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Mind, Winner, Teamplayer.
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Jan 15, 2020 18:53
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| # ? May 3, 2024 11:42 |
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Heartbreak Part One / Rats Part One As a reminder: We are now playing through another flashback dream.It came from the north, a mysterious sequence of weird accidents, strange suicides, and mass panic. When mapped out, the incidents formed an uneven line, steadily heading south. A mass pileup of cars on the freeway brought in the authorities, who were shocked to discover people crashing their vehicles into each other apparently at random. A traffic chopper at the scene caught the mayhem, then made headlines of its own as it crashed down into the twisted wrecks below. Still, people did not sit up and take notice until the first cop shot himself on live television. By that time, it had stopped moving, taking root in the northern suburbs of Los Diablos. It had left a no-go zone where anyone who entered slowly went mad and tried to kill themselves. At first, the exclusion zone had been a single apartment building. But by the time the Rangers had been called in, it was half a block and more. Whatever was in there was growing stronger, the lethal disquiet spreading further and further. With the threat affecting people's minds, of course the Rangers had contacted you…. "Don't stand so close; you're giving me a headache." You rub your forehead a bit, giving Sergeant Steel a glare. The man in the massive armor doesn't deign to answer. It is no secret that Steel does not like you. You are not one of the Rangers, even if you have worked with them often enough. Not only that, you are a masked vigilante with a secret identity, and he has a hard time understanding why a hero would need such secrecy. You aren't about to illuminate him, either. "Give him a break, Sidestep. He's here to keep us safe." Anathema shoots you a smile. She might not exactly be your friend, but unlike Steel, Anathema likes you. And it's hard to dislike her, being short, chubby, and bubbly—and as invulnerable as they come. 'Anathema' as a hero name is interesting. We're a bit inoculated against its implications because of Anathema Device from Good Omens, but it literally means "something or someone that one vehemently dislikes" and is usually used to describe a shunned or excommunicated person."Safe…" you say, starting to protest that nobody here is even remotely safe. A clap on the shoulder from Ortega makes you bite back your comment. He has returned from his talk with the officers in charge, looking as edgy and worried as you have ever seen him. "Sorry about your head, but we don't have a choice here. The threat is probably telepathic in nature, and Steel's armor is the only thing that can power the mobile dampeners." There's no room for an argument in his words, and honestly you were only making one because you were nervous. "Unless someone wants to drive a truck up the stairs," Anathema says. with another smile in Ortega's direction. "That was a bike, and I was going downstairs. A completely different situation." Ortega returns her smile, the gravity of the situation defused somewhat. "Do we have permission to get this show on the road then, Marshal?" Steel doesn't smile. He rarely does. Instead, he fixes Ortega with a hard stare. "Yeah. We do. The evacuation of the surrounding block is continuing, and…" Ortega keeps talking, but you have stopped listening. Your head is throbbing with a low-level toothache. Ortega is right about this thing being telepathic in nature; you can feel the pressure against your shields. Even though you complain about Steel being around, that annoyance is at least a known thing. Telepathic dampeners might hurt…but what is in there hurts worse. You're not the only one feeling it either. There's an officer over at the cordon who keeps looking towards the building. Keeps touching his face as if he was trying to pull something off his skin. But it's only when his hand starts reaching for his holster that you realize he's about to lose it. No time to lose; I disarm him before he can pull the trigger. Better safe than sorry; I punch him out. > Anathema is closer; I yell at her to make her notice what is happening. Under normal circumstances we'd try to handle this with our telepathy, but the dampeners make that impossible. I hope Anathema knows what she's doing.--- "Themmy, behind you!" Your cry makes her turn around, immediately spotting the glazed look on the man's face. "Not on my watch, buddy!" Anathema reaches out to yank his weapon away, and the sudden move makes the gun go off in her face. The bullet flattens against her skin, making her flinch and curse angrily before turning it to slag in her hand, her acid secretions sending up a cloud of bitter smoke. Acid blood! That would be a hard power to use as a hero. I wonder how she manages."Alright, that's it!" Ortega raises his voice so that everyone turns to look at him. "Show's over. The radius is expanding; everyone get the hell out of here!" The officers withdraw quickly enough, leaving the four of you on the wrong side of the cordon. You don't think you're the only one feeling the pressure; all of you are crowding a little closer together. "So, no time to lose I suppose." Ortega straightens a little, looking over at the distant apartment building. There are lights on in there, but you haven't seen any sign of movement since you got here. "I still think we should bring the whole team in." Anathema is rubbing her hand a little, looking uncharacteristically disturbed. Rubbing her hand? I wonder if she's invulnerable like Lady Argent - susceptible to pain but functionally indestructible."Whatever this thing is, it gets inside your head. That means we are the ones most suited to deal with it." Ortega grimaces; he doesn't look too eager either. "It's my call." It was, but you are agreeing with it. Steel's armor has been fitted with telepathic dampeners and should protect him along with the rest of you. Anathema is invulnerable to damage, so even if she should get separated from Steel, she should be alright. And Ortega… Ortega has an ace up his sleeve that most people don't know about : he is an epileptic. And, like most epileptics, he is immune to telepathy. It has something to do with the electrical storms in the brain that cause the seizures; there is enough static in there to make it nearly impossible to read his mind. Or in this case, be influenced from the outside. Even standing next to him, you need to focus to realize that there is a man standing there at all. I wonder how other brain-related conditions would affect our powers. Could we influence someone with, say, structural dissociation? If so, would a 'switch' kick us out? I doubt it will ever be explored, but it's interesting to think about.Honestly, that's one of the reasons you like teaming up with him: you can relax your guard and not risk picking up unwanted thoughts. "What are we waiting for, then?" You hate waiting; you always did. "I still wish you'd sit this one out, Sidestep." Ortega and you had an argument about this earlier, as he wasn't sure your telepathic shields were up for the job. Nothing infuriates you quite as much as people trying to tell you they know what is best for you. But—since he's looking for an answer—you have one for him. No. People are in danger. No. I can handle it. > No. I'm curious about what this is. No. You need my help. As a psychic ourselves, we almost have to find out what's going on here. Also there are civilians and our teammates etcetera in the immediate vicinity. But on the long view, looking at the big picture? The best way to help as many people as possible is to maximize our own power and potential. That's worth the risks.--- "No, I'm coming. Wouldn't miss it for the world." Your grin is wide, and you know you are probably feeling a little too excited for a situation as grave as this. But there is something in this pressure surrounding you that is almost familiar. Something you can almost taste. You need to know more. "Fine, you win. Let's get moving." You get one final, hard look from Ortega before he turns around and starts walking towards the building, the rest of you in tow. It's a familiar routine. By now, you are quite used to working together. Ortega takes point with Steel, while you bring up the rear with Anathema. That keeps both Steel and the dampeners as far away from you as possible, so everyone wins. Not everyone. Not the people who lived here. You shiver a bit as you approach the building. There are bodies littering the ground: limp, dark piles at the edge of your vision. There is something disconcerting about a dead body. Your mind identifies them as human, and your thoughts reach out, only to touch…nothing. I look away. I don't need to see more bodies. > I take a closer look. There might be clues here. I'm afraid this might raise our Daring, which could be dangerous since it's already quite high. We risk locking ourselves out of some Cautious options later on. But we're here to learn, so let's learn.--- You don't have to veer from the path to take a closer look, as you literally have to step over some of them to get to the door of the building. The cause of death seems obvious enough. Falling. Looking at the damage, you gather they must have jumped from the upper floors. A quick glance upwards shows that there are windows there gaping open, some of them broken, some…opened? You would have thought that people would have thrown themselves through the opening in a blind panic. The thought of someone deliberately opening the window before jumping to their death sends a shiver down your spine. Who could bring themselves to do that? You mean, besides someone we're controlling? Wait, that's probably important. Let's remember that thought.These people, apparently. This morning, they were living, breathing souls with hopes and dreams. Now they look like twisted dolls on the ground. Wrong angles. Strangely positioned. Some look almost unhurt, while others have flattened into grotesque shapes, their innards pushed out through any available body opening. You see that one of the women has red claw marks on her face. Did she make them herself, manicured nails tearing into her soft flesh? Did that old man gouge out his own eyes? What did he see? You don't know, but the pressure against your shields is increasing, so you look away. Don't need to add more nightmare fodder. "Keep your eyes open for any signs of life," Ortega cautions as he keeps scanning the bodies. "Gah, this whole place stinks." Anathema grimaces, narrowing her eyes and yanking at the front door with no result. "This is what death smells like." Steel is keeping an eye on the surroundings, gun at the ready. "You are such a cheerful man, you know?" Anathema places her palm against the locked door, secreting corrosive acid that eats through the metal with little effort. Her hand is quickly yanked back and shaken a little, sending green droplets flying. "Watch it," you snap. One of the drops had nearly hit you, and it is now eating a hole in the sidewalk. "We can't all be invulnerable." "You should know well enough to stand back then," Anathema says with a laugh, rubbing her hand a little. "This is dangerous business." Though dressed in her standard Ranger blue-toned skinsuit, her arms and legs are bare. The protection is unnecessary, and there's always the risk of acid damage. She may look strangely vulnerable with her pale, heavily freckled skin and bare feet, but you know that she can't feel a thing. You've seen bullets bounce off that seemingly fragile form. Ortega is the first one inside, as always, securing the area before the rest of you follow. It doesn't look very threatening: just numbered apartment doors, a stairway leading up, and a pair of closed elevator doors. The smell is a lot worse in here, and you avoid looking at the names of the residents. Most likely they are all dead already. "Elevator looks stuck." Anathema presses the button repeatedly with a faint frown on her face. > "I bet whatever's doing this is at the top." "Should we knock on the doors and see if anyone is alive?" "I have a bad feeling about this." No time for jokes. Or probably-short-lived survivors. We're here to get a job done; let's get moving.--- "I bet whatever's doing this is at the top." You can't be sure, but the pressure feels like it is coming from above. And isn't that how these things work? You always find the villain in the basement or the penthouse, never in the middle. "I knew it." Steel is covering the stairs, his short-range plasma cannon swinging back and forth. "I hate stairs." "Looks like we've got some ways to go, then." Anathema gives the elevator button one final push. "The stairs it is." Ortega shrugs a little as he looks upstairs. "Sorry about that, Steel." "Fine. Let's get this over with." Steel starts heading up the stairs, one ponderous step at a time. You can see the railing bend a little with a torturous squeak as he brushes against it. His armor is not the most agile of contraptions, and it is not meant to climb stairs. Ortega hesitates a moment before he follows, keeping a safe distance. "Let's wait a moment," you joke under your breath to Anathema. "That way, if he plummets into the cellar, we won't be joining him." Normally, a joke like that would have got a laugh out of Anathema, but it seems that the gravity of the situation is getting even to her. Not that you can blame her. You don't want to remember. --- Present Day You drag yourself back to reality, back from the stairs and the truths that lurk up there. Sidestep is dead. You are not. Instead, you are cold, cramped, and nervous, wishing you could stretch your legs. But you can't risk moving and getting spotted, so instead you busy yourself going over your equipment. Always be prepared: that's your motto, and while you don't have access to everything you had back when you were Sidestep, you've managed to improvise a kit that hopefully will help you get through this. A tranquilizer gun is a poor replacement for your old energy caster, but it is quiet and fast. A lightweight protective vest is no plasteel carapace, but the matte black skinsuit will help keep you hidden. With your face covered, you are nothing but a shadow in the darkness, and a pair of night vision goggles means you don't have to rely on telepathy or outside light sources to get around. With some other useful trinkets in case of emergencies, you are as ready as you'll ever be. You wish you had another option besides calling them, but you don't. If the circumstances had been different, you would have called in the Rangers. But you had to be sure whoever you got could get the job done. With your recent possession of Lady Argent, plus Herald's injuries, you imagine they would not be at their best. And you can't allow any chance of failure. No chance of him getting away. You needed the Special Directive. Now all you have to do is wait. Unfortunately, waiting also means time for thinking, something you have tried so hard to avoid. There is that staircase in your memories, the intense physical memory of walking upstairs, carefully, step by step, surrounded by the stench of death. No. You are not there. You are here, in the cold and misty darkness of the docks, curled up in your hidey-hole. Nowhere else. I have hidden myself as close to my target as I dare. > I am waiting for them at a distance. It is safer that way. These people creep me out. I don't know what all their powers are, so let's not get too close.--- And so you wait. Predictably, dark falls before they make their move. Your telepathic powers mean you don't have to be anywhere near the scene right now. Oh, the operatives' minds are protected, but you've moved quite beyond what they are prepared for. You can feel them in the night, little thought-voids moving closer, surrounding the building. You don't even need to see this because you know how it will play out. By heart. How big a team will they send? The standard load-out is five operatives, but would Psychopathor warrant more? Probably not. Hopefully not. Most likely three MBOs: Main Battle Operatives, the mainstay of the Special Directive, the kind of Re-Genes with enough power to go head to head with the strongest Enhanced. Then two SCOs, Secondary Control Operatives, for sentry duty and crowd control. These are made to deal with non-Enhanced opponents, henchmen, and civilians, making sure the MBOs won't be distracted from their jobs. First, they will get into position, and this is why you have situated yourself right outside their usual perimeter. Then somebody will strike the first blow to breach the building—somebody with flashy, visible powers to draw attention and… --- The explosion sears the night, green flames lapping the sky, turning the lenses in your goggles black to save your vision. Good old Dr. Mortum—if she will do as well on your main project, she deserves a bonus. The lenses adjust back, the world once again speckled green and black as you hear gunfire. Henchmen, probably. Psychopathor did hire the WolfPack, after all. Looks like they will earn their pay tonight. Good. That should make things even more chaotic. Time for you to make your move. You banish thoughts of capture and failure as you carefully move towards the warehouse. Being spotted is not an issue yet because you are coming from the wrong direction. And even through the shields, you can feel their positions. Four of them are inside. A fifth keeps watch from a low rooftop—most likely an SCO with hyper-senses, on alert for escapees or reinforcements. That could be an issue. A sentry could alert the others to your presence, or worse, decide to try to stop you in person. Since he is keeping that kind of distance, you imagine he's probably armed with some sort of sniper rifle as well as hyper senses. A bullet in the back can be dodged, but only if you can pick up his intentions to fire in time. Could you do that through the dampeners he's wearing? Maybe. Maybe not. Or maybe he will just leave you alone, deciding that revealing his position is not worth eliminating a single, lightly armored henchman. Should you take him out before he notices you? Normally, you wouldn't even consider dealing directly with one of them, but a sentry SCO should be within your capabilities. > I will deal with him first—that's the only way to be sure. He probably won't risk his position to attack a lone henchman. Go time! We're fresh, charged up, and just starting the operation. No sense being stingy with our powers and blowing the whole thing before we even start.--- The sentry will have to go first; you can't afford the risk of being spotted. Closing your eyes for a moment, you tentatively reach out to try to find a weak point, running feather-light telepathic fingers over his aura. The core of his mind is protected, as is the standard for a Special Directive operative, but the drawback of having senses honed to perceive the slightest shift in your surroundings is that a battle like this hurts. You can sense his reactions to the explosions, to the bright flashes of plasma and fire, to the dull thunder of… You have no idea what power that is. Something deep enough in the audible range to make your teeth ache. Now what to do? His thoughts are shielded, but he is still leaking sensory input. You could use that to distract him enough for you to get in range to fire one of your tranquilizer darts. Or you could attempt to overload his senses with one strong mental attack, leaving him crippled long enough for you to get inside. > I go for a subtle distraction. I try a more forceful attack. We're marginally better with strong attacks than manipulations, but the difference is small and I don't want to overspend.