You're awoken by the shrill blare of your alarm. Your room stinks of alcohol, which means that...
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Statistics (4 threadmarks, 3.7k words)
User Total Havocfett 4
Prologue - Mirror Mirror
- Pronouns
- He/Him
You're awoken by the shrill blare of your alarm. Your room stinks of alcohol, which means that your roommate's been drinking again. You groan and roll out of bed, tapping out the codephrase to your alarm against your wrist. You stumble over your roommate's bedding in the darkness and bark an order that turns the lights on.
Your half of the room, as always, is spotless. Your bed's neat, your things are in your closet, and a tidy desk with a terminal is tucked neatly into one corner. Your roomate's, Doe's, half...less so. They're gone, their bedding's strewn across the floor, as is half their wardrobe. A small desk, cluttered with stuff, sits in a corner by their bed, as does a questionably functional hoverchair covered in clean laundry. It's worse than usual, indicating some amount of haste, and their gear isn't in the mess, which means Doe's not off at a booty call. Probably work, you guess.
You glance up and to the left. It's 4:50 AM.
Huh.
You hit the bathroom. The light's still on and the toiletries are out, evidently Doe was in a hurry. You take a quick shower, towel off, perform your ablutions, and look into the mirror.
Who do you see in the mirror?
[ ] A Human. Humans are the kings of the galaxy, not because they're stronger, or smarter, or anything else, but simply because they showed up first. While other species were in the neolithic, the bronze age, the nuclear age, humanity was already trawling the stars, colonizing the galaxy, and discovering the rest of the galaxy's species before they could hope to defend themselves.
Things developed predictably from there. At least until the Ghuls didn't roll over and the Theocracy of Gruul rose. Now, facing the first species it didn't effortlessly conquer and the first real, interstellar enemy it ever had, Humanity as a whole is facing the fact that they might not actually be kings of the galaxy forever.
Career Choices: SpecOps, Space Cop, Pirate
->[ ] The man staring back at you in the mirror is tall, dark-haired, and handsome. You have pale skin, thick, lush hair, blue eyes, and the features and build of an action-movie hero. You're wearing pajamas. Your name is John Doe.
->[ ] The woman staring back at you in the mirror is tall, dark-haired, and beautiful. You have pale skin, thick, lush hair, blue eyes and the features and build of an action-movie heroine. You're wearing pajamas. Your name is Jane Doe.
Your half of the room, as always, is spotless. Your bed's neat, your things are in your closet, and a tidy desk with a terminal is tucked neatly into one corner. Your roomate's, Doe's, half...less so. They're gone, their bedding's strewn across the floor, as is half their wardrobe. A small desk, cluttered with stuff, sits in a corner by their bed, as does a questionably functional hoverchair covered in clean laundry. It's worse than usual, indicating some amount of haste, and their gear isn't in the mess, which means Doe's not off at a booty call. Probably work, you guess.
You glance up and to the left. It's 4:50 AM.
Huh.
You hit the bathroom. The light's still on and the toiletries are out, evidently Doe was in a hurry. You take a quick shower, towel off, perform your ablutions, and look into the mirror.
Who do you see in the mirror?
[ ] An Akhuvian Ghul. Your species hails from Akhuv, a Garden World at the far end of the Sixth Expansion Zone. The correct name for your species is Odani, though humans generally refuse to use the term. You were the last species in the galaxy to run into humanity, and the only one to have achieved meaningful space flight and the colonization of planets outside of their home system before First Contact.
First contact happened twelve years ago. A Tradewinds colony ship had, in a freak accident, run into the small Odani colony on the fringes of Odani Space. The Tradewinds captain made contact and came under the mistaken assumption that the Odani Colony was, in fact, the Odani homeworld. So she called in a small warfleet and invaded and occupied the colony without warning.
Two weeks later an Odani fleet showed up and forced the smaller Tradewinds fleet from the colony, starting the Akhuvian War. To the Odani the humans were an implacable juggernaut, a conglomeration of monstrous races from an unfathomably large empire, armed with advanced technology and with no other goal save the subjugation of all Odani life. The nations of Akhuv and her colonies united, throwing everything they had at the juggernaut to stop it. And with the help of some fortuitous timing and Humanity's decided disunity, they won. The Odani became the first and only race not to be immediately subjugated and brought into the Human Sphere as a result of first contact.
The greater galaxy still hasn't forgiven them for that.
Biologically, Odani are uncannily similar to Humans, to the point that many gene-mods are cross-applicable. The two species eat the same foods, have the same psychology, have almost identical evolutionary origins (Social persistence hunters), use very similar equipment, and in many cases can use each other's cybernetics. Human and Odani religions are incredibly similar, and in many cases are direct analogues to each other, with minimal changes made to account for a language, cultural, or biological difference.
Odani have prominent fringes on the side of their protruding jaws and a visible saggital crest. Male Odani have thick bundles of flexible, chitinous fibers growing over their saggital crests in a manner vaguely reminiscent of dreadlocks. To Humans Odani look predatory and menacing, something that hasn't helped their reputation or portrayal in Human media in the slightest.
Despite popular belief, Odani do not actually eat people.
Career Choices: SpecOps, Space Cop, Pirate
->[ ] The man looking back at you in the mirror is short and androgynous. You have no chitinous dreadlocks, your crest is more prominent than the norm, and your features harsher than average. You're slight of build, a bit on the battered side, but you wear androgyny pretty well. Your lower jaw is a prosthetic, not that anyone would know it to look at you, and you've got a variety of prosthetic crests that you can wear for various occasions. You're wearing pajama pants. Your roommate's name is John Doe.
->[ ] The woman looking back at you in the mirror is tall and imposing. Your fringes and crest are prominent, your skin ruddy and dark, and your demeanor naturally slides towards the imposing. You have a scar from your right shoulder to your left hip you never got around to removing, gained in the Akhuvian War. You're wearing pajama pants. Your roommate's name is Jane Doe.
First contact happened twelve years ago. A Tradewinds colony ship had, in a freak accident, run into the small Odani colony on the fringes of Odani Space. The Tradewinds captain made contact and came under the mistaken assumption that the Odani Colony was, in fact, the Odani homeworld. So she called in a small warfleet and invaded and occupied the colony without warning.
Two weeks later an Odani fleet showed up and forced the smaller Tradewinds fleet from the colony, starting the Akhuvian War. To the Odani the humans were an implacable juggernaut, a conglomeration of monstrous races from an unfathomably large empire, armed with advanced technology and with no other goal save the subjugation of all Odani life. The nations of Akhuv and her colonies united, throwing everything they had at the juggernaut to stop it. And with the help of some fortuitous timing and Humanity's decided disunity, they won. The Odani became the first and only race not to be immediately subjugated and brought into the Human Sphere as a result of first contact.
The greater galaxy still hasn't forgiven them for that.
Biologically, Odani are uncannily similar to Humans, to the point that many gene-mods are cross-applicable. The two species eat the same foods, have the same psychology, have almost identical evolutionary origins (Social persistence hunters), use very similar equipment, and in many cases can use each other's cybernetics. Human and Odani religions are incredibly similar, and in many cases are direct analogues to each other, with minimal changes made to account for a language, cultural, or biological difference.
Odani have prominent fringes on the side of their protruding jaws and a visible saggital crest. Male Odani have thick bundles of flexible, chitinous fibers growing over their saggital crests in a manner vaguely reminiscent of dreadlocks. To Humans Odani look predatory and menacing, something that hasn't helped their reputation or portrayal in Human media in the slightest.
Despite popular belief, Odani do not actually eat people.
Career Choices: SpecOps, Space Cop, Pirate
->[ ] The man looking back at you in the mirror is short and androgynous. You have no chitinous dreadlocks, your crest is more prominent than the norm, and your features harsher than average. You're slight of build, a bit on the battered side, but you wear androgyny pretty well. Your lower jaw is a prosthetic, not that anyone would know it to look at you, and you've got a variety of prosthetic crests that you can wear for various occasions. You're wearing pajama pants. Your roommate's name is John Doe.
