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xC: I want to see some more Ropilio shenanigans! Edit: Also yeah we should probably remember that we have those plot-mulligans.
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Jul 26, 2016 15:17
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| # ? Apr 26, 2024 16:54 |
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Lets pay Pnakoptis a visit and demand that he put some more restrictions on our cybernetics, so that if we give them control again they can only act in our survivability's interest and not turn us into protine soup. Also, I want a detailed story on Dr. Pnakoptis, from his point of view. Using all available tenses.
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Jul 26, 2016 16:53
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xC I want to see Tone dealing with a whacky extented Space Cab Driver family reunion.
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Jul 26, 2016 20:16
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xA: The Erb. Regal knows surprisingly little about her own creators. Maybe it would be helpful to pay a bit more attention to this whole 'inscrutable timeless conflict' stuff.
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Jul 26, 2016 20:42
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"We accept the Revered Matriarch's gracious invitation,” you say. “Let's get in front of this and see if we can't pinch off the crocodile-hose before someone important gets hurt.” “How do you want to make contact,” Vare asks. “I'm not entirely certain of the wisdom of hacking the Syndicate mainframe so soon after almost turning into an unstoppable robot monster.” “Your concern is touching,” you say wryly, “but we've got an in; one who just got a promotion because of us.”  Zones Three through Six of Habstack North are better known as The Bog; local stronghold of the O-Barvanja Syndicate. From here, the Syndicate's inner Torus lays down orders and mandates to the organization at large, and orchestrates the trafficking of slaves and indentures across Hegemony and beyond. The presence of a female at the head of an organization filled with an run by Verdugar, a species that views females as barely-sapient chattel, may seen contradictory, but the Esteemed Matriarch's position is largely ceremonial. Less a ruler to be obeyed than a treasure to be protected, the Matriarch by all accounts lives a cloistered life of luxury, her every whim attended, while her 'loyal advisors' in the Torus perform the daily administration of the Syndicate.  The luxury skimmer sent to collect you drifts to a stop in what could graciously be termed a 'kill box'. Auto-turrets swivel to track you as a beefy armed slave approaches the driver's compartment to confer with the as-yet unseen pilot of the vehicle. After a moment, the slave-guard waves you on, and the skimmer hoves through the checkpoint into The Bog. “I wish K were here,” you say, nervously clinking the ice in the glass of amber korvacha from the skimmer's bev-station. “I really wish K were here.” “We're in Syndie Central,” Vare replies. “If things go so poorly that we need Kamula, then I don't think having him here's going to make a difference.” She looks out the window for a moment, then taps a single talon on the duraglaz. “Notice anything,” she inquires, gesturing to the crowds outside. Looking out the viewports, you see dozens of species represented among the milling throng, but surprisingly few Verdugar. “Crocs pretty thin on the ground,” you comment. “Too busy lying in their wallows letting slavegirls pour fermented blood down their craws, I'm sure.” Vare raises a brow ridge, looking askance at the dark visor separating the passenger and pilot compartments. “I'm pretty sure we're being monitored,” she replies, “maybe lay off the trenchant social commentary? And the free drinks?” “They know who they're dealing with,” you say, shaking your head and downing the lees of your drink. “They invited us. False reverence isn't going to get us anywhere. And I'm only going to have one or three more after this one.” “Just the same,” she says, “consider keeping a civil tongue while we're talking to the Matriarch. Invitation or no, I'd rather not be dismembered on a whim.” “When did you get so boring,” you chide. “All the chel juves are getting dismembered.”  Your skimmer pulls up alongside a towering brutalist edifice, swarming with armed thralls, aerial drones, and combat mechs. You feel a rumbling in your seat as a massive, treaded warmachine trundles up to the vehicle, and your stomach freezes as its rotary cannon trains on you. You feel naked without Scuzzy Jr. or your pulser, but as you consider how best to defend yourself, Vare leans over you and rolls down the window with a press of a button. “We have an appointment,” she lilts pleasantly to the enormous murder-robot.  You are escorted by a swaggering Yngado through the humid, dimly-lit corridors of Yzbey-La's palace, the Verdugar obviously enjoying the access the newly-minted fibula on his chest provides him. Slaves duck their heads at his approach, and lesser Verdugar quickly find business farther down the hall as he passes. “Enjoying yourself,” you comment, as a cadre of combat mechs snaps to rapid attention along the corridor wall. “Any one of these scrapers would joyfully drown me in a puddle of muck given half the opportunity,” he growls. “It's magnificent.” “Thank you for getting us this audience,” Vare offers. “I hope this can put to rest any lingering issues between us.” “I'm only Recognized,” Yngado replies, “so it cost me a pretty stack to set this up. Well worth it, though, to be the one to fulfil Revered Matriarch's will when so many others failed so spectacularly.” “Any tips for when we go in there,” you