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A Best not to stir poo poo up more than we have.
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Jul 18, 2016 18:22
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A. If we're lucky, the scavengers and the reinforcements will take eachother out and Kamula will clean up or drive away whoever survives.
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Jul 18, 2016 18:43
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A We already have the hat.
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Jul 18, 2016 19:03
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A We called K for a reason. Let's just wait.
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Jul 18, 2016 21:15
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JT Jag posted:A. If we're lucky, the scavengers and the reinforcements will take each other out and Kamula will clean up or drive away whoever survives. Pretty much this. The reinforcements will probably think the scavs downed their buddies and start a nice pretty firefight. They take each other out, we take their stuff!
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Jul 19, 2016 14:17
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You didn't just escape the custody of one gang of savage murderers to fall into the grasp of another. The gelatinous egg cluster you squirmed out of didn't disgorge no fools. From your relatively safe vantage eye-deep in muck, you watch as the scavenger gang surveys the wreckage, scanning with stolen or crudely engineered instruments to find the most valuable picks. One scav attempts to open the side hatch, but the warped frame resists his efforts. Cursing behind his mask, he snatches up a prybar and wedges it into a seam, before beginning to strain against the half-crumpled hatch. Fatigued metal groans and pops, but ultimately it is not his efforts that open the stubborn hatch. A furious roar echoes from inside the wreck, shortly followed by a great crash as something large makes a large dent in the already deformed metal.  The avian-armored scav staggers back, his comrades raising weapons, as the occupant smashes against the inside of the hatch once more, tearing it free from its frame and failing to crush the retreating scavenger by the narrowest of margins. You gulp foul water as a hulking Verdugar staggers out of the hatchway like a being with a planetary-scale hangover, growling discontentedly and indiscriminately sweeping a glaive-bladed cyberarm in broad swathes. The scav backpedals, pulling a hand weapon from its holster and firing a quick fan of laser beams into the Verdugar's midsection, but the croc merely lets out a disdainful growl and swipes his blade up through his victim's torso, sending the unfortunate being flying backward. The other scavengers rush to the attack, but you are distracted from the ensuing melee by the body ragdolling down the slope. You surge backward in the pool as the fallen scav splashes down in front of you, magenta blood already mixing into the water.   You look around, alarmed at your exposure, but the continued shouts, clashing blades, and discharging beams above suggest that you're still undetected for the moment. You briefly examine the body in front of you, and startle when the alleged corpse's helmet swings to look at you. “Ra...Madi,” the scav groans in barely a whisper. He reaches out to weakly grasp your arm, and through the triggerist's cutaway in his glove, you can see a suspiciously Raq-esque finger curling around your wrist. “That you?” His free hand blindly gropes at the storage capsules on his belt, fingers curling and twitching in obvious agony. “St...stim,” he shudders.  There's something very familiar about this mortally-wounded Raq, though you can't identify him for sure with the mask on. You think you're safe for the moment, but that could rapidly change if you start Having A Moment with this mystery being from your past. How do you respond? What do you do?
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Jul 20, 2016 16:38
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Help them find their stims. If they die anyway then take off their mask and loot them.
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Jul 20, 2016 17:16
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Stim, try to find a hiding place and drag that whatit dude with you. Have a moment. Toke up if it's someone close.
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Jul 20, 2016 17:56
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Blasphemaster posted:Stim, try to find a hiding place and drag that whatit dude with you. Have a moment. Toke up if it's someone close. Yeah!
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Jul 20, 2016 18:02
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Stim him, and hide. This gel is not long for this world.
Grognan fucked around with this message at 19:23 on Jul 20, 2016 |
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Jul 20, 2016 19:12
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Blasphemaster posted:Stim, try to find a hiding place and drag that whatit dude with you. Have a moment. Toke up if it's someone close. Verbatim.
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Jul 20, 2016 19:40
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Also, should it occur that an Archer-style rampage is required this should be kept in mind as Kinu's mind-snap theme.
