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Swith Witherward
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Founded: Feb 11, 2012
Democratic Socialists

SLATE [IC]

Postby Swith Witherward » Thu Oct 24, 2019 8:48 pm


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The chances of finding out what’s really going on in the universe are so remote,
the only thing to do is hang the sense of it and keep yourself occupied.

IC THREAD ITERATION I

OOCSITREP
Last edited by Swith Witherward on Sun Nov 10, 2019 5:18 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Swith Witherward
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Founded: Feb 11, 2012
Democratic Socialists

Postby Swith Witherward » Thu Nov 07, 2019 9:50 pm



Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life,
or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.
—Charles Dickens, David Copperfield







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MISSION BRIEF
Code: Select all
GESELLSCHAFT TASK FORCE DOSSIER
MISSION NO. 001
CODENAME: OPSTAL
NATURE: PROTECTIVE/PEACEFORCE
LETHAL FORCE: AUTHORIZED IF NECESSARY

SITUATION:
Slate is a relatively new agriculture and mining colony in the Spar system along the Truman Trade Route. Its proximity to this route makes it a vital source of food and energy. At the time of this colony's founding and construction, it was thought that the planet itself was void of life.

This assessment was incorrect. The indigenous lifeforms - deemed "cicadas" by the locals due to their sound and cyclical appearances - are highly aggressive and predatory. The Slate Agriculture Association and Bradypus Mining Conglomerate have contracted GESELLSCHAFT for the purpose of protecting assets and local life from occasional outbreak.

HABITABLE ZONES:
Agriculture: Planet habitation is possible via geodesic dome structures, or hemispherical thin-shell structures (lattice-shell) based on a geodesic polyhedron. The triangular elements of the dome are structurally rigid and distribute the structural stress throughout the structure, making geodesic domes able to withstand very heavy loads for their size. Currents through the shell tend to deter invasive indigenous life.

In the Agri Sectors, the interior of each structure is augmented to mimic living conditions as found on earth: weather, clouds, and other atmospheric familiarity. Extensive terraforming has transformed the landscape and soil into a rich medium for crop growth and livestock.

Cicada outbreak is common in Agri sectors due to the availability of meat. Most farms are equipped with the technology necessary to track and put down the occasional threat.  As most farmers in this sector are veterans from the Crusix War, it isn't uncommon to find homemade mechs as primary defense.

The occupied farming zones are comprised of four agriculture domes: Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta. Each AgriDome consists of eight human families each.

Mining: Bradypus Mining Conglomerate operates one deusmodium mining facility on Slate. This facility occupies the largest dome. Laborers live on site in company housing. Demographically, human and human hybrid males make up the majority of the labor force. Twenty percent of all workers are non-human nor of Earth origin.

City: Morsicant is a dirtside city and port located 112km from Bradypus Mining Conglomerate.  It is limited to barge and small craft.  The Morsicant Freight Yards are several kilometers beyond this but are not protected by domes. Morsicant supports the needs of local farmers and miners.

UNINHABITABLE ZONES:
Though gravity is similar to earth, the atmosphere outside of the domes is chiefly composed of carbon dioxide. 

TEAM ASSIGNMENT:
Hjabass, Walt - director
"The Barber" - investigations
Blackwater, Minerva - operations
"Brit" - gunsmithing
Elsegood, Darlene "Dar" - survival
Felton, Gordon - bureaucrat
PRO-NS-34 “Jormungand” - engineer
Salazar, Javier "Oruga" Eliseo Luque - pilot
Seamus - cobbler
Turnbull, Jesse - medical doctor

ASSEMBLY:
All operatives are to assemble at the terminal's northern end. Shuttle service will be provided.

MISSION / EXECUTION:
1. Task Summary: Per colony request, the Agency will establish a base of operations on Slate.
2. Task Summary: Patrol and conduct reconnaissance missions topside to determine severity of indigenous incursion into habitable zones.
3. Task Summary: Assist local law enforcement to provide an extra measure of peace between minors, farmers, and townspeople.

UNCLASSIFIED FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY
Information contained in this document is designated as For Official Use Only (FOUO) and may not be released to anyone without the prior authorization.


The commercial spaceliner's thrum changed in pitch and the small sign nearby lit up to urge people to buckle in. Minerva, fresh from her own death, spared a glance out her private cabin window. The system's star shone, having no alternative, on nothing new nor exciting. A large space station loomed ever nearer, a dusky grey crumb orbiting an equally grey planet. She and her fellow agents were destined to call this barren ball home, for a time.

Her gloved hand tucked the few stray strands of red hair into the loose bun atop her head, and then her focus returned to the datapad in front of her.

Everyone had received a copy of the briefing. She was certain half would eagerly digest the information while the rest would just glace and go on to something more entertaining. Indeed, the briefing was so devoid of useful information that Minerva herself had hunted through the pad's entire file cache in hope of finding something pertinent. But, no, the mission brief was... it.

"What aren't they telling us?" She exhaled a pale cloud of smoke before snuffing her cigarette on the chair side table.

Nothing about the Agency was straightforward. It thrived on subterfuge, twists, turns, and obfuscation. Yet here they were, on a mission to establish a base on a colony world... with the oddest team she'd ever seen assembled. A leprechaun? And this was an incredibly small colony with an occasional outbreak of-

"Cicadas?" Brow arching, she ran her fingers over the pad's screen.

Image
Found specifically on Earth, cicadas (/sɪˈkɑːdə/ or /sɪˈkeɪdə/) are a superfamily,
the Cicadoidea, of insects in the order Hemiptera (true bugs).
They are in the suborder Auchenorrhyncha, along with smaller
jumping bugs such as leafhoppers and froghoppers.


A snort escaped her. "Let me guess. They're really big? Or so small they're parasitic?" - Neither would be far-fetched given all Minerva had endured over the years.- "Or their sentient and resent the settlers."

Minerva briefly entertained the idea of packing a can of hairspray and a few extra lighters as the engine thrum changed once more. Muffled voices droned outside the cabin door.

"Klaus would have quipped 'places in five'..."

Inner daemons were hard to shake, and Purna had always been overly tenacious. Minerva was in no mood to entertain the voice in her head.

"Klaus is preoccupied with supply delivery, as you well know." Minerva tapped a cigarette out of its pack. "And you are supposed to be resting."

To drive the point home, she let the chemical cocktail and exhaled deeply. Warmth spread throughout her body, each nerve gobbling up the very essence that kept the daemon mollified.

"And what of the jackass?" Purna's tone took on a singsong cadence. (Minerva had forever classified it as "going instantly blonde".)

"Mr Hjabass serves as the Director. He will remain on the station, or so I've been told."

"Jackasssss..." the daemon's staccato cackle fluttered away as easily as a leaf on the wind, vanishing from thought and not rising again.

Minerva's lips pursed. "H'ja-bass." It was a matter of principle. She knew Purna would slumber a while longer but, as was typical, the daemon had planted a thought. For all they knew, the Director was a sensible bureaucrat. For all they knew, he could also be a jackass. Minerva would normally pick Purna's mind to determine if there was any validity. But this wasn't her ship and Purna could not be allowed out until they were safely in the confines of whatever quarters had been arranged for her dirtside.

It was out of her hands. All of it. She reminded herself that this was her choice. She had the Wilting Succubus ahead of arrival, hauling all the things they might need on Slate. And Minerva, for shits and grins, had opted to travel by normal means.

It had been well over four decades since the cultist leader had done so. She caught up with the commercial liner a stop back and had gone to her private cabin to die. It meant that she had yet to meet the rest of the team. She was fairly certain one of the old hands, a girl named Brit, was part of the group. No matter. They would all be recognizable by their uniforms.

Minerva smoothed the front of her own fatigues. Grey. Like the planet. With pockets. Like the planet. And a collar to attach - what else? - a dome. Technically a helmet, but Minerva's fondness for cynicism ran higher than most people's. These uniforms could survive whatever Fate threw at them, in theory.

"The best laid plans of mice and men," she stubbed out the cigarette as a soft alarm bade all passengers to find their seats. Apparently, Humanity still favored rapid descents. The woman uncrossed her legs and adjusted her seat harness as the tiny cabin went dark.

To her delight, the ride down wasn't agonizing or shaky. A vibrant purple flash indicated that the liner had crossed through the dome's protective outer layer. The dirtside port came into view as the craft banked, and Minerva caught her first glance of Morsicant.

It had a sprawling feel to it. The central business district and docs were clearly defined, and residential properties seem laid out in block fashion. Green areas - most likely small parks - kept company with empty areas. Few buildings appeared to rise over two stories. Minerva presumed the colonists most likely built downward rather than favor skyscrapers.

The liner kissed the ground and taxied, giving passengers an opportunity to peer down streets as they moved towards the terminal. It wasn't a dirty or dusty city, and it held the shops meant to support both agriculture and mining. But it obviously wasn't as gleaming as Hong Kong nor as dilapidated as Old Detroit.

"Morsicant doesn't know whether to bustle or just strangle itself on the spot," Minerva mused. She rose from her seat, hefted her gear, and strode from the cabin.


The port wasn't bustling. A few people milled here and there across the tarmac, mainly taking advantage of the small bar near the gate. These were best classified as "city folk" based on their clean attire and polite mannerisms. Here and there was a brute or two - miners, probably, due to the layer of grey-black smears on their legs, arms, and torsos.

Minerva breathed in the mixture of exhaust mixed with lilies (someone had planted a swath of them between the terminal building and tarmac). Shoulders squared, she passed fellow passengers in civilian garb and made straight for the meet-up location.

A tall man in his impeccable agency black suit out in the crowd. She knew his type immediately. Cross him and life for the team would become living hell. She momentarily entertained simply killing him, but the paperwork would be dreadful.

"Ms Blackwater," his raspy voice was sandpaper on a dead dog's raw ass. "I am Director Hjabass. Where are the rest of your team?"

