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Warhawk and Dibs - Now - An Outdoor Storage Facility Warhawk lifted up his chrome pinky finger to his lips and took a deep drag on the internal cybernetic vape. The digital vape warmed the root is his real hand ever slightly as it transformed oil into the slightly sweet, flowery taste of cherry blossom. It filled his mouth and lungs and when he exhaled, the cloud was thick and pink. As nicotine beauty swirled in the air, Warhawk sat on a rotting cardboard box in the near dark. Things were scuttling in the box. Hours earlier he might have cared, but his first shadowrun put things into perspective. Scuttling things probably wouldn't kill him. In fact the people that tried to kill him hadn't. He'd killed them instead. So he didn't fear scuttling things. The man that the pink nicotine cloud swirled about was a Caucasian human, bald with only his eyebrows betraying his hair color as a dark brown, which matched his eyes. At just under six feet tall, Warhawk was lean, lithe and muscular with prominent veins trailing his flesh, his cheekbones stark. To those who didn't know any better, he looked impressive, representing years of work in a gym or perhaps mastery sort of competitive sport. To the trained eye, he was just another vatjob, for his build was too perfect. The homecoming king of Uncanny Valley. An aftermarket Adonis. Someone with too much money and not enough patience got that look for a song while getting cybernetics and bioware installed. You could hit peak metahuman, just sign on the dotted line. Many a dad-bod had been transformed through the powers of high technology, too much money and mid-life crisis. That carved out of marble look rarely lasted though, for it took physical maintenance that took time, dedication and willpower that most people simply did not possess. Muscles came and went, but dad-bod was eternal. At least until one signed on the dotted line again and plunged once again into the vat. Warhawk was different though. Yes he'd signed on the dotted line and yes, he'd gotten a mix of new and used cybernetics and bioware and yes he wasn't positive on how to maintain his new physique. But he'd gotten almost everything gratis by wracking up shitloads of debt and abandoning his previous life before someone came by to collect. One could ward off the evil hooks lowered by corporations, baited with debt simply by making an offering of a perfect credit score to the banking gods and disappearing into the shadows. Yes, the Adonis look would impress some. Even as lounged on that rotten box full of scuttling things, sitting in the near dark of a storage unit bolthole, partial proof against far away sirens. No, Warhawk spoiled the look even for the gullible. For his only change of clothes were mustard stained, sweatpants, a three wolves howling at the moon t-shirt and socks in sandals. For before he'd torched his previous life, he'd been a horrible weeb and some of his bad habits had followed him like a fart. "What is that smell?" asked Dibs. Dibs was an older human in his fifties. He had that silver fox thing going for him. Dark hair slicked back, salt and pepper at the temples, mustache pencil thin strong nose, an angular jaw and light blue cybereyes. Though he'd only had the one well-tailored well-armored suit. That had been splashed in the awfulness of the night. So he'd stripped down to his skivvies, wearing silk boxers and black socks. Even so, the smell of insides turned out lingered and his expensive masculine cologne was accented by blood, fear and burning metal. "It's cherry blossom vape," said Warhawk, "I got it from the Vapatorium." "The Vapatorium," said Dibs, dryly. The man paced back and forth in the room, turning his head each time to either stare at Warhawk or look away from him. "It's...It's good. My old, favorite shop" stuttered Warhawk. His eyes faded into the distance. He could never go back. That wasn't Warhawk's favorite shop. That was the favorite shop of a dead man. Of who he used to be. It was hard to engage with that part of him. "It's embarrassing," sighed Dibs, "The only reason I let you into my bolthole is because you saved my rear end. I can't believe what happened..." Warhawk smiled at the memory. It was a relief, focusing on the now. On the person he'd become. That ride had been the greatest moment of his life. "That was pretty cool, huh?" "It was terrifying and humiliating," snapped Dibs, as he paced, "You were swinging your sword on a moped and killing people as you scooted on past at low speeds. You didn't cut them down as much as they exploded from your ridiculous weapon. So help me is there no elegance left in this wretched world?" "Yeah, those Humanis fucks exploded pretty good. They're bad people so it doesn't matter if I kill them, right?" Dibs curled his lip in disgust. "Warhawk, I am a runner veteran. I've been working on and off for almost ten years. That was the most shameful display of violence that I've ever seen. The fact that it worked is perhaps the most shameful part of the night for you, for me and for the dead. I mean I'm glad that they're dead but...gently caress, I would kill to work with a professional for once in my life." "It worked though." "You were calling out special attacks like you were in a loving cartoon!" "I worked hard on those," whined Warhawk, "You have no idea how long I took on thinking up cool names for special attacks." Dibs laughed bitterly. "Oh, please, yes, tell me exactly how long it took you to think of, "Cherry blossom petal storm" when you were cutting them up with your...Your..." "Chain-sama," said Warhawk, reverently, "My chainsaw katana. And it's hard to come up with the right name for my special attack. It can't just be anything, otherwise it wouldn't be special." "Whatever!" he shouted, gesticulating wildly, "You...You..." Dibs' face was growing redder by the moment. "You aesthetic terrorist!" he finished, in triumphant anger, "Ha! How do you like that?" "It sounds bad," said Warhawk, "But I don't know what that means." Dib's face grew redder still. Cherry red. "Do you need nicotine?" asked Warhawk, "I always feel better after having some nicotine." "gently caress yes I need nicotine," groaned Dibs, explosively, "Share. Please." Warhawk checked his pockets for his vape, but he'd gotten rid of it for the pinky vape. Reluctantly, because Dibs was waiting on him, Warhawk held up his cybernetic pinky in offering, still attached to his hand. Dibs recoiled, absolutely revolted. "I am not sucking on your finger," said Dibs, "Do you even think about what you're going to do before you do it?" Warhawk's gaze shifted to the right, towards his covered weapons. They still hadn't been washed off. He was pretty sure that he needed to do that. Something about the monofilament finish. "Well?" asked Dibs. "What?" asked Warhawk. Police sirens passed close and they both tensed, but it soon passed. Dibs sighed. "Do you..." he said, and then changed his thought mid-word, "Have any alcohol?" Warhawk reached into his nearby Margical Girl Momo Momoko bookbag and produced a small bottle of sake. This wrung a wry smile out of Dibs. "Just enough not to get drunk," sighed Dibs, "drat my alcohol tolerance." "Enough to share," said Warhawk, "We finished the run. You got me extra pay. Good job of negotiating, seriously. I figure that's worth sharing my booze." Warhawk held the bottle of sake out. The older man's composure finally failed