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Siglo Veinte Class 4 Maximum Security Correctional Facility Isla Fuji Heavy Industries Bolivia January 13th https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m93CDyrVblY It's a cold day. The wind is blowing hard. The windows do little to keep the heat in, making the building cold and increasingly damp. You wake up in the morning with shivers. As the guards escort you to breakfast, you silently thank them for making the choice between staying in the warm bed hungry or eating your garbage meal in the cold. You can hardly tell the weather due to the glass blocks that the place has instead of regular panes, admitting light, but not allowing you to look at the outside world. You can tell it's a subtle nudge to break you in - as if the makers of the place knew that for the most of the inmate every little bit would count. You are among those people. One way or another - not for long. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WbK1GTY3BUA  Visitation Room, Admin Block 1225 hours When the guards told you someone's here to see you, it was quite a surprise. It's fairly easy for you to get visitation privileges - you don't get in fights, you don't deal drugs, you're always polite and non-confrontational with the guards, so why wouldn't it? -- but it hardly ever happens that someone would actually give you a reason to use them. And when you walked in and saw Kwame's artificial eyes stare at you from the other side of the glass, that surprise compounded. You run the numbers real quick as you sit down by the desk. It's been twenty two months without a word. Nineteen or so when you were certain they are actively trying to not let you keep any contact with them and sheltering themselves from your probes. And now, the Fourth of the Nine is right here with you. Something is off. He's trying to smile at you, but keeps looking ever so slightly in the wrong direction. Probably the dampeners playing havoc on his implants. He quickly reaches for the phone, then smiles at you again, expectantly. You let him stew for a second as you stretch your arms and slowly grab the handheld. The moment you put it to your ear, he starts chatting, quickly, but his voice is calm. "Been so long without hearing from you, Eisen! How's the big house treating you?" You exchange pleasantries. He doesn't look at the guard at all, you're sure he knows that the line is tapped. He peppers you with inane questions. Did you make any friends? Really? You shrug them all, waiting for him to get to business. "It's so hard out there without you, you know. Obviously, can't talk specifics, but the organisation really needs you, Eisen. No lie." So that's what it's about, huh. "Anyhow, anything you need?" Now he glances at the guard. Figures. It is your Day 726. What do you do?  Prison yard 1156 hours You usually enjoy the brief hours you get to spend outside in the yard, exercising, talking to people, watching. But this is not one of those days. The overcast sky and unseasonal cold makes it drat hard to derive pleasure from anything at all, it chills you to the bone, in spite of even your mental and physical conditioning. It definitely feels like it's about to start raining any moment now. The other inmates take to bunching together pretty much for the warmth. You are one of those they prefer to stay away from. Which, I suppose, at least gives you some shanking protection. Speaking of. You catch a glimpse of something shiny in the hand of a passer-by. Your spliced nerves immediately put you on alert, as you track the man in question. An orange prison jumpsuit does little to conceal a fairly impressive array of tattoos all over his body. You notice him heading - on his lonesome - towards the Den, where the Los Veteranos are currently circling one of their members, shoving him around, shouting accusations - a ritual trial of one they suspect wronged the outfit. Even the Jefe is there, standing back, looking over the men with appreciation. It is your Day 15. Which gang does the man with the knife belong to? What do you think his plan is? And, most importantly, what do you do?  Block D, level 4 Cell 4331 0933 hours  You sit back on your bunk, flipping past the pages of the mag. The boredom got to you sooner than you had expected, but that's jail for you, isn't it? The garbage on the floor has stopped being exciting in any way, shape, or form months ago. What is your cell like? Do you share it with anyone, or are you fortunate enough to have it all for yourself? What's the one thing it's lacking - and the one thing the guards don't know it has? Others may wonder why you elect to spend an hour of your precious free time every day sitting here, given that you are supposed to stay in this drat room all day every day anyway. Well, almost all day. You hear the familiar sound of mahjong calls from the level below you. From what you're hearing, it's the quarter-finals of D-Block Mahjong Championship this week. You quickly ask yourself why you never bothered to sign up. But then you notice the clock hit half past nine. Finally! The hour you wait for every day. Fresh meat intake. That's the whole reason you stay in your cell in the morning: it just so happens to be at a high enough vantage point that you can see new guys just out of Reception being walked over to their cells through Level Zero Corridor. And what else really passes for entertainment in a place like this, eh? The door to the block opens, letting in plenty of cold white light and cold damp air. The guards slowly usher in a procession of new intakes. Which one of them catches your attention? Why? And - when you see the guards lead them off in the direction of B-Block - what do you do? This is your Day 149.   Canteen 0948 hours It always feels good to talk to a friendly face. The two of you have never had a chance to meet in person before being put in this place, but you've taken quite a liking to one another fairly soon. Why? Usually the various blocks have to eat together in sets of two. The specific pairing rotates every week to make sure things don't get too stale and conspiratorial, and this time you have a chance to meet for breakfast. The conversation is pleasant and flowing, and pretty soon you're both done eating the horrible garbage fed to you by the chefs (The Biochem Corps, as the prisoners call them in C-Block) and can just lay back and chill - if only for the fifteen minutes or so before the guards herd you all away to wherever it is you should be. The canteen, as befits a room made to feed a thousand mouths at a time (there is another, larger one, on the other side of the kitchen complex), is quite huge - yet still as cramped as can be. It's pretty hard to move without rubbing elbows with someone else. Which is probably why Scorpion notices a commotion rising fairly quickly - DD has little time to care as he is too busy regaling him with a tale of something or other - but before he can do anything, the commotion starts to move towards you. It emerges from between the inmates, having many of them - some utter veterans of this lockup! - scattering. Neville suddenly feels his shoulder yanked back as the commotion gains a face.  "You. Are you the one they call the 88 Butcher?" Duran, it is your Day 9. Alexander, it is your Day 27. What do you do? Tevery Best fucked around with this message at 00:23 on Feb 22, 2017 |
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Feb 22, 2017 00:13
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Corp Clocks:pre:SOARING CRANE LLD [XXXX] [XXXX] [2100] [2200] [2300] [0000] NUMBANI WSI [XXXX] [XXXX] [2100] [2200] [2300] [0000] BON VIVANT [XXXX] [XXXX] [2100] [2200] [2300] [0000] TAAC.ORG [1500] [1800] [2100] [2200] [2300] [0000] YOKKINA IKKA [1500] [1800] [2100] [2200] [2300] [0000] MAGYAR GROUP [XXXX] [XXXX] [XXXX] [2200] [2300] [0000] WARDEN ESPOSITO [1500] [1800] [2100] [2200] [2300] [0000]  Mission Clocks: LEGWORK [XXXX] [1800] [2100] [2200] [2300] [0000] Cliff notes MISSION DIRECTIVES
Tevery Best fucked around with this message at 20:24 on Mar 20, 2017 |
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Feb 22, 2017 00:13
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 DD Character Sheet. I was completely oblivious to the world around me as I started getting to my favorite part of my story, "And that's when I blew the X-4, and like the infamous city of Jericho those walls came-a-tumblin' down. BOOM!" I yelled, slamming my fist down on the table rattling everything around me like Mjolnir striking the stone of Odin. "Pretty bad rear end right?" I looked over at Scorpion, "Dude, that was the best part, I did the bang and everything. I rehearsed for weeks the least you can do is pay att-" When some rear end in a top hat pulls on my, THE 88 BUTCHER'S, shoulder. They MUST not know who they are loving with. I spin with the pull nearly getting pulled out of my seat, but gracefully. That's when I was eye to eye with... poo poo. "Are you the one they call the 88 Butcher?" they ask. Oh gently caress you are going to die. DD, pull your poo poo together don't be scared. Do the bad rear end thing, the thing, with your voice. "Am I the one? Am I the one? Motherfucker I'm like Neo, I am the Alpha, Omega, Beta and the loving Charlie." I retort, while quickly putting my hand on the table reaching for the food tray I had just banged around. "I am the single hardest motherfucker in existence, so I would like it if you best recognized my glowing achievements." I try to stand, calmly and collected. Wait poo poo, didn't she, or is it he? How do pronouns work in prison? Ugh... They I guess, didn't they do that by using your title? How are you loving this up this badly man. Staying Cool, 10 "Who the gently caress are you?" Turtlicious fucked around with this message at 12:16 on Feb 26, 2017 |
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Feb 22, 2017 00:40
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 Char sheet Theme Do you want a piece of advice? Never go through withdrawal. Especially in loving prison. It sucks. They give you enough meds for you to survive it, but that's about it, and they tend to err on the side of being assholes. I was probably halfway down the road to sobriety, and I couldn't wait to turn right around. As soon as I could get the real stuff, not the prison garbage. I'd rather not burn my nervous system out chasing a poo poo high. I sat there with this Duran fellow. He was okay. The man... let's just say he did not belong here. Sure, he was an idiot, but for some reason - perhaps the fact that I was really craving some Helix or at least some Blue - I found him somewhat endearing. Poking holes in his stories helped me shrug some cobwebs off my mind in my more lucid days. Today was not one of those... until a certain point. I was sweating despite the cold, my mind ponderously swimming through molasses as he made noise about something or other. Then, some synapse somewhere in my brain decided breaking through the haze was worth the effort and suddenly I had clarity. You know how when you trip, you move to catch yourself before your concious self registers what's happening? It was like that; my brain recognised the signs and dumped enough adrenaline in my bloodstream to bring me back to reality. The way animals react to certain stimuli is unmistakeable. Fish scatter before sharks. People scatter before trouble. Trouble headed towards us. I needed information. First, the gait. The eyes. The scars. Then, the voice. Accent, intonation. They all add up to a puzzle. Processing the information, I turned towards the Trouble. I reclined nonchalantly, hoping that this will distract from the subtle shift in relative positioning that put my feet within striking distance of the Trouble's knees, and at an axis perpendicular to the one they're supposed to work in. Assess (edge): 2d6+2 13 Gain 3 hold. Spend 2 on: What potential complication do I need to be wary of? How is Trouble vulnerable to me? Zeppelin Insanity fucked around with this message at 02:19 on Feb 22, 2017 |
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Feb 22, 2017 02:15