There wasn't any smile. He exuded a palpable enmity, a characteristic common to upper echelon. Hjabass was distinctly out of place for an operation as mundane as OPSTAL. Not for the last time, Minerva's mind flickered to the paltry briefing tucked away in her datapad.

"Some arrived with me." Minerva's polite smile did not reach her eyes. She turned and scanned the approaching people, seeking out those in uniform as well as the faces she memorized from a team dossier. Whatever cheer they might have, the Jackass was sure to throw cold water on it.
Last edited by Swith Witherward on Thu Nov 07, 2019 10:31 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Highfort
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Posts: 2892
Founded: May 11, 2014
Liberal Democratic Socialists

Postby Highfort » Thu Nov 07, 2019 11:02 pm

"Peace force," Gordon muttered to himself, sucking in a hearty puff of his vape as he scrolled through the briefing, "Lethal force authorized if necessary... Where have I heard that one before? Backwater mining and agriculture hub with the glorified title of gas station, wonderful."

The details on hostile wildlife elicited a chortle. Colonialism biting colonists in the ass? Who would've thought? Still, it did mean his decision to pack a handgun was warranted, though he wondered how effective it would be against something as small as a 'cicada'.

Perhaps they were giant? But then, what good would a handgun do? Should've sprung for a shotgun, he supposed.

Another puff and more muttering: "Bradypus Mining... sounds dreadful. Morsicant... Walt Ja-Bass? Hardass? Whatever."

The team dossier made him raise an eyebrow. Not that he questioned a second shot in life - people so rarely made full use of their first and only - but why would a bureaucrat and a cobbler be needed for a peacekeeping assignment? Was the problem a lack of adequate footwear distribution?

The nickname "The Barber" gave him particular pause. Investigations run by someone who sounds like a Sweeney Todd expy? Gordon was happy enough to save his own skin; he was much less interested in being dragged for a ride by a loose cannon. The presence of a gunsmith, survivalist, and an operations specialist named "Blackwater" did little to assuage the growing pit of fear in his stomach that this was going to be a rough assignment.

Still, what can one do but seize the time they are given?

Smoothing out his grey uniform, he set down the tablet and strapped himself in for landing. Though not the most pleasant affair, it wasn't as bad as some of his transcon flights on Terra. At least this pilot seemed to know what they were doing. As soon as landing completed, he tucked away his vape and was on his way. Wouldn't do to be late; first impressions weren't everything, but they went a long way.

He almost missed the black-suited bureaucrat and the uniformed redhead as he shuffled to the meeting location. Lost in thought: what fragrance for a first meeting?

On one hand, floral scents were generally inoffensive and tended not to arouse suspicion. On the other, this was his mission team and no doubt they'd be briefed on his abilities soon enough. And besides, the scent of lilies was plenty floral enough, didn't need to add another such smell to the mix.

Perhaps something fresh, to cut through the lilies... Perhaps citrus? He offered a small, nearly-imperceptible smile as he greeted his new coworkers and reached forth with his mind.

Orange zest, though only the lightest of notes. Perceptible only to his new companions, and not cloyingly offensive.

"Director Ja-Bass," Gordon nodded slightly, trying to recall everyone's photos from the briefing, "Ms. Blackwater. A pleasure to meet you both. I assume we'll have office and objective assignments soon enough. If we have time after unpacking, I'd like to explore the city and get a read on the locals, see what we're up against. And, of course, set up a daily meeting for task check-in and unblocking; mid-morning shouldn't be offensive to anyone, yes?"
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Giovenith
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Posts: 19812
Founded: Feb 08, 2012
Left-wing Utopia

Postby Giovenith » Fri Nov 08, 2019 12:40 am

A fruit salad, some soup in a thermos, sandwiches cut into heart shapes, and a cake pop lined the inside of the lunch box that Ms. Zale had given to Dar on her first day off to assignment. Throughout the ride she repeatedly opened it up and peaked in, as if there might suddenly be some epiphany waiting inside to make everything clear and fill her with certainty about what was to come. No such luck, the closest she got was the handwritten note Ms. Zale had taped inside with a glittery star-shaped sticker, wishing the 19 year old luck. Right. Something in her pit said that that cake pop would be the best luck she'd get on 'Slate.'

Deciding there was no point in hoping for a delicious miracle, Dar leaned back in her seat, drummed her fingers against the lunch box, and thought over all the parts of the brief that had stuck out. Her first instinct had been to question what the point of settling in such a danger place even was — wouldn't they prefer somewhere more secluded? — but pushed aside her fears.

Let's break it down one piece at a time, she thought to herself, counting on her fingerless-gloved hands. I guess the first thing to do would be to learn about the cicadas. It says that they've been fighting against them with weapons, but it would be better if we found a way to make sure they don't show up at all. Maybe something scent-based to drive them away? Who knew? They weren't exactly from an ecosystem that worked by the same rules as on Earth.

If she wasn't careful, she might have been tempted to bring everyone to the sanctuary. But, she reminded herself, no, no, it was only for the most desperate of the desperate. The challenge would be deciding what that meant...


Once they all landed, Dar and her lunch box trotted along after Ms. Blackwater, keeping a respectful (and bashful) distance, but still trying to stay closer to her than most anyone else. The young lady wasn't silly, she knew not to bother the mysterious leader that she had been told to listen to and follow unless necessary, but it nonetheless felt safest and smartest to stick with her for now.

That feeling was reinforced as they passed by the various civilians on port, Dar giving a wide berth to the occasional lumbering, soot-covered mass that passed by them, gripping her lunch box tighter as she did, though feeling guilty for it.

They're not going to do anything, she reminded herself. They're just people.

But it was easier said than done. After all, it wouldn't be hard for any of them to pick her up and run away — strength was a lot like driving, in that the only thing keeping everyone from abusing their access to it and ramming into one another was an unspoken agreement not to, and when that agreement could evaporate at any moment, little girls like Darlene would be the first to go. At least, that's what her mom had always said. 'The world hates little girls the most,' had been her exact words.

Dar tried not to remember what her mom had said.

When they came to the Director, Dar was sure to greet him with a smile and nod. He didn't seem friendly. But there was nothing that scowling back was going to do to help the situation. Fake it till you make it.
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Holy Lykos
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Founded: May 01, 2016
Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Holy Lykos » Fri Nov 08, 2019 9:07 am

Unlike some of the others, there wasn't a speck of anxiety on Jormungand's face. He was much too busy watching out the windows for most of the flight, caught up in the delight of traveling through space. He'd only been in this iteration of reality for a few months, but the technology and sophistication of things still constantly delighted him. his eyes and hands always found new things to explore, and the naturally chatty hybrid always tried to find someone to gush about the things he discovered. On this trip especially, he kept trying to chat up other passengers about what they were passing, even with his odd appearance being just a bit off putting. Something about snakes tended to unsettle humans, for some odd reason, so a humanoid that looked like a mismatched snake-canine was especially jarring to get used to.

Jor couldn't get enough of the food too! Even though it was simple stuff, airline food really, he treated like a gift and special. He often had at least one kind of snack during the ride, Though, he really had little experience with such a varied diet, and tended to just scarf down the food without delay. (Another unsettling thing, given his sharp teeth and ability to swallow larger portions than most might) A life ofe ating scrawny mutant deer, rabbit, and canned food older than your grandmother's grandmother tended to make someone's expectation for food rather low. So he relished anything with a modicum of care put into it.

And like Minerva had guessed, he was one of the ones who just glanced over the document. He could kinda get the words, but he couldn't quite understand a good bit. Like the words lattice-shell, terraform, indigenous, and cicada. What the hell were they even? The hybrid really had trouble figuring out how to work the pad, and ended up deciding he should probably ask someone to show him later. Future computers were weird.

But he understood monsters, and those Cicadas sounded like monsters. And he had his revolver and wrench for a reason. Bugs, even ones that could bite off your arm, didn't exactly stand blunt force very well. Shells werren't shit compared to wrought iron and lead!

So Jor wasn't worried, and was in fact probably one of the only members of this new team to be chipper as they arrived. He was even impressed by the township as they soared in, mouth slightly open in surprise. He almost expected a wood built frontier town, not an actual city!


The tall hybrid would amble out of the ship a bit after Dar and Blackwater, clawed hands in the deep pockets of the somehow already dirty (where would he even have gotten grease stains on it from?) grey uniform that was just a bit baggy on the slouching hybrid's frame. A duffel bag hung under his right arm, full of his gear, clothing, and tools and partnered by a pair of boots tied to the strap by their laces. The only part of his preferred kit he was wearing was his cowboy hat, modified to accommodate his ears. His tongue darted out to taste at the air, taking in the scents and sights of the landing area.

"Ain't too shabby, nah." He said aloud, probably just a bit too loudly even, his walking near silent despite his size. Not wearing shoes tended to do that, and he wasn't convinced the Agency had made proper boots that'd fit his eclectic foot structure.

The hybrid happily just stood in the bustle, feeling surprisingly safe despite the number of strangers. No one's shootin's no one's got bruise- well no, the dirty fellas do, but that's work bruising. It's nice... He smiled, which looked just a bit odd, but his large, scruffy furred tail slowly wagged behind him and that told his mood better than his face likely would to humans. And he just stood there, taking things in, until a bump from a miner broke the reverie of the hybrid.

"Oh, sorry 'bout that, distracted." He apologized to the confused looking offender, before padding towards the others in grey uniforms.

Jor caught up with the already assembling group shortly after Gordon started talking. "Oh, meetin's? I won't need a suit, aye?" He blinked, blue-green slit eyes focused on the Suit speaking formally enough to remind him of that one Californian he met before he started heading west. Though that fella hadn't been half as formal, or well dressed. Nor smelled of toothpaste. Jormungand's nose scrunched up a bit as he sniffed at the air wafting from Gordon.