ask. “Let me put it this way,” the Verdugar croaks with sinister mirth. “Revered Matriarch is our greatest treasure. You are aware, by this point, that many among my brothers would wear you as a cape just for breathing their air too vigorously. I'll just leave what would happen should you insult our greatest treasure in the very heart of her power to your no doubt splendid imagination.” “I meant hobbies or something,” you reply with a wince, “but duly noted.” You wind through the labyrinthine halls of the palace, the heady whiff of incense unable to completely cover the stink of rotting vegetation and stagnant water, but sufficient to set your head to buzzing. Ramadi would love this place, you think, aside from all the murderous slavers. The thought of Ramadi brings a pang of remorse to your heart. You haven't heard from her since the kidnapping; K says he talked to her after, but she never came to visit you in the medbay. You have a sneaking suspicion you know why, and you can't blame her. After you get out of here, should you track her down and talk to her? A. No, give her time. If she wanted to talk to you now, she would have. Pushing is only going to make it worse. B. Yes; you're the one who hurt her, and you should be the one to make contact. You have too few friends to burn any bridges. C. Yes, with a special gesture or gift: _________________. “We're here,” growls Yngado, snapping you out of your wistful digression. You see Vare looking at you with mild concern, but you make a subtle wave of dismissal. Yngado briefly confers with the two embarassingly over-armed combat mechs guarding the ornate double doors before you, then waves you on as they step aside. “I can't go with you,” he says, “so as not to defile the chamber with my maleness. Good luck; I'd hate to have to skin you alive when we're getting on so well.”  Passing into the Matriarch's sanctum, you follow the sound of burbling water and chiming bells through an arcade of archways that eventually deposits you by the side of a sparkling pool. Pleasantly-odored vapors waft up from artificial craters in the tiled floor, and irridescent insects flit here and there among the profusion of fruiting creepers growing from alcoves in the walls. Sleek Verdugara lounge in languid undress, jewelery jingling as they nibble on sweetmeats and candied fruits, or breath intoxicating smokes from ornate taps. One among them reclines upon a mound of pillows in a place of honor, sipping a fizzy concoction from a skull goblet. Eyes trimmed with cosmetics watch you keenly as you enter, a single gilded horn upon her head tilting slightly in acknowledgement. “Aren't you the charming pair,” Matriarch Yzbey-La croons. “Quite a change from the hard-edged sorts one normally encounters in your profession.” “Revered Matriarch,” Vare greets, sketching a leggy bow. Rather than embarrass yourself trying to imitate her, you simply duck your head respectfully. “I am so pleased you could join us,” Yzbey-La continues, gesturing casually for you to rise. “Would you care for refreshment?” Out of the corner of your eye, you see a Verdugara in diaphanous wraps lurking just out of sight, carrying a silvered tray heavy with various ornate vessels. “A light repast is always a good way to start.” “Well, as your thugs nearly killed us," you reply, "you think an apology might not be a better way to start?” Vare gives your arm a subtle warning squeeze; it was intended to be in jest, but your bitterness obviously shone through. Yzbey-La, for her part, betrays no offense, merely gesturing broadly with her goblet, the fluid within sloshing over the side. “I do hope you weren't put to too much inconvenience,” she says with a twinkle in her eye, “but if I started apologizing for the idiocy of males, I simply wouldn't get a thing done around here.” You grit your teeth, but don't protest when Vare smoothly intercedes. “We thank you for seeing us, Revered Matriarch. Surely you know that we would have gladly attended you, had you merely asked?” “My sons would gladly subjugate a planet for me,” Yzbey-La replies smoothly, if I merely asked. I needed your measure.” “A test,” you say flatly, eyes narrowed. “If you wanted to see how hard we were, there were easier ways.” “Precious child,” she replies with a musical laugh, “you misunderstand. If you had responded in force, we wouldn't be having this conversation. There is no shortage of hard men in a place like Thoon. Of far greater interest are those who will respond to an attack on their person with a measured, diplomatic response.” "Killing about a dozen of your guys is a measured response," you reply, before you can stop yourself. "Verdugar diplomacy is a very...robust activity," Yzbey-La notes, "as you may have noticed." You start to speak again, but Vare gently brushes against you, and you subside. “Now that we're here in all our measured diplomacy,” she says, “what no doubt weighty matters were you hoping to discuss?” Yzbey-La laughs again, a sound that brings a strange sort of pleasure to some primal part of your brain, despite your suspicion of the Matriarch's motives. Hopefully the fumes aren't getting to you. “I do like you. In truth, I'd hoped we could become better acquainted before we set to business. Far more civilized, and, well...fun, that way.” At a subtle nod from the Matriarch, the lurking Verdugara pads into the chamber, bells chiming on her hips and ankles. You find yourself silently impressed that this is the first time you heard those bells ring. She pools herself to the floor in a striking display of grace and flexibility, the tray lifted and offered upon the flat of her tail. A spread of exotic tidbits, fine cordials, and exquisite smokables lies within your reach. Refresh yourself a bit before getting down to bronzium fasteners? Y/N?