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 'Kingmaker' > XP 0.0 > Armor 0 > Harm 0/6Plot posted:Visitation Room, Admin Block / 1225 hours He didn't think this visitation was a ruse set up by some as-yet-unknown enemy he had made in the facility. More frankly, he knew there were only a handful of people in the blocks with the necessary combination of foresight and influence to plan an assassination around an orchestrated visitation, in order to get him on a fairly predictable route through the prison. He was on good enough terms with all of them, as far as he knew. He decided rather quickly to roll the dice on the matter, and before too long the guards were escorting him to his visitor. Plot posted:And when you walked in and saw Kwame's artificial eyes stare at you from the other side of the glass, that surprise compounded. You run the numbers real quick as you sit down by the desk. It's been twenty two months without a word. Nineteen or so when you were certain they are actively trying to not let you keep any contact with them and sheltering themselves from your probes. And now, the Fourth of the Nine is right here with you. Plot posted:The moment you put it to your ear, he starts chatting, quickly, but his voice is calm. "Been so long without hearing from you, Eisen! How's the big house treating you?" You exchange pleasantries. He doesn't look at the guard at all, you're sure he knows that the line is tapped. He peppers you with inane questions. Did you make any friends? Really? You shrug them all, waiting for him to get to business. Kwame posted:"Anyhow, anything you need?" Now he glances at the guard. Figures. He idly wondered, at least briefly, whether Kwame had come all this way to plant the idea in the head of the nearby guard that he was somehow trying to smuggle something into the prison. It didn't seem likely. Perhaps the inverse was true. Was his old comrade offering him a chance to ask for something, and going out of his way to make it known that he knew the guard was listening? Perhaps he was just an idiot, filling the air with small talk without any understanding of the potential consequences of the wrong word overheard in a loving maximum security prison. He decided it didn't really matter. Regardless of Kwame's intent, he had a reflexive instinct for social damage control. "Need? No, I don't think so, my friend." With a nod towards the patrolling guard, he decides to appeal to a mixture of ego and nationalism, "Obviously, I'd love you to prove my innocence or get me a multinational pardon, but the situation is what it is, isn't it? In any event, the employees here do a fine job of keeping people safe, and regardless of what North American media might tell you, Bolivia has a talent for prison design and management. It's certainly one of the finest prisons I've ever been inside." The latter part of the statement was of course a joke, given that he hadn't been imprisoned before. He suspected the guard had no idea about that though, and most prison employees assumed everyone in here was a hardened criminal who'd spent decades rolling in and out for various offenses. It helped that they were generally correct about that assumption, he supposed. One way or another, Kwame hadn't come here to see if he needed something. The man had an agenda, and simply needed an opportunity to communicate it. He decides to circle back to what seemed to be the subject matter. "I'm sorry to hear it's been hard out there, though I trust you're all still doing good work in my absence?" He left the question open-ended, to see where it might take him. He also decided to follow a separate lead, "I should ask, though, did you make the trip out all this way just to see a friendly face? Or are you perhaps checking up on a story developing in the region? Why Kwame, I wasn't just a convenient diversion, was I?" He feigned insult, though he didn't really care. He suspected he had the measure of the situation, at least in part. The precise measure of that measure, though. That was the tricky part. The most likely reason Kwame had decided to pay him a visit was because the man needed something that only he could provide. Perhaps he'd hit a roadblock in an investigation in the region and needed the name of someone who could help him out. If that were the case, reaching out to his blacklisted leader on the sly might let him play off the resultant success as his own hard work, and increase his stature in the organization. Perhaps his old friend needed the access key to an encrypted file. Any number of things, really, though they all had the same general motivation. That possibility had been obvious to him the moment he stepped into the visitation room. The second possibility was only a bit less likely: that he had been asked to deliver a message. Likely something along the lines of 'We wish you were here, but things are fine without you. Stop poking around before you cause us any trouble.' That seemed a bit less likely given the man's indication that they were struggling without him, but perhaps that would be his way of indicating he didn't agree with the consensus that had been reached. Time would tell if that were the case. He took a moment to survey the room while considering a third, remote possibility. Perhaps his old friend was here to deliver a warning. After nearly two years of dead silence, something non-trivial had clearly motivated him to pay a visit to the less-than-ideal vacation destination that was post-war Bolivia. Rather obviously, the ruling majority didn't want him participating in the organization. Would they - or one of them, at least - take action if a source turned up reliable intelligence that he was in danger, however? Where did they draw the line? It was an interesting question. He sort of assumed they didn't want him dead, even if they didn't want him pulling strings from the inside. That would be a problematic development, were it the case. pre:Are there any other inmates in the visitation room having conversations at the moment? If so, would those conversations qualify as 'street level gossip' for purposes of eavesdropping? __________________________________________________________________________________________ Move (+0): Act Under Pressure / Apply First Aid / Mix It Up Move (+1): Assess / Play Hardball / Research Move (+2): Fast Talk / Hit the Street Move (x1): Declare a Contact / I Know People Resources: Cred (x5) / Gear (x0) / Intel (x0) Directive: Financial / Prudent __________________________________________________________________________________________ Waador fucked around with this message at 07:43 on Feb 22, 2017 |
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Feb 22, 2017 03:05
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 Edge +0 // Style -1 // Mind +0 // Cool +1 // Meat +1 //Synth +2 Cred: 0 // Harm Clock: 12:00 // No gear // XP: 0 That white skin, that shaved head, those tribal tats... This man was a member from the Templars, without a doubt. And, considering he was moving towards a Los Veteranos occupied territory by his lonesome, his near future looked like it would include an inhumation. I moved to meet him halfway. Trying to look as casual and non-threatening as I could, I looked up when he got near and said: "You must pick and choose your battles. I do not know what you intend to do in the Den, but rest assured that even a miraculous victory will result in defeat when the guards catch wind of it." Keeping my eyes on everybody in the courtyard, I intended to engage the gangmember in conversation to cool him down enough and prevent a potentially deadly confrontation, or at the very least, I'd distract him until our free time was over. Assess (edge): rolled a 9. Deltasquid fucked around with this message at 13:58 on Feb 23, 2017 |
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Feb 23, 2017 11:58
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Character Sheet Theme "Six... six... six..." Paulie Gresham, the former accountant, kept muttering the number outloud. "Six. Six. Six. Damnit, I can't figure out the six. Damnit. Come on... Six..." Clean-Cut glanced up from his own magazine. An intentionally lazy half-look that barely involved lifting his eyes. He had been under the impression that accountants were supposed to be good with numbers. Of course, Gresham had been set up as the fall guy for some embarrassingly simple tax evasion bullshit so it wasn't too terribly surprisingly that the man was stumped by a medium-difficulty sudoku puzzle placed on the back cover of a sports mag. "What box?" Clean-Cut asked. "I don't know," Gresham said with a sigh. "All of them? This is really hard." "Pick one, bruh." "Well... I..." "Bruh. Just pick a loving box and I'll tell you where the motherfucking six goes, aight?" Gresham stared at the puzzle for a moment. "Middle... right. Middle right. I think if I can just get a six there then-" "Top row. Left column." Gresham quickly scribbled in the number. Clean-Cut abhorred such wastefulness. They were supposed to get a new magazine every two weeks. But this was prison. And Bolivia. And so poo poo rarely worked the way it was supposed to. Therefore Clean-Cut liked to keep his magazines clean until a new one arrived. And then sometimes longer than that. But Gresham didn't have the discipline or the intelligence to work out a sudoku in his head and such a trade-off was fairly minuscule in the grand scheme of things. Gresham had his other uses. There were always uses for weak, cowardly men. Quiet, for one. If Clean-Cut but put a finger to his lips then Gresham would immediately shut up. It was one of the benefits of his current cell. Plus the fact that the cell was just slightly (one square foot) larger than everyone else's on the Block. And while it didn't have a window slat it did have something much, much more interesting. Drywall over where the window slat should be. And a 24 inch gap between the wall of his cell and the wall behind it. Clean-Cut knew this because he had seen the floor plans. He licked his finger and turned the page of his magazine. He was halfway through the expose on illegal cyberware enhancements in the Cairo Olympics when the clock hit 9:30. "Fresh meat," Gresham said. Just as he'd done every week since they'd become cellmates. The man was like clockwork. Clean-Cut sat up. Gresham had already hopped to the door and was pressing his face unnecessarily into the bars. "Do you think someone will be crying? Gresham asked. "Do you think there will be any fish?" "They all fish, bruh. Some just better swimmers." Gresham started to reply until Clean-Cut put a finger to his lips. They watched silently as the new faces filed in through the Level 0 Corridor. They were probably the only silent ones in attedance. The rest of B-Block hollered and screeched and cat-called and, sure enough, a man in the back started crying. Nerdy-looking. Probably well-educated. Clearly white-collar. Definitely unprepared for prison life. The old saying rang true: you only get one chance to make a first impression. And right then was a very, very bad time to make a bad first impression. The cacophony became focused and directed at the weak link. "He best hope he's furyquick with his fists," Clean-Cut said. "Because my eyes speak of new, violent friends in his soon future." Greshham didn't know if he was allowed to respond so he didn't. Neither of them commented on the man behind the goldfish. Clean-Cut didn't recognize the man but he recognized the tattoos. Yōkina Ikka. Probably a messager from Big Brother's intimates. And, more concerningly, he recognized the tiger on the left hand.  Trouble.
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Feb 23, 2017 22:51
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DD The woman does not reply, at first. She just grabs a heavy half-metal chair a guy next to you was sitting on ("was" being the operational word), then smashes it into the table like she's The Rock and the table is Mick Foley. The dishes fly everywhere, as do plastic knives, trays, spoons, and pieces of what is clearly no longer a chair. End result - she now has a foot-long metal club. And she's looking at you with anger, and... a little bit of respect? "I am the one person you need to kill if you want your moniker to be true. Punk." She waves the metal rod - sweet merciful G-man above, it has a pointy end now - in front of your face. But it looks as if she's waiting for your reply before smashing your skull to bits - a very pervert manner of deference. Better make it count. What do you do? Scorpion gently caress. Did you see that chair? How do you smash a metal loving chair against a table? She doesn't look like it, but you know she definitely has some cybernetic muscle grafts. That is the only logical explanation. Where the hell are the guards? Did they just decide to collectively go for a loving smoke? Do they have no idea what's about to happen? Because Trouble may not be seeing it, but you do: she's utterly absorbed by DD's existence, and the first shock and surprise is starting to wear off, other inmates are not taking her starting a ruckus all that kindly. She's quite likely about to find herself in the middle of a dogpile - or a riot, if someone takes the opportunity to even the score with someone else. Only question is whether or not DD will still be alive at that point. What do you do? You have one hold left from assess to spend. Kingmaker "Oh, I assure you TAAC definitely continues to produce... valuable content. They're working their asses off, every day, no doubt about that. And yeah, I am investigating a story around these parts, yeah... Not for TAAC, though. We've had some... misunderstandings in the org recently and I decided to take a step back, you know? Come and visit scenic Bolivia. Fish and rest in a little house I rented on Titicaca here, right in Cuerto, on the Peruvian side of the DMZ. Honestly, it's like, an hour by boat. Figured I might pay a visit to my dear friend as well, can't I? Fact is, a few other guys are here with me, too, they just couldn't show up." He looks at the guard again. Uneasy. It feels like he wants to tell you something, but can't, at least in this place. "Can't tell you exactly what I'm working on, but I bet you'd find it fascinating, you know..." That was not what he wanted to be talking about, and you can tell. "So, how are your days in here? Strict daily schedule?" Is he turning the conversation back onto hot air? You glance around the room. There are a few people also talking on the phones here as their lawyers, partners, or parents listen from the other side. I suppose you could try to listen in, but you will either be able to focus fully on those conversations or on Kwame, not really on both. What do you do? If you wish to roll research with Word on the Street, you may, but it will lock you out for trying to roll anything during your conversation with Kwame. Akira "Well, what's that to you, slant? You wanna help? Cause if not, there's places you oughtta be. And I betcha don't want for any of those to be on my blade here. Capisce?" The gang member barely pays you any attention, his eyes fixated on the scene in the Den. "This is Templars business, chink. Ain't none of it about ya." What do you do? You have one hold from assess to spend. Katashi The new prisoners shuffle around. Some leave the block, some are brought up the staircase and led to cells around these parts. Clean, fresh, orange jumpsuits led to tiny little cells all over the block. You notice the crying man was one of those, he's in the cell just below yours. You lean back. Less than half an hour until it's D-Block's turn for chow. You wonder - when was the last time you someone with that tiger tat? What do you do?