"I'm Jormungand, by the by." He politely doffed his hat, holding it against his chest and giving a little bow. "I'm t'be the mechanic, suppose. Pleasure to meet y'all." An ear flicked. "Oh, I don't bite, too, don't wory." He grinned, just enough for others to see his dangerous teeth.
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Rodez
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Founded: Oct 18, 2016
Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Rodez » Fri Nov 08, 2019 9:59 am

There was a brief flash; then Javier was awake, tucked into the bed nestled in the corner of his cabin. He had been trying for the better part of twelve hours to get a normal, mundane sleep. It was often difficult to suppress the Dreamstride when it came over him, but he had to look at things practically: after six days of exploring the dreams and nightmares of his fellow passengers, he had reached a point where a break would probably be mentally beneficial. "No more of mom's sex dreams about the pool boy," he muttered.

His tablet was flashing - something important, no doubt. Javier rolled out of bed with a sigh and grabbed the thing, finding the briefing file tucked away after several moments of nervous clicking. All this technology at once was a little much for him; sure, it all made sense conceptually. Nothing that couldn't be found in a mid-tier space opera novel. After all, he had 'only' been plucked from the year 2007. But applying it, using it - that was another matter.

Javier began to read in the manner he was accustomed to; that is, he read the parts that caught his eye and skimmed most everything else. Cicadas? Huh? Just fucking spray, man. The names of his soon to be colleagues meant nothing to him, which wasn't surprising. This is a different dimension, after all. I think. Right? I need to have that explained to me again. He would meet them soon enough; but the Spaniard couldn't figure out for the life of him why they needed a 'bureaucrat,' or a 'cobbler,' for that matter. I like my New Balances just fine, thank you.

It was a different planet though, that was the really exciting part. A different planet. And not Mars, or the Moon, or anything close by. He was really out there. New planet, new job, new start. Javier felt his whole body practically hum with anticipation. After five hundred years of practical immortality, the words 'new life' weren't really in his lexicon. Yet here he was, on a spaceship, separated forever from every person or circumstance he had ever known, cloven irreparably from Mexico circa 2007. And he loved it.

A soft alarm sounded. Go time. Javier was halfway to strapping himself in before he realized he was still clad in nothing but boxers. He rushed over to the tiny closet, retrieved his fatigues, and threw them on his small frame. Now he was ready.

To his surprise, the descent was relatively calm. There was some minor turbulence and a bright flash as they pierced the upper atmosphere, but absolutely nothing like what he had read NASA astronauts experienced.

The ship descended below the range of the protective sphere, allowing Javier to gaze out the portside window at the city of Morsicant. That's an impressive town. It wasn't particularly large as towns went, but it was so clean and neat, in stark contrast to the sprawling, bloody slums that defined so many cities in his native Mexico.

They touched down and taxied to a gradual halt. The alarm clicked off and the cabin door swung back open. Javier grabbed his duffel bag and was on his way, caught up among the passengers exiting the ship in droves.

Though the flight had been a fascinating experience, Javier was relieved to take a breath of actual air, even if it smelled of exhaust and was more or less artificially manufactured. Sliding Ray-Bans over his eyes with one hand, he made his way through the thinning mass of travelers, passing tourists, miners, and traders of all persuasions. Aliens made perfect sense to him, and were to be expected seventy years into his future, but actually seeing some of these things was itself a bit jarring.

After a bit of strolling he reached the meet-up location, where a decent part of the team had already gathered. Javier sauntered up to the throng and stopped, his head turning gradually as he made brief eye contact with literally everyone in the circle; sizing them up and not caring if they knew or not. The witch-looking woman was . . . well, a witch, he supposed. Then there was a young girl and a suited man in spectacles who looked as if he sold insurance for a living. His eyes came to rest on the . . . night stalker? Javier started, realizing that he was looking at a creature right out of Fallout: New Vegas. I fucking played that game.

It really was a Night Stalker, albeit upright and over a foot taller than him. Javier chuckled genially to himself, as if accepting the absurdity of the whole situation, and proceeding status quo ante bellum.

Javier turned to the other suit, a scowling older man who resembled a snake as much as the Night Stalker did. "Javier Luque's the name," he said. "Who's the boss? You're the boss?" His accent was heavy, but the English came out clear, enunciated.
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Talchyon
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Posts: 4884
Founded: May 05, 2016
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Talchyon » Fri Nov 08, 2019 11:32 pm

Doc Sawbones (aka, Dr. Jesse Turnbull)

Never in a billion years had he expected to have to work at a mining colony, of all things. From what the portly, robust man with a glower on his face could tell, the Gesellschaft Agency was sending this ragtag group into help stabilize the area... from, bugs, apparently. Keep the deusmodium coming, keep the money flow operating, and everything and everyone usually had a price. The report they had been given had only the basics, and Dr. Jesse Turnbull had analyzed each word, turning each over in his mind to see what wasn't being said.

Among the things not given were standard medical backgrounds of the group members he would more likely be treating extensively. All he had were names, or nicknames as in the case of some. "The Barber?" he thought to himself, frowning. "Seamus? 'Brit?' Is that short for a Brit from the U.K.? Or is it a Britney?" The jobs were also a curiosity. Some were obvious - his own as the local medic, for example. A pilot. An engineer. Operations. Those things made sense. What need did they have a cobbler? Maybe the conditions on the planet were such that their combat boots were put to the strain and needed constant repairs. Fungal infections in the feet can lead to dysentery, after all. But what need did they have for a bureaucrat? The only thing Jesse could think of was that in any military operation, you always needed some people who could be cannon fodder, to be the first fired at and the least likely to survive. Right now, the bureaucrat was the leading man for that job.

Frustrated, the husky doctor wondered how many of this team were human, how many were aliens, and what kind of exobiology skills he was going to have to learn on the fly. It would be a good wonder if they had a decent clinic on Morsicant, but he doubted they would. Cynical to the core about the prospects of the medical practices in the colonies, and most everything else in life, Turnbull consoled himself to the likely fact that the mission itself was probably just as hopeless as their medical situation. And who knows? Within a short time, they'd likely all be dead too. At least if he knew it was coming, it wouldn't shock him when it turned out right.

There was little to do on the transport over but analyze the report, and Turnbull's mind returned back to brighter times. Times when he had a practice on a safer world. Never mind the fact that it was a struggling practice because people gravitated more towards doctors who had a cheery bedside manner, and 'Doc Sawbones' was never that man. But that was before his issues. Issues involving one Al-Jazir Hakim, inventor of social media platforms that carried the sense of touch throughout the virtual world. One of the wealthiest men alive, and now one of the wealthiest men alive who hated Turnbull with a passionate vengeance. As Hakim had used his considerable clout to personally ruin and destroy Jesse's career prospects, he had very little left except for his cynicism and tenacity. That, and a one-way ticket to Morsicant, courtesy of Gesellschaft. It was a fool's mission. Anyone with eyes could see that. But that was the only job that wasn't asking questions, whose leaders were not nearly as impressed with the revenge plots of the wealthy.

To help keep his mind occupied with more cheerful thoughts as they traveled, 'Doc Sawbones' began analyzing the other passengers on board and guessing at what personal medical disorders they suffered from, that would eventually wreak havoc in their lives if not treated.

Touching down on the shabby roads, Dr. Turnbull gave a sigh. "Here we go," he thought glumly. Gathering his carry-on bag, 'Doc Sawbones' impatiently waited to get off the transport. His other supplies and equipment were unloaded from the storage compartments below, and he grabbed them with annoyance. Slinging his blaster rifle across his shoulders, he hefted the other bags and trudged his way to the designated meeting place. There was already a group there. And what looked like their new director, Mr. Hjabass. Setting his things down, Turnbull looked at the group. What a group it was. There was one fellow that was part snake and part dog. "Probably doesn't have the same antibodies needed to fight infections," he thought. The doctor knew he didn't know the first thing about his biological systems, so he was hoping that guy wasn't the first to be injured. There was a shorter, albino looking guy who had the certain tics of Tourette's. There was a guy who looked... stiff.. was the thought that came to Jesse's mind. "Either that man is military trained, or he's not a man at all." A few girls, one with long red hair piled up on her head, and another with dyed hair. As he looked at the group, Jesse thought, "Just as I thought. We're going to be dead in a week. But I'm still going to give it my best shot. Their deaths won't be because of me."

Finally returning his gaze to Hjabass, 'Doc Sawbones' stared at the man with a mixture of boredom and annoyance. No use speaking right now. He'd have opportunity soon enough. In the meantime, he kept himself busy observing what looked like the signs of high blood pressure in the man.




Seamus

The first time security had been called back on the transport to his area, they were amused. Snickering at the short man in green, they had to give assistance to the first time flyer who had no idea what safety belts were for.

The second time security was called back, they were a little less amused. The snickers were gone. Now, they just rolled their eyes at the little man who had managed to get out of his safety belts, and yet had left the belts still latched together. Once again, they helped him back in his seat and re-attached the safety belts once more.

But the fifth time security was called back, they were pissed. Not only were there a lack of snickering and eye rolls. Now, there were muttered profanities and curses. Not only had the little man gotten out again when he was supposed to be strapped in. But he had also started annoying the other passengers near him, especially the irate man in front of him whose toupee he had snatched.

"Aye, lookee at the dead beast on the baldy's noggin. Oy, dead beast! What be yer name? Mayhaps ye 're called Patrick. Patrick the Hat Trick. Aye. Ye had the life knocked out of ye, and this buffoon wears yer carcass aroun' like it was a sport!"

The lead security agent grumbled and said, "Sir, you need to give that back and then sit down!"

But Seamus the leprechaun had no desire to follow the man's orders just yet. "But, lookee! Peel yer eyes! The man wears a beast! Er at least, a hide. Used ter be a beast, that is."

Huffing, the agent responded, "Sir, I am going to tell you only one more time. Give that back. You need to sit down in your seat and leave others alone. The sign says that you are to have your safety belts on at this time. Now sit down."

