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Blasphemaster posted:C. This species is so cool. Agreed +1
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Jun 28, 2017 02:42
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All of these options sound good, C most of all.
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Jun 28, 2017 03:27
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C. Win-win-win-win-gently caress-a-croc.
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Jun 28, 2017 17:20
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+1 Blasphemaster, aka "I need some new luggage and matching belt & shoes
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Jun 28, 2017 23:52
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I suggest we start a tradition among our Warclade. They take strips of tanned flesh from their fallen enemies and weave them into bandoliers. If they find bling on their kills, they hang the choicest bits on it like medals. Giant cybernetic murder birds wearing crocskin sashes that shimmer with blingy trophies. Think about it.
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Jun 29, 2017 15:30
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Blasphemaster posted:I suggest we start a tradition among our Warclade. They take strips of tanned flesh from their fallen enemies and weave them into bandoliers. If they find bling on their kills, they hang the choicest bits on it like medals. You've talked to Kamula about things like this. At the beginning of his corpse-littered career, K served in the Mentan Homeguard, the defense force of an outflung colony world on the edge of the Hegemony's expansion zone. Mente III, however, happened to be one of the first worlds hit by exploratory skirmishes in the beginning of the Jurani-Khaldean Conflict, which proved a learning experience for all involved. This was before the Jurani had figured out the Khaldean's cybernetic reincarnation gimmick, and before the Khaldeans realized that the Jurani didn't work that way. All the Khaldeans knew was that these drokk-funnels took getting killed in a game awfully seriously. All the Mentans knew was that every subsequent offensive was harder and harder to repel, and that the enemy forces seemed to pick out "favorite" targets among the defenders, whose survival rates dropped precipitously. In reality, these soldiers were being singled out because they'd killed a particular khal's previous iteration, and the khal in question had learned from that defeat. The assumption, however, was that they were being targeted due to the trophies they were taking from fallen enemies. Counting coup in such a way thus fell out of fashion in the Hegemony, even after the actual reason was uncovered. Long after the war's end, proper treatment of enemy dead is a common superstition among Jurani soldiers. Khaldeans themselves don't seem to favor the practice either, and you ask CII-Batruzii about that. She informs you that Khal do count coup, but in music. An experienced Khal remembers every battle, every victory, and every death. The preeminent Khaldean art form is a highly dramatized form of dance with ritualized motions, costumes, and props. A young Khal, upon reaching maturity (approximately 80-120 cycles after birth), is expected to perform the history of every previous iteration, both to cement that battle wisdom, and as a cultural rite. When many young come up at once, such as during a war, there are often grand festivals devoted to this. If one has ever defeated or been defeated a Khal, then somewhere in space, they are an integral part of alien weasel-kabuki.
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Jun 29, 2017 20:15
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See, this poo poo is fascinating  I love this setting, the cultures, the species, the slang, everything. I was all ready to (yet again) back a Blasphemaster suggestion but I'm good with that explanation.
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Jun 29, 2017 23:23
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Hexenritter posted:See, this poo poo is fascinating Same. Your world building is top notch, please never stop.
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Jun 30, 2017 00:42
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Volmarias posted:Same. Your world building is top notch, please never stop. Is true.