and he took the bottle. "Perhaps some nicotine not attached to your hand?" "It's detachable actually," said Warhawk. "Not. Better," said Dibs, his words clipped. Dibs unscrewed the cap of the cheap sake and took a drink. He grimaced, but only slightly and finally stopped pacing. "At least it's dry," he sighed. He took another sip. Then another. Then he handed him back the bottle, but he paused. "You don't backwash, right?" asked Warhawk. Dibs cast a withering stare that completely bounced off the oblivious street samurai. "No," said Dibs, "I do not backwash." "Okay, good. I don't like drinking after people backwash." Warhawk took his sip. A smaller one, because he had his vape and Dibs didn't. Then he handed the bottle back. It went like that for a time in silence, back and forth in the dark, among the soft scuttling contained in the rotting cardboard box. "So..." began Dibs. Another cloud of pink cherry blossom smoke filled the air. "At least it covers up the smell of the blood a tad," muttered Dibs, before he cleared his throat, "So!" "Mm?" Dibs gesticulated with the bottle. "How was your first run?" Warhawk's jaw dropped. "How did you know?" he asked, amazed. Dibs' smile was wan. "I am a ten year veteran of this game," he said, "A face. I know people. In fact, it is my business to know people. So if we're going to be here for a while..." "How long's a while?" asked Warhawk. "The night," said Dibs, "The constabulary.." "The what?" "The police," grated Dibs, "Are busy. Our antics at the car dealership won't make the news between the election and the gang war. If they don't find us, we can be on our way by morning. But like I said, if we're going to be here for a while, I don't just want to sit here listening to police sirens and insects. Please, sir Warhawk. Regale me with your story. How did you end up here?" "Uhhh...I mean, are you sure?" "I'm positive. I have no doubt you'll leave me completely enthralled. So tell me, what brought you onto this run and into my horrible little bolthole tonight?" "Uhh...Doing good things," said Warhawk, "And money." Dibs rubbed at his temples, then he looked at the bottle of sake, sighed and handed it to Warhawk. "I meant your story," said Dibs, "What's your story?" "You don't sound like you care very much," said Warhawk, his tone dubious. "I don't," he drawled, "But I'm terribly tired and bored and tired and bored people risk slipping off to sleep. We'll need to stay awake in case we need to flee. Stories are excellent for staying conscious. So. Your story, please?" "I mean, if you have a hard time staying awake, I have NoCo," said Warhawk. Dibs pinched the bridge of his nose. "A third time I ask and done," he said, "I do not want cocaine. I want a story to stay awake. I want company and I suppose you'll have to do." Dibs inhaled sharply and grimaced in pain at what he was about to say. "Please." -- Welcome to the new Shadowrun CYOA thread! This is a spinoff from my other thread, Blake Island School of Magic. As that was more experimental and not traditional Shadowrun, I wanted to try something a little more like normal Shadowrun. The main protagonist of this story shall be Warhawk, the goony street samurai. He is an idiot who has plunged headfirst into the shadows by maxing out his credit line, selling his anime collection and collecting the insurance on a car that was recently torched by gang-bangers. We'll be telling this story as if it has already happened, bouncing back and forth between the past and present. So with the first choice in mind... CYOA Time What kind of narrator is Warhawk of his own story? 1. A reliable narrator. He tells it like he sees it. The past is useful and must be learned from. 2. A little stretching of the truth, but not breaking it. The past is bland, but with some spicing up it can be palatable. 3. Fully self-mythologizing. The past is hateful and it must be destroyed. Author's note. Warhawk is a terrible liar. In fact all of his social skills are pretty bad. Don't let this deter you from any of the options. Ice Phisherman fucked around with this message at 20:41 on Jun 12, 2020 |
# ? Jun 12, 2020 03:56 |
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# ? Apr 18, 2024 00:25 |
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Runner Name: Warhawk Real Name: I said Warhawk Metatype: Human Body: 5/6 Agility: 6/6 Reaction: 5/6 Strength: 3/6 Charisma: 2/6 Intuition:3/6 Logic: 1/6 Willpower: 5/6 Edge: 7/7 Street cred: 0 Notoriety: 0 Public awareness: 0 Qualities: Brand Loyalty: Melee Weapon - Ash Arms Chainsaw Katana and Chainsaw Wakazashi. They come as a pair. +1 to attacks made with this weapon. Brand Loyalty: Pistol - Ruger Super Warhawk. +1 to attacks made with this weapon. Drug Tolerant: +2 dice against all drug addiction tests. Guts: +2 against fear and intimidation checks Negative Qualities: Addiction: Moderate (Nova Cocaine, aka NoCo) - Must take part at least one every two weeks or go into withdrawal. Code of Honor: Warrior's Code - Receives a karma penalty every time he kills a helpless or unarmed person or allows one to be killed through inaction. Poor Self Control: Thrill Seeker - Must make a composure 2 roll or he will do the most thrilling (IE Stupid) action he can think of. However, on the bright side, he gets +1 to all initiative rolls! In Debt 2 - He gains 10k nuyen at chargen. He also has to pay back 10% of it or people will come looking for him. It seems that some of his debts followed him despite abandoning his previous life. Contacts: Enemies: None (Yet) Skills: Automatics 4 + Agility 6 = 10 Computer 1 + Logic 1 = 2 Con 3 + Charisma 2 = 5 Etiquette 4 + Charisma 2 = 6 Gymnastics 6 + Agility 6 = 12 Intimidation 4 + Charisma 2 + Physical Specialty 2 = 6 (8 Physical) Leadership 4 + Charisma 2 = 6 Negotiation 4 + Charisma 2 = 6 Perception 4 + Intuition 3 = 6 Pilot Ground Craft 4 + Reaction 5 = 9 Pistols 6 + Agility 6 + Revolvers 2 = 12 (14 Revolvers) Running 6 + Strength 3 = 9 Sneaking 4 + Agility 6 = 10 Swimming 6 + Strength 3 = 9 Throwing Weapons 4 + Agility 6 = 10 Exotic Melee Weapon: Chainsaw Katana and Wakazashi 6 + Agility 6 = 12 Knowledge: Anime 6 + Intuition 3 + Harem Show Specialty 2 = 9 (11 Harem Shows) Area Knowledge: Seattle 1 + Intuition 3 = 4 English = Native Speaker Japanese 1 + intuition 3 + Anime Specialty 2 = 4 (6 Weeb) Pizza 3 + 1 Logic = 4 Bushido 1 + Intuition 3 = 4 Weapons: Ash Arms Chainsaw Katana - Exotic Melee Weapon 10 DV (No Strength added) -10 AP Reach 1 Accuracy 7 Dice Pool 15 (Agility 6 + Exotic Skill 6 + Touch attack 2 + Brand Loyalty 1) Chainsaw Wakazashi - Exotic Melee Weapon 8 DV (No Strength added) -6 AP Reach 0 Accuracy 7 Dice Pool 15 (Agility 6 + Exotic Skill 6 + Touch attack 2 + Brand Loyalty 1) Ruger Super Warhawk 9 DV -2 AP Accuracy 7 Internal Smartgun Attachment Dice Pool 15 (Agility 6 + Pistols Skill 6 + Smartgun 2 + Brand Loyalty 1) Armor: Armor Jacket: 12 Custom Ballistic Mask : +2 Securetech Arms Kit: +1 Securetech Legs Kit: +1 Gear: Renraku Sensei Commlink Magical Girl Momo Momoko Backpack Fake SIN 4 - Shinjo Hikari Fake License 4 - A Katana Chainsaw, because apparently it's legal with a permit. Fake License 4 - Firearm Permit Drugs: 2 Jazz 5 Novacoke 2 Long Haul Vehicle: Dodge Scoot Karma rewards: None Karma Spent: None Lifestyle: To be determined. Ice Phisherman fucked around with this message at 07:57 on Jul 8, 2020 |
# ? Jun 12, 2020 03:56 |
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Dibs on this one.