->[ ] The woman looking back at you in the mirror is tall and imposing. Your fringes and crest are prominent, your skin ruddy and dark, and your demeanor naturally slides towards the imposing. You have a scar from your right shoulder to your left hip you never got around to removing, gained in the Akhuvian War. You're wearing pajama pants. Your roommate's name is Jane Doe.
[ ] A Janin-No. You're a Varit. No matter how much the galaxy says otherwise you're a Varit. Your species hails from Dyareth a Garden World in the Fifth Expansion Zone. Relations between Varit and Jinn had been more common and more...carnal than they were in the greater galaxy, and as a result all Varit are part Jinn.
First contact happened eighteen years ago, on the same day that the first manned mission to the moon touched down. A Tradewind Company Battleship, complete with escorts, jumped into atmosphere, pursued by a New Maine Battleship accompanied by the fourth fleet. They brawled above the mega-continent that almost the entire population lived on, entire cities were vaporized as collateral damage, countries burned to ash as gigatons of energy weapons were released into the atmosphere. They were gone almost as swiftly as they'd arrived, providing no explanation for the untold devastation visited upon the populace. By the time a Sultanate aid fleet arrived a month later seventy percent of the population had been killed, either directly or by the ecological, economical, and political collapse caused by the battle.
The survivors were evacuated from the planet and found themselves in high demand. Their sorcerous nature meant that all sorts of people found them useful, from universities who wanted to study magic, to mercenaries interested in a bit of sorcerous muscle. Their skill at sorcery has led to the galaxy labelling them Janin. They're generally viewed as wise, mystical, tragic figures, and there's quite a bit of neo-orientalism centered around them, as well as sympathy due to the nature of their loss of their planet. They're disproportionately members of Alien Rights and Alien Supremacy groups and near-universally have PTSD.
Varit have skin ranging from blue to purple, they're thin, sinuous, mammalian bipeds and are frail and of low endurance compared to humans.
Career Choices: Refugee, Sorceror, Pirate
->[ ] The man looking back at you in the mirror is a wreck. Your skin is an unhealthy deep blue, the result of sleepless nights and stress. Your fingers are long, sinuous, and serpentine. You have an auto-injector buried in your left arm for your PTSD medication. You're barrel-chested, or at least as barrel-chested as Varit get, and not as flexible as most of your species (Not that a non-Varit would notice). You're currently wearing briefs. Your roommate is John Doe.
->[ ] The woman looking back at you in the mirror is tired. Your skin is an unhealthy light blue, the result of sleepless nights and stress. Your fingers are long, sinuous, and serpentine. You have an implant in your eyes, visible only as a ridge around your left eye, that displays an advanced HUD with reminders to take PTSD medication and hormone supplements. You're thin and sinuous, almost snakelike in flexibility. You're currently wearing a bra and briefs. Your roommate is Jane Doe.
First contact happened eighteen years ago, on the same day that the first manned mission to the moon touched down. A Tradewind Company Battleship, complete with escorts, jumped into atmosphere, pursued by a New Maine Battleship accompanied by the fourth fleet. They brawled above the mega-continent that almost the entire population lived on, entire cities were vaporized as collateral damage, countries burned to ash as gigatons of energy weapons were released into the atmosphere. They were gone almost as swiftly as they'd arrived, providing no explanation for the untold devastation visited upon the populace. By the time a Sultanate aid fleet arrived a month later seventy percent of the population had been killed, either directly or by the ecological, economical, and political collapse caused by the battle.
The survivors were evacuated from the planet and found themselves in high demand. Their sorcerous nature meant that all sorts of people found them useful, from universities who wanted to study magic, to mercenaries interested in a bit of sorcerous muscle. Their skill at sorcery has led to the galaxy labelling them Janin. They're generally viewed as wise, mystical, tragic figures, and there's quite a bit of neo-orientalism centered around them, as well as sympathy due to the nature of their loss of their planet. They're disproportionately members of Alien Rights and Alien Supremacy groups and near-universally have PTSD.
Varit have skin ranging from blue to purple, they're thin, sinuous, mammalian bipeds and are frail and of low endurance compared to humans.
Career Choices: Refugee, Sorceror, Pirate
->[ ] The man looking back at you in the mirror is a wreck. Your skin is an unhealthy deep blue, the result of sleepless nights and stress. Your fingers are long, sinuous, and serpentine. You have an auto-injector buried in your left arm for your PTSD medication. You're barrel-chested, or at least as barrel-chested as Varit get, and not as flexible as most of your species (Not that a non-Varit would notice). You're currently wearing briefs. Your roommate is John Doe.
->[ ] The woman looking back at you in the mirror is tired. Your skin is an unhealthy light blue, the result of sleepless nights and stress. Your fingers are long, sinuous, and serpentine. You have an implant in your eyes, visible only as a ridge around your left eye, that displays an advanced HUD with reminders to take PTSD medication and hormone supplements. You're thin and sinuous, almost snakelike in flexibility. You're currently wearing a bra and briefs. Your roommate is Jane Doe.
[ ] A Pamna. The Pamna were the first race humanity came into contact with, and they confused the burgeoning power greatly. The Pamna were not a ravening horde, chomping at the bit to expand disastrously, not a hive-mind eery in coordination and eager to kill. To earth cultures who were expecting some sort of bizarre, eusocial dystopia, likely followed by a war for the survival of our species, the very friendly, very drunk, and perhaps slightly unambitious Pamna were a bit of a let-down.
This did not, however, stop humanity from economically conquering the stone-age beetle people and integrating them into their new interstellar empire under the thin veneer of 'uplifting' them. Their exoskeletons, natural flight, and enormous physical strength made them useful as colonists and soldiers, ensuring that Humanity's spread also became the Pamna's spread.
Today the Pamna are an integral part of galactic society, the second most populous species after Humans. However, earth's cultural domination and humano-centrism has resulted in Pamna almost universally taking a subservient role to humans, a phenomenon represented and exaggerated in fiction. Pamna are insectoid bipeds and have a striking resemblance to Rhinocerous beetles.
Career Choices: Corporate, Mercenary, Spy
->[ ] The man looking back at you in the mirror is a handsome devil. Your carapace is a glossy blue, your wings large and strong. Your horn's acclimated completely since your reassignment surgery, it curves up between your eyes and two smaller, vestigial horns and its length shows your excellent health. You're wearing pajamas, and wearing them well. Your roommate is John Doe.
->[ ] The woman looking back at you in the mirror is slight and beautiful. Your carapace is an iridescent green, your wings swift, mesmerizing, and strong. Your arms are thick with muscle, but your carapace conceals it and it's not obvious at a glance. You're wearing pajamas. Your roommate is Jane Doe.
This did not, however, stop humanity from economically conquering the stone-age beetle people and integrating them into their new interstellar empire under the thin veneer of 'uplifting' them. Their exoskeletons, natural flight, and enormous physical strength made them useful as colonists and soldiers, ensuring that Humanity's spread also became the Pamna's spread.
Today the Pamna are an integral part of galactic society, the second most populous species after Humans. However, earth's cultural domination and humano-centrism has resulted in Pamna almost universally taking a subservient role to humans, a phenomenon represented and exaggerated in fiction. Pamna are insectoid bipeds and have a striking resemblance to Rhinocerous beetles.
Career Choices: Corporate, Mercenary, Spy
->[ ] The man looking back at you in the mirror is a handsome devil. Your carapace is a glossy blue, your wings large and strong. Your horn's acclimated completely since your reassignment surgery, it curves up between your eyes and two smaller, vestigial horns and its length shows your excellent health. You're wearing pajamas, and wearing them well. Your roommate is John Doe.
->[ ] The woman looking back at you in the mirror is slight and beautiful. Your carapace is an iridescent green, your wings swift, mesmerizing, and strong. Your arms are thick with muscle, but your carapace conceals it and it's not obvious at a glance. You're wearing pajamas. Your roommate is Jane Doe.
Things developed predictably from there. At least until the Ghuls didn't roll over and the Theocracy of Gruul rose. Now, facing the first species it didn't effortlessly conquer and the first real, interstellar enemy it ever had, Humanity as a whole is facing the fact that they might not actually be kings of the galaxy forever.