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Feb 25, 2017 20:55
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'Kingmaker' > XP 0.0 > Armor 0 > Harm 0/6Kwame posted:"Oh, I assure you TAAC definitely continues to produce... valuable content. They're working their asses off, every day, no doubt about that. And yeah, I am investigating a story around these parts, yeah... Not for TAAC, though. We've had some... misunderstandings in the org recently and I decided to take a step back, you know? Come and visit scenic Bolivia. Fish and rest in a little house I rented on Titicaca here, right in Cuerto, on the Peruvian side of the DMZ. Honestly, it's like, an hour by boat. Figured I might pay a visit to my dear friend as well, can't I? Fact is, a few other guys are here with me, too, they just couldn't show up." He played along as the conversation continued, giving Kwame an avenue to pass along whatever coded message he thought he might be able to muster. With a laugh and a genuine smile, he comments, "Well, I expect you're seeing nicer parts of Bolivia than I've as yet had the opportunity to enjoy. A fishing expedition, is it? Caught any big ones?" He narrowed his gaze and locked eyes with Kwame, if only briefly as the guard's back was turned, before returning to his charismatic facade. It was enough to indicate that he was paying attention, and not to the bullshit small talk. Kwame posted:He looks at the guard again. Uneasy. It feels like he wants to tell you something, but can't, at least in this place. "Can't tell you exactly what I'm working on, but I bet you'd find it fascinating, you know..." That was not what he wanted to be talking about, and you can tell. Kwame posted:"So, how are your days in here? Strict daily schedule?" Given the man's body language, he obviously had a message he wanted to pass along, and it wasn't one he was going to be able to slip him in the visitation room. A detailed understanding of his whereabouts inside the prison throughout the week would allow his friend an opportunity to plan a less conspicuous method of passing information along. A man on the inside seemed unlikely, and he doubted anyone would voluntarily enter a maximum security facility from the outside just to pass along a message. Yard time would make the most sense, but with the cyberware dampeners throughout the facility, a burst transmission would either be intercepted or blocked entirely. A point-to-point laser transmission directly into his neural interface might be possible, though Kwame would need an aerial drone of some kind to even think about attempting that. He was already a good tenth of the way into the process of considering all the possible scenarios and solving Kwame's problem for him before he managed to catch himself. This was Kwame's problem to solve, not his. If the man couldn't figure out how to pass a message along, what hope did he have with whatever grander scheme obviously locked behind that gated content? Sometimes you just need to let the hatchling fall out of the nest, and see if it flies. He decides to leave the reins firmly in Kwame's hands, rather than doing all the legwork himself. In response to Kwame's question, he replies, "Oh, you know how it is. The prison system thrives on a daily routine. Wake-up call is at 6:30 across the blocks. They give us fifteen minutes for personal hygiene, making the beds, and other little rituals, before they start with morning roll call. After that, it's leisure time until 7:45, when people start getting shuffled around for breakfast. It's clever of them, gating breakfast behind morning roll-call's completion, actually. It keeps people in line for the first few hours of the day." With a smile, Eisen continues, "All of the blocks have breakfast concluded by 8:55, and then people go about their more specific routines." With a shrug, he offers, "I try to make myself useful. A number of prisoners attend a variety of rehabilitation classes throughout the day, but I try to keep my mind on good, honest work. I have an eight-hour work detail on the cleaning crew every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, which lasts me until supper. I normally skip lunch as a result, which earns me a second dinner credit. In all honesty I tend to get a bit hungry around 3:00, but it's worth the discomfort, since the lunch normally isn't very good. Plus, having an extra dinner to trade helps to make friends with my fellow inmates, which is never a bad idea." Leaning back on his stool, he continues, "Work detail limits my time in the yard, so I tend to only spend Tuesday afternoons there. Weather permitting, of course. I normally hit the gym on Tuesday mornings. Gotta' bulk up, you know?" It was supposed to be a joke, though he couldn't tell if Kwame got it. "Thursday is actually my busiest day, though. I lead a support group after breakfast, and another after lunch that carries us through to supper. About four or five people per session, myself included. We like to keep it intimate ...and manageable, security-wise, obviously. Sort of like Alcoholics Anonymous, though we take all sorts. I'm not a user, mind you, but I've been reading up on hypnosis techniques, and there's certainly a market for addiction cessation that doesn't rely on medicine to wean the inmates off whatever their drug of choice happened to be. The warden was resistant to the idea at first, but I was able to explain that it might be a budget-friendly way to deal with some of the narcotic problems, you know? Nothing to lose by letting me try, anyway." With a shrug, he continues, "Anyway, when I'm not working, it's either leisure time or exercise, outside of those other activities. Evening roll-call is at 22:00, and they lock us up in the bunks by 22:30. Rinse, repeat." He pauses, adding, "Saturdays are a bit of a wildcard, I suppose. I normally spend my time in the library, though sometimes I hit the gym, or pick up an additional work detail." pre:Eisen's prison schedule...
6:30 Wake-up
6:30 - 6:45 Hygiene
6:45 - 7:15 Roll-call
7:15 - 7:45 Leisure
7:45 - 8:55 Breakfast
8:55 - 16:55 Daily routine
16:55 - 18:55 Dinner
18:55 - 22:00 Leisure
22:00 - 22:30 Roll-call
22:30 - 06:30 Lock-up
M T W R F Sa Su
> Daily Routine A
8:55 - 16:55 Work (cleaning crew) X - X - X - X
> Daily Routine B
8:55 - 11:55 Gym - X - - - - -
11:55 - 16:55 Yard - X - - - - -
> Daily Routine C
8:55 - 11:55 Support Group A - - - X - - -
11:55 - 16:55 Support Group B - - - X - - -Plot posted:You glance around the room. There are a few people also talking on the phones here as their lawyers, partners, or parents listen from the other side. I suppose you could try to listen in, but you will either be able to focus fully on those conversations or on Kwame, not really on both. Whatever Kwame had in mind was a future problem, and taking advantage of future problems tended to require resources in the present. He cocked his head ever so slightly, picking up on the nearby conversations as best as he could. pre:Research 9 > +2 Intel > Question: Where would I find someone up for a parole hearing in the near future? Sprawl pg. 29 / 250 - Research (Mind) > 7-9: take [intel]; the MC will answer your question Sprawl pg. 78 / 250 - Word on the street > When you research by listening to or recalling street level gossip, take an additional [intel], even on a miss. Move (+0): Act Under Pressure / Apply First Aid / Mix It Up Move (+1): Assess / Play Hardball / Research Move (+2): Fast Talk / Hit the Street Move (x1): Declare a Contact / I Know People Resources: Cred (x5) / Gear (x0) / Intel (x2) Directive: Financial / Prudent __________________________________________________________________________________________ Waador fucked around with this message at 07:42 on Feb 27, 2017 |
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Feb 25, 2017 22:54
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Edge +2 // Style +0 // Mind +0 // Cool +1 // Meat -1 //Synth +1 Cred: 5 // Harm Clock: 12:00 // No gear // XP: 0 Char sheet Theme Well, poo poo. The situation was really dangerous. Obviously, you might say, but you'd be missing the point. The cyber-enhanced woman waving a deadly improvised weapon was actually the least dangerous part. No, the real danger was social. I had some sympathy for the man's company, but if I had any real choice I wouldn't stick my neck out. That's the problem, though. He was openly challenged. I was nearby. I had been talking with him. That association is very important when it comes to power structures. Whether I liked it or not, the situation had made us a tribe. If I sat by, it would be seen... no, not seen. It's more subtle, more primal than that. I would be felt as weak. In a facility like this, being weak is dangerous. Weakness draws sharks. Others would come to challenge me in order to increase their status, and I had no desire for a shiv in my guts. So, you see, there was only one choice. To be strong, I had to make Duran strong. Mix it up (meat) +1 forward: 2d6-1+1 5 I kicked her in the knee, hard and fast. I used the momentum to back away, spread my arms in challenge and said loud enough for everyone to hear. "She disrespected The Butcher! She disrespected you by interrupting your meal time! Are you going to let her get away with that?" She only staggered momentarily and I knew I had miscalculated. Probably had joints reinforced. I knew that even in the best case I had no chance and would have to rely on the crowd to pile in before she made a mess out of me. As her hateful eyes met mine, I began to regret my decision. For my plan to work, I had to maintain composure long enough for the focus to shift away from me, even if it meant a shitload of pain and possibly some internal haemorrhaging. gently caress. uh oh. Let's just hope I only get hurt and the social hierarchy plan doesn't backfire any more spectacularly. Spend 3rd hold on "What is my best way out?" Zeppelin Insanity fucked around with this message at 01:11 on Feb 26, 2017 |
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Feb 26, 2017 00:25
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DD Character Sheet Stats: Cred: 5 // Edge:-1 // Style: 0 // Mind: +1 // Meat: 0 // Cool: +1 // Synth: +2 I saw Scorpion go in. My friend, the only friend I had made in... gently caress 16 Years? Not only that, unlike the Numbani Execs, unlike my Mom and Dad, hell unlike J-Dawg, Scorpion believed in me, really believed. And Scorpion had went in very, very, poorly. She was going to kill him, she was going to kill my friend, my only other friend in the entire world. Did she not know who I am? Who I was, SHE CALLED ME BY NAME. DD Started to tear up as she whirled to beat the ever loving poo poo out of Scorpion. Don't cry DD, what the gently caress. Next upgrade we're removing your eyes. No more tear ducts, oh my god in prison crying like a bitch. DD Roared angrily as he could, "NO, NO-ONE FUCKS WITH MY FRIENDS," he hoped the other prisoners couldn't hear him sniffling. "You've got a problem with me," he said as he grabbed the jagged bit of metal chair and held his lunch tray up like a shield, "YOU gently caress WITH ME." 2d6+0=12 Of course, in his bad rear end moment, he had tears and snot running down his face, he tried to cover it with his lunch tray shield. He couldn't see where he was stepping, tripped over his own feet, and came crashing down like the 300lbs of fat and muscle he was. He stuck one arm out with the Chair Leg and hope'd for the best. He landed on the roided out bio-freak, and felt purchase "Scorpion," he sniffled, still covering his face "Did... Did I get her?" Turtlicious fucked around with this message at 12:29 on Feb 26, 2017 |
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Feb 26, 2017 12:24
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Edge +0 // Style -1 // Mind +0 // Cool +1 // Meat +1 //Synth +2 Cred: 0 // Harm Clock: 12:00 // No gear // XP: 0 It seemed like the Templar was set on dying today. Not one to deny him this honour, I stepped aside, and said: "If you insist, then I shan't stop you." I followed him to the den at a respectful distance, curious to see how well he'd hold up. I fully expected him to be buried right here, but if he proved to be a worthy fighter, I'd consider a test of strength between the two of us on a later date. Spending 1 hold from assess to ask: Who is really in control here? I tried to size up the impending battle. Would the Den remain under the grip of Los Veteranos, or would the Templars make a concentrated effort to wrest it away from them soon?
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Feb 27, 2017 14:01
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Character Sheet Theme "Was that a friend of yours?" Gresham asked. "Who?" "The... uh... the guy... He, you know, he looked like you and..." Clean-Cut rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. He wiggled his fingers and glanced at his ink. He had some meaningless tattoos. Personal. And he had some that very much weren't. And he knew what a tiger on the hand wasn't personal. It was a message to the wearer and to all those who could read it. Tora. Kamikaze. I'm-on-the-warpath-and-I-don't-plan-on-coming-home. Right hand: joyfully. Left hand: willingly. And the newly deceased Big Brother had to have had big friends. Of course, it could be old. It could be coincidental. It could mean he was after someone else. The 88-Butcher for instance. Or It could be actually be meaningless. It is just a tattoo. And there are plenty of people who adopt YI fashion because... Clean-Cut smiled to himself. 'cuz we look good. It would be nice it was meaningless. But... "Nah," Clean-Cut said, answering both Gresham and his own internal monologue. He closed his eyes and replayed the scene in his mind. Gain 1 hold. His eyes snapped open. This was a message. And it was saying, "Off ya rear end, bruh. It's time to bust out this motherfucker."