Ice Phisherman fucked around with this message at 05:14 on Jun 12, 2020 |
# ? Jun 12, 2020 03:57 |
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lmfao Everytime I think you've made the gooniest shadowrunner you outdo yourself, Ice. gently caress it, I want to be able to get the whole truth and I want Warhawk to try and fail to hide it. Is that 2? I feel like that might be 2.
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# ? Jun 12, 2020 05:05 |
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2
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# ? Jun 12, 2020 07:13 |
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Ice Phisherman posted:What kind of narrator is Warhawk of his own story? Content: 2 Style: 3++ Specifically: There's a fairly well-known interview with Miyazaki (the one fakesubbed "Anime was a mistake") where he talks about what he sees as a crippling flaw in the modern Japanese animation industry. We build our visual and narrative vocabularies by the media we consume and the lives we live. Good, compelling artists pull their ideas and sensibilities from their observations of real life, even in mediums as abstract and impressionistic as anime and manga can be. Good storytellers pull their themes and characters from their experiences and their empathetic responses to others. Great artists and storytellers will have huge mental libraries of the great artists and storytellers who came before them, across many genres and media. There's value in having that broad base of ideas that you can, as the old Apple posters said, rip, mix, and burn. Anime and manga, though, are increasingly designed, written, and rendered both by and for people whose primary inspirations and media exposure are other anime and manga. Paraphrasing loosely, you wind up with stories and images of horses, societies, and people... drawn and written by creators who have never seen horses, don't interact with society, and have trouble looking at or dealing with other people. Adding to this, a large part of the industry thinks this is the way it ought to be; media companies largely don't think "Hey, how do we tell a story that will bring a big audience to this production?" and try to make things broadly compelling and relatable to the human condition; they ask "Hey, the core anime and manga market is this big; how do we mash their buttons so hard they'll buy enough copies and merch to keep us afloat?" Instead of vibrant new original art, they make photocopies of photocopies of photocopies, and the end product is a pile of lovely warmed over remixes of the same old themes, stripped of their context and power but dialed up to eleven on cheap fanservice. I get the feeling that Warhawk is an evolutionary cast-off of this cycle. Warhawk is a guy who has a narrative vocabulary made almost entirely of fanservicey, low-to-mid-budget anime. That's a huge part of his internal reference frame, the way he sees himself and the way he moves through the world, so while I think 2 is correct for the story he's going to tell, he's going to blow the meter entirely stylistically. He sees himself, essentially, as an isekai protagonist, thrust from his humdrum dead-end reality into the magical turbocharged world of Real Shadowrunners by what might as well have been divine intervention. He'll tell a mostly-true story, but it's going to be his truth, filtered by his sense of context; he's going to tell it in the kind of manic TVTropes trainwreck style that you'd get from a bright-eyed, Pocky-fueled creator in the Artist Alley of a mid-size local anime convention, pitching their self-published "original doujin series" at the first person who will stand still long enough. Dibs is going to have to filter through a mishmashed, high-speed wall of anime cliches and set-pieces if he's going to understand what happened.
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# ? Jun 12, 2020 09:32 |
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Yond Cassius posted:Content: 2 Oh poo poo I think I want to change my answer to second this.
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# ? Jun 12, 2020 09:40 |
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Yond Cassius posted:Content: 2 This sounds like a trainwreck and I'm here for it!
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# ? Jun 12, 2020 10:29 |
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Yond Cassius posted:Content: 2 This. I couldn't have put it better.