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Jul 27, 2016 17:44
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Yes, but try not to get too intoxicated. There's going to be business ahead.
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Jul 27, 2016 18:53
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Only have a drink or two or five, and a quick nip of this smokable and that... ooh, you don't usually see that one around our hab block, it's pretty expensive. You know what, just try a little bit of everything. But just a little bit. We're professionals on the job here.
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Jul 27, 2016 19:40
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Sample the tasties, don't get wasted.
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Jul 27, 2016 19:53
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Blasphemaster posted:Sample the tasties, don't get wasted. This and B for the other question.
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Jul 27, 2016 20:20
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Y May as well, it's only polite... ...and also B.
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Jul 27, 2016 20:51
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JT Jag posted:Only have a drink or two or five, and a quick nip of this smokable and that... ooh, you don't usually see that one around our hab block, it's pretty expensive. You know what, just try a little bit of everything. But just a little bit. We're professionals on the job here. Let's not try to pretend we're something were not. Om nom nom
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Jul 27, 2016 21:22
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Scan the food first. Make sure it isn't laced. If it is, use our nanobots to subvert anything and then partake gently. Also calm down, we aren't going to get anything by being rude/angry/brash This is a job interview. We passed the first two tests. This is a test as well. Be professional.
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Jul 27, 2016 21:29
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Enjoy in moderation. By not being piggish we also keep our wits about us. Also, try to relax a bit.
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Jul 27, 2016 23:44
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Take the offer, don't indulge. Refusing would be a pretty direct insult to the host. We're on shaky ground as is.
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Jul 28, 2016 00:55
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 After perusing the delicacies with pursed mouth and single probing claw, you reach out and pluck a fattened lag-grub from a decorative pyramid of the little creatures, the paper-thin, seed-crusted skin crackling between your talons. You glance over at Vare, who nods briefly in approval as she raises a delicate crystal bulb of liqueur to her lips, and you pop the grub in your mouth. The crispy skin bursts between your teeth, flooding your mouth with subtle sweetness and a spicy meatiness. The corners of your mouth twinge as the sublime juices make you realize what you've been missing all these rota. You try, almost successfully, to mask a noise of pleasure, but Yzbey-La obviously notices your reaction, lifting her goblet in salute. “A little different from the formed protein you're used to, I expect,” she purrs, not a noise you'd expected from a Verdugar. “My Vordubiri cook can't see her hand at arm's length, but she knows her way around a larva. Try dipping it in the vissoi-lei...ah, that's the thin green sauce with the root slivers floating in. Not too much, now, just a dab.” Over the next two deci-cycles, you do your best to maintain a certain level of temperance. And despite being offered an exquisite array of intoxicants, both liquid and gaseous, you actually find you can do so with relative ease; not only due to Vare's moderating presence, and the constant knowledge of just where you are, but because the food is simply that good. Any time you find the urge to have one too many puffs off the tap, you just pop another opulent tidbit in your jaws. You find Yzbey-La a gracious guide to the various delicacies placed before you; at first you fear your restrained grazing might offend her, but by the time the fourth tray is carried away, you are certain that she approves of your discipline. After exhaling a lungful of rich smoke that reminds you of a sunset you once saw on a vid, you ask her about this. “Do I appreciate you not diving, face-first, into the soup tureen,” she enquires wryly. “Certainly. I don't get the opportunity to show off my staff's prowess to a discerning audience very often; it takes a certain degree of discipline to get through the full nine courses without ending up in a senseless heap. My dear cook would never speak such a thing, but I know she resents being forced to prepare such wonderful repast for uncultured thugs and males.” “You're not at all what I expected,” you comment, wrapping a fried mound of minced orvodan eel in a frilly lavender-colored leaf. The Matriarch seems to take this as a compliment, and gives a smile with entirely too many teeth. “You expected me to be fat as a freight shuttle, I suspect,” she replies with a laugh. “One mechanical eye, and squatting like a gigatoad on a repulsor-sled. You're thinking of my mother's mother...though for the record, it was an arachnoid chassis, not a repulsor-sled. Every Matriarch does it their own way...Rule through intimidation was never my style. Honestly, it seems redundant when you have a legion of belligerent males ready to do the heavy lifting on that front.” “How much ruling do you actually do, all told,” you ask. “It was my understanding that your position was largely...” “Ceremonial,” Yzbey-La lilts. “That is the popular assessment. In truth, a useful fiction. Never have you met a