Seamus responded with his own huff. "Yer not the only one who can be huffy. I can huff, too. An' how was I s'posed to know anyways that I was s'posed to sit in that seat? I had to move! Had to stretch me legs!" And he was right. He didn't know he was supposed to sit down in the seat, or wear safety belts, or so on. The sign was written in words. And to Seamus, words were squiggles that didn't mean a hill of beans. Same thing went for that report that had been given on that gray-ish device gizmo they wanted him to study. Seamus had seen a lot of squiggles, and tried to learn what it was that they were supposed to mean. But it was hard for a guy like him who was only spending his first day in this dimension and had never gone to school.

The agent had had enough. "Sir, you are required to sit down with your safety belts on. All passengers need to. The last thing we want is to have to explain a dead man on arrival because he was thrown against the hull at 7 Gs!"

Seamus looked confused and annoyed at the same time. "I don't got any Gs! Whate'er made ye think I had? But I'm not sittin'. I'd go stir crazy if ya make me!" Already at the thought of having to sit still, the leprechaun began to fidget.

One of the other security men whispered into his supervisor's ear, and the lead agent nodded. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Sir, give the man back his hairpiece. And since you have a problem sitting down, would you like to move to another location where it won't be as much of a problem for you?" After a moment of looking at the man and then at the toupee, Seamus shrugged and said, "Awright." Relieved, the security man took the hairpiece and gave it to the furious passenger in the seat in front. Then, leading the leprechaun out of the way so he wouldn't have to interact with anyone else, they found a private room that was basically empty. They asked him if that would be sufficient, and he looked around and shrugged.

Security was smart enough to not leave the leprechaun unattended, so one of the agents stayed behind to baby-sit the man in green. That agent was also smart enough to get the leprechaun talking. Once he got to talking, he had a lot to say. Like how he ended up here. How the man at the place had not understood what Seamus was trying to say. How that man with the papers somehow gotten the impression that Seamus wanted to join up on this expedition. Just because he said he wanted to get away from there! As if that was all it took! That, and making some kind of random squiggles with a pen on the paper. Of course, Seamus thought they meant returning him to his home, and not sending him out to who knows where on this thing they called a transport. So on and on he talked, and the security agent listening in had the patience of a saint in letting the leprechaun say anything he wanted. Better to keep him talking than getting into things.

When they landed, Seamus was let out of the room. He grabbed his shillelagh and began trying to get out of the transport. To help speed up the process, he teleported as much as he could, about four seats up ahead at a time, while others slowly trekked through the line. They were annoyed and a little astonished, and Seamus could care less. He had been told that he was supposed to meet others. People they were in a group with. People they were supposed to do the job-thing that apparently he now had. People they were supposed to meet up with other people. Fortunately, someone had told Seamus approximately where it was. And sure enough! There was a group of ragtag misfits that were all dressed in the same awful uniforms as the one he had been given, that he refused to wear out of principle. Scampering up to the group, Seamus saw the stern face of the man in front as he joined alongside the others. He belted out a friendly greeting to him and to all, shouting, "Top 'o the mornin', to ya!"

Who cared if they reacted weird?
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Sylvanstreak
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Scandinavian Liberal Paradise

Postby Sylvanstreak » Sat Nov 09, 2019 1:38 am

0x1444271570066320510157153521007226314511671
LOADING...COMPLETE QUORUM...100%
0x160554762265626421546557304105670131570445
CALCULATION…24AE484B9BBEDF5BAE548DAE137AFFE7 CHECKSUM...24AE484B9BBEDF5BAE548DAE137AFFE7
RESULT...VERIFIED


The messages flashed from nanite to nanite, carrying the news of success to each node, as The Barber finished its power-on sequence. A few beats passed while The Barber shifted out of its bucket and into humanoid form.

The mirror in its quarters reflected the chrome mannequin that it was underneath it all. Its surface blurred, very briefly, as the image of a Korean male flickered to life, close-featured and stocky. Somehow ill-suited to the inhumanly crisp and tidy uniform the android appeared to sport.

It stepped outside its cabin and made its way through hallway and gangway, performing its daily communications check with Summerveil. No acknowledgement, as there hadn’t been for some time now - only silence across the ether. The Barber recorded the result and kept walking. Few passengers now filled the liner’s exit. Most had gone out to the tarmac already.

Sensory nodes on the surface of its “skin” processed the aromas of exhaust and flowers. A combination the android noted for later, as it reached the meeting point and took in the cluster of others, already assembled. The usual routine applied.

A tall red-haired human female. THREAT ASSESSMENT...MINIMAL. TEAR GAS...NOT DETECTED. OTHER INFORMATION...NOT APPLICABLE.

The Barber cocked its head at this, processing briefly at the new tear gas parameter. Something Summerveil had added, no doubt. This was not its original programming. It spent a few dozen cycles trying to figure out when that might have happened and why, before going back to what it had been doing.

A tall human in a black suit; a worn-looking human male; a younger human female; a furred and scaled humanoid; a long-haired man with considerable damage to his nose; and finally two more humans. ...MINIMAL...MINIMAL...MINIMAL...MODERATE...MINIMAL...MINIMAL...MINIMAL

The android stood impassively, taking in the touch of orange scent, as one of the last two humans it had scanned greeted the crowd with a resounding ‘"Top 'o the mornin', to ya!"’. The Barber noted this as well, and then pulled up the information it had stored from the mission brief file. Running through it one more time.
Last edited by Sylvanstreak on Sat Nov 09, 2019 1:38 am, edited 1 time in total.
'Movements of the past have either attempted to resist change (conservatism), aimed for static perfection (Abrahamic religion, communism), passively accepted directionless change (capitalism) or reveled in constant destruction (fascism). Where Solarpunk differs is that it embraces change, but guides it to a greater good. In a sense, it combines the innovative, forward looking liberty of (classical) liberalism, the community and resilience of socialism, and the conscientious fluidity of taoism.'

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Monfrox
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Father Knows Best State

Postby Monfrox » Sat Nov 09, 2019 5:58 pm

It was all so fast, really. Being taken from the Building and not even a few hours later, Minerva had given her the briefest of rundowns on "space travel safety" which had amounted to "sit down, shut up, and don't touch nothin", which was fine by her because the last thing Brit wanted was death by vacuum of space. There was also stuff about the agency and briefings and so many things that had been stored in the back of her mind for processing as she now sat in her assigned cabin. A duffel bag full of her old uniforms and other things had been nicked form her room by someone or thing before she had left. That was always how it was back at the Building: Don't ask questions about things that happen, just go with the flow. Well, Brit was very much against that sort of attitude, but she new that going against the flow of powerful forces around her was bad for her life expectancy. Come to think of it...she should ask what kind of health insurance they got, even if it was just a simple "you get brought back from the dead" deal.

So many questions and so little time for answers Brit thought as she donned her uniform. Her fluffy hair and baby face contrasted sharply with the getup, and she felt rather silly in it. Oh, to go back to the BDU Woodlands...but Minerva had told her that these uniforms were more than just for looks, so she wore it out of necessity. Maybe she should work on getting a G3 uniform to work like this. That would be great. Brit had taken the time to go over the briefing, but hadn't really thought about it too much. She'd like to know more about the cicadas. If they were big enough to be a hassle, they'd need some big guns. She briefly entertained the thought of requesting some ShAK-12s for the team as she packed her stuff up and headed out. One thing was majorly bugging her, and that was that everyone else was a new face to her. Which meant minimal talking and contact beyond professional courtesy. Coupling that with her everlasting crush on Minerva, she'd be generally secluding herself in whatever shop she could find. Or maybe she should volunteer to recon? Oh, what to do.

Brit picked her way through until she reached the group and silently stood behind the farthest one back as she got off the shuttle. Well, it smelled a lot like a garage back home, so there was that. For now, she had her lips zipped and her ears open to listen to others and she hoped and prayed to God that Minerva wouldn't single her out as a veteran or experienced member. Brit was too modest for her own good, and she would rather just skate by without anyone having any high opinions of her. Or worse, high expectations.
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Giovenith
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Left-wing Utopia

Postby Giovenith » Sat Nov 09, 2019 7:03 pm

The various members assembled, each seemingly becoming more strange than the last. Now, Dar knew for a fact that in the event of a nuclear apocalypse, radiation does not in fact give people superpowers or turn them into cool monsters, but she couldn't help but be reminded of the comics that depicted such when she was suddenly surrounded by wolf-snake people, and... a leprechaun?

Yes, it actually was a leprechaun, like in the St. Patty's decorations.

This took Dar aback for a moment, surprised that the experience had somehow gone straight from intimidating to silly. Surprise melted away to relief though, and ease. Smiling, she knelt down to offer a handshake to little, green-wearing person. "Good morning, mister," she greeted. "You seem excited for the mission."
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Swith Witherward
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Founded: Feb 11, 2012
Democratic Socialists

Postby Swith Witherward » Sun Nov 10, 2019 6:49 pm

Minerva couldn't gauge the Director's thoughts as the team approached; his sour expression remained fixed, a fleshy mask hiding foreboding thoughts perhaps. Only his eyes moved, at times blinking at an abnormally slow speed before darting to view the next person approaching. He did not respond to their salutations.

See? A jackass.

She chose to ignore both him and Purna, and focused instead on each individual as they arrived. A small nod of her head to acknowledge them, a faint wink at Brit to show encouragement after the young woman's first ride through space, a polite hello or three. The Leprechaun gave her pause. She made a mental note to remind him that his uniform doubled as environmental protection.

Brief chit-chat, some polite words shared between strangers. All the while, the Director's expression didn't change. Silence fell, interrupted only by Dar's friendly greeting, and then the same annoying pause while they all looked around at each other.

"Director," Minerva fixed a smile to her face. She wasn't about to play the power-trip game with a damn senior agent. "As Mr Felton stated, this was a long journey for the team. May we proceed to headquarters to stow our gear and be briefed?"