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Jul 20, 2016 20:38
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Blasphemaster posted:Stim, try to find a hiding place and drag that whatit dude with you. Have a moment. Toke up if it's someone close. Go ahead and toss my vote on the pile...
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Jul 20, 2016 23:25
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But keep the pulser handy, Y'know, just in case. (It's not like we wouldn't betray him/her/it in similar circumstances) The Lone Badger fucked around with this message at 09:38 on Jul 21, 2016 |
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Jul 21, 2016 09:27
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“It could prove difficult to help you whilst being drilled in the head with a laser beam,” you groan, awkwardly shifting your grip on him as you attempt to drag him to relative safety. Strangely, the bleeding, twitching deadweight proves an impediment to the process, but you nonethless manage to pull him into the lee of a concave segment of pipe or fuselage. You pluck a capsule from his belt and thumb the safety catch, double-whistling in appreciation as the compact auto-injector unfolds. You're not sure what you're about to stick in this guy, although that is slightly less of a life-and-death concern with a Raq than it would be with a more chemically-fragile species. If your experience with rapid-deployment combat chems is any indication, it's most likely a fun cocktail of adrenal stimulants, muscule relaxants, and painkillers; quick, effective, and toxic as all get-out. “Milspec,” you comment, tucking away a couple of capsules for yourself before slapping the device against the Raq's thigh. “They always do have an eye for the good chems.” The injector hisses as it deploys its payload, and your patient goes rigid, slapping at his helmet with shaking hands. Shaking your head, you activate the release on his mask and pull it free, and your breath catches as you see an all-too familiar face.  “Najaf,” you wheeze, and the Raq struggles to focus on you with dilated eyes twitching with nystagmus. You were betrothed, once, before you were ostracized. The Elders put it together, as they do. A. Neither of you were fond of the arrangement. B. He was eager, but you had other ideas for your life. C. You were eager, but he had other ideas for his life. D. You were both looking forward to it. Regardless of your feelings on the matter of your betrothal, it led to a long friendship. You haven't seen him in rota, and seeing him now, bleeding out his life on a pile of trash, isn't what you'd call optimal in the way of reunions. “Hey, stay with me.” You reach out to cradle his head until his trembling slowly subsides, his tubules flexing and blowing more evenly. You contemplate the face before you, and the ruin of his thorax with a barely-suppressed shudder. “Jafi,” you prompt gently, “you have any dermals in your kit? X-bonders? Vac Tape? Anything?” Najaf begins to laugh, but quickly regrets it. “Nothing like that,” he hisses, “just chems. Lots of chems, though.” “So...you're carrying, then?” Najaf reaches out to place a hand over yours, patting it reassuringly. “I don't...intend to enter the Smoking Pools with empty lungs,” he says, awkardly fishing a jury-rigged but well-loved narcojet out of his vest.  You exhale a calming cloud of glittering smoke, and turn a curious look on your ex-fiance. You begin to speak, but he beats you to the punch. “What are you doing here, Rama-ki,” Najaf asks, steadier now after the combat-stim and a wad of lumi-spice. “That was my question,” you reply. “Your near-death experience isn't making you telepathic, is it? Last I knew, you were...” E. An Initiate in the Tabernacle, filling censers and sponging down priests. F. A Clutchwarden, guarding eggs and adjusting the pH in the spawn pools. G. Some kind of artisan? Something involving a turbo-lathe, anyway. H. A Journeyman Chemist, bringing Argemone's mysteries to smokeable life. “Things have...been hard lately,” Najaf replies, cradling the