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Blood and Silicon (Cyberpunk|IC)

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Anowa
Post Marshal
 
Posts: 16103
Founded: Jul 29, 2014
Liberal Democratic Socialists

Blood and Silicon (Cyberpunk|IC)

Postby Anowa » Mon Sep 10, 2018 8:54 pm





Cameron MacDougall
Red Light District
San Sacramento, "Sac-Town"

Friday, January 13th, 2068 // 7:32 AM
41°F (5°C), Precipitation: 100%,
Humidity: 88%, Wind: 5 mph (8 km/h) NE



The Red Light District wasn't exactly the homeliest of places, but it wasn't a borderline warzone like a few other districts in Sac-Town. It was quiet, watched over, and had a lot of eyes and guns. Every block you'd see a police cruiser, either in the form of a wheeled and aging car or an aerodyne floating above you somewhere. While it wasn't exactly a 100% legal location, a lot of the buildings here were, at least on tax forms, normal shopfronts and businesses. Most actually did that job well, others were more focused on their actual merchandise.

People.

Not exactly in the buying and selling business, but more along the lines of leasing and renting so to speak. It was home to "legal" sex workers, those who ran actual businesses in front of their usual activities. Despite the general reputation Red Light Districts have, it was one of, if not the safest places in Sac-Town. No gangs dared lift a finger against anyone who worked or lived here, mainly in part due to the heavy presence of cops, and because it had the highest concentration of normal kids between the ages of 6 to 14. Not due to the shay and underhanded things that some people do, but because one of the lergest brothels in Sac-Town was also the largest school.

Normally, people would be hesitant to send their six year olds to learn in the same building as people who were getting their brains fucked out. But the staff at the Heavenly Staircase Academy made sure that such things didn't travel home through the mouths and eyes of the youngsters. Having been inside more than a few times in her life, she knew that pretty much every room was soundproofed, and had polarized windows, or were just windowless if they were regularly used for more suggestive activities.

Granted, the polarized windows did more than keep the eyes out, but to keep the godawful lighting of so many fucking neon lights out as well.

It was a common theme around the city that the lighting was powerful, and more of an eyesore than anything else. Ads, shop signs, streetlamps, cars, etc, all displayed a obscene amount of light into the streets and windows of the surrounding buildings. It gets bad enough in some places that one would need to wear sunglasses, even at night.

Regardless of her opinion on the lighting, or whether or not her own eyes were to blame, she had a job to do: get a low level corpo's kid to school.

Normally, people would rather miss work, judging from the amount of parents walking their kids to school today, rather than trust their kid with a stranger, but apparently people knew that Cameron wasn't exactly a morally corrupt courier. Her tendency to not give a fuck about what was in a package or asking as little questions in possible apparently went a long way. That long way being 1200 credits paid in advance, for a 20 minute drive through the calmest place in the city, it was more than worth it.

The radio in her car finally clicked into something other than the hour and a half ad block the corporations reserved, and onto a song. Cameron immediately clicked it off, upon realizing that they were playing synth again. Among many songs and over a century of music to choose from nearly every radio station played the borderline ear rape that was synth. Sure, one or two songs in that genre weren't terrible, but the mass amount of them were basically the same goddamned thing. Why it was popular again she had no fucking idea.

Looking over the the kid in the passenger seat, Cameron realized how quiet they were. Likely either just shy around strangers or not at all talkative. Cameron didn't mind, let them go into their own little world. Plastic yellow jacket and small red toque with some blue track pants is what the 8 year old wore. A backpack in the shape of a teddy bear was held on her lap and hugged like it wasn't holding the kid's lunch in it. Something was up, but Cameron had neither the leverage to fix anything that was worrying the kid, nor the social skills. So the elder of the two let things be.

Finally the comparatively mute concrete building of the Heavenly Staircase Academy came into view along a rather thin road into one of the few honest to go fields in the city. Granted it was nothing more than a heavily fenced off soccer field but it was a patch of green nonetheless.

Pulling up near the entrance, Cameron stopped the car, "Alright kiddo, this is it." the sound of her seat belt unbuckling

The kid gave a simple hum in response before opening the vehicle's door, stepping out into the rain and onto the sidewalk. generally speaking, she'd follow her packages to their end point, but she found no real reason to seeing as there were 4 guards to the building within immediate sight.

She pulled away after the kid safely made it into the door.

This was the life she lived, and honestly, it was one of the more calm occupations someone in Sac-Town could have. Sure it meant being involved in all facets of life, but there was a flexibility to it. Compared to the various other businesses one could have, you didn't have higher ups. Even if you ran a small business, most of the time it was a franchise of a corporation or subject to racketeering by the various gangs around the city. So of course no matter what your business was you had higher ups.

As a Courier her only boss was the person hiring her to deliver something, granted she didn't have a whole lot of exposure but the "I know a gal" circle of influence could only expand so quickly. So Cameron was stuck where she was for the time being, doing menial jobs like deliver someone's mail, or take a kid to school. It paid, but not exorbitantly well, at least not as much as other jobs she'd done. But at least the job security was nice, no one really delivered mail to the more hazardous parts of the country after the USPS got it's shit rocked.

Pulling onto the freeway, the sight of dozens of other vehicles, either as fresh and new as some Corpse's augs, or older than Cameron's own '29 Civic. The disparity was rather jarring between them. The rounded and compact vehicles of the early 21st century looked nothing like the angular and square vehicles of the now latter half of the same century. Granted, everything after 2027 used the same fuel after the oil crisis, but they still had that look and design that screamed modern. Not to say Cameron disliked her car, it could keep up with the more modern and souped up vehicles of this day and age, but it still had quite the maintenance cost. It's one of the main reasons she lived with 2 other people.

Her trip along the freeway wasn't long, just a dozen miles before turning on to her exit. Once again in the much more difficult and rambunctious district of where she lived. Unlike the more well to do section of the red light district, the district she lived in had litter across the streets in piles, wheelless vehicles jacked up on cinderblocks, and many more vagrants laying about and kids running up and down the streets without much care.

It was where she grew up, and it was where she lived. She still locked the doors on her car, and kept a steady speed, even through red lights. To stop here was basically to hand off your car to someone or to get mugged. So she didn't hit the brake until she got to her block, a massive building nearly three . Underground parking was past a revolving elevator and heavy shutters, so her car getting heisted after heading inside wasn't exactly a concern.

After that small process of driving into a claustrophobic little box, getting out with a gun in hand, and locking up her car, Cameron headed inside of the massive block she lived in, 120 stories of concrete, metal, and poor public hygiene: Applewood Tower.

Stepping into the massive maw that was the main entrance, the hustle and bustle of the some 30,000 people who lived in these blocks reached her ears in a garbled mess that her brain just evened out as a mass of sound. Getting near the courtyard that had nothing covering it all the way up to the roof, she paused and looked up, scanning for something. She found it across the way, moving at terminal velocity.

With a sickening whack and a spray of fluids and bone fragments, the body impacted the floor at terminal velocity. There were cries of surprise as those closest to the person were sprayed with a thin veneer of blood. other simply took a wide berth around the body. Everyone else continued on with their day. It was common enough where everyone in the less civilized housing blocks simply moved on with their day, ignoring the corpse, and the Trauma team or Cops who eventually turned up.

With another look up, she swiftly made her way to the elevator.

It took nearly 15 minutes from entering the block to get home, her keycard needing a couple tries to open the locked door. Stepping into her home she took a breath in, it was leagues cleaner than the rest of the block, cleanliness was next to godliness, and she really needed to set a good impression for anyone who might drop in, announced or not.

Cameron called out as she took her jacket off, "Anyone home?"
Awards:
Tie Winner: Most Involved in P2TM, 2016
Winner: Best Crime RP, 2016

An Intro to Anowa
United States of Conner wrote:STOP TRYING TO EAT PEOPLE
I'M FUCKING SERIOUS
GODDAMMIT

Anowa wrote:
Serah wrote:He continued to fight, humping from person to person, either cutting or obliterating altogether.

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

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Ihury
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 446
Founded: Aug 29, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Ihury » Mon Sep 10, 2018 9:40 pm

Duong Van Binh
~+~+~+~+~+~

The sickly old security guard who did evening shifts in the lobby of Applewood Tower was quite possibly the only person Duong Van Binh had ever felt genuine pity for in his entire life. The poor old man was badly hunched, droopy-eyed, and balding in uneven patches, his crinkled and patched up security guard uniform shirt always billowing out over the edge of his pants, and his mouth perpetually hung open, as if to invite flies to set up shop inside. He must have been at least eighty years old; God knows how he had clung on to life for so long in this godforsaken world, when he couldn’t even keep his glasses straight on his nose for more than a minute at a time.

Every time he exited the elevator and walked past the old guard, Binh would give him a drink, purchased from the shitty convenience store nearby. His acts of charity for this dying old man, neglected by everyone yet unable to leave this awful world behind, were probably the only things that could redeem the wretched, perfidious character that was Duong Van Binh.

For the most part, Binh could not care less for humanity. It was just a social construct, after all, this whole idea of humans being a special, sentient race. As far as he was concerned, humans were just that one species of animal lucky enough to develop higher intelligence AND opposable thumbs. Too bad for the dolphins and the monkeys, which only had one or the other; such was life.

Binh used to take the steps. He’d always hated being trapped in elevators, those horrible, claustrophobic things. How they screeched and clattered in the already noisy night! If they were a little more sleek, he would be perfectly happy using them, but as it was, the only reason he took the metal boxes was because of his leg, which was, for most practical purposes, becoming increasingly difficult and painful to use. He knew it was his own fault that his leg was like that; that it was his own fault he trusted the fat Chinese doctor who claimed to offer the best in progressive prosthetic technology, that he’d forked over almost $10k to the fat fucker in a waistcoat.

Now, Binh often lambasted himself, he was left with a knee that was bound to melt away any moment, and a bank account left largely empty. The doctor had done him in, but it was entirely Binh’s own fault that he’d had the chance to.

And Binh was never going to let that go.

His knuckles were already callused from punching his walls over and over again to control his anger. Though he no longer owned a computer (he’d had to sell most of his electronics to be able to afford the rent for the hovel he called home), Binh had printed out screenshots of the doctor’s website and pasted them to his wall, just moments before the website vanished off the face of the earth.

Dr Bai Zhenhui
白真辉医生

Practitioner of progressive prosthetic technologies
Partner with Mikoyan-Gurevich Technologies, Inc

Dr Bai Zhenhui believe that medical technology should be use as efficiently as possible. He has devise many world-acclaim prosthetic solution, and offer only highest grade treatment options.


The more Binh looked at the screenshot he had printed out, the angrier he became, yet he could not peel his eyes off it every time he looked. The bad English, the cheesy website design, the doctor’s shit-eating grin staring out into his poor, conned soul and laughing at the knee that was going to blow up one day or another... it was this anger that kept Binh alive. It gave him something to live for. He furiously fought to stay alive, if only in nauseating anticipation for the day that he could find Bai Zhenhui and wrap his fingers round the asshole’s thick, worm-like throat and torture the life out of that pathetic excuse for a human being...

“Hello? Anybody home?”

Binh heard a voice, coming from one of the nearby apartment buildings. He’d screened out the sound of the fella who had fallen to his death, having become more or less desensitised to that sort of thing.

But a voice like that, politer than pretty much anything he’d ever heard, would catch his ear.

Binh kept the door open. His windows were jammed, so it was the only way he could ventilate his apartment. Reaching for his walking stick, Binh clambered out of the sofa and hobbled over to the door, peeking out at the corridor, where he saw a young lady enter her house.

Nothing new, just another day. Another day closer to that day when he could hang the fat coil of shit from the ceiling by the penis.

His phone rang. The client phone.