Career Choices: SpecOps, Space Cop, Pirate
->[ ] The man staring back at you in the mirror is tall, dark-haired, and handsome. You have pale skin, thick, lush hair, blue eyes, and the features and build of an action-movie hero. You're wearing pajamas. Your name is John Doe.
->[ ] The woman staring back at you in the mirror is tall, dark-haired, and beautiful. You have pale skin, thick, lush hair, blue eyes and the features and build of an action-movie heroine. You're wearing pajamas. Your name is Jane Doe.
Prologue - Mementos
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The woman looking back at you in the mirror is tall and imposing. Your fringes and crest are prominent, your skin ruddy and dark, and your demeanor naturally slides towards the intimidating. You have a scar from your right shoulder to your left hip you never got around to removing, gained in the Akhuvian War. You're wearing pajama pants which does, admittedly, hurt the 'keep the hell out of my way' vibe.
You put away the toiletries, after all, someone has to, and head for the prayer room. It's a small room near the back of the apartment, you'd negotiated with Jane when you were moving in so that she'd keep her stuff out of it and you could use it for religious rituals. Technically you're supposed to pray in groups, but there's no temple on The Graveyard and not many who share your religion so you've been praying solo for most of the past three years.
Prayer doesn't take too long. You annoint yourself, run through a rather basic prayer, thank God for your health and job, and you're out.
You check the kitchen. It's also a mess, Jane was evidently in too much of a hurry to bother cleaning up. A dirty dining set's been left on the counter, a pan in the sink, a mess of food containers by the oven, and a closed plate on the table. You wash the dishes then turn the plate off. Inside is a steaming plate of Jurung Beetles, lightly seasoned. The plate plays a short 'thanks for doing the dishes' note.
She had time to make you breakfast, yet didn't bother washing her dishes.
Typical.
(Ass)
You eat your breakfast (Delicious), wash your dishes on account of not being a barbarian, and prepare to head to work. You change into your uniform and gear, taking some time in the bathroom to make sure you look suitably imposing, and head for the front door.
Oh, wait, one last thing. You open a closet on your way out and grab an old heirloom, a-
Before you grab your uniform, you need to grab an old keepsake. What is it?
[ ] nine-pointed hat, memento of your days as a pirate.
[ ] reinforced overcoat, memento of your days in law enforcement.
[ ] titanic armor-alloy mace, a memento of your service in Special Operations on the first Odani Power Armor Teams.
You put away the toiletries, after all, someone has to, and head for the prayer room. It's a small room near the back of the apartment, you'd negotiated with Jane when you were moving in so that she'd keep her stuff out of it and you could use it for religious rituals. Technically you're supposed to pray in groups, but there's no temple on The Graveyard and not many who share your religion so you've been praying solo for most of the past three years.
Prayer doesn't take too long. You annoint yourself, run through a rather basic prayer, thank God for your health and job, and you're out.
You check the kitchen. It's also a mess, Jane was evidently in too much of a hurry to bother cleaning up. A dirty dining set's been left on the counter, a pan in the sink, a mess of food containers by the oven, and a closed plate on the table. You wash the dishes then turn the plate off. Inside is a steaming plate of Jurung Beetles, lightly seasoned. The plate plays a short 'thanks for doing the dishes' note.
She had time to make you breakfast, yet didn't bother washing her dishes.
Typical.
(Ass)
You eat your breakfast (Delicious), wash your dishes on account of not being a barbarian, and prepare to head to work. You change into your uniform and gear, taking some time in the bathroom to make sure you look suitably imposing, and head for the front door.
Oh, wait, one last thing. You open a closet on your way out and grab an old heirloom, a-
Before you grab your uniform, you need to grab an old keepsake. What is it?
[ ] nine-pointed hat, memento of your days as a pirate.
The war broke out when you were sixteen, you lived on a border colony, one of the first to be attacked. You and your family got off as Human troops landed, but you were stuck behind enemy lines with no way home. An Odani pirate crew found you, took in the refugees on the condition that you (And quite a few other refugees) joined their crew.
You did pretty well for yourself as a pirate during the war. You attacked human supply lines, space stations, and colonies. Destroyed shipyards, stole technology, and made first contact with Human Nations more than willing to give weapons to someone fighting their political opponents. You became a fighter ace by the end of the war and survived innumerable dogfights with Human fighters and trench runs against titanic battleships and space station.
You did pretty well for yourself as a pirate during the war. You attacked human supply lines, space stations, and colonies. Destroyed shipyards, stole technology, and made first contact with Human Nations more than willing to give weapons to someone fighting their political opponents. You became a fighter ace by the end of the war and survived innumerable dogfights with Human fighters and trench runs against titanic battleships and space station.
You met Jane Doe during the first diplomatic overtures with neutral human nations. She was a spy, defected from some human nation to the Sultanate mid-war. You worked together a lot, she fed you info on possible targets, passed you technology to be passed back to the rest of the Odani, occasionally showed up during a raid and shot things with you. You got along pretty well.
You left the pirate business in good standing a few years after the war, deciding to make your living as a merc on The Graveyard among the burgeoning Odani population. You ran into Jane on the station and, after catching up, she sold you on the idea of founding a Private Detective agency. You started D and D Detectives about six months ago.
Legal Gear:
Barris Shredder: The Barris Shredder is an exceedingly nasty railgun. It's the size of a pistol, switches between semi and fully automatic, and fires flechettes capable of ripping a limb off. More than sufficient against most threats you're liable to deal with as a PI.
RigRun Nerve Disruptor: Less than lethal sidearm. Incapacitates most organics with a shot to unprotected flesh. Devastating to cybernetics and electronics. Completely ineffective against any real armor.
V-L 333 Plasma Gun: A short-ranged plasma gun, primarily used in boarding actions and other close-quarters situations. It's popular in more fragile space stations and habs due to its lack of real penetration. It's also not very subtle and not the sort of thing you can conceal in your uniform, so you only bring it if you're pretty sure there's gonna be a fight.
Hyper-alloy knife: A long knife made of armor-alloys. Never dulls, hard to break, great for melee combat in the close quarters of a ship. Or a space station made of ships. You got your hands on one as a pirate and are rather attached to it.
Armored Vest: An armored vest hidden underneath your clothes. Includes a hidden camera to monitor the legality of your actions. The authorities can ask for footage of any job that you have legally taken at any time.
Badge: A badge identifying you as a member of D and D Detective Agency. Allows you to legally work as a private investigator on The Graveyard. Doubles as a Class Five weapons license.
Lockpicks: Come in electronic and mechanical flavors, in case some archaic jerk isn't into digital locks.
Restricted Gear:
Data Spike: Useful for any saboteur or would-be hacker, a Data Spike can be used to access electronic systems people don't really want you on, crack electronic locks, that sort of thing. Technically illegal, in practical terms you're basically never going to be fined for owning it. Doubles as a knife.
Illegal Gear:
ISSR-2550 Blaster Rifle: A service rifle in the Brazillian Military, modified to look decidedly Odani. Brazil shipped millions of them into Odani space during the war to help the Odani military catch up to its opponents. You kept yours. It's lethal, accurate, and effective. It's also heavily restricted on The Graveyard, and you can't really be arsed to buy a Class-3 License (Shit is expensive and the government's not keen on giving them to Odani). So, uh, you should probably make sure people don't know that this thing is yours.
Contacts:
You have extensive contacts among the criminal underworld, human populations neutral or allied to the Odani during the war, the Odani Expatriate population, and Alien Rights and Supremacy groups.
Barris Shredder: The Barris Shredder is an exceedingly nasty railgun. It's the size of a pistol, switches between semi and fully automatic, and fires flechettes capable of ripping a limb off. More than sufficient against most threats you're liable to deal with as a PI.
RigRun Nerve Disruptor: Less than lethal sidearm. Incapacitates most organics with a shot to unprotected flesh. Devastating to cybernetics and electronics. Completely ineffective against any real armor.
V-L 333 Plasma Gun: A short-ranged plasma gun, primarily used in boarding actions and other close-quarters situations. It's popular in more fragile space stations and habs due to its lack of real penetration. It's also not very subtle and not the sort of thing you can conceal in your uniform, so you only bring it if you're pretty sure there's gonna be a fight.