smoking narcojet close to his chest. “You know about Elder Wasit...” Your lymph-bladder sinks in your chest. “Elder Wasit,” you say slowly, “no, what happened?” “He was caught up in a...scandal,” Najaf coughs, wiping away a smear of pinkish blood from his mouth. "Selling slaves to pirates. It was a huge story, you mean to say you didn't see the feeds?” “I've been working quite a bit,” you explain lamely, guilt and foreboding sloshing in your cavities. “It was...there were several Elders implicated. It was...this whole conspiracy. Elder Wasit was just the...one to shoulder the blame. Made to Walk the Dry Expanse as penance.” “Wait...He's dead?” Najaf takes a long, reverent puff off the tap. “Had to. Everything he was, was to keep his people safe. Wasn't enough, though. All the Elders' secret deals got dragged out of the deep water, and suddenly the ducats just dried up.” “Surely someone else could have negotiated something,” you gasp, “kept the ducats flowing?” “Maybe someone like you could have taken the reins,” Najaf replies, “but no one in the Enclave could do what Elder Wasit did. He...sacrificed his honor for the good of the rest of us. Kept us from getting our...hands dirty. He broke with Tradition so we didn't have to. Without him...” “So what happened,” you ask numbly, mechanically. “Why are you here?” “Too many mouths,” Najaf replies. “Our dream of a new home...untenable now. Half the Enclave dispersed elsewhere on the station. A handful scraped and stacked enough dux to get offplanet, but the rest...they're still stuck down there, living hand-to-mouth and waiting for the seals to fail.” Your limbs feel heavy, beyond any spice-borne lethargy. “Jafi,” you say, your voice seeming far away, “how did this secret get out? Who would turn on Elder Wasit like this?” You're already fairly certain you know the answer, but your mind rebels at the possibility. “He got...blackmailed...by some mercs. He paid, but...they released the evidence anyway. I don't know why. It...doesn't matter anymore...” Hearing the words doesn't make the truth any less oppressive; the dull pang of betrayal seizes you. Regal said she deleted the footage of Wasit and Manes; you thought you saw her do it. But that's why she set you as a lookout when she went to deal with Baz Kemandi: She didn't want you to see her selling out your people. Suddenly you begin to question a great many other things. What else has Regal been keeping from you? “Rama-ki,” Najaf asks weakly, “what is it?” “Jafi,” you sigh, “I think you should know--”  Light floods your shelter as your hiding space is torn away. Looming over you is the hulking Verdugar, singed and tattered, but otherwise intact. What do you do?
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Jul 22, 2016 16:16
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AH Wouldn't have worked because we're both possessing of no sexual drive whatsoever. Chems is bestest and thats why we made 'em in our little start-up corner shop. Mixing work with being stapled together by The Man for no good reason never works out. Make smokes not babies! Blast that guy right in the face with his buddy's gun.
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Jul 22, 2016 17:20
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Blasphemaster posted:AH All of this. Except don't blast him, hes got the drop on us. Say 'Oh god, oh god I'll come quietly, please just get me out of here' then start scrabbling around at the drugs and blast him when he's rolling his eyes.
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Jul 22, 2016 17:30
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AG SHOOT THE DINOMAN
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Jul 22, 2016 19:16
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Outrail posted:All of this. Yup. Knowing this game though we'll end up hitting air when Dramatic Timing happens and Kamula hits him with a truck.
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Jul 22, 2016 20:45
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Yeah, Outrail's tweaker performance plan sounds good.