Time for another blackmail job.

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Ayvalon
Spokesperson
 
Posts: 120
Founded: Sep 23, 2017
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Ayvalon » Mon Sep 10, 2018 9:57 pm

Victor Stromm
January 13th, morning
Pinebrook Central Hab-block floor 13, room 13

It was as "normal" a morning as one could expect for a hired killer like voicebox. Outside the droning of autos hummed on. The occasional gunfire report and general hustle-n-bustle of human life as well continued as it always would. Victor had looked down at the small chronometer on his arm before deciding it was entirely too early for anyone to be awake and turned over in his bed. The coarse fabric of his bed-sheets scratched and itched against his naked form as he struggled to find a comfortable position and drift back into the abyss of his dreams.

Above the screams, groans and wails of his fellow residents echoed through the ceiling into his room. Another argument today, give it a few hours and they'd be making up, likely disturbing his sleep further with makeup sex. Victor complained to himself mentally as he tossed a pillow over his head hoping to drown out the noise of whatever they were bitching at each other about today. Likely another bout of the husband spending all their credits on booze or the betting tables in the red light district. The assassin rarely lacked for entertainment in that regard at home, he almost always had a soap-opera from the old days playing out just several feet above his head and he didn't even need a viewing screen or speakers to listen in on the drama.

It wasn't Margery's incessant harping on about this and that which truly woke Victor from his desire to go back to sleep. The dull Thump Thud of boots approaching his door however certainly did the trick. Normal residents of Pinebrook avoided his corner of the hab-block at all cost, most that weren't busy screaming about petty trifles every dawn and dusk had a general idea of Victor's business and made a conscious effort to keep clear for the eventual day his experiments would render Voicebox a red splatter of gore across his apartment. Another group of guns for hire looking for easy paychecks he concluded.

The young man rolled out of bed and strolled towards the small dresser across the tiny room that would hold his few articles of clothing and the blast-shield beside it. At a pace both fitting his half-dazed state yet in a haste to have something to cover his nude form, the assassin rushed to throw on a pair of shorts before fetching his .380 from the night-stand, comfortable he would have plenty of time to make ready if they decided to be greeted by the welcome wagon.




Outside, 4 bounty-hunters had stacked up against the walls of the residence of one "Victor Stromm", also known as 'voicebox'. Everything suggested it'd be an easy bag-n-bolt job. Micah pounded on the door again demanding the occupant open up. A tense 2 minutes went by before the team's lead stepped out and kicked the door in with his full weight, the first to be introduced to Victor's Welcome Wagon. The quad-barrel shotgun rigged to trigger as the door opened blasted Micah over the banister behind him and down a full 13 story drop to the ground as music blared out of Victor's apartment announcing their arrival and neighboring hab-block residents bolted in their homes at the noise.

The team rushed to enter, the next stepping on an inappropriate floorboard and triggering the flash-pounder grenade concealed beneath. Vedrah was reduced to shredded roast as she caught the bulk of the blast from the improvised flash-bang/frag grenade device. The remaining 2 hunters struggled to regain their hearing and vision before seeing a human silhouette in front of them and opening fire on the dummy target, leaving Victor open to lean out and rip off 12 rounds from his compact pistol in 3-round bursts. In the span of 30 seconds 4 hunters lay dead on or because of his doorstep.

It was a shame, he was even beginning to like the neighbors here. Once he was certain the hunters were dead (A few more rounds to their stunned or dead forms did the trick) he began packing up his meager belongings and tearing apart the few remaining traps in his home to stuff them into duffel bags. He'd have to move to his back-up apartment here in Pinebrook. Satisfied everything was gathered that was necessary he lumbered his way out the door, making sure to pull down the wireless speakers that had survived the blast and bring them with.

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The Anarcho-Syndicalist Commune
Minister
 
Posts: 2512
Founded: Feb 01, 2017
New York Times Democracy

Postby The Anarcho-Syndicalist Commune » Mon Sep 10, 2018 10:11 pm

Lycan
Mod-Town
San Sacramento
January 13th 2068


Lycan held the binoculars up to his face. Though his Ocular mods were perfect for hunting prey in the dark, they lacked the zooming functionality of other more complex devices. Still though, the inbuilt GUI instantly accessed the files of a corporate database he been given access to. With the binoculars giving him actually visibility into the crowd, Lycan was able find and set his target to track in the GUI within a few minutes. The old man strutted down the road, with a carefree attitude that struck Lycan as odd. Mod-Town was the exact opposite of where you would expect to find a guy like this. The older gentleman had refined features and clearly cared for his well being enough not too look like a complete piece of shit, indicating he was likely a servant for some low ranking businessman. Mod-Town on the other hand was filled with the absolute scum of the city. Actually, Scum was being nice to them. These were the worst sort of gangster, brutal and with no honor code. In this hub of gang warfare, the strong ruled and the weak were eaten. Literally in some cases. The Mystic gangs were not above a bit of cannibalism.

Lowering his binoculars and following the tracked head on his GUI, Lycan trailed his target from a decent distance behind, his long knife clattering in the makeshift sheath he made for it. The blade itself was affectionatly referred to as Mincer by it's owner. It had been ripped from the body of a corrupt bodyguard Lycan was sent to hit. After lodging a bullet in her skull, Lycan removed the mantis blade from inside the owner, and put a handle on it, and since that day it had become his favorite weapon to use in a chase. Brutal, effecient, and utterly terrible to be cut with, Mincer was almost as feared as it's owner in the areas around the Lower Sewage Block, but Mod-Town was a full 10 miles from Lycan's home neighborhood.

Seeing his target duck into a garage, Lycan checked to see if the coast was clear, before ducking into it himself. Inside he found a heated exchange going on between the target and another man who appeared to be from the Servile class, arguing over some kind of Mod Deal. Pulling out his pistol, He calmly walked up to the pair, and before they knew what was happening, put it to the other guys head. Looking at his quarry, Lycan barked a simple order "On your knees. Now."

The man shakily complied. Lycan quickly pulled the trigger, lodging a bullet in the skull of the man the target had been making a deal with. Letting the corpse fall to the ground. Lycan put away his pistol and drew his blade. The last thing the target saw was the knife swinging towards his neck.

Lycan made his way back out of Mod-Town with a head in his bag and a few bonus credits in his pocket, walking towards where he had parked his old and battered Jeep, from the 2010s. It was a miracle the thing was still running at this point. Lycan quickly got on a cross city Highway, making his way towards Central.

Central

Built atop what used to be prime farming country, Central provided one of the middle ground districts for buisness between the richer and poorer parts of the city. And if you knew where to look, it's where a lot of Black Market activity took place, as well as any illegal transactions. Lycan himself made for the "Cooked Goose", an Irish style pub that provided a home base of sorts for many of the cities professional killers. Stepping inside, he found his contact sitting in one of the booth seats "reserved" for more... private business.

Sitting down, Lycan removed the head from the bag and placed it on the table. He said bluntly "I hope there's money to cover the cleaning cost of my bag added to my reward. Why the hell would you want the fuckers whole head anyways?"

The contact placed a rather thick envelope on the table, loaded with money. As he began packaging the head for transport, the contact merely said "The man has a data chip implanted in his head. My employers want to take a look. That will be all for now, though I may contact you with more jobs."

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New Minahasa
Diplomat
 
Posts: 793
Founded: Sep 05, 2016
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby New Minahasa » Tue Sep 11, 2018 2:03 am

Leland O'Callaghan
Grantswood, San Sacramento

SMACK.

A slap landed across the man's face. He had gotten himself in a terrible situation, being tied to a chair... in his own apartment. The last thing he could remember was him trying to find his apartment keys before something knocked him out cold. His vision was still blurry, and the slap had woken him up. It wasn't a hard smack, really, but when the hand that slapped you was made out of metal, it surely must've hurt. "Good morning, sunshine," a muffled voice greeted him warmly. He tried to catch sight of the perpetrator, but a bright desk lamp obscured his vision. "What the fuck is this? Who the fuck are you? Do you even know who the fuck you're dealing with, you sonuva-," another painful slap landed on his face, this time shutting him up for good.

"Shh. It ain't your turn to speak, yet. You gotta keep your mouth shut, and perk those ears up, because I'm not gonna repeat myself twice, hear me? Now, listen up reaaal good, because this is about to be a long one. Ready? Here it goes; where's the package?," the man's abductor spoke up, but this time, he stayed silent. It was expected, though. People usually wouldn't comply the first time, unless they had nothing to lose by doing so. "Of course, now you're gonna play quiet. Classic," said the abductor. "I don't really wanna do this, but you forced me to," he turned the chair around, away from the lamp's shining light. The man could open his eyes finally, and saw a desk right in front of him. On it, the picture of a beautiful young woman, smiling towards the camera; his daughter.

A frightened look was visible on his face as he noticed the person. "H- how?," he muttered under his breath. "How? I'm a resourceful man. I even got her numbers. Don't believe me? Let me c-," he was interrupted by the man's cry. "Okay, okay, stop! Stop!," the man broke down in his chair, crying. "She's all I got left, please. It's in the vault, inside my bedroom. The password's 5-5-1-0. Please, just fucking take it!," he cried continuously. "Was that so hard?," remarked the abductor. He went over to the man's bedroom to locate the vault, finding the package; a manila envelope, just like his employer described. Wasting no more time inside the apartment, he quickly upped and left the place, the man still sobbing in his chair.

With his mission a success, he headed directly for his next destination; Grantswood's Lounge, a bar just a few floors below the apartment. This was all happening inside Grantswood, one of the many apartment blocks in Sac-Town, comprised of hundreds of stories with thousands of people calling this place home. Arriving in the bar, he was greeted by a woman. A smile crossed her face as she caught the sight of the envelope. "Good job, O'Callaghan. And just as I promised," she offered a small item that resembled a USB. "The money's inside. Some decent credits for a job well-done," she said with a grin. "Appreciate it. If you need something done, you'll know who to contact," a cheesy smile appeared on Leland's face as he gave his remark.
Last edited by New Minahasa on Tue Sep 11, 2018 2:03 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Tundra Terra
Diplomat
 
Posts: 877
Founded: Sep 23, 2014
Father Knows Best State

Postby Tundra Terra » Wed Sep 12, 2018 5:34 pm

Voultarr "Iron Wolf" Kraknir
San Sacramento, Industrial District


All he heard was the thud of a boot, the sigh of a fan, and the cracking of his spine. As the body fell...a green eye emerged from the shadows followed by a dark sheen of a revolver to fire at the security systems. Voultarr was in a rather low level electronics factory that produced various low tech based items such as prosthetics, data pads, and other trivial items to the upper classes. If he didn't have the rebreather on his face one could have been made sick from the acetane fumes and the argon floating in the air trapped in the closed building. This clearly was done as to avoid from being noticed by the city's often overzealous pollution committee or to bar up the windows and prevent from being robbed. In either case it didn't matter a bit to Voultarr as he kicked in the door to the management office and shot the current honcho in the head. A quick look to his watch and the commotion outside the building told him how much time he had left to rip the office apart for his objective.

Outside the building took place a riot between the workers and the police as one side constantly pushed the other to their limits. It was a bloody spectacle of chaos for the midnight neon lights and the sound of gunfire made everything worse in an instant. Voultarr gave himself a quick smile under his rebreather as the sound of his manipulation outside led to a boil and.....there!! He found the safe behind a desk and proceeded to open it while inserting a flash drive into the computers to data-mine its contents. The drive also held a basic program to rewrite or delete contents entirely as was most effective to the companies financial records and security feeds. Through his mechanical eye Voultarr was able to notice minor fractures and indents to gain the right combination and opened his prize: A small wad of credits and some documents that he needed to grab. Even the drive he installed showed what little wealth he stole from their servers and just as expected...a minor morsel of maybe a few grand at most.

