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Arkanomen
May 6, 2007

All he wants is a hug
A

The devil you know is better than one you don't.

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Helical Nightmares
Apr 30, 2009
Whenever you are done with this, please put it together maybe with additional world building material and publish it on at least drivethroughrpg. There is a lot of quality here.

Green Intern
Dec 29, 2008

Loon, Crazy and Laughable

B

Dr. Pnakoptis kind of screwed Regal over a bit already. Maybe don't trust him that much?

HBar
Sep 13, 2007

B. We're defenseless against the Elder species if they feel forced to take us out, and they don't seem like the kind of creatures who would bluff about this.

JT Jag
Aug 30, 2009

#1 Jaguars Sunk Cost Fallacy-Haver
B. I don't really like the idea of getting a member of an Elder Race too involved in a matter involving another Elder Race, there's no clue as to what kind of schemes they might concoct in order to/have/will have achieve their past/present/future goals.

Blasphemaster
Jul 10, 2008

B When spacebug Kyle Reese speaks, you listen!

dont be mean to me
May 2, 2007

I'm interplanetary, bitch
Let's go to Mars


I was iffy on bringing other elder schmucks into it from go, and now the plot is basically begging us to kerb him.

:f5:B

NastyToes
Oct 9, 2012

B

Not Alex
Oct 9, 2012

Cut loose before the god eaters show up.
B

Hell I was going to argue against this objective in the first place but missed the secondary vote.

Outrail
Jan 4, 2009

www.sapphicrobotica.com
:roboluv: :love: :roboluv:

Sir Unimaginative posted:

I was iffy on bringing other elder schmucks into it from go, and now the plot is basically begging us to kerb him.

:f5:B

I think we can trust the giant cocksucker cockroach.

Haha, autocorrect.

Grognan
Jan 23, 2007

by Fluffdaddy
Yeah ok B

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011

Outlaws of Thoon - I think we can trust the giant cocksucker cockroach.

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011

“You know what,” you growl to the space recently vacated by Coleops, “that's just torchy! I'll forgo talking to the spooky barnacle that nearly turned me into a biomechanical monstrosity! Go squeeze back into whatever interstellar whale carcass you crawled out of and tell your buddies not to worry about it!” Your nostrils flare and you glance around yourself with belated caution, but if the denizens of the sector find anything amiss with you shouting at a wall, they give no indication.

A passing Yaguzi looks up from a scrab-infested trash heap and begins screaming unintelligibly at its own hands, and you take that cue to vacate the area before things get any weirder.

















The cycle shifts, and you drop off your final fare, a trio of blubbering-drunk Ogreb mourners, at the iso-refractory combine. As they stagger into the blocky structure in an awkward, codependent mass of tentacles and eyeballs, you count your blessings that you managed to drop them off before their acrid tears ate through the back seat upholstery of your skim-cab. Your whiskers tremble as you eye the latest transaction: Beings with tentacles are notoriously bad tippers, and these three have done very little to unseat the stereotype in your mind. Shrugging, you process the cycle's fares with a practiced series of commands, and pull up your message buffer on the cab's console while you wait for your invoice to calculate.



Your nose wiggles as you stifle a yawn. You should probably get on at least one of these tasks before you head back to the den; Voulge's because you have a reputation to uphold (Best at Moving requires Diligence in Best-Moving), and your mates' because the last thing you need is them teaming up on and cannibalizing you. Nave in particular seems upset; you hope those mites aren't back.

Outrail
Jan 4, 2009

www.sapphicrobotica.com
:roboluv: :love: :roboluv:
K, DO K IT MIGHT BE LEGIT THIS TIME!

Blasphemaster
Jul 10, 2008

BG With a side of J/D ask Reeg for a small advance so we can get that food delivered and get at least SOMEONE in our family off our backs geez.

NastyToes
Oct 9, 2012

A G

HBar
Sep 13, 2007

A seems the most useful and least dangerous of the remaining options.
G. Ignore mates, get money.

