 IC | OOC | City Map | Discord September 1st, 1985 Paradise City A man walked into a confessional. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been six months since my last confession.” He was new to this church, though he had been to many others. This, however, would be his last. It was an unsettling truth. He lingered on the thought; the finality of even these most mundane actions made this trip all the more melancholy. This was the end, the final hours ticking away without much care about his nauseating anxiety. It ate away at him. Tightening his fist, he rubbed his thumb against the calluses lining his fingers. Idents of his weapon etched onto his body as a reminder of his trodden path. Jesus himself said, “...for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.” It was the warrior's delusion to think he was any different. The priest opened with a prayer and scripture. From the verses, he could tell it was from the Book of Romans. Yet at that most critical of moments, as he stood before the Lord in his own Garden of Gethsemane, the words fell on deaf ears. The message rang hollow, for he planned to sin regardless. ”I confess to violating the fifth commandment…in my heart.” A lie of omission. He had murdered this man in his thoughts, and now he planned to carry it out. He could hear the priest get shaken up from behind the dividing wall, straightening himself up in his seat, though his last-second addition seemed to have cooled his nerves. If he could hazard to guess by the location, this would have been nothing new for the priest. How many other so-called believers had kneeled in this same exact booth? Mobsters who carried the cross while violating every core tenant of His commandments. It disgusted him. How had this nation stooped so low into iniquity, malice, and injustice under the diligent eyes of the faithful? It had perplexed him for years. Where had they failed? Where did he fail? More scripture was spoken, more words rang hollow. Now leaning his head against the wooden walls, his face contorted into a grimace as a solitary tear ran down his cheek. That same question, where did he fail, continued to haunt him. Had it been when he had been too blind to see the corruption seeping into the Holy Order? Had it been when he took that offer given to him by those degenerates? Or perhaps, most depressingly of all, the road to damnation was not defined by a single action but by the minor decisions he made every day. He looked forward to purgatory; perhaps the peace would give him some necessary time for introspection. But now, it was the time for action. The priest finished his lecture, now offering the man to partake in the act of contrition. “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of Thy grace to…” He paused thinking on the words, unable to make it through the declaration. “...the help of Thy grace to sin no more….” He stood up, unable to lie. He thanked the Father for his time and walked out. Passing by the empty pulpit as he made his way to the exit, he fixated on the crucifixion behind it. The laboured eyes of the Lord showed adamant disapproval. The man paused, mumbling under his throat, “Forgive me, Lord, as you forgave Rahab. For this mortal sin I commit, I commit for the righteous.” He continued on his way. Walking down the church steps, he casually lit a cigarette as he took in the area around him: Paradise City, Nueva Iberia’s own Sodom. Stepping onto the sidewalk, he took another puff, blowing smoke into the cool ocean breeze. Paradise City was a monument to excess, all the things wrong with today’s society. As he made his way toward his truck, a few disciples waiting beside it, he passed a few drunk tourists. It was only midmorning, and already these Americans were indulging themselves. His thin veneer of civility struggled to mask the burning rage. His disciples no longer wore adorned in their imperial regalia but were in much more casual wear. They gave him a few words of encouragement, but he ignored them, focusing on the truck's bed. He brought down the hatch and held up the tarp, their acolyte weapons resting underneath. All manner of weapon types could be found, from a katana to steel balls, live wire, and of course, his weapon: a spear. It shimmered in psionic light as he got closer. One of his students, Luis, stood beside him. “Nina is already in place; she says casino security is lighter than we expected. Should we act now or keep with the plan?” “Keep with the plan.” De Santo ordered. “DiMeo has to be in that suite if we have any chance at succeeding. When he’s resting, that’s when we strike.” “Yes, sir.” Luis briefly nodded before looking up at the glistening walls of the Bordeaux; the casino was able to tower over most others besides their distance of a few blocks. Its size put into perspective the sheer difficulty of the obstacle before them, one not precisely felt when looking at still photos. If he had any lingering reservations, now would have been the time to voice them. He said nothing. The pair would continue to discuss the last-minute logistics of the assault, paying no mind to the oncoming traffic passing by. If they had, they would have noticed a young woman driving on a tan moped, planning to head home. Tlatoani '¡Buenos Días Paso Del Rey!', A voice happily declared right as Patricio Barquero caught a taxi, slamming his briefcase against the trunk. Sliding inside, the young urban professional was careful not to dirty his suit; he hated how disgusting these rides could be. "Where to boss?" The Taxi driver asked as he flipped the mileage meter on. Not bothering to take off his headset, he shouted over his music and said, "McGill-Wexler Office, Gold Plaza." "Alright." The taxi driver remarked as he pulled out of the busy City Central monorail station, a multitude of people making their way to work during this lightly humid morning. '...Expect temperatures on a rather sunny day with highs of 25 but a few spouts of rain during the afternoon. Though tomorrow…', The investment banker changed the channel, hoping to find something more relevant to finance. Watching the small screen console hanging from the roof, he perused the other six channels. 