"You are missing a member," Hjabass eyes narrowed as Minerva mentally counted each person and face. "Oh, I am mistaken," he continued. His gaze diverted towards the tavern where a rather large being shambled along at a lazy pace.

Of all the team, only Brit or Minerva would recognize a thade. Four arms, two legs, and too muscular for their own good, they were the Agency's occasional heavies. The cultist's prior assignment alongside them gave her an advantage: this bull was indeed warrior cast.

"Director, the briefing did not-"

"Correct, Ms Blackwater," Hjabass clipped her question, "Your briefing did not mention it."

The Director's lips curled into something that passed for a smile. His voice inflections remained as dry and harsh as ever. "Welcome to Slate, Team Alpha. The Agency appreciates your volunteerism spirit. Headquarters are located at 42nd Subabsurdus Street-"

"You've got to be shitting me." Minerva grit her teeth.

"-which is a ten minute walk from here. I'll see to it that your baggage arrives in an hour or so. You are free until the evening. We will brief then."

Hjabass turned and strode towards the bar which the thade had vanished into moments prior. Minerva breathed out a relieved sigh.

"Alright, people, let's get cracking on this wonderful assignment!" The redhead hefted her bag strap a bit higher on her shoulder. "By the way, I'm Minerva Blackwater. I'm a senior agent, but I'm not in charge. Hjabass is. I'm sure we'll have a splendid time once he crawls back into his office in the space station above."

Nothing more for it than to find their new home. Minerva set off towards the street. "Doctor," she offered Doc Sawbones a smile, "Logistics is my specialty. If you take inventory and find your setup lacking, I'll acquire anything you might need - within reason. Unless, of course, there's nothing there at all, in which case we'll borrow or steal whatever isn't nailed down until we can get your clinic set up at HQ."
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Sylvanstreak
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Founded: Apr 01, 2019
Scandinavian Liberal Paradise

Postby Sylvanstreak » Sun Nov 10, 2019 9:05 pm

Most of the others seemed like fishes out of water, judging by the stiffness and quiet they showed. Put better, its new teammates. The only ones not doing so besides the red-haired woman striding into the distance and the newly arrived humanoid with four arms, were the wolf/snake hybrid, the young human female and the short human man.

Its eyes flickered from brown to silver for an instant, a blink-and-miss-it sign that the android was calculating its next move. Normally, of course, its infiltration and disguise protocols kept it from doing such a thing, but away from any situation needing those, much moreso on Morsicant, it didn't much care. Not even for the more intense calculations that would be even more obvious. But asking about the scents could wait for another time; learning about this place came first. So, nothing else ahead...

It strode over to the other three it had identified as most at ease, and hunched down, leaning backward and balancing on its heels.

"You lot seem like you know what this place is. Mind filling me in?" The Barber said, in the choppy, occasionally singsongy-up-and-down accent that went with its default 'skin'.
'Movements of the past have either attempted to resist change (conservatism), aimed for static perfection (Abrahamic religion, communism), passively accepted directionless change (capitalism) or reveled in constant destruction (fascism). Where Solarpunk differs is that it embraces change, but guides it to a greater good. In a sense, it combines the innovative, forward looking liberty of (classical) liberalism, the community and resilience of socialism, and the conscientious fluidity of taoism.'

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Monfrox
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Founded: Mar 25, 2011
Father Knows Best State

Postby Monfrox » Mon Nov 11, 2019 3:44 am

Yeah, wonderful is right. Her time in her paramilitary outfit made her familiar with the different sorts and kinds of people in positions of authority. Between Blackwater and the Director, Brit would take an order contradicting the director without almost a second thought if it came down to it. Almost. For now, she merely stayed back, nodding with a soft smile at Minerva's wink. She put an earbud in and kept one out as she walked with the group, hefting her duffel bag onto her shoulders. Some nice music filled her head from her phone, which was about all it was good for at this point. She felt like she was on another week-long stint and some base again like back home, but she knew that she would have to make home here for longer than that. And she'd have to share it with her team.

Speaking of, she noticed that only Minerva was the only one she remembered. Even the thade wasn't anyone she knew from back in the Building after she had taken a quick look at him. For now, there were quite a number of different people and a...leprechaun? She remembered the roster. An engineer, a bureaucrat, a pilot, a doc, a survivalist, and a...cobbler. All walk into a bar... she thought to herself. And the bartender says "get the fuck out of here". She didn't trust bureaucratic types much. Wait, then who was this Barber and why wasn't he, in fact, listed as such? She honestly wouldn't put it past them to bring on along. It would not be out of character. She also remembered the quotations around her own name and wondered if they knew that it was her real name. Perhaps she should ask for a codename or callsign if they're gonna go that route. She looked among the backs of her team members, trying to assign their roles as a guess in her head.
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Holy Lykos
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Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Holy Lykos » Mon Nov 11, 2019 6:01 am

Jorm watched their boss carefully, noting the utter lack of... well any sort of reaction, even as Jor gave nods to each of the people who came after him. Odd group, but he was long used to it. Weird attracted weird, after all. Like that time he stumbled into a cult of UFOlogists living in the shell of an airplane. Odd times back then, they proved kindly at the very least, yet this was somehow both odder yet more comforting. Maybe there'd be some cicada stew on the horizon, if they were gonna deal with enough of them.

Some large, mutilimbed alien that set his scales shivery out of some instinctive sense that told him to flee, that was apparently one of their team, according to the Boss at least. But running away would just be rude! speaking of rude, Jor introduced himself again once Blackwater was done. "Since there's new ones 'mong us, I'm Jormungand. Mechanics n' engineering. Could always use more parts for whatever stuff I gotta fix, just in case things break, and so I can learn 'bout them."

He sniffed a bit more as they walked, trying to pinpoint a scent, "And who brought uh..." He thought for a moment, "Aaapples? No, no, too antiseptic... Right! Oranges."
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Talchyon
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Founded: May 05, 2016
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Talchyon » Mon Nov 11, 2019 11:45 am

The street
Seamus


He had not gone unnoticed. Which was fine. There was something in him that liked the attention - as long as some fool human thought they could capture him and get wishes or gold. 'Cause of right now? He had neither to give.

Giovenith wrote:The various members assembled, each seemingly becoming more strange than the last. Now, Dar knew for a fact that in the event of a nuclear apocalypse, radiation does not in fact give people superpowers or turn them into cool monsters, but she couldn't help but be reminded of the comics that depicted such when she was suddenly surrounded by wolf-snake people, and... a leprechaun?

Yes, it actually was a leprechaun, like in the St. Patty's decorations.

This took Dar aback for a moment, surprised that the experience had somehow gone straight from intimidating to silly. Surprise melted away to relief though, and ease. Smiling, she knelt down to offer a handshake to little, green-wearing person. "Good morning, mister," she greeted. "You seem excited for the mission."


The lass was an odd one, that was for sure. Her hair was in two colors, neither of them proper to what nature gave. Seamus looked at that with amusement. Sometime he'd find out how she got it. A curse, maybe? But first things first! And that is, put the charm on for the ladies!

Seamus took Dar's hand and gave her a mischievous grin. "Thaht I am, lass! Thaht I am!" Who knew what the mission was even going to be? All Seamus knew was that it might get him rewarded with a pass back home, to a more normal dimension instead of this... drab place filled with weirdos. "Name's Seamus, Lass. Haven't a clue what I'm doin', but I'm gonna have fun doin' it!"

When the director Hjabass finally spoke, Seamus couldn't help but fidget. Moving around a little, stepping forward and back, going around and through people's legs, anything to avoid having to STAND there! But the introduction of the thade stopped Seamus cold. "What in the name 'a Blarney is that thing?!" It was a... monster. With four arms even. And a nasty looking expression! Seamus internally gulped, and then came to his senses. "Bet he's never faced a leprechaun before! I might have some fun with that one, and play some tricks! Later, though."

Sylvanstreak wrote:Most of the others seemed like fishes out of water, judging by the stiffness and quiet they showed. Put better, its new teammates. The only ones not doing so besides the red-haired woman striding into the distance and the newly arrived humanoid with four arms, were the wolf/snake hybrid, the young human female and the short human man.

Its eyes flickered from brown to silver for an instant, a blink-and-miss-it sign that the android was calculating its next move. Normally, of course, its infiltration and disguise protocols kept it from doing such a thing, but away from any situation needing those, much moreso on Morsicant, it didn't much care. Not even for the more intense calculations that would be even more obvious. But asking about the scents could wait for another time; learning about this place came first. So, nothing else ahead...

It strode over to the other three it had identified as most at ease, and hunched down, leaning backward and balancing on its heels.

"You lot seem like you know what this place is. Mind filling me in?" The Barber said, in the choppy, occasionally singsongy-up-and-down accent that went with its default 'skin'.


Seamus looked at the team member who had come by. There was something different about his voice, but he couldn't tell what. Guy had something of a belly. Dark-ish clipped hair with what looked like a black and tan in his little beard. Maybe from some far away exotic location, just by the skin tone and eyes. Huh.

"Name's Seamus. Happy t' meetcha. I know the barest of zilch 'bout this place. but I can see one establishment I'd like to get to know. Might be important for the mission!"

For there was one other thing that caught his eye, more so than the lasses, the stuffy-looking people, the guy with the machine eye, the snake-doggie (?), or the monster. And that was, the bar. He couldn't read, but any leprechaun worth his shamrocks had almost an innate way of telling what establishment was the local tavern. And he got a big grin! "Lass, Laddie, ya can come with me if ya want. I'm gonna get somethin' to drink!"

Scampering up to the bar where the director went in, Seamus felt an urging sense of curiosity, both to get his first drink in this dimension, and also to get a good impression about the people of this drab place. You can tell a lot from a people by looking at their drinking houses, Seamus had long thought. So, bounding through the door and seeing it mostly empty due to the early hour, there was a long mahogany bar with high stools in front of it, and several tables with empty chairs. Some artwork of questionable ability adorned the walls. A staircase led up stairs, and there were a few back rooms as well. Behind the bar was a tall gaunt man, who was wiping the counter. Hearing someone come in, the man looked up, and gaped.