CDG
Feb 20, 2010
A D Need to keep the whelps off the cables.

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011

The gnawing grub of domestic obligation uncurls in your belly, and for a moment you consider knocking out some of your outstanding tasks before heading home. Quickly you remember, however, that there is no such thing as getting ahead of these chores. There will always be another task to fill the void of one completed, and getting them done quickly will only bring a rebuke that you didn't complete more tasks with the time freed by your efficient labor.

You decide, instead, to review the specs for the sub you're supposed to pilot. The CS-406 Deepdweller is compact-framed, with a vertically economical interior design and small bulkheads for improved ease of maintenance. It is a best-in-class patrol craft for the Varstene Merchant Marine; designed to meet the demands of much larger battle cruisers. She bears three independently-powered and retractable foils, suitable for mounting weapons and tools meant for larger vessels, which also help to reduce the boat's profile. While slower than dedicated interceptors, the Deepdweller has an entirely adequate sustained speed and a surprising burst potential, and a far greater operational depth than any of the faster vessels.

You can move this.



Voulge helpfully supplied a holo-mockup of the Deepdweller's helm, as well as a voucher for a local holo-lounge. After docking your skimmer for end of shift recharging, you take a transit upstack to the lounge, an establishment of middling reputation called Shintab Lyama. Technically a Simu-mat, the Lyama is entirely automated save for an unseen attendant cloistered in their monitor-strewn office like a Glyst maker in her asteroid fastness. Queues of beings extend from service kiosks, while an overworked security drone scans the queues for known troublemakers and serves to shoo off the handful of strung-out rovers begging customers on line for just a little sim-time.

"Sophonts and synthorgs," a disembodied voice warbles over a bed of rhythmic thump-shock, "let Shintab Lyama make all your dreams reality...Why live like an emperor, when you can be an emperor for only six ducats a deci? Here at Shintab Lyama..."

As you queue, sub specs tumbling over and over in your mind, you feel your scriv buzz in your pocket. You consider taking a look, but you expect it will only be Nave, and viewing the message will put you under obligation to actually respond to it, so you leave the device tucked away and step up to the kiosk. Loading the program, your whiskers tremble appreciatively as you watch the balanced owed drop to zero, courtesy of Uncle Vrade. This kind of luxury has always been beyond you, and you feel a sudden imposter's urgency, a need to take advantage of the windfall before your benefactor realizes their mistake. You snatch the keycard the kiosk dispenses, and quickly make your way to parlor 4. Your scriv buzzes again, and again you ignore it. Three tones, you resolve. Three tones, and you'll look at the message.

"Don't risk occipital burn-in with some cut-rate light-show...At Shintab Lyama, our professionally-calibrated..."

You spy the flickering signage indicating parlor 4, and fish the keycard from your pocket. As you move to the access panel, however, you find your path obstructed first by a cloud of eye-watering ethanol fumes, then by the body of the being at its center.
"Pardons," you mutter automatically, trying again to access the panel, but the being doesn't move. Nose wrinkling, you size up the interloper, a sudden pang of atavistic terror shivering up your spine.



A Lamropean, the gills somewhat scandalously exposed by her evening attire flushed with intoxication, effortlessly body-checks you with a casual shuffle of her serpentine 'foot' and continues her futile attempt to manage the access panel. The panel spits bleeps of protest and red dialogs at every turn, but neither that, nor your attempt to push in, seem to penetrate her drunken haze.

"I think you haves the wrong parlors," you protest, brandishing your keycard. "I rented fours."

The lamropean eyes you with unsteady eyes, wavering on her coils, then snatches the card from your hand with serpentine alacrity, surprisingly precise for her current state. 
"Thanksss," she hisses absently, turning back to the panel.

You stand in shock for a moment, as the realization of what just happened sets in. The lamropean isn't having terribly more luck with the panel even with the card; she continually flips and rotates, swipes and reswipes, tongue peeking through her lips as she squints in effort.