--- He is far too well shielded for any subtleties, leaving you no choice but to throw yourself against the unnatural blankness surrounding him. You tear at the parts of his mind that are there to shield him from the full impact of his senses. His mind twists in your hands as he is bombarded with the force of his own heartbeat and the roaring torrent of the blood rushing in his veins. With no filters left in place, his brain overloads in a sharp, stinging cacophony of sensations that makes your own head hurt. However, he collapses first. Sadly, you're aware that this means he will know someone attacked him—someone with a very specific set of powers. Crap. The distraction idea failed, so we had to commit. At least he's down and won't jeopardize tonight's mission, though.You duck safely into the shadows of the warehouse. Inside, the sounds of battle are intensifying, flashes of greenish light erupting through the massive hole in the wall. Keeping your head low, you weigh your options. Psychopathor is giving them a good fight; what you dare to scan of his thoughts are fury-red, but there's no trace of worry yet. He's still holding his ground. The WolfPack henchmen are a different story. There is a panicked feel to their thoughts; most of them are still calm, but the worry is spreading. Some of them are thinking of running. Some of them… Wait… You frown a little, trying to block out the din of battle. There! You were right. Bo is here as well, and he is not doing too well. Hell. I'll make sure he's alright. Bo might come in handy; I'll give him a hand. > I'll stay focused on the goal—I can't allow myself to get distracted. Boris is useful and has been a good asset, but he's ultimately expendable. Tonight's objective is not. And he's Modded anyway, it's not like he's helpless.--- If you know Bo, he will be able to get out of this in one piece without your help. You can't allow yourself to get distracted—this is too important. This is too important, and if there is one thing you have learned in life, it is that you can't rely on anybody but yourself. Maybe things were different once, but look where that got you. No. You are all you've got. The warehouse is a massive maze of boxes and stored equipment. You don't know whether it was full before Psychopathor got here, or whether he is preparing for something really big, but it doesn't matter. The important thing is that you've got enough cover to get around unseen if you are careful. On the other hand, maybe it would be safer to attempt getting up into the gantries, trying to get a height advantage. There's less cover up there, but hopefully everyone is too focused on Psychopathor to look up. The old monster likes his solid footing, so he'll stay on the ground. You need to get to a position where you can keep an eye on the fight, waiting for your moment. You are certain you will get the opportunity you need soon enough…you just need to avoid getting your head shot off in the meantime. > I stay low to the ground. I climb the fire escape to get the height advantage. When we fought Psychopathor as Sidestep, mobility was the key. It'll probably be the same tonight. I'd hate to be stuck up on a fire escape while he aims that cannon at me; on the ground, at least I'll always have an escape angle.--- Staying low is the smarter choice: even if you are spotted, you will be able to get out of the way and play the frightened henchman. In the chaos, there's not that much difference between the WolfPack's standard coveralls and your own black outfit. Once you make certain no thoughts seem to be focused in your direction, you quickly scurry further into the building. You need to find a decent angle to watch the fight without being in the line of fire. Hell, you didn't think it would be like this to be back in action. The stench of plasma fills the interior, mixing with the smoke, and once again you are grateful that you picked a rebreather and goggles as your mask tonight. You don't want to be revealed by a stray cough, and since you had no idea what operatives the Special Directive would send to deal with Psychopathor, you had to plan for gas. As you get closer, the strange green flames are bright enough to paint the interior of the warehouse in garish colors. Ducking behind a crate at the last minute, you catch a glimpse of Psychopathor pushing his way through fallen rubble, his armor glowing red from the heat. No discomfort is visible on his contorted face, only anger. The blue-skinned Re-Gene confronting him is dressed in nothing but a reinforced nanomesh skinsuit, the tattoos covering his face and hands dividing his flesh into stark patterns of orange and white. Around him, the flickering green flames are hot enough to melt steel. But the armored monster only laughs, a sound that sends a familiar shiver down your spine. Hell, I've missed being in on the action! I hope I'm ready for this because there's no turning back now. > I can't stop thinking about last time I faced him. I wish Ortega were here. --- That laugh…that smell. You swallow hard, the bile rising fast. It suddenly feels like it's been weeks, not years. You shift uncomfortably, remembering. Trapped. You had been trapped, pinned securely under the wreck. You had been able to feel the vibration from Psychopathor's steps as you tried to free your leg, pulling at it. It hurt. Jagged metal. Heavy wreckage. Were you crying? You don't think you were. You just remember being so focused on getting away, refusing to acknowledge the thought that you might die. That part came later, with the nightmares. Delayed shock perhaps. Or maybe you didn't realize how close it had been at the time. Not until you heard the telltale zap of Ortega emptying his last reserves, the heavy shape of Psychopathor falling to the ground, his armor short-circuited. You remember that he fell against the wreckage, and it moved and caused you to scream out loud as it dug into your leg. There's still a scar there somewhere. It was the scream that did it, Ortega leaping over the wreck, worry written on his face. It was the first time he hugged you, and you let him get away with it. You never were one for physical comfort, but right then and there it felt good to be alive. Good to have someone you could trust to get you out of a jam. Teamwork. You miss that. Shaking your head, you refocus on the fight. You need to let go of the past if you're going to have a future. "Is that all you have, you sorry excuses for government toys?" Psychopathor's voice echoes through the warehouse, turned a shade unearthly by the vocal distorters he's employing. You make a note of that: it's a good way of getting the right impression across. He has had a lot of work done on his armor since you last fought him; sharp blades protrude from his arms, and sharp spikes adorn his back and shoulders. The cannon is the same, though; you can feel the familiar scurrying thoughts of the rat brains in the targeting web. Luckily, they are busy. "I'm going to rip off your arms and send you back to your handlers like the dolls you are!" The cannon on Psychopathor's shoulder swerves as the rat brains catch a hint of someone you missed. Its blast sends another tattooed man flying back through the hole he came from, where he had tried to launch a sneak attack. Looks like you were right to be careful. If the rat brains can pick up the same kind of thought-voids that you can, they have gotten a lot better at their job. Perfect. The fire-wielding Re-Gene unleashes another sheet of green fire, and Psychopathor lumbers forward to swipe with his bladed fist since the plasma blasts are not working. The speed is surprising for someone that massive, but the Re-Gene leaps backwards with evasive grace. You had forgotten how fast they could be. Still, not your fight. Just stay hidden and watch. Wait—something is wrong. You pick up a stray thought that's focused not on the main battle, but on you. There are still some WolfPack guards left standing, and they have spotted you! Two of them, you think; they tend to work in pairs, wolf-styled helmets covering their heads. They would not normally be a match for you, even though their guns could hurt you badly. But getting involved in a fight could draw the attention of the main battle, or distract you enough to fatally miss a new development. I'll take them out fast and physical, keeping my mind focused on the main battle. I'll make them think I am one of them. > I'll just shut down their minds fast. For the first time, a grayed-out option. We didn't collect Bo earlier, so he isn't with us now. This is also our first mechanical hint about a replay: Going to buddy up with Boris/Rosie can still end up with us in roughly this position. As for our actual choice: We've already exposed ourselves to some degree. No sense tiptoeing now; they're sure to know a telepath was here when someone debriefs the sentry.--- Those two are just henchmen, goons for hire. It's not like they will have a mental defense worth mentioning. Even while keeping your attention on the raging battle, you should be able to take them out fast. The question is, how fast? A mental attack can cause a lot of damage if you are not careful, and holding back can sometimes be harder than letting loose. If you mess things up you could leave them as drooling vegetables—but if you focus too much of your energy on them, you might risk the battle shifting without you paying attention. I don't care if I melt their brains and leave them drooling. I'm not sloppy; I'll do this the right way. I don't want to hurt them; I'd better be careful. --- Decision time. We've fought hard, and sometimes none too gently, but this could be something else altogether. These are baseline humans, and we could really hurt them if we overcook this attack. Do we want to advertise not only the presence of a psychic, but a villainous psychic? And what about our own morals? We're willing to risk ourselves for the mission, but compared to the Enhanced these guys are almost bystanders. It's barely their fight. This decision may influence later choices I make for Charlotte, even if the game mechanics leave those choices open to me. In effect, this is a referendum on Charlotte's ruthlessness. --- Physical Status Stamina: You are rested. Willpower: You feel rattled. Injuries: You are fine, with no significant wounds. The dangerous people involved in this op, plus the efforts we've already exerted, are starting to wear on our willpower. At least we've avoided injury, though - and if worse comes to worst, we're physically primed and ready for action.Telepathy Strength of Mind: 60% Subtle Manipulations: 59% Psychological Profile Infamy: 0% ||| Obscurity: 100% Arrogance: 44% ||| Anonymity: 56% Ruthlessness: 58% ||| Empathy: 42% Daring: 60% ||| Caution: 40% Most of these changes are from our flashback. Look at that huge bump to Arrogance, up from 26! Ruthlessness is also up a bit from not looking for survivors, and we gained some Caution from our choice of hiding place and (I think) lack of excitement to be back in action. The big one is definitely the Arrogance, though.--- 12 to 36 hours to decide the fate of these henchmen. Usual two-hour warning will apply. Sorites fucked around with this message at 05:01 on Jan 16, 2020 |
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Jan 16, 2020 01:37
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Make them fit for vege-tales.
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Jan 16, 2020 03:54
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You are not some cheap tv medium and you won't do a sloppy work of it! Gotta have standards.
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Jan 16, 2020 08:13
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Don't be sloppy. If we're going to be the Queen Bitch of psychics, there's no sense in antagonizing potential future allies.
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Jan 16, 2020 14:23
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Two hour warning!
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Jan 17, 2020 16:28
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Rats Part 2 / Heartbreak Part 2 Those two are just henchmen, goons for hire. It's not like they will have a mental defense worth mentioning. Even while keeping your attention on the raging battle, you should be able to take them out fast. The question is, how fast? A mental attack can cause a lot of damage if you are not careful, and holding back can sometimes be harder than letting loose. If you mess things up you could leave them as drooling vegetables—but if you focus too much of your energy on them, you might risk the battle shifting without you paying attention. I don't care if I melt their brains and leave them drooling. > I'm not sloppy; I'll do this the right way. I don't want to hurt them; I'd better be careful. I'm not here to waste time, but there's such a thing as disrespecting your own powers. Let's do a good job. --- You might not care about these people, but you are not sloppy. Ruining someone's mind is a waste, and you're better than that. Gesturing with your right hand for added emphasis, you throw your consciousness against theirs. It's the psychic equivalent of a sucker punch, overloading their senses with enough input that their minds shut down in self-defense. As expected, they don't even have time to scream before they drop. You don't look back as you sprint to a new position. You can't shake the feeling that the battle is at a pivotal point now. If the Special Directive has anything unusual planned, it should be happening soon…. --- There! Catching movement at the corner of your eye, you dodge behind a crate, though you don't think you're the target. A moment later, a Re-Gene drops down from the rafters, inhumanly thin in her black skinsuit, with four sinewy arms. Two of them are long, ceramic-clawed, insect-like scythes that look like they could disembowel a man with one sweep, and one of her other hands holds a nasty little needle gun. Her face is a pale grayish-blue, tattooed with the familiar jagged lines indicating regenerative abilities. You're not sure whether the bits of carapace armor belong to the skinsuit or to her flesh. Taking Psychopathor by surprise, she lands on his shoulders and starts tearing at the cannon mount with her scythed arms and the strength of a far-more-massive body. You wince internally when you see that one of her human hands has been impaled on the sharp spikes covering his armor, and the rest of her body is lacerated as she clings on. Not that there's any sign of pain on her face, just a cool detachment as she keeps digging the chitinous tips into vulnerable joints. Psychopathor roars and tries to throw her off, but her claws have already loosened the cannon from its mount. One final heave, and she rips it off, throwing it as far back into the warehouse as she. Then she tries to dig her claws into his unarmored face. It is my considered opinion that we should not gently caress with these Re-Genes.But you're not interested in how that fight goes—you're already moving. This is what you are here for. > Finally. I was getting nervous! All according to plan. I can't believe this actually worked. Not a flawless operation so far. We couldn't shut down the sentry cleanly, and Boris is in some kind of trouble. But our main goals are intact.--- Finally! You were getting nervous that they would never get around to removing that plasma cannon. Any team wanting to fight Psychopathor would need to get rid off it to have a chance of winning, even the Special Directive. You wish you didn't understand the way they work quite so well, but it is handy at times. Now you only need to extract what you came here for. The targeting web. The loss of his cannon has not pulled Psychopathor's fangs, and the battle to subdue the armored behemoth is still raging. Keeping low, you try to keep out of everyone's sight, moving quickly from cover to cover. Once more, you feel that deep, vibrant hum hurting your teeth. The ground around you cracks in response. The tension holds for a moment and then releases, the pressure wave tossing you and the surrounding crates several feet to the side. You manage to stay silent as you're flung into one of them, hitting hard. Ouch. That hurt. Suppressing a groan, you get up on all fours to continue your wobbly crawl. You can hurt later—now, you need to get the job done. Luckily, you have made it to your target. The gun is warm enough to nearly burn your gloved hands. But you grit your teeth and pull it further away, giving you a moment to quickly dismantle the armored module housing your target. You can feel the alien minds chattering at you, nervous and afraid, but also soothed by the presence of another telepath. Maybe you are imagining things, but you think they feel almost grateful when the last bolts are removed and their cage falls into your hands. > I gently reach out to brush my mind against theirs, soothing them. I firmly wrap my mind around theirs, asserting my dominance. I let them reach out towards me, assuring them of my friendship. This was all for nothing if I can't connect with the rats. Let's do this right...--- You gently reach out to brush your mind against theirs, a feather-light touch that soothes and excites them. Five little rodent brains float in their nutrient bath, fragile and nervous, and linked together to become something far greater than the individual parts. The targeting web. No, the Rat King. There is faint telepathic approval of that title, even if you are not sure they understand what it means. It doesn't matter, though, because you can feel them relax inside your mind, safe and secure and happy with their new master. Now it is time to run. Around you, the battle rages on. You count yourself lucky that everybody is preoccupied because the sad truth is that if they really were after you, you would go down like a sack of rocks. This really drives home the fact that if you want to stand a chance in a proper fight, you have to hope Dr. Mortum holds up her end of the bargain. Being a telepath is an advantage only if nobody is expecting you; there are too many efficient shields and dampeners available for those who have the money and the contacts. Not that this is news to you; there is a reason why you named yourself Sidestep in the past. Just because you've switched sides doesn't mean you have stopped trying to stay one step ahead of your opposition. That's the only way you've ever been able to survive. Time to wrap this up. --- Picking your way through the rubble, you aim for one of the ruined walls. The hole leads straight to the outside, the darkness a welcome change to the caustic glare of the battle. You hope the Special Directive has no interest in rounding up escaping henchmen. They have always been sent after the big fish; if they really had any interest in the WolfPack, they would have brought the LDPD along to round up any stragglers. Escaping should be easy enough. You pause a moment, giving your eyes a chance to adapt to the darkness outside. The lights have gone out in the entire area, but whether it's because of the battle raging behind you or because the Special Directive cut the power, you have no idea. It doesn't matter, as long as it provides you with some cover. As you thought, the Special Directive cares little for anything but Psychopathor himself. In the distance, you can feel members of the WolfPack running for it. You sense the panicked little thoughts of people stumbling blindly through the darkness, desperate to get away from a job that suddenly turned out to be a lot more than they bargained for. And one of the thought patterns is more than a little familiar: Bo. I'll make sure he gets away safely. > He can take care of himself. We have what we came for. It would be a crying shame to lose it all now, over a henchman. Sorry, Boris; you're on your own.