Seamus didn't care. He bounded up to a stool and jumped up to stand on top of it, giving him a better view of the barkeep. The astonished man began to break into a big mystified smile. "Well, I'll be," the man said. "That's the very first time a leprechaun has come into my bar. I'm just waiting to hear the punchline!"

Seamus spoke out, "Get me a pint of yer best Irish whiskey, barkeep!"

The astonished bartender chuckled. "Is this some kind of joke or something?"

Seamus responded, "No joke at'all, mister. I just traveled a long ways and wanted to start my time here right. What better way than with a pint?"

The bartender was loving this, sure that there was a punchline coming. "And do you have any money?"

Seamus grinned back, "Well, what if I told ya I wanted to start a tab, and you could put me drink on that new tab o' mine?"

The bartender just smiled. "What the hell. Since I never expected to see a leprechaun in here, ever, your first drink here is on the house. Enjoy it, friend."

Seamus beamed! When the bartender pulled out some synthesized Irish whiskey and poured a pint of it into a glass just smaller than Seamus' arm, he began to drink! Until, he realized the funny kind of taste that synthehol has. Seamus put the glass down and looked at it. "What kind of Irish whiskey is this? Never tasted the like."

The bartender shrugged. "All we can get around here is synthesized. Best we can do."

Seamus had no idea what synthesized even meant, but now he had a context and reference to work with. Synthesized for him now meant, funny-tasting. But, free drinks being the best kind, Seamus gladly slurped up the whiskey and was happy to start feeling a "buzz".




The street
'Doc Sawbones' (aka Dr. Jesse Turnbull)


The meeting left a lot to be desired. There were only two things Jesse really picked up. The first was the location of base, and the tongue-in-cheek name it had. "Subabsurdus street, huh?" And he kind of snorted at the name. The second thing Jesse learned was that he shouldn't expect their fearless leader to go out of the way for supply requests. Their director was an arrogant man, and likely would try to keep them in what he thought was the line to keep. If Jesse needed something for the clinic, he could already tell the answer was going to be 'no.' It might take something deeply personal for a request to go through - like if there were some kind of tech needed for his own personal medical situation. 'Doc Sawbones' knew his type. The galaxy was full of such self-important men. He never let them get to him, though. Even self-important men need what he as a doctor can give, and every arrogant person sometimes ends up in the hospital.

The last crew member surprised him, though. When the four-armed monstrosity on steroids came out, 'Doc Sawbones' couldn't help but stare. His mouth was slightly open, even, as his mind raced. "With four arms, a creature like this has to have at least six chambers in its heart - unless it has two hearts, which is a possibility. Increased gland production, most certainly to get those muscles. Bone structure has to be thicker." But before he could take a proper scan, he was thankfully interrupted by one of their team - apparently, an old hand.

Swith Witherward wrote:Minerva couldn't gauge the Director's thoughts as the team approached; his sour expression remained fixed, a fleshy mask hiding foreboding thoughts perhaps. Only his eyes moved, at times blinking at an abnormally slow speed before darting to view the next person approaching. He did not respond to their salutations.

See? A jackass.

She chose to ignore both him and Purna, and focused instead on each individual as they arrived. A small nod of her head to acknowledge them, a faint wink at Brit to show encouragement after the young woman's first ride through space, a polite hello or three. The Leprechaun gave her pause. She made a mental note to remind him that his uniform doubled as environmental protection.

Brief chit-chat, some polite words shared between strangers. All the while, the Director's expression didn't change. Silence fell, interrupted only by Dar's friendly greeting, and then the same annoying pause while they all looked around at each other.

"Director," Minerva fixed a smile to her face. She wasn't about to play the power-trip game with a damn senior agent. "As Mr Felton stated, this was a long journey for the team. May we proceed to headquarters to stow our gear and be briefed?"

"You are missing a member," Hjabass eyes narrowed as Minerva mentally counted each person and face. "Oh, I am mistaken," he continued. His gaze diverted towards the tavern where a rather large being shambled along at a lazy pace.

Of all the team, only Brit or Minerva would recognize a thade. Four arms, two legs, and too muscular for their own good, they were the Agency's occasional heavies. The cultist's prior assignment alongside them gave her an advantage: this bull was indeed warrior cast.

"Director, the briefing did not-"

"Correct, Ms Blackwater," Hjabass clipped her question, "Your briefing did not mention it."

The Director's lips curled into something that passed for a smile. His voice inflections remained as dry and harsh as ever. "Welcome to Slate, Team Alpha. The Agency appreciates your volunteerism spirit. Headquarters are located at 42nd Subabsurdus Street-"

"You've got to be shitting me." Minerva grit her teeth.

"-which is a ten minute walk from here. I'll see to it that your baggage arrives in an hour or so. You are free until the evening. We will brief then."

Hjabass turned and strode towards the bar which the thade had vanished into moments prior. Minerva breathed out a relieved sigh.

"Alright, people, let's get cracking on this wonderful assignment!" The redhead hefted her bag strap a bit higher on her shoulder. "By the way, I'm Minerva Blackwater. I'm a senior agent, but I'm not in charge. Hjabass is. I'm sure we'll have a splendid time once he crawls back into his office in the space station above."

Nothing more for it than to find their new home. Minerva set off towards the street. "Doctor," she offered Doc Sawbones a smile, "Logistics is my specialty. If you take inventory and find your setup lacking, I'll acquire anything you might need - within reason. Unless, of course, there's nothing there at all, in which case we'll borrow or steal whatever isn't nailed down until we can get your clinic set up at HQ."


Nodding at her assessment of their fearless leader, and even giving a little smile, a darker smile, 'Doc Sawbones' could only respond with, "Something tells me our fearless leader Hjabass is going to be hindering our efforts..." When Minerva came by, he nodded appreciatingly at her. "Thanks, Minerva. We may just need to go with 'Plan B' of stocking our inventory with how you described. I am Dr. Jesse Turnbull. Or you can call me 'Doc Sawbones.' So tell me, do you know if I can get a more detailed medical history and background of our agents? Right now, I can only go on guesswork..." That, and the scans his eye would give him, but he wasn't about to reveal that just yet. Meanwhile, he was scanning Minerva for medical knowledge on her, and was getting quite the surprising information.

Looking over at their group, the gigantic snake-dog man spoke up.

Holy Lykos wrote:Jorm watched their boss carefully, noting the utter lack of... well any sort of reaction, even as Jor gave nods to each of the people who came after him. Odd group, but he was long used to it. Weird attracted weird, after all. Like that time he stumbled into a cult of UFOlogists living in the shell of an airplane. Odd times back then, they proved kindly at the very least, yet this was somehow both odder yet more comforting. Maybe there'd be some cicada stew on the horizon, if they were gonna deal with enough of them.

Some large, mutilimbed alien that set his scales shivery out of some instinctive sense that told him to flee, that was apparently one of their team, according to the Boss at least. But running away would just be rude! speaking of rude, Jor introduced himself again once Blackwater was done. "Since there's new ones 'mong us, I'm Jormungand. Mechanics n' engineering. Could always use more parts for whatever stuff I gotta fix, just in case things break, and so I can learn 'bout them."

He sniffed a bit more as they walked, trying to pinpoint a scent, "And who brought uh..." He thought for a moment, "Aaapples? No, no, too antiseptic... Right! Oranges."


Jesse nodded. He had smelled the oranges too, but why there would be the scent of oranges on a mining colony of all places confused him. "Dr. Jesse Turnbull, or my more colorful nickname, 'Doc Sawbones.' I'm the one you need when you bleed." And looking at Jor again, said, "You have a very unique physiology. Don't get wounded or injured just yet, because if I need to do any kind of medical treatment of you, it will be all guesswork. And while I'll put my medical skills up against anybody's, still because I'm flying blind on this, there is the chance that you'd probably be maimed the rest of your life."
The Minnesota Infinites are that group of superheroes no respectable team wanted to join them. Why? It's because their powers are so dumb.

Their leader shoots calculators out of his hands, summoning them from an alternate dimension where there are nothing but calculators and calculator generators. One guy has a high-tech weapon that shoots kittens. One guy bores people to sleep with his stories. One guy is coathanger-themed and has no powers. And don't even get me started on Glitch, who can make ANYTHING not function, except he can't control it.

Check out (and JOIN) the long running COMEDY RP on NS in our latest arc: The Infinites - INFINITE GAUNTLET (OOC) - and the IC page is here!

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Holy Lykos
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Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Holy Lykos » Mon Nov 11, 2019 2:28 pm

Jorm caught an eyeful of the small redhead running for the nearest bar. Might as well visit that later, see what they had on tap and who the locals were. But for now, there were more pressing things! Like polite conversation with a doctor. His ears slowly fell backwards as his neck twisted in an odd, snakelike manner to give him a good view of the doctor. Made sense the man would struggle working with his body, at least. Perhaps some tests or physicals, like it seemed every doctor wanted to do with him.

The night stalker nodded slowly, eye noting some sort of temple or church, though he didn't recognize the symbols adorning the sign, nor could he read the lettering. Why did people make fancy schmancy signage? Why not just plain text? That alone was hard enough... Guess it did look pretty, especially with the constellation of what Jormungand presumed were religious symbols around the name and the fact it was one of the tallest structures in town with a tower of some sort and a dome above the main body of the building. But the Doctor puilled his attention again as they walked.

He sniffed, nose twitching just a bit before he responded, He seemed "Well, yer a bit lucky there. 'm not exactly fully, uh, natural, I guess you'd put it. 'Genetic Experiment', I think the term was. My innards are a bit more organized than most, and I could roughly tell you what each are meant to do. Like my venom glands, pretty easy there. Agency did some scans of myself when they picked me up, could request those."