Voultarr wasted no time to start grabbing anything valuable and throw it into his duffel bag for later sale or future use. Shortly when he deemed the loot satisfactory he placed charges around the building and left the way he came in. Only when he was far enough...a car emerged from the alley way with his client inside and Voultarr was more than happy to enter. Once he was inside the vehicle he gave the documents to the bodyguard, "As for you would like to start?" he said offering the trigger switch. The bodyguard flipped instead and the factory almost several blocks away erupted into flames, "He should have accepted our offer and your payment as discussed." said the client with a sigh, "We will not meet ever again...this is your stop." As such the car stopped in alleyway without witnesses or surveillance, "Pleasure doing business with you and i wish you success in your venture." and with a snap the car left as quickly as possible. Not even giving a single damn, Voultarr turned around to find a homeless man hiding in the trash bin, "No Please No i have a family!! Wait" he screamed as Voultarr lunged to him and snapped his neck with a quick motion and closed the lid to hide the body. After such an eventful day he returned to his abode in Applewood Tower on the 62nd Floor. Thankfully the rest of the trip had no incidents and he wrangled out his keys with an amazing deftness to unlock the door. His apartment wasn't much but it was functional and very spartan like in case he needed to run. It had a stove and a bed and that was all he needed...at least for now. However the only thing that irked him was his neighbors as they were bunking three people he could hear nearly anything they were loud about. Now onto that payment package...
We are a PMT Military and no we don't use Ns stats.
Why?
because..."WAR IS ETERNAL!!!"
Current Status: Massive wars being conducted for the good of the universe apparently...
War Hounds favorite song of this year
Blood Moons theme (for this sadistic FT leader)

"If bloodlust vikings, dorve tanks to school, had PMT-FT tech with Chaos -like fanaticism, this would be it."
-------------------------The Posthuman Coalition

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Vacif
Senator
 
Posts: 4529
Founded: Mar 22, 2015
Scandinavian Liberal Paradise

Postby Vacif » Wed Sep 12, 2018 8:35 pm

Merrill Foxwell
Applewood tower
"Home"
San Sacramento, "Sac-Town"




One good thing about his nasal based chemical analyzers was that he could tell what needed washing. Merrill brought the Puma sock in his hand and gave it a good sniff. Just the one. Normally it would take him a bit of time before realizing it was dirty, but with the chemical analyzer he could tell that it was dirty thanks to a combination of sweat, dirt, and whatever had attached itself to the sock. Merrill wrinkled his nose as he tossed the dirty sock into the basket on his bed. He'd been at it for about ten minutes, going through everything that needed cleaning. Sheets, pillow cases, clothes, and towels. It was still early, mid-peak prices for their water utility, so he'd actually have to do the washing later at night if he wanted to save money.

Merrill picked up the basket and carefully navigated towards the main living space, mindful not to bump into anything when a small screen appeared in the corner of his glasses. It was the spy camera he had installed near the front door, well out of sight from the casual eye. Call it paranoid, but Merrill liked having eyes and forewarning before someone got to him. The tiny camera was motion activated, it would tell him if anyone was coming down the hall, towards their door. As intended, it did just that. A familiar shape came down the hall, key card in hand. Shortly after, he heard the lock undoing itself.

"Anyone home?" Came a familiar voice.

"Present!" Merrill declared. He appeared around the corner with a white laundry basket full of dirty fabrics of varying use. "Hey Mac, doing a load of laundry tonight, you got anything to wash?" He asked.
Looking for help on Pub-lishing your RP? Come check us out!
Member of Task Force Atlas
Credit to Beiarusia for the flag.
Nation name pronounced Vuh-sea-f, sometimes shortened to Vac, or 'Cif.

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Beiarusia
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 10482
Founded: Dec 29, 2014
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Beiarusia » Wed Sep 12, 2018 8:54 pm

Sydney Arlo
Applewood Tower, San Sacramento // Friday January 13, 2068


The young woman was sitting crosslegged atop an old futon. She's eating a bowl of cereal, off-brand and tasteless, and is wearing nothing more than underwear and an oversized T-shirt — white with the pyramidal Kobayashi logo on the front — with a threadbare blanket haphazardly thrown across her naked legs. The twenty-year-old television is turned-on, but Sydney isn't paying much attention to the sponsored programming. She's linked to the apartment's subpar wi-fi via her NCI, and is browsing the web, particularly the website of the San Sacramento News, scanning for anything noteworthy, but the headlines today are focused on yesterday's match between the Golden Kings and the Raptors. (The Golden Kings lost in overtime.) Nothing important. Her ocular implants allow her to "see" the internet by way of virtual HUD, and she navigates with a simple thought, as natural as breathing. An extension of herself.

Her IP address is hidden behind a VPN. A precaution to keep her father's henchmen from tracking her whereabouts.

Sydney Arlo is a runaway. Technically an adult, and more than capable of making her own decisions, she came to the downtrodden slums of San Sacramento in an effort to escape the control of her father, Matthew Arlo, CEO of tech-giant Akers International. Perhaps it was selfish of her to leave. She owed her father everything, her body and her life, and she loved the man dearly, but she was suffocating underneath the weight of his influence. His micromanagement. His expectations.

She'd come to the only place beyond the reach of her father. The slums were dangerous, terribly so, and Sydney had experienced some close calls already, being from the affluent Bay Area, but she wasn't alone. There was Merril, a friend from a long time ago, and Cameron, Merril's roommate.

It had been awkward showing up on their doorstep, but it hadn't taken much to be welcomed into their home.

Not that she could pay her share of rent. Her credits were already running dry, and finding a suitable job was proving more bothersome that she'd originally thought it'd be. For now she was playing housekeeper. It was the least she could do.

The apartment's door opened with a small creak and Cameron called out, "Anyone home?"

"Yeah," Sydney said, closing her HUD and standing, a seamless movement that was almost graceful thanks in part to her augmentations. She stepped out of the bedroom to peer into the main living space, cereal in-hand, snowy hair messy and in dire need of a good brushing. She didn't blink much. "Merril should still be home." On cue he answered and appeared from the laundry room. "How was work? I'm still looking for something, I promise." Maybe today would lead to something, anything, so long as it were agreeable. To Merill she said, "And I can do the laundry."

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Ihury
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 446
Founded: Aug 29, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Ihury » Thu Sep 13, 2018 6:44 am

Duong Van Binh
~+~+~+~+~+~

On the ancient boombox in the corner of his hovel, Binh began playing Mozart's Symphony No. 25 in G Minor, as he slowly set down his client phone and, limping over to the dining table, took the blackmail phone.

He had three phones on hand, after he sold the souped-up smartphone he had used before in order to scrounge up enough money to pay rent for the shithole he lived in; one phone was for personal use, but was hardly touched at all since Binh had no friends; one phone was for his clients, and was the number he gave to the people who wanted him to perform blackmail jobs; and the last one was the blackmail phone, which had an untraceable number and which he used to call the victims of the blackmail.

Binh dialed the number. It was a Mrs Lucida Kwan, a Hongkonger businesswoman from the tobacco industry who had come over to do "business". It turned out that Binh's latest client, one Mr Llewellyn Ewing, had had both his parents assassinated on the orders of this Mrs Kwan. It also turned out that Mr Ewing had dirt on Mrs Kwan, in this case, that she had been banging the fifteen-year-old son of the leader of a rogue state who was, like Mrs Kwan, very much into assassinating people he didn't like. And Mr Ewing had pictures too!

Upping the volume of the ominous Mozart symphony to catastrophic levels enough to wake the entire block up (Binh, frankly, did not give a flying fish about the neighbours' attitudes to noise pollution, which probably contributed to his having no friends), he hobbled over to the public computer outside his apartment at the end of the corridor, near the lift, his walking stick tapping rhythmically on the parquet.

"Mrs Lucida Kwan Yeung-wye."

"Who are you?" came the voice on the other end, a posh trill in almost-perfect received pronunciation.

"I hear you have been making love with the fifteen-year-old son of one General Albert Worman. Imagine that! A thirty-nine year old woman, seducing a teen boy!"

"You have no proof!"

The conversation went back and forth for just three minutes, with a certain number of explicit images sent via an encrypted email channel.

It ended with one of the most powerful tobacco industry scions agreeing to expose herself on the internet in a career-endingly embarrassingly manner. With that done, Binh deleted all the files from the old computer, hauled himself out of his chair, and hobbled back to his apartment, turning down the volume of the music and slamming the main door shut (but without locking it), whereupon he lay down on the couch and picked up his client phone.

"Done", he murmured, clearly becoming somewhat sleepy. "You'll see a live-stream video of her in about half an hour. When you do, transfer five hundred USD to my bank account."

"Thanks for your trouble. Good day to you, Mr Binh."

"Good day, Mr Ewing."

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Ardenfel
Lobbyist
 
Posts: 17
Founded: Jun 07, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Ardenfel » Thu Sep 13, 2018 8:29 am

Micheal 'Micky' Bolton
Outside Applewood Tower, Sac-Town
Friday, 13th January 2068


The sound of the passing cars filled the alley which was devoid of life apart for some rats and two people, one laying down on the ground sobbing, the other stood over the former while smoking a cigarette, emotionlessly playing with a revolver.

" Come on man. I didn't want to mug you, I just wanna feed my kids. You hear me? I have a fam-."

The gun shot echoed through the alley and micky threw his finished cigarette butt as he turned to leave the still cooling corpse behind. He wasn't worried about anyone noticing since there were probably countless similar cases in Sac-Town that the cops would not bother, especially about some random street trash. He exhaled a sigh as he exited into the main street where the entrance to the Applewood Tower hab block was at.

As Micky entered the hab block, a multitude of noises assaulted his ears as people lived out their lives in the over-sized apartment/neighbourhood. He looked around to find a specific apartment. He had heard rumors from a bar about an retired member of the 89th Jackals, his old gang's rival before they were killed off in an ambush, now living in the hab block. The man had partaken in the slaughter of his old family, so a little revenge was in order. As he went out of the elevator, he saw a flash of flesh drop down from the upper levels and a expected crunch echoed along with a scream from the first level. A normal sight in the slums of Sac-Town.

He walked around the lomg corridors until he reached a dented door with fading white paint off. He took a breath and pressed on the door bell, brandeshing his brass knuckled.

" Block Maintanance!"

He heard footsteps and then the door opened, a heavy set man looking man's face appearing.

" Jeez, how many months do you guys take to get up here and fix the... Shit "

As the last word was uttered and the man recognized Micky, a metal knuckle impacted his nose, shattering it and leaving him dazed. The retired gangbanger fell back, leaving the door wide open for Micky to walk in freely who smiled sadistically as he picked up the man and brought him further into the apartment. As the door closed and locked itself, muffled screams filled the apartment, leaving none the wiser or rather the neighbours didn't care enough to be involved. Such is the life in the slums of Sac-Town

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Vacif
Senator
 
Posts: 4529
Founded: Mar 22, 2015
Scandinavian Liberal Paradise

Postby Vacif » Thu Sep 13, 2018 12:11 pm

Merrill Foxwell
Applewood tower
"Home"
San Sacramento, "Sac-Town"
Friday, January 13th, 2068




"And I can do the laundry."

Merrill shrugged and promptly apologized. "Sorry, still getting used to you living here. I'm still in my usual routine and all that." And it was true, Sunny was a fresh addition to their harbour in the storm that was Sac-Town. She'd only been there a few days, a week tops. Or at least that's what it felt like. Merrill never did have a good grasp on time, and dates. He based his concept of time off of events that happened. Like last Wednesday was the day he had to reattach Costanzi's left index finger and thumb. Man had lost it in an " industrial accident" but Merrill wasn't going to pry so long as it didn't withhold important information pertaining to the injury.