collection of narcissists like my Torus. These are males who have survived to old age in a society that makes that...highly unlikely, and they have the self-importance to match. I believe it is the combined weight of their egos that keep this station moored in place. They treasure me beyond all their other wealth, but they would never obey my dictates were I to pose them directly: It is not meet for ornaments to make policy decisions.” “So you what,” you muse dubiously, “whisper in their ear-holes and let them think they came up with it?” “Of course not,” Yzbey-La says, setting bangles chiming with a wave of her dismisive hand. “I have an army of ten thousand Verdugara concubines to do that for me...” Vare nods approvingly. “So you're simultaneously the figurehead and the power behind the throne. Nice trick.” The Matriarch eyes a morsel of honeyed vere tongue with loving scrutiny before devouring it with surprising gentleness. “It's what dragged us out of the pestilent bogs and into the stars,” she replies wistfully, “regardless of what the chest-thumping chorus of males would have you believe.” “So why tell us all this,” you ask. “Isn't it risky? You don't even know us or what we might do with the information.” Ask Ramadi about that. “I believe I have a fair idea of your nature,” she responds, “and even if you did tell the Torus, what would come of it? Do you truly believe they would accept the idea that they and their noble ancestors have been led around by the gonads for all these hundreds of rota? That, horrifyingly, policy has been set by...females? They would sooner eat their own heads than even entertain that possibility.” “And so...” “And so, I have a proposition for you.” You nod, setting the carved vandalwood pipe down on its statuary stand. “This is certainly the most gracious job interview we've ever had,” you note. “We would be honored to hear wha--” Vare begins, but you smoothly interrupt. “So long as you understand...Our company has recently...revised its policies vis-a-vis slavery. You're a charming host, but we no longer deal with those who traffic in sapients.” Vare stares at you, aghast, but Yzbey-La simply smiles. “Perfect,” she purrs. “Pardon,” both you and Vare ask, incredulously and simultaneously. “I have no shortage of beings willing to do my bidding,” The Matriarch continues. “I even have elite special forces to perform tricky tasks while maintaining deniability, which, I assume, is with what you were expecting to be tasked?” You give an embarassed gesture somewhere between a nod and a shrug, and busy yourself pouring another thimble-sized glass of deep blue tante cordial. “Please do not feel insulted,” Yzbey-La says with a concilliatory tone, “I did not intend to embarrass you. My request is simple: Stay out of my way.” “Ah,” Vare nods in dawning understanding. “Or rather,” The Matriarch explains, “let us stay out of one another's way. I propose the following: I shall take no action against you, and ensure that none of my sons does so. In return, should you be offered a job that would bring you at odds with O-Barvanja interests, you refuse it. A simple understanding, and one that prevents us from wasting resources grinding up against one another's power structures.” You look at Vare, silent negotiations passing between you. How does that deal sound? Have any addenda to suggest, or further exhanges to bring to the table? Do you have any other questions for the Matriarch?
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Jul 28, 2016 17:03
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This is a tricky one, guys. We've pretty much agreed that we want to be an Emancipatory Batman Assassin, but if we agree to this then our Space Harriet Tubman Murderess ambitions go out the airlock. This is pretty much a Non-Aggression pact with someone who represents poo poo We Hate while also being She Who Is Able To Paste Us Easily. We could agree and then build up our own influence over time for an inevitable betrayal, but we'll pretty surely be doing so while being watched. ALTERNATE OPTIONS!? We agree to be available as an outside contractor for supporting O-Barvanja operations against rival slavers. This would be a happy medium of sorts but it would put us in the trope of the SPEC-OPS group that does it's job too well and needs to be wiped because Deniability etc. However if we manage to avoid that fate we would get a better idea of their operational structure and how to seriously gently caress with it down the line. <--I'm going with this one. MURDERSWARM AHOY! Send the nanobots to chew the bitch into a shiny skeleton! It'd pretty much end the story, but it'd be funny eh?
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Jul 28, 2016 21:01
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Blasphemaster posted:We agree to be available as an outside contractor for supporting O-Barvanja operations against rival slavers. This would be a happy medium of sorts but it would put us in the trope of the SPEC-OPS group that does it's job too well and needs to be wiped because Deniability etc. However if we manage to avoid that fate we would get a better idea of their operational structure and how to seriously gently caress with it down the line. <--I'm going with this one. I'm happy with this, on the understanding we're just biding our time before we inevitably betray the crocodiles.
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Jul 29, 2016 01:23
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Outrail posted:I'm happy with this, on the understanding we're just biding our time before we inevitably betray the crocodiles. Couldn't have said it better myself. Plan Blasphemaster
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Jul 29, 2016 01:29
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Outrail posted:I'm happy with this, on the understanding we're just biding our time before we inevitably betray the crocodiles. Yep.