He paused, his voice turning a bit hesitant and quiet. "Y'all won't try to tear me apart to study, right?"
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Highfort
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Liberal Democratic Socialists

Postby Highfort » Mon Nov 11, 2019 6:27 pm

Gordon took the whole scene in passively, though he fought a rising panic as he noted the large, brutish being the Director had brought in to round out the team. Not that any of the others were known variables, but the fact this lad had no briefing whatsoever concerned him. The less he knew, the less he could plan. And the less he could plan, the more likely he was to end up in a situation he couldn't talk his way out of.

And that was pretty damn high on the list of things he was trying to avoid on his first day.

He raised an eyebrow as the leprechaun-looking fellow bounded off toward the nearest tavern. He supposed it was for the best - the sooner they mingled with the locals, the better - but made a mental note to commiserate with Ms. Blackwater about keeping a steady supply of whatever the man's favorite poison was handy in the office. Leverage would be needed for such a... colorful loose cannon, to make sure he did his job and didn't go looking for trouble out of boredom.

The mutant's question offered him an opportunity to introduce himself, and he cracked a friendly smile, "Not any food, I'm afraid. Was trying out an old favorite scent: a light citrus, to compliment the lilies. I have the ability to influence sensation, you see; comes in handy when trying to make an impression; otherwise, I specialize in management and conflict resolution."

He turned to Doctor Turnbull and Minerva at the mention of logistical matters, as well as Jormungand's mention of needing parts for repairs, "As soon as I get my computer and such set up I think we ought to set up some comm channels and task management software to quantify everything. I'm assuming we'll be getting some kind of corp-issued phone or tablet, so I'll see about an app to keep track of common supply lists and daily check-in tasks."

Turnbull's mention of different alien physiologies piqued his interest in-particular, "Given our position as the colony's primary protectors, it shouldn't be too difficult to acquire some organ-donation reject corpses and medical waste for you. And I have no doubt that the internet or whatever equivalent we have here has plenty of data on the various bodies you'll be treating."

He tried to put the mutant at ease, "Should be plenty for you to work off of, Doctor, without needing to vivisect any of our associates. Worst case, Mr. Jormungand, he'll probably need to do a few full-body scans and draw some blood - no permanent damage, of course. We're all much more useful alive and healthy, I would think."

"Eh, now then, I think we ought to make sure our new friend isn't causing any trouble," he gestured toward the tavern as the door shut behind the leprechaun, beginning to walk over, "Local barkeep should have a handle on what's happening; I don't suppose anyone objects to an icebreaker and a drink?"
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Rodez
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Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Rodez » Tue Nov 12, 2019 1:03 pm

Javier turned, as the rest of the group did, to look at the creature as Hjabass pointed it out. Four arms, two legs, an awfully mean mug. He was well aware of aliens (hadn't he just met a snake-wolf anyways?) but the thing creeping towards them was spooky. He wasn't exactly looking forward to working with whatever . . that thing was. But it came with the territory he supposed, if the territory was being some kind of inter-dimensional mercenary.

He caught the snake-wolf's reptilian eye, who had been conversing with the burly Doctor Turnbull. What was the creature's name again? Jorm-something?

"Hey there, uh, Jorm. Our mechanic, huh? I'm the pilot. I really have no clue what they're gonna have me fly, but whatever it is, I'll likely need your help, hermano."

The suit's -that was, the younger one- mention of the leprechaun caught his attention. He wasn't exactly predisposed to like anyone described in the briefing as a 'bureaucrat' (as, for most of his five hundred years, these were the types Javier was accustomed to committing violence against) but what the man was saying made sense. The tiny Irishman -is he Irish?- looked like he could raise hell sober. Drunk . . . well, Javier didn't want to imagine that.

"Dios mio, I don't want to find out what the tiny man can do when he's wasted," he said, meeting Felton's eye. "I wouldn't mind a beer or two, though. And we can scout things out. Let's go." Without waiting to see if anyone was following, Javier turned on his heel and strode away towards the bar.
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Holy Lykos
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Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Holy Lykos » Tue Nov 12, 2019 6:06 pm

Highfort wrote:He tried to put the mutant at ease, "Should be plenty for you to work off of, Doctor, without needing to vivisect any of our associates. Worst case, Mr. Jormungand, he'll probably need to do a few full-body scans and draw some blood - no permanent damage, of course. We're all much more useful alive and healthy, I would think."


"Oh, well, that's good. I'd be happy for that, sir." He sighed, slouching just a bit. Seemed a fairly normal stance for him, to be just a bit slouched. "...You sure you don't have any a-" The hybrid's followup on the scent was interrupted by the short man speaking to him, and quickly forgotten.

Rodez wrote:"Hey there, uh, Jorm. Our mechanic, huh? I'm the pilot. I really have no clue what they're gonna have me fly, but whatever it is, I'll likely need your help, hermano."


"Si, si. Sound's good." Jorm nodded, "We'll both be getting used to new hardware," He responded, peeling off the group to follow after the pilot. The snakedog sniffed at the air as he tried to familiarize himself with the scents of the area. The most disorienting thing was getting used to the unique background smells and sounds, and they seemed to be constantly distracting the poor hybrid, head and eyes darting around as he tried to identify sounds, nose and tongue working a bit overdrive. One looking at him would swear he was either having a nervous fit or would soon be getting whiplash. He was certainly getting some weird looks from the locals, weirder than just 'huh, odd alien' weird, at least.

Taking a deep breath, Jor tried to collect himself as they reached the door to the bar the green fella dashed into. Jor's longer stride meant he got there just a bit earlier, and he took the initiative to hold the door open for the spaniard. "So, where you from, sir?" Jor asked politely, doing his best approximation of a smile for the much shorter, by almost a foot, man. "Your accent sounds like one of the plains tribes I met back home, said they'd moved up from further south. Nice folk, though it took somethin special getting used to their food, lots of uh... chilly things?" He frowned, nose twitching just a bit and one ear falling to the side.

" Guess I forgot the... Oh! Your name! What's your name?" His ears shot back up, eyes lighting up. This hybrid obviously enjoyed meeting new people, his tail even had started wagging.
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Sylvanstreak
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Scandinavian Liberal Paradise

Postby Sylvanstreak » Wed Nov 13, 2019 6:41 pm

The group seemed to have scattered quite quickly. How odd.

The android cocked its head and turned to Doc Sawbones and the still-unnamed female. There wasn't much of anything that was happening, so it -

All of its nanites processed an image of a 20-sided die at once, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, and coming up with a wheat stalk. The Barber felt itself shifting against its own will, as one of Summerveil's uncounted jack-in-the-boxes triggered in its code. When it was properly done changing shape, the android had kept its normal skin, but was now hanging slouched off a wooden frame, decked out in old and worn straw hat and a loose, rough burlap poncho, with a pipe sticking out of its mouth.

"Not the sorts of people to enjoy drinking?" The pipe blocking its mouth didn't trouble its speech any, as the Barber-scarecrow puffed away, bubbles formed from itself floating upward and "popping" into nanodust too fine for the humans to see, merging back into its body. "I'm sure we can find something else to do, food, or pool perhaps, in the bar? Or maybe a nice round on the jukebox?"
'Movements of the past have either attempted to resist change (conservatism), aimed for static perfection (Abrahamic religion, communism), passively accepted directionless change (capitalism) or reveled in constant destruction (fascism). Where Solarpunk differs is that it embraces change, but guides it to a greater good. In a sense, it combines the innovative, forward looking liberty of (classical) liberalism, the community and resilience of socialism, and the conscientious fluidity of taoism.'

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Monfrox
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Postby Monfrox » Fri Nov 15, 2019 2:54 am

Seeing the rest of the group break off to the bar but a few stragglers made Brit a bit irritated. She made a face, wondering how they'd get anything done at that rate. She had a sneaking suspicion she'd have to come back and drag them to the HQ. It wouldn't be the first time she had to take care of a group of drunks. Instead, she continued to follow diligently behind Minerva, looking off to the side. There was a general store and other such quaint shops. She briefly entertained the thought of a candy shop, but that might be hoping for a bit too much. She really just wanted to get in, find her bed, and set up shop for her work. Well, really she wanted to be able to get into their equipment. She wondered what they could've brought in for weapons. It was certainly an enticing thought. She was looking forward the to tune-ups.
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Giovenith
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Left-wing Utopia

Postby Giovenith » Fri Nov 15, 2019 8:48 pm

Dar smiled and nodded in parting as she watched Seamus bounce off towards the bar. She rose and dusted off her hands on her trousers, considering how quickly many had split towards the bar.

"I don't drink," she admitted, smiling while holding her arm and shrugging to the Barber. "You can't really take care of yourself when you're drunk, can you?"

The thought sent a brief but horrible image through her mind, of vicious raiders in a wood somewhere ganging up on a poor person tipsily dancing around. She supposed it was different since this was an established community where people could protect you while you drank, but still.

"Oh, uh, my name is Darlene, by the way," she suddenly remembered, gesturing to herself. "But you can call me Dar. I'd uh, really love to get to know everyone, but..." But not really? That wouldn't be polite, and it wasn't entirely true. She did want to know them, but perhaps not under those circumstances. She peered around him towards the entrance of the bar, noting the twisted smells, dark lighting, and apparently claustrophobic atmosphere. "... but I really think we should probably at least get our work started right away, shouldn't we?"
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Talchyon
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Postby Talchyon » Sat Nov 16, 2019 4:08 pm

The street
'Doc Sawbones' (aka Dr. Jesse Turnbull)


The doctor with the grim expression and watchful eyes took in the details of Jorm's anatomy as he spoke up.

Holy Lykos wrote:Jorm caught an eyeful of the small redhead running for the nearest bar. Might as well visit that later, see what they had on tap and who the locals were. But for now, there were more pressing things! Like polite conversation with a doctor. His ears slowly fell backwards as his neck twisted in an odd, snakelike manner to give him a good view of the doctor. Made sense the man would struggle working with his body, at least. Perhaps some tests or physicals, like it seemed every doctor wanted to do with him.