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Jun 30, 2017 01:25
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 Seen through the invisible dome of the observation deck, the riot of clustered gleamings that comprise the Slough is a breathtaking sight, a scintillating swirl of blue-green stitched through with scatterings of stellar white. “S'nice,” muses Vare, leaning into you. “Kinda belies the, you know, empire of misery and depredation housed therein.” “So it’s a bit of a fixer-upper,” you contend, turning as one of Griswold’s interaction modules stretches into the compartment on a flexible armature of struts and tubing. Even after making Breaker your own, the sight of Griswold’s “heads” still unnerves you. Her bulbous sensors gleam faintly in the starlight, writhing manipulators whispering softly against one another as she extends a drinking bulb toward you in a set of grippers. “What in the verge—“ Vare utters as you take the bulb and open the nozzle. Griswold lets out a burst of multi-channel grinding and hissing that suggests impatience even as it sends shivers down your spine. “Dietary supplement,” you relay, between labored gulps of the oily, gritty paste. “She says I’m gravely malnourished.” “Malnourished,” Vare scoffs, poking your belly with a delicate claw. “I haven’t seen you miss a meal since you learned to hack the replimat on E2. Good thing I like you sleek.” “I…learned a few things during Reconciliation,” you admit, running the backs of your fingers gently across Vare’s jaw in an attempt to forestall any protest. “You know how our brains differ from the Jurani baseline, right?” “You mean the sensory processing?” “In part,” you agree. “Our ancestors were engineered as administrators and controllers, and developed an ability for multi-threaded processing.” “I know all that,” Vare replies. “It’s why my academic advisor made sure I know what a waste of potential was a career in physical science when I could be something worthwhile like an interpreter or a constructor operator. The ship’s not making me drink…what is that, exactly?” “Mostly molecularly efficient carbon feedstock,” you explain. “A dash of platinum, and just a soupçon of a proprietary tantalum isotope.” You squeeze the last dregs of the nutrient gel into your mouth, grimacing at its too-sweet, chlorinated charcoal taste, and pass the crumped bulb to Griswold, who retracts with a growl of affirmation. “Just what a young, growing robot needs,” Vare replies, extending her neck to give you a long side-eye. “You’re not going to ‘zerk out on me again, are you?” Her tone is light, but you sense the concern and growing fear in the tension of her body. “It’s not like that,” you assure her quickly. “That was…a bad interaction with some alien aftermarket mods. This is all OEM. My system is trying to undo the damage of a lot of years of neglect and krumped-up treatment, and grow into what it was intended to be.” “And what’s that, Commander,” Vare inquires softly, placing noticeable emphasis on the last word. “I’m still me,” you declare. “I’m still going to be me. It’s just going to be…easier. You know all the kludgy programs I used to tick out when we were juves, to interface with my augs and sieve creds from poorly secured terminals?” “You mean the things that first showed me how clever and resourceful Regal Kore really was,” Vare challenges, running her hands up your chest and across the joins of your brachial implants. “And made me think about a future with her? Those things?” “I…” You swallow, trying and failing to control the flush that colors your snout. “Okay. But those were all workarounds for something I should have just been able to do. Like breathing, or…” You swallow again. “Other things.” Vare, having insinuated herself into your embrace in the gradual yet inevitable way that is Vare's, looks deeply into your eyes for a long moment. Finally, she seems to resolve something in her mind, and leans in to bump her snout against yours. “I’m going to trust you to do this, Re-sa,” she says, “and to refrain from turning into an aggressively hegemonizing techno-abomination. And in return, I want you to know that you can trust me to launch you into a star if that does happen.” She stares earnestly at you for a beat, then gives the tip of your snout a quick nip. You widen your eyes with feigned outrage, and seize Vare around the waist. Matters quickly progress as they are wont to do, but just as your various limbs are becoming irretrievably entangled, you hear a polite cough. You jerk in surprise, but Vare only laughs and nestles harder against you. You grudgingly surface, peering up to see Voulge standing at the hatchway, pointedly perusing their scriv and not you, a quiet smirk marking their plasm.  “Ah, Voulge,” you blurt, struggling to extricate yourself from Vare, who is charmingly uncooperative. “You're ear--” you trail off as you glance at the chrono display in your HUD, “--right on time.” “We would offer to reschedule,” Voulge offers wryly, “but this matter is somewhat time-sensitive, you understand.” “Neg, neg,” you assure the Rigele, “just let me get—Vare, get your mouth off that!”  “The meeting between the Hemamikalitaliros representative and Gresatrine Defense is slated for one point seven eight cycles from…now,” Voulge states, manipulating holographic datapoints. “Relevant data,” they continue with a nod to you, “courtesy of our friend Taliro, have been transmitted to your respective data surfaces.” “Saves us the trouble of getting vetted,” Vare notes. “I knew they’d be insular, but I didn’t expect quite this level of paranoia.” “Hardly paranoid,” Echo Four replies, her holographic form projected from Scuzzy Jr.’s optics. “The O-Barvanja Syndicate has expressed on numerous occasions their desire to claim this moon and its inhabitants as chattel, and possess any number of non-Verdugar thralls to realize that goal. Additionally, this is a species that developed advanced electrogravitics before rudimentary climate control; our assumptions are on shaky footing from the outset.” You see Vare’s nostrils flare, and her crest tick up almost imperceptibly. “Sounds like that would have been some useful research for the xeno-sociology expert to perform on our way here,” Vare retorts, her tone more even than her expression. “I’m just a planetary physicist, after all.” You've occasionally been accused of a certain tone-deafness when it comes to matters of the heart, but it’s hard to miss what is an obvious rivalry developing between Vare and Echo. Echo Four hasn’t made any overtures toward you since the time in Reconciliation, but perhaps Vare is receiving signals you’re not? “While I enjoy a cross-disciplinary catfight as much as the next being” Midas interjects, “let’s just all agree that we are shocked, just shocked, that the elusive masters of a rogue moon didn’t immediately drop everything to palaver with an assortment of bizarre strangers in an Erbtech jalopy.” “We agreed not to flaunt our tech without need,” you declare, “and we knew the Gresatrine would be wary. This is a welcome break, but we have…an unreasonable tight timeframe for this.” You quickly glance around the observation deck: Vare is quietly staring vibro-shivs at Echo, whose projection is currently expressionless. Midas looks like he’s about to say something snide, and Kamula just looks impatient. Voulge watches you with what you discern as quiet appraisal, and you hurry to move matters along before they derail any further. “Voulge, run us through the turbulence, if you please.” “The problem we refer to as Number One,” Voulge continues seamlessly, “is the matter of cousin Sitorio. We have to neutralize him to go forward, but the last thing we want to do is actually do him or his retinue any lasting harm. We’ve compiled your suggestions, and calculated risk as best we can at this juncture. A. “Option A, courtesy of Kamula K, is preemptive interdicton. With our superior vessel, a detachment of our forces intercepts Sitorio’s ship before arrival on Gresater and disables it. By the time they effect repairs, the deal will be done. This has the merit of being remote from our operations here, and thus less likely to involve local complications, but runs a high hazard of undesirable collateral damage. We give this a 68% Success Rating; 81% if Commander Kore accompanies the interdiction force, though her absence from matters here will bear their own risks. B. “Option B, from CII-Batruzii, is kidnap on arrival. We wait for Sitorio to land, then secure his party at the spaceport as quickly and quietly as possible. We can accomplish this with near certainty; the risk comes, again, from undesirable collateral damage, as well as possible local entanglements. We place the success rating of a clean grab at 84%, but again, allowing for an imperfect execution moves the rating to closer to 98. C. ”Option C is our own input, and is that we fabricate evidence of wrongdoing on part of Sitorio. The Gresatrine are a bureaucratic people, and it should prove a simple matter to mire Sitorio in administrative tangles until such time as we are able to close the deal. Non-lethal, deniable, and effective. We give this option, with careful impartiality, a 93% success rating.” You notice Midas raising a brow at Voulge’s unexpected preening, but simply file it away. D. “Option D,” Voulge continues, with somewhat less enthusiasm, “is…Tone Tonez’s contribution? To wit, Go Fast. We move to close the deal in the time allotted us before Sitorio’s arrival. This would give us precious little time for research or preparation, but surprise and momentum could...perhaps count for something? We give this a 51% success rating, with the caveat that it is the simplest and cleanest of the options.” You glance to Tone, who, far from being upset by Voulge’s lackluster presentation of his idea, seems genuinely excited to be included. The little Vordubiri pilot looks proudly to one of his mates, who gives a weary nod of affirmation before turning her attention back to the task of dragging a squeaking pink blob of young out of an exposed conduit. E. “Finally, Option E,” Voulge presents, “courtesy of Poole Midas. We allow Sitorio to attend the meet as planned, but we show up with a better deal. Clean and on the level, if cutthroat. We’ll likely have to tip our hand regarding Erbtech to pull this one off without leveraging resources we don’t have yet, but we give this one an 89% rating if we do so.” You see Midas nod in