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Feb 27, 2017 17:10
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Kingmaker Kwame is staring at you intently as you narrate your daily schedule. He does not take notes or anything, but you know that is because he must be recording. Those eyes are, after all, a nice piece of technology. Knowing that, you decide to make the most of your stay, and look around the room, listening, waiting. And as luck would have it, you notice something unusual - a tattooed, muscular woman with a red scarf on her neck talking to a bespectacled man in a suit with a suitcase full of papers. You take another few moments while describing your Tuesdays to Kwame in a monotone voice before you remember who she is. Amanda Pilar Cubana, a mid-level leader in the Comando Vermelho. Jailed for smuggling weapons and drugs from Bolivia to Venezuela. You can only barely hear what she's talking about to the man - but it's fairly obvious he's her lawyer and this is probably their last rehearsal before her parole hearing. Strange, you had no idea she was up. Then again, it's not like you can remember the sentences of every single inmate. Remembering enough of the faces that matter is trouble enough. Kwame and you keep discussing minor things, mostly irrelevant ones, filler, really. It looks like your visitation time is slowly coming to an end - if you have anything you want to say to him, now is the time. What do you do? Scorpion, DD Scorpion's aggression was... misguided, to say the least. When he heard the heel of his shoe crack before the bones of the mercenary, he instinctively knew, on a very, very basic level, a primal level, somewhere between the reptile mind and the forebrain, that he had hosed up. And, truly, if there ever was a moment for something to cover up his extreme failure, it would be that. For a moment, the entire room was silent, the inmates glaring at a majestically ill-advised move he tried to pull. That's when DD acted, smashing a steel pipe against the face of the completely befuddled 88 with a barely comprehensible, guttural shriek. Which was way more than enough for all hell to break loose, as prisoners took his cue and rushed to help the Legendary 88 Butcher. Or settle their own scores. Or just wreck some poo poo. And also the guards have finally decided to step in. And they did not really deign to ask questions. Scorpion's harm move: 2d6+3 9, he picks someone getting the drop on him. Scorpion Room 2, Medical Ward 1233 hours  When the medics told you you have been nigh-miraculously spared any serious injuries aside from a bunch of bruises (that do cover like a half of your body, but hey) and a few broken ribs, it was a surprisingly bittersweet pill. On one hand, you're alive. On the other, you faintly remember being the first one the guards grabbed before you could even realize what's happening, and the nurse told you in no uncertain terms they are pining the blame for what happened in the canteen squarely on you. As soon as you are back in a good enough shape to be released back into genpop, you're looking at two or three weeks of solitary confinement. Bad. And when you come out - there's that merc. If she's alive, that is. You get up from your bed, although it hurts like a motherfucker. You approach the window and pull the curtains away to look outside. The ward is U-shaped and you can see across a fenced-off parking lot to the other side. The mirrors in the rooms opposite yours are also curtained, so you can't see all that much, but you can at least get some fresh air in if you open the window a little bit (the bars beyond it ensure that it is not an escape risk, particularly from the fourth story). Then you notice the curtains just opposite from you, exactly on the other side, move away and a nurse steps into view. She moves away, revealing a bed behind her, and in the bed you see a face you'd rather not see again.  gently caress, no. What do you do? DD Security Room, Block C 1247? hours The moment everyone rushed to get the 88 Merc - what was her name, by the by? I don't think you've been properly introduced - you kind of froze, stepping slowly onto a half-broken table, as if overseeing the pandemonium unfolding all around you. She was instantly overtaken by two or three angry Templars, then by another bunch of maybe even angrier security guards in stab vests. You saw the struggle continue, as you hesitated to step in and really do something more. The hit you graciously donated to the merc's temple kind of felt as if you had landed in on yourself, or at least it rendered you into this passive state, where, frozen in fear, you heard and watched the situation escalate from fists to chairs, from chairs to batons, from batons to plastic forks and from forks to tazers. When they brought you in for questioning, they took one look at your wet, snotty face, the near catatonic state you were in, and the fearful clutching of an aluminum food tray before deciding you were definitely not the instigator. But they still wanted to give you some quality time in the security room anyway, and here you are, cuffed to the desk as the security guard went to get herself some coffee. She's been gone for like fifteen minutes now, and you've had more than enough time to read through all the labels on all the cabinet drawers several times. Still alone. What do you do? Akira You take a look around yourself, trying to evaluate the situation before it goes critical. You notice that the Templar is a very young man, and the ink on his tattoos is still jet black, they can't be too old. When you turn around, you notice some of the chief members of the gang standing around in a corner of the yard, seemingly preoccupied with their affairs, but every now and again glancing at the novice. So that's how it is. The Veteranos are ever more violently and with an ever larger cruelty ganging up on the one member that failed them in some way. You look at the poor wretch, a man in his early thirties, shoved around like a punching bag, spat upon, cursed, treated like a stray cat in a circle of schoolyard bullies. You saw such things may times in Taihoku - both done to cats and men. Then you suddenly hear hasty steps of a man running. You turn around, only to see him fling a knife straight at the Veteranos Jefe. A shout comes from a guard tower in the corner and you hear the unmistakable sound of a 5.56 mm thunder. The Templar falls to the ground, a bullet wound on his temple, but it is already too late for the old Jefe. You know that with the entire blade lodged deep in his throat he is as dead as they come, but it will still be a few minutes before he realizes it. Security Room, Block A 1248? hours So now you're in Security with three guards from Block A. Hell, they even brought in some lady you've never seen, and she's finishing her coffee ever so slowly. It's not that surprising, since the guards have their hands full picking up the pieces after the huge beatdown in the Yard, so they must be bringing in hands from other parts of the jail. But only one of them is actually talking to you. It's the old guy, the one who looks like he's one day away from retirement. It's probably because he's the only one of the group who speaks English, if you are to take a guess. I see, he says. But this does not answer my question. Why didn't you stop the man? What do you do? Katashi It should be lunchtime in a moment, but no-one comes in to lead your block group away. The minutes pass, and after a while no-one can pretend it is not way past 10 AM. You should be on your way to chow right now, but you're not. The inmates are starting to get angry. And the new guy is taking the brunt of it, five minutes after ten the guys from his level just swarmed his cell and started hollering. They're mad, and they want to unload their fury, and you understand that, because you too get cranky when you're hungry. The poor white collar is just crying in his cell as muscular hands attempt to grab anything they can through the bars. Now the guards are coming up and they're starting to herd people back into their cells. Lockdown? They're starting from the ground level, so you have a few minutes before they get here, if there's anything you want to do. What do you do?
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Feb 28, 2017 19:49
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Edge +2 // Style +0 // Mind +0 // Cool +1 // Meat -1 //Synth +1 Cred: 5 // Harm Clock: 21:00 // No gear // XP: 0 Char sheet Theme loving hell. Out of the frying pan into the fire. I'd like to blame the haze of withdrawal for my poor performance, but of course that's an excuse. The truth is, even at my peak my body is hardly my strong suit. I never put much effort into maintaining it. Despite what you may be thinking, I really don't like fighting. It simply seemed like the best gamble at the time. In Siglo Veinte, I was without the tools of my trade. I had to play by prison rules, even if it wasn't a game I was good at. And, even though my body at the time disagreed, bruises from a single enemy were better than circling sharks with eager shivs. Showing weakness is hardly signing your death sentence, but it certainly ups the odds of it. And here we were, another time I could not afford to show weakness. She hated me and wanted me dead. I could see it in her eyes. Worse, she now knew for sure she could easily beat me. But... if she hadn't paid for it, she wouldn't have been there with me. How do you survive that? You only have one option. Make the price not worth the payoff. Or make it seem that way, at least. I don't know if I thought all this at the time or if I simply acted on instinct, putting the teachings of the street to use without analysing them. I had to fight hard not to let the fear I really felt show on my face. Fact is, I was terrified, and the sedatives didn't offer any comfort. So I did what all street hustlers do when they step into the poo poo. I faked it. I stood up straighter, fighting through the pain and straining against the adhesive bandages. My artificial eyes met her real ones. Hers were daggers, but mine only showed casual, bored disdain. I held my face neutral for a long moment, then forced a slow, thin smile to develop. I counted to three in my head, then broke the staring contest by closing the curtain in a slow, deliberate motion. I near vomited from the tension right there. It was time to look for positives. The medical ward was nicer than a cell, if barely. If I played my cards right with the nurse, I might be able to get more anti-withdrawals. The security was slightly lighter, hopefully. Incidentally, right after that thought I collapsed on to the bed from pain and fatigue. I wanted to get out, obviously, but it seemed like I was in no position to consider it until I recovered. Still, it wouldn't hurt to have a look around the place. As soon as I could stand up again. Assess (edge): 2d6+2 12 Get 3 hold. -What do I notice despite an effort to conceal it? -Where can I get the most advantage? Keep 1 hold.
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Mar 1, 2017 00:30
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'Kingmaker' > XP 0.0 > Armor 0 > Harm 0/6Plot posted:Kwame is staring at you intently as you narrate your daily schedule. He does not take notes or anything, but you know that is because he must be recording. Those eyes are, after all, a nice piece of technology. Plot posted:Knowing that, you decide to make the most of your stay, and look around the room, listening, waiting. And as luck would have it, you notice something unusual - a tattooed, muscular woman with a red scarf on her neck talking to a bespectacled man in a suit with a suitcase full of papers. You take another few moments while describing your Tuesdays to Kwame in a monotone voice before you remember who she is. Amanda Pilar Cubana, a mid-level leader in the Comando Vermelho. Jailed for smuggling weapons and drugs from Bolivia to Venezuela. You can only barely hear what she's talking about to the man - but it's fairly obvious he's her lawyer and this is probably their last rehearsal before her parole hearing. Strange, you had no idea she was up. Then again, it's not like you can remember the sentences of every single inmate. Remembering enough of the faces that matter is trouble enough. He spent a moment wondering just how that might work. Obviously, even if the hearing went against her ...as it probably would... it wouldn't be wise for her to go aggro on the room, as that would merely ensure any future parole hearings were also sabotaged. Spilling her lawyer's coffee 'accidentally' might work, though even that could be perceived as aggressive behavior. Vomiting if and when she was denied parole might work, though, as that was more of an involuntary reaction. People reacted to bad news that way all the time. Problematically, in either scenario she would need to be in on it, though, which might require explaining why he had a vested interest in the matter. He imagined he could concoct a lie to mask his true interest easily enough, but it might simply be easier to have her slipped a laxative an hour or two before her hearing, though. He didn't know what the statistics were on pants-making GBS threads inmates being given a conditional parole, but he was pretty sure as to the statistics of rooms covered in poo poo being moved to the top of the cleaning queue. He would have to think about it. Plot posted:Kwame and you keep discussing minor things, mostly irrelevant ones, filler, really. It looks like your visitation time is slowly coming to an end - if you have anything you want to say to him, now is the time. Eisen Krone (background) posted:Been in the lockup long? Plot posted:Visitation Room, Admin Block, 1225 hours His time with Kwame had been fruitful, but he did have to be getting back to it. Today was a Friday, and he was effectively slacking off during his lunch hour to speak with his old friend. He still had another four hours of work to get done as part of his responsibilities on the cleaning crew, and he would need to hustle if he wanted to make up for lost time. He had been honest with Kwame when he had said that he liked to keep his mind on his work, though he supposed it wasn't necessarily as 'honest' as he had made it out. Prison life was very different from city life, with its own rules and social structure, but he'd found there was one rather amusing similarity: whether you're in lockup or the real world, nobody thinks twice about the guy cleaning their toilets, as long as he keeps his head down and stays out of the way. Prison life had a bit of a rider attached to that, as well, in that unless that guy caused trouble, nobody really wanted to gently caress with the guy cleaning their toilets, either, because then they would have to deal with own god drat poo poo. It wasn't much of an insurance policy against the mentally ill, of course, but anyone with half a brain tended to play nice. The icing on the cake, of course, was that people liked to run their mouth in their own blocks, and relatively few people stopped to really see the otherwise socially invisible janitor making his way up and down the halls. They'd been trained to behave that way all their lives, after all. A few years in lockup didn't tend to change that, which suited him just fine. pre:Based on the dates given and my schedule, I have to get back to cleaning crew duty after visitation. Move (+0): Act Under Pressure / Apply First Aid / Mix It Up Move (+1): Assess / Play Hardball / Research Move (+2): Fast Talk / Hit the Street Move (x1): Declare a Contact / I Know People Resources: Cred (x5) / Gear (x0) / Intel (x2) Directive: Financial / Prudent __________________________________________________________________________________________ Waador fucked around with this message at 06:56 on Mar 1, 2017 |
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Mar 1, 2017 02:10
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DD Character Sheet Stats: Cred: 5 | Gear: 0 | Intel: 1 // Edge:-1 // Style: 0 // Mind: +1 // Meat: 0 // Cool: +1 // Synth: +2 Well, that was bad I thought to myself after a few minutes of introspection. Though maybe no-one noticed the tears crawling down your face, some people cry when they get mad, maybe people would assume that's the kind of person you are. Not the whiny crying kind, but an angry psychopath about to go on a tear. The vision of the female guard laughing at me came to mind. Probably not, I groaned to myself internally, drat. I then kicked the desk I was cuffed too, and sat back down as my toe angrily started to throb. Maybe I can grab some gear while I'm here. The desk had Paperclips, a wooden name tag, and a few loose pieces of paperwork for filing. Act Under Pressure to Steal Office Supplies: 9 I just need to quietly remove the magnetic base, and keep a handful of paper clips and I can break drat near any lock in this prison. Hypothetically at least. Now to waddle on over to the filing cabinet, and find possibly an emergency exit map, or a maintenance schedule or something. Corps always hand out stuff like that, hell at my old job I had to go to three or four safety meetings a week. This prison can't be THAT different right? If he can't find anything like that, he'd at least like to know where the evidence locker is. They took my cool Mod, it was a Fuchijakwa 9000 and I want it back dammit. It was a pain in the rear end to get it into the prison. Literally. Roll +Mind to research a database (Like this file cabinet): 13 How would I find my Vape? How Secure is the Evidence Locker? Jackpot. Turtlicious fucked around with this message at 22:22 on Mar 2, 2017 |
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Mar 1, 2017 23:26
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Edge +0 // Style -1 // Mind +0 // Cool +1 // Meat +1 //Synth +2 Cred: 0 // Harm Clock: 12:00 // No gear // XP: 0 I sat motionless on the steel chair, staring at the paperwork in front of me. "Well," I said, "I tried to talk him down, but he told me not to get involved. And it seemed like this was a gang war about to unfold. I expected there would be negative consequences if I escalated the level of force in the yard. But now it seems I am in proverbial hot water for not throwing the first punch." Not that I minded. I was willing and able to engage in combat in the prison, but common sense dictated the guards would disapprove. Perhaps I was wrong? They certainly seemed to be short on staff. I wondered if I could even turn this opportunity to my favor. "I could of course play peacekeeper in the yard, if that is what you prefer. But I need your explicit approval." And, theoretically, I'd need a uniform and a paycheck for doing the guards' work. But, little steps. "Please consider this. I'm a new arrival with no ties to the ruling families yet, and although I'm unproven, you will find that a Soaring Crane can perform excellently on any security job, even by themself. The Templars and Veteranos clans are days away from engaging in all-out war. They're prodding each other, to see how far they can go before they cross the line. And I'm here, could prevent that. But only if I'm certain that I am allowed to. Otherwise, I will prefer to sit my sentence out from the sidelines."