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Jul 31, 2016 18:12
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You make a show of examining your cup of tante cordial, tilting it so the metallic flecks suspended within catch the light. “Maybe we can help one another after all,” you muse. Vare raises a brow ridge, but you give her a small, cryptic half-smile and continue. “You don't build up an organization of this size without unwanted pests...gnawing at the roots, so to speak.” “Wherever are you going with this,” Yzbey-La asks, bemused. “There are other groups,” you explain, “cutting into your margins. Maybe they have influential backers, or maybe they're just particularly elusive, but either way it's either not politically expedient or cost-effective to just reach out and crush them, hoy?” “And here I thought you didn't deal with...traffickers in sapients,” the Matriarch replies. “I certainly wouldn't want to be the one to cause you to...compromise your convictions.” You scowl internally, but outwardly maintain a genial mien. “We're pragmatists,” you say, “no need to close off a route entirely. You're here to stay, we can see that. But if we can take a few other operators off the board, that serves us both.”  The Matriarch breathes two coiling tendrils of smoke from either nostril and gives a toothy smile that doesn't reach her cold, reptilian eyes. "I've enjoyed our time together," she utters in a flat, chilling voice, running the elaborately-carved pipe along the sharp teeth of her drinking vessel, "and I'll certainly follow your career with interest. But the moment I believe you pose a threat to this organization..." She drops the pipe into the goblet where it extinguishes with a sharp and sudden hiss. You exchange a look with Vare, Yzbey-La's meaning clear. "I'm sure Yngado will be pleased to show you the way out," The Matriarch continues, warmth bubbling back into her tone as if she hadn't just threatened you. "This old place is a bit confusing until you get used to it, I'm afraid." She absently waves a hand, and a sleek Verdugara servant glides up in a cloud of bells and perfume to press a delicate, fluted bottle of blue tante into your hands. "A token of my regard," Yzbey-La croons. "Enjoy it in good health." A. Accept the gift and warning in good spirit, and leave gracefully. B. As A, but deliver a veiled threat in your valediction. In the spirit of Verdugar diplomacy, of course. C. Meet threat for threat and scorn the gift. Don't let her think she can move you around like a game piece. D. Soon thereafter, Yngado leads you back through the labyrinthine confines of the palace, taking, you are certain, and entirely different route than the one by which you came. "You yet live," he croaks, "which was not an entirely certain outcome. I hope your audience was everything you hoped." "Very enlightening," you reply. Before you can say anything else, you hear movement behind you. As you turn, a hooded figure emerges from the shadows of an archway. As it passes into the dim light of the corridor, you slump in resigned irritation to see the unmistakable visage of Poole Midas. You hear Vare's feathers raise in agitation next to you.  “Enter Midas,” you groan, “because of course he does.” "High therapeutic to see you, as well, Kid. We should palaver," he says, then looks pointedly at Yngado. "Alone." You look to the Verdugar, who simply shrugs noncommittally. E. Hear him out. This should be good. F. You don't have time for Midas's drokk. Keep moving. G. Actually, you owe him a little chin music after that whole kidnapping bit. Deliver it.
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Aug 1, 2016 21:32
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A Let her think us at least modestly cowed. F Don't even want to hear his stupid and inevitably traitorous little angle. Roll your eyes and move along.
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Aug 1, 2016 23:49
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Steal Platinum Hyperducat.
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Aug 2, 2016 02:03
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Wentley posted:Steal Platinum Hyperducat. We as a thread have two of them. A, F
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Aug 2, 2016 12:50
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A E No harm in hearing what he has to say.
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Aug 2, 2016 15:22
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NastyToes posted:A E This. Well. No harm for us, anyway.
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Aug 2, 2016 15:23
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Gonna go with A E.
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Aug 2, 2016 17:02
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"You're on," you say. "Let's see what this is about." "Wait, seriously," starts Vare. "You can't honestly think--" "It won't take long," you reply, "and if we don't like what we hear, we're out." "I can pretty much guarantee we won't like what we hear,” she sighs, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hands, “But somebody's got to keep an eye on you." You hit a wall of cool, moist air, as Midas leads you down through the archway into a darkened holo-lounge. It seems unused, all the projection tables lying dormant save one. To this one Midas steps, gesturing to the array of feedback loungers arranged around the table. "Make yourself comfortable," he says, tapping on the table's control pad. "They're made for people with tails, and I'm told they're quite exquisite."  