satisfaction, before Voulge continues, “47% if we keep the Erbtech to ourselves.” Midas’s smug look drops, and you’re certain you see a brightening in the plasm of Voulge’s face. You’re beginning to think a workshop on fraternization and managing intra-crew relationships may soon be in order…  As the crew filters out, you pour a long glass of shimmerswig. Checking that you're alone, you order the hatch to seal before tipping a few silvery-gray hexathene tablets into your drink. The tablets nucleate immediately, dissolving in a cloud of swirling effervescence. You take a long swig as the hatch-lock seals with a hiss, letting the cloying fizz of the 'swig and tranquilizers dull the ache in your head, and allow your attention to fall back to your drone feeds. Not to say it ever left; there was a time when shifting focus to a single remote would take almost all of your attention, but during the briefing you were able to monitor the feeds of both Crossbones, Hardjack, and your Mote network, as well as the tactical array of Warclade Kros, the pack-link of Crow’s Raikk, and the manipulator fields of your hive projectors, all with a minimal draw on your focus. In fact, you can't turn them off, no more than you can disable your own sight or hearing. You've always been, by necessity, excellent at filtering the stimuli, but at least before you could opt out of your enhanced awareness. Now, you see all your subordinate feeds constantly, even when you sleep. You're also grappling with the need to filter out new spectra of personal sensory input: you can only assume you'll be able to find a use for seeing radio waves once more of your components grow in. You smooth back your crest (the axillary structure of the feathers now printed with advanced transmitting/receiving nodes) and gaze at the sparkling surface of your drink. You may have omitted a few details in your conversation with Vare. The pain, for one: growing pains are bad enough when you're not restamping miswritten neural pathways and synthesizing electronic components. You also declined to inform Vare that you're consulting with Echo on this matter; it's perfectly innocent, and the disembodied facilitator has the practical experience to talk you through this transition, but Vare is wary enough of what's going on in your head without you telling her about Echo's involvement, strictly medical or not. You resolve to sort it out once the mission is over... 2. Introspection Corner: Send Regal a message from her subconscious; it could be about the mission, the greater goal, or her relationship with a crewmate.
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Jul 21, 2017 23:14
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1. C. Even if Voulgue is inflating the odds of success, there's still less risk for everyone involved. 2. What makes you you?
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Jul 22, 2017 02:57
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C. Kamula looked kinda sad during the briefing. What's up buddy?
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Jul 22, 2017 05:15
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E I wonder if we can help Kamula with upgrades to quality of life?
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Jul 22, 2017 05:46
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C; it's the best option that has no potential for collateral damage, which we want to avoid.
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Jul 22, 2017 06:34
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C
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Jul 22, 2017 13:29
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I'm going with the goonmind on this one, C, fabricating evidence is totally within our usual modus operandi.
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Jul 22, 2017 23:09
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I'm actually rather curious about what kind of cyberware our client/target race is running. Aside from the inevitable racial specific stuff, there are probably a few goodies to be obtained if we're clever. Our possession of a progressively increasing degree of Erbtech aside, new knowledge is CANDY.
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Aug 6, 2017 05:38
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Is this dead or just napping?
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Sep 24, 2017 02:12
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Not dead yet! Getting things and people back in order after Harvey, I haven't had the time or mental capacity to work on this. But I'm pretty sure I'll be able to push an update this week.
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Sep 24, 2017 02:40
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big bag of nacho cheese posted:Not dead yet! Getting things and people back in order after Harvey, I haven't had the time or mental capacity to work on this. But I'm pretty sure I'll be able to push an update this week. No rush man! Stay safe and good luck recovering!
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Sep 24, 2017 02:50
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Oh poo poo, glad to see you're doing alright!