In the background was some jack ass blaring some classical bullshit at stupidly high volumes. Merrill never understood that, you could enjoy music just fine without letting the world know you're listening to whatever it was you were listening to. Personally he didn't mind classical stuff, it was a nice break from the synth that played nigh constantly but when you played in in a way that disturbed other people it was annoying. Louder did not necessarily mean a better experience, and all they were doing was damaging their own hearing. The only reason he could think of for playing music that loud was to cover something up. Maybe that was it, but god damn was it disruptive.

Back to the present, Merrill walked over to their kitchenette area to look at the calendar hung on the wall. He wanted to make sure everything was taken care of chore wise before heading out to work. The apartment was already mopped, swept, and tidied up, mail had been picked up, garbage was disposed of, and laundry would be taken care of. Coupon fliers had been delivered the night before which meant that today was Friday. On the calendar the current date was circled in big red marker. "Oh shit, today's Friday the 13th. Do we have anything planned today?" He asked turning around.
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Greater Socialist Albania
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 432
Founded: Nov 01, 2014
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Greater Socialist Albania » Thu Sep 13, 2018 7:12 pm

Ivan '' Count'' Nikishin
Folsom correctional facility (FCF)
North east of Sac-town
Friday, january 13th 2068, 8:05 pm.

''One black coat with a black fur collar, one gold chain with a gold cross pendant, one black denim shirt, one black trousers, one SovCell X60 mobile phone, and one pack of Marlboro Red cigarettes.
Sign here Nikishin.'' an old prison guard standing behind a desk tells Ivan in a grumpy voice.

''Done'' replies Ivan before he immediately gets dressed in his old clothes, he takes a cigarette out of the old dusty Marlboro pack and lights it up, he didn't care how old it is, it was his first cigarette in 6 years, he then proceeds to walk out of the prison.

Waiting for him at the front gate of the huge prison complex, leaning on Ivan's car was none other than his best friend Timur ''Big T'' Nurai, Timur is Ivan's sworn brother as they were both inducted in the Kalinin Clan on the same night, Big T stood at 1,98 meters (6,5 feets), very muscular and intimidating, his parents were Kazakhs corpos who worked for SovOil before getting murdered when Timur was 12 years old.
His role in the clan was that of an enforcer, whoever did anything to upset the patriarch or the lieutenants, had Timur's fist to answer to, he was recruited by the clan after eradicating single-handedly a street gang that was causing trouble at the clan's turf.

''Six fucking years and you motherfucker only managed to lose your hair'' shouted sarcastically Ivan.
''Keep busting my balls you little cunt and one day I might just bust that ugly ass face of yours'' replied Big T before hugging Ivan, he handed him the car key of his matte black 2052 Ford Mustang.
''Let's head down to the red light district, six years with no pussy, you must be dying to get some unless you started picking up the soap in prison'' laughed Big T.
Ivan began driving, it was a long hour and a half drive from Folsom to the red light district, he turned on the radio but there was nothing but Synth-wave.

''Haha, I can see that nothing has changed since 2062.'' shouts ironically Ivan.

He opened the glove box and found his old USB filled with old-school rock music from the 1980s, plugged it into the radio and continued his cruise down to Sac-Town.''

Red light district
Sacramento
10:15 PM.

The two men finally arrive at there destination, the ''Krasnaya Strip Club'' a shady strip club filled with red and purple neon lights controlled by one of the three Kalinin Clan's lieutenants ''Vasil Krilencu'', the club is always filled with the clan's men and also other members of families belonging to the Volk Bratva the organization that the Kalinin Clan is a subsidiary of.
Ivan parked the car near the club in a parking lot, he and Timur than began heading toward the entrance of the club.
As soon as the bouncers saw Timur they moved the people blocking the way, Ivan was kind of disappointed that none of the bouncers recognized him but shrugged it off and continued following Timur, they settled in a booth near the center of the club, 4 women were already waiting for them at the table with 2 bottles of Stolichnaya vodka.
They began to drink while the Dj blasted some synth wave hits, Ivan had two of the hottest girls by him but he was sort of disoriented and pissed.
''Man how come none of these peasant fuckers remember me, I carried out more hits by the time I turned eighteen then they can count on their fingers and toes.'' Shouted Ivan.
''Calm down brother, the drinks must have gotten a hold on you, relax you have been in jail for a long time, you will earn back your reputation in no time'' assured him Timur in a relaxed tone.
''Man those damn pigs took off all my cybernetics when I got arrested, I need to get a hold on some new shit, especially some new Vampires. (Implanted fangs, usually made up of carbon-glass or super-chromed metal.) Lucky for me I met this guy in prison who is a cousin of a ripper doctor called Jonathan Miller, he might be able to set me up with some new cybernetics for cheap, Timur you still got a hold on the credits I got paid after the last hit before I got arrested?''
''Sure brother, 25,000 credits I stashed them in a safe in my apartment, come to think of it you got no place to stay the old warehouse we used to stay at got demolished around two years ago, you can crash at my place until you got back on your legs.''

4:30 Am.

''Thanks Big T for the drinks and the women, I'm gonna bounce get me some good night sleep, I haven't had one in six years, so I catch up with you in the morning.''
''Fine fine, you were always a party pooper my brother, I will get one of these fine women to drop me off, my apartment is on 52nd street, east Sacramento, Obelisk Tower, 29th floor room 313, oh and before you go I forgot to tell you, the boss wants to see you tomorrow, get your ass to the clan's HQ in Central.''
''Well I guess it ain't going to be a welcome party, damn business on the first day I didn't even get a breath of fresh hair, well guess I had a six years vacation.''

Ivan exited the club and got in his Mustang, he took off to east Sacramento, a half an hour drive in the night since there was no traffic, east Sacramento also is known as ''The Den'', is a slum (the south side of the district is heavily industrialized with the ''HiEnergy Nuclear Reactor'' being located in it, it powers most of Sac-town, to the north of the district there is a huge quarry that some huge corporation use to mine metal, East and west of the district are where the residential area and the tower blocks are located) most of its residents are known criminals, gang members, mobsters, punks, very low-level corpos, hobos, extremely poor people... the police and the security forces would only be found guarding the HiEnergy nuclear reactor other then that a cop is a rare sight in the Den, but 52nd street was controlled by the Clan so it was relatively safe for Ivan.

The Den, east Sacramanto
Obelisk tower
5:10 AM.
Image



Ivan parked his car in the underground parking of the massive neon lit tower, he got out of it and locked it as he made his way to the elevator, two young men jumped him from behind, one of them attacking him with a meat cleaver, just as they were about to cut his neck with the cleaver, Ivan's phone fell from his hand prompting him to pick it up, as soon as he got back up he knew about the situation it was not the first time he got in such an affair, he struck the man wielding the cleaver with a punch on the right side of the jaw knocking him down immediately, the other man then ran toward Ivan, he seemed to be equipped with cybernetic blades in his arms known as rippers, he tried to rip Ivan's face, but Ivan was fast enough to dodge the attack, he then began striking the man with a barrage of punches to the head and knees to the stomach eventually knocking out the street punk, ivan than took the meat cleaver and cut out the cybernetics from the unconcious punk.
''Guess it's my lucky day, you probably scrapped this off somebody else anyway you little fuck.'' He spat on the punk's unconscious face and made his way to the elevator at the end of the underground parking. The elevator was rusty, dirty and old but at least it was faster than the stairs.

One minute later the elevator got to the 29th floor, Ivan got out and proceeded to room 313 it was at the end of the hallway, he opened the door using Timur's keycard, the room was not bad, kind of dirty but still cleaner than your average room in Obelisk Tower, Ivan than crashed on the couch calling it a day, he surely had a big day waiting for him tomorrow.
Last edited by Greater Socialist Albania on Thu Sep 13, 2018 9:24 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Anowa
Post Marshal
 
Posts: 16103
Founded: Jul 29, 2014
Liberal Democratic Socialists

Postby Anowa » Thu Sep 13, 2018 8:32 pm

Cameron MacDougall
Applewood Tower, Floor 37, Room 892
San Sacramento, "Sac-Town"

Friday, January 13th, 2068 // 8:06 AM
44°F (7°C), Precipitation: 92%,
Humidity: 80%, Wind: 2 mph (3 km/h) NE



Vacif wrote:"Present!" Merrill declared. He appeared around the corner with a white laundry basket full of dirty fabrics of varying use. "Hey Mac, doing a load of laundry tonight, you got anything to wash?" He asked.


Hanging her jacket up, Cameron noticed the whiff of laundry detergent and walked further into the apartment, "Besides what I'm wearing, which I'll need, and my jacket, which I don't trust you with, no. All good to live the rest of the week."

Beiarusia wrote:"How was work? I'm still looking for something, I promise."


Sydney was an alright kid, though she rode a wholly different wave than her two roomies. Living at the top of the world's food chain for most of her life. Though unlike many of her porcelain faced peers she treated people like Cameron and Merril as actual human beings, which was a welcome change of pace for the duo who lived here only a few months ago.

"Work was boring, most exciting part is when someone's body smacked into the atrium floor at about warp fucking 10." Cameron mentally slapped herself, Sydney was, well, far from used to the casual dialogue around such gruesome deaths. Aware of it yes, but probably not too intrinsically involved. Which was a good thing, it gave people like Cameron some measure of how the healthy human mind reacted to it, it gave a benchmark for Cameron's own sanity.

Walking into the kitchenette, the eldest of the three took stock of what was to be done. Most obvious was the dishes, the few non paper plates they had were cracked and chipped, also unwashed, while food was notably low.

Vacif wrote:"Oh shit, today's Friday the 13th. Do we have anything planned today?"


Cameron sighed, "Previously, no, but seeing as our kitchen looks like someone got killed the robbed, probably grocery... shop...ing..." Cameron trailed off as she squinted a bit, the sound of more godawful music blaring through the walls and distant screams doing nothing but add a little more agitation to the woman's life. She had noticed something somewhat off about her sight in the last couple of seconds. Raising a hand to her face, he shook it from side to side, passing through the field of view for both of her eyes. Or what should've been the field of view, instead, only her right eye was registering anything.

"Actually, scratch that, my left eye has decided to crap out. So I gotta go see Miller." making her way back to the door she continued, "You'll have to order takeout for pick up or something. God knows no one does delivery anymore. Text me who you order from and I'll pick it up on the way back." A pause as she got to the door, "And Merril, please don't forget the electricity bill this month."

With that, she stepped outside and back into the smoke filled air of the Sac-Town suburbs.


Detective Adrian Blackburn
Pinebrook Central Hab-Block, Floor 13, Room 13
San Sacramento, "Sac-Town"

Friday, January 13th, 2068 // 8:07 AM
45°F (7°C), Precipitation: 90%,
Humidity: 79%, Wind: 0 mph (0 km/h)



People falling to their deaths in these big-fuck-off towers weren't uncommon. But them being in two pieces when they landed was. So was a concurrent firefight happening just 13 floors above. This being a part of town that the police could be bothered to send people to without fear of being literally ripped apart by scavengers or kidnapped and used by gangers for whatever the fuck they wanted, of course they were now investigating.

7 dead bodies in total and a trashed apartment. As per usual the landlord was more pissed about the damage than the murder, but the three dead who were in the apartments next to this one had loved ones who were more distraught about their dead family members.

Regardless, shit like this wasn't exactly easy to cover up, and judging from the blunt home invasion the guy who lived here wouldn't have much in the way of explaining seeing as this was very obviously an attempt on his life. At least, it would've been an easy ten minute talk had he still been here. Instead, the guy bounced so fast that the first responders thought he was one of the dead perps. They only found out he wasn't among the dead when the landlord came by, more ornery than a bull with a vice on it's nuts.