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Mar 2, 2017 11:14
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Character Sheet Theme There were screams from down below. And an awful lot of yelling. Which meant either that the fish got yanked from his cell or people were overly pissy about lunch being late or people were mad about the majong tournament being interrupted. Or some combination thereof. Whatever it was meant trouble. It was probably mostly mahjong, though. The block loving loved mahjong. Clean-Cut held up his thumb and his index finger in front of Gresham's face. "Now, bruh... This is gonna hurt a little, aight?" Gresham swallowed. He was on his knees next to the toilet. He nodded and lowered his head towards. "It's not going to... to kill me or anything." "No, no, no, no, no, no," Clean-Cut said, shaking his head. "Nah, bruh. There's just gonna be a little pop, aight? Real small, aight?" Gresham nodded again. Clean-Cut grinned. "poo poo ton of blood, though." And then Clean-Cut slammed Gresham's face into the toilet bowl; breaking the bridge of the man's nose. He yanked Gresham's head around by the hair, keeping the head level, and letting the blood drip onto his fingers which he liberally applied to his own face. Prisons are strange organisms. Blocks are limbs attached to a sightless, unseen brain. And if this Block was going nuts they probably all were. That's how things always went down. Clean-Cut figured the best place to find out what was up was in medical with people from all the different Blocks. "Sorry, bruh. Remember -- don't say poo poo about me." Gresham gave a weak thumbs up. Clean-Cut patted him on the shoulder, strolled out of their cell, clutched his now bloody-looking face, and waited for security.
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Mar 2, 2017 14:43
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Scorpion Looking around the room, tired and hurt, you notice that the door to the Morgue is left open. A more careful inspection reveals that the morgue lock has been removed - probably broke and had to be replaced. That room is not particularly big, but it is dark. If you needed to, you could probably hide there and considering the nature of the place it would probably not be the first place someone would check. You hear steps coming down the hallway. At least three, maybe four people, coming towards the room you're in. Slow, measured steps. You're not alone in here, but if those people have bad intentions, are you willing to chance that they're after someone else? Not much time to think about that. The door opens, and in come three guards and the Warden himself. Jaime Anna Esposito, an old, balding Bolivian Mestizo. His skin is the colour of a dried-up banana peel, he has small, piercing eyes, and a monstrous grey moustache. You wonder how long he's been managing prisons - he doesn't have any implants, even cosmetic. In fact, the moment he opens his mouth you notice he's missing two or three teeth, and had one more replaced with a gold one. "Mr Bennett," he says, "It is good to see you are up. Please lie down, we have a few things to discuss." His English is good, but the accent makes it sound like he's chewing gravel. The two guards move to flank your bed, gently, but firmly nudging you to lie down peacefully. You oblige. "It is not every day that the prison has so many incidents, but today is apparently quite a special day. And to a large extent we have you to thank, Mr Bennett. It is not nice to start a riot during lunch." "I am delighted to inform you that there will be grave consequencias." What do you do? Take +1 XP from Illustrious. Kingmaker "Oh, I assure you, things are purely... personal. We have... differing opinions as to what should our focus be. But I don't think I have the time to go into details," he says, seeing the guard motion to him to finish the conversation. "I am hoping we'll get to talk again soon. Hang in there, Eisen." * * * 1308 hours Corridor near A-Block Staff Room "So you're saying D-Block got shafted on food." "Yep, turns out that in this whole mess we just couldn't fit them into the new chow schedule." "gently caress. Between that and the yard being off-limits until the investigation concludes..." Sweep, sweep, sweep. Mop. "Yeah, the fuckers are right on edge. Heard there was some blood in D-Block already. Hope Ol' Trujillo knows how to handle it." "I hear he got that bastard, whatshisname, the one who threw the first punch in the canteen. Supposedly he wants to make an example out of him." "Didn't he get, like, broken in three?" "Well, I hear he ripped out a man's tibia with his bare hands. Some bruises aren't anything surprising." "Isn't it that he's been here for like, two weeks or so?" "Bennett! I remember now, his name is Bennett. Alex or Alan. loving gringo. Hope he doesn't make it out of medical. Imagine what kind of a problem he'll be in a year or two." Sweep, sweep, sweep. Duran Duran The documents are a veritable treasure trove of facts, figures, and dates. Not that you care much for most of them, but some of them stick with you. But let's face it, you know why you're here. YOUR Fuchijakwa. drat. It's not here. The protocol for its seizure is, though. Says it's supposed to be with the rest of your stuff... Wait, what's this? Protocol for loss of evidence? They lost your vape? Fuckers, fuckers all! How did that even happen? The papers say the evidence locker in the central security room has a biometric lock and is constantly looked after by a guard who has no capacity to unlock it, because he's not in the biometric database! How can you just lose something from a place that secure? Wait. What's that on the photo? You notice a number of personal pics the guards have hanging on a pinboard. And one of them - that lady cop who brought you in here then left for coffee! - she has your Fuchijakwa! THE GALL! What do you do? Akira You can tell that your suggestion has left the guards dumbfounded. When the first one of them speaks, his answer is a strong, resounding "NO." Which only prompts all the other blues around him to instantly jump on him. They leave you in the room for a second and get into a heated argument outside. From what you can pick out, the sides are "don't let a psychotic killer run loose in the jail dispensing vigilante justice" and "that's the greatest idea for maximum security management I've heard since they invented putting locks on doors." It takes some time for them to come back. Doesn't matter. You're patient. "Okay. Here's the deal. We can't openly acknowledge you, but we'll keep your rear end covered if you stomp some disturbances. Just don't kill anybody. Deal?" What do you do? Katashi Gresham is such a nice guy when you ask him to. Take +1 XP from Violent. It takes a couple minutes for the guards to finally get all the way up to you, but by the time they do, you've got your face all bled up nice and, uh, not clean. Really makes you look like you're in an ending of a Vietnam War film. You are somewhat proud of this small accomplishment. "What the hell is going on here, pendejo? What's wrong with your face, eh?" What do you do?
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Mar 3, 2017 22:20
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Edge +0 // Style -1 // Mind +0 // Cool +1 // Meat +1 //Synth +2 Cred: 0 // Harm Clock: 12:00 // No gear // XP: 0 I smiled. "I knew we'd come to a reasonable agreement. I'll prevent violent disturbances to the best of my ability, and if you'll look the other way until the example has been set, then I'm sure everyone will get along harmoniously just fine." Putting my hand on my heart, I added: "I swear on my honour that I will prevent the use of lethal force in the yard whenever present." I started thinking. I'd need some other non-aligned prisoners to help keep the yard calm whenever I wasn't present, and to watch each others' backs. Perhaps this famed 88 butcher would be willing to cooperate? I made a mental note to speak with him as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
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Mar 3, 2017 23:32
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'Kingmaker' > XP 0.0 > Armor 0 > Harm 0/6Kwame posted:"Oh, I assure you, things are purely... personal. We have... differing opinions as to what should our focus be. But I don't think I have the time to go into details," he says, seeing the guard motion to him to finish the conversation. "I am hoping we'll get to talk again soon. Hang in there, Eisen." Plot posted:1308 hours - Corridor near A-Block Staff Room He found himself reminded of Alfred Henry Lewis, an investigative journalist from the late nineteenth century. The man was attributed to have said ...in a 1906 issue of Cosmopolitan, he believed... 'There are only nine meals between mankind and anarchy.' In 1943, shortly before the end of the second world war, that quote had been refined to more eloquently read 'It's only nine meals between men and revolution.' In his experience, both were true. The French Revolution could trace its history back to the price of bread and salt, and nearly two centuries later, it was yet again the price of bread that incited the Arab Spring. Other political factors were at play in both cases, of course, but the correlation was clear: if you want to rile up a population to the point that they're willing to challenge the established world order, and you're short on time, a food shortage is a good card to have in your deck. It seemed that D-Block had already missed one meal. He idly wondered who it was that decided to kick the hornet's nest. Plot posted:"I hear he got that bastard, whatshisname, the one who threw the first punch in the canteen. Supposedly he wants to make an example out of him." Eisen made a mental note to connect with the man at the earliest opportunity. It sounded as if he would be holed up in medical for at least a little while, while whatever injuries he suffered were treated. That was ample opportunity to make a play. He also had another reason to swing by medical on his cleaning shift, as chance would have it. pre:Research 4 > +1 Intel > Question: Where would I find a source of fast-acting, orally-ingested laxatives? Sprawl pg. 29 / 250 - Research (Mind) > 6-: the MC will answer your question... and make a move Sprawl pg. 78 / 250 - Word on the street > When you research by listening to or recalling street level gossip, take an additional [intel], even on a miss. Move (+0): Act Under Pressure / Apply First Aid / Mix It Up Move (+1): Assess / Play Hardball / Research Move (+2): Fast Talk / Hit the Street Move (x1): Declare a Contact / I Know People Resources: Cred (x5) / Gear (x0) / Intel (x3) Directive: Financial / Prudent __________________________________________________________________________________________ Waador fucked around with this message at 05:41 on Mar 4, 2017 |
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Mar 4, 2017 04:46
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Edge +2 // Style +0 // Mind +0 // Cool +1 // Meat -1 //Synth +1 Cred: 5 // Harm Clock: 21:00 // No gear // XP: 1 Char sheet Theme Well, poo poo. Something told me a charming smile wouldn't get me out of this situation. I did my best to neuter my accent, strip away all the historical baggage of imperialism and Eurocentrism. The last thing I needed was to give the man another reason to hate me. "Ah. Mr Warden. I wish we could have met under more pleasant circumstances. While I doubt that I will be able to dissuade you, I hope you will at least allow me to explain my actions." "It was my belief that if I had not taken action, an inmate would be dead. I preferred not to have him dead. Please consider; an open and unsubtle killing would likely have resulted in significant instability. It would have undermined the authority of the guards, as well as your own, Mr Warden. It could have had much longer lasting implications than a simple suppressed riot. Of course, I know you wouldn't ever think that I had the best interests of the prison at heart. But when stability is concerned, so is my safety, and there our purposes align." It was a long shot, but when you're up poo poo creek you get quite desperate for a paddle. "Allow me to make up for the inconvenience caused." "The inmate who I protected has, as I'm sure you're aware, quite the reputation. A reputation that you are also aware is undeserved. He is... meek. Prior to today, he has not partaken in violent incidents within your prison, nor does he break other rules. He is, in short, the opposite of the other gang leaders. Yet he has status. Imagine if he took the place of dangerous individuals within the social hierarchy. I make this happen. I could turn him into a figurehead. Take away the power of the Los Veteranos and the Templars. Give their status to a man who will maintain order and stability rather than disrupting it. This arrangement would make your work much easier, would it not?" Fast talk (style): 2d6 8 Zeppelin Insanity fucked around with this message at 20:24 on Mar 4, 2017 |
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Mar 4, 2017 16:55
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DD Character Sheet Stats: Cred: 5 | Gear: 0 | Intel: 1 // Edge:-1 // Style: 0 // Mind: +1 // Meat: 0 // Cool: +1 // Synth: +2 That's it, I thought to myself angrily as I unceremoniously slammed shut the File Cabinet, and sat back down with my new toys in my back pocket. These motherfuckers are going to steal from me?! Do they not know who I am?! I'm the 88 BUtcher, I wiped out an entire game BY MYSELF, and I"ll be fuckin' damned if I'm going to let something insignificant like a prison steal from ME! DD was fuming, and that same ugly color entered his cheeks, the first warning sign that he was going to lose it. I'M NOT HAVIN' IT. I'LL GET IT BACK IF I TEAR THIS WHOLE PLACE APART. DD started to growl angrily. He was ready to do work. Then he sighed, and remembered he was in prison, and was quite possibly caught, crying of all things, in the Cafeteria, with his own friend stuck in medical. He decided to wait for the Lady to come back, maybe a wink of his winning smile will get him his gear back. It couldn't hurt to ask first.