Hyper-alloy knife: A long knife made of armor-alloys. Never dulls, hard to break, great for melee combat in the close quarters of a ship. Or a space station made of ships. You got your hands on one as a pirate and are rather attached to it.
Armored Vest: An armored vest hidden underneath your clothes. Includes a hidden camera to monitor the legality of your actions. The authorities can ask for footage of any job that you have legally taken at any time.
Badge: A badge identifying you as a member of D and D Detective Agency. Allows you to legally work as a private investigator on The Graveyard. Doubles as a Class Five weapons license.
Lockpicks: Come in electronic and mechanical flavors, in case some archaic jerk isn't into digital locks.
Restricted Gear:
Data Spike: Useful for any saboteur or would-be hacker, a Data Spike can be used to access electronic systems people don't really want you on, crack electronic locks, that sort of thing. Technically illegal, in practical terms you're basically never going to be fined for owning it. Doubles as a knife.
Illegal Gear:
ISSR-2550 Blaster Rifle: A service rifle in the Brazillian Military, modified to look decidedly Odani. Brazil shipped millions of them into Odani space during the war to help the Odani military catch up to its opponents. You kept yours. It's lethal, accurate, and effective. It's also heavily restricted on The Graveyard, and you can't really be arsed to buy a Class-3 License (Shit is expensive and the government's not keen on giving them to Odani). So, uh, you should probably make sure people don't know that this thing is yours.
Contacts:
You have extensive contacts among the criminal underworld, human populations neutral or allied to the Odani during the war, the Odani Expatriate population, and Alien Rights and Supremacy groups.
[ ] reinforced overcoat, memento of your days in law enforcement.
The war broke out when you were sixteen, you enlisted in the army almost immediately, but found yourself assigned as a Military Policewoman on frontier colonies instead of a front-line soldier.
Due to the war this was a more exciting post than you might expect. In addition to doing, well, police stuff you also protected evacuations of civilian populaces, rooted out spies, and thwarted several plots aimed at disrupting the Odani alliance. Notably you stopped the assassination of a Brazilian official which may have stopped or slowed weapon shipments from Brazil.
The overcoat is a memento of your time as an Odani cop. You convinced your boss to let you keep it when you retired from the force.
Due to the war this was a more exciting post than you might expect. In addition to doing, well, police stuff you also protected evacuations of civilian populaces, rooted out spies, and thwarted several plots aimed at disrupting the Odani alliance. Notably you stopped the assassination of a Brazilian official which may have stopped or slowed weapon shipments from Brazil.
The overcoat is a memento of your time as an Odani cop. You convinced your boss to let you keep it when you retired from the force.
You met Jane Doe during the war. First as a spy for Tradewinds, you'd run into each other (And fought) during several evacuations, then, inexplicably, as a spy for the Sultanate. While you were wary of her inexplicable change of heart she eventually proved to be genuine, and you worked together on quite a few incidents throughout the war.
You joined some guys you knew in applying to one of The Graveyard's private police forces after the war ended, part of an 'exploring the greater galaxy' fad. Most of you got accepted into one firm or another, and you worked there for almost four and a half years. However, by the end of your stay it was becoming obvious that an Odani wasn't the most...welcome addition to your particular force, and when Jane Doe tracked you down and asked you to start a detective agency, you accepted.
Legal Gear:
Badge: A badge identifying you as a member of D and D Detective Agency. Allows you to legally work as a private investigator on The Graveyard. Doubles as a Class Three weapons license.
ISSR-2550 Blaster Rifle: A service rifle in the Brazillian Military, modified to look decidedly Odani. Brazil shipped millions of them into Odani space during the war to help the Odani military catch up to its opponents. You kept yours. It's lethal, accurate, and effective. It's also heavily restricted on The Graveyard, but as an Ex-Cop your license covers it. You wouldn't lug it around, though.
Police Vest: A high-quality armored vest from your days as a cop as well as an armored overcoat that replaces your uniform trenchcoat. It protects you from small arms fire and looks pretty intimidating. You had to do some modifications so that you wouldn't look like an actual cop. Has a body-cam to record your activities on the job.
Micro-cameras: A shitload of micro-cameras you can drop wherever. They periodically send video to a destination you program in.
Mark 3 Vigilant: A versatile energy sidearm. It can switch between nonlethal, anti-electronic, anti-personnel, and Explosive functionality. It's what you normally carry on the job. Nicely slips into the folds of your overcoat.
Portable Sniffer: Handheld chem-detector modified to provide rudimentary, on-the-scene crime scene analysis. Can handle most basic substance analysis, though exotic, rare, and complex substances will require a proper lab.
Contacts: You have loads of contacts in the Odani community, as well as plenty of police contacts and some contacts in society as a whole, gained during the job.
Badge: A badge identifying you as a member of D and D Detective Agency. Allows you to legally work as a private investigator on The Graveyard. Doubles as a Class Three weapons license.
ISSR-2550 Blaster Rifle: A service rifle in the Brazillian Military, modified to look decidedly Odani. Brazil shipped millions of them into Odani space during the war to help the Odani military catch up to its opponents. You kept yours. It's lethal, accurate, and effective. It's also heavily restricted on The Graveyard, but as an Ex-Cop your license covers it. You wouldn't lug it around, though.
Police Vest: A high-quality armored vest from your days as a cop as well as an armored overcoat that replaces your uniform trenchcoat. It protects you from small arms fire and looks pretty intimidating. You had to do some modifications so that you wouldn't look like an actual cop. Has a body-cam to record your activities on the job.
Micro-cameras: A shitload of micro-cameras you can drop wherever. They periodically send video to a destination you program in.
Mark 3 Vigilant: A versatile energy sidearm. It can switch between nonlethal, anti-electronic, anti-personnel, and Explosive functionality. It's what you normally carry on the job. Nicely slips into the folds of your overcoat.
Portable Sniffer: Handheld chem-detector modified to provide rudimentary, on-the-scene crime scene analysis. Can handle most basic substance analysis, though exotic, rare, and complex substances will require a proper lab.
Contacts: You have loads of contacts in the Odani community, as well as plenty of police contacts and some contacts in society as a whole, gained during the job.
[ ] titanic armor-alloy mace, a memento of your service in Special Operations on the first Odani Power Armor Teams.
The war broke out when you were sixteen and you promptly joined the armed forces. Circumstances and desperation pushed you into the Special Operations branch, performing high-risk missions against the human invaders. You succeeded beyond all expectations in the role and kept applying for ever-more dangerous jobs, undergoing cutting-edge genetic modification, receiving the first instances of reverse engineered bio-augs, and eventually becoming a founding member of Homeworld Defense Unit 003, one of the first Odani Power Armor Teams. You served with distinction until the end of the war, earning your scar in a battle with an ace New Maine Power Armor team at the Third Battle of Carcosa. When the war ended you were not merely alive, but successful.
You had met Jane Doe during the war. She was a spy for the Sultanate, gave you information and gear that saved your life more times than you can count. Even went on a few more subtle missions with you. You were friends during the war.
Your nation and most of your family didn't survive the war. When the union dissolved and you went back home you found...not much in particular waiting for you there. After a few months of various jobs you just left. Decided to try your luck in the rest of the galaxy. You worked as a bodyguard for a while, lots of rich people who wanted a terrifying monster protecting them. Especially one who could go one-on-one with Power Armored Soldiers and win.
Eventually, as a contract on The Graveyard ended, Jane got in contact with you. She had an idea for a detective agency and, more interested in Detective-ing than bodyguarding for more humans, you accepted.
Eventually, as a contract on The Graveyard ended, Jane got in contact with you. She had an idea for a detective agency and, more interested in Detective-ing than bodyguarding for more humans, you accepted.
Gear:
Armored Vest: An armored vest hidden underneath your clothes. Includes a hidden camera to monitor the legality of your actions. The authorities can ask for footage of any job that you have legally taken at any time.
Badge: A badge identifying you as a member of D and D Detective Agency. Allows you to legally work as a private investigator on Graveyard Station. Doubles as a Class Five weapons license.
Mark 3 Vigilant: A versatile energy sidearm. It can switch between nonlethal, anti-electronic, anti-personnel, and Explosive functionality. It's what you normally carry on the job. Nicely slips into the folds of your overcoat.