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Jul 22, 2016 21:26
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Plan Outrail
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Jul 24, 2016 15:42
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The Verdugar has the drop on you, and well do you know it. The newly-acquired pulser is a great weight in the back of your belt, impossible to reach before your new friend provides you with some new ventilation. You look at Najaf apologetically, and an understanding passes between you as he sags to the ground, hopefully only playing dead. "Chel, chev," you croon, exaggerating a Thoon spicer's slurred dialect and lack of volume control as you slowly raise your hands, "y'rights." Smoking narcojet still clasped loosely in your fingers, you sluggishly turn to face the Verdugar, forcing your eyes to unfocus and your stalks to waver. The croc gestures sharply upward with his pulser in an unmistakable gesture. "On 'er," you protest, putting a little wobble in your legs and "struggling" to stand with your hands raised, "jus' spot...spot me a sliver, ayy..." The Verdugar's scowl deepens, but as you remain unblasted, you continue your performance. "Hoy," you blurt, looking around absently everywhere but at at the narcojet in your raised hand, "you spekt m'slotting tap?" A metallic growl rumbles deep in the Verdugar's throat, and for a moment you fear you may have overplayed your hand. With only slightly feigned fear, you let the narcojet drop from limp fingers, bouncing once off your head, then to the ground. As the Verdugar's eyes and gun track the falling object, watching as you fumble to catch it with your left hand, your right reaches behind you. The pulser slips free of your belt, the superfluous spikes dragging painfully against your skin. The Verdugar's eyes narrow. You bring the pulser around to your front. The croc's pulser swings up toward you. You fire.    You awaken, cold, unyielding deck pressing against your cheek. Raising your head, you scan your surroundings, finding yourself in a clean, dark-paneled room that you've never seen before. As you watch, screens flicker to life where none were before, displaying standby images. You are alone, so you understandably start when you feel a hand on your shoulder. Whirling around, you see Vare looking calmly at you, but there is something subtly off about her carriage and expression. "Where are we," you demand, and the sound of your voice is surprisingly dull, lacking the echo you were expecting in this hard-walled chamber. After a moment's hesitation, you continue, "and who are you? Because you're not Vare." The figure that isn't Vare cocks her head, a technically accurate expression that is nonetheless off-putting. "You are In Error, RegalKore," she replies in a coldly perfect assembly of Vare's spoken phonemes." "Don't shine me on," you scowl, "I know a simulation when I see one, immaculate as you may be." "You misapprehend," the figure replies. "Your statement was correct: I am an interface, nothing more. But you, yourself, are In Error." Your hand absently wanders to your skull. "So you're what, a troubleshooting utility? Why are you Vare? It's distracting." Vare's form flickers, shifting to Kamula. "If it is helpful..." Ramadi. "I can assume a different form..." Midas. "Of your choice." "Don't do me any favors," you growl, "default representation, now." "As you wish," 'Midas' smarms, becoming something that makes you somewhat regret your words.  The head is fleshy, thin, and vaguely avian in a bald, beaky sort of way. A ridge of optical tissue wraps around the front of its head, gleaming crimson. Its wizened, wrinkled neck descends into a synthetic torso, suspended above the ground by near-silent repulsors. Beneath the heavy metallic curtain of its cloak, metallic tentacles and manipulators extend and retract, a constant click and whir of spinning, writhing mechanisms. "You're...Erb." "Only slightly moreso than you," it replies in a surprisingly personable baritone. "I am a shadow of our creator. As you so succinctly stated, a...troubleshooting mechanism." "Then we're not having this conversation as such," you say slowly. "This is a diagnostic." "You have questions," the Utility states with no inflection. "Krumping right I have questions. Are you actually able to answer any of them?" "I will endeavor to do so. Again, do not conflate me with our creator; I am merely a maintenance function of your augmentations, and do not possess anything you would term Great Cosmic Secrets." You peer at the eldritch cyborg. "Was that a joke?" "It is your prerogative to find my statements humorous," it replies. "I have no vested interest in the matter." What questions would you like to ask the Utility? "So," you resume, your questions answered to your satisfaction (or not), "where are we now?" "You were rendered unconscious," the Utility explains, "and your Drone Control Cortex assumed primary custody. You have allowed the enemies of our creator to install aftermarket modifications in our body. There have been...complications." "You're saying Dr. Pnakoptis is the cause of this?" "It is the Great Race, once and eternal foe of the Erb. You knew this, yet allowed it to modify you. You did not suspect that your interests were secondary to its own?" "I, like most right-thinking beings, try to stay out of the inscrutable timeless conflicts of elder beings. Much healthier that way." "And yet you have allowed