Frustration finally gets the better of her, and she slams her suckered palm impotently against the panel, before squinting intently at the card in her hand.
"Parlor four," she repeats, the words finally seeming to gain some purchase in her mind. "Thiss iss...th'rong slotting parlor..." Dropping both cards, she clutches her face in her arm-tips, and lets out a wail that makes you jump with alarm.
"He was supposed to..." She trails off, and as if suddenly noticing you, lurches upright, attempting to straighten her clothes. "Ugh," she groans, tugging at handfuls unruly tendrils. "I'm a krumping mess. I went and slotted it up again, and here you are, just trying to have a good time and I..." She begins to choke with sobs again. Lamropean weeping not something you've been a party to before, you decide they sound most like a cross between someone working a pipe brush and an egg frying. Smoothing your whiskers and tamping down your primal terror of the serpentine being, you let the worst of it pass and approach her, picking up the keycards off the ground as you do so.

"Heys," you offer, extending your paws in a conciliatory gesture. "No harms. You need helps getting to your parlors?"

She shakes her head, struggling to regain control of herself. "No...no point."

"Meeting someones," you try, peering at her card. "Parlors nine. Probably there."

She looks down at you, chest still heaving with occasional suppressed sobs. "I...no. He won't be. There'ss nothing for me here. I thought there wass..." She cocks her head slightly as membranes swipe horizontally over her eye, sluicing away the tears. "Hey," she says, a change in her voice. "What's your name, Vordubiri?"

"Tone Tonez," you reply, automatically producing a contact card without thinking. The lamropean blinks on both axes, and a small chuckle breaks free from her throat.



"Well, Tone Tonez," she continues, more boldly, "my back-cycle has gone about as maka-drokk as it can, and I think I'm in the mood to go cause a little trouble. You in?"

You return her blink with your shiny button eyes, and wrinkle your nose in thought. "I have not even your names," you point out.

"Plenty of time for that later," she hisses, fishing a key fob out of her top with some difficulty. Your eyes catch the emblem: A Pulsemaster G40-EX...A bright jewel of the skimmer-mover's art. "Well?"

Well?

A. Sadly, you must decline this madcap hi-jink, because you are an adult with a family and responsibilities. You will not regret this decision.
B. Let's roll, Snaketits! You accept the offer, if only to help a troubled being regain her emotional equilibrium. You will not regret this decision.

Green Intern
Dec 29, 2008

Loon, Crazy and Laughable

A. Tone is a professional, and his profession is Moving Ships. Get to training on Moving!

Outrail
Jan 4, 2009

www.sapphicrobotica.com
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B, tone deserves some fun.

HBar
Sep 13, 2007

A. Do Lamropeans even get drunk? And she just happens to have a G40-EX? This smells like a setup.

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011

HBar posted:

A. Do Lamropeans even get drunk?

They suck vaporized ethanol through their gills from a relatively common bar appliance that is basically a booze nebulizer. So technically they don't get drunk, they vape.

CDG
Feb 20, 2010
B. We can always dump the snake after we get the keys.

dont be mean to me
May 2, 2007

I'm interplanetary, bitch
Let's go to Mars


B. When does a CYOA ever not do Interesting Time?

NastyToes
Oct 9, 2012

A

JT Jag
Aug 30, 2009

#1 Jaguars Sunk Cost Fallacy-Haver
A, regrettably.

Helical Nightmares
Apr 30, 2009
A

Outrail
Jan 4, 2009

www.sapphicrobotica.com
:roboluv: :love: :roboluv:
You cowards. Our protagonist is a drug addled lizard thing and the current focus is a hen pecked under appreciated catfish thing. Live a little. Vote B. For Bad ideas.

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011

It's possible this is legitimate. That this lamropean is distressed and distraught, and is about to lead you on a whimsical drunken adventure across the station. That there will be near escapes, high-speed chases, and top banter. It's also possible that this a setup, in which case there will still be near escapes, high-speed chases, and top banter, but with a much higher chance of grievous bodily harm.
Normally, this sort of thing wouldn't be your scene, but you've been trying to spice things up a bit since you've been running with Regal Kore and her crew. Why, only last cycle, you had two scoops of scatheroot extract on your grubs. And surely, if you get all your chores done, your family will understand if you're just a few decis late...