Voort CCW: An anti-armor mace meant for brawls between Power Armored combatants. It works just fine on literally anything else that gets into melee with you, mind. It's large, obvious, terrifying, and glows when you turn it on. You carry it more than you probably should, but the weight is reassuring and people tend not to give you trouble when you're equipped to literally beat a car to death.
Restricted Gear:
Barvum-A Power Armor: Every knight has her armor, or so they say, and the Barvum's yours. It's heavily armored, comes with a full sensor-suite, electronic hardening, on-board computers, inertial dampening, maneuverability-assist, built-in Rondels, and physical enhancement. While you wear this you are functionally invincible to most small-arms fire. Also it requires a Class Two Weapons License to use which no-one on this station is willing to give you, so you'll be fined if you're caught wearing it in public.
Illegal Gear:
Binring-2 Particle Lance: A heavy infantry rifle from late in the war. It's meant to be wielded by a Power Armored combatant, but can be used outside of armor. It'll rip through basically anything short of Power Armor and can theoretically score kills against Power Armored combatants at close ranged. Requires a Class One Weapons License so you really shouldn't let it be traced back to you. Semi-automatic. Has overpenetration and waste heat issues.
Really Illegal Gear:
VV-1 Lotus Energy Projector: A Lotus Energy Projector is a rare, expensive, heavy weapon, usable only by vehicles and people in heavy Power Armor. It rips a hole into dimensions normally only accessed for FTL travel and unleashes the monstrous energies contained therein on anything on the other side of the hole. Generally the gun creates two rips, one on each side of the target area, to minimize collateral damage. Creating only one rip is possible but definitely not recommended. Scaled up Lotuses are used as capital ship weaponry. Your lotus only has enough fuel for three shots and you are unlikely to get fuel for more. Using one is going to result in a gigantic investigation as to what the hell happened with significant consequences if it's traced back to you..
Contacts:
Your only real contacts on The Graveyard are Jane, VVX, and a pirate you know from the war. Maybe a couple grocers in the Odani Expat population. You are, on the other hand, six foot four of supersoldier so...tradeoffs?
Armored Vest: An armored vest hidden underneath your clothes. Includes a hidden camera to monitor the legality of your actions. The authorities can ask for footage of any job that you have legally taken at any time.
Badge: A badge identifying you as a member of D and D Detective Agency. Allows you to legally work as a private investigator on Graveyard Station. Doubles as a Class Five weapons license.
Mark 3 Vigilant: A versatile energy sidearm. It can switch between nonlethal, anti-electronic, anti-personnel, and Explosive functionality. It's what you normally carry on the job. Nicely slips into the folds of your overcoat.
Voort CCW: An anti-armor mace meant for brawls between Power Armored combatants. It works just fine on literally anything else that gets into melee with you, mind. It's large, obvious, terrifying, and glows when you turn it on. You carry it more than you probably should, but the weight is reassuring and people tend not to give you trouble when you're equipped to literally beat a car to death.
Restricted Gear:
Barvum-A Power Armor: Every knight has her armor, or so they say, and the Barvum's yours. It's heavily armored, comes with a full sensor-suite, electronic hardening, on-board computers, inertial dampening, maneuverability-assist, built-in Rondels, and physical enhancement. While you wear this you are functionally invincible to most small-arms fire. Also it requires a Class Two Weapons License to use which no-one on this station is willing to give you, so you'll be fined if you're caught wearing it in public.
Illegal Gear:
Binring-2 Particle Lance: A heavy infantry rifle from late in the war. It's meant to be wielded by a Power Armored combatant, but can be used outside of armor. It'll rip through basically anything short of Power Armor and can theoretically score kills against Power Armored combatants at close ranged. Requires a Class One Weapons License so you really shouldn't let it be traced back to you. Semi-automatic. Has overpenetration and waste heat issues.
Really Illegal Gear:
VV-1 Lotus Energy Projector: A Lotus Energy Projector is a rare, expensive, heavy weapon, usable only by vehicles and people in heavy Power Armor. It rips a hole into dimensions normally only accessed for FTL travel and unleashes the monstrous energies contained therein on anything on the other side of the hole. Generally the gun creates two rips, one on each side of the target area, to minimize collateral damage. Creating only one rip is possible but definitely not recommended. Scaled up Lotuses are used as capital ship weaponry. Your lotus only has enough fuel for three shots and you are unlikely to get fuel for more. Using one is going to result in a gigantic investigation as to what the hell happened with significant consequences if it's traced back to you..
Contacts:
Your only real contacts on The Graveyard are Jane, VVX, and a pirate you know from the war. Maybe a couple grocers in the Odani Expat population. You are, on the other hand, six foot four of supersoldier so...tradeoffs?
Chargen End - Turovind Dass
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Turovind Dass
Your name is Turovind Dass. You're an Odani Female, Twenty Eight years old, hailing from a border colony of what is now the Glorious People's Democratic Republic of Greater Orozvhad. Your family were office workers on a border colony, but the war resulted in the conquest of the colony. You and your family successfully evacuated and were picked up by the pirate ship Karek, where you and some of the other evacuees were recruited into the pirate crew.
As a pirate on the Karek you served as a fighter pilot and raider throughout the course of the war. You targeted human supply lines, devastating convoys moving through the sparsely populated fifth and sixth expansion regions. You facilitated many of the early smuggling operations that brought earth-sphere technology from Brazil and the Sultanate to Akhuv. As a result you had a lot of contact with humans during the war and understand them reasonably well.
You're prototypical for an Orozvhadi native, not that a human would notice. You're dark skinned and incredibly tall (A rare trait in a fighter pilot). Odani think that you look bold and heroic while Humans (And most aliens) think you are fundamentally intimidating and monstrous. You have a large array of excellent hats due to your captain's obsession with the things. She kind of rubbed off on you, and as a result you too have a mild obsession with headwear.
You flew Kettch-series Snubfighters and performed many boarding actions during the war. You can probably pilot any snubfighter built for Odani or Humans and were an ace pilot. Your piracy also means that you're competent at skullduggery and practical military skills. You aren't particularly well educated but in addition to knowledge necessary to be a pirate your captain was obsessed with military strategy, as such you have some familiarity with military science and many related board games.
You tend to be cynical, methodical, subtle, and supremely confident in your skills. You have many contacts in the criminal underworld, Odani community, and corporate hierarchy (Often functionally indistinguishable from the criminal underworld) and are adept at living in Human society.
Your savings total to about Twelve thousand Dinars, two thousands of which are saved for your portion of food and living expenses each month.
Your name is Turovind Dass. You're an Odani Female, Twenty Eight years old, hailing from a border colony of what is now the Glorious People's Democratic Republic of Greater Orozvhad. Your family were office workers on a border colony, but the war resulted in the conquest of the colony. You and your family successfully evacuated and were picked up by the pirate ship Karek, where you and some of the other evacuees were recruited into the pirate crew.
As a pirate on the Karek you served as a fighter pilot and raider throughout the course of the war. You targeted human supply lines, devastating convoys moving through the sparsely populated fifth and sixth expansion regions. You facilitated many of the early smuggling operations that brought earth-sphere technology from Brazil and the Sultanate to Akhuv. As a result you had a lot of contact with humans during the war and understand them reasonably well.
You're prototypical for an Orozvhadi native, not that a human would notice. You're dark skinned and incredibly tall (A rare trait in a fighter pilot). Odani think that you look bold and heroic while Humans (And most aliens) think you are fundamentally intimidating and monstrous. You have a large array of excellent hats due to your captain's obsession with the things. She kind of rubbed off on you, and as a result you too have a mild obsession with headwear.
You flew Kettch-series Snubfighters and performed many boarding actions during the war. You can probably pilot any snubfighter built for Odani or Humans and were an ace pilot. Your piracy also means that you're competent at skullduggery and practical military skills. You aren't particularly well educated but in addition to knowledge necessary to be a pirate your captain was obsessed with military strategy, as such you have some familiarity with military science and many related board games.