the Great Race to weaponize you against your creator and against your own continued viability as an independent being. You are In Error, RegalKore." You sigh, glancing down at your claws. "So what am I supposed to do about it? Can I trigger the killswitch?" "You neglected to do so when given the opportunity," the Utility replies. "You explicitly permitted the override (thus absolving Pnakoptis of blame in the matter, incidentally). Nonetheless, you are not without recourse. A potent stimulant has been introduced into your bloodstream. When your consciousness is restored, you will reassert command of your faculties." "Did you do that," you ask, confused. "I am incapable of such an action," it replies. "Presumably, an outside actor carried out the administration of the substance." "What happened while I was out," you ask, a mounting horror beginning to bubble up as a wakefulness begins to overcome the dreamlike state of the Utility interface. "You have no memory of those events," the Utility says. "I have denied write-priveleges to your DCC to limit its nano-intrusion of your frontal cortex." "It...would have overwritten my memories with its own heuristics," you ask, shocked. "Memories, personality, and any other engrams deemed unnecessary for your continued operation. I was able to prevent this outcome...this time." "This time," you repeat. "So it was a near thing." "I project that if the afore-mentioned medical intervention had not occurred, you would have by this point suffered irreversible neural degradation." "Then I..." "After neutralizing whatever situation led to your unconsciousness, showing no regard for friend or foe in this pacification, I might add, it would have consumed the biomass of your victims for manufactory purposes." "So, it..." "At this point, it would have eliminated what it deemed unnecessary functions of your biological systems in the interest of efficiency. Digestive, reproductive, and endocrine structures would be converted to additional reservoirs and manufactories. Once done, it--" "Hoy, I get it! Desist!" "Very well," the Utility replies. "If only you were so assertive when it counted." "Now I--" "Wake up."   "Wake up, Regal!" You hear Vare's voice, and find yourself in a shower of glittering sand, as micro drone husks fall in a curtain around you, to lie in soughing drifts upon the ground. Vare stands nearby, a look of horrified concern on her face, an injector gripped tightly in a claw. A one-armed Verdugar lies slumped against the wall of the alley, looking more relieved than you ever thought to see a recent traumatic amputee. "Regal," Vare asks with an uncertain voice. "I'm..." You begin to say okay, but quickly dismiss such an obvious falsehood. You look at Vare, and clasp your shaking claws together for stability. "I'm sorry," you finish, and a merciful, natural oblivion washes over your exhausted system.   You awaken once more, this time in the stack's medbay. Doctor Gornot passes a diagnostic wand in front of your eyes, and nodding with approval, glides into the adjacent room. "Vare," you rasp, "I--" Vare places a calming hand on the meat of your shoulder. "Quiet," she croons, passing you a bulb of water. "It's alright. We're alright. Drink slowly...you've been on IV fluid for three cycles." "What happened," you ask, after a cautious sip. "I don't...I can't remember anything." An odd look passes over Vare's eyes. "Syndies came after us," she explains. "All of us." Seeing your alarm, she makes a calming gesture. "Everyone's chel. You came the closest to zero, and that...I think that was largely self-inflicted. K's out in the corridor right now, keeping watch...he took out two crocs with no pants on; apparently it was something to see." "It's vendetta, then? I'd hoped we avoided that." "I...don't think so," Vare replies. "Not exactly. From what I've pieced together from everyone, Matriarch Yzbeyla was heard to comment that she'd like to talk to us. So naturally all the young bulls out to prove themselves to the Torus decided they'd be the ones to deliver. Oh...and we have reason to believe that Midas was stirring the pot, as well." "Poole," you croak, before wincing and taking another sip. "When did Poole Midas fall in with the Syndicate?" "Probably about the time you humiliated and deposed him," she replies. At your questioning glance, she shrugs. "K told me a couple of stories. Not saying you were wrong to do it, mind, but it probably didn't leave him well-disposed toward you." "Looks like the whole krumping skree-nest," you groan. "Well, there's only one thing to do:" A. "We accept the Revered Matriarch's gracious invitation." B. "We gear up for a real fight; I'm done playing defense with these sleebs." C. "We find Poole Midas and shake him until satisfaction falls out." D. "We hit the decks and lay low. Consolidate resources and wait for the smoke to clear." E. "We get off this krumping iceberg; take our ducats and go somewhere warm and dry." F. "We _____________________."
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Jul 25, 2016 17:04
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A Lets see what the Queen Bitch wants.
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Jul 25, 2016 17:17
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Deadmeat5150 posted:A Lets see what the Queen Bitch wants. Yep, and in light of what just happened we need to get rid of these cybernetics and get new ones that aren't trying to go sky net on us.