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# ? Jun 12, 2020 13:32 |
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Yeah Yond has it here
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# ? Jun 12, 2020 13:49 |
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As an example, we've established that Warhawk sells his dragon's hoard of anime figurines to help fund his transformation. He has a favorite. It's inevitable. It's the one that gets a place of honor on the shelf, maybe even its own cleared-out section of a jam-packed cabinet if he has one. For whatever reason, it holds a special place in his heart. Maybe it was a gift from that one girl he had a crush on, back in senior year of high school - she moved away to university at the end of the summer. She was going places, and he wasn't, and his shame made him pull away more and more until contact faded into nothingness. Now he can't even find her on the Matrix anymore (really he forgets how to spell her last name). Maybe it's just the ultra-limited super-premium 1/4 scale version of his waifu, signed by her creator (probably signed with an autopen, but you know, marketing doesn't say these things). In his mind, he sells all his figures in a fugue, a transformation montage of him tapping out listings on his computer, taking pictures, boxing them up, and mailing them out, over and over, with funny interludes as the shelves get barer and barer behind him. Some of them probably won't sell and go in the trash. Finally though he comes to this one figurine - it's worth a lot now, whatever the hell it is. As he's taking the pictures and writing up the listing, he can feel it calling out to him, with all the strength that his memories can bring. Does he push the button? Or does he put it back on the shelf, the one thing he allows himself to keep? Maybe he keeps it, because wherever his long-lost love is, he's going to prove now that he's going places, too, and if Fate is willing, it will deliver him to her doorstep. Maybe he keeps this one last avatar of his waifu, to remind himself of the good things he wants to protect and save in this world. Maybe he sells it, burning away this last, most precious tie to the weak sentiments of the man Warhawk used to be. To most people, this is a detail not worth mentioning, or maybe a one-sentence digression at best. To Warhawk, though, this is a character-defining moment; it gets an entire scene to itself. He's going to spend a couple paragraphs or more building up the process of coming down to this last one figurine, putting it off to the very end, and struggling with his decision, because that's how it would go in the intro episodes to the anime of his life. e: You want to tie Monkey into this? Maybe the Shadowrun-verse has re-discovered SonSon. Cassius Belli fucked around with this message at 21:12 on Jun 12, 2020 |
# ? Jun 12, 2020 19:50 |
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1. Straight shooter samurai do not lie(of course they do but he thinks he's a good guy) Goku never lied he won't either.
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# ? Jun 12, 2020 19:51 |
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I almost spat out my drink while reading. This is the good poo poo. Going with what Yond said because it's pretty much perfect. I'd add that what really sells writeups like that would be appropriate reactions from our designated straight man Dibs, but I dunno if we get to influence what Dibs says or does.
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# ? Jun 12, 2020 21:01 |
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Warhawk reached into his nearby Margical Girl Momo Momoko bookbag and produced a small bottle of sake. This wrung a wry smile out of Dibs. And totally absolutely 3; he is casting aside his life as an otaku for a life as the meanest thing to walk the streets. Anything less than overblown perfection would be shameful.
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# ? Jun 14, 2020 10:13 |
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Dan, John and Lauren - Seattle Metroplex, Bellevue, Pizza Right Now Fat fingers reached inside of an ancient Pelican delivery drone. It was mid-day at Pizza Right Now and Dan was short on nuyen and he was feeling that craving again. He was always short on nuyen though. Between buying the latest anime figurine or licensed game and his new hobby with NoCo, he was constantly short on funds. Creds seemed to run through his fingers like water. The actual credsticks inside of the previously locked compartment flowed through his hands as well. He licked his lips and nervously checked over his shoulder. The terrible office he was in was still the same, bedecked in Pizza Right Now corporate paraphernalia and yellowing wallpaper. He always got this way when he hadn’t had at least a bump to even him out. Normally he’d have one during lunch, but “lunch” was different in the pizza biz. Generally it meant eating the overrun pizzas, the ones that were never paid for or never delivered. But Dan had been selling those too to the chagrin of the few staff that worked here. Free pizza was one of the few perks of the job. The other, biggest perk? Nuyen in your pocket every night. Normally it went into the drone pilot’s pocket, but Dan had been the kind of person who thought he deserved a little extra. He worked hard after all. Sure he got paid more than the drone delivery drivers or the lone person behind the bulletproof glass who took orders and made sure the automated pizza maker was working. And sure sometimes he took naps in the office when the owner, Mr. Checkers was on trips. But he needed the latest and newest in gaming and anime. Needed the NoCo. It kept him focused. Sharp. And Dan needed to stay sharp. The streets were mean these days. Election years got that way, but the protests this year were nastier than usual. drat protesters. They couldn’t just vote like normal people. Not that he voted, but they just had to cause a ruckus. He got to his feet and the armrests of the rolling chair he sat on caught on his fat rolls. That combined with hours of sweat on the synth-leather made the chair come up with him, stuck to his rear end. He swore at it, trying to shake the old sythleather contraption off, but between the hours sitting on the chair and his bulk, it wasn’t coming off by merely shaking his rear end. So he had to pry it off his body, a surprisingly difficult task and it fell down to the ground with a clatter and rolled away. “What the loving...Chair,” he swore. Reluctantly, Dan checked his body. At five feet nine inches and more than three-hundred pounds, at least the last time he checked, he was definitely overweight. The man with the thinning brown hair was covered with a Pizza Right Now hat and mud brown eyes and rolls of fat gave him the look of some sort of pizza fed cow. His blue Pizza Right Now corporate shirt, corporate approved black slacks and belt on the last prong and still pulled tight all strained against his bulk. “Must have shrank in the wash,” he complained, lamely. Then he looked at the chair again, knowing that the chair definitely couldn’t have shrank in the wash. Unwilling to confront the idea, he turned away from the chair. Turning his mind to better things, he pocketed the fistful of credsticks. His tip, he rationalized and for his trouble with the chair, more than he normally took. Then he shut the old Pelican, which took a few slams to get the credstick compartment right. Normally the Pelican itself would have slots for the credstick and the numbers would roll off the credstick and roll onto the Pelican, but those were harder to steal. But a lot of people tended to have credsticks with ones or two on them and the drat things were disposable. Easy to give as a tip. The closest equivalent to cash only. Then with a flourish, he placing the drone under his flabby arm and waddled his fat body out of the manager’s office and into the drone delivery pilot’s room. “Fixed it!” he lied, injecting the minimum amount of triumph into his voice, “Let me tell you, it feels good to get these old birds back in order. Feels good to get grease under your fingers, you know?” Dan had no grease under his fingers. He’d just been playing games on his commlink and dreaming about NoCo. Meanwhile, the drone delivery pilots John and Lauren furiously managed at least fifty drones a piece, constantly routing pizzas to hungry people. Almost fifteen