You tend to be cynical, methodical, subtle, and supremely confident in your skills. You have many contacts in the criminal underworld, Odani community, and corporate hierarchy (Often functionally indistinguishable from the criminal underworld) and are adept at living in Human society.
Your savings total to about Twelve thousand Dinars, two thousands of which are saved for your portion of food and living expenses each month.
Case One: The Disappearance of Balogun Tracer
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Case One: The Disappearance of Balogun Tracer
You grab a nine-pointed hat from the closet, a memento of your days as a pirate. You take a moment to adjust it, changing the angle ever-so-slightly until you are satisfied that it is sufficiently rakish. "House, I'm going out," you say, "Lock up."
You step out the door, which snaps shut behind you with a series of muted clicks. The hallways of your apartment complex are cramped, the ceilings low, the walls close enough to make passing someone else an awkward affair in the best of circumstances. Your neighbors largely stay out of your way, they're not as visibly terrified of you as they were during the first months of your stay, but they're still obviously uncomfortable with your existence. The sole exception is Miss Smith, an elderly Goblin woman of about thirty two who claws her cheeks bloody and bellows "IVORY CITADEL!" every time you pass her. You return the yell, but punch the air instead of self-mutilating.
Goblins regenerate their wounds. You don't.
The elevator's a massive, transparent cylinder that runs down the side of one of Market Garden's walls. Half the view is taken up by your apartment complex's hallways, not a thrilling sight at the best of times. The other half, though, is the interior of Market Garden, and there's a view you're not getting tired of any time soon.
Market Garden was once a Garden Ship. A massive civilian ship filled with plant life of all sorts, cavernous bays flooded with artificial light and overgrown with vegetation. It got added to the Graveyard near the end of the war, and though they ripped out her innards, the roof, and the bow the interior's still beautiful.
To the right of you, past the other elevator tubes, countless vines carpet the walls. They're a riot of color, heavy with grapes and dragonfruit and berries and exotic things for alien diets.
Below you is the Green Deck of Market Garden, covered in groves of trees and various shops. Fruit groves stretch across the length of the deck, melon-vines covering maglev tunnels, trees shading stores and walkways. To the left of you is the ship's bow, open to the void, atmosphere contained by redundant shielding and station-gravity. You can see the Pendulum Dock through the gap, fleets of ships arriving and departing from the converted space station at all times.
Across from you is the far wall, rather like the wall on your side save that the view is marred by graffiti, a hundred-foot-tall "فيهم روح؟" slathered over fruit-vines in white paint. You snarl when you recognize it, it's a slogan for human supremacist organizations across the galaxy. It doesn't translate well, if you're to be honest. "Do they have a soul?" is the literal meaning, but the grammar and phrasing don't transfer in the slightest.
The answer to the question is no, by the way. Or at least it is in the minds of anyone asking that question in that language with that wording.
Above you is the dorsal hull of Nine Eyes Gleaming, a Texan heavy cruiser. She's a resort now, you can see the gleam of dozens of windows where her thousand hull breaches have been converted to hotel rooms. The sight makes you smile. You'd helped kill that ship, in the closing weeks of the war, and getting to see your war-trophy gutted and disarmed never stops massaging your ego. You kinda want to rent a room there for a weekend some day, see Market Garden from above, tour the corridors you'd fought through, see if they'd let you look at the bridge you'd bombed. It's expensive, though. Maybe when you've built up some savings.
The elevator takes you to the Green Deck, where the trees hide the graffiti from view. A short walk brings you to the mag-lev, and the mag-lev takes you into the depths of the station proper.
Someone calls the cops on you on the ride over. The entire train stops while a single police officer, a female Pamna, boards and sweeps the train. She locates you, sweeps you, and starts asking questions. Nothing out of the ordinary. "Why are you on the train today?" (On my way to work) "Any weapons on you?" (Knife and a RigRun. Need them for work.) "What's your job?" (Private Detective, here's my badge) "Any other weapons to declare?" (No) "We have our eyes on you, don't cause any trouble." (When we own this station, I'll remember your face. And the man two rows ahead of me who called you.). She doesn't catch your shredder and eventually, devoid of anything to hit you with, leaves. The mag-lev continues and you get some glares for the delay. You ignore them, eye boring into the neck of the man who made the call. He gets off the train early, antennae quivering in what you think is the Hanbar equivalent of panic. The rest of your ride is uneventful.
You glance up and to the left as you step off the mag-lev. 6:30 AM. God above that took a while. Jackadee Station's not as nice as any of Market Garden's mag-lev stops, but the ships that made up Jackadee Junction had never been as nice as Market Garden, even when they were Jackadee Squadron, so you suppose you should be merciful. The station used to be a hangar bay, one of the small, cramped ones in freighters and the like. It's worse now, they cut it in half for the station, added concession stands and the like, and the local landlord had his janitorial staff at half-strength as a cost cutting measure. The result was cramped and distinctly unsanitary.
You use your trenchcoat as a shield as your push your way into Jackadee Junction proper. The halls are a bit better, the warship halls were made with multiple people in mind and the stores and homes didn't protrude into the halls. You bypass a demagogue at an intersection, bellowing about how the aliens mean to subvert Human society from within, and how humans must unite and drive them from the 'civilized galaxy'. He has a bit of a crowd, but Jackadee Junction doesn't like crowds much. They'll disperse before the morning rush, or be dispersed by a mildly annoyed crowd. Either way works for you.
Your office is built into what was once a sloop's bridge. It's plain on the outside, no windows, minimal decoration, a plaque that says "D and D Detective Agency" and a wooden door with a delivery chute instead of the synth-glass most businesses use in Jackadee. There's a delivery man outside your door, a young Hanbar man by the name of Githr. His uniform hangs loose on him and a water collar, surprisingly fashionable, fits snugly around his gills. His rami hang loosely over the water collar and his lower pair of arms is bare, which you understand is in fashion at the moment. His skin is mottled brown with flecks of gold, though his rami are a deep blue at the ends, as if they were dyed (They aren't, you asked.). Young Hanbar are often described as reminiscent of arudae or axolotls, but you don't agree with the description. It's like describing Infant Humans as reminiscent of howler monkeys.
"Dass!," says Githr. He pulls a flyer out of his satchel, handing it over with his lower two arms. "We're doing, we're doing a thing," he says, "An event. It'll be...read! Please read." He's excited, damn-near giddy and tripping over his speech more than normal. He lapses back into a Hanbari tongue you don't understand twice before he manages to stop talking. You go ahead and glance over the flyer while he practically bounces in place.
It's for an alien rights rally, a demonstration in Vertigo district. Date and time are included, and evidently there'll be refreshments for all. "Githr," you say, "Be careful, yeah? These things end with goo-guns and truncheons more often than not."
"You're not coming?" says Githr. His brow furrows and his rami quake a little. Maybe betrayal or anger? Hanbar emotions are hard.
"I didn't say that," you say, "But you should be careful out there. Vertigo's not like Jackadee. Locals won't care if a little Hanbar boy loses his collar." His hands, all of them, go straight to his water collar, rubbing it nervously. "Bring a spare, be careful, and tell your mother."
He wiggles his rami, another gesture you don't understand and scoots off to finish his deliveries. A supervisor bot emerges from some nook and follows him as he leaves. You wait till they round the next corner before entering the office.
Your office is a pretty small affair. You have an entry hall and two offices (One each for you and Jane), plus a large washroom meant to deal with most anything that could walk through the front door. The entry hall contains a small desk, formerly a bridge-terminal for the sloop. VVX, your secretary, mans it basically twenty-four seven.
VVX is an Android. Her body's a tall Vuroot female, all green scales and musculature that looks like she's been shrink-wrapped, and she's wearing a plain red blouse. The body's popular among Android's, Vuroot went extinct three hundred years ago and no-one's properly resurrected the species, so an Android in a Vuroot body doesn't need the normal visible identification. You call her Vivi, which she appreciates.
Currently she's smoking, and judging by the state of her ashtray and the smoke filling the room she's been doing it for a while. Bad habit, probably your fault. But hey, you never claimed to be a good influence. She throws you a lazy salute and says, "Turovind" as you enter.