--- Bo can take care of himself; otherwise, he wouldn't have lasted long in this business. Staying safe is the priority here, and you let his thoughts drift off, focusing on any threats that might come your way instead. You're not a hero anymore: it is important to remember that. Now you really need to get out of here. In the end, you safely reach the place where you stashed your bag and civilian clothes. By then, your body is aching, your heart racing from adrenaline. Was there really a time when injuries were a part of your everyday existence? Wincing as you do so, you pull on slacks and a coat over your skinsuit, deciding to leave it on. You don't think you could force yourself to strip right now. Stashing the mask and gear in your bag, you take a deep breath before realizing that was a bad idea. You need to get back home fast; risking a cab ride is worth it. Bereft of your mask, you are just another nobody. There is nothing odd about you at all, and the cab stops when you hail it. The driver wants to gossip, but you are tired and gently nudge him to keep his mouth shut and remember you as an old, balding man, once he drops you off. Just in case. You haven't stayed free this far because you were sloppy. You can't afford to be. Not when you have completed step two. All in all, not a bad run of the Psychopathor raid. We handled each challenge reasonably well, and while it wasn't a perfect run - we got hurt at the last second - we managed to avoid any real disasters.That night, you dream again. --- Seven Years Ago… You're walking up the stairs in your dream. You're walking up the stairs, and you want to stop. You're walking up the stairs, and you want to call out to Ortega and tell him that something is wrong. You're walking up the stairs, and you want to shout at Steel that he's moving too fast. That the dampening field is getting too thin…. But he's not moving too fast. You're moving too slow. You and Anathema. You didn't mean to. You didn't mean to lag behind. It was just the pressure building, and the thought that maybe, just maybe, it would feel better if you got some distance from Steel and the dampeners. And of course Anathema slowed down with you because it was her job to watch your back. That was how things worked because you were a team back then. And you still can't wake up. You remember walking up the stairs, and you still can't wake up. You remember hearing a sob, or maybe you are sobbing in your sleep and you don't want to remember, but you turn around all the same. Anathema was standing on the stairs behind you, looking down at her hands. "Stop." The word was so small that you remember not being sure if it was you or her who uttered it. It doesn't matter. Not then. Not now. And you still can't wake up, even though you remember Anathema raising her hands to her face, the corrosive acid secreted from her hands strong enough to make them smoke. It must have hurt. You remember the acrid smell of flesh…. I stood frozen, unable to realize what was happening until it was too late. > I panicked, not knowing what to do. I didn't think—I thought Anathema was invulnerable…. A psychic attack is out of the question; it would require dropping the dampeners. Even if that would be survivable, it would take too long. But I can't intervene physically either!--- You remember thinking there must have been something you could have done to stop her. Something. Anything. But that time, you did not have a plan; you were not one step ahead. You were lost and scared and confused, and you remember turning around, seeing Anathema's glowing, smoking hands grabbing her head. Her own hands, of their own volition…. You remember thinking that this couldn't be happening because Anathema was supposed to be invulnerable…you remember…. …You remember all the times that Anathema had laughed and made a joke as she used her power, rubbing her palms. You remember that, and you remember that you didn't really think about it. Took it for granted that it was a joke. A way of warning others to stay away from her when she did her thing. Took it for granted that the corrosive acid never really could be stronger than what you had seen—strong enough to melt steel and concrete. Took it for granted that it was the invulnerability that was Anathema's greatest power. Not the acid. Not the acid that could easily eat through her flesh if she just made it powerful enough. You remember… > …looking away. …thinking it looked like a fake special effect. …looking on in fascination. --- You realized what was happening before it came, averting your eyes a moment before the scream started as abruptly as it was silenced. You remember the smell, and you remember the thud of the body falling to the ground. You'd like to think you didn't scream. You'd like to think you showed nothing on your face as you pushed past Ortega and Steel, continuing upstairs, leaving the ruined mess behind. That mess was someone you knew. Liked even. And it doesn't matter. It never matters. Getting attached is stupid. Walking upstairs is stupid too. But you have to. She's waiting for you. Did they follow? You think so. What choice did they have? They were heroes, after all. Why did you continue? Were you a hero too? You remember the pressure increasing, your shields growing denser under the onslaught. You should have left. You should have run for it. Let the military bomb this place to hell. Instead, you found the apartment calling to you. And the door. It was ajar…the sound of breathing was coming in there, the sound of the last thing alive in this building except you three. You pushed it open…. And woke up. Holy poo poo, y'all. It's easy to understand how Charlotte would have strayed from the rails after an experience like that. And the dream didn't even reach the end of the Heartbreak incident...--- Present Day You lie in your bed for a moment, breathing hard, trying to remember where you are. When you are. It's not seven years ago. It is now. And the alarm is beeping because you are running late. You shut it off with a muttered curse, gathering the strength to move. Rolling out of bed is harder than you imagined; your muscles ache and you are fairly certain you pulled something in your back. Maybe you are getting old—but you suspect that you have just let yourself go these last few years. Or maybe you are too hard on yourself. You are alive, after all, and you can slide into your puppet and leave the pain behind for now. You have a delivery to make. Once you have made sure that your own body is taken care of as well you can manage, you leave yourself resting and healing on the bed and slip into your puppet. That way, your body can sleep without any more dreams catching you unaware. Besides, Jane's body is a comfortable shell compared to your own. No aching muscles. No abrasions or contusions. Just smooth muscles that move with a grace you remember from back when you were still a hero. Young. Fit. Like a version of you remembered from a dream…. No. No dreams. You can feel the taste of them fading away, and you make your puppet stretch and breathe deeply to make you feel at home. Make you feel grounded again. Real. You're not a telepath now. You're safe. Physical. Intact. Touching your face, you keep breathing, closing your eyes. Your thoughts are dark. Empty. Nothing there. You're safe. Good. Shaking your head at your own silliness, you shake loose your tense muscles, promising yourself to go training again as soon as you have time. That sounds like just what you need right now, some sweat and aching muscles to ground you in the present. Though you strive to have a balanced training regiment for Jane, you tend to favor… …boxing. …aikido. …jogging. --- Voting time! What's our puppet's sport of (our) choice? This is not a trivial decision. The sport we choose will influence many scenes from here on out, and as you know, most pages have a choice. I may also take the chosen sport into account in making non-vote decisions about our actions as Jane. --- Physical Status Stamina: You are tired. Willpower: You feel calm. Injuries: You are hurt, with no significant wounds. We have some bumps and bruises, but are basically intact. This can go a lot worse.Telepathy Strength of Mind: 60% Subtle Manipulations: 59% Our telepathy hasn't changed in a while. A lot of the choices we can make here are front-loaded; it's the closest thing Fallen Hero has to an actual character build for quite some time.Psychological Profile Infamy: 0% ||| Obscurity: 100% Arrogance: 44% ||| Anonymity: 56% Ruthlessness: 54% ||| Empathy: 46% Daring: 60% ||| Caution: 40% We're playing this part fairly balanced as well. Avoiding all infamy while keeping our other traits roughly in the middle is a pretty great idea, especially for the first blind playthrough.--- 24 to 48 hours to decide on a sport of choice, since it's a fairly consequential decision. Sorites fucked around with this message at 07:31 on Jan 18, 2020 |
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Jan 18, 2020 06:26
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Awww poor Anathema. Boxing because why not.
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Jan 18, 2020 06:45
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It's somewhat horrifying in that the protagonist is clearly suffering from PTSD, and just as clearly has not gotten any professional help to manage it. All the secrets with being a telepath means that she was probably prioritizing holding onto her secrets.... to her mental detriment. Let's go with Boxing because I like it as a less-typical sport for an athletic woman, and our psion here clearly likes to work with ambushes and surprise.
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Jan 18, 2020 06:56
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Keldulas posted:It's somewhat horrifying in that the protagonist is clearly suffering from PTSD, and just as clearly has not gotten any professional help to manage it. All the secrets with being a telepath means that she was probably prioritizing holding onto her secrets.... to her mental detriment. And having a puppet to occupy is kind of the ultimate escape. Not just slipping into a different mind state or level of consciousness, but a whole other body and brain. It's interesting to see Charlotte talk about it as 'grounding' her when it serves almost the exact opposite, derealizing function.
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Jan 18, 2020 07:26
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Our puppet should master aikido, and turn the strength of her foes into their weakness!Keldulas posted:It's somewhat horrifying in that the protagonist is clearly suffering from PTSD, and just as clearly has not gotten any professional help to manage it. All the secrets with being a telepath means that she was probably prioritizing holding onto her secrets.... to her mental detriment. Yeah, this one of those things that makes this story so hard to read for me- the protagonist is clearly suffering, and taking it out on the world, which makes things worse for everyone.
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Jan 18, 2020 15:05
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I'm guessing that at least one of the endings is a reveal that we are meatpuppeting Sidestep and are actually whatever caused the suicide aura.
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Jan 18, 2020 22:27
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Let's call a two hour warning here!
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Jan 19, 2020 16:37
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Jogging.
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Jan 19, 2020 17:10
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Pressure Situations You lie in your bed for a moment, breathing hard, trying to remember where you are. When you are. It's not seven years ago. It is now. And the alarm is beeping because you are running late. You shut it off with a muttered curse, gathering the strength to move. Rolling out of bed is harder than you imagined; your muscles ache and you are fairly certain you pulled something in your back. Maybe you are getting old—but you suspect that you have just let yourself go these last few years. Or maybe you are too hard on yourself. You are alive, after all, and you can slide into your puppet and leave the pain behind for now. You have a delivery to make. Once you have made sure that your own body is taken care of as well you can manage, you leave yourself resting and healing on the bed and slip into your puppet. That way, your body can sleep without any more dreams catching you unaware. Besides, Jane's body is a comfortable shell compared to your own. No aching muscles. No abrasions or contusions. Just smooth muscles that move with a grace you remember from back when you were still a hero. Young. Fit. Like a version of you remembered from a dream…. No. No dreams. You can feel the taste of them fading away, and you make your puppet stretch and breathe deeply to make you feel at home. Make you feel grounded again. Real. You're not a telepath now. You're safe. Physical. Intact. Touching your face, you keep breathing, closing your eyes. Your thoughts are dark. Empty. Nothing there. You're safe. Good. Shaking your head at your own silliness, you shake loose your tense muscles, promising yourself to go training again as soon as you have time. That sounds like just what you need right now, some sweat and aching muscles to ground you in the present. Though you strive to have a balanced training regiment for Jane, you tend to favor… > …boxing. …aikido. …jogging. --- If there is one thing you have learned, it's that a good offense is the best defense. Besides, these last few years, hitting things has been surprisingly therapeutic. Even though you had no choice but to retire from your former life, you are still a bit of an adrenaline junkie. And since you don't have access to your telepathic powers in this body, you simply have to defend yourself the old-fashioned way. The world of villains is not a safe one… especially for a woman. --- It is too early to meet up with Dr. Mortum at Joes, but you don't want to delay handing over the targeting web. So, you set another meeting point in a dilapidated alley near the old industrial district. The doctor sounded far too eager to begin working on it when you called her earlier. Besides, the little cluster of telepathic rat brains is getting restless without its 'body,' and you are sure that this had something to do with your recent nightmares. You know that dreams can't hurt you, but there are things you would rather remained forgotten. You shake your head, pushing down the memories, as you approach the designated meeting point. Perhaps it's the surroundings that brought them up again. The alley has an acrid, chemical smell coming from the nearby industries, and the dusty window of the abandoned storefront reflects nothing but shadows. It's a desolate place to meet up, but it's one that's easily accessible and still private enough. The stench discourages anybody lingering—most likely the reason the store was abandoned in the first place. This is not the place you want to be. Hiding in a puppet body. Meeting in dirty alleys. But you are not ready yet to take your place on the scene. Not yet. Running your finger across the window, you look deep into your puppet's eyes. Are they any different now from when she was walking around, living her own life? Would anybody who knew her back then recognize that there is another intelligence lurking inside? It doesn't really matter. She has nobody left that could care. You are quite alike that way. Maybe… Maybe you were too deep in your own thoughts. Maybe you were too used to relying on your telepathy. Maybe you just got sloppy. It doesn't really matter. What matters is that as you look away from the reflection of your own eyes in the window, you catch sight of Dr. Mortum there behind you. Holding a gun. It is aimed at you. With your hands in the air, you try to control the emotions threatening to bleed through. "Now, ma chérie, do you mind explaining how you've managed to procure this lovely little trinket right after Psychopathor so handily got himself taken in by the Special Directive?" The kiss of the gun is cold as it brushes the back of your head. It's not the first time this has happened, and your first reaction is to… > …try to talk myself out of it. …make a move for the gun. …leave my puppet and try to possess Dr. Mortum. There's no way we're in range of Dr. Mortum from here. And boxing is not the fighting style to use when you need to disarm someone quickly; even if we were trained in aikido I'd think twice before trying it.--- Taking a moment to swallow because your mouth is suddenly dry, you try to decide what to tell Dr. Mortum. Do you risk telling her some variant of the truth, letting her know that you knew how to get the Special Directive involved? Should you just tell her that it is none of her business and hope she won't get mad and decide to pull the trigger? Maybe you should just deflect. She knows you are an intermediary for your anonymous boss, so how would you know how they did things? It's a tough choice, but you have very little time to make it. I tell the truth. I say it's none of her business. I say that can't tell her. > I flirt and distract. But we have a romance going, and she was clearly into Jane when we met at Joes. All I need to buy is enough time to turn around...--- You should have known that Dr. Mortum would start to feel uneasy sooner or later. She's a woman used to outthinking any problem, and here she is, confronted with a set of events that she could not predict. Or perhaps it is better said that you are a person who she could not predict. Perhaps that is why she is interested in you. "Well, ma chérie, I am waiting. Why did the Special Directive show up?" The gun does not waver, and neither does Dr. Mortum's gaze. "You do know that I have more contacts than only you, my dear doctor?" You meet her eyes in the mirror, allowing yourself to smile a little. "Really?" Your smile and apparent relaxation causes some of her tension to melt away. "And here I was starting to feel special." The last is delivered with a theatric little sigh. "You do have a strange way of showing it." You point at the reflection of the gun in the mirror, causing her to look down at it, a little embarrassed chuckle escaping her lips. "Oh, the gun?" She raises it slightly, looking as if she hadn't noticed it until now. "Yes, the gun," you reply, completely deadpan. "Sorry, force of habit, ma chérie." She puts it back in its holster, smoothing down her jacket before she looks up again. "What do you say? Shall we forget all about this regrettable incident?" It worked! The mix of a convincing hand-wave about having contacts and regular old charm takes the edge off the encounter."Shall we knock off a few grand off the price?" you counter. "I think we shall not—not unless you want substandard goods." I want the best. > My employer wants the best. This is going well. Let's not mess it up by openly lying about being the boss; she'll never believe Jane herself is in charge of this operation.--- "My employer wants the best. You know that." It is so easy to think of Charlotte as a separate entity sometimes; the charade you run is starting to feel very real. People have been talking in the thread about Charlotte's responses to trauma. I think having a puppet must be helping with that. It isn't dissociation in the straightforward sense, but it's still an escape from our normal life. We (Jane) didn't helplessly watch our friend melt her own face; that happened to someone else. To Charlotte."Ah, your mysterious boss. When do I get to meet them?" Dr. Mortum gives you a curious look. She has been asking questions about who you are working for since day one. "Maybe you should be glad that you haven't. I doubt they would have been happy had you pointed a gun at them." You evade like always because honestly, you are not sure if she could be trusted to that extent. Is she a hireling or an ally? Or maybe even a future rival? Only time will tell. "That is a good point," she acquiesces with a chuckle, unaware of your thoughts. "Are you planning to let me live that down sometime in the future?" "Maybe. If you keep your schedule." You reach into your pocket, pulling out the cylinder containing the targeting web. In this body, you can't feel anything from it other than its weight. It's a bit disconcerting, being head blind: you doubt you ever will get used to it. "Speaking of which…" Dr. Mortum pauses briefly as she puts the cylinder into her pocket after quickly checking it. "When can I expect the last payment?" "I told you, you get it when the project is complete. Not before." You push your hands into your pockets, trying to add up how much you still need. Not as much as you had feared: it should be doable if everything remains on schedule. "What is this, ma chérie, don't you trust me?" Her arms fly out in a gesture of hurt innocence. "Let's just say that I trust money as a motivation." You smile a little to take the sting out of the comment. "That is fair," she admits. "Just make sure that you have the right amount ready to transfer once I am done. I don't haggle." "My boss is not stingy," you assure. "Really?" An eyebrow is raised, a faint smile playing on her lips. "What was all that about before, then?" "That was for me," you lie because it fits the act you play. A little bit of greed to make you human and add a few layers of obfuscation between you and your 'boss.' "A bit of hazard pay, considering you being a bit trigger happy." "Again, my apologies." The bow is slight, but perfectly executed. "Perhaps I can offer you dinner as compensation once our business transaction is done?" > "I would be delighted to." "We will see…." "I'm sorry, but no." This half-fling has already saved our life once today. Let's keep it going.