With a description, and all the merry things that came from living out of a tower room, as well as prints and DNA on more than a good amount of things in the bathroom and carpet, they very quickly got a lock on the man. Victor Stromm. Last encounter with the law being when he was 16 and landed in a hospital for some rather brutal injuries. Due to the suspected gang involvement and the relation of his father, dropped off the radar a week after discharge and left behind only a medical record and a set of finger prints taken while he was unconscious.

Which means this case was basically shut before it even opened. They likely wouldn't find the man, at least not before he was got by someone else.

With the sigh, the nigh fully mechanical man started making his way back down to his patrol car, leaving the techies to do their business and update him later. He had a factory explosion to investigate.
Awards:
Tie Winner: Most Involved in P2TM, 2016
Winner: Best Crime RP, 2016

An Intro to Anowa
United States of Conner wrote:STOP TRYING TO EAT PEOPLE
I'M FUCKING SERIOUS
GODDAMMIT

Anowa wrote:
Serah wrote:He continued to fight, humping from person to person, either cutting or obliterating altogether.

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

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Ayvalon
Spokesperson
 
Posts: 120
Founded: Sep 23, 2017
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Ayvalon » Thu Sep 13, 2018 8:41 pm

Victor Stromm
January 13th, noon(ish?)
Pinebrook Central Hab-block, "The Spider-hole"


It'd been ...4 hours? Victor had to check the chronometer on his arm again to confirm as the reports of boots flooded the air above his room and demands to keep clear. The tiny 'coffin' apartment in which he was currently hidden several floors below held a bed, toilet and little else. The welcome wagon above had damaged several prized possessions which he'd retrieved but would take some time to repair, in the meantime he needed work to pay for a home preferably far enough away to warrant something approaching safety.

The tell-tale whining and clicking of Victor's face-rig brought his entire life's networking before his eyes. An unfathomable level of information overload flooded his screen for a moment before his mask's filters narrowed it down to connections relevant to his current needs. A mental acknowledgement was all that was required before the contact request he desired wormed it's way through several VPN server farms scattered across Sac-town's poor districts would mask his connection confidently enough to warrant an answer.

When the virtual 'handshake' was accepted, a single text message was sent from Victor's text-message system provided by his mask "Work Requested, short time-span, all tasks of interest", the audio of a typewriter was his calling-card to acknowledge Victor's messages were sent without duress.
Last edited by Ayvalon on Sat Sep 15, 2018 10:32 pm, edited 4 times in total.

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Vacif
Senator
 
Posts: 4529
Founded: Mar 22, 2015
Scandinavian Liberal Paradise

Postby Vacif » Fri Sep 14, 2018 10:52 am

Anowa wrote:"Actually, scratch that, my left eye has decided to crap out. So I gotta go see Miller." making her way back to the door she continued, "You'll have to order takeout for pick up or something. God knows no one does delivery anymore. Text me who you order from and I'll pick it up on the way back." A pause as she got to the door, "And Merril, please don't forget the electricity bill this month."


Merrill gave a sheepish smile as Cameron left the premise. So the last time he was in charge of paying the bill... he hadn't pressed the "CONFIRM SEND?" button to complete the transaction, and thus their utility got cut. It was a... bad time for Merrill, but the entire ordeal was sorted out fairly quick in his opinion, a careless mistake but a mistake none the less. This time he'd personally walk the funds to management, and make sure every last bit of dosh made it to the land lord. While the words spoken by Cameron held no malice, it made Merrill red, like a child being caught red handed for something childish.

Merrill quickly cooled off and left the kitchenette, returning with a bunch of paper fliers instead of a white basket of laundry. "I know you just ate, and personally I can't think of food after eating but what're you in the mood for? Y'know, for later tonight?" Merrill plopped himself onto the couch that Sydney was on before. He spread the fliers evenly across the small coffee table so they could view their options. "We've got coupons for.... the Chinese place down the block near the night market, the Japanese place, same plaza, new Korean place opened up down the road, Ita-" Merrill's voice died out as he looked over the coupons. They had coupons for most every type of food available. The coupons would not be a limiting factor, and it was really up to whatever. "I dunno, we've got practically every food option available at some discount rate, personally I haven't had some good Korean take out in a while. you?"

Of course they could always go out and buy real food that they could prepare and cook themselves. They'd have to do it eventually.
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Beiarusia
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 10482
Founded: Dec 29, 2014
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Beiarusia » Fri Sep 14, 2018 2:08 pm

Sydney Arlo
Applewood Tower, San Sacramento // Friday January 13, 2068


Merril shrugs apologetically, then says, "Sorry, still getting used to you living here. I'm still in my usual routine and all that."

Sydney, finishing the last of her cereal, and drinking what's left of the sugar-infused milk, follows him into the small kitchenette, peering briefly over his shoulder to study the calendar pinned to the wall as she sets her bowl into the sink alongside the other dishes that had yet to be cleaned or else stowed in the dishwasher. There aren't many so she goes ahead and begins washing them. She's not terrible at doing housework despite her privileged upbringing.

"Work was boring," answers Cameron in response to Sydney's inquiry about her day. She hangs her jacket on a wall-peg near the front door before joining them in the too-small kitchenette. She continues: "Most exciting part is when someone's body smacked into the atrium floor at about warp-fucking-10."

Sydney can't help the involuntary wince at the thought of someone falling to their death right outside their apartment. Death wasn't as prevalent in the Bay Area, or, at least, was better concealed, but here, in the crime-ridden slums, one couldn't go two-feet without witnessing some terrible mishap or senseless act of violence. Muggings. Murder. It was just the norm here. By chance, Sydney has avoided the worse of it thus far — not that she's gone too far from the safety of the apartment — but it was hard to ignore the gunshots that were sometimes a bit too close to home. She didn't like thinking about it.

"Oh shit, today's Friday the 13th. Do we have anything planned today?" Merril asks.

Cameron sighs. "Previously, no, but seeing as our kitchen looks like someone got killed and robbed, probably grocery... shop..." Her voice trails off as very loud, very obnoxious music begins playing from somewhere down the hall, classical, practically ancient, and quite inconsiderate of the neighbors. Cameron looks to be agitated; as does Merril; Sydney is annoyed, too, but simply limits the sensitivity of her auditory sensors to tune-out the excess noise. Cameron then alters her plans for the evening due to a sudden glitch in her eye, so is off to see her cybernetics doctor. She tells them to order takeout, reminds Merril of the electricity bill, and is then gone.

Merril, a bit red in the face at being reminded of his previous forgetfulness, heads off to grab a thick stack of coupons, plopping down atop the futon to shuffle through like a banker counting physical currency before spreading the sheets on the coffee table. A mess of colourful adds. "I know you just ate, and personally I can't think of food after eating, but what're you in the mood for? Y'know, for later tonight? We've got coupons for..." Well, they have coupons for a lot of places.

Sydney dries her hands and then joins Merril in the living room. She's leaning over the table opposite him, not really aware of her T-shirt or how exposed it is leaving her in places because of its bagginess. Not that she has reason to be modest. It's not her real body. "I say we go and get groceries. We need to anyway, and it'll help out Cameron."

She doesn't wait for an answer before heading over to where her valise is sitting partially open in the corner. Inconsiderate of Merril, she begins changing, slipping on a simple thigh-length skirt, socks, a patterned camisole, and a too-big hoodie with blue/grey stripes. The only consolation to her roommate being that her back is to him the entire time. A quick brushing, and a baseball cap to complete the unassuming ensemble. Ready to go. Ready to blend-in. The only tell of her not being 100% normal are the obvious cybernetic joints of her knees, and although somewhat considerate of appearance were designed for functionality, not total conformity.

"I'm ready. Is there a grocery nearby?"

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Grand Lubeeria
Lobbyist
 
Posts: 20
Founded: Sep 07, 2018
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Grand Lubeeria » Fri Sep 14, 2018 7:30 pm

Image

Amadeus Raynolds
Red Light District, San Sacramento
Friday the 13th, 6:00 AM


It was 6 in the morning and Amadeus was just getting up, a black shirt covered his chest along with pants covering the more private parts he had. As he tasted his morning saliva he quickly got up to eat the Chinese noodles he had in the fridge, they were cold but Amadeus couldn't be bothered to raise his heating lest his taxes reached to the point he couldn't pay for his shitty apartment, after finishing his breakfast he wore his jacket which contained his nokia phone, put on his socks, grabbed both his wallets and his gun with its magazines, and locked the door after he was out. Showers would be done later tonight knowing the soot and muck from his line of work, passing by unappealing prostitutes, junk vendors, and stolen vehicles he managed to go inside the building that shouted in purple neon light "Michael's Automotive and miscellaneous repair shop" and was greeted by his fellow co-workers. Grabbing his blowtorch Amadeus then went behind warehouse doors, there was a jalopy that awaited its end.

Tearing what was left of the doors off their hinges and the muffler the vehicle couldn't have no longer breath if it was sentient, tearing the more important parts of the car or at least parts the shop could reuse by tearing the wire professionally Amadeus cut off pieces of scrap metal with a hacksaw.

5:30 P.M.

The sun was setting over the city but work wasn't done yet, servicing whatever kind of people the shop could be it another teenager with a hijacked car needing things a new license plate or paint job, someone that needed welding for all kinds of stuff, or someone needed their TV's or other appliances fixed. For the most part it was the same old job for different faces and the pay for the most part was average compared to other similar shops.

For Amadeus this was the life, as long as he wasn't fighting anyone or a lawyer wanting to sue the shop with all of the employees inside he could do it till the day he died though it could be the case. Drinking some coffee that was from a coffee pot it was one of the luxuries the job had that others would take for granted.

7:50 P.M

10 minutes before closing time, just as Amadeus was packing his blowtorch in its safe little compartment on a metal shelf the owner of the shop, Michael, was grabbing at a customer by his shoulders and eventually pushing him behind the warehouse door causing a thunk that caught Amadeus' attention.

"The policy is and always will be pay up front!" Michael shouted as the customer tried to renegotiate the terms only for him to be slammed at the warehouse doors once more, "Amadeus come with me, and bring your blowtorch with you!"

Complying with his employer Amadeus grabbed his blowtorch once more along with his welding mask as the three entered the building disguised as the office of the workplace. Turning on the lights Amadeus grabbed a chair where the jalopy was replaced with a newly painted car and the customer was sat down with cable ties securing him in place.

Michael walked around the struggling customer as Amadeus rolled in a cart of hacksaws, a magnifying glass, flint, screwdrivers, and a scalpel next to the latter.

"The shop's policy is for the customer to pay up front, we don't care about this 'the customer is always right' bullshit. If you want the services of my shop you have to follow the rules of my shop. If you don't have the money you either sell the item you wanted fix as collateral or an aug of yours."

"This shit is crazy!" The customer shouted as he struggled again, "You cannies won't get away with this."

The shop owner grabbed his chin as Amadeus watched deadpanned at the situation.

"Cannies? We're far from cannibals Toby, cannies steal augs from other people and sell it wherever they could, we either smelt or detach other people's augs and then use it for fixes." Tapping the ear of the tied man clinks of metal were heard, "Those are some nice ears you got there. Enhanced ear drums maybe? Doesn't matter, they could be reused as radio speakers."

Grabbing the scalpel, magnifying glass, and a Philips screwdriver Amadeus knelt down to the side and had one of the screws of the ears be ready to be taken off, leaving only a little more resistance before it could be taken off.

"My ears? I could easily replace the-"

"Your ears won't be enough." Interrupted Michael as he stepped on Toby's shoes no one felt a thing, "What's this? Could be titanium, could use more of that material."