"Hey Vivi," you say, "Be a doll and throw me a cig, would you?" She pulls a cigarette out of her desk and flicks it at your hat, you catch it out of the air en-route and light up. You take a deep drag and breath out, the smoke making the room that tiny smidgen more unpleasant. "Jane in?" you ask.
"Jane is out," says Vivi. She pulls a red folder out from under her desk and hands it to you, "She met with a client shortly after Four AM and left approximately twenty minutes ago. She told me to give this to you, and was rather smug about taking the car."
"Of course she was," you reply, "Thanks Vivi."
You retreat into your office, a cramped, dimly lit thing with one desk, a chair, and a window overlooking Jackadee Junction, then open the folder. It's a case file, obviously. Missing person. You give it a quick skim, mentally sorting wheat from chaff, then give it a second, proper, read through.
Your client is Johnathan Tracer, a mid level executive in Droszczy Interstellar. Rich, reasonably successful, in charge of some of their facilities on The Graveyard. He's pale, blond haired, average height, wears a fancy suit in the photo he attached. Looks forty, but with drugs he may well be eighty. Probably scum.
He's looking for his son, Balogun Tracer. The kid looks nothing like him, tall, black, broad-shouldered, bald. Maybe seventeen. He's wearing a suit and frowns heavily. Spoiled brat.
Evidently Balogun's been acting out for a few years. Joined an ink-gang, made some friends his dad didn't approve of, active in an alien rights group at his high school. You revise your opinion of the kid upwards a notch. His Johnny boy doesn't outright say it, but you can read the disapproval in how he wrote the dossier. He does say that he doesn't think the acting out is involved with the disappearance.
Balogun disappeared two days ago, he was meeting some friends to watch a WarBots match adjacent to the empty quarter. His friends claim that they lost track of him during the match and that he just never showed up again. He claims to have already gone to the police but says that they aren't taking him seriously enough. He wants you to find his son and bring him back home alive and safe, or else give solid, actionable information on his whereabouts. And he's offering a flat fifty seven thousand dinars for the job.
Johnathan thinks that Balogun's been kidnapped by agents of a rival corporation aiming to strike at him, though he doesn't say why he thinks that and doesn't have any useful leads to offer you regarding possible kidnappers.
That said, you don't think much of his kidnapping theory. It's the sort of bizarre, self-centered bullshit you're expecting. You think one of four things happened:
A. The boy hit up the empty quarter. He was in the area, one of the ink-gangers sends him a text, they decide to explore, or loot, or bone, or whatever. Don't pay enough attention, aren't warded properly, and bam. Jinn grabs them. They're probably safe if this is the case, Jinn's probably just scaring the shit out of them, or invited them home and is making them its guest for a while.
Or, you know, it's an actual Ghul and it ate them. Either one.
B. The kid ran away from home. Disaffected kid, has some friends outside of the compound, obvious alien sympathies? He legged it and is sticking with his ink-gang. He'll make his way home on his own eventually, but you get paid if you go grab him.
Hey, fifty thousand dinars is fifty thousand dinars.
C. Random crime. Traffickers thought the human kid would sell well, he got mugged, freak accident. Shit happens. Maybe shit happens because Dad paid for it to happen to his rebellious son. Who knows, but it does mean you might have issues getting paid.
D. Dad's telling the truth. At least one corp wants this kid's head. And if that's the case...well, it's probably for something more interesting than wanting to get a blow in at dear old Dad. And that means that the case is going to be...interesting. In the Remeri sense, with all the violence and shit.
There are a few leads scattered among the case files, and a few more you can put together based on your own knowledge of the station. Whatever the truth is, you need to figure out what you think's correct, pick a string to pull, and see what happens.
Pick One
[ ] The father. He's bound to know something useful about the kid that isn't in the folder.
[ ] The grocer the ink-gang's associated with. This entire thing's probably a spat of teenaged rebellion and hitting up the grocer will clear it up quickly. It'll also let you meet up with Jane, which is convenient.
[ ] The empty quarter. It's probably not the empty quarter, you hope it's not the empty quarter, but you should eliminate it from the list first.
[ ] The cops. See what they know about it. Though you probably want to have Vivi call with you prompting her.
[ ] Hit up your contacts. If the kid is being disappeared, or under threat of being disappeared, then someone knows something. And if the kid was the victim of chance, well...someone will have seen it.
[ ] See if anyone at the WarBot arena saw anything.
You grab a nine-pointed hat from the closet, a memento of your days as a pirate. You take a moment to adjust it, changing the angle ever-so-slightly until you are satisfied that it is sufficiently rakish. "House, I'm going out," you say, "Lock up."
You step out the door, which snaps shut behind you with a series of muted clicks. The hallways of your apartment complex are cramped, the ceilings low, the walls close enough to make passing someone else an awkward affair in the best of circumstances. Your neighbors largely stay out of your way, they're not as visibly terrified of you as they were during the first months of your stay, but they're still obviously uncomfortable with your existence. The sole exception is Miss Smith, an elderly Goblin woman of about thirty two who claws her cheeks bloody and bellows "IVORY CITADEL!" every time you pass her. You return the yell, but punch the air instead of self-mutilating.
Goblins regenerate their wounds. You don't.
The elevator's a massive, transparent cylinder that runs down the side of one of Market Garden's walls. Half the view is taken up by your apartment complex's hallways, not a thrilling sight at the best of times. The other half, though, is the interior of Market Garden, and there's a view you're not getting tired of any time soon.
Market Garden was once a Garden Ship. A massive civilian ship filled with plant life of all sorts, cavernous bays flooded with artificial light and overgrown with vegetation. It got added to the Graveyard near the end of the war, and though they ripped out her innards, the roof, and the bow the interior's still beautiful.
To the right of you, past the other elevator tubes, countless vines carpet the walls. They're a riot of color, heavy with grapes and dragonfruit and berries and exotic things for alien diets.
Below you is the Green Deck of Market Garden, covered in groves of trees and various shops. Fruit groves stretch across the length of the deck, melon-vines covering maglev tunnels, trees shading stores and walkways. To the left of you is the ship's bow, open to the void, atmosphere contained by redundant shielding and station-gravity. You can see the Pendulum Dock through the gap, fleets of ships arriving and departing from the converted space station at all times.
Across from you is the far wall, rather like the wall on your side save that the view is marred by graffiti, a hundred-foot-tall "فيهم روح؟" slathered over fruit-vines in white paint. You snarl when you recognize it, it's a slogan for human supremacist organizations across the galaxy. It doesn't translate well, if you're to be honest. "Do they have a soul?" is the literal meaning, but the grammar and phrasing don't transfer in the slightest.
The answer to the question is no, by the way. Or at least it is in the minds of anyone asking that question in that language with that wording.
Above you is the dorsal hull of Nine Eyes Gleaming, a Texan heavy cruiser. She's a resort now, you can see the gleam of dozens of windows where her thousand hull breaches have been converted to hotel rooms. The sight makes you smile. You'd helped kill that ship, in the closing weeks of the war, and getting to see your war-trophy gutted and disarmed never stops massaging your ego. You kinda want to rent a room there for a weekend some day, see Market Garden from above, tour the corridors you'd fought through, see if they'd let you look at the bridge you'd bombed. It's expensive, though. Maybe when you've built up some savings.
The elevator takes you to the Green Deck, where the trees hide the graffiti from view. A short walk brings you to the mag-lev, and the mag-lev takes you into the depths of the station proper.
Someone calls the cops on you on the ride over. The entire train stops while a single police officer, a female Pamna, boards and sweeps the train. She locates you, sweeps you, and starts asking questions. Nothing out of the ordinary. "Why are you on the train today?" (On my way to work) "Any weapons on you?" (Knife and a RigRun. Need them for work.) "What's your job?" (Private Detective, here's my badge) "Any other weapons to declare?" (No) "We have our eyes on you, don't cause any trouble." (When we own this station, I'll remember your face. And the man two rows ahead of me who called you.). She doesn't catch your shredder and eventually, devoid of anything to hit you with, leaves. The mag-lev continues and you get some glares for the delay. You ignore them, eye boring into the neck of the man who made the call. He gets off the train early, antennae quivering in what you think is the Hanbar equivalent of panic. The rest of your ride is uneventful.