--- "I would be delighted," you say, smiling a little as her eyes light up. "After all, that means business doesn't have to get in the way anymore." It costs nothing to encourage her; after all, it's a promise you don't have to keep unless you want to. That's the beauty of pretending to work for someone else: sometimes your time is simply not your own. "Well then, ma chérie, I bid you adieu for now." And with those words, the two of you part ways. You feel like you're probably going to smell of this place for a week. --- One Week Later One Week Later A week later, you have completed step three and gotten Mortum's payment ready for delivery. It has been hard work and it left you with a grueling headache, but if she plans to keep the deadline, you had better be prepared to deliver. The good doctor might be curious enough about the applications of your idea to accept the job, but expertise doesn't come cheap. Luckily, you are not one of the hapless criminals who need to go out and rob a bank to procure what you need; you have other, subtler methods. The world of telepathic crime is a lot less dramatic than one might think. Companies or banks handling vast amounts of cash tend to have scramblers in place, or their own security teams to detect mental intrusions. When someone wants to rob a bank, things have not changed much over the decades. The simplest path is still to physically approach with guns and explosives, and be ready to deal with the consequences. Consequences you are less than fond off. That is why you… …stick to skimming. > …embezzle the rich. Embezzling feels riskier, but we clearly have our standards and some professional pride. No respectable villain made their bones by stealing ATM codes from workaday rubes.--- You have these powers; it would be stupid not to use them. And thus you spend your time lurking downtown, scanning for the rich and powerful. Once you have located a suitable target, you break into people's minds instead of their homes, clearing out their savings as surely as if you had cracked a safe. Do you feel bad about ruining someone? Sometimes, perhaps. But spend enough time in somebody's head, and you quickly learn to despise them. People don't get rich by being nice, and in Los Diablos, rules are for suckers. They are the kind of prey you prefer, the ones with far too many things to hide. Gambling. Mistresses. Embezzlement. Drugs. Murder. You slide in and out again, leaving them with self-doubts and fears, unable to admit that they have lost money without exposing the dirtier parts of their lives. It's not a perfect system, but it works well enough for now. Sometimes you worry a little about what would happen if someone decided to investigate one of these incidents, but so far, you have been lucky. You hope to stay that way. Pretty soon, it won't matter anymore. Nothing will. For now, you just have to stay calm. Cool. Collected. Make sure you don't make any mistakes. Or take stupid risks. Like with Lady Argent. Maybe you should have been more patient. Maybe you should have figured out another way to steal the nanovores entirely. But… …I was impatient. …I wanted to see if I could possess her. …I couldn't see any other way. Knowledge is power.--- Normal people are not really a challenge to you anymore. But would it be different to enter the mind of someone Enhanced? And, considering she was a Boost, would the drug have changed her in ways other than her physical form? So many questions, and the only way to answer them was for you to try. Luckily, it worked out well in the end. You learned a lot, and if you took a few too many risks… Well, too late for regrets now. You really hope you have scrambled Lady Argent's mind enough so that she won't remember you, but it makes you nervous dealing with heroes. You used to work with these people, for crying out loud; you know how they work. You know they won't quit. They never had before; the Rangers always got their man. Still, you have to admit you… …look forward to teaching them a lesson personally. …have butterflies in my stomach. > …are glad they don't have a telepath. Our last encounter with a powerful psychic went...badly.--- No matter how good they are at catching criminals and stopping threats to the city, this is not a physical match. This is your arena. As far as you know, there are no other high-level telepaths deputized by the government, and even among the independent heroes it is a rare gift. You are, for better or worse, unique. That should give you the edge that you need—but still, no need to get sloppy. The best thing to do to avoid any risk of suspicion is to keep up your daily routine and change nothing about it. Pick up a paper. Have lunch at the local diner. Pretend to be normal. Be nobody. Even if they knew they were looking for someone, you would not match their profile. Not to mention the fact that you are officially dead. Hard to find a better disguise than that. It is a risk you're running, being back here in Los Diablos. Maybe you should have crossed the border into Mexico and tried to lose yourself there, or moved up the coast to San Fransisco or Seattle. But… …that would mean running away, and I am through with that. …this is the town where I can find everything I need. > …this is the only home I've known. --- Los Diablos was where you ran away to the first time, where you fought crime for years. This was your home—adopted, but that's as close as you're ever going to get. To not come back would be… You have a hard time picking the right word. A failure, perhaps? Admitting that you had no place here? Everything is in flux around you; everything you took for granted is suddenly changing. Shifting. You need this place. You need this town. It was witness to your first rebirth—it's only fitting it will play midwife to your second. Besides, it's a big place, and you know which areas you should avoid. Where you used to go. Where you used to eat. Learning new habits is painful, but it's better than being spotted. Take your favorite diner, for example; back when you ran with the Rangers, you would never have visited a place like this. Not that you were a snob—you just tended to eat out with Ortega, and he had standards. This bland, plastic place has no atmosphere, no heritage. It's a cheapish, corporate chain restaurant, catering to tourists and office workers. Jane was the one who found it, but you decided it suited your own body better. As diners go, it tends to be quite busy. And the staff changes quickly enough, so nobody ever really cares whether you are a return customer or not. And if they do care, it's easy enough to get someone else to cause a scene and get them fired. Despite the plastic trappings, the food is not half bad. And it gives you an opportunity to indulge in one of the things that keep you sane and centered. Coffee—I need caffeine to function. Tobacco—having a smoke eases the tension. > Sugar—my brain needs the energy. Alcohol—having a beer calms me down. It's my only vice out of these four in real life, too.--- One drawback of your telepathic powers is that you need a lot of carbohydrates, and sugar is the easiest way to get them. And eating them the old-fashioned way, in the form of a chocolate cake, is a lot more delicious than the syrupy drinks you were used to back when… "I can't believe it!" --- "Charlotte? Is that really you?" The voice startles you enough so that you drop the spoon, sending chocolate cake tumbling everywhere. "Who?" you manage to sputter as you look up. The surprise is not fake—you had not sensed anybody approach with the intent of talking to you, which is odd considering you always have half a feeler brushing the minds of the crowd these days. Who around here still knows you as Charlotte, anyway? You haven't used that name in interaction with others for years. Though the voice is familiar… "I can't believe it! It really is you—you're alive!" The man standing in front of you is familiar as well: a tall Hispanic man in his late thirties, with a determined jaw and a broad grin plastered on the deeply tanned face. The trimmed mustache is new, but as soon as you pick up the low-level static hum, your brain catches up to the situation. Ortega. Of course. This can't be a coincidence…. Hell! What is he doing here? He looks older than I remember. I can feel the smile growing on my face despite my surprise. --- Oh, poo poo. Ortega's here - and remember, we can't read him thanks to his epilepsy. We're totally busted; everyone is supposed to think Charlotte Becker is dead. We're about to enter into a somewhat complex social encounter, so just like with the Rats fight I'll have to poll this more generally. Question One: Do you think this is a coincidence or something more, and Question Two: Do we protect our secrets by evasiveness, deception, or hostility? No major changes to our character stats this time. 24 to 48 hours, 2 hour warning will apply. Sorites fucked around with this message at 03:29 on Jan 20, 2020 |
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Jan 20, 2020 02:26
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One: I don't think it's a coincidence. The game just told us that Ortega has higher standards than this, so him being in a restaurant he wouldn't go into is a bit much. My best guess is that someone nudged him into us. Two: I'm not sure if this is more evasiveness or deception, but I think leaning in on the history of trauma might be an out here. "After X, I just needed a clean break" sort of thing.
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Jan 20, 2020 05:23
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1.I can feel the smile growing on my face despite my surprise. 2.Deception
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Jan 20, 2020 06:09
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1. A bit of column A, a bit of Column B. Ortega probably didn't believe the official report and did some personal investigative work on their own time to find what happened to their friend. Part of that would involve checking locations we would likely visit, and by coincidence we happened to be here as Ortega was checking this one. 2 Evasion. Outright lies can come back to haunt us, letting others fill in the blanks with what they want to believe makes it all the harder for them to accept otherwise.
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Jan 20, 2020 14:57
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We should probably be evasive. And if we get the chance, point out that Sidestep is dead, we just can't do the Cape thing anymore and are trying to put it behind us. It is *technically* true.
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Jan 20, 2020 15:05
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Time for a two hour warning!
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Jan 21, 2020 18:13
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Reunions "Charlotte? Is that really you?" The voice startles you enough so that you drop the spoon, sending chocolate cake tumbling everywhere. "Who?" you manage to sputter as you look up. The surprise is not fake—you had not sensed anybody approach with the intent of talking to you, which is odd considering you always have half a feeler brushing the minds of the crowd these days. Who around here still knows you as Charlotte, anyway? You haven't used that name in interaction with others for years. Though the voice is familiar… "I can't believe it! It really is you—you're alive!" The man standing in front of you is familiar as well: a tall Hispanic man in his late thirties, with a determined jaw and a broad grin plastered on the deeply tanned face. The trimmed mustache is new, but as soon as you pick up the low-level static hum, your brain catches up to the situation. Ortega. Of course. This can't be a coincidence…. Hell! What is he doing here? He looks older than I remember. I can feel my cheeks heat up despite myself. > I can feel the smile growing on my face despite my surprise. We don't know whether this is a coincidence or not. Whether it's a chance meeting or a planned trick, it's certainly a surprise. But not an entirely unwelcome one...--- The smile lands on your face before your brain catches up, and there is a moment of happiness, as if the intervening years had never happened. And then you realize that this is not a happy occasion; even if this is just a coincidence, it is a terrible risk. The past is the past, and in the present you are on opposite sides. You'd be wise to remember that. "Ortega?" His name is a safe way to start; you need to figure out how to play this apart from acting surprised. No. Not acting. Being. Right now, the safest thing you can do is to just be honest about how confused you feel. "Is that really you? I just…hell, what has it been? Almost a decade?" "Seven years," he says, with a look that makes you wonder if he has kept track of the days as carefully as you have. He takes a seat without invitation. He always was too intrusive, too friendly. You would never have ended up friends otherwise; a battering ram was needed to break down the walls you had built around yourself. "I…this is…" You flounder, unsure what to say because every word could reveal something you don't want to. "A surprise?" Ortega keeps looking at you, and those brown eyes are as sharp as ever. You had forgotten how it felt to have their intensity focused directly on you. You can almost smell the ozone. "Got it in one," you say, trying to crack a joke, but your smile is fake and brittle. "I can't believe it's really you, Charlotte," he continues with a growing smile, somewhat more able to find words than you are. "I thought…I mean, they said you were dead, but that's a load of…" He frowns a little and cocks his head. "You are all right, right?" "I am alive, anyway," you say evasively, picking up the remains of the chocolate cake, putting them back on the plate. It's ruined now, like so many other things. "I'm sitting here having cake. That counts as all right, I suppose." What do you say to someone you used to trust when he is now your enemy? Everything is suddenly fraught with risk. You don't dare open too many cans of worms. "It does," he agrees, nodding vigorously. "When you went through the window, I thought…I guess we all did. It was a long way down—I never would have thought you survived." Part of you did not. --- The ground coming up fast, imprinted on your retinas in excruciating detail. The sting in your palms from broken glass, your breath stolen by the wind. The pressure in your mind has finally found release in the freedom of this moment. In the distance, you hear sirens. In the distance, you hear screaming. Below, you see the cordon deserted, the LDPD having abandoned their posts. In a brief moment of telepathic clarity more powerful than you have ever felt before, you can sense them running in the distance, panicking as the pressure intensifies. You close your eyes, but they are still inside; you can feel their minds snuffed out one by one—a different kind of vertiginous relief. You shake your head... --- "I almost didn't," you admit, dispelling the unwanted memories. How do you look to him right now? Do you look like a failure? A has-been? A former hero who just couldn't take the heat? You hope so, but you also hope that you don't look like too much of a loser. Ortega was your friend, and if he starts to worry too much, you'll never get rid of him. "Once we…" There's a grimace on Ortega's face, and you suddenly don't want to know how he ended the Heartbreak threat. "There was an explosion. I guess you wouldn't know that. Steel made the call, and I was too close so I was knocked out. Once I woke up, I tried looking for you, but there were medical staff everywhere, and Steel said you had been taken away in an ambulance. Died on your way to the hospital." "Steel said…" You can't help the faint twitch. "I guess he misunderstood. It was…chaotic. His dampeners were blown. When I tried to find your body, they said it had been cremated together with the rest of the victims. They feared there might be a chemical agent involved, and all the bodies were…disposed of quickly." Ortega keeps looking at you across the table, and you can see the way his hand twitches. Does he want to reach out and touch you? You lean back a little just in case. "I…was very badly hurt." It's not a lie. You could have died. Part of you wanted to. "Where have you been all these years then?" Ortega asks, trying to catch your gaze. But you keep evading. How do you answer something like that? You can't very well tell the truth. Maybe just a fraction of it. I focus on the trauma. One of my favourite weaknesses to give a telepath is a slight weakness at lying without using their powers. Think of young Charles Xavier giving Magneto the "only following orders" justification - the worst thing he could ever have said. Obviously we're a decent manipulator - otherwise Jane would be dead by now - but let's still play it safe by telling the truth. We aren't responsible for Ortega's interpretation...--- "I did survive the fall, but only just. Once they got me out of the suit to treat me, I wasn't anybody special. They had no idea I was Sidestep…." You break off, looking down at your hands. They look steady despite the blatant lie. Good. You're still in control. "I guess I must have slipped through the cracks in the chaos—it took a long time before I regained consciousness, and by then it was all over. The world had moved on, and Sidestep was dead." For once, Ortega keeps his silence, waiting for you to finish weaving your lies. "I was listed under another name, never really found out who. Nobody with family who cared. The bills kept racking up, and once I got better, I guess I had enough. I walked away from it all." You pause, looking up at him after a moment of hesitation, just for show. "I just couldn't go back. Not after everything…" You let your eyes shift down again; having spent so much time controlling other people's bodies has made you lot more aware of your body language than you were before. "I can understand that. It was a horribly handled mess from the start." Ortega jumps to the conclusion you hoped he would. Watching people die like that was horrible and traumatizing, but it was not as if you had much choice in the manner of your 'retirement.' "Especially with…" You make a vague gesture towards your head, indicating your telepathic powers. "I can only guess," he admits with a grimace. "Even Steel got rattled. Did you…get therapy or something at least? We…I mean, the Rangers, had access to…you know, for debriefing." It is obvious that this is hard to talk about for Ortega as well, but his unease is making you feel… > …awkward. …angry. …wistful. --- You can't very well tell the truth about the kinds of 'therapy' you were put through, and you really hope that your feelings don't show on your face. Concern like this always felt very awkward coming from Ortega because with others, you would always know whether they actually meant it or just said it to be polite. Not so with him. How much does he actually care about you? "It doesn't matter," you finally say, shrugging a little. "I'm fine now." "I'm glad you're fine," Ortega says with a sigh. "But you could have at least sent us a message or something. We thought you were dead. I've spent the last seven years thinking about what I could have done differently. Why didn't you contact us?" The reproach is there, shoved down your throat with a hurt glance. Part of you wishes you could tell the truth, expose this charade for what it really is. But that would mean giving up on what you have spent the last years planning, and you have sacrificed too much for that. What is one relationship compared to what you have to do? Dust in the wind. But dust or not, there is still a man seated across from you, waiting for an answer. > "I was ashamed. It was such a relief not to have to do this anymore." "I was afraid to get back in action." My real-life job causes people to lie to me a lot. But few people fake shame; for some reason, it's rarely a go-to excuse. Besides, Ortega saw us in action; we were always bold, and he might doubt that we became fearful.