more than usual since the other delivery pilot had quit. Once they’d both been friends of his, but his ascension to manager had taken the shared misery they all shared and then made him in charge of dispensing it. John had been cool about it, at least at first. Then came the resentment. With short, brown hair, brown eyes, plain looks and wearing Pizza Right Now branded work clothes despite the fact that no one ever saw him, the look he gave Dan was one of barely disguised contempt. “Sure Dan,” said John, his tone acid. John’s fingers danced in mid-air as he worked augmented reality controls as the I/O ports on his control console were in need of firmware updates that never came, making the job even harder. Controlling that many drones with a datajack, meaning with a direct neural link to your brain wouldn’t be simple, but it would be simpler. Doing it manually was a nightmare. “Hey, Dan, I really need to use the restroom,” said Lauren, “I need to take five.” Lauren’s long, blonde hair was stringy from sweat. She was pudgier than John, but no less plain. When Dan looked to her, her face was pleading. Technically Dan could take over, but then he’d have to wait to get his bump from his car and the craving was beginning to gnaw. “I just need to get something from my…” he began. His commlink chirped and his eyes unfocused as he checked his AR contacts. Car alarm. He failed to suppress a smile and shook his head. “I think someone is messing with my car,” he said, “We’ll see when I get back.” The grinding noise from John’s teeth was audible and Dan felt the slightest twinge of shame. No matter. That bump would make it all go away. He decided to play it up though, making his anger heard. “Some motherfucker is messing with my car,” he growled, “And I’m going to show them what’s what.” “Sure Dan,” said Lauren, “Just um...Be safe and hurry back. Please. I was supposed to get my break an hour ago, right?” Dan was already on his way down the stairs and out the door, almost forgetting to put the drone on the ground. The parking garage containing his car was a few blocks away. Normally he didn’t walk. The car was automated, like most cars in the metroplex and so it would pick him up and drop him off, but if he called it back now, he’d have to pay a fee for the parking garage and he absolutely didn’t want to do that. So he’d have to do something he hated with every fiber of his being. He’d have to walk there. CYOA Time! So we’re establishing Dan’s character. Who he used to be. At this time, does he feel bad at all for stealing? I mean actually bad, or does he think he should feel bad, but doesn't? If he feels bad, does the NoCo completely suppress his guilt or does it just paper it over? And was he always a lovely person or did the slightest dribble of power make him into a bad person? Or was it the NoCo that made him unsufferable? Ice Phisherman fucked around with this message at 06:21 on Jun 22, 2020 |
# ? Jun 22, 2020 06:16 |
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https://twitter.com/simpsonsqotd/status/758283747091439616
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# ? Jun 22, 2020 06:21 |
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He actually feels bad, the coke only papers it over, but he’s always been poo poo. He’s lazy: not just physically but morally, and even though he knows right from wrong, right is just such a pain in the rear end! The gratification is so delayed, if you get it at all. And so he’s always trying, then always finding an excuse to fail, to do the right thing. And nothing teaches you new excuses like being an addict.
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# ? Jun 22, 2020 06:51 |
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Akratic Method posted:He actually feels bad, the coke only papers it over, but he’s always been poo poo. He’s lazy: not just physically but morally, and even though he knows right from wrong, right is just such a pain in the rear end! The gratification is so delayed, if you get it at all. And so he’s always trying, then always finding an excuse to fail, to do the right thing. Nailed it!
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# ? Jun 22, 2020 12:30 |
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Akratic Method posted:He actually feels bad, the coke only papers it over, but he’s always been poo poo. He’s lazy: not just physically but morally, and even though he knows right from wrong, right is just such a pain in the rear end! The gratification is so delayed, if you get it at all. And so he’s always trying, then always finding an excuse to fail, to do the right thing. That sounds right.
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# ? Jun 22, 2020 12:50 |
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Akratic Method posted:He actually feels bad, the coke only papers it over, but he’s always been poo poo. He’s lazy: not just physically but morally, and even though he knows right from wrong, right is just such a pain in the rear end! The gratification is so delayed, if you get it at all. And so he’s always trying, then always finding an excuse to fail, to do the right thing. This, he's actually really good at one thing: Reframing, (i.e., rationalization and self-delusion.) It's why he was manager material!
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# ? Jun 22, 2020 18:32 |
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Just a heads up for those who don't know. If there's broad agreement, I use "Yes, and" rules of improv. So if you see broad approval on a topic, you don't have to stop. If you put something else in and I like it or it gets broad approval, I'll do my best to put it in. Just because one opinion is popular doesn't mean you can't throw in a little extra and see if it sticks.
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# ? Jun 22, 2020 18:36 |
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Continuity-wise, wasn't John at the larper event that day? Granted, This is Dan telling the story. I'd actually love it if he's such a drug-addicted dipshit that when he gets back, the people who were there just keep morphing into random employees, with John still being there and Lauren actually being gone.
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# ? Jun 23, 2020 03:48 |
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Keldulas posted:Continuity-wise, wasn't John at the larper event that day? I had forgotten this and continuity-wise, this is funnier.
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# ? Jun 23, 2020 03:51 |
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Akratic Method posted:He actually feels bad, the coke only papers it over, but he’s always been poo poo. He’s lazy: not just physically but morally, and even though he knows right from wrong, right is just such a pain in the rear end! The gratification is so delayed, if you get it at all. And so he’s always trying, then always finding an excuse to fail, to do the right thing. I think he feels bad about it, too. He doesn't want to be lovely, but his nature leads him there, not out of malice but out of laziness. He's not trying to hurt people, but it's just easier to be a constant low-grade force of making GBS threads up people's lives than it is to think too hard about the consequences of his actions, or to try to improve. The NoCo just turns up the dials on that, and along the way it unlocks all the spiteful petty impulses knocking around his brain. We've seen a bit of it already - he's just taking the loose credsticks, right? It's onesy-twosey poo poo; it's not like he's taking any of the direct transfer tips from John and Lauren (nevermind that the direct transfers only come from the good tippers, and the lovely tips make up way more of their income just by sheer volume). It makes it easy for him not to do the math on how much it adds up, or see the pounds falling off his friend's body because he can barely afford to eat. His spirit is willing to be better than this, but his flesh is jiggly and weak. I think this is part of what helps turn Dan into Warhawk, once he gets his big chance, and what makes Warhawk into a (terribly inept, only semi-directed) force for good. Warhawk is his one shot to prove to himself that he could be better, that he only hurt people and drove them away because the deck was stacked against him--if he weren't flabby and unattractive, if he weren't stuck in a dead-end job, if if if if if.