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Mar 5, 2017 11:34
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Character Sheet Theme Clean-Cut shrugged casually. He wanted to come across like the blood on his face wasn't a big deal. Which was easy since it wasn't his blood. "poo poo, bruh, ain't no thing," he said. "I guess I fell or some poo poo." He smiled pleasantly. "I'll take care of it, though. You want me to go back to my cell?" Clean-Cut winked and lifted his hands up submissively. "I'll go back in my cell." In prison, you can't just tell a guard you want to go to medical. You can't really tell them that you want to do anything. That will usually get you the exact opposite. But he knew that if there was one thing guards hated it more than anything else it was the concept of more work. He hoped the implicit threat of retributive violence against his "attacker" would be enough of an incentive to get him dragged out of the Block. He hoped that it would be seen as the route requiring less energy. Of course, if this was successful, he'd miss lunch. It was taco day. Kitchen staff made pretty good tacos. But... sometimes you have to sacrifice a pawn to set up a move with the queen.
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Mar 6, 2017 18:46
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Akira The guards take some time to ask you some more questions - about all kinds of things that happen in the prison every day. You are cautious to avoid implicating anyone in your answers. They don't seem really willing to lean on you. It does feel like they have little actual idea about who you are, or how should they approach you. Soon enough, they let you go. It's free time in A-Block now, as much as you hate it. The half-crippled augs are not a pleasant company, and neither is the constant, drumming pain in your skull. But it does make for a nice change from the hectic pace of the day. And the twin murders. You huddle in your favourite corner to rest, meditate, think about what happened. But suddenly, you're startled out of your rest by some guy in Templars ink. You don't recognize the face, but he's fast talking, that's for sure. "Hey, amigo. I'm here for the Brotherhood. We wanted to say we're real obliged that you did not get in the way of the late Bronco's final trial. Real nice on your end." He has piercing blue eyes that seem to dig deep into your soul, even if the rest of his face is unremarkable. Even the scars, the broken nose, the cuts - none of them seem to be particularly unique, it's like he's a man made of prefabricates with those eyes added in. "So we figured you're one of the good ones, right? And we figure - Veteranos are on your case soon. You need friends, man. And we need someone with your skillset to contract for us." "And we hear that some two guys who say you tried to promised to kill them if something happened to that 88 Butcher guy have already ran to LV for protection. Since, you probably heard, he got a little involved in a little riot in the canteen." "So the Vets are probably on your case already, not soon. Shoulda said it first." "So, you wanna cut a deal?" What do you do? Eisen Some time later "And do you remember that guy who tried to run a hunger strike?" "Bad idea on his end. You know what Trujillo did to him?" "No." "Well, I was there. I got assigned to the force-feeding detail. Ugly stuff, I hope it never happens again." "What's it like?" "You get handed a long tube, quite like for a gastroscopy. You lube it up real good and stick it up the guy's throat, all the way past the oesophagus. Then you fill it up with this white goop. It looks disgusting and reeks of a dentist's office." "Bad." "And then Ol' Trujillo reaches into his little black case of horrors and hands me a syringe and tells me to add it to the paste. So I did. Turned out it was some sort of loving industrial strength laxative. This half-starved guy started squirting goop mixed with stomach acids out of his loving rear end and trying to vomit into a tube that's almost in his loving stomach and pumping feed. And all that at no anaesthesia." "gently caress. Did he live?" "Barely." "Hey, janitor guy! Come here, the parole hearing room needs cleaning up! Someone's gonna get told off later today." What do you do? Alexander "A... fascinating proposal, Mr Bennett. I have to say I was thinking you'd have to serve as an example. Yet here you are, bringing me the tastiest morsel I may have gotten this week. You got yourself a deal, young man." He walks up to a bed a few away from yours, then yanks away the curtain around it. You notice a man hooked up to an IV, unconscious. His leg has been amputated, apparently. His bruises are fresh, he's probably another victim of the beatdown at the canteen. Must have brought him in when you were "talking" to the security. "Senor Varazca here will live, then. I was thinking about not letting him live, so that I could upgrade you to a murder in the first degree," he says, playfully petting the tattooed bald head of the man with tubes sticking out of every orifice on his face. "Send you for a little bit of a holiday in Permanent Solitary." "I guess that will have to wait. But - you realise - you do not want to disappoint me, Mr Bennett. I want you to be successful, and soon, and in a hopefully entertaining fashion. Or else Varazca's status may well degrade unexpectedly." "I will be hearing from you." He leaves, just in time to pass another inmate being brought in. gently caress, what's up with this guy? He's got blood all over his drat face! A Threat Clock has been started for Warden Esposito. What do you do? Neville You get back into your seat, feeling the strain of the handcuff on your wrist. The door suddenly opens and the guard lady comes back in. She's got quite a shocked look on her face, as if she had just taken part in something really drat weird. She sits opposite you and sets down an empty coffee cup. "Can you give me a statement about the events that transpired in the canteen today?" What do you do? Katashi Fast Talking the guards: 2d6+1 8 "Ayo, come over here. You wanna get taken to Medical? Be my drat guest, fucker." How nice of them! You smile just a little bit as they lead you by the cells full of super loving angry people. Someone even threw something at you. Maybe Medical will get dinner? As soon as you leave, one of the guards who stayed behind approaches the cell door to close it. He looks at the bleeding Gresham in the corner, smirking. When he tries to shut the door, he does, however, hear a quiet plea: "Can I... get transferred to another cell? Please?" The Legwork Clock advances to 1500. * * * Medical is a lot calmer than your lot, that's for sure. When they bring you in, you pass by the Warden himself in the doorway! Wonder what he's up to. It looks like there's only one conscious guy in here, though, the docs have hosed off somewhere. You think you've seen the guy before, but you can't quite put your finger on it... What do you do?
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Mar 7, 2017 22:38
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'Kingmaker' > XP 0.0 > Armor 0 > Harm 0/6A-Block Staff Room: Staff posted:"And then Ol' Trujillo reaches into his little black case of horrors and hands me a syringe and tells me to add it to the paste. So I did. Turned out it was some sort of loving industrial strength laxative. This half-starved guy started squirting goop mixed with stomach acids out of his loving rear end and trying to vomit into a tube that's almost in his loving stomach and pumping feed. And all that at no anaesthesia." All he would have to do is slip it into the coffee machine nearest the hearing room, and let nature take its course. Too much attention would be drawn if it was mixed with the beans, since everyone would get sick, but it could be diluted into the milk or cream in the nearby fridge. Any physical illness would be traced back to, at best, an expired carton of dairy. Plausible, and easily overlooked by a routine investigation. The only challenge would be actually getting his hands on the warden's 'black case of horrors', if even briefly. Odds were it was somewhere in his office, though it was probably locked safely away ...presumably in the desk, perhaps a wall safe? In either case, the security measures in place were likely to be more malleable than the locked pharmacy room in the medical ward, which was sure to be the only other reliable source of laxatives. He would need to do a bit more research to nail down the precise location of the case, he supposed. He spent the better part of the next twenty minutes musing on who might know what he needed to know. The last thing he wanted was to get caught breaking into a safe in the warden's office when the drat thing didn't even have what he needed. It occurred to him that the best way to find out was probably to ask the warden himself. The point of that case was to strike fear into the hearts of inmates, as much as the warden sounded like he also enjoyed using it. Carefully managed, he could likely be convinced to show it off so that word would get back to the general population, and put the fear of God into a few of them. That would confirm the location and a few of the security measures, at least. A-Block Staff Room: Staff posted:"Hey, janitor guy! Come here, the parole hearing room needs cleaning up! Someone's gonna get told off later today." Prison Facts posted:The parole hearing room has a clear and uninterrupted Net signal. pre:My neural interface has the +high speed and +high capacity properties, so likely allows for the rapid transfer of data when a signal is available. He had more on his mind than merely refreshing his cache today, though ...although he supposed he would still do that, too. Either way, it was time to have a more discreet conversation with Kwame. pre:Once inside the parole hearing room, I will mentally activate my neural interface,
and try to get a clear signal. If I am able to do so, I will send the following
text message to Kwame:
>> You didn't actually need to visit in person, you know. We live in a digital age, after all.
Anyway, while it was nice to see you, what the gently caress was that all about? I don't exactly have
all day, but I'll be around for the next little while if you need to discuss something.Move (+0): Act Under Pressure / Apply First Aid / Mix It Up Move (+1): Assess / Play Hardball / Research Move (+2): Fast Talk / Hit the Street Move (x1): Declare a Contact / I Know People Resources: Cred (x5) / Gear (x0) / Intel (x3) Directive: Financial / Prudent __________________________________________________________________________________________
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Mar 8, 2017 01:58
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Edge +2 // Style +0 // Mind +0 // Cool +1 // Meat -1 //Synth +1 Cred: 5 // Harm Clock: 21:00 // No gear // XP: 1 Char sheet Theme No, seriously. I'm not making GBS threads you. I really hadn't expected it to work - like I said, I was desperate - so understandably I was rather taken aback. Still, at that point one phrase kept echoing through my mind. "Deal with the devil". I'd bought myself time, nothing more, and as it would turn out later, the Warden was not a man to be hosed with. I knew even then that if I delivered results, more would be asked for. And then more. And so on and so on until I didn't deliver, at which point I would be sorry I ever struck the deal. So now I had a time limit for getting out of Siglo Veinte. And as luck would have it, the man who would put everything in motion chose that moment to confidently waltz in, blood on his face notwithstanding. "You. How's things out there?" Get the Job (edge): 2d6+2 11 I pick: -The meeting doesn't attract attention -The employer provides useful assets [+gear] -The job pays well (hey, maybe we can steal something from the prison) I also spend the third hold for Medical wing on: -What is my best way out? Zeppelin Insanity fucked around with this message at 01:41 on Mar 9, 2017 |
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Mar 8, 2017 20:09
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Edge +0 // Style -1 // Mind +0 // Cool +1 // Meat +1 //Synth +2 Cred: 0 // Harm Clock: 12:00 // No gear // XP: 0 I frowned. Things at the prison were getting very complicated very quickly. I'd have to come in contact with the 88 butcher as soon as possible, now. That said, I had no interest in further entangling myself with a second-rate clan like the Templars after that show. "I have witnessed Bronco's trial and judged the Brotherhood to be... Lacking. Senseless, formless violence. I will play no part in your petty squabbles. As a matter of fact, I have resolved to keep the peace in the yard for everyone's sake. So, if the Brotherhood stays to their side of the playground, and the Veteranos do the same, then we'll be friends. But if anybody attempts to cause disquiet, I promise you that I will personally pacify the offenders." I resumed my meditating position. "Now leave me be." Akira plays hardball and promises to end any fights in the courtyard swiftly if the Templars try anything funny. A 5! Deltasquid fucked around with this message at 19:10 on Mar 9, 2017 |
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Mar 9, 2017 19:07
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Character Sheet Theme Clean-Cut laughed and went in for a dap. "Scorp! Ossu, bruh? Chill block gotten warm to-day, bruh, swear. I'm of the assumption everywhere else must be getting loving hellhot then. Tell me truespeak if I be lying." Clean-Cut snorted and wiped the blood off of his face with a bedsheet. "loving white power mother fuckers. Stirring up poo poo." He wiggled his fingers by his temple. "Got that tingle, bruh," he said. "It saying, "Bruh, race war about to kick off and you ain't surrounded by kin. Get safe." Clean-Cut stopped, looked at Scorpion, and-- after a moment-- burst into a peal of pleasant sounding laughter. Like he'd just heard the punchline of an innocent joke. "Oh, poo poo, I forgot you white, too, bruh!" He bit his thumb as he grinned. "You might be in more trouble than me. I'm unsure how discerning angry Los Vetaranos bangers gonna be when red starts spilling. You might wanna think about getting put in solitary." He licked his lips. "Or dipping." He didn't mention the new Yōkina Ikka he saw. Intentionally. It could still be coincidental.