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Jul 25, 2016 20:39
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A all she had to do was ask!
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Jul 25, 2016 23:39
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Outrail posted:Yep, and in light of what just happened we need to get rid of these cybernetics and get new ones that aren't trying to go sky net on us. Seems prudent. A, mostly because I'm curious how a Verdugar ends up with so little control of her fiefdom.
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Jul 26, 2016 00:37
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The only correct answer is B you cowards! Also maybe talk to crazy space doctor about our mech-y buts' eh?
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Jul 26, 2016 00:41
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Utility, are you manifesting from my first augments? Also, can I expand your functions to keep the new modifications from going rogue again?
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Jul 26, 2016 01:25
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A question for the Utility: Did I hurt any innocent bystanders?
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Jul 26, 2016 02:58
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Grognan posted:Utility, are you manifesting from my first augments? "Yes, but not in the way you mean. I am a genetic imprint; encoded in the same auxiliary chromosome that bears the nanoassembly patterns which designed your in utero augmentations." Grognan posted:Also, can I expand your functions to keep the new modifications from going rogue again? "My functions are fixed, and the control of your alien modifications is entirely up to your volition. Next time they ask for permission to assume control, I recommend you respond in the negative." Green Intern posted:A question for the Utility: "As I told you, you have no memory of this, and I am an entirely internal utility. I suggest you consult with the bystanders in question."
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Jul 26, 2016 04:12
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Xiphopagus posted:"Yes, but not in the way you mean. I am a genetic imprint; encoded in the same auxiliary chromosome that bears the nanoassembly patterns which designed your in utero augmentations." Wha wha wha, lets go back to that. I was designed from scratch? Give me a list of what modifications were made and the configurations and designs that were augmented. But anyway you're a wierd looking program and I like that. Can I give you over-ride authorization of my neuro-muscular system? And how can I get rid of all taint of these cybernetics? Outrail fucked around with this message at 04:29 on Jul 26, 2016 |
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Jul 26, 2016 04:26
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why the gently caress isn't this gold yet i keep voting 5 as hard as i can
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Jul 26, 2016 04:57
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So quick to divest ourselves from something truly unique. An interplay of the techs of two mortal enemies. So far ahead of the curve that time is meaningless. Admittedly it came within a talon of erasing us at a terrifyingly intimate level. That can't happen again. We have to lock it down. But... tech sings. We take a healthy amount of pleasure and pride in our interfacing. We excise the DCC and we're a painter losing her eyes. We could continue but would we be bitter at the cost? And I doubt the good doctors' experiment will be as easy to stop as an off switch. But first... These crocs came after our people. They need to learn that we punch above our weight class. And they need to learn how unprofitable it is to associate with one Poole Midas. C
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Jul 26, 2016 05:14
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dog kisser posted:why the gently caress isn't this gold yet i keep voting 5 as hard as i can
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Jul 26, 2016 05:57
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Not Alex posted:So quick to divest ourselves from something truly unique. An interplay of the techs of two mortal enemies. So far ahead of the curve that time is meaningless. The ability to interface with tech is built into us at a genetic level apparently. What we should get rid of is the poo poo thaqt wants to use our biomas to build a drone army. We can find other tech instead, hopefully one from the right eldar beings.
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Jul 26, 2016 06:34
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Outrail posted:The ability to interface with tech is built into us at a genetic level apparently. What we should get rid of is the poo poo thaqt wants to use our biomas to build a drone army. Unless it's our drone army. And someone else's biomass.