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# ? Jun 24, 2020 05:07 |
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First off, you weren't kidding about Warhawk sticking around! Looking forward to see what we manage to turn this cybergoon into.Ice Phisherman posted:CYOA Time! Dan's a douche, but he isn't a complete sociopath imho. I think he feels bad about stealing tips, but tries to look at it from less painful (for himself) angles. "Well, it's only a few new ones here and there, not like it makes a huge difference, the pilots still get paid, don't they?" I'm pretty sure the NoCo would make him be able to focus on anything but the issue, until the comedown rolls around. Coke or no, he knows full well what he's doing is wrong, and once the self-distraction wears off, he's staring into the gaping maw of his own guilt and, let's face it, self-hatred. He hates that he's this obese, anime-addicted cokehead who fuels his hobbies by stealing tips. He hates it, but he's either too unimaginative or too stubborn to see that there's other ways to live at the time. The only solution he sees is not to think about it. Kick the can down the road with another bump or two. As for the final question, I'd say it's a bit of column A and a bit of column B. He's had problems he was letting fester before, but becoming a manager simply validated his own existence to him. "I made manger, didn't I? Must be doing something right." tends to very smoothly transition into "I'm the manager, therefore everything I do is right." Lazermaniac fucked around with this message at 20:24 on Jun 25, 2020 |
# ? Jun 25, 2020 19:28 |
Ahahahahahaaaaa loving yes! LMAO I am overjoyed and in awe that you spun warhawk off into his own thread.
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# ? Jun 29, 2020 20:33 |
This is going to be amazing.
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# ? Jul 2, 2020 05:33 |
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HAHAH! YES!
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# ? Jul 3, 2020 01:04 |
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Dan, Chains and Pewee - Then - A Carpark Dan attempted to zip up his powder blue jacket. One that he’d run back inside to grab in his haste to get to his car. It was armor clothing, the standard for walking around on a budget in the metroplex. It had been a four-hundred and fifty nuyen punch to the heart, a quarter of his rent for a month, but it would deflect a knife and maybe keep him alive long enough after they’d been shot. One couldn’t be too careful in this part of the metroplex. After running back inside, up the stairs and back down, he was already out of breath as he hit the streets of the Seattle metroplex. Worse, he was having a hard time with the zipper. No matter how he sucked in his gut, the zipper just wouldn’t pull up. With a mighty burst of effort, he pulled. The zipper strained and complained, but eventually he got into it, but was left feeling like an overstuffed sausage. “Great,” he gasped, “loving great.” The idea of a diet crossed his mind like it often did when something like this did, but then he considered just buying a new one that he could fit into. “I have the money after all…” he mused, “Maybe...I mean, I could take a little more. Just a little more wouldn’t be missed.” It would be a “just a little more”, but this wouldn’t be the first time he’d clawed back more from a slowly diminishing pile of tips from his delivery pilots. When framed as just a little more though, the choice was shameful, but not as shameful as deciding to take all of it at once. No, Dan was the kind of person who took baby steps towards ever increasing levels of wage theft. “Not a huge deal,” he said, anxiously, “They won’t even miss it.” Though he would miss his car if it was damaged. Most people in the metroplex didn’t own a car and relied on automated public transportation like Grid Guide, or mass transit like light rail or even air taxis if you had the money. However old his car was though, it was paid off and he’d come close enough to homelessness a few years ago that he could’ve ended up homeless. So he had an interest in keeping it safe, because the cops definitely wouldn’t. Technically he could call them to deal with his car, but if he needed someone to show up a day late and shrug at him, he could just hire a new delivery pilot. Through his augmented reality contacts, Dan saw the overlay over the crumbling facade of the city. Not just the augmented reality crosswalks, telling people when to stop or when to go, or the custom minimap he had installed, but more. Every crack in the sidewalk hidden, every boarded up business made to look full, even the sky, pregnant with acid rain, looked bright and cheerful. The AR overlay couldn’t do anything about the smell though. The proximity to the Redmond Barrens was still noxious. Normally you couldn’t smell it, but every now and again you could get a whiff of the smell of totally unregulated heavy industry, metahuman waste and everyone’s cooking that came off the enormous slum. Dan’s gorge rose. The “Meaty Delite” overrun pizza threatened to come up the down slide and he had to stop, lean against a pawn shop’s plascrete wall and swallow a few times to keep it down. None of the toppings of the pizza were actually meat, just heavily processed, reconstituted soy based products with artificial meat flavoring. No way was Pizza Right Now upscale enough to afford real meat on their pizza, but if you were raised on the stuff like Dan was, you couldn’t even tell the difference. A pop-up commercial appeared on a wall that had been used as target practice once upon a time. Graffiti, both AR and real, suddenly mixed with a pornographic targeted ad for an anime sex MMORPG that that dared him not to cum if he played for more than five minutes. He promptly threw up. “gently caress,” he groaned, as he spat out bile, “This is why I don’t walk.” The smell mercifully passed and Dan was able to recover, sans food, but the craving for something good in his life emerged, even more powerful than before. “Just a little something to get me through the rest of the day,” he mumbled to himself, “Just get me through the rest of this day, gently caress.” He waddled towards the car park, sweating like a pig despite the coolness of the day. At least the homeless were gone, so no one was begging or panhandling. Or at least not enough of them to bother him. There’d been a police sweep just before the protests had occupied their time, so most of those who didn’t willingly go to Redmond were dropped off there. He approached his car park, the augmented reality sign proudly displaying the name. “E-Z Park!” And the hours and billing for the parking garage were available in a drop down menu, which he did not care about. His generation behind commlink and the dog-brained node silently did an authorization handshake and the single battered, black and yellow striped level that served as the car park’s defense raised up to let him through, though he easily could have walked around. There was a chain link fence on the first floor at least, not the second though and there was no one working security. It was all automated. The car park was so ancient, it was still made of concrete instead of plascrete. The lights above flickered, though the light from outside through the chain link fence helped illuminate the place. He walked towards the elevator, made obvious by even more flickering lights, though the one inside worked. With a wipe of his hand across his sweaty brow, he was grateful that the torture known as walking was over. With sweat covered fingers, he touched the old-style buttons and waited. After a few seconds, he pressed the button again. Nothing. It occurred to him that the elevator had been open when he walked inside and now it wasn’t closing. The buttons on the ancient console weren’t even lighting up either. “What the hell?” said Dan, his voice nasally, “Come on.” In his frustration, he punched the buttons a few more times, but nothing happened. “Son of a bitch, come on, I’m busy,” he growled, “Work, drat it.” Fat fingers mushed hard into the button, but the elevator refused to work. It was too much. He worked hard. Why did the world do this to him? He raged for a while, wanting to, but ultimately chickening out of giving the console a kick. Instead he waddled outside and stared at the door to the stairway. He hated stairs. His work had stairs and they left him out of breath each time he went up. But his work only had a single flight of stairs. The carpark had three levels. That meant two stories. Part of him wanted to sit down and catch his breath, but another part of him wanted to get at that sweet NoCo. Maybe he could even monitor from home. His boss, Mr. Checkers, didn’t like it when he did that, but he was