'Last night, General Secretary Andropov from the Palace of the Soviets addressed the populace and international observers on the potential use of tactical nuclear weapons within Islamabad…' , He changed the channel. '...your heart lights up and remembers, hope reverberates within you! You know exactly what you want and how you will get it. No more indecision today. Your lucky numbers are 7, 22, 19….' '...Only the finest Corinthian leather….' "Goal!" '...Asian markets responded poorly today to the announcement of further Iraqi Obsidium shipping delays. Earlier this week, IOM and PetroGulf had pledged further investment into Iberian deposits to alleviate these expected future disruptions, though this has done little to quell investors' fears of chip shortages within the coming fiscal year for Japanese Tech Giant Kendachi. Though urging calmness, the Board has yet to respond to the Ayatollah's declaration directly…' Without warning, someone slammed their fist against the Taxi's hood right as it was about to slide its way out of the busy intersection. Patricio knocked his headset off and looked away at the screen just as a couple of punks flashed a few hand signs and the middle finger. Wearing their trademark dyed mohawks and those kitsch faux-leather jackets, their attire offended the refined sensibilities of the yuppie. A good Valentino suit will get you far. "Make love, not money!" One of them shouted. "Corpo slave!" The other shouted as they made a show of the spectacle. "Get the hell off of my car!" The taxi driver slid his torso out the window, throwing this morning's paper at them. The two riff-raff got the message, heading onto the street while acting increasingly perverted. The investment banker couldn't help but laugh. It was so pathetic; he easily made their salaries ten times over. He bet they didn't even have a proper skin care regiment. He'll have to tell the guys at the firm about this. Perhaps right after they do a line of coke, quaaludes, and whiskey for their lunch. He slipped his Songify headphones back on to catch the tail-end of a song by 'Huey Lewis and the News', too ingratiated with himself to notice a young woman passing by on her moped. She was on her way home. Coatlan The bar was empty. Behind his counter, Hidalgo the bartender wiped a few dishes clean at the tail-end of his duties. Exhausted from the night before, he had planned to come in early and finish up. Staring out towards the boxy TV nestled at the end of the corner, his first thought was about the next Football game he would be playing. He would need to run it by his loan sharks. The bell at the front door rang, instantly catching the middle-aged man's attention like a deer in headlights. A regular walked in, along with someone he only vaguely recognized. "Billy!" He chirped, "It's much too early; I'm not open." He lightly noted, struggling to communicate in English. Billy was a young Sicilian man wearing a tracksuit, his dark locks slicked back, with a gold chain resting around his neck. He looked, acted, and was a mobster. The other man, who strolled in behind him, looked very much the same though his tracksuit was blue and his hair had long since lost its color. Billy meekly nodded over to him, his face flushed with embarrassment before turning over to face the door. The other man marched his way closer, sliding in behind the counter. Hidalgo realized too late what was going on, being struck against his head. His nose was smashed in. In the immediate chaos, he dropped a shot glass as his hands rushed to cover his face. "Ah! I don't understand..." He whimpered in poor English before switching to Spanish, "I don't understand; why are you doing this?" "I heard from the grapevine you are giving your dues to Persephone!" The wrinkly face of the aged gangster got up close and personal, "I hear that, right?" He tried his best to defend himself, "I give to her middleman Cerberus, I never even see her. Besides, it all goes to the same place anyways!" Billy played the part of the lookout, staring out from the glass door into the busy street. The mobster thrashed him around, knocking the bartender onto the floor. "Now you and your bookies give it to me. Only me; you see some VCR-looking motherfucker then you let them know that they can take it up with me." The man furiously nodded. That wasn't good enough. Drawing a pistol from his jacket, the man asked, "This implant the message into that thick forehead of yours?" Johnny "Grease Gun" Lombardi slammed the butt of his revolver into his facial plating, digging the piece deeper into his skin. He cried out in pain, rushing his hands over his head as blood leaked from the open wound. The bartender floundered around, laying on his back as Johnny towered over him, holding the man up by the collar of his shirt. As the man cried out, the aging gangster couldn't help but laugh at his pain. "Oh please, I give you a love tap, and you're already pissing yourself? Stop crying, prick." The man's cry continued, which only incensed Johnny. "You don't stop crying like a woman in the next five seconds; I'll give you a real reason to cry." He stood up and slammed his foot onto his stomach, "Do you want a real reason?" The bartender struggled to stay focused with his festering wound and being pinned against Johnny, the bar, and the drink cabinet. With a few options, he tried to keep silent, but a few sniffs slipped by him. "Hey, I asked you a question!" Johnny growled. He looked up and over to the other gangsters currently having their way with the place. "Hey Billy, this guy have no manners or something? When I ask a question, I expect an articulated response." He looked down at the wounded man, "I learn a language for you spicks, leave my home in Jersey, and this is the tour of welcome I get?" He slapped the side of his head, "Does that seem fair to you?" "No!" The bartender shouted. "No, no, no. No to all your questions." His eyes peeked from behind his fingers, "I understand, I understand. I give it all to you from now on." "Good." He playfully gave him a backhand cheek slap, "Oh, one more thing before I go. I expect you to kick up two more Gs a month. Think of it as a processing