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Sep 24, 2017 03:57
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 You couldn’t help but notice Kamula’s distraction during the briefing, and after everyone filters out to their own tasks, you check in on him. With a bit of navigational aid from Echo, you find Kamula K in a corner of the launch bay, unarmored and slumped deep in diagnostics. Not wanting to interrupt, you position yourself to be seen, but say nothing. After a few ticks, the cyborg stirs, his flesh eye tracking to you. “Kore,” he rasps. “Need something?” “Just checking in, K,” you offer. “Something eating you?” “The usual krumping software conflicts,” Kamula replies wearily, “and a minor infection. Nothing to bother.” You frown. “I wish you’d let Griswold refit your augs,” you say, rehashing the concern you’ve stated several times since restoring the Breaker. “There’s no reason for you to deal with that anymore.” “I’m a junker,” Kamula growls, accepting a join-probe from one of Griswold's many appendages and insinuating a it into the underside of his wrist. “I’m not some cartel volunteer or a slotting meat-job in credit-default," he says, as the hand detaches from his arm, diagnostic schema flaring to life on the maintenance surface beneath it as the removed member systematically flexes its synthetic fingers. "They didn’t socket me wholesale into a combat frame.” He gestures with his head at the cermet skeleton of his limbs. “These are a long series of krumping prosthetics. Lowest bidder patch jobs to keep me fighting, slapped on for one injury after another, over the better part of twenty krumping rota. Literally the least they could do. At least sixteen software generations. They were never meant to work together this much, or for this long.” “You’ve made improvements over time,” you note. “Kludged my barely compatible appliances together with an unlicensed OS, you mean. I’m no krumping cyberneticist. When you found me in that bar, I was running so many priority errors and driver conflicts it’s a slotting miracle I could walk, let alone zero a pile of grife-bitten scav gangers.” You nod gravely. K had been in bad shape when you first encountered him; if you hadn’t shut him down and decon’ed his systems when you did, he wouldn’t have lasted another cycle. Even though it feels oddly intrusive, you do a passive scan of his hardware; as predicted, it’s a mess. His metabolic filters are running at 340% capacity, and his thermal regulator, already stressed from the waste heat of so many augs, is also dealing with what looks like a permanent fever. Peering through the tangled web of software dependencies and error dialogs, you begin to wonder if you really did him any favors in the long-run. “I appreciate you sorting out my augs before I could ‘zerk completely,” he growls before you can reply. “But you kept me running way past my krumping warranty. It’s not just the tech…this kind of living is Grife-begging hell on the wetware, and I was slotting beat to drokk before that. I’m falling apart, Kore. Biological slotting inevitability.” “So let Griswold refit you,” you try not to bark, exasperation still leaking into your voice. “We’ve got the most advance cybernetics in the Hegemony at our disposal!” “I’m not you,” Kamula replies quietly. “You were made for this. Literally this is the slotting case. My nervous system can’t run…a tenth of the processes yours can, and that’s without the krumping con-cortex.” The cyborg tosses the probe onto the tech station a little too hard, the delicate instrument spinning and skittering across the data surface in a scatter of scrambled visualizations. “Sure, you could fab me a frame and toss most of this scrab-fodder chassis into krumping space. No more krumping anti-rejection chems, no more agonizing over every krumping software update. Grife krumping forbid, per-krumping-chance I have a cycle without puking blood.” The cyborg stares at you, natural eye narrowed with intensity, synthetic eye irising tightly into a pinpoint of glaring blue. “What does that make me?” You cock your head; you can’t help it. “What? K, I—” “Say you managed to keep my brain intact,” Kamula continues. “I krumping told you, I’m not you. Jurani biology wasn’t slotting designed to receive augmentation, let alone a total conversion. You don’t just pop out the old skull-meat and good to krumping go. I’ve got a krumping endocrine system, Kore. Hormones and suchlike. It’s krumped to drokk, but it krumping informs my persona, you scan? I do a full ‘borg, what does that make me?” You are silent for a moment, only the gentle breath of the ship’s systems and the agitated wheeze of Kamula’s pulmo-rig to be heard. The cyborg raises a valid point; it’s one you’ve considered yourself. Made for this or not, you can’t deny the radical changes