As the last screw was taken out Amadeus replaced the screwdriver for the scalpel and magnifying glass, taking the wires out it proved to be an uncomfortable experience with mediocre tools and a subpar professional handling the gears. Michael watched closely as the man tied to the chair shivered in every step Amadeus did.

"So what would it be, your augs or your car?" It was silent for a second, Amadeus finished detaching the ear from Toby and placed it on the car, as he walked to do the same thing to the other ear though he made up his mind.

"Fine! Take it, I could do it on another time."

"And do it when you have the cash. Untie him." Using the scalpels Toby's hands were free, grabbing his newly removed implants he was escorted out of the shop at gunpoint before he took off running out of the streets. Amadeus walked up to his boss and tidied his tools before asking him a question.

"How much do you think we could sell the car at?" Both men looked at the car determining the price before Michael returned his gaze to his employee.

"I'd say about 10,500 dosh. The paint job is brand new too along with the license plate, wouldn't be tracked by the guy who owned it."

"The people we sell to aren't the wealthiest Mike, I'd say about 9,350 at least." The owner shook his head as he turned towards the car with his fist on his hips.

"We'll negotiate the terms. For now go home, I'll put up a sign in the morning." Opening his wallet and grabbing a USB Michael was given Amadeus' card and gave him his weeks paycheck.

Thanking his boss Amadeus left to buy some food for his breakfast, walking with a concealed gun being hidden under his jacket a police cruiser caught his eye for a second. Fearing for a second that their latest customer ratted them out but realized Michael was still at the shop, and knowing his employer he was good with negotiation with the authorities.
This nation may or may not represent my views. Maybe.

"Why use exterminatus if you can just deal with the heretics the good ol' fashion way?" -Some guy in Warhammer 40K. Maybe.

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Anowa
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Founded: Jul 29, 2014
Liberal Democratic Socialists

Postby Anowa » Sat Sep 15, 2018 1:17 am

Twitch
Red Light District, Crush-Zone Arena
San Sacramento, "Sac-Town"

Friday, January 13th, 2068 // 11:47 AM
32°F (0°C), Precipitation: 96%,
Humidity: 93%, Wind: 0 mph (0 km/h)



Crush-Zone had a multitude of purposes, the main one being what amounted to a pit fighting set up. Anything from wild animals to people to giant boxing robots, or all of the above went into that pit to fight to the death. Winner took home the cash, unless it was an animal, than the cash went to the owner. But Crush-Zone had more than just that purpose, it also had a number of VIP seats so more, discrete discussions could be held, alongside that there was a "members only" black market bazaar along the outer ring of the once well kept stadium.

It was where Twitch spent most of his time, after all it was ironically, the only place in Sac-Town where weapons were banned for all parties. So he wouldn't be shanked by some junkie like himself.

That being said, it was also where most of the crime bosses both high and low came to discuss business without actively fighting, Hell, even corpses and cops came here from time to time to keep things from getting too fucked up on the streets. This arena was what kept the city from descending into open warfare, the corporations knew this, the cops knew this, the national guard knew this. No one fucked with the place, because it was the sole stable stepping stone of the goddamned city.

Twitch took another swig of the borderline paint thinner the place served, it was enough to get a normal person smashed in less than a pint. But to those who knew how to con, like him, the toxin filter next to their stomach did the work for them. Leaving the poor sod they'd roped into a drinking contest sprawled out on the floor with a failing liver and a raw throat.

Watching the current fight on the big old holoscreen above the bar, Twitch smiled, the few thousand he'd put on the guy in the red shorts seemed t be a decent bet. After all, when the guy your fighting no longer has any skin on their face, nor teeth, it's a good indication that you aren't gonna lose.

Ayvalon wrote:Victor Stromm


His phone vibrated. Reaching into the pocket of his denim jacket he checked the notification on the cracked screen and hummed, a certain wannabe radio was in need for a job.

"Interesting."

A pause as Twitch set up a small message to the all but voiceless man.

a small blip would appear followed by a collection of photos and a location on the GPS map that pretty much every mobile device had nowadays. "Word on the street is that your a sneaky fellow, and what someone needs is a sneaky job. Down on 233rd Street up near the old Sacramento Zoo is a small, rundown junkyard. A bunch of gangbangers and part time cannies call it home the Rust Devils, their leader is a man named Fuckslayer and he really does deserve said name. Now, here's the kicker. Not too long ago, the Rust Devils managed to fuck up a corpo armored truck going through the area and some really nice augs were stolen midway through their delivery.

"Who were they being delivered to you may ask? None other than fucking Nishizaka Yasuhiro, the wakagashira for the Sac-Town chapter of the Yamaguchi-gumi. Normally, they wouldn't hire someone else, but instead they'd roll some enforcers in to break kneecaps, thing is the Rust Devils are currently in a very deep state of tensions with a gang directly under the supervision of the Yamaguchi here, so to avoid any unwanted upsets in the watering hole they're getting someone else to do it for them. But there's a few conditions, first and foremost is that none of the Rust Devils can be killed, that'd just make them more angry than needed for the Yakuza. Secondly, you are not to open or otherwise look into what's inside the delivery cases, they have a warranty seal on them so if you fuck with it, your head is gonna roll.

"They're willing to pay up to 20 grand for completion, but as the choke point 60% goes to me. The pay kinda seems like shit for this, but honestly this is a once in a lifetime opportunity to get noticed by some very big players."
Awards:
Tie Winner: Most Involved in P2TM, 2016
Winner: Best Crime RP, 2016

An Intro to Anowa
United States of Conner wrote:STOP TRYING TO EAT PEOPLE
I'M FUCKING SERIOUS
GODDAMMIT

Anowa wrote:
Serah wrote:He continued to fight, humping from person to person, either cutting or obliterating altogether.

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

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Ayvalon
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Founded: Sep 23, 2017
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Ayvalon » Sat Sep 15, 2018 10:17 pm

Victor Stromm
January 13th, 1PM
Pinebrook Central Hab-block, "The Spider-hole"


Anowa wrote:Twitch


Seconds felt like hours, minutes turned to days as the assassin paced the 25 sq ft apartment eager for an answer. Finally he received word from Twitch, the resident Red-Light contact for work. Voicebox had received contracts from the junkie several times before and while the work was always high-risk, he had to admit the man had thusfar never crossed him when it came time for payment. It was a pleasant quality few in his line of work seemed to truly appreciate when they weren't crossed to cut what might be considered a dime-a-dozen professional out of honest pay. Regardless, it was most certainly the highest profile contract he'd earned thusfar. While admittedly 8,000 credits WAS likely small-change for something like this, he wasn't exactly in a position to bargain as he was reminded by the ever-tightening noose of law-enforcement officers above....

Contract accepted, preparations for operation to proceed shortly, contact will be established by same parameters following operation completion

With that matter settled, Voicebox gathered up his 2 duffle-bags, his entire worldly belongings and set them by the rear window before poking his head out. The door to door investigations were still only on floor 12, perhaps 10. Far enough away he could comfortably slip out unnoticed. Gathering his belongings he made his way out the fire escape in the back of the room, rushing down the steps, into the alley to disappear among the alleys and into a crowd of countless other souls looking to get to and from their jobs or just trying to escape the perpetual hell that was their life even if it meant wandering aimlessly down the city streets.

Two separate cabs (To throw off any potential tails) and an hour's walk later, he was within 2 blocks of the junkyard, It didn't take long before Victor had scoped out a several-story building nearby with open roof access to set up 'camp'. One couldn't rush into an operation like this half-cocked. He'd spent almost the last of his credits getting this far, it'd be a insta-meal diet for the next day or few but if all went to plan, he may even be able to taste real meat again for a change. A short unpacking later and Victor had a cot, several bags of Baruchobo economy grade insta-meal packets as well as bottles of water ready along with a monocular from one of his arm's compartments.

Phase one, observation could now commence.
Last edited by Ayvalon on Sat Sep 15, 2018 10:31 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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New Minahasa
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Posts: 793
Founded: Sep 05, 2016
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby New Minahasa » Sat Sep 15, 2018 11:28 pm

Leland O'Callaghan
Interstate 5, San Sacramento

It had only been a few days after his last job, but Leland had managed to spend almost all of his credits entirely. It wasn't on anything pleasurable neither, no. Booze, drugs, entertainment; he couldn't have the privilege to enjoy any of those stuff. Some of his money were spent on the basic necessities, for obvious reasons; rent, food, water, but most of it went to his artificial liver's continual maintenance. It'd been close to a month since he had it checked, and had he delayed it any longer, he probably would find himself in the hands of a doctor; and that's if he got lucky. Thee was a big chance that Scavs would find his barely-healthy body before any normal, fairly sane person could. Leland had had this feeling that a gang of Scavs were on the look-out for him after a previous incident that involved him and a couple of them.

His fears caught up to him, though. He had been riding his SUV when a group of bikes appeared on the horizon, suspiciously catching up to him. He made up two bikes, each with a driver and a passenger on it, but couldn't catch the sight of a third bike that was right behind the SUV. There were a total of six men, armed with small handguns, with some carrying crowbars and spiked baseball bats. Leland didn't want to give them the initiative; he steered his car to the right and rammed one of the bikes, the sound of metal crashing the ground and men screaming soon followed. The rest of the bikers behind him retaliated by opening fire, breaking the rear window and grazing his left shoulder.

Leland let out a grunt, obviously irritated that he somehow missed the sight of a third bike behind him. He abruptly pressed on the brakes, causing another one of the bikes to crash on the back of the SUV. Two down, one more to go. The last two Scavs managed to steer their bike to the side as their associates on the second bike took the brunt of the damage all for themselves. By this time, Leland's car had come to a stop, and the remaining two bikers parked a good ten meters in front of him as they opened fire at the static Leland. He hid under the steering wheel, covering his head with his metallic hands as the car's windshield rapidly crumbled into pieces. He moved his hand to his hip and drew his pistol, swiftly switching the firemode to "automatic" and fired blindly in front of him; his hand raised high with his head still cowering behind the steering wheel.

The bullets successfully hit their marks who were only a few meters away from the car. Bodies falling on the ground, one dead and the other heavily injured. Leland let out yet another grunt as he dusted off the glass fragments off of him, forcefully opening the door and descending from his SUV. He limped to his aggressors with a gun in hand, ejecting the empty mag and clipping in a fresh one as he stared at the surviving biker dead in the eyes. The poor guy was riddled with bullets, but they weren't enough to properly execute him. The man's loud cry for mercy was interrupted by one, two, three, and four shots; the first two targeted at his chest, with the third and the fourth aimed for the head. Leland didn't spend any more time lingering about the place, as the firefight would've surely gotten the attention of the local police (or any security responsible for the area). Hurrying to his SUV, albeit with a slight limp, he drove off the crime scene to lay low.

A few hours later...

Having retreated to lick his wounds and stash the damaged SUV somewhere safe, Leland had managed to locate an old jeep in a run-down area near his block. Old and thrashed cars were a pretty common sight, and they were relatively left alone on the streets as they were pretty much undesirable by all rungs of society, mainly because only some of them could run properly, and if they did, only for a short period of time before it completely broke down. But still, it was better than having to walk or pay for public transport (if public transports still exist) to reach his destination, arriving at Colt's weapons store a few moments later.

Whether the place was guarded, or it'd only take him a few steps to enter and meet with the man himself, was irrelevant. Eitherway, Leland would relay a message to the arms dealer, with it being a short and simple one. "I need a job. ASAP."
Last edited by New Minahasa on Mon Sep 17, 2018 4:56 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Vacif
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Founded: Mar 22, 2015
Scandinavian Liberal Paradise

Postby Vacif » Mon Sep 17, 2018 2:10 pm

Beiarusia wrote:Sydney dries her hands and then joins Merril in the living room. She's leaning over the table opposite him, not really aware of her T-shirt or how exposed it is leaving her in places because of its bagginess. Not that she has reason to be modest. It's not her real body. "I say we go and get groceries. We need to anyway, and it'll help out Cameron."