fee." "Yes! That's only fair." Johnny moved off of him, "And American green. Not pesos." Iberian currency isn't even called pesos. This entire encounter had occurred within the span of a minute. The two mobsters walked out of the establishment, leaving Hidalgo alone to tend to his wounds. Billy followed while Johnny led. Switching to English, "Glad we sorted all the dues. Where are you off to?" "I have a Goomah not too far from here…" Johnny, now standing on the street, leaned against the hood of his classic car, "I'll get some shut-eye, meet with the wife, and I'll head over to the Don. Let him know we took care of business." Billy slid his hands into his oversized pockets, "Anything I need to do?" "Nah, you did good, kid. I'll see you in Paradise later." "Sounds good." Billy walked over to his car, a girl on her moped, heading home, was passing by. Emiliano Mrs. Mueller held her INSTOGROM Polaroid up close to her face, waiting for her son from across the street to give her the signal. The six-year-old blonde boy raised his thumb as face as he could, struggling to get past the height of the passing cars. She caught it, readying herself for the perfect picture. The boy took one step into oncoming traffic, his father and his sister eager to watch this unfold. Then, the boy was gone. SNAP. The wide-eyed mother took a picture right as her son teleported in front of her. Mrs.Mueller could hardly contain her boy's excitement as he rushed to her, excited to see what they had caught. "Mama, did you get it? Did you get it?" "Hold on!" The Mother came down to his level as the Polaroid spat the photo out. She waved it into the wind before holding it out for him to look at. The boy tried to grab it from her clutches, but it was just out of his reach. The image developed, revealing his body just as it plopped back into existence. Taken a bit too late, most of him had come too; though that psionic shimmer still illuminated the back of his head. The boy was a bit disappointed that he didn't see any of his guts or arms missing from his body, but he didn't care. It was really cool. The West German family was one of a dozen touring groups that flocked to the Rosewood Crossing. Eager to play around with the harmless Tulpa, they could be found in all manners of the day. Even Evangelical doomsayers or ghost hunters would come to this harmless intersection, mostly to play around with the mundanity of it. If anything, they had to worry more about the annoyed locals than any cross-dimensional being. Since this intersection took off as a must-see tourist location, some commutes have more than doubled. "Excuse me miss." A black man from Dallas, Oklahoma, tapped the shoulder of the German woman. "Yes?" She turned around to ask. "Can you get a photo of me and my daughters crossing this way?" He pointed to the adjacent crossing, "My wife and I are trying to get pictures of both sides." The wife waved over to them. She nodded, "Of course, I can." She took his camera and waited for his signal. Holding the hands of his little girls, he audibly declared his intent before crossing through. She snapped a picture of their backs while also catching a moped passing by on its way home. Santa Francesca “Stay seated on the ground!” Officer Castillo slammed the criminal against the side of the brick wall, lining him up beside the rest of his accomplices. Despite the force behind the throw, the criminal groaned faintly, too incoherent to understand what was happening. These low-lives, 'organic mechanics' had been caught running an unsanctioned cyber den right at the edge of Santa Francesca. Following a tip from another raid in Vista Del Rey, the police quickly moved in. This raid was a verifiable success in finding a plethora of illegal cybernetic modifications, Kalashnikovs, a few thousand pesos, and minor quantities of crack cocaine. Dragging the last of the apprehended crew members outside, Castillo finally got a good look at what they had been dealing with. Stripped of their removable cybernetics, a few just sat there agitated and shouting profanities at the officers who took their legs. Those with extensive neural augmentations were much more docile, struggling to understand the situation, much less controlling their extensive implants. The entrance to the den itself was in a back alley, concealed by a few trash bins and boxes lying around. The main street was jam-packed only twenty yards away, with busy drivers and noisy passerbys. A mounted officer strode into the alley, passing a few police pick-ups and sequestering his horse beside the apprehended. Holding his shock baton, he said to Castillo, "I have this. Go ahead and help the rest inside." She nodded, stepping away and taking off her beret to wipe the sweat off. Lighting a cigarette, she took stock of the situation. While things had gone off without a hitch, with no officers injured, a few of the things she saw made her stomach turn. Flicking the lighter closed, she faced the ambulance just as a few augmented were carted inside. The discolored skin, emaciated bodies, and dried blood splatter made her wonder how they were still alive on those operating tables. Bodies wrecked by infection, she internally struggled to even get near them; she had heard that you could get AIDS from people like that with just a single touch. Good thing she was wearing gloves. A few Yellow Berets walked beside her, monitoring the perimeter while the investigators did their work. She gave them a salute, and they reciprocated. That yellow beret of theirs was her end goal. She just needed to have a few more street patrols, bash in a few more cyber-psycho skulls, and hone her skills to get there. Walking inside, she was instructed to grab a box of counterfeit body implants, marked with bright red coloring, ‘LEAD.’ They put lead into their bodies, disgusting. She made a few trips back and forth, not paying much mind to the world or scenes around her. Too lost in her little world of trivial promotion, she hardly noticed her neighbor pass by on a moped. Amelia had made it back, resting her new moped right beside the entrance to the restaurant. She’ll move it later. Strolling inside, she yelled out, “I’m home!” |