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Mar 10, 2017 18:55
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DD Character Sheet Stats: Cred: 5 | Gear: 0 | Intel: 1 // Edge:-1 // Style: 0 // Mind: +1 // Meat: 0 // Cool: +1 // Synth: +2 "Here's what happened coach," DD said looking the cop straight in the eyes, "Some slag snuck onto the floor and wanted to ice me for past crimes. I'm a crazy guy, poo poo happens. I said 'That's no bueno senorita,' That's uh... Spanish for no way Jose, which is spanish for like, nuh-uh Joseph." DD continued with what he assumed an ice cold stare, "People who take from me, or try to take from me get what's coming to them you know. And she was trying to take away my friendship. Like them you know, cartoons say? Friendship is the most important thing on this planet you don't take friendship from no-one." DD continued, "After she assaulted my friend I Hit her so hard with the lunch tray that she was put into the hospital. I'm just that amazing." He then remembered the part about him crying. "Uh... I mean, after that my augs locked up and my tear ducts and nose... ducts. started draining like crazy, which looked totally rad as you saw, which is why you pulled me aside. I wanna see a Doctor for that, I shouldn't be tear ducting all over the place. " "I guess there's a better word for that, but I wouldn't know, tear ducting sounds the best. The most important part to remember is that people who steal from me get there's eventually. Whether it's friendship, property, or opportunities, the 88 BUTCHER ALWAYS GETS HIS." DD Roared confidently, much more confident than he felt. Turtlicious fucked around with this message at 10:19 on Mar 12, 2017 |
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Mar 11, 2017 07:48
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Edge +2 // Style +0 // Mind +0 // Cool +1 // Meat -1 //Synth +1 Cred: 5 // Harm Clock: 21:00 // No gear // XP: 1 Char sheet Theme "poo poo, mate! I hadn't recognized you. What with the blood and all." It was good to see him. I hadn't exactly had a good day up to that point. Still, his words gave me pause. Everything was coming to a head and I was running out of time. loving hell, she'd better be very grateful. I swore to myself that I'd never volunteer to take the fall for someone. I really needed to stop getting myself in trouble over women. "I don't think I would particularly enjoy solitary. I have a better idea. I think it's time for some fresh air. And I've got a date to make." Zeppelin Insanity fucked around with this message at 17:36 on Mar 11, 2017 |
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Mar 11, 2017 09:46
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 Everyone, the moment you decide to hop on the "crashing this joint" bandwagon, you shall decide how much stake you put on that mission: one Cred, two Cred, or three Cred. You immediately lose that amount and there are no promises of ever getting it back. When the Mission ends and you get paid in full, you will get back twice what you staked. If the job pays well (as this one is supposed to) AND you get paid in full, you will get triple what you staked. Bear in mind Cred is not simply money or possessions, in this Mission it mostly represents the respect and reputation you can get for getting out of a maximum-security prison specifically designed to keep people like you in it. HOWEVER, be wary. Staking three cred on a Mission means you are really upping the stakes and putting a lot of your rep on the line, which draws attention. This advances the Legwork Clock (currently MISSION DIRECTIVES
Kingmaker There is no reply for a few minutes. You mop in silence, the only other noise in the room being the guard huffing on his cigarette as he watches over you from the comfort of the attorney's chair. He's dropping ash on the floor. Jerk. You start thinking that he didn't get your message when you get a popup. pre:>>FILE DOWNLOAD COMPLETE::: >> DEC38811236THETA.DLL >>WARNING:::FILE SET TO AUTORUN CONTINUE?????//,.,MNJNJN >YES While we are here: how does the actual, you know, user interface of your neural interface look like? What happens when you send a message? What happens when you receive it? Are there windows? Or maybe it's just a penetrating feeling somewhere in your hindbrain that slowly spreads out to your awareness? Or maybe something else entirely? Does it have colour? Does it have a taste? Can it receive sounds? And what's different when it glitches out like it does right now? pre:>>FILE DEC38811236THETA.DLL 95%-98%-100% UNPACKED AND RUNNING:: >> D E C R Y P T I O N P R O T O C O L U P D A T E D pre:MESSAGE RECEIVED >>> CONTACT KJOHNSON >>Good to hear you found a moment. I wasn't sure if you can get wireless in jail. Looks like you can, which is great. I won't go into details, the situation is bad. Both you and TAAC are in mortal danger. We need you out, stat. We have reasons to believe that the entire conspiracy that put you in jail runs way deeper than it seemed at first and is now ready to off you at any moment. It turns out Siglo Veinte has, over the past years, had a number of foreign-national prisoners disappear on espionage charges. And most of those guys were people you would never believe could have had anything to do with espionage. I don't know how much time you have left, but it's running out. Once you get out, we can stash you in that place I talked about. Then we can talk more, in person. Anything you need? Scorpion, Clean-Cut As for the way out: the windows are an obvious no-go, that much is clear, unless you find someone with some power tools to cut through the bars. Even so, you'd have to run for something like a hundred metres to get to the five-metres-tall fence (at least there's no perimeter wall on this side), then another five hundred or so in clear view of the guards on the towers. Hardly a winning proposition, unless you can somehow work over those limitations. If you want to get out of the room, there's the main door. Honestly, it's not that secure, and from what you know, neither are the doors in the following hallways. If you put your mind to it, you can break out into the genpop areas in half an hour with some improvised tools - if you can get past the guard posted just at the end of the line, that is. There's also the devious option of the morgue. If you could somehow switch places with a dead body, you could get out of medical unseen - it would not get you out of the Siglo Veinte, though, since the bodies are cremated in an on-site facility before being shipped out to the family. It's also quite unlikely you could do that trick on... however many people you anticipate will be getting out of here with you. But I bet you could do something really vicious with the idea itself. What do you do? Akira The man flinches, at first, then backs away. You understand your opposition has been noted as you watch him leave and return to your meditation. You think about just how bad of a situation this is. A perfect storm, and you're here for barely two weeks, already caught up in gang violence, with a good third of the prison probably viewing you as Specifically Their Enemy. Maybe you should make some friends? A deep breath. The Legwork Clock has advanced. Your situation in the prison is becoming more precarious. What do you do? Duran Duran The lady looks at you and your lofty pronouncements with poorly-concealed lack impatience. She sighs loudly as you end your tirade, then looks into her empty coffee cup. "You done? Then sit your rear end down." She kind of looks like your grade school science teacher. The one you knew chainsmoked out the back during every recess and suspected would do cocaine before the morning teacher meetings. She has that same "is probably forty, but ruined enough to appear sixty" look. "Who are you even trying to impress, really?" She even sounds like her. "Me, I don't give a poo poo. Why don't you tell me about what actually did happen, buddy? And what role did your friend Bennett play in the whole shebang? I hear he had a bunch of exploits there, most definitely." "I really don't get paid enough for this." She reaches into the pocket and puts the small black tube into her mouth, inhaling deeply, then letting it out of her nose. If you looked, you could pretty much see the stress coming off her face in an instant, a huge relief coming over her. But you - you mostly noticed the blue glowing dot at the end of the Fuchijakwa. What do you do? Tevery Best fucked around with this message at 20:19 on Mar 15, 2017 |
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Mar 15, 2017 19:49
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Staking three
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Mar 15, 2017 20:09
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'Kingmaker' > XP 0.0 > Armor 0 > Harm 0/6Plot posted:While we are here: how does the actual, you know, user interface of your neural interface look like? What happens when you send a message? What happens when you receive it? Are there windows? Or maybe it's just a penetrating feeling somewhere in your hindbrain that slowly spreads out to your awareness? Or maybe something else entirely? Does it have colour? Does it have a taste? Can it receive sounds? And what's different when it glitches out like it does right now? > Layering additional information onto any sense, whether it be sight, sound, touch, taste, or smell. >> That could be used to project targeting information into one's vision, in the case of the targeting suite. >> In the same vein, it would act as a computer terminal that only the user can see, in the case of data storage. >>> It would make sense to me that if you download a video file, you would be able to mentally 'see' and 'hear' it. >>> Presumably, whether something contains 'tastes' or any other sensory information really just depends on the data. >>> An MP3 only contains audio data, for example, but we obviously have file types that contain audio and video. >>> In the near future, it would be entirely likely that other file types with interlaced audio, video, smell, touch and taste information would exist. >>> In that context, though, I would suspect much like one can mute audio today, you could mute or adjust the 'volume' of any sensory input in a file. That line of thought leads into a separate consideration, which is whether the neural interface could be used to 'block' other senses, and I suspect the answer is 'no' or 'not effectively'. Since your other sensory organs (eyes, ears, and so on) are also directly connected to the brain, I don't think a neural interface would be able to completely override what you see and hear, though it could probably send competing information in the same manner that your eyes can tell you one thing, while your sense of touch tells you another (like touching a hologram, you expect it to be there with your eyes, but your hands pass right through). At that point you'd rely on muting data you don't want, and there is probably also a concept of 'default transparency' to immediately identify things that are digital versus what you are actually seeing and hearing, since otherwise it might be challenging to differentiate reality from information layered on digitally. Conversely, you might also end up wanting a sensory deprivation tank to get the 'full sensory experience' without any competing information, if you were trying to open a data file. Kind of like how you sometimes want noise-cancelling headphones, if you are going to be experiencing digital smells and tastes, you probably don't want someone's perfume or your cleaning products impacting the experience. The other way to get there would be if you also had cybereyes, cyberears, and so on, since you could definitely turn those on or off, unlike the biological ones. Though a sensory deprivation tank is probably cheaper than a cyber version of all of your sensory organs. > Connecting with devices specifically designed to integrate with a neural interface, to add additional functionality. >> Using the example of the targeting suite, every weapon would likely come with its own targeting software, since it really should be customized to the device. >> The same would be true of the remote control interface variant, since different drones would have different information they need to send you, to align with their different technical capabilities. >> In the case of the data storage neural interface, you could likely download software to it like any other computer, subject to its data storage limitations. >>> As a result, it is probably trivial to download and run something like Photoshop Neural Edition, but you might need to connect to physical hardware for tasks that require it. >>> As a result, I would suspect that relevant hardware for the data storage neural interface would be to act as the traits it doesn't have inherently. >>>> You would end up with hard drives (to simulate high capacity), wireless access nodes (to improve latency and simulate high speed), satellite uplink devices (to simulate the satellite relay trait), and personal firewall devices (to simulate the encrypted trait), and so on. >>>> This extends logically into how 'decks' work, since they have specialized firewalls, stealth protocols which are likely just automatic proxy server routines, and so on. A 'deck' at that point is just an extensive combination of hardware that could otherwise be purchased separately. >>> The same would likely be true for the remote control unit, where you could purchase hardware drone control units to add enough processing power to simulate the +multi-tasking trait. This covers the questions of how sensory input works, being 'does it have colour', 'does it have a taste', and 'can it receive sounds'. As to the more general questions of 'what does it look like', and 'what happens when you send or receive a message', and 'are there windows', in my mind I think the answer to all of those is 'if you want'. As with any computer system, there would invariably be countless skins and mods available to customize and fine-tune the user experience. In my own case, if I were customizing my neural interface, it would be somewhere around 35% to 50% transparent with thin neon green borders for visual information, with sounds, smells, touch, and taste disabled by default and requiring an administrative prompt to enable individually. As a result of being in prison, I wouldn't want anything to occur that might startle me, and a random sound that causes me to react might give away that I am using a neural interface at an inopportune time, so it's just more prudent to turn it off. Enabling audio to listen to things probably occurs regularly when I am alone, though I don't imagine I get much use out of the other senses. Though I probably crank up the volume on a playlist of pleasant scents when doing the less enjoyable parts of janitorial duty. Since most information is browsed or interacted with visually, there would be application windows that are open. Messages likely wouldn't be fundamentally different from today's text message and e-mail clients, with some blinking icon to indicate there is new data when the application is minimized. Since the neural interface is described as having 'speed-of-thought communication between the user’s brain', I would suspect that adjusting volumes, changing application transparencies, accessing stored information and modifying other settings occurs fairly quickly. In the case of the glitch occurring this time around, I expect it's similar to what happens today when computers bite off more than they can chew. The interface would just freeze up and stop working for a few seconds or milliseconds, enough to be noticeable that it isn't being responsive.    __________________________________________________________________________________________ Move (+0): Act Under Pressure / Apply First Aid / Mix It Up Move (+1): Assess / Play Hardball / Research Move (+2): Fast Talk / Hit the Street Move (x1): Declare a Contact / I Know People Resources: Cred (x5) / Gear (x0) / Intel (x3) Directive: Financial / Prudent __________________________________________________________________________________________ I will update for my response to the situation and any actions taken in a separate post. Waador fucked around with this message at 22:13 on Mar 15, 2017 |
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Mar 15, 2017 21:53
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Staking two
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Mar 15, 2017 22:33
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'Kingmaker' > XP 0.0 > Armor 0 > Harm 0/6Plot posted:There is no reply for a few minutes. You mop in silence, the only other noise in the room being the guard huffing on his cigarette as he watches over you from the comfort of the attorney's chair. He's dropping ash on the floor. Jerk. You start thinking that he didn't get your message when you get a popup. Plot posted:>>FILE DEC38811236THETA.DLL 95%-98%-100% UNPACKED AND RUNNING:: >> D E C R Y P T I O N P R O T O C O L U P D A T E D Kwame posted:MESSAGE RECEIVED >>> CONTACT KJOHNSON Kwame posted:Anything you need? Prison Facts posted:- The prison was made on the cheap, cutting a lot of corners. The camera network specifically is insufficient. A few brief moments of thought, and his next message to Kwame was composed. 'It'll be a fool's errand to try to find the blueprints online, so don't even bother. They've cut enough corners and had enough contractors in here to turn whatever the original plan was upside-down by now, so anything you do find would be unreliable at best. There's an alternative, though. You wouldn't know this unless you were inside, but they installed low-flow toilets and showers last year. In order to accommodate that, they had to reduce the pressure in the pipes significantly. We can use that. Low pressure pipes don't have enough power to seriously complicate an exfiltration ...or an infiltration. You're going to need a drone. Specifically, a submersible, small enough to fit into the intake valve in the lake underneath the complex. You won't be able to move around too quickly without risking some noise, so it will need to be slow and stealthy. I would highly recommend you equip it with a sonar array to navigate - and map - the maze of pipes within the complex. A satellite relay will also be necessary, to avoid any signal jamming that might occur as it navigates the complex.' He allows a brief pause before sending the next stage of his message, 'This is a two-birds one-stone scenario. My access to a wireless signal is severely limited at the moment. However, everyone has access to at least one toilet. If you can get a drone in the pipes, you can get the satellite relay close enough such that I'll be able to piggyback off its signal, solving the complication we would otherwise run into concerning our inability to communicate reliably. Although I imagine storage won't be a major element of its design, the drone will likely be large enough to smuggle at least some kind of rudimentary equipment into the complex, if it comes to that. Having a reliable, sonar-developed map of the pipes would also be invaluable, I would imagine. I suppose that's three birds, technically.' pre:Using the 'drone jockey' guidance on drones, I'll suggest to Kwame that he should acquire one of the following: Motive style > submarine Frame > Small (rat to cat-sized) Strength (1) > +stealthy Sensor (1) > +sonar Weakness (1) > +slow Wildcard (1) > +satellite relay  He decides to add, mostly as an afterthought, 'If you have trouble finding what you need, let me know, I suppose. There's a play we could make, though I imagine you wouldn't like it.' pre:Hit the Street (narco subs) 6 Move (+0): Act Under Pressure / Apply First Aid / Mix It Up Move (+1): Assess / Play Hardball / Research Move (+2): Fast Talk / Hit the Street Move (x1): Declare a Contact / I Know People Resources: Cred (x5) / Gear (x0) / Intel (x3) Directive: Financial / Prudent __________________________________________________________________________________________ Waador fucked around with this message at 03:01 on Mar 16, 2017 |
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Mar 16, 2017 01:20
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Edge +2 // Style +0 // Mind +0 // Cool +1 // Meat -1 //Synth +1 Cred: 3 (2 staked) // Harm Clock: 21:00 // No gear // XP: 2 Char sheet Theme I told Katashi all I knew. The morgue, the woman on the opposite side of the wing, the deal with the warden.. Then, we got to planning. "We're short on time. Problem is I'm a little, you know, indisposed right now" I motioned to the blood seeping through my bandages. Must have ripped some stitches by standing up when I wasn't supposed to. "So I can't stray far from medical for now. First step is getting into the medicine locker. They must be holding on to some stronger stuff for the real emergency cases. I've seen some of those proper milspec trauma kits in action a while back. They have this sort of flexible lattice you apply and it.. right, boring, you get the point. If they have something like that, it should help me get back in shape in a few days. I could also really use some anti-withdrawals to clear my head." "Getting out while the guards are twitchy and the prison is in drat near lockdown is going to be really tricky. But there might be a way around that. Give the guards and the warden reason to relax. Pat themselves on the back. I'm thinking we pin some poo poo on one of the gangs, then shut them down hard. Crisis averted, lighting doesn't strike twice. Thoughts?"
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Mar 16, 2017 23:46
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DD Character Sheet Stats: Cred: 5 | Gear: 0 | Intel: 1 // Edge:-1 // Style: 0 // Mind: +1 // Meat: 0 // Cool: +1 // Synth: +2 DD looked at the cop kind of dumbfounded, do I even know a Bennett? "wait who was that again?" The bored cop puffs a cloud of smoke, then replies lazily. "The guy who started poo poo at the canteen. Supposedly lunged at another convict, one Jaime Vatutin. Witnesses say he shouted something about protecting you." "Oh my God his name is Bennett? He's a Benny? That's awesome," DD started to laugh and tears in his eyes, "I can not wait to tell him his name is Benny. Wait can you tell me that? Snitches get Stitches and like, I don't think you're supposed to share info like that in prison. I've lost my train of thought though, what's the question again?" "Don't provoke me." Her stare becomes cold and piercing. "What was your role in the events that took place in the canteen? What was Bennett's role?" "I don't know man," DD started to panic a little, "I'm actually not really sure what I'm allowed to say you know? You're a cop right? I can't be seen talking to those. Besides what are you going to do if I don't talk," DD said with a slight chuckle, "Hit me?" She sighs. "Mark you down as non-compliant, let the parole board know. More importantly, let other guards know. And what they will make other inmates hear is up to them. Bear in mind none of this will leave this room unless I allow it." "Wait, you can let other inmates know how bad rear end I am if I don't talk?" DD's mood swings back into full excitement, "That would be awesome. Yes please, I would like an order of that, and I'd like my vape back please, since you're being helpful." It looks like the Cop Lady wasn't as mean as DD first thought, maybe she just respected manners. "If you don't talk, I'll let them know you talked. A lot. And hands off my stick." The cop snapped back. "That's a lie, cops can't lie that's entrapment!" DD's heart plummeted, "Well can I just get a hit then? It's not like we're allowed anything like that in here." "No, you loving can't!" She slams the palm of her hand on the table and stands up, fuming. She pulls an entire drawer full of files out of the cabinet and starts going through the papers. "W... Weller, Wezyr, Wezzano, Wheatman... Whidgeons. Here it is." She dumps a folder on the desk, just out of DD's reach, then sits down and opens it. "I'm wondering what in the gently caress did they even put you in here for. Criminal Idiocy? Annoying With Intent To Piss Off? Murder?! I can't fathom how a loving loser like you could kill a mosquito." She scours the folder, looking for something. When she opens a page somewhere down the middle, a bunch of photographs fall out - looks like the glue didn't hold. The one that lands squarely down the middle of the table is your arrest mugshot. Wet, red eyes, cheeks burning with shame, snot running down your nose. DD feels a pinch of embarrassment. She stops and looks at the photo, surprised, then picks it up. "What on Earth! You sure as poo poo didn't act the part any more you looked it!" "Well, uh yeah, I thought uh... You know, if I looked like that," DD's cheeks turned bright red, and he turned his head to the side, not able to look her in the eye. "People'd go easy on me, just because you're a hard core killer like me, doesn't mean you gotta always be out there doing killings." Ugh, that's probably not the right word for that, you should ask Benny what badasses say when they do lots of killing, "Look all I know is, that woman recognized me as one of the most illustrious mass murderers of this century, and was going to kill me, and then she didn't. I'm not saying nothing more unless you give me a better deal. poo poo I was just trying to be nice Miss Police Officer." DD shrugged, "Besides when my Neural Implant goes off kilter, it makes my eyes water and my sinuses drain, so yeah I look like that. Probably should send me to the med bay, so someone can check it out. DD realized he had to get out of here, but more importantly, he realized that he had to destroy any instance of that loving photo in existence. Fast Talk 2d6+0 = 7 Staking the minimum Cred, 1 Turtlicious fucked around with this message at 12:41 on Mar 20, 2017 |
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Mar 20, 2017 12:36
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Kingmakerpre:I understand. I shall set the wheels in motion. It will take some time, however. I'd estimate about a week to obtain means and assets for the purchase and the final move - it's hard enough getting myself across the border, hauling gear will be an additional problem. I am sorry if I appear unprepared, but, much like you, I am operating on extremely short notice. I'll contact you on Tuesday, when you're outside. If you need to contact me sooner, I'm afraid you'll need to work out a way. Duran Duran Okay, now she's red in the face. "You want to get to medical? Then go! loving go, get out of my sight. There's a guy by the door, he'll take you there. With my loving blessing." You meekly motion to the vape. Without even waiting for you to speak, she just grabs you by the collar and throws you out of the door. The guard outside - a young, blond Latino with the face of a Cupid and a huge splatter of blood on his uniform shirt - helps you get up from the ground. "Medical, I hear? Eh?" * * * Meanwhile, back in the security room, Anna sits down in the chair and inhales deeply on the vape. What a loving idiot fucker. Argh. gently caress. No way she's gonna let him just slip after pissing her off so much. She's gonna make drat sure everyone hears Whidgeons snitched. Not sure what yet, but it's not like it matters all that much. With a little luck, the inmates will take care of him themselves. Having had time to reconsider, she realizes that hell, sending him off to medical is actually a nice idea. Makes the snitching story all the more believable. She looks at the arrest mugshot. Maybe she ought to make a couple dozen copies and send them around the prison? Warden Esposito's Threat Clock has advanced. It is now at 1500. Outing DD as a snitch will definitely hinder the plan to make him the Prison King - and the Warden won't be happy about it.
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Mar 20, 2017 20:23
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