--- "I was ashamed," you admit, cringing just a little to drive home the point. His gaze softens, and you know you've hit the right note to get some sympathy. "When I woke up, my first thought wasn't to get back in the hero game. Or that I needed to contact my friends. It was relief. Relief that I was finally out. That I didn't have to do this anymore." "Relief?" Ortega's single word is soft and filled with questions. "I know." You fake a bitter smile. "That surprised me too. What kind of hero would feel like that? Was I just faking things?" "You weren't," he interrupts, with more heat than you had expected. "You don't know that," you snap back, the truth making your raise your voice again. "You don't know how I felt, how relieved I was that I didn't have to continue being Sidestep." "You could have told us that you wanted to retire. You didn't have to pretend to be dead." "No, I think I did." You look down at your clenched hands, not at his concerned face. "If I'd told you, I know you would have tried to talk me out of leaving. I would have stayed because I didn't want to disappoint you, and eventually I would have cracked under fire and got you killed. It was easier this way, letting you think that I was dead." "Easier? For you maybe. I spent seven years thinking I'd caused your death." Ortega leans a little closer. You do not. "I never wanted you to blame yourself," you protest, raising your voice a little. That part is true: it hadn't even crossed your mind that Ortega might have taken your death personally. "I thought you'd just…" "Move on and forget you ever existed?" The words are sharp, and this time you look up and meet Ortega's eyes, a bit surprised at how good he still is at reading your mind. You did think exactly that. That he still cares about you is a risk and an annoyance. You were meant to be forgettable. "I wasn't the only one who died…." "I know. We held a funeral for you and Anathema, but you were my friend, my best…" Ortega starts, brows arching in a vaguely displeased frown. But the look on your face stops the accusations in their track. You are so obviously not taking any pleasure from this that his anger gets derailed. "Charlotte. Are you sure you're fine? I know you said so, but you look like hell. I just…" "I am fine," you lie. "I'm just living a quiet life now. Sidestep is dead." It was just as well. The name was a stupid pun from the start, to let people think that your powers were based on martial arts rather than predicting your opponents' actions. With telepathy being an exceedingly rare gift, you couldn't take the risk of being found out, so only a select few people ever knew the truth about your powers—if not your past. Just like almost nobody knows about Ortega's epilepsy. Once Dr. Mortum is finished, you will have to pick what your new name will be. Hopefully something a bit more imposing. You have a few alternatives going around in your head, but none of them have really felt right. Hopefully you will come up with one soon. "Sidestep might be dead, but you are not." Ortega looks as if he's not sure he should continue, but does so anyway. "You're still a telepath, right?" The question surprises you, and for a moment you're not sure what you should say. Making up a lie that you have lost your powers seems as unlikely and risky as admitting that you still have them. Ortega believes you are a Boost, someone who took the hero drug and lucked out with a spin on the wheel of fate. If you implied that you had lost your powers…that would have consequences for other Boosts as well, and things could snowball. On the other hand, if you admitted to still being a telepath, you could end up as a possible suspect in the future. > Yes, I am still a telepath. No, not anymore. Let's not overreach. Half-truths are more our style, and besides - we aren't sure whether this whole meeting is a setup. If Ortega (or his boss) knows we're still using our powers, getting caught in an outright lie could be disastrous.--- "I am," you confess because to say anything else would mean making things up. And the truth always seems simpler. "But it's a long stretch from having powers to having the guts to use them. These days, they mostly save me from getting jostled when someone hurries through a crowd." You laugh, the joviality false even to your own ears. "I'm glad." Ortega laughs as well, and somehow his laugh is making your own sound less false. "I could really use your help," Ortega finally continues, giving you a cautious look. You are sure your mouth actually stops working for a moment before you manage to get out a confused, "What?" "I know you are retired, but I just don't know who else to trust." Suddenly Ortega looks his age, pushing forty with the wrinkles around his eyes to show it. That's not a considerable age for the Enhanced; in many cases, the augmentations and drugs coursing through their system keep them younger and fitter than is fair. As long as there is someone willing to sponsor their upkeep, the benefits of being a Ranger are second to none. "Why me?" you manage to get out, paranoia crawling down your spine as you try to process this. Is this a trap? Does he suspect? What is he up to? Had he followed you here? Your heartbeat quickens. You look down at the ruined remains of your cake, wondering if your life will soon be in similar shape. "Because I trust you." Ortega looks straight at you, the words so simple and honest that you want to call the bluff. But the man in front of you looks too tired and frail to be setting some sort of trap. Perhaps instead, this can be a bit of an opportunity. Smiling faintly, you say, "Tell me all about it." "Would it be all right if we talked somewhere safer?" Ortega fiddles with his cup. You can see the telltale signs of nervousness in the way his fingers refuse to stay still. "Safer? Is it that bad?" Maybe it's his nervousness that does it, but you are finding yourself calming down. If this really were a trap, it would be an awkward way to go about it. And if he really needs help, well, it can't hurt to have a contact still in the hero game. As long as he doesn't suspect. "Maybe. I don't know. It's just that it's not just my secret." "Secret? Ortega, since when did you start having secrets?" The very thought is absurd; you were the one that had secrets, even back then. "Well, to be completely honest, it's my friend… she's…" "Friend?" you say, raising an eyebrow. You're feeling slightly… …amused. I can't help but tease him a little about his 'friend.' …confused. Am I supposed to know who he's talking about? > …curious. Knowing more about Ortega's current friends could be useful. …annoyed. I really don't want to get involved in this, but… As before, knowledge is power. He's opening up; we're doing well. Let's take advantage.--- "Yeah, I know. Friend." Ortega looks a little sheepish as he continues. "It feels a bit weird that I…I mean, we…" "That I have no idea who you're talking about?" "Yeah. That." The breath that he takes is an audible one. "It's just that it feels like back in the good old days, and then I remember…" "…That it's not." You look down for a moment, pushing away the emotions that threaten to overwhelm you. "Just let me give her a call and check first, okay?" Ortega pulls out a phone from his pocket, making you smile a little at the size of it. There was a reason his codename was 'Charge.' It was all too easy to ruin any electrical components he touched, so things had to be specially insulated if he wanted them to last. Hence the insulated brick of a phone. "Angie?" Ortega is not talking loudly, but you are far too curious not to try to listen in. "Are you around this afternoon? Good. And the rest? Good…I was thinking about coming by, and—" He gives you a quick look before continuing. "I've met someone that might be able to give some input. Charlotte Becker." You suppress a shiver. How long has it been since you heard that name? "I know." Ortega shakes his head, still on the phone. "I know. I know, but… Would you be willing to—yes, I know. Yes…I know, that's why I'm calling you." He sighs a little, waiting for the person on the other side to calm down. "Yes, of course I can vouch for her. I wouldn't suggest this otherwise." Another pause, interrupted by an amused chuckle. "Yes, that Charlotte. Who else would it be? I know. That's a long story, but yes, very much alive. And retired. I just thought…yes, that's exactly why I suggested it. I'll see you in a while then." You are quiet for a bit, waiting for Ortega to hang up. "Are you okay over there?" Apparently you were quiet for too long—Ortega has leaned forward a little, looking worried. "Yes, I'm fine. Just thinking." I say I'm just hoping he isn't expecting too much. > Is he sure his friend is okay with this? Verifying consent seems like the mos trustworthy thing we could do right now. And, well...the most ethical, for all that that means anything to us anymore.--- "Yes," you say, rubbing your head a little. "I was just wondering if you're pushing her into something she doesn't want. She sounded a bit hesitant on the phone." "She's spooked. And I can't really blame her for that." Ortega pays your tab, tipping generously. "That's why I'm glad to have someone who knows anything about this to talk to." "Someone?" you ask with a small smirk as you both stand up. "Well," he starts, looking a little embarrassed. "If by someone, you mean you. I've missed you, Charlotte." The hug is such a surprise that you're not able to avoid it. You suddenly find yourself pulled into a tight embrace, a gesture of affection that used to be common between you. Ortega is a very physical man, and back then you quickly realized that you had to learn to deal with it. But that was years and years ago, and since then…have you even touched anybody like this? Apart from accidentally brushing against strangers in a crowd, you honestly don't think so. Not in your own body. That makes you feel… …wistful. > …awkward. …sad. It's strange to think that all our human contact has been as Jane. What a stark divide between our two modes.--- You tense up a bit, trying to keep your emotions in check. Affection never came easy to you, and after a moment, Ortega senses your awkwardness and lets go. "Sorry," he says, looking a little embarrassed. "I couldn't give you a hug before since you were sitting down." "Checking to see if I'm real?" You joke to ease the tension a bit, and from the look on his face, it works. "I don't think I could have made you up if I tried." Ortega keeps eye contact just a moment too long for comfort, and you find yourself turning away first. "Now, should we go meet your friend?" Might as well get this over with, so you can set up a date with Mortum to deliver the money as soon as possible. --- One Cab Ride Later... There was a saying back at the Farm: never volunteer for anything. Right now, you regret not listening to that advice. Just because you and Ortega used to be friends doesn't mean you are on the same side now. You need to remember that. Why would you agree to help him out without asking for details? This could have been averted if only you had been a little bit more suspicious. You need to remember that Ortega is not on your side anymore. Hell. "What's wrong?" Ortega asks, looking a little worried, since you are suddenly rooted to the pavement where the cab let you off. You hope you didn't swear out loud. "What…is this…?" You look up at the austere building which is looming over you, its sharp, modernist angles breaking up the sunshine into patterned shadows that cascade over the facade. There are far fewer windows than in a normal office building, and you know the ones that are there are reinforced against stronger things than recurring earthquakes. It's an impressive building, sure, but that's not why you couldn't bite back your gasp. It is, above all, a familiar one. You are looking up at the current headquarters of the Rangers, trying not to panic. Hell indeed. "Oh, I forgot you hadn't seen the new building." Ortega smiles and gestures towards the deceptively unguarded entrance. "Got finished about two years ago, finally got the backing to pull it off. They are sinking a whole lot more money into the Marshal system these days, or maybe Steel is just better at getting it than I was." The laugh has a faint tone of self-mockery, but you don't join in. "I didn't know your problem involved the Rangers…." You know he's looking at you strangely, but you can't help yourself. "I didn't want to talk in too much detail about it at the diner; you never know who's listening. Is that a problem?" Your mouth is like dry ash, but you have to say something. "I just didn't expect it to have anything to do with the Rangers." > "I thought it was just a favor for a friend." "I am retired and out of the hero business!" --- "I just thought it was a favor for a friend," you say, keeping a straight face. "Not something involving heroes." You want to get the hell out of here, but you hold your ground all the same. You have gone too far to back down now without arousing suspicion. "It's not like I'm asking you to come out of retirement. Just to share your insights on something." Ortega clearly seems to be confused about why you are hesitating, which makes sense. While you never actually were a Ranger, you worked with them regularly, and you visited their old headquarters more than once. "I know," you sigh, resisting the urge to just turn around and hail a cab. "Just don't expect too much." "Shall we, then?" Ortega gestures towards the entrance, chuckling a little. "They won't bite, I promise." "I am going to hold you to that promise," you mutter as you follow, trying to keep your nerves from showing. Just like walking a tightrope... By the way, sometimes the "next" button at the end of a page changes to contain text. This page's button was labeled Just Like Walking A Tightrope, for example. I've been converting these all along, but I thought you might be interested.--- The first thing that strikes you is how different this place looks through your own eyes, compared to the multi-spectrum vision of Lady Argent. Back when you stole her body, you did it from afar, so you never had to approach this place in person. The risk was just too great, and you wanted to avoid the very thing you are walking right into now. Old and nosy friends. It wasn't even hard to arrange an encounter with her, as she frequented a physical therapist's office located close to a suitable hotel. Since she was on a regular enough schedule for you to prepare in advance, all you had to do was to rent a room under an assumed name and keep an eye out for her as she exited her appointment, mind all relaxed and easy to possess. Habits can be as dangerous as they can be helpful. But having done all this in her body also means that you are not prepared for how drab and ordinary this place looks, with its smiling receptionist and bored security officer. The walls look like ordinary walls, painted in subtle colors and hung with posters and pictures. You see no trace of electricity humming through hidden circuits, or of the multitude of security systems you know are there. The Rangers are not exactly the LDPD, but they are still an official team. That means the whole package with government liaisons, and everything that comes with it. No wonder you didn't sign up, even when you were on the same side. As far as you know, a physical scan should trigger nothing. You know from experience that you read exactly like a normal human to the various systems that scan for Boosts or Mods. Unless there has been some new development in sensory technology you haven't heard of, you should be safe. For you, the bigger danger was always dampeners rather than scanners. All you have to do is relax your telepathic gifts, leaving them simmering in their most dormant state. That way, even if they have a sensitive on staff, they will detect nothing more than what you already confessed to having. Swallowing hard, you follow Ortega towards the elevator. The elevator looks too much like a cell, but you enter anyway. Maybe we were wrong and this is a trap. Ortega's the only person who can lie to us, after all, and this was very convenient...--- "I can't believe you're not the marshal anymore," you say to break the silence once the elevator starts moving. The vibration of the engines hides any evidence of the sensors you know must be there, checking every aspect of your bodies. There is probably somebody sitting in a room far from here, seeing how nervous you are on their thermal readings. You only hope that's natural for most people who are let into this place. "Things were different after the Heartbreak fiasco." Ortega goes silent for a moment, watching his reflection in the steel door before he continues. "People died. Friends died. You…I thought you were gone as well." His hands twitch, but he doesn't look at you. "If I had made a different call, you and Anathema might still be alive. I didn't want the responsibility anymore." He leans forward into the security scanner, the pale blue light playing over his eyes and face. "I thought about retiring, but grew antsy after a week. I'm not one for living quietly, I suppose. I almost envy you that." "You shouldn't," you manage to say with a faint smile as the doors hiss open, and you step out into the hallway. You sift through the fading Lady Argent memories, and you think this might be leading to the fourth floor conference room. "Being able to quit is nothing to be proud of." Not that you have, even though he doesn't know the truth. Changed, yes. Quit, no. "You always made me proud, Charlotte; there is no shame in retiring." There it is again, that voice so filled with caring and confidence. Can his concern really be true? Maybe he really doesn't suspect a thing. "I still don't understand what this is all abou—" you begin, but fall silent as you enter the room and see Lady Argent standing motionless near the window, as still as a statue with her back to you. Marshal Steel sits slouched in a chair that barely holds up under his bulk. Even without his armor, his body is heavy with the cybernetic implants needed to control it. Herald looks up from where he stands, and there is a haggard, nervous look to him, as if he had been pacing. He still has bruises on his face. You can sense the tension in the room even without flexing your telepathic muscles. "I'm sorry I had Angie call you all in so suddenly," Ortega apologizes, and then gestures towards a chair. "Have a seat, Charlotte, and we'll explain everything." You take the seat, face carefully calm, though you half expect restraints to snap shut around your wrists and gas to start pouring out of the walls. But there is nothing. Herald sits down, Lady Argent remains standing, and Marshal Steel taps his fingers against the armrest of his chair as he looks between you and Ortega, as if he doesn't know what to feel. And right now, you can't afford to pry. "It's an honor to meet you all." "Hello Chen, it's been a while." > Remain quiet. poo poo.--- This isn't exactly a decision point, but the update is looking long. Let's cut it here. In the interests of having something to poll, let's take a look at our stats: --- Physical Status Stamina: You are rested. Willpower: You feel calm. Injuries: You are fine, with no significant wounds. Telepathy Strength of Mind: 68% Subtle Manipulations: 67% Our powers are developing nicely. I don't think I've ever had such a high and balanced skill-set at this point in the game. Psychological Profile Infamy: 0% ||| Obscurity: 100% Arrogance: 63% ||| Anonymity: 37% Ruthlessness: 51% ||| Empathy: 49% Daring: 54% ||| Caution: 46% Arrogance is creeping up. A few later-game checks have 70% thresholds; we're about to start losing options unless we reverse course. Of course, we might also gain some options if we double down! Main Puppet Name: Jane Puppet Status: Fine. Allies and Enemies Charlotte's relationship with Ortega: old friend. Jane's relationship with Dr. Mortum: flirting. Charlotte's relationship with Lady Argent: distant. --- So, on to our poll: 1) Is our ego becoming a problem, or do we deserve to be confident? 2) Do we try and buddy up to Lady Argent, or keep her at a safe distance to minimize exposure? 3) Do we try and distance ourselves from Ortega before he learns too much, or should we keep our enemies close? 36 to 48 hours, usual warning will apply.
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Jan 22, 2020 05:33
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quote:1) Is our ego becoming a problem, or do we deserve to be confident?
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Jan 22, 2020 08:20
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∆∆∆∆ yeah what he said
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Jan 22, 2020 09:54
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I'll third those choices. So we just got called in as a consultant on the body jacking we caused? As long as we remember to limit using our powers to what they know we used to be able to do, this could be a huge boon to cover our asses until it's too late for them to stop our plan.
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Jan 22, 2020 12:30
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1) Problem. 2) Safe distance. 3) Distance ourselves.
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Jan 22, 2020 14:23
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The writing might be on the wall at this point, but here's the two hour warning in case of a last minute groundswell.