She doesn't wait for an answer before heading over to where her valise is sitting partially open in the corner. Inconsiderate of Merril, she begins changing, slipping on a simple thigh-length skirt, socks, a patterned camisole, and a too-big hoodie with blue/grey stripes. The only consolation to her roommate being that her back is to him the entire time. A quick brushing, and a baseball cap to complete the unassuming ensemble. Ready to go. Ready to blend-in. The only tell of her not being 100% normal are the obvious cybernetic joints of her knees, and although somewhat considerate of appearance were designed for functionality, not total conformity.

"I'm ready. Is there a grocery nearby?"


Merrill was taken aback a bit, not quite the behavior he was expecting from his long lost friend, and out of courtesy he looked away. He supposed life in the clouds was a bit different from down below. Merrill rose from the futon and grabbed his keys, phone, wallet, waist bag, and personal weapon. The PX4 was strapped snugly into the slot below his right armpit (Merrill being left handed), obscured by his motorcycle jacket. Looking back at Sydney, he gestured for her to follow. "Yeah, not too too far away. They don't use coupons though but their stock is at least most of the time what it says it is."

Before Merrill left, he made sure all items that could cost them money if left on were off. Then promptly left, waiting for Sydney in the hall. After she joined him, he promptly locked up and made their way towards the elevator. The ride down was uneventful, a few people getting on and off. Most people had already gone about their day taking their kids to school and going to work (for those who had stable employment that was). When they got down to ground floor, Merrill gently grabbed Sydney's wrist to keep her close. He didn't want her to get separated from him, even if they were still in their block. It may have been several centuries, but it was still wild and they were still in the west. They maneuvered their way through the crowded lobby area and towards the parking garage, Merrill kept Sydney close and in front of him at all times until they arrived.

"So... do you know what we need to buy? Because I didn't exactly check what we're short on. Probably everything but, never hurts to have a list." Asked/stated Merrill. While he waited on Sydney's response, he grabbed his bike from lockup. It was a simple, and sleek black Zero Bike, ran well, required little maintenance, and wouldn't break the bank. He wheeled the bike towards Sydney before opening up the seat to procure a pair of full faced motorcycle helmets. One for him and one for her.

Merrill was fully dressed in dark grey motorcycle gear, made with Kevlar-Cordura and hardened plastic. A general rule of thumb for bikers was "When, not if." A sentiment that he held close to his heart. He was sure of his own biking skill but not of others. Sydney didn't have any protection, but she was also made of metal and would probably be better off than him in the event of a collision. Merrill helped his companion onto the back of the bike before mounting it himself. "Unfortunately this vehicle does not come with a seat belt. So hold on tight. Any questions?"
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Ayvalon
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Founded: Sep 23, 2017
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Ayvalon » Mon Sep 17, 2018 8:31 pm

Victor "Voicebox" Stromm
January 13th, Evening
"Operation Cybernetic Daze"


Hours of discreetly scouting the 'bangers patrolling the waste-heap he would soon be infiltrating revealed little organization. Most were smoking and joking, off on the far end of the junkyard a pretty little lady had been escorted into a workshop by a dozen other men. Thusfar no-one had left in the hour and a half since which left little to the imagination of what her fate was at this point. It may have even been a welcome blessing on his behalf, most would likely be too busy drinking, doping up and dousing themselves in the young dame they'd likely more than underpaid for the evening. Despite this, a wide number of thugs seemed focused around several buildings on the junkyard's west end, parallel to the long forgotten zoo beside it. The piles of ruined cars and appliances would make for plenty of cover on his approach, but photographs suggested the case he would be departing with was far from a discrete cache of...whatever his client felt so keen on recovering.

The loud clicking and snapping of the assassin's face-rig brought a less cumbersome flow of information to his mind than before, the intercepted radio chatter from various gang lieutenants gave him viable samples which he continued to monitor as time went on, various thugs complaining about their pay or when the buyer would show up among countless other details gave him a saved repertoire of responses which he quietly played through, mouthing out each sound file from his voice box implant as if a 2nd bit ventriloquist.

Phase 1 was almost complete
Last edited by Ayvalon on Mon Sep 17, 2018 8:31 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Anowa
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Posts: 16103
Founded: Jul 29, 2014
Liberal Democratic Socialists

Postby Anowa » Tue Sep 18, 2018 9:08 pm

Colt
Red Light District, Bazaar
San Sacramento, "Sac-Town"

Friday, January 13th, 2068 // 11:47 AM
32°F (0°C), Precipitation: 96%,
Humidity: 93%, Wind: 0 mph (0 km/h)



It always fucking rained in this goddamned city. Either because of so many people using hydrogen cars instead of electric or because of those stupid corpos trying to steam out the sewers or changing the fucking weather it was always a fucking sad state the city was in. Except in the summer, the summers had sunshine, murder, and full beaches. Well, to those who had access to a beach.

So while it wasn't surprising when people came in with umbrellas, it was surprising when they were wearing more than rags and had someone larger than them with them. So when a man wearing a trench coat, fedora, and well tailored suit walked in, followed by a heavily built man wearing an equally well tailored suit, Colt was caught by surprise. But that surprise peeled into a sense of anxiety as he realized he was about to speak with someone of importance. For once COlt ignored the datapad to his left linked to the RFID scanner above the door, capable of IDing anyone who walked in, instead electing to take a more formal approach with the man and his guard.

He took his hat off as he spoke, "Good morning to you sir. May I presume I'm speaking to Colt?" The man had a thick Italian accent, likely an earnest one given his dress. The man had the air of a mobster, not the crack addicted, out of their fucking mind ones that were so common nowadays, but the ones from places where respect and manners mattered. The guy was definitely high up on the scale in the city.

Colt got a look at the guy, slicked black hair, spots of grey near the temples, not quite fluffed up but not quite matted to his head, it was a natural slick, without copious amounts of gel. He lacked any facial hair, but his face was notably angular, with a roman nose curving somewhat, but not enough to be a schnoz. Eyes were a distinct brown, bit will a blue highlight at certain angles as he looked at the borad of guns behind the counter, likely augmented.

The much older of the two spoke, "You'd assume correctly, how can I help you today Mister..?"

"Lanzetta. I've recently come from overseas, and understandably, the customs wouldn't have liked it I brought a piece with me. Now, I was told that you have a vast collection of firearms, and from the wall behind you I'd assume that is correct?"

The name Lanzetta was one with significant weight. They held a racketeering monopoly over a good chunk of the industrial district, with more than a few outliers as a result of negotiations in the Crush-Zone. Meaning that while they didn't have a whole lot of clients, they effectively had as much money as most corporations. That meant a big purchase perhaps, the balding man nodded, "You got it. Any idea of what you're looking for?"

The man started gesturing as he spoke, Colt mentally nodded at his affirmation that the man was Italian. "Something concealable, and reliable, none of that new age tech crap where someone can hack my gun."

Colt nodded and started to turn, before looking back at Mr. Lanzetta, "Pistol right?" the mobster nodded, "Alright, I got something here for you." Reaching down under a collection of lock boxes and shevles, he pulled a somewhat aged case out from it's cubby hole, alongside a number of others like it. Along the top was, interestingly, the branding 'Colt'.

Opening the case, the padded polymer box contained a nickel plated pistol, black grips and two magazines, an oversized orange ziptie prevented the slide and thus the chamber of the weapon from fully closing, "Colt Defender, a much older design, but they still manufacture them the same way they did since they started in 1911. Well, 1924, but not as if it matters, it still goes strong, nearly 150 years later. This one right here will run you about 600 credits."

Mr Lanzetta simply gestured while giving a look at Colt. The dealer gave a simple nod, and subsequently the mobster picked the weapon up to hold in his hands.
Giving a look of affirmation he plopped it back down into the case, "I'll take it." reaching into his coat pocket, the Italian man pulled a small green card, and Colt smiled. Closing the case, the dealer slid it over to him and pulled another item out from under the counter, a small machine that looked rather dated, but still had the technological look. The mobster simply slid the card over and with a tone Colt smiled, "Alright, I hope you have a wonderful afternoon Mr Lanzetta."

"You as well, hopefully we shall see each other soon." with that, the man picked up his purchase and donned his hat, before departing into the street.

Colt figured it was going to be a good day despite the absolutely shit weather.

New Minahasa wrote:Leland O'Callaghan
"I need a job. ASAP."


As the man walked in like he owned the fucking building he was walking into Colt 's face grew red as veins on his forehead started making their appearance. Asking for a job like there was a sign posted out front. On a pad to his left the name 'Leland O'Callaghan', slid up along with a photo of their last government photo op.

"Just who the actual fuck do you think you are?" came a voice dripping with anger and malice, "You come into my fucking store, demanding a job, you Mick fuck. Do I have a fucking 'Help Wanted' sign glued to the fucking windows? Does it look like I'm someone who just hand out fucking money to people who stock my shelf for an hour before fucking off back to whatever piece of shit tech they bought off some scavver three stores down. Fuck no! You've pissed me off, a fucking wigger coming into my store like he owns the fucking place. get the fuck out."

The man made to turn for a moment as if to walk away and possibly grab a gun or something, before whipping back around, "Actually scratch that, I do have a job for you, you got three days to get me ten grand worth of merchandise, or I get ten guys to follow you home Leland and give you a fucking reason to demand money, they're gonna turn your bones into fucking dust! If I see you here again before that I'll blast a fucking hole in your chest cavity so fucking big that the kids outside could use you as a basketball hoop. Now get the fuck out of my sight! Go!"


Cameron MacDougall
Applewood Tower, Floor 96, Medical Center 7
San Sacramento, "Sac-Town"

Friday, January 13th, 2068 // 12:01 AM
43°F (7°C), Precipitation: 100%,
Humidity: 99%, Wind: 2 mph (3 km/h) NE



Cameron would never get used to being able to see her own disembodied eye without any form of pain. A coiled wire and disconnected assembly of what was once in here eye socket was now a good six inches above her face in the grasp of what amounted to a robotic vise. Doctor Miller was surveying it with a keen eye, much like a dentist would look at someone's teeth. The man was one of the few altruists in the city, never once pausing or hesitating to help someone who needed it. It also helped that a lot of people had him as a family doctor, meaning his name was rather widespread.

"Well, I've got good news and bad news." the greying man said as he flipped up the goggles he was wearing, "Bad news is, that the wiring on this eye is ballsed up, so it's ruined. You're actually rather lucky it didn't start an electrical fire in your eye socket."

Cameron hummed somewhat apprehensively, "Okay, and the good news?"

"We don't charge for replacements, so you don't have to go living on the street just so you can have depth perception again. I can hook a new one into your skull in the next ten minutes, or you could browse through our catalog and see if you want an upgrade."

Cameron sighed, "Show me the catalog, why not."

Miller's eyebrows went up, "Wow. Really wasn't expecting that response from you Mack. Usually you're a lot more frugal." he pulled a display down in front of her and let her browse as he fiddled with a small computer in the corner, "How's that joint trust fund going by the way?"

Cameron paused for a moment, her mood turning sour, "It's... Just me and Merrill now."

Miller paused, turning to the woman with a quiet and somewhat shocked voice, "Catherine moved out?"

"Yeah." Cameron confirmed, "Said she was gonna see about getting a solid job up in Juan de Fuca."

Miller said nothing as he turned back to his computer, "I'm gonna miss them. All of them."