As you settle in, you grudgingly admit to yourself that the lounger is, indeed, extremely comfortable, far moreso than you tend to find most chairs. The look you see on Vare's face suggests she is engaged in the same internal battle. Midas finishes inputting a command, and you hear a faint crackle, accompanied by a gentle pop in your ear canals, as he engages the table's privacy filter. He places both hands palm-down on the table, which you know by long experience is a prelude to beginning his spiel, so you smoothly interrupt him just as he draws breath to speak. "We've got words for you, Midas," you speak. "Short ones. Four letters." "I do hope they're 'thank you,' and you're just bad at math," Midas replies. You stare with incredulous scorn, but Midas is unflappable. "After all, you all survived crossing the Syndicate, which isn't a particularly common outcome." "And you had something to do with that," Vare spits. "Despite the fact that we know from Ramadi that you were personally involved in abducting her." If Midas is surprised by this information, he gives no external sign. "You zeroed an Esteemed, Kid," he directs at you. "That's not just an empty accolade; those titles mean something. These toothy qwags value their drokk-complicated system of boons and statuses more than their...well, more than anyone else's life, at least. When you did for Ymirez, the Matriarch was obligated to respond in kind." "But she didn't put out a kill order," you protest. "She summoned us. A broadly-interpretable summons, sure, in the earshot of a bunch of brutal thugs with an underdeveloped sense of subtlety, but a summons nonetheless." "That what she told you," he tells more than asks. "Revered So-and-So don't get to ignore protocol...The Torus never would have let her get away with letting you off the hook. I don't doubt that she wanted to talk to you, Kid, but she would have had to buy that clemency with blood. Your crew? So much chaff." "Where are you going with this," you mutter, despite already having a good idea. "Your crew was marked for death," he explains. "Textbook example-making. I might have...intervened." "Intervened." "A good word for it, hoy? The interpersonal conflicts are there in the open, no trouble to turn a nest of crocs on each other. They think the constant jockeying and competition makes them stronger, and that I can't say one way or another, but it does make them easy-simple to manipulate." "You what, convinced them that they'd win greater acclaim by bringing us in alive," Vare asks dubiously. "I'd think you'd learned how these things are done by now," he replies glibly. "I let them convince themselves." "You'll find we're quite capable of defending ourselves," you comment, "so pardon me if I don't thank you for the charity." "You," Midas gestures, "sure, I'll buy that. Your cyborg, definitely. But Kinu? She's not exactly a battle-hardened star-warrior, is she? And what about your pilot? Vordubiri have big families. Big, vulnerable families. Soft targets." "Fine," you growl impatiently. "You're going to take credit for this no matter what, so let's just take it as read and move on. What do you want." "So cynical, Kid," Midas says with a hint of a grin. "I admit, I was worried. You always were tender-hearted, and I wasn't sure you were ever going to develop the harder edge you need to get by in this old drokk-funnel of a life. I always tried to--" "Spare us the avuncular musings," Vare hisses, "and get to the point." Midas eyes Vare levelly, and smooths his barbels. "Your new girlfriend is a treasure," he lilts, sliding a finger across the pad and bringing a holo-image of a large submarine to life. "But we're here to discuss a more...tangible reward."  You whistle in appreciation, despite yourself. "Nice boat," you say. "Kraeton Foundries," Vare says, to your surprise. "CS-406 Deepdweller. Crew complement 12, 50 unit cargo capacity. Crush rating of 20/2. 80 s/dc top speed, sustained, 110 burst. Manufacturer's suggestioned retail value of...about 7900 dux. Very nice boat." "Didn't take you for an aficionado," you comment, strangely compelled. "I might still have a mystery or two to uncover," she almost purrs. Is she flirting with you? A. Neg, she's just trying to put Midas off-balance. B. Even so, you're pretty sure it's legit. "Right," continues Midas, visibly ruffled. "So. Our boat has a Varstene registry, but it's currently held by a local pirate clan called the Helix Rippers.  "Deuce Rakanda," Midas says, transitioning to another image. "Rogue Glyst. Never w--" "Hold on," you interrupt. "Our boat? You're assuming a degree of cooperation that in no way exists. This a recovery mission for the Varstene merchant marine, or do you just want to get your icy manipulators on that sub?" Midas grins, and you curse inwardly, fearing that you've delivered him a straight line. "The sub," he replies, "fine as she is, is merely a means to an end. We're going to need something with her specs to recover our real objective." "This is a treasure hunt," you state rather than ask. "Why us?" "Because we can get it done," Vare answers, "and because he's going to angle this so that we're partners rather than contractors. Because he's a manipulative sleeb, and you have a previous relationship he can exploit." She looks to Midas, who stands with arms crossed and a bland expression. "That about cover it?" "May I continue," he sneers. Vare flaps her hand in mock permission. "Rakanda is a Glyst/Varsta, and dangerously unstable. His Rippers is made up entirely of other unapproved Glyst splices...Ever seen a Glyst/Ankorozon? Unsavory. Worse, while they deal in materiel like any pirates, their real passion is...biological resources. Their victims are stripped as thoroughly as their ships." "So we'd be doing the world a favor by jacking this sub," you comment. "Noted." "I surmised that would appeal," Midas says. "But that's just the beginning. Our endgame is this..." The image transitions once more, to a navigational chart. "Marker 4852," he reveals, stabbing a finger into a flashing nav-point adjacent to a deep-sea trench. "Not even named, barely surveyed. 18.4 Spans below the crust...which is why we need a boat that can plunge to such heady depths." "That's within the Native Exclusion Zone," Vare notes. "Only the Gigantes are allowed so deep." "Pardon me," Midas replies with a wry half-grin. "I took you for skilled extra-legal operatives. Is trespassing where you draw the line, then?" "You intend for us to take on a pirate clan, steal their ship, and venture into forbidden waters," you state flatly. "All on your highly questionable say-so. So what's the ultimate payoff for this not-at-all-suicidal little song and dance?" You see an avid gleam come to Midas's eyes, an almost youthful expression you haven't seen on the tired scoundrel's face since you yourself were a juve. It gives you pause.  "A wreck," he replies, sliding a grainy image of a bizarre structure onto the holo-display. "A particularly interesting one. Apologies for the image; this was hard enough to get." You peer at the image, feeling a vague, unnamable unease. “That's an odd sort of sub,” you comment. “Oh,” he replies, stroking his barbels, “it's no sub. It was designed for far fewer atmospheres than that.” A starship, then. You look over to Vare, expecting bewilderment, but are surprised to see her eyes narrowed in familiarity. "Vare," you say, anxiety in your gut, "why do I think you can tell me what that is?" "That's a shot by a Praxis survey drone," she says. "I'd ask how Midas got it, but I suppose that's a useless line of inquiry? The architecture of the wreck doesn't match any known vessel design, but the real interest is in its metallurgical makeup, not its silhouette." Midas grins with sick relish. "I believe the specs I read were, 'an anomalous isotopic structure, believed extra-temporal in nature,' but you're the expert." "Best the Praxis wonks could divine,” Vare almost whispers, “it's the wreck of a ship that hasn't been built yet. They're pretty sure it's--” "It's Erb," you utter, completely certain without knowing why. Midas knew you couldn't ignore this; he didn't survive as long as he has by being bad at reading people and their motivations and desires. He did do quite a job of burying the lede, though. C. He's got you pegged. You're in. If he plays you straight, you'll do the same. D. You're pegged, but not pinned. You're in, but you fully intend to double-cross Midas before he can do you the same courtesy. E. Actually, he's got you wrong. You can walk away from this, and do so. But before you can get to planning logistics... (Choose all that apply; things like crew, gear, and recon will come later) F. Petition the local Gigantes synod for permission to enter the proscribed area. G. Don't ask the worms for permission; hack their systems for any data that might help you infiltrate safely. H. Contact the Praxis board; try and get cartel resources and sponsorship. I. You don't need that kind of oversight, but could use the goodies; hack their systems. J. Contact Fury Praxis; you have a very strong feeling her secret operations have something to do with this. K. Contact Doctor Pnakoptis; it may be able to help you prepare for what you might find in an Erb starship. L. Use your temporary access to leverage the Syndicate in some way, if only as a distraction to your real work. M. Something else:__________________.
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Aug 6, 2016 00:02
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E, he's given us the location and told us what's required, if we want to go after it we can without Midas
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Aug 6, 2016 00:43
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A C G Let's go on a treasure hunt.
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Aug 6, 2016 02:52
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ADGJ: There is perceivable reality in which Praxis might not screw us, unlike Poole. As a bonus she can make the double cross stick and shield us from the backlash. More importantly it keeps our current agreement with the scary alligator lady intact by making it an internal factional dispute instead of an attack on the organization by we outsiders.
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Aug 6, 2016 03:08
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ADGJ
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Aug 6, 2016 05:19
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BDJK
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Aug 6, 2016 07:05
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ACK Don't mess with time!
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Aug 6, 2016 18:08
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BCGIK
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Aug 6, 2016 19:58
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The skimmer ride back is spent largely in silence, as Vare pores over mission-relevant details on a scriv, and you make notes on your wristlink. This operation is stacking up to be your biggest to date, and definitely the most uncertain. Dozens of moving parts have to line up perfectly if you are to have a scrab's hope of making it work. Ask you sketch out a rough list of tasks, you find your eyes, and with them thoughts, occasionally wandering over to Vare. You catch your gaze lingering on her tattooed haunch, reminiscing about the time she got it.  A. She always gave you grief about not getting a matching one, but it's not your fault you were both arrested before the inker could get to you! B. You did get a matching one, but that was a shoulder or two ago. Maybe you could have Scuzzy Jr. etch it in? C. Actual memory of the event is swig-drenched and hazy, but when Vare inexplicably found herself emblazoned with the holy symbol of an obscure Rannusan moon goddess, she decided to own it instead of being embarrassed, which is Vare all over. D. She was so excited to find that old genealogical text in the University library, and convinced you to go with her when she got her long-lost family crest immortalized on her scales. By the small smile that creeps across her lips as she focuses on her work, you're fairly certain she caught your gaze as well. Giving a small, sheepish shake of your head, you turn back to your wristlink. The background program you had been running in the background to skim logon credentials from inadequately-secured access spindles as you glided by in luxury has gleaned a bumper crop of authentication tokens; you're sure you'll need all the advantages you can get if you intend to hack the station's administrative networks. When the skimmer stops to let Vare off at the Skate, you don't get off; you have another stop to make.  When you moved in above the Skate, you invited Ramadi to join you. She demurred, preferring to remain in the habs, close to her contacts and customers. You make your way up East 3 now, absorbing with appreciation the lack of spicers and jack-up artists prowling the corridors since your little civic improvement drive. You do encounter a small number of patrol mechs, who blat a terse greeting as you pass. As you reach the landing of Ramadi's hab, you pause. How to even begin? Do you take the initiative, and risk over-incriminating yourself, or let her accuse you of something first? Does the fact that you're even asking yourself this question say something far from savory about you? When you do finally touch the admission panel, there is no response to your tone. You try again, then rap on the door, but the ringing of your metal knuckles is the only sound from the hatch. "She's not there," speaks a voice from behind you. You whirl, dipping low as you try to make a startle look as smooth as possible, but manage to stop yourself from reaching for your pulser as you see who it is.  