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Jan 24, 2020 00:18
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 Warning: This update contains a dramatic depiction of our character undergoing a full-blown trauma flashback. The text heavily implies an awful experience I hope none of you can relate to, involving a mix of body horror, conventional torture, and some implications of sexual abuse. Proceed with caution. I will signal the start of the sequence in question. Once I do, those wishing to skip it should jump all the way to the end of the post, then scroll up until they hit the character sheet breakdown. --- Heartbreak Part 3 "It's that bad then, huh?" You're trying to remember how Charlotte used to act, even though your face feels odd as you smile. Does it look fake? Do you? "You're not wrong." Herald rubs his bruised cheek, looking over at Steel. "You want to tell her?" Steel pauses for a moment, as if he is about to protest, but after a long look at you he starts to explain. "A week ago, an unknown assailant manipulated Lady Argent into stealing an extremely dangerous item. Now, she does not remember much, but she got the impression that this was not one of our usual villains." You sit quietly because that is the only thing you can do. You sit and wait for it. What could you have missed that she picked up on? What tracks had you not erased? When will they end this masquerade and drag you to jail? Or worse, back to the Farm? The thought of spending years in their dampened facilities sends shivers down your back, and absurdly, you feel the need to be sick again. You wish you had something to chew on. "It was one of our own." Lady Argent speaks up for the first time, her voice as hard as her silvery skin. "I don't remember much, but that was the impression I got. This was someone who is supposed to be on our side." She is looking straight at you, sizing you up. But there is no flash of recognition. No widening eyes. No pointed fingers and accusations. "A hero?" Your surprise is not faked because you wonder how she got that impression. Perhaps your lingering bad conscience that you had to use her so? Perhaps you have to watch your subconsciousness more when you possessed people, not just your conscious thoughts. Apparently you had not prepared adequately for the emotional residue. Lesson learned—now you just have to stay out of jail to use it. "Yes," she says, and finally sits down, silver lips curled in an unhappy scowl. "This is why we couldn't just bring in any of the psychics we know. It could be anybody." Unlike Herald, she has no outward marks from the fight: she is as smooth and perfect as always, her blue suit as tight as a second skin atop her silver one. No need for armor. "You're a perfect nobody." As if she realizes how that sounds, she frowns, dismissing her previous judgment. "Well, not exactly a nobody. Ortega always spoke well of you." > "I'm flattered." "Ortega exaggerates a lot." --- "I'm…flattered?" You give Ortega a quizzical look. Had he been talking about you after your 'death'? Filling the heads of the new recruits with stories about your heroic career? "But I'm not sure I can help here," you continue. "I used to browse surface thoughts to get an edge in a fight. That's hardly telepathy powerful enough to go up against someone who could control you like that." "You always say that, but you always deliver in the end." Ortega gives you a confident smile. The trust in his eyes makes you want to smack that smiling face. You don't need this on your plate too; the deed was over and done with. But they don't know that; they only know that something is wrong, that they have been betrayed by someone they should trust, and they will keep looking for an answer. "I suppose," you admit with a sigh. Though you can't stop their investigation, it is far better if you are involved. If you turn them down, they will go to somebody else, and that somebody else might start to unravel the weave of obfuscation you have woven inside her mind. Not to mention that the Rangers are now aware of the fact that you exist, and have powers…it's not as if you can just leave this alone. "If Lady Argent permits it, I can try to make the memories clearer and see if there aren't some more clues that she just can't remember." Lady Argent pulls back a little and gives you a look as if you had promised you'd shoot her, but she reluctantly nods. "If that is what it takes." She tosses back her silver hair with a flourish as if you had just issued her a challenge. "Let's do this." "Wait a minute!" you protest. "I haven't really used my powers for years, let alone for something like this. Please, give me time to center myself. I need to cleanse my mind." That is one word for it—you have to come up with a distinctively different telepathic feel, one that can't be associated with what had happened to her. This will take work. Not to mention figuring out which direction you want the evidence pointing. "That's probably wise," Steel admits reluctantly, still looking at you as if he expects you to mess up. Nothing new there. "I'll need a week or two," you suggest after pondering your schedule. "And I would like to have Ortega there as well. He won't influence the process since he is unreadable." You give Ortega what you hope is a suitably nervous smile. The truth is, you want Ortega there as a witness, and as an anchor. If he is around, you will have an easier time remembering who you used to be. Sidestep. The hero. He is the mask you need. "If you don't mind, Angie, I'd be honored." There is something there that you can't pick up on, something between Ortega and Lady Argent that almost makes her say no. Something that causes her to frown. Something interesting. "Fine," she says, after a few moments of hesitation. "You win. We'll do it your way. Try to get ready as fast as you can." You are not sure which one of you is the most relieved when you are finally allowed to leave the room. The corridor outside is empty, and you have to stop yourself from just making a run for it. Instead, you lengthen your steps as you head back to the elevator, letting out a deep breath of relief. Not that you get far... --- "Wait…." The voice is Steel's, and it makes you reflexively freeze up until you realize that the tone is not a threatening one. If anything, there's a look of regret on his face when you turn around to see him. Huh. That can't be right. "I'll walk you out," he says, falling into step beside you, unbidden. It's a funny feeling being around Steel without his armor. You're so used to him being massive that it somehow feels off when he's just around your height. To be fair, he's far bulkier than you, and probably weighs at least twice as much. You don't know if he's had more of his body replaced with cybernetic implants since back when you knew him, but there was always a good amount of metal hidden behind synth skin. Both his lower legs are artificial, that you know and hear; his stride is a lot heavier than yours. The left arm might be new, if you are reading his body language correctly. "So," he says, clearing his throat since you still haven't replied to him. It's not a conversation you want to have, but you also know better than to fight him on this. "So?" Maybe if you are lucky you can keep this to single syllable words and get out of here before you reveal yourself. "So, you survived." Steel cuts in front of you, forcing you to stop. Oh well, a confrontation it is then. "That's one way of putting it." You don't bother to put on the smiling mask for him; this is not Ortega. Steel doesn't care one whit how you feel, just whether you are a threat or not. Little does he know…. "And now you are back." "Not by choice, trust me on that." You let yourself sag a little, the frustration leaking to the front. This is not fake, and you hope that he picks up on that. "Ortega pulled me into this. If I had known, I…" "You wouldn't have come." He finishes your sentence for you, and you answer with a nod. "I'm retired." "You were never comfortable here even before you returned." Steel looks around the corridor, the wide, stark hallway a marked difference from their older, grimier headquarters. This place is too new to have a personality yet. "I think you mean 'there.' I've never been here before." "You made it hard to feel at home." > "It's not about being comfortable. It's about being retired." Let's not antagonize Steel - but there's no point setting off a heart-to-heart either. Out of here without a hitch, that's all I want.--- "It's not about being comfortable. It's about being retired." You let your shoulders sag a little more, feeding into the whole has-been persona. "It feels like you are driving that point home a little too hard," Steel says with a frown. "In the hopes that maybe someone will listen." You don't rise to his challenge, you just shrug and look down. "Because I doubt Ortega will." "He will." Steel sighs, his frustration changing direction. "I will make sure he understands." "Let's not play pretend here, Steel." Your voice hardens. "We were never friends." "Regardless, I didn't want to see you dead." There's something oddly official in the way that he says it. Maybe he never considered you a teammate, but you were allies. Once upon a time. "And I am happy that you're still alive." "As long as I stay a long way away from the Rangers, huh?" You can't help the wry, tired smile that appears on your face. There's only one reason he would have followed you out here. "I am glad that we understand each other." Steel answers your smile with a tense one of his own. Up close, you can see that he's gotten older as well. The stress of leadership, perhaps? "We do." You run a hand over your face, regaining your composure. Maybe you can actually make some use of his suspicious nature and get him to make Ortega back off. "But let's be real here, we both know I am not the problem here." "What problem?" The new voice is enough to make both you and Steel jump. "Herald." Steel gives you a thoughtful look, though he keeps talking to Herald. You never used to let someone get the drop on you in the old days. This, if nothing else, should show him that you are not who you used to be. "I had expected you to stay with Argent." "Ortega's talking to her. I thought I'd go check…" Herald looks so nervous that it takes a moment for you to notice he's hovering an inch or so above the ground. Then he realizes what he is doing and slowly sinks back down. "Go check on what?" You can't help the question because you have a sinking suspicion you know the answer. "Actually, Ortega asked me to make sure that nothing…" He hesitates for a moment, looking between the two of you. "…Had happened." "Of course he did." Steel's sigh is heavy with the lack of surprise as well. "I'm fine. Chen was just walking me to the door." "Just catching up on old times. I can find my own way out now." > "Perfect timing—want to show me out, Herald?" An encounter with Herald right now is not my idea of a favour, but Ortega thinks he's helping us out. Let's take him up on it.--- "Perfect timing," you say, forcing a relaxed smile. "Want to show me out, Herald?" "Sure." Herald shines up, then hesitates a little as he turns to Steel. "If you two are done, that is?" "We are." Steel gives you a polite nod, then turns and leaves. You don't return it. "Wow," Herald says, once Steel has turned the corner. "That was intense. I take it that you two don't get along?" "Never did," you admit with a shrug, turning to look at Herald. This close, he feels a little shorter, most likely because he's stopped hovering…or because Lady Argent is slightly shorter than you are. You've mostly seen him through her eyes, after all. "He can be a bit…" Herald gestures vaguely, as if he's unsure just how much he can insult his superior. Even with your telepathic powers in their most dormant stage, you can feel his unease. But is it with Steel…or with you? "'A bit…' is a nice way to put it." "But you used to work together, right? Back when you were Sidestep." There's a certain hushed rush to his words, as if he is suddenly unsure how to proceed. "We did. You don't need to like each other to work together." "Yeah, I'm learning that one." The laugh is half-nervous, half-amused. "Do you ever miss it, though? Being Sidestep?" "That's personal." "I…suppose I do. In a way." > "It doesn't matter, does it?" "No. That part of my life is over." We're still leaning on the idea of Sidestep being 'dead' whether we like it or not.--- "It doesn't matter, does it?" You shrug a little, looking away down the corridor where Steel left. "But it does!" Herald's enthusiasm is a bit surprising, and that must have shown on your face because he backs down fast. "I mean…I'm sorry. I just thought about how I would have felt…" "You are not me." You give him a deadpan stare. "I know, and I am sorry I brought it up." "It's fine," you say with the faintest of shrugs. "But you agreed to help Argent, didn't you?" Herald starts walking and you follow half a step behind, trying to look like you aren't paying attention to your surroundings. "I did," you admit with a sigh. "For old time's sake. For a friend of Ortega's. That doesn't mean that I want to get back in the game." "Too bad," he says, almost too quietly. You can't find anything to reply to that, so you keep your silence until you reach the exit. Saying goodbye is nothing but a big relief. --- It takes three different cabs and two stretches of brisk walking before you feel comfortable enough to finally go back home. You haven't been able to spot any people following you, but there's no way of telling if they have high-altitude drones shadowing your every step. It's a useless exercise to be paranoid; sooner or later, Ortega will find out where you live if he wants to. You don't have any incriminating evidence there anyway, but you have worked hard for your privacy. You're not about to give that up now. Not when you finally have a life where you can make choices that matter to you. Closing the door behind you, you make sure to lock it. Nothing looks like it has been disturbed, but you make the rounds all the same, checking to see if any of your little warning items have been disturbed. Nothing. The nearly invisible piece of tape is still there at the top of your bedroom door, and what you can pick up of your neighbor's thoughts show nothing out of the ordinary. Things feel safe, but you're still keyed up from running into Ortega. You can't take anything for granted, not really, but you also can't allow yourself to get too paranoid. A certain amount of risk is acceptable. Still, you need to stop worrying and start thinking. Sitting down in front of your computer, you pop a gummy bear in your mouth as you turn it on. You always keep a small bowl of the rainbow bears on hand, just to have something to keep you busy while you're thinking. It hums to life with a soft whir, the screen painting the room with a pale electric glow. You have come to like this little sanctuary of yours—it's the first time you've felt you really have a home you like. The apartment is a bit like you, the unassuming exterior hiding a surprisingly rich interior. Back in the day, you would have considered this to be a frivolity. But right now, you have enough money to live a comfortable life, so why shouldn't you have a comfortable home? You and Jane both, in fact, though her place is a bit more flashy. There is more of a chance that someone might get invited there eventually. Not here, though. Not in your private sanctuary. Once again, routine is a friend that you rely on, a safe port in an emotional storm. You want to let out the frustration and rage you feel at almost being exposed like this, but you can't allow yourself that release. Rage is a dangerous thing for a telepath: it makes you lose control, makes your shields brittle, and above all, makes you prone to mistakes. You need a clear head. So, if you are not to be angry, what should you be then? Productive, perhaps. Meeting Ortega again was a shock, and you have no idea whether you can manage to keep up the mask of who you once were if you keep interacting. Staying in hiding is no longer an option; you promised to help Lady Argent, and it is too late to go back on your word. The problem is that Ortega knows a different Charlotte, one you can hardly remember. How did you talk back in those days; what did you feel? Did you trust Ortega? You suppose you must have. Once someone has saved your life, some manner of trust must start to grow. But was there affection involved? Was he your friend? Friend? I had a crush on him. Yes, I really thought of Ortega as a friend. He was at least the closest thing I had to one. You never let it get that far. This is our chance to redo the choice early on, now that we (the reader) know Ortega a little better. Obviously there's no retconning what choices we've already made, but I think these options really do change the game from here on out. I'm sticking with our original choice, though.--- He was your friend. Your first friend. Maybe your only one. You're not sure if that's a sad account of a life or not, but you rarely dared to let people that close. Acquaintances, yes, but people who saw your face, who knew your name? That was a lot rarer. And Ortega had been there for you at every twist and turn, until… Yes. Until everything changed. You surf the web, thinking back. Click by click, you browse through the fan sites, and a mosaic of Charge's face stares back at you. The familiarity hits you like a right hook, making you smile a little despite yourself. It's the grin that does it, wide and careless even when tempered by that mustache—you can't decide whether it looks ridiculous or not. But it makes him look older. More mature. Tired. If he had worn a mask, he could have hidden the more obvious marks of age, but he had always been public. His father had been a high-ranking military officer before he died—most likely the reason why Ortega had the option of becoming one of the Enhanced in the first place after his accident. His mother had survived, and for a few years, you had been a welcome visitor at their house as one of Ortega's closest friends. Now, you don't even know if she's still alive. For a moment, you wonder if she still lives at her old place, and what she would do if you picked up the phone and called her. But that's just another pipe dream, just like what Ortega represents. "What is your game, old man?" you whisper to the screen, flipping through reports of his recent career as a member of the Rangers. Somewhere in that myriad of data points are answers. But instead, you find yourself distracted by the link on the page that leads to former associates, and as a result, to yourself. No, you decide, as you watch your own, masked, face as of nine years ago stare back from the screen. This is not you anymore. This is Sidestep. Your old identity. You remember the day that picture was taken, you were still out of breath and covered in debris after the Nanosurge hit the coastline. You are talking to someone off screen: Sunstream, if you remember correctly. She quit the Rangers half a year later, and you never learned why. Not that you asked. You never did. Still… It is an odd feeling, looking at yourself. Did you really use to be that open? That happy? Your hood is pulled back, and your full-face mask rolled up just enough so you can bite down on the energy bar in your hand because you had just saved the day. And hell, did you really use to be in such good shape? With the hooded coat unbuttoned, the armored skinsuit shows off what it felt like being twenty. You remember feeling self-conscious and ashamed when people took pictures back then, but looking at your former self, you wonder what you had to be ashamed of. Existing, probably. I never liked people looking at me. > Not ashamed—afraid to be recognized. Whatever the Special Directive and the Farm are, they're clearly bad news.