busy. The fact that one of his employees was in desperate need of a bathroom break that he’d promised to fill in for had completely slipped his mind. His craving stronger than his exhaustion, he pulled at the door handle, but found it locked. He knew it was locked, but his anger and frustration demanded that he feebly try to pull it open anyway. It wouldn’t even budge. “What the gently caress?!” he shouted, “Seriously?! Why do I ever park here?!” New exhaustion washed over him from his rage and this time he did kick the door, which ignored his efforts. Again his commlink called him, new messages about the alarm, though he couldn’t hear it above. So he took the only way up, which was up the ramp. He had to rest between the second and third levels, his heart pounding in his chest, his skin drenched in sweat. Five minutes later he rallied and took the ramp from the second to the third level slower and was in better shape when he emerged on the top of the car park. His faithful Jackrabbit sub-compact was in the back. He’d painted over the primer colors into a solid black, hoping for a sleek look, though someone had been keying his car lately. No matter how much times he painted over it, some jerk kept keying it. What was odd though as he approached was that the alarm wasn’t going off. In fact, everything looked fine. “Nothing? What the hell is your problem?” he asked his car. The car said nothing. Though he felt like the universe was laughing at him. So it was that he sat in his car, his suspension complaining as he fished out a bottle of water from under a box stack of AR tags that served as pizza fliers and guzzled it, allowing his heart rate to return to normal. Minutes later, he was feeling better. Still sweaty, but not so out of breath. “Maybe a little NoCo to take the edge off,” he whispered, hungrily. He dug into his glove compartment. Sitting on top of his Magnum Super Warhawk, the one he’d gotten when all of the protests and riots began some months ago just in case, was his cap of NoCo. There wasn’t a lot of it. His hookup, Pico, had given him the designer poo poo, which was why there wasn’t much of it and why it cost so much. They even came in individual poppers, which Dan appreciated. Use them and lose them. He searched his glove compartment for more, but to his dismay, he only had the one popper left. These things were expensive and Pico could be hard to get a hold of sometimes. With a heavy heart, he shook his head both at the idea of getting high and at the idea of going home early. With his luck today, Mr. Checkers would check up on him and give him an earful. “Nah, after work,” he said, “The designer poo poo costs money. Then it’s party time.” Then, in a stroke of luck, he saw the elevator come up and open not ten feet away from him. With a smile, he realized that he wouldn’t have to drive back and send the car back on its own through its ancient automated system. It was five nuyen each time that car came in and five nuyen was five nuyen. “Is it working?” he asked, hopefully, “There is a god.” He locked the door, disabled the alarm system with a wireless command and left his water behind before waddling over to the elevator. He pressed the first floor button and to his delight the button lit up, the doors closed and he began to descend. Maybe things would be okay. And as the bell dinged with each floor, he waited for the doors to open as the elevator came to a halt. The doors didn’t open. In fact, the third floor button lit up and he began to ascend again. Completely convinced that the universe was laughing at him, he howled and cursed and raged and wished with all his heart to kick the console, but even at his most angry he was still too much a coward to do it. When he emerged from the elevator, which he stepped out from quickly, he tried the stairs just in case and grumbled between panting breaths as he found it locked. “loving great.” The waddle downwards wasn’t as bad as coming up, but his mood was completely spoiled and he was absolutely covered in sweat. Minutes later as he approached the exit to the car park, he was caught off guard. He backed up slightly as what looked like a tow truck blocked off the exit, flanked by another larger truck which was carelessly parked on the lip of the curb outside. Five men in identical red and gold leather jackets and one in plain black exited the vehicles, all of them orks except for one enormous troll. Dan froze in place as one of them looked to him. “Hey fat rear end, where you from?!” jeered one of the gangers. He stared at the weapons in each of their hands. Baseball bats covered in barbed wire. The jackets they wore? Those weren’t just armored clothing. Those were armor jackets, made for combat, a favorite of gangers. They were all hard and lean and mean looking. Dan on the other hand looked like an overripe pear and an overstuffed sausage in a blue casing. “I’m…I’m…From around here,” squeaked Dan. It was all he could think of to say. His bladder, which had quiet up until now, screamed at him for immediate release. But at the same time, everything became sharp and clear. “Hey, where’s your car, piglet?” called out a ganger who stepped to the front. An ork, light skinned, with the best looking jacket and a shaved head. Not the biggest of the lot, but certainly the meanest looking and with the meanest looking weapon. It was a chain with barbed wire threaded through the links. Before Dan could take in any more about the man, that chain whipped out and smashed a windshield. Dan jumped and his bladder released, not completely, but enough to warm his pants. “I like cars,” said the leader, as he wound the chain around his heavy gloves, “Especially other peoples’ cars. We’re visiting all the way from the Redmond barrens. We heard Bellevue’s got too many cars. Fat as you are, piggy, I think you can spare yours. Piglet looks like he needs a walk. I don't think he'll fit into any cars. Do any of you think he'll fit?” The men laughed and the troll spoke up. He was missing one horn, but he was so big. So very big. His bat was enormous and in the moment, it looked like a tree trunk to the terrified Dan. The troll’s brown, warty face split into a wide grin, showing off yellowed tusks and teeth. "Might fit me," he said, "You look like you're about my size. Outwards at least." Dan tried backing up, but fear rooted him to the ground. Another squirt off piss ran down his leg as he quivered. And then, with a ritual air, the man with the chains looked over to a much younger man, head freshly shaved, who Dan hadn’t seen. Unlike the others, he was only wearing a black jacket and blue jeans. He looked so young. “So new blood,” he said, with a ritual air, “Want your jacket?” He looked so young. And Dan could tell almost immediately that his ork tusks were fake. His light skin was dirty, his jaw pronounced, Adam’s apple knobbly and he would pass for plain if not for the mix of fear, anticipation and malice that warred on his face. He was a human, the same as Dan. “H-Hell yeah,” he said, excitedly, “Waiting for it.” “Well, it’s time,” he said. There were a few whoops from the other gang members. Another squirt of piss. “You think you’re ork enough? I know the other guys say you’re not…" "Not everyone's born a tusker," said the troll, “Some are made, Peewee.” The gangers laughed at the single ganger out of their colors. His grip tensed on his barbed wire bat. "Think you got that in you though,” said the gang leader, "You want to leave humans behind? You want to roll with Crimson Crush?" The young ganger, Peewee, nodded eagerly in agreement. Then with a practiced motion of his weapon, the head ganger slung his barb wire chain over his shoulder and pointed at Dan. That did it. His bladder emptied out completely. “Then go kill that piglet.” CYOA Time Dan is about to meet Voice, who swoops out of nowhere to help him. In the previous story (Blake Island, as I've mentioned, this is something of a spinoff, you don't need to know anything though). Voice changed between helpful and berating him harshly and exasperation to get him up the stairs. And Voice is just voice on his commlink, devoid of anything to identify him/her. But as we’ve established, Dan is an unreliable narrator and his terror and exhilaration has muddled his memories. How does he remember Voice? Does Dan think of Voice as a him or a her, or does he assign any gender at all, maybe a they/them? And in his memories, is Voice helpful, is Voice harsh, a mix, or something else? This will color his perception if they later meet and will color how he experiences shame afterwards. Ice Phisherman fucked around with this message at 08:57 on Jul 8, 2020 |
# ? Jul 8, 2020 08:54 |
This is Warhawk's origin story, but I'm not sure how someone like Dan would react to anything, so I won't vote, I'm eager to see the action though.