Oh.

Well, on the other hand, you should probably just get home.














Scuzzy Jr. glides effortlessly through the scant high-altitude traffic of Habstack North-6, silently carving the heavy mist and scattering swarms of chittering flitmaws in its wake. Any being looking up from below would, assuming they had high-fidelity magnifying optics, see only a faint blur, nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding cloud cover. An onlooker with a more advanced scope would see even less, Scuzzy's active camouflage foiling AR overlays and advanced electronic filters.

Safely nestled in an access conduit a sector away, you absently munch on a protein stick while mentally controlling your drone. The occasional duct scrab scuttles near to investigate you, but Crossbones's silent presence is enough to send the cowardly arthropods fleeing back to their dark crevices.

Out of curiosity, you break off a piece of extruded foodstuff and toss it toward one of the scrabs. After a moment's hesitation, the creature leaps forward and grasps the morsel in its mouthparts, but before it can scuttle away, it is immediately set upon by a crowd of its fellows, who descend into a frenzy of jostling and snapping.

As the tiny creatures wage war over a scrap of questionable nutrition, you turn your full attention back to Scuzzy's visual overlay, where you see that your drone has closed to sensor range with the atmo-con tower. Its advanced sensors outline the dozens of maintenance and security drones buzzing around the tower, heuristic protocols already analyzing their simple patrol patterns.
"Any easier and I'd be suspicious," you comment. The scrabs do not respond, so occupied they are with their own desperate struggles (as well as their lack of sapience). Crossbones simply eyes the skittering creatures with as much disdain as its single optical lens allows.



You note with interest a maintenance drone performing repairs on a conduit, and a plan begins to form. If you were to drop the drone with your laser, you could use your electronic warfare utilities to spoof its transponder signal while you accessed the tower's data feed through the exposed conduit. You're certain this would work, but the multitasking required could extend the duration of the operation. Alternately, you could leave the drone alone, and instead use your laser and grasper to create your own access point; this would be fast and wouldn't compromise your bandwidth, but you run the risk of attracting unwanted attention. A third option would be to hang back and attempt an entirely remote access. This would be much slower than a physical link, and have a greater risk of discovery. You would, however, be in a much better position to exfiltrate your drone if things did go bosc-shaped.

A. Drop and spoof the drone, and access the exposed conduit.
B. Drill your own hole and link up.
C. Attempt remote access.

Hexenritter
May 20, 2001


I think a hardlink would be preferable and more secure than a softlink done remotely, plus a laser doesn't really make noise (unless they have pew pew sound effects built-into the gun's frame :v: ). B

HBar
Sep 13, 2007

A. Sorry drone.

JT Jag
Aug 30, 2009

#1 Jaguars Sunk Cost Fallacy-Haver
B.

Blasphemaster
Jul 10, 2008

Crossbones is our dedicated non-combat Thinger-Fucker-Upper drone right? I like its attitude.

B

NastyToes
Oct 9, 2012

B

Bee Bonk
Feb 19, 2011

Careful to keep the mass of the atmo-con tower between Scuzzy Jr. and the patrolling drones, you advance under the cover of stealth to the underside of an instrument boom. Sweeping your sensors over the plating, you follow the illuminated power and data lines to your target; a small ACX3 controller patched into the main line. You lick your lips in concentration as you prepare to slice through the boom's shell while still leaving its delicate innards intact. You reach out a hand, though the gesture isn't strictly necessary, but just as you prepare to flex the mental muscle to make the cut, something bumps you heavily from behind. You stagger and whip your neck around, scowling at Crossbones, who is veering this way and that, crushing scrabs beneath its heavy struts. You sigh, frustrated more at yourself than the unthinking machine, and quickly alter its defensive routine to disable unnecessary wandering.