You glance up and to the left as you step off the mag-lev. 6:30 AM. God above that took a while. Jackadee Station's not as nice as any of Market Garden's mag-lev stops, but the ships that made up Jackadee Junction had never been as nice as Market Garden, even when they were Jackadee Squadron, so you suppose you should be merciful. The station used to be a hangar bay, one of the small, cramped ones in freighters and the like. It's worse now, they cut it in half for the station, added concession stands and the like, and the local landlord had his janitorial staff at half-strength as a cost cutting measure. The result was cramped and distinctly unsanitary.
You use your trenchcoat as a shield as your push your way into Jackadee Junction proper. The halls are a bit better, the warship halls were made with multiple people in mind and the stores and homes didn't protrude into the halls. You bypass a demagogue at an intersection, bellowing about how the aliens mean to subvert Human society from within, and how humans must unite and drive them from the 'civilized galaxy'. He has a bit of a crowd, but Jackadee Junction doesn't like crowds much. They'll disperse before the morning rush, or be dispersed by a mildly annoyed crowd. Either way works for you.
Your office is built into what was once a sloop's bridge. It's plain on the outside, no windows, minimal decoration, a plaque that says "D and D Detective Agency" and a wooden door with a delivery chute instead of the synth-glass most businesses use in Jackadee. There's a delivery man outside your door, a young Hanbar man by the name of Githr. His uniform hangs loose on him and a water collar, surprisingly fashionable, fits snugly around his gills. His rami hang loosely over the water collar and his lower pair of arms is bare, which you understand is in fashion at the moment. His skin is mottled brown with flecks of gold, though his rami are a deep blue at the ends, as if they were dyed (They aren't, you asked.). Young Hanbar are often described as reminiscent of arudae or axolotls, but you don't agree with the description. It's like describing Infant Humans as reminiscent of howler monkeys.
"Dass!," says Githr. He pulls a flyer out of his satchel, handing it over with his lower two arms. "We're doing, we're doing a thing," he says, "An event. It'll be...read! Please read." He's excited, damn-near giddy and tripping over his speech more than normal. He lapses back into a Hanbari tongue you don't understand twice before he manages to stop talking. You go ahead and glance over the flyer while he practically bounces in place.
It's for an alien rights rally, a demonstration in Vertigo district. Date and time are included, and evidently there'll be refreshments for all. "Githr," you say, "Be careful, yeah? These things end with goo-guns and truncheons more often than not."
"You're not coming?" says Githr. His brow furrows and his rami quake a little. Maybe betrayal or anger? Hanbar emotions are hard.
"I didn't say that," you say, "But you should be careful out there. Vertigo's not like Jackadee. Locals won't care if a little Hanbar boy loses his collar." His hands, all of them, go straight to his water collar, rubbing it nervously. "Bring a spare, be careful, and tell your mother."
He wiggles his rami, another gesture you don't understand and scoots off to finish his deliveries. A supervisor bot emerges from some nook and follows him as he leaves. You wait till they round the next corner before entering the office.
Your office is a pretty small affair. You have an entry hall and two offices (One each for you and Jane), plus a large washroom meant to deal with most anything that could walk through the front door. The entry hall contains a small desk, formerly a bridge-terminal for the sloop. VVX, your secretary, mans it basically twenty-four seven.
VVX is an Android. Her body's a tall Vuroot female, all green scales and musculature that looks like she's been shrink-wrapped, and she's wearing a plain red blouse. The body's popular among Android's, Vuroot went extinct three hundred years ago and no-one's properly resurrected the species, so an Android in a Vuroot body doesn't need the normal visible identification. You call her Vivi, which she appreciates.
Currently she's smoking, and judging by the state of her ashtray and the smoke filling the room she's been doing it for a while. Bad habit, probably your fault. But hey, you never claimed to be a good influence. She throws you a lazy salute and says, "Turovind" as you enter.
"Hey Vivi," you say, "Be a doll and throw me a cig, would you?" She pulls a cigarette out of her desk and flicks it at your hat, you catch it out of the air en-route and light up. You take a deep drag and breath out, the smoke making the room that tiny smidgen more unpleasant. "Jane in?" you ask.
"Jane is out," says Vivi. She pulls a red folder out from under her desk and hands it to you, "She met with a client shortly after Four AM and left approximately twenty minutes ago. She told me to give this to you, and was rather smug about taking the car."
"Of course she was," you reply, "Thanks Vivi."
You retreat into your office, a cramped, dimly lit thing with one desk, a chair, and a window overlooking Jackadee Junction, then open the folder. It's a case file, obviously. Missing person. You give it a quick skim, mentally sorting wheat from chaff, then give it a second, proper, read through.
Your client is Johnathan Tracer, a mid level executive in Droszczy Interstellar. Rich, reasonably successful, in charge of some of their facilities on The Graveyard. He's pale, blond haired, average height, wears a fancy suit in the photo he attached. Looks forty, but with drugs he may well be eighty. Probably scum.
He's looking for his son, Balogun Tracer. The kid looks nothing like him, tall, black, broad-shouldered, bald. Maybe seventeen. He's wearing a suit and frowns heavily. Spoiled brat.
Evidently Balogun's been acting out for a few years. Joined an ink-gang, made some friends his dad didn't approve of, active in an alien rights group at his high school. You revise your opinion of the kid upwards a notch. His Johnny boy doesn't outright say it, but you can read the disapproval in how he wrote the dossier. He does say that he doesn't think the acting out is involved with the disappearance.
Balogun disappeared two days ago, he was meeting some friends to watch a WarBots match adjacent to the empty quarter. His friends claim that they lost track of him during the match and that he just never showed up again. He claims to have already gone to the police but says that they aren't taking him seriously enough. He wants you to find his son and bring him back home alive and safe, or else give solid, actionable information on his whereabouts. And he's offering a flat fifty seven thousand dinars for the job.
Johnathan thinks that Balogun's been kidnapped by agents of a rival corporation aiming to strike at him, though he doesn't say why he thinks that and doesn't have any useful leads to offer you regarding possible kidnappers.
That said, you don't think much of his kidnapping theory. It's the sort of bizarre, self-centered bullshit you're expecting. You think one of four things happened:
A. The boy hit up the empty quarter. He was in the area, one of the ink-gangers sends him a text, they decide to explore, or loot, or bone, or whatever. Don't pay enough attention, aren't warded properly, and bam. Jinn grabs them. They're probably safe if this is the case, Jinn's probably just scaring the shit out of them, or invited them home and is making them its guest for a while.
Or, you know, it's an actual Ghul and it ate them. Either one.
B. The kid ran away from home. Disaffected kid, has some friends outside of the compound, obvious alien sympathies? He legged it and is sticking with his ink-gang. He'll make his way home on his own eventually, but you get paid if you go grab him.
Hey, fifty thousand dinars is fifty thousand dinars.
C. Random crime. Traffickers thought the human kid would sell well, he got mugged, freak accident. Shit happens. Maybe shit happens because Dad paid for it to happen to his rebellious son. Who knows, but it does mean you might have issues getting paid.
D. Dad's telling the truth. At least one corp wants this kid's head. And if that's the case...well, it's probably for something more interesting than wanting to get a blow in at dear old Dad. And that means that the case is going to be...interesting. In the Remeri sense, with all the violence and shit.
There are a few leads scattered among the case files, and a few more you can put together based on your own knowledge of the station. Whatever the truth is, you need to figure out what you think's correct, pick a string to pull, and see what happens.
Pick One
[ ] The father. He's bound to know something useful about the kid that isn't in the folder.
[ ] The grocer the ink-gang's associated with. This entire thing's probably a spat of teenaged rebellion and hitting up the grocer will clear it up quickly. It'll also let you meet up with Jane, which is convenient.
[ ] The empty quarter. It's probably not the empty quarter, you hope it's not the empty quarter, but you should eliminate it from the list first.
[ ] The cops. See what they know about it. Though you probably want to have Vivi call with you prompting her.
[ ] Hit up your contacts. If the kid is being disappeared, or under threat of being disappeared, then someone knows something. And if the kid was the victim of chance, well...someone will have seen it.
[ ] See if anyone at the WarBot arena saw anything.
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