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# ? Jul 8, 2020 09:04 |
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The way Dan tells it, Voice decked into the secret government chrome in his head and has a voice like god from Monty Python.
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# ? Jul 8, 2020 10:24 |
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I’m going to say he remembers the voice as male in that default, low-key sexist presumption “well there wasn’t anything feminine about it so...” way. But if pressed to actually consider the question, he realizes it was ambiguously gendered. He knows he’s hosed without help here, so he remembers the voice as fundamentally helpful. But he still has his pride and doesn’t totally love being told what to do in detail, so he attributes a certain amount of snark to Voice because that’s how acting like s/he knows better than Dan comes off. Regardless of the fact that s/he does know better.
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# ? Jul 8, 2020 10:31 |
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He talks about the voice in his head, he fails to convey that it's from the commlink and through his story telling gives the impression their isn't actually another person.
Toughy fucked around with this message at 18:22 on Jul 8, 2020 |
# ? Jul 8, 2020 13:00 |
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Toughy posted:He talks about the voice in his head, he fails to convey that it's from the commlink and through his story telling gives the impression he's schizo I like this. And Dan is a narcissist, so it should all have the air of it being the moment he was chosen as a protagonist. This is his Call to Adventure moment, when a voice out of nowhere turned him into a Main Character. That 'fact' has completely colored his entire recollection of the Voice.
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# ? Jul 8, 2020 17:36 |
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Agreed, Dan never thinks about it that hard, but almost believes Voice is actually the Narrator of the story, rather than an actual person. If pressed on it he offers multiple outlandish theories, such as it being a Mentor Spirit sent to guide him to greatness, or a representative of a cabal of super spies. The fact that these are actually almost true should seem incredibly unlikely to any reasonable person.
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# ? Jul 8, 2020 21:35 |
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He's also a marksman with that Warhawk who landed a shot against an increasing # of vague ork-gang type shapes everytime he fired his gun. Like a horde of gangers who jumps at him and he picks them off as part of his awakening.
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# ? Jul 9, 2020 03:01 |
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Akratic Method posted:I'm going to say he remembers the voice as male in that default, low-key sexist presumption "well there wasn't anything feminine about it so..." way. But if pressed to actually consider the question, he realizes it was ambiguously gendered. He might have guessed that at first blush, but we should consider this: jagadaishio posted:And Dan is a narcissist, so it should all have the air of it being the moment he was chosen as a protagonist. This is his Call to Adventure moment, when a voice out of nowhere turned him into a Main Character. That 'fact' has completely colored his entire recollection of the Voice. More specifically, Dan thinks he is an anime protagonist. Even if he doesn't think this literally (and there's no guarantee there), cheap knockoff anime forms most of his narrative reference frame. That's how he's going to view the world and his place in it. Now we get back to this part: Akratic Method posted:He knows he's hosed without help here, so he remembers the voice as fundamentally helpful. But he still has his pride and doesn't totally love being told what to do in detail, so he attributes a certain amount of snark to Voice because that's how acting like s/he knows better than Dan comes off. Regardless of the fact that s/he does know better. What anime stereotype character is snarkily helpful, alternately abusive and encouraging? What anime character would be perfect for bringing schlubby old Dan through the rabbit-hole into Warhawk's cybermagical isekai? The vaguely gender-neutral Voice is going to get reimagined through Dan's panic, Warhawk's retroactive internal storytelling, and about a pound of NoCo... as the lead tsundere anime-Cortana guide to his new life. He may even imagine hearing her again, or find some badly-corrupted screensaver/simulacrum he can "rescue" and jack into his cyberware. Bonus points if Sasha later finds out about the character he imagined her into.
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# ? Jul 9, 2020 03:14 |
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Ah, I’m getting that these are known characters from the Fuzzy/Kenji/Julie thread. I’m still working my way through all 137 pages of that (and that’s after you pare it down to just ice phisherman’s posts!) so I have no idea what’s established already or who the Voice actually is. Although I guess I inadvertently got spoiled that it’s Sasha? If it’s already definitively a woman then yeah I’m joining with “Dan remembers it’s a woman, and also ‘remembers’ that she’s probably helping him out because she’s secretly totally into him”
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# ? Jul 9, 2020 08:08 |
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Akratic Method posted:Ah, I’m getting that these are known characters from the Fuzzy/Kenji/Julie thread. I’m still working my way through all 137 pages of that (and that’s after you pare it down to just ice phisherman’s posts!) so I have no idea what’s established already or who the Voice actually is. Although I guess I inadvertently got spoiled that it’s Sasha? So while this is a spinoff, you absolutely, positively do not need to have read my own story to understand or enjoy it. I might write in a few tie-ins, but I wanted this to primarily be a fresh start and written in a very different way than my other story. I'm glad that you are reading my work, but don't feel obligated to read to understand.
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# ? Jul 9, 2020 08:24 |
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# ? Apr 18, 2024 00:25 |
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Ice Phisherman posted:I'm glad that you are reading my work, but don't feel obligated to read to understand.
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# ? Jul 9, 2020 10:43 |