you’ve undergone since this whole thing started. If you, with your painstakingly tailored biology are struggling with some measure of existential doubt, you can’t begin to understand the angst that must be afflicting Kamula. “I can’t really answer that,” you admit finally. “For myself, or for you. I know you’re going to see this thing through; I won’t insult you by questioning your commitment." "I trust your judgment, Kore. Whether that's a sign of my degraded krumping systems or not, well..." The cyborg lets out a rattling sigh, looking from his spidery detached hand back to you. "You've got skin in this game, too, and you're the Commander. What do you think?" A. “I’ll just be a real qwag and ask you…If you’re on borrowed time anyway, what do you really have to lose?” [Kamula will receive a total Erbtech refit] B. “If I wanted a top-tier battle servitor, I could just fab one. I’m glad to have to with me, for as long as you’re able.” [Kamula will stay as-is] C. “It’s not a solution…but even a partial refit would remove the software conflicts and reduce the strain on your body.” [Kamula will receive moderate Erbtech replacement augs that should extend his operational lifespan] D. “But this is just too personal a decision. I can’t push you based on my own inclinations.” [Refuse to influence his decision]
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Sep 26, 2017 16:51
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A, absolutely. Changes - upgrades -aren't destruction, they're reconstruction. They're growth. Even wholly biological organisms die piece by piece, second by second, and are reconstructed, and we still manage to maintain some kind of ego-continuity. Even if his endocrine system changes, even if his nervous system changes, as long as he has his memories he'll still be him... though there will probably be an adjustment period, naturally.
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Sep 26, 2017 16:58
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Volmarias fucked around with this message at 20:22 on Sep 27, 2017 |
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Sep 26, 2017 17:24
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Volmarias posted:A but also give him a choice of what his refit is. absolutely!!
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Sep 26, 2017 17:41
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Volmarias posted:A but also give him a choice of what his refit is. this. Welcome back duder, hope the non-existent global warming induced hurricanes didn't upend your life too bad.
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Sep 26, 2017 20:21
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A. Erb switcheroo for the techy bits, nothing additional. Leave the meat to tech ratio the same, but have Erb nanobots or something do enough of a job to at least bring his meat back to healthy status. That's our advice anyway. Pretty much equivalent much a once over by the best cyborg doctors in the galaxy.
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Sep 26, 2017 23:09
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A We should be able to preserve some stuff if we're planning this well.
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Sep 27, 2017 01:05
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Blasphemaster posted:A. Erb switcheroo for the techy bits, nothing additional. Leave the meat to tech ratio the same, but have Erb nanobots or something do enough of a job to at least bring his meat back to healthy status. This is actually option C. Erbtech prosthetics to replace the old busted ones, and nanotreatments to help fix up the wetware. While this would be an ideal solution for a tailored Erb-uplift like your species, Kamula spoke truthfully when saying his Jurani biology is nowhere near as compatible with this stuff as yours. Removing the offending hardware will increase K's outlook drastically, but there will still be problems going forward, albeit far less severe ones. A remission of his cybercollapse, not a cure.
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Sep 27, 2017 01:57
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Well then count me on for C replacing my previous A vote then.
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Sep 27, 2017 05:11
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Actually, with all this crazy high end tech... couldn't we just grow K new body parts?
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Sep 27, 2017 14:39
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Volmarias posted:Actually, with all this crazy high end tech... couldn't we just grow K new body parts? I think that'd be something we can bring up as step 2, if he's satisfied with the results of going through the cyborg carwash.