Or, at least, who they're related to. A Rigele you've never met, inevitably one of Vrade's relations, stands with arms crossed. "An elegant recovery," they observe in a cool voice. "But Ms. Kinu is not present." "So you said..." you reply, holding out the last word and your hand to prompt the Rigele's name. They simply stare at you, and you flex your fingers and examine the back of your hand, as if inspecting your bionics instead of being left hanging. "She was last seen in the company of a former paramour," the Rigele explains, "assisting the more desperate of her people. Admirable, if not lucrative; family is important." "The winning strat is to combine the two, eh," you say, knowing few outfits that make family pay off more than Vrade's. "Uncle Vrade is concerned," they continue, ignoring your last comment. "They always liked Ms. Kinu, and are displeased that you have apparently discontinued your association. You have proven a valuable investment and worthwhile acquaintance, and some of your more recent associations have caused them...apprehension." "Tell Vrade they've got nothing to worry about," you reply, making a soothing gesture. "I'm always a good business decision. Ramadi's not gone for good. And this business with the Verdugar? We've got that all straightened out. Poz chel." "Your improved relations with O-Barvanja is primary cause for concern," the Rigele corrects. "Vrade understands, nay, expects you to run afoul of other organizations in the course of your most profitable enterprise. What they do not appreciate is any manner of partnership with that particular party. Our interests and theirs are...at odds." "You've got it all wrong," you protest. "I find their whole operation abhorrent on numerous levels...I just needed to get their carrion breath off the back of my neck." "As you say," the Rigele states. "It does, however, raise questions when you are seen to be enjoying the hospitality of the Revered Matriarch of said carrion-breathers. Rarified company." "You're just going to have to trust me," you reply smoothly. "I've always given Vrade their due, and we've got a real nozzle-flusher of a job about to get underway." "A choice scattering of details may have already reached Uncle Vrade regarding this," they reply. "They hope that you are certain about engaging with Poole Midas once more...it was only after leaving his association that you truly came into your own, after all." "No secrets at all in this drokk-pile, are there? Look, don't worry about Midas. He's got useful intel, for the moment. The moment he steps out of line, or gets a funny look like he's maybe thinking about considering pondering the idea of stepping out of line, I'll take care of it. Vrade doesn't need to worry about their investments." "You will find that Uncle Vrade has an unending capacity for worry. To that end, they have elected to lend you the services of one of their finest risk and logistics officers for your upcoming operation." "Vrade is sending someone along with us," you ask, alarmed. "There's really no need for--" "Uncle Vrade will assess need as they see fit." The Rigele doesnt speak over you so much as simply speak at the same time until you are forced to stop talking. "In this instance, our skills have been judged necessary to your efforts, and are at your service. We are Voulge." "Voulge," you say, feeling this whole thing rapidly spinning out of control, "I really don't think--" "Collate any mission-relevant data and forward it to us," they again interrupt without raising their voice. "We will calculate a launch threshold and risk assessment before we move forward." You find yourself at a loss. On the one hand, Vrade is an influential local gangster whose good side you've managed to stay on to this point; even having gone so far as as a limited business partnership. They are also your landlord by dint of the fact that they basically own the habstack. However, that doesn't mean you appreciate having people pushed onto your team, particularly abrasive clerks who seem intent on micromanaging your planning process. How do you want to respond to this?
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Aug 9, 2016 16:21
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B, There isn't much we can do about it right now besides cooperate, I think the best we could do is do amazingly on this mission so Vrade knows he can trust us without sending one of his cronies on the mission next time Like it or not we aren't big fish yet, we need more power and structure before we can break away.
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Aug 9, 2016 19:23
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C, and if she wants our intel then drown (figuratively) her in it.
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Aug 9, 2016 19:33
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Sir Unimaginative posted:C, and if she wants our intel then drown (figuratively) her in it.
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Aug 9, 2016 19:37
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B Don't try to screw Vrade, don't try to get cute with his chosen chaperone. Just do a good job and share out any info that won't get you put under even more suspicion. If Vrade's in for screwing Midas over, all the better.
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Aug 9, 2016 19:56
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B. Go along with it for now. Consult with the other team members at first opportunity to discuss how to handle this, but for the time being make it clear to Voulge that if Vrade wants a cut of the team's take, he'd better make it worth our while.
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Aug 9, 2016 20:41
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