--- You never forgot that you were in hiding, and anything that could obfuscate you really helped. Was it times like this that doomed you? Little moments of peace captured by cameras and recognized by the wrong people? Maybe. You will have to be more careful this time. What will your new armor look like? You haven't decided yet, but you need to settle on something soon. Things like this are important. Your Sidestep suit had its own personal symbolism in the geometric patterns of varying shades of gray, in the electric blue of the contrasting piping and patches. There was practicality as well: the fitted coat covering your skinsuit was armored enough to stop most bullets, and the full-face mask helped to filter gas and provide you with low-light vision, as well as hiding your identity. Fat lot of good that had done you in the end. > Still, I miss those days. I got too comfortable, and stopped hiding. I was too trusting; these people were not my friends. --- Still, you miss those days. Even a lie of a life could provide some comfort. Maybe you if you had dared to trust Ortega enough to tell the truth, maybe… For a brief moment you indulge yourself in memories. They had believed you were one of them, hadn't they? An ally, a comrade…a friend. The fond laugh catches you by surprise: how long has it been since you did that? Laughed? It's a night of old memories, to be sure. However, the important question is whether you can still act the hero or not. Not only do you need to go into Lady Argent's head and aim her suspicions in the right direction, you also need to feel like somebody completely different, surf the edge of her frustration at being turned into a puppet, and direct her anger at a suitable target. You know who to pick, of course; it's not like there are many suitable telepaths you could blame this on. Luckily, one has been missing for the past few months, and the papers have run with the story. Going under the hero name 'Locus,' she is a young, alpha-level telepath, which is a lot rarer than you'd imagine. Since she is a cute young girl who has gone missing, the media has been all over the case. So you have enough ammunition to push Lady Argent in the right direction. The perfect patsy, if you can pull it off. It's not like this is a lie that needs to hold up forever. All you need is a few weeks for Dr. Mortum to finish, and then it won't matter. Turning off your computer, you reluctantly look over in the direction of your bed. With the past being dragged back into light, you know it's going to be a bad night. Part of you wants to escape into Jane, but you've been running yourself pretty ragged lately. You need the rest. Real rest. It's just dreams. They can't hurt you. Head buried in the pillow, you lose yourself to oblivion. And so we return to the Heartbreak Incident. This is not the scene I warned you about - not yet, anyway.--- Darkness. Peace. Are you falling asleep? (Or are you waking up?) You don't get a choice... --- The dream descends on you like destiny. The pressure. The insidious air. You don't want to breathe anymore. Not this dust. Not this stench. Ortega is heading upstairs, followed by Steel. They walk because they must. One down… Three to go. There were no words. No tears. Shocked glances. An unspoken agreement to deal with this later. When you could. (If you could.) Nobody said it. What you all thought. Anathema might have been the lucky one. > No! --- Don't think that. Just walk. (Just wake up.) You try to keep up, but then you lag behind. You try to scan for life, and then you find it. And it finds you. As the others continue upstairs, you fall behind, and little by little you can feel the pressure increasing. The presence growing closer. You almost pass the door when you reach it. Number 412. …You almost manage to wake up, but you are dragged back down…. I reach for the door, pushing it open—I know I must stop this. I try to call out to Ortega, but my mouth won't make sounds. > My hand moves despite myself, turning the handle. I walk inside willingly, embracing what is to come. --- Your hand moves despite your wishes, turning the handle slowly. This is not you, you try to tell yourself. You are just following someone else's script. (This is just a dream, right?) (You turn the handle because you have to.) (Because you did back then.) (Even if you can't remember why.) Around you, the apartment shrinks into focus, the hallway ejecting you into the living room. A small, dead space, smelling of feet and antiseptic. (And burning hair.) "Don't…" That's the only word you can form. Your mouth turns weird. Your lips, static—as if they were reflections of someone else's. On the wall ahead of you hangs a painting of a tree. There is a balloon caught in it. If you turn your head a little to the right… A little to the right… A little…to the right… There's a strange inertia to your body. You can't move… You can't move your head… There's a shadow crossing the floor. A searchlight outside that is outlining the inhuman silhouette against the window. A strange pulse hits you like vertigo, clinging to your mental shields like static cobwebs. You're still on your feet. You're still functional. Barely. The helicopter is not; the tumbling machine screams before it crashes, its rotors sounding like people howling for release as it tears into the building across the road. The explosion shakes the room enough so that you do manage to turn your head, one hand frozen halfway to your mouth. Why are you alone. Why are you not alone. You can see the cables snaking across the floor, leaking rusty, foul-smelling fluid. Familiar fingers crawl over your mind, over your shields, pressing bitten nails into their spongy surface. They are failing. As are you. No. I'm too clever to let that happen. My mind is finally my own. > No. I'm stronger than this, I won't risk letting it in. Yes. I'm tired of fighting. I'm welcoming this. Yes. If I want to understand what this is, I need to embrace it. Strength of Will is our stronger telepathic realm - by one lousy point, but still.--- (I thought I had a chance.) You're not a novice anymore, and you know the danger you are in. Still, the best option you have is to steel your mind and try to keep the pressure outside. Like a submarine descending into the depths, you can't let yourself falter, not even a little. The smallest crack could mean failure. And failure is not an option… > I abandon my body, focusing on protecting my mind, hoping the others arrive soon. I keep moving to handle the threat, protecting my mind as best I can. --- It won't be long until Ortega notices you are missing. With what happened to Anathema, he must be on edge. All you have to do is keep yourself alive. Easier said than done. The surge of the alien mind hits you like a sack of wet cement, almost bringing you to your knees. Almost. You close your eyes to bring your inner defenses into focus, strengthening your thought-forms into new rigidity. There are shifts in the air that do not belong here, whispers unheard, a foul stench of rot starting to make itself known. No. You can't trust your senses. You can't trust what they are telling you. Just keep yourself upright, ignore the fingers trying to pry open your shell like an egg, trying to push, trying to break, the stench getting stronger, unwashed body, rotting flesh, a hand touching… …a hand touching… A hand is touching your cheek! I jerk back in horror—I need to get away. > I open my eyes in shock. I try to scream for help. --- It's here. It's right here next to you. You can smell the unwashed body, the untreated wounds—the rattle of metal cables is not imagined, the touch of fingers on your cheek is real, physical, and it is touching you, and it is leaning closer, and you can't help it, you're opening your eyes and… It's a woman. Just a woman. And then she smiles, empty gums black and smelling of rot, and you can see the damaged, emaciated form under the dirty hospital shift, and you can see the empty brown eyes stare into yours and you are… Lost. Her. Aware. Your face has gone numb under your fingertips as you claw at your skin, but you can see things clearly at last. Not this room. Another one. A familiar one. (But is that your familiarity, or her?) This is your last warning; here it comes. The flashback-within-a-flashback will continue until the end of this post. Click here to skip. --- Nine white walls, with fluorescent lights painting the angular surfaces in blues and iridescence. Four men and women in pale green scrubs, tending their instruments like holy artifacts. One prone woman, wrapped in white, strapped down on a table, wires crawling over her like snakes. "Approaching oxygen saturation level." "All systems are green." "Starting recording in three, two, one." "Body temperature 97.3 and dropping." Air cold enough for breath to mist. (How can you see? Is she already aware? Watching herself?) A subsonic rumble gone unheard, making ripples in the clear drip running into the woman's arm. Nine dull, black rectangles circling the table, equally connected to the wiring. "Is she dreaming?" "We've got REM movement." "Sleep paralysis is in effect. We won't lose this one." "Her. We won't lose her." A soft hand gently touching a cool forehead. (Your forehead? Her forehead?) The scrape of a pen marking numbers down on paper. A pair of hands rubbing together for warmth, or perhaps due to nervousness. "Is the inquiry finished? I mean, are we doing this again?" "It was ruled an accident. Nobody thought she'd start to move." "Guess she might have been a sleepwalker as a child." "Nobody checked for that?" A question gone unanswered, blame hanging there unassigned. Fingers leaping over keyboards, the clack-clack-clack like cockroach feet over the quiet hum of the room. A throat being cleared, a deep breath taken. "Activating gates one through five." "Heartbeat down to 28 bpm." "All systems are still green; she's holding up fine." "REM is still going. Proceed when ready." Scrubs rustle as people move to check their stations, but the woman at the center does not move at all. Just her (your) eyes, pupils twitching behind closed eyelids. Five of the dull, black rectangles hum to life, the oscillation field coming into effect. (no, stop this now this is not me) > (i need to hide don't make me remember) (i need to wake up now) For those enviable readers who don't know this phenomenon, the woman on the table is us. Charlotte is literally dissociating at this point.--- (please no stop too close go away i need to hide i don't want to remember) "Lowering the descent path by 0.57." "That steep? We've already got theta waves." "We went slow last time. That didn't work, did it?" "No need to snap. Keep an eye on the vitals." Green lights are flickering into yellow, and on the screens, the brainwaves are slowing down their dance. Checking printouts, one man crosses himself out of sight of the others (but not you). Four dull, black rectangles are left, inert in the tensing atmosphere. "Activating gates six through eight." "Wait, got an alpha wave flicker." "Dammit, lower her temperature!" "She's already at 96.2. If her core drops more, she might go into hypothermia." Fingertips are turning blue, cyanosis bruising pale (not your) skin. Breathing is a barely perceptible ripple in the stiff, white fabric covering her narrow chest (how can you see this? how can she?). The skull is visible under the shaved scalp, eyes sunken and fluttering under the dark brows. "REM still stable. Theta is borderline delta. I think we should open the ninth gate." "Check the restraints. Sleep paralysis or not, I'm not taking any risks this time." "Heartbeat down to 20 bpm. Showing signs of hypoxia—we can't keep this up long." "Let's do this, people. Activating the ninth gate." --- The last dull, black rectangle hums to life, and in the room, people grimace as the subsonic waves invade their bodies. Nobody is standing near the woman where she lies, alone (always alone), surrounded by active gates. Needles flicker, showing the steady drain of power as the feeling of unease intensifies. "Theta field active. Christ, I can feel it in my teeth." "Still no response. Should we go deeper?" "Heartbeat down to 17 bpm, signs of cyanosis, but the vitals are stable. I vote go." "Maximum psychic depth exceeded." Silence follows those words, everybody waiting for a reaction. Eyes flicker between glowing screens; the readouts snake paper down onto the dark floor. And yet, nothing happens (you keep screaming but you can't wake up). The placid thunderstorm keeps building, immobile yet raging. "Still nothing. Are you sure she's not slipped into delta by mistake?" "Check the eyes. REM is too strong." "Wait! We have harmonic tremors!" "Finally. Let's do this thing." A quiet nosebleed is running untended, staining green scrubs black. Lights are flickering tornado green, the dull, black rectangles fuzzy with vibrations. The woman on the table jerks convulsively, held fast by soft (familiar) restraints, her mouth opening in a quiet scream. "She's breached. She's breached!" "Quick, track her path, track her path goddammit. I need numbers!" "Our father who art in heaven…" "She's still here, I swear—the numbers don't track." (still here still here you all will regret this) (no please run i can't stop i don't want to stop) > (not me this is not me not my memories) --- Eyes jerking open (no this is not me), flickering back and forth in a vortex of blue on black. A tongue extended, slowly at first, then faster, as if tasting the air for scent. (antiseptic. ozone. rust. you know this but you should not.) Lips pulling back, nostrils widening in a baleful grimace, gums stained with tiny blisters. (i know this because these are her memories. i see this because these are her memories. because she ate them.) "poo poo. The numbers don’t track. Her id is still here, trapped in the field." "…Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom comes." "Her heart rate’s through the roof. She's flatlining." "God almighty, did she bring it back with her?" Nine dull, black rectangles, fizzling out one by one. (you can feel them) The fluorescent lights staining red blood black. Four men and women frozen like Hiroshima shadows, turning towards the center. One door behind them all, now closed. Another door opens. (you can feel them all) (you can feel them feeling you) (no) (you can feel your hand move) (no) (their hand) (their hands) > No!! --- You tear yourself awake with a scream, throat raw, covered in sweat. Your hands are shaking, the bedding a tangled mess around your feet. You hate dreams, but you hate this dream in particular. You hate the way you feel like a stranger in your own body, even when you wake up. On the outside looking in. You normally don't do this, but you run your hands over your body, following the lines of your scars, forcing yourself to look down and take in every hated detail of your skin. Familiar. So familiar. Your body. Unfortunately. No. That's not safe to think about. It's the past, it's over and done with, and you are alive, and here, and free to make your own decisions. That's what matters. Looking over at the alarm, you see that it will be morning soon. You should get some more sleep. You know you need it, but…lying there in bed, looking at the ceiling, you don't want to close your eyes. There are too many things ready to crawl back into your head. Too many ghosts ready to haunt you. So, you take the easy way out and close your eyes, not to sleep, but to let go of your body. Sliding into Jane is the best option available to you. > Being anybody but myself sounds really good right now. My body needs sleep, but I can still get things done with my puppet. Right now, being head blind is what I need. --- Being anybody but yourself sounds really good. Even the memories seem fainter when you can smile with someone else's mouth, pretend that nothing horrible ever happened in their life. Be normal. That's what you need right now, normality. Even if it is a borrowed one. Maybe if you wear the mask long enough, it will finally feel real. You close your eyes. --- Telepathy Strength of Mind: 63% Subtle Manipulations: 73% Power failed us in that encounter; we've actually taken a hit to Strength of Mind and gained Subtle Manipulations, presumably as a mark of a lesson learned.Psychological Profile Infamy: 0% ||| Obscurity: 100% Arrogance: 64% ||| Anonymity: 36% Ruthlessness: 42% ||| Empathy: 58% Daring: 54% ||| Caution: 46% Allies and Enemies Charlotte's relationship with Ortega: old friend. Jane's relationship with Dr. Mortum: flirting. Charlotte's relationship with Lady Argent: neutral. Charlotte's relationship with Marshal Steel: distant. Charlotte's relationship with Herald: distant. --- No vote this time, since I made the executive decision to end on a breather - for you and for me. The votes from last time will come into play later. But it doesn't feel right having a gameplay vote after that ordeal. I also don't want anyone who skipped the flashback scene to be left out of the between-updates discussion, so: What do you think of Charlotte so far? Obviously she's no angel, and trauma isn't an excuse to persecute others, but in general: Understandable villain? Excusable? Redeemable? For my part, she seems incredibly human - and not just because I've modeled her after myself. (I'm okay, don't worry.) The game does such a good job of portraying unreoslved trauma, including inner-world defence mechanisms, that I reflexively want to feel sorry for the author. At the same time, we're doing horrific things and it won't stop any time soon. (Spoiler policy still applies, I'm just referring to future events because it's obvious that this is not a redemption story.) So I think Charlotte is a crappy person, but an amazing character. Somehow, this obscure nothing of a game by who-knows-who has produced one of my all-time favourite avatars, vying with both Commander Shepard and Maxine Caulfield for first place. The next update will be some time this weekend. Sorites fucked around with this message at 15:15 on Jan 24, 2020 |
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Jan 24, 2020 05:35
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Apologies for the triple post, but I wanted to generally thank the people who've reached out. For those wondering: I genuinely am fine, this thread isn't some kind of public therapy. I just like the game. Also, having a post here lets me put a "click here to skip" in the update. Sorites fucked around with this message at 15:14 on Jan 24, 2020 |
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Jan 24, 2020 14:57
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I... uh... drat, remind me to not make jokes about paths having a reveal that Sidestep was a meat puppet for us. Because that dream flashback and wakeup...
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Jan 24, 2020 22:48
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This really is heavily reminding me of Worm. A pretty different universe, one which I wasn't real sold on to start (the idea that giving libertarians what they want would be any sort of actual success story gets a big ol' eyeroll from me), but man, everything since then is great.
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Jan 25, 2020 02:49
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I do like that police forces, both hero and civilian, naturally re-evolved. True lawlessness is not self sustaining.