Cameron mentally agreed with her trusted companion. Nearly 15 years ago she wandered into his clinic near closing hours, he let her stay, let her come back any time she needed food or water. The man was a saint, and despite coming from much higher in society than anyone in the slums came from, he was one of the people down here, caring and watching over anyone and everyone. over those years she occasionally came back with someone in tow, broken bones, a nasty cough, anything that was wrong that she couldn't see as normal or nothing to worry about. At one point there were some 17 cots strewn about the apartment she and Merrill lived in, now there were three. The occupants of the rest having either moved to greater horizons or face down in a ditch. Her heart nearly tore itself apart every time she thought of any of them, and the some 8 million credits in a trust fund they'd never see.

Regardless, Cameron was mindlessly scrolling through a list of implants the clinic offered, leg replacements, arm replacements, typical general public stuff. If one wanted the real hardware they'd either have to shell out a whole shit ton for the high end legal stuff, or bring their own if it was illegal for a civvie to own. Miller was one of the "No questions asked" types. So long as you paid he'd do it, whether it was for the money or to simply get you out of his hair Cameron never really found out. But granted he was one of the few clinics that Trauma Teams were designated to drop people off at, it certainly wasn't because he was afraid. Trauma Team would be here in under 30 seconds, clear the whole goddamn floor of the tower if they really needed to. Granted they were expensive, but if you needed an ambulance and just so happened to have people trying to kill you, they were one of the few types of feds you'd be glad to have stroll in.

Something did pique Cameron's interest though as she paused her scrolling, "I didn't know Boston Dynamics made eyes."

"Saw that did you?" came Miller's somewhat enthused response, "Yeah, they started doing more sensitive stuff like that a few years ago, only released those to the public about a month ago."

Reading what they did, Cameron could in fact say she was impressed. It was basically an upgrade of her current set of eyes, with all the features her current set had with a few improvements. The low light vision was coupled with the capacity to outline the scenery in sight, as well as outline firearms and other weapons to alert the user to danger. It also had an altimeter, real time weather updates and a clock. Of course she'd also get the scattered wiring from her own implants removed because it didn't need them, which meant she wouldn't have those random black lines across the upper half of her skin anymore. The only issue was the price, sure, she could get it, but they'd be in the whole by nearly a week's worth of jobs. Miller knew she was good for the money, hell, she had a small tab at the clinic that was always paid off within the week, but Cameron made it a point to only use it for life threatening stuff, like gunshot wounds and the like.

Besides, Merrill would have her head if she dropped that much on eyes without any food in the house.

"Mind if I keep those on lay away?" Cameron spoke in an even tone, but even then it was a whiplash from a few moments ago, and Miller could tell the younger woman had a sense of excitement in her voice.

"No problem Mack." a pause as he queued something up on his terminal, "Alright, so let's see about that eye of yours."
Awards:
Tie Winner: Most Involved in P2TM, 2016
Winner: Best Crime RP, 2016

An Intro to Anowa
United States of Conner wrote:STOP TRYING TO EAT PEOPLE
I'M FUCKING SERIOUS
GODDAMMIT

Anowa wrote:
Serah wrote:He continued to fight, humping from person to person, either cutting or obliterating altogether.

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

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Xah
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 409
Founded: Jan 25, 2016
Iron Fist Socialists

Postby Xah » Thu Sep 20, 2018 2:28 am

Kane
Applewood Tower Entrance Courtyard
San Sacramento, "Sac-Town"
Maybe Friday, January something or other, 206...7? 8? // sometime indeterminate, probably morning
Too cold, too wet,
Humidity: enough, Wind: something for people who go outside


It was going to be a bad day, Kane knew that already. He'd woken up in one of Applewood's abandoned utility corridors, but not in his typical place, a puddle of his own vomit caked on his face, a drip from an A/C pipe had soaked his legs and his blasted eye was on the fritz again, sending low-level pulses of a dull pain through the left side of his head. Hauling himself into an upright sitting position, he used the drips that had gotten his legs wet to wash most of the vomit from his face, his right arm threatening to jam in the less than favourable conditions. He let out a long sigh and blinked a few times, trying to get his vision clear, or at least as clear as it would ever be. The odd mix of colour from one side, and grainy black-and-white from the other was something he'd gotten used to, but the worse part was the small indicator in his vision that announced his stim-injector was all but empty. Again. Perhaps he shouldn't have taken all the Funk in one big hit, saved some for later, but as with a lot of things, his willpower wasn't what it used to be. The only thing left was a quarter dose of adrenaline, supposedly there as a fail-safe to kickstart his heart in an emergency. Try as he might, he'd never managed to get it to kick in.

With a groan, he climbed to his feet, cursing that the damp had caused his leg to seize up again. He banged the joint against the wall until it loosened up and hobbled off down the corridor, finding the door that never quite locked properly that had allowed him access to the quieter parts of the hab-block. Concrete might not be the most comfortable of beds, but it was far better than risking sleeping in more public areas and waking up with all your wetware cut out. Pausing to relieve himself in a corner, and almost retching at the stench of his chemical-filled piss, he staggered into Applewood's main courtyard, looking for his favourite begging spot. The day might have started bad, but if he could get something to eat, maybe a few credits for a hit later, he might poke a few of his contacts and see if there was any work going.

Right there in the middle of the courtyard though was the remains of a jumper. Or maybe someone who was pushed. The authorities often didn't care enough to find out. The police had turned up and had cordoned it off, mainly to stop people trailing the gore through the building, but clean-up was yet to pick up all the pieces. Kane stared at the bloody mess, his mind drifting off into dark places, full of noise and fire, of the cries of wounded companions and, overlying it all, the sense of body-wracking pain and the sense of loss. A less-than-considerate passer-by broke the spell, barging into him and knocking him to the floor with a "Watch where you're going... good god, you stink. Get out here, you dirty bum". Kane turned his face away and climbed back to his feet, limping off.

His spot was unoccupied, which wasn't always the case. Having to turf out some opportunistic low-life always put a dampener on the start of things, and people were less inclined to give money to brawling bums. He made his way over, slumped down against the wall and tugged a piece of folded up card from his pocket. Unfolding it, he looked at it and swore when he realised the damp had caused the ink to run. Now the left hand side of the card was a blotchy mess.

need money or f.....
all donations gra.....
thank y.....


With little alternative, he propped the card up and did his best to catch the eye of a passer-by, whilst simultaneously looking out for unfamiliar cops. The local beat knew him, and knew he was both harmless and non-aggressive, but every now and again they'd send some rookie out, who saw him as an easy mark. 'Unlicensed begging, move it or get a fine'. He'd always be back, and the rookie would be told to leave him alone eventually, but it disrupted his day. Given the lack of cash in today's enlightened society, Kane had managed to get himself a cheap credit reader. Generous people (of which there were scant few) could transfer a credit with just a touch of their own card, or just drop whatever they had to spare in a hat that Kane had placed in front of his sign.

The early morning rush dwindled to the background traffic and Kane checked his haul; there was a half-eaten sandwich in the hat and.... ooooo, 3 credits on his reader. Fantastic. Not. He was sure more people had given than that, although the fuzziness in his head, combined with the headache, made actually keeping track of things difficult. He crammed the sandwich into his mouth, past caring that if it was even something he liked, just getting food into his belly was a success, and did some painful mental calculations to figure out his he'd got enough to do anything with. Probably not. Looked like he'd be here for the afternoon too.

Without warning, his right eye suddenly went dark and Kane swore loudly enough to cause a few people nearby to look at him in alarm. Despite banging his hand against the side of his head. the damned thing refused to work and he growled to himself. At least the headache had stopped. He glanced up the open center of the hab-block. There was a doctor on level 96 he knew might help, but Kane had barely half a dozen credits, and wasn't sure if they were taking charity cases, but it was better than being half-blind. Picking up his cardboard sign and stuffing it back in his pocket, he got to his feet. If he was quick (which was a laugh all by itself) he could get up there and back down by the time the afternoon commuters came back through. Yeah. A bad day, for sure.

Applewood Tower, Floor 96, Medical Center 7


Kane didn't like being this far up, it reeked of sobriety and responsibility, not to mention the stares he got from those for whom he was the bottom of the social pecking order. It was, however, the location of the only cyberdoc in this damn tower who seemed to give a damn and certainly the only one who'd even consider looking at the broken eye of a stinking beggar. He limped down the corridor until he reached the neon sign topped entrance to the clinic. Pausing to check his appearance in the reflection of a window (and wrinkling his nose at the visage that stared back), he considered he perhaps should've cleaned up a bit first, but it was too late now. He pushed the door open and lurched in.

"Hey, yo? Can I see the doc please?" Kane began. "My eye has crapped out," he pointed at his right eye. "Can't see a damned thing with it. I hear this is the place to go."
Last edited by Xah on Thu Sep 20, 2018 2:31 am, edited 1 time in total.
The Fibonacci series, as easy as 1, 1, 2, 3




Atheist, socialist, humanist, educated, European; in short, an American conservative's boogyman.

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Beiarusia
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 10482
Founded: Dec 29, 2014
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Beiarusia » Thu Sep 20, 2018 2:55 pm

Sydney Arlo
White Groves, San Sacramento // Friday January 13, 2068

Sydney follows Merrill to the elevator and down to the block's ground level, allowing herself to be led by the wrist so as to avoid being separated in the crowds of people — she's lowered her skin's touch-sensitivity to keep from thinking too much of Merrill's grip, which, while not a bad thing, is distracting for several reasons. Once in the parking garage he releases her and begins removing his motorcycle from lockup. "So...," he begins, "do you know what we need to buy? Because I didn't exactly check what we're short on. Probably everything, but never hurts to have a list."

She nods, tapping at the back of her neck with a finger. "I have a list." Saved to her NCI, and, to be double-sure, she pulled it up on her HUD. A shopping list appears on the right-side of her vision. "Eggs, milk, peanut butter, and a few other things."

Merrill hands her a full-faced helmet. Black, or, more specifically, charcoal grey, like his own, matching the dark colouration of his old-but-reliable bike. His riding gear, too, is dark. Sydney feels a bit underdressed by comparison, but her body isn't "real" so she ignores the errant thought. She slips on the helmet (baseball cap stored inside the motorcycle's seat) and climbs onto the back. It's a bit awkward being this close; more-so to hang on.

"Any questions?"

She shakes her head. "No."

They head out, into the madness that is So-Cal traffic, but are making good time despite Merrill most likely erring on the side of caution considering he now has a passenger. The grocery isn't far, and they're nearly there when they turn onto a connecting road only to be hit by stopped traffic. (The light up ahead is green but no one is moving.) Not an issue. A few moments of lane splitting and they're back to a respectable speed, and are soon in sight of the delay. A car has hit a utility pole, almost bisected, and the driver is on the ground and bleeding as onlookers gather around (or else slow as they pass). On first glance the man looks to have already expired, and Sydney is turning her head to look away when she notices he's still moving.

"Stop," she tells Merrill, her voice muffled by the helmet. He doesn't, not at first, probably not understanding what or why, but she's insistent and he relents, slowing the motorcycle to a stop a few dozen meters past the scene of the accident. She's already on her feet and pushing her way towards the man, and as others watch she kneels down to offer whatever assistance she can.

He's been shot, several times in fact, the car showing more than a few gunshot in the driver's side door. Not to mention the blunt-force-trauma of wrapping a car around a pole at probable high speeds. It's a miracle he even managed to survive, much less drag himself out to the street.

"Are you okay?" she asks, knowing it's a redundant question upon seeing his injuries. She flips back her helmet's visor to reveal part of her face. To get a better look without the tint. "Merrill. Merrill! Can you help?!"
Last edited by Beiarusia on Thu Sep 20, 2018 2:56 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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