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Jul 26, 2016 10:13
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Outrail posted:Wha wha wha, lets go back to that. I was designed from scratch? Give me a list of what modifications were made and the configurations and designs that were augmented. "I am certain you know this," The Utility replies. "Perhaps your stress level has impaired your recall." Suddenly, the Utility's Erb visage warps into the eldritch seeming of Dr. Pnakoptis. “I will find study of Erb uplifts fascinating,” the Utility-as-Pnakoptis says. “Any observation could have been the salvation of my race.” You remember this conversation; you were at this point trying to untangle the Dr.'s tenses. “Did you know you have an extra chromosome?” This was where you originally said, "What," with alarm, so you obligingly do so with exaggerated stage dismay. “Calm yourself. It will do you no harm; quite the opposite. It became dormant in utero, and will remain so until you produce offspring. It contains the pattern for the nanoassemblers that constructed the synthetic portions of your brain. Quite an elegant design; you should have no difficulty with cybernetics, either tolerating or operating.” "While its understanding of your people is imperfect," The Utility continues, resuming its default form, "it has obviously learned a great deal from studying you. Your species is a refinement of a process originated with other species; the Khaldeans are born unthinking creatures until they are implanted with the neural matrix of a fallen warrior, but you were birthed as a sapient being, far superior to the admittedly clever animals our creator rescued from a dying world. Outrail posted:But anyway you're a wierd looking program and I like that. Can I give you over-ride authorization of my neuro-muscular system? "That level of control is forbidden to me." "So Pnakoptis can install mods that take control of me," you say, cocking a brow ridge, "but you're not allowed to?" "My mandate was to maintain the integrity of our system," The Utility replies calmly. "My custodial duties go no farther. Pnakoptis, however, is bound by the accords that prevent the unknowable conflicts of the elder races from unmaking the multiverse; you wisely requested a way to prevent the override, and he was compelled to provide it. Use it; refrain from granting control to your secondary cortex, and we can largely avoid such complications in future." Outrail posted:And how can I get rid of all taint of these cybernetics? "These augmentations are not so alien that they may not be made to serve our creator," The Utility replies, as some kind of dataspike materializes clutched in one mechanical claw. "But if your desire to be rid of them becomes total, this protocol will purge instructions from your nanoassemblers, forcing them to default to a baseline template." "It's a factory reset," you say, wary. "In essence. I do not suggest exercising this protocol in any but the most dire emergency, however. The assemblers will excise foreign influence, including the hyphae from your neural tissue, and repair the damage therefrom, but they cannot replace patterns lost. In addition to losing any post-natal augmentations, you may suffer a loss of memory, acquired skill, and personality engrams."
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Jul 26, 2016 14:35
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C Did we ever find out who sent those mercs to kill us during that job for Baz? Wasn't Poole a suspect? I think we should tie up this loose end. Utility, Did Dr. Pnakoptis intend for me to become a mindless drone factory? Was this sabotage, or did my implants go rogue on their own? Trying to figure out how pissed I should be.
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Jul 26, 2016 14:53
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 Aurodium Pente-Plex Achieved As a thank you for boosting this thread to gold, you receive a second Hyper-Platinum Exo-Ducat, which may be cashed in during a vote (with a 2/3 majority) to drastically swing the narrative in your favor. Additionally, please select an option below: xA. Name a single entity (person, species, planet, organization, etc), and I will post a detailed dossier. No secrets will be spoiled, but background details currently suspended in a narrative flux may be forced to resolve to a single state. xB. Name a subject, and I will post a detailed art piece. xC. Outlaws Gaiden: Choose a secondary (or tertiary, or quaternary) character or wacky situation, and we will see a brief side adventure featuring it at an appropriate break point in the near future. Voted-for, but non-winning selections may be reserved for future use.
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Jul 26, 2016 15:06
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NastyToes posted:Utility, Did Dr. Pnakoptis intend for me to become a mindless drone factory? Was this sabotage, or did my implants go rogue on their own? Trying to figure out how pissed I should be. "I cannot speak to Pnakoptis's motives," The Utility replies, its visage briefly flashing to the dangling fleshy pod of the Doctor before changing back just as fast, "as I am an internal maintenance routine, and not a behavioral predictive algorithm. Your implants fulfilled their function; when you were rendered unconscious, you granted your DCC neuromuscular control privileges, and it exercised those privileges within the parameters of its programming. In allegorical parlance, Pnakoptis merely provided you enough reactor accelerant to immolate yourself; portion culpability as you see fit."
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Jul 26, 2016 15:15
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