The night stalker nodded slowly, eye noting some sort of temple or church, though he didn't recognize the symbols adorning the sign, nor could he read the lettering. Why did people make fancy schmancy signage? Why not just plain text? That alone was hard enough... Guess it did look pretty, especially with the constellation of what Jormungand presumed were religious symbols around the name and the fact it was one of the tallest structures in town with a tower of some sort and a dome above the main body of the building. But the Doctor puilled his attention again as they walked.

He sniffed, nose twitching just a bit before he responded, He seemed "Well, yer a bit lucky there. 'm not exactly fully, uh, natural, I guess you'd put it. 'Genetic Experiment', I think the term was. My innards are a bit more organized than most, and I could roughly tell you what each are meant to do. Like my venom glands, pretty easy there. Agency did some scans of myself when they picked me up, could request those."

He paused, his voice turning a bit hesitant and quiet. "Y'all won't try to tear me apart to study, right?"


His eyes narrowed when the unusual specimen said that he was a genetic experiment. "Damn," Jesse said. "Every scientist wants to make one-of-a-kind genetic experiments. More grant money comes their way, that and the notoriety of it, too. But it makes it damn hard for a doctor to treat them when something goes wrong. And it always does." Scowling a bit more, 'Doc Sawbones' said, "Scans would be good. Vivisection would be a lot more complete, but we'll have to make due without it I suppose. Unless you're volunteering." It wasn't a question. More like a statement of fact, a fact that while true was probably unlikely to happen. Which only made the doctor even more cynical.

And that's when the bureaucrat spoke up...

Highfort wrote:Gordon ... cracked a friendly smile, "Not any food, I'm afraid. Was trying out an old favorite scent: a light citrus, to compliment the lilies. I have the ability to influence sensation, you see; comes in handy when trying to make an impression; otherwise, I specialize in management and conflict resolution."


Doc's eyebrows raised slightly. Influencing sensations was a new one. The bureaucrat himself was a mystery. Had a tan, but his skin tone was ash grey. But he said nothing right now, instead preferring to let the man (?) talk on.

Highfort wrote:He turned to Doctor Turnbull and Minerva at the mention of logistical matters, as well as Jormungand's mention of needing parts for repairs, "As soon as I get my computer and such set up I think we ought to set up some comm channels and task management software to quantify everything. I'm assuming we'll be getting some kind of corp-issued phone or tablet, so I'll see about an app to keep track of common supply lists and daily check-in tasks."

Turnbull's mention of different alien physiologies piqued his interest in-particular, "Given our position as the colony's primary protectors, it shouldn't be too difficult to acquire some organ-donation reject corpses and medical waste for you. And I have no doubt that the internet or whatever equivalent we have here has plenty of data on the various bodies you'll be treating."

He tried to put the mutant at ease, "Should be plenty for you to work off of, Doctor, without needing to vivisect any of our associates. Worst case, Mr. Jormungand, he'll probably need to do a few full-body scans and draw some blood - no permanent damage, of course. We're all much more useful alive and healthy, I would think."

"Eh, now then, I think we ought to make sure our new friend isn't causing any trouble," he gestured toward the tavern as the door shut behind the leprechaun, beginning to walk over, "Local barkeep should have a handle on what's happening; I don't suppose anyone objects to an icebreaker and a drink?"


But vivisection was so thorough! Frustrated, Dr. Jesse Turnbull responded when Gordon mentioned getting a drink. "Not for me. Never touch the stuff. I'd rather head on for the base." And who had wanted to go to the bar first? Surprise surprise. The leprechaun. As if there would be any doubt about it. Already, the doctor could tell that leprechaun was going to be a nuisance.

When Jormungand, Javier and Gordon headed toward the bar after Seamus, 'Doc Sawbones' was thankful there were some of their group who were more serious. The women, it seemed, and the stiff Korean guy. But just as he was about to ask Minerva another question about the mission, the next surprise of the day happened.

Sylvanstreak wrote:The group seemed to have scattered quite quickly. How odd.

The android cocked its head and turned to Doc Sawbones and the still-unnamed female. There wasn't much of anything that was happening, so it -

All of its nanites processed an image of a 20-sided die at once, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, and coming up with a wheat stalk. The Barber felt itself shifting against its own will, as one of Summerveil's uncounted jack-in-the-boxes triggered in its code. When it was properly done changing shape, the android had kept its normal skin, but was now hanging slouched off a wooden frame, decked out in old and worn straw hat and a loose, rough burlap poncho, with a pipe sticking out of its mouth.

"Not the sorts of people to enjoy drinking?" The pipe blocking its mouth didn't trouble its speech any, as the Barber-scarecrow puffed away, bubbles formed from itself floating upward and "popping" into nanodust too fine for the humans to see, merging back into its body. "I'm sure we can find something else to do, food, or pool perhaps, in the bar? Or maybe a nice round on the jukebox?"


'Doc Sawbones' just stared at the unnamed Korean who had somehow changed it's shape, and yet ended up with a wardrobe straight out of an old 20th century type farm novel. Complete with a straw hat and corncob pipe, blowing what looked like bubbles of all things! "Who are you again," he demanded, "and what just happened to you?" By process of elimination, he was beginning to narrow the list of names down somewhat. Himself, Minerva, Darlene and Jormungand he knew. Seamus he was guessing was the leprechaun. The bureaucrat's name was listed in the files as Gordon Felton. Which left only the Brit, the Barber and Javier. And he was pretty sure no Korean mother would ever name her baby Javier.

"And no, I'd rather inspect my clinic!" Dealing with townspeople was the last thing he wanted to do. Dealing with half his team was a close second.




The bar
Seamus


Seamus was laughing out loud as he drank more of the synthesized Irish whiskey. "Aye, laddie. Let me tell ye a story," he said to the smiling bartender who was having the funnest day of tending the bar he had ever had. So the leprechaun launched into a story about various tricks and practical jokes that had been played on poor unsuspecting people who thought that they could get gold easy.

So when Javier, Jormungand and Gordon came into the bar, Seamus nodded at them and called out, "Come 'round, laddies, and join me fer a drink!"
The Minnesota Infinites are that group of superheroes no respectable team wanted to join them. Why? It's because their powers are so dumb.

Their leader shoots calculators out of his hands, summoning them from an alternate dimension where there are nothing but calculators and calculator generators. One guy has a high-tech weapon that shoots kittens. One guy bores people to sleep with his stories. One guy is coathanger-themed and has no powers. And don't even get me started on Glitch, who can make ANYTHING not function, except he can't control it.

Check out (and JOIN) the long running COMEDY RP on NS in our latest arc: The Infinites - INFINITE GAUNTLET (OOC) - and the IC page is here!

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Sylvanstreak
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Founded: Apr 01, 2019
Scandinavian Liberal Paradise

Postby Sylvanstreak » Mon Nov 18, 2019 7:33 pm

Giovenith wrote:"You can't really take care of yourself when you're drunk, can you?"
...
"Oh, uh, my name is Darlene, by the way," she suddenly remembered, gesturing to herself. "But you can call me Dar. I'd uh, really love to get to know everyone, but..." But not really? That wouldn't be polite, and it wasn't entirely true. She did want to know them, but perhaps not under those circumstances. She peered around him towards the entrance of the bar, noting the twisted smells, dark lighting, and apparently claustrophobic atmosphere. "... but I really think we should probably at least get our work started right away, shouldn't we?"


Talchyon wrote:..."And no, I'd rather inspect my clinic!" Dealing with townspeople was the last thing he wanted to do. Dealing with half his team was a close second.


"No, I suppose not, Dar."

The Barber cocked its head, and grunted in thought at Doc Sawbones' question. The android went through a moment of clear confusion about how best to respond, finally settling on "I'm just a haircutting robot with an insane private investigator partner. She seems to have disappeared, but maybe this is her reminder to stay on my toes. So to say."

It paused again, then spoke. "I have no shop space yet. Do you have extra room in your clinic? I can be quite tidy."
'Movements of the past have either attempted to resist change (conservatism), aimed for static perfection (Abrahamic religion, communism), passively accepted directionless change (capitalism) or reveled in constant destruction (fascism). Where Solarpunk differs is that it embraces change, but guides it to a greater good. In a sense, it combines the innovative, forward looking liberty of (classical) liberalism, the community and resilience of socialism, and the conscientious fluidity of taoism.'

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Highfort
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Founded: May 11, 2014
Liberal Democratic Socialists

Postby Highfort » Mon Nov 18, 2019 8:53 pm

Gordon took careful note as the team split up. It was good that the doctor wasn't into drinking, and the survivalist's sobriety would probably prove decisive when they least expected it. The gunsmith, of course, would be a godsend straight-edge; he was half-worried of getting a drunk who might shoot them during off-hours. A sober investigator would be important for keeping up with fine details.

But that left possible drunks for pilot and engineer and a definite drunk for the cobbler. At the very least, the latter wasn't essential to the mission - unless perhaps the locals were low on shoes. But the pilot and engineer would have to be kept an eye on. Perhaps he could arrange for regular discrete piss tests with Doc Sawbones, just to make sure the lads weren't getting too far down their glasses.

Before he could spot the Barber's stark transformation, Gordon found himself inside a crowded, rowdy bar with a few of the others. It seemed as though the leprechaun had already begun endearing himself to the locals; at least he was being amicable, the last thing they needed on their first day was a bar fight. The smiling bartender confirmed that Seamus had at least a bit of natural charisma and a knack for putting people at ease, despite being an annoying little prick.

"Evening, lad," he nodded at Seamus, then at the bartender.

"What'll it be?" the bartender nodded at him nonchalantly.

"Bluebird, if you got one. Otherwise, vodka cran. Open me a tab," Gordon took a seat next to Seamus and figured he'd start squeezing the locals for data. Turning back to the bartender, he added, "What's going on 'round here?"
First as tragedy, then as farce

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