Turning your attention back to Scuzzy Jr., you notice with relief that none of the patrolling drones has noticed you in your distraction. Taking a deep breath, you make the cut. Your laser licks out with surgical precision, pulses swifter than an eye blink slicing through the boom's outer skin in a puff of vaporized metal. You nervously await the flash of fried electronics, but thankfully none comes. Flipping upside down, you bring Scuzzy's ventral surface against that of the boom, grasper gingerly peeling aside the laser-sheared metal to expose the controller module nestled in safely among the cables and assorted hardware.

“Djazka,” you enthuse, deploying Scuzzy's datajack. “Got it.”

“Bwerp,” replies Crossbones.



Scuzzy's abstractum streams into the ACX3's data construct, where the module's custodial program squats, sending virtual tendrils into the tower's sensors. Scuzzy prowls in the noise-shadows of the poorly-resolved edges of the construct, circling the custodian until it sees its target; a thick umbilicus, throbbing with data, connecting it to the sector's central administration. The virtual baykit licks its chops, wriggling its haunches in anticipation of a pounce as telescoping digital fangs extend from its lips.

Do you...
A. Leave the custodial program unmolested, and continue upstream.
B. Before heading upstream, Subvert the custodial program for ease of later access. This will leave an obvious trace if someone decides to look.



Scuzzy's bitstream flows through the umbilicus into the admin block, bypassing the minimal security checks with ease. Scuzzy maintains a low profile, but the abstractum's entrance through such a poorly secured access means that little attention is paid to it...for now. Scanning down through the forest of digital dendrites reaching out to tweak and control Thoon's myriad onboard systems, it is difficult to miss the massive data axon plunging into the virtual heart of the station. This, then, is your ticket to the local Synod's central data stronghold, but access will not come easy. A pair of hulking data-hygiene enforcers flank the access portal, glaring balefully around themselves. Their high-efficiency Expose protocols lay bare the internal architecture of all passing applications, an intimidating array of kill-deleters and syntax-inverters bristling on their frameworks.

You tear your attention away from the virtual theatre along enough spare a quick look through your drone's external sensors; no detection by drone patrols so far. Back in meatspace, Crossbones continues to smash scrabs, but in a slightly more reserved manner.

You take a moment to consider how to bypass the sentinels...

C. Infest one of the data-porters passing through the gateway, Mask your presence inside, and pass through with impunity. You have the skill and gear to pull this off, but it is very high risk. It is unlikely to be traced to you unless you are caught.
D. Sabotage a minor function to draw the attention of the sentinels. This is low risk, especially if you can pass it off as the work of some cyber-vandal, but it may only give you a slight advantage in bypassing the gate.
E. Subvert one of the sentinels, and turn them on one another. You probably have the skill and gear to pull this off, but it is high risk. It is likely to be traced to you whether you succeed or fail.
F. Use the collection of credentials you collected on your last visit to this sector to assemble a Simulacrum of an authorized Verdugar personage around yourself. You have the skill and gear to pull this off, but it is moderately risky. You can probably avoid having it traced to you if you fail, but it will leave you at the mercy of the sentinels. Your stolen authorizations will be compromised, succeed or fail.

Outrail
Jan 4, 2009

www.sapphicrobotica.com
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A
C


We gotta start taking more risks.

JT Jag
Aug 30, 2009

#1 Jaguars Sunk Cost Fallacy-Haver
A
C


C is a risk we need to take. We should hold off on B, otherwise our hack will be noticed too fast.

JT Jag fucked around with this message at 23:50 on Sep 13, 2016

Toughy
Nov 29, 2004

KAVODEL! KAVODEL!

JT Jag posted:

B
C


C is a risk we need to take. We should hold off on A, otherwise our hack will be noticed too fast.

A is the leave unmolested option

A
C

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JT Jag
Aug 30, 2009

#1 Jaguars Sunk Cost Fallacy-Haver

Toughy posted:

A is the leave unmolested option

A
C

Oh. Well, edited.

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