all reports, she lacks Min-seo's raw charisma). Dedicated, diligent, and frighteningly intelligent she has the reputation of an unfeeling, untiring, machine. Youngest child of Min-seo.
[X] Sang-jun Seonwoo. Movie star, supermodel, and singer; he dominates the Korean media scene and is regularly cast as an icon of the "New North". A region rising to international prominence, competitive and enviable even in the face of war, chaos, and its own history. Eldest child of Min-seo.
- Location
- Massholistan
[X] Mi-ran Seonwoo. VPO of Yellow Sea Consolidated and heir apparent to her mother's throne (though, by all reports, she lacks Min-seo's raw charisma). Dedicated, diligent, and frighteningly intelligent she has the reputation of an unfeeling, untiring, machine. Youngest child of Min-seo.
- Location
- ?
[X] Mi-ran Seonwoo. VPO of Yellow Sea Consolidated and heir apparent to her mother's throne (though, by all reports, she lacks Min-seo's raw charisma). Dedicated, diligent, and frighteningly intelligent she has the reputation of an unfeeling, untiring, machine. Youngest child of Min-seo.
- Location
- Dethklok
[X] Augustine Miller III. Knight-Errant Marshal and commander of all Ares Macrotech military assets in the city, on contract with the Metropolitan Council. Corporate royalty; his family has an entire building on the University of Michigan campus bearing their name. Married to Min-seo.
I might have a thing for military types. Edit: And it seems I'm the only one...
I might have a thing for military types. Edit: And it seems I'm the only one...
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Razauq
Dovie’andi se tovya sagain.
- Location
- Valinor
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Mi-ran Seonwoo. VPO of Yellow Sea Consolidated and heir apparent to her mother's throne (though, by all reports, she lacks Min-seo's raw charisma). Dedicated, diligent, and frighteningly intelligent she has the reputation of an unfeeling, untiring, machine. Youngest child of Min-seo.
- Location
- In my Lair, on my Hoard
[X] Mi-ran Seonwoo. VPO of Yellow Sea Consolidated and heir apparent to her mother's throne (though, by all reports, she lacks Min-seo's raw charisma). Dedicated, diligent, and frighteningly intelligent she has the reputation of an unfeeling, untiring, machine. Youngest child of Min-seo.
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Windlass
A Windy Lass
- Location
- Wherever the wind is blowing
[X] Mi-ran Seonwoo. VPO of Yellow Sea Consolidated and heir apparent to her mother's throne (though, by all reports, she lacks Min-seo's raw charisma). Dedicated, diligent, and frighteningly intelligent she has the reputation of an unfeeling, untiring, machine. Youngest child of Min-seo.
Daughter's more interesting than the mother, imo
Daughter's more interesting than the mother, imo
[X] Dae-Hyun Seonwoo. The patriarch of the family and the founder of the chaebol; wheelchair bound and aging but with plastic surgery and leonization he still looks closer to forty than eighty. Stepped back from active management of the megacorp years ago for a life of leisure.
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