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Sep 27, 2017 14:47
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Volmarias posted:Actually, with all this crazy high end tech... couldn't we just grow K new body parts? Short answer: Not with Erbtech. You could, for a price once unimaginable for Regal but now reasonable-if-steep, culture tissues via conventional medical technology, which would be part of option C, but that is still only prolonging his life (significantly) and increasing its quality (also significantly), not resolving the underlying systemic breakdown. K is busted. Long answer: For all their uncanny power, the so-called elder races are not omnipotent, or at least have not demonstrated this to be the case in their interactions with Hegemony society. They possess advanced technology in many cases bordering on divine, but only in very specific disciplines. Whether this is due to inherent limitations, some eldritch agreement among elders, or something else entirely, scholars can only guess. You know (first from common knowledge, then from specific data plumbed from the Synod's systems on Gigas, and now from first-hand experience interfacing with an Erb starship), that while the Erb are the undisputed masters of cybernetics, drone interface, and nanotechnology (indeed, our modern understanding of those disciplines are descended from reverse-engineered Erbtech), they have shown an utter lack of either proficiency or simply inclination in a few fields. Specifically: Psionics: No Erb servitors have ever evinced any enhanced psychic potential; a blind spot notably not shared by other elder races. Artificial Intelligence: There is no evidence of AI in any Erb tech or facility ever discovered. You know first-hand that the Erb do not use any sort of synthetic computing; it's brains all the way down. Biotech: One would think, with the advanced cybernetics and nanotechnology, that the Erb biotech game would be on point, but that is not the case. While masters of the joining of organic and synthetic, at the risk of ascribing understandable motives to an ineffable alien intelligence, the Erb seemingly have no taste for the culturing of flesh. Despite the fact that your species literally had its germline rewritten to create a race of designer cyborgs, Erbtech can't so much as clone an organ. What second-hand Erb sentiment has filtered down through the likes of Echo, Breaker, and Griswold leads you to believe that this is a philosophical or perhaps doctrinal limitation. Erbtech cannot heal, only prolong, augment, and replace.
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Sep 27, 2017 15:23
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As to the idea of replacing all of Kamula's cyberware with cultured tissue, restoring him to a factory-default Jurani meatboy: If you ask Kamula, he literally didn't think of it. The cost of such an operation would normally be so prohibitive (but now you can pay for it), require such specific facilities (but now you can go to there in your spaceship), and put him out of commission for so long as to be beneath consideration. This is absolutely something you can pursue going forward. In the meantime, you may select one of the presented options (and make a note of your support for this path) in order to keep Kamula grinding along until you can make that happen.
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Sep 27, 2017 15:36
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Can the erb tech be responsive enough to be considered an improvement over C since he's not as compatible as we are?
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Sep 27, 2017 18:44
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Toughy posted:Can the erb tech be responsive enough to be considered an improvement over C since he's not as compatible as we are? He is less compatible with the augmentations than you are, but you are literally designed to accept cybernetic augmentation. The superior hardware, sans the software conflicts of his current setup, will still be a significant net positive, and Erbtech is overall "cleaner" with regards to immune response. C means replacing all of his standard augmentations with Erbtech versions, but leaving his meat intact. This is not just limbs; many of his internal organs and fluid systems are synthetic; in addition to his pulmo-rig and nephritic grid, he has a hemogenic module to make up for his lack of bone marrow, among other improvements. These will also be replaced. These all being bespoke (instead of off-the-rack lowest-bidder garbage) will reduce the strain on his organic components greatly, allowing his own biology to rebound to a degree. This will be supported by a course of nano-treatments to remove the various toxins that have built up to dangerous degrees in his system; essentially highly advanced chelation. As a cyborg, even an advanced one, he will eventually need conventional medical intervention to maintain his meat long-term, but it won't be anywhere near the trash fire it is now. A is a total conversion. His neural tissue will be incorporated into an Erbtech support matrix and installed in a custom cyberfame. There will be no compatibility issues because he won't have any biological systems to worry about.
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Sep 27, 2017 19:34
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Long-term I'd definitely like to see us get him that full meat workup so all his biological gubbins is in pristine condition.
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Sep 27, 2017 20:10
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Oh. Changing my vote to C then.
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Sep 27, 2017 20:22
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C Kamula has earned our respect several times over. He's afraid of losing himself to invasive tech. We've come perilously close to that ourselves and as he said we were made for this lifestyle. But we also can't stand by while he's in agony. He might be too fatalistic to ask for help, but we can spend some time and smooth the conflicts for him.
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Sep 27, 2017 20:47
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Changing from A to C, with end goal of bio replacement
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Sep 27, 2017 22:12
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