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Jan 25, 2020 05:22
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Moving Swiftly On The void between bodies is as familiar as it is brief. Vertigo sucks you in as you let go, and you open your eyes somewhere else. No, not your eyes. Jane's eyes. Moving between bodies is more disconcerting than people might think. The body feels different, moves differently, and you need a few moments to adjust as you awkwardly stand up and stretch away the accumulated inertia. Outside your window, the sun is slowly rising into what promises to be yet another searing Los Diablos day. Dawn. Not a time that Jane is usually awake, unless it is to stumble into bed to fall asleep. Yawning wide, you stumble into the shower, the hot spray helping to center you in your new body. It's strangely freeing not to have to avoid the mirrors, wiping away the fog to meet your borrowed face with a wide smile. There's nothing to fear here; everything inside Jane is so much simpler. Good. You've got enough complications to last you a lifetime. The restless night has not left you unscathed: even in this body, you're filled with a restless energy that needs to be released. You need the gym; you need to hit something, something hard. That's why you've taken up boxing. Even if Jane was never meant to fight in person, she is where you go to get your aggression out in a controlled manner. Physical training was a necessity at first. She was in such a bad shape after being comatose for years that you needed to put in a lot of work to build your new woman from the ground up. But after a while, you began to enjoy the process. You can wear short sleeves and undress without a care in the world. When people look at you, you don't know what they are thinking. When you spar with someone, you have to hone your reflexes—no cheating involved, no thoughts or intentions to unravel. Sometimes a little silence goes a long way to keep a body sane. A little silence and a lot of violence. --- Finding a good gym wasn't easy: you didn't want it to be close enough for someone to follow you home, and it couldn't be popular enough to be crowded, or so small that you would stick out. In the end, you found something you could live with, even if the place smelled like old, unwashed socks and sweat. You normally come here in the afternoon, and this early, the place has a completely different feel. The people working out right now seem to be the types to do their training before heading off to a day at the office: a richer, more affluent clientèle than you normally see. Not that it matters—right now, you don't want interaction, just something to unload on. Something safe. You give in to the anger as you punch the sandbag, putting your whole body behind the blows. The gym buzzes around you, but you block everything out so you can be alone with the bag. Better the bag than the dreams. Better the bag than the dead. You were so very nearly one of them. Almost. It still changed you. Irrevocably. You haven't really felt real since it happened…not like you should. Like you remember that you should. And that's the worst part: you don't even know if you were broken, or if your eyes were opened. Were your memories real? Are you real now? You can't allow yourself to think about that. Ever. All you can do is choke back the surging emotions, shoving them down into the well from which they escaped. You're real enough to make the bag rock back and forth with your blows. You don't need anything else. Anyone else. All you need is your anger. If the anger is your friend, right now the bag is your enemy. It accepts your abuse with indifference, an inanimate stand-in for who you really want to punch. Ortega, for letting me down one too many times. Steel, for never treating me like one of them. Lady Argent, for thinking I was a nobody. Herald, for being what I could never be. > Myself, because I was a naive idiot in the past. Myself, because I know I'm heading down the wrong path, but I can't stop. Our Charlotte doesn't seem to blame or hold animosity toward anyone but herself.--- You were an idiot back when you were still a hero, and you hate that part of you still regrets what you have become. Charlotte's face is easily summoned, especially now that you don't have to look at it in the many mirrors of the gym. Sometimes it bothers you that it is so easy to hit yourself, but a little bit of self-hatred can be useful at times. So you grit your teeth and pound Charlotte's face again and again until your hands ache in your gloves. You want to get it all out: the fear, the hatred, the frustration. Your hands are sore, your arms are aching, but you won't stop. You can't stop. Out of breath, with your heart racing, you feel your eyes tearing up. You are not sure why you are crying, and part of you wants to deny it, but you are. Maybe for lost chances and missed opportunities, maybe for what you fear you might have to do in the future. It's not like your tangle of motivations is easy to unravel, and honestly you don't care to try. Instead, you step back, burying your face in a towel. It smells like sweat and deodorant, the scent of a stranger as familiar to you as your own body. You have spent so much time in the quiet corners of her brain lately. Jane. Your sanctuary. "Are you alright, miss?" The intrusion of another voice into your own inner struggle catches you by surprise, and you look up, eyes red and moist. "I'm not sure," you confess, stomach making another turn as you recognize the man. "Just stress," you tell Ortega where he stands, completely unaware of who rides inside the skull of this woman he is concerned about. Ortega, with his bright smile and fashionable gym clothes, the towel around his neck smelling of sweat.  An impossible fluke, you tell yourself. A coincidence. "So, I've never seen you around here before…" Your smile is all practiced artifice now, and it hides the nervous flutter in your stomach as you wipe the sweat from your face. It feels odd and slightly dirty to slip into the coy female body language you use when you wear her body. This is not a stranger; you know this man. Which makes the act all the more important. "No, I come here a lot," Ortega says, and you wonder why the smile is so different than when he aimed it at you at the diner earlier. Maybe because this time you return it. "Need to wake up somehow. Coffee rarely does the trick these days." "Ah, that's it then." You're proud your voice remains calm. Have you been this close to running into each other all this time? "I'm usually not here this early, but I needed to get some frustration out today. Bad night." "Well, let's hope your bad night might come with a silver lining. Or does that only work for clouds?" Ortega smiles again, and you realize that he might be flirting with you. You are not even sure how you feel about that, but right now you… > …encourage it. …discourage it. Well this all seems...horrible. Let's play along for now, both because that's how we deal with crises as Jane and to create as much difference as possible between our Jane and Charlotte personalities.--- "You could have been smooth and pointed out that even the darkest night ends at dawn," you say with a wink, reaching for your water bottle. You are well aware of how your lips look wrapped around a squeeze bottle, and you make the most of it just to see him squirm. It feels good, being back in control. This was all a fluke. And now that the first shock has passed, you find it rather amusing how your paths have come so close to crossing again and again, separated only by the hours of the day. "If I had indeed been smooth, that would have been a good line. Sadly, I'm not at my best right now. I just have a bit too much on my mind," he replies with a self-deprecating smile, his gaze momentarily distracted by your display. "Oh?" You don't ask openly, but your stance shifts into focused curiosity, encouraging him to continue. The decision is only half conscious, as this is what you were trained to do before you even struck out on your own. A different kind of Sidestep, weaving conversations the way you want them to go. Making them trust you, before you were strong enough to force that trust. "It's nothing, really." Ortega shakes his head, and you raise an eyebrow. "You're looking way too tense for this early in the day," you joke, using your shared smile to disarm some of the growing tension. "I am, aren't I?" He laughs and you know you've succeeded in lowering his guard. "It's just that a friend of mine has ended up in some trouble, and I'm trying to work out how to fix things." He actually loses his smile for a moment there, and you realize that he must be taking the whole Lady Argent business harder than he pretended to earlier. You suppose it's not often he's left standing around feeling helpless. "You're one of the good guys then?" you ask teasingly. "To care that much about your friend?" "You don't have friends who do?" He teases back, hitting a little too close to the mark. "Of course I do…." > "I work too much…." Not that we ever want Ortega and Mortum trading notes on Jane, but just in case let's maintain some consistency.--- "I work too much for close relationships." You can't hide the scowl, though you try, and even to your own ears your voice sounds bitter. You can remember how it felt though, when you kept up the act and still could have illusions about people. Before you knew what they were. What they thought. How they felt. No wonder you love slipping into Jane to be rid of that curse. "That's a sad story," he manages to say without sounding patronizing. "No wonder you manhandled that poor sandbag so." You catch yourself halfway through the laugh, but it's too late to stop it. "It's not as fun when it doesn't hit back though. Makes me feel like a bit of a bully." You are not sure where that came from; just being around Ortega makes you question your current goals. Dangerous…but on the other hand, it keeps you honest. Questioning your life is what led you here in the first place; you can't just stop now. "Want to spar?" he offers, the cocky smile provoking a similar one on your own face. "If you want a moving target, I mean." Okay, you have to admit that is a tempting prospect. Not just because you might want to hit Ortega, but because that would mean you could judge his current abilities. And his interest in you… > "Sure, if you feel like you're up to it." "I'm already finished, but I'd love to grab coffee if you have time?" "Sorry, I'm running late already. Maybe I'll see you around next time?" Now we're getting somewhere. Our strategy so far has been "knowledge is power". Besides, we're trying to keep Ortega close - not that this is how we planned on doing it, but adaptability might pay off. If he's developed new moves during our absence, we might learn something.--- "Sure, if you feel like you're up to it." You wipe your smiling face with the towel before giving him a challenging look. "Wouldn't have asked otherwise. I'm Ortega, by the way. Ricardo Ortega." "Jane," you reply with a smile. "Now let's get to it." "I'll get my gloves." Ortega turns around, giving you a moment to reflect on what you just agreed to. Your heart has started speeding up, and you're not sure if it is in anticipation of a fight, or if it is because of the enormity of what you are about to do. Why did you agree to this? Why are you taking this risk when it would have been so much easier to just walk away and never return? I miss him. Even if it's not real, maybe we can be friends again > The more he likes me, the more leverage I'll have in the future. I'll see what shape he's in, and whether he's got more mods. I need to release some frustration, and this is the best way. Flirting with danger is what I do best. Jane gonna Jane. I was tempted by the third option too, but I don't think our merely-human puppet will be able to push Ortega to the point of using his mods.--- You won't lie, it feels more than a little weird to flirt with Ortega in this body, but it's tactically sound. You know him: if he's even the least bit interested in you, that will be something you can use in the future. You're not quite sure how yet—but affection is a powerful weapon. All you have to do is keep your own head cool in the process. Maybe this is exactly what you need to clear your head, even if you have to wear a mask all the while. As Ortega returns, you can feel your smile growing in anticipation of the fight ahead. Keeping your friends close but your enemies closer has never been more apt. I've never seen this page before; I didn't plan things out at all.--- Eight Days Later The world is dark. The blindfold smells faintly of disinfectant, or maybe that's just the air in here. Dr. Mortum has been leading you by the hand for what feels like an hour now, though it is probably a fraction of that. Time passes differently when it's dark—you know this intimately. Luckily, you are in Jane's body, so it is easier to chase away the memories that threaten to resurface. Instead, you focus on trying to figure out where she is leading you. A short drive at first, then the dank smell of the city. No direct sunlight, so you guess you might have gotten out of the car indoors—maybe in a warehouse, or a garage. Then there were stairs, and a corridor which smelled of chemicals. Underground somewhere, but where exactly, you have no idea. Not that it matters. Dr. Mortum can keep her secrets, as long as she delivers what was promised. "Are we there yet?" you ask, echoing pop-culture references you never really were a part of. "Indeed we are, ma chérie." A door closes and the fans begin to hum, erasing any lingering outside stench. "You can remove the blindfold now." Pulling off the fabric, you can't help… …being annoyed at the inconvenience. > …understanding the need for secrecy. …seeing the humor in the situation. --- "Finally. I know why you need to be cautious, but I was getting a little bored of the scenery." You rub your eyes, blinking a few times to adjust to the sudden light. "I'm glad you understand, ma chérie. Better safe than sorry, non? We don't want to have any unfortunate incidents. I plan to stay in business for a very long time." "Speaking of business…" You can't stop your eyes from widening as you step forward. Now that they have adapted to the light, it is impossible to overlook the centerpiece of the room. "Is that…?" "Yes, yes it is." Dr. Mortum walks over to the massive holographic screen hovering there, running her hand through the air to zoom in on the armor schematics. The greenish light makes her normally warm black skin take on an odd midnight hue, and you find yourself wondering how Jane would look surrounded by that glow. "Want to get a closer look?" she asks, as if she were reading your mind. You nod quietly, stepping forward so you can be surrounded by the screens. The greenish beams scan your hand when you hold it out, tracing the pattern of an armored glove over it. This is it—what you have invested so much time and effort in. Your new face. Your new identity. Your new life. "So, what do you think?" Dr. Mortum taps her fingers in the air, causing the armor to split apart before coming together again in a dizzyingly kaleidoscopic display. "Do you think your boss will be happy?" "That depends." You manage to keep a straight face, making sure not to look too eager. This is not the body that will fit in it, and it wouldn't do to make Mortum suspect that you are anything but a glorified assistant. "Tell me about it." "Of course, ma chérie". Another wave of her hand, the elegant fingers as precise as a surgeon's. The look of excitement on her face makes you wonder if you might have been better off asking for the dummies' version of whatever speech she is preparing to give. "The armor is sandwiched laminar plasteel over two layers of fibermesh." The sleek silhouette takes shape in front of you as if you were facing the real thing, but it is painted in greenish light instead of dull plasteel gray. "The plasteel is flexible in its relaxed state, giving the wearer a good range of movement, but if triggered, it will go rigid to absorb the impact. The mesh has a good resistance to tearing attacks; the combination should be able to stand up to the standard LDPD weapons with ease." "And punches?" you ask, remembering the sight of Marshal Steel charging down the street in his armor. "That would depend on the punch," she admits with a shrug. "I can reinforce the armor with electro-reactive shielding as well, which would give more protection, but that would mean more of a drain on the power cells. You might want that output for other options." "Other options?" "Speed, for example. As it is, the armor does not hinder the wearer, but it would be an easy matter to also boost performance. Right now, there is space for a pair of small jump-jets which would assist leaping and enable bursts of increased speed over short distances." "Are those rocket boots?" You frown a little at the design, running your fingers through it so the hologram shivers out of focus. "Boots and back. Both are needed for balance. There is not enough room for stabilizers without turning it into a proper wingsuit, and that wasn't what your boss ordered." "True," you agree, pondering your options. "What else?" "Well, if we are talking about increasing the bulk of the armor, there is always the possibility of adding an exoskeleton." "Really?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "Not a military one, of course, but it would be possible to add one of the lightweight sport models." Perhaps she catches the look on your face because she quickly continues, "Do not expect to turn into the Red Behemoth, ma chérie. I can't work miracles without increasing the size." "I'm not the one who's going to be using this armor," you point out. "I know, and speaking of which…" --- Mortum's hands pull apart and the hologram zooms in, focusing on the massive glove on the left hand. "The main weapon of the suit is of course going to be the nanovores. I was right, by the way—it was not hard to reprogram the nasty little creatures. Flesh will be safe from them now, but anything inorganic, decidedly less so." "Good," you say with a nod. "And the control?" "Working as intended. The targeting web you liberated was not hard to repurpose. Though the wearer still has to be psi-sensitive to interface with it, the web will aid greatly in keeping the nanovores dormant when they are not needed." "And nobody wants another Nanosurge." "Very true, that." Dr. Mortum purses her lips for a moment, looking thoughtful. "I am fairly certain that if I supercool the central chamber, that can clear up the interface process quite a bit, making it easier for the wearer to access the true power of the targeting web." "Sort of like a telepathic booster?" "More like reducing the friction between minds, but the effect would be similar. As it is, it requires a lot of effort to use the nanovores. This process would make it easier." "And let me guess, it also requires energy." "You can't have everything you want in this armor, ma chérie, since your boss did not give me either the time or the money to do that." "I suppose things can be modified at a later stage as well." "Possibly. We are already overloading the battery capacity of the suit with the current ce-lith cells; however, if I could have access to a proper fusion reactor…" "Would that really be safe?" "Ma chérie, your boss is a…man," she says, giving you a questioning look, but you neither deny nor confirm the guess. "…A man who is willing to carry a handful of primed nanovores into battle. I hardly think safety is one of his main concerns." "That is true," you agree. "Are there other options?" "Not without compromising the time frame." "And my boss would not want that." You can already feel life beginning to catch up with you, and to wait longer would mean a greater chance of failure. It's now or never. "So which options should I go ahead and implement, then? Or do you need to speak with your boss first?" "No," you say, shaking your head. "I am trusted to make these decisions." To pretend to go and ask someone for advice would mean further delays, and you have waited long enough. "What can feasibly be added in time?" "I would say two of the options could work, as I think that is within the operating parameters of the power source. Any preferences?" --- Decision Time! Alright, folks, this is the big one. Our scheme all this time has been to fund, equip, and assemble this suit of power armour. This is what we've been working towards all along, and our last best chance to customize our build. Its primary weapon will always be a nanovore projector - think of the bee plasmid from Bioshock, but harmless to organic material. It will also enhance our durability to some extent by default. But what two upgrades should we choose? 1) The electro-reactive shielding for greater protection; 2) The speed booster and jump jets; 3) The strength-enhancing exoskeleton; or 4) The telepathic booster? Vote for two options. The features which get the most and second-most individual votes will win, not the most popular combination! Sorites fucked around with this message at 04:59 on Feb 6, 2020 |
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Jan 26, 2020 21:35
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Telepathic booster and either speed or armor (so a half vote for armor and speed each). Telepathy is our strongest weapon, so may as well lessen the burden on it. Other than that, I can't decide between armor or speed, as anything we would need actual strength for can probably be handled by the nanoswarm or by our own psychic abilities, but a punch from a superhero will probably hurt.
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Jan 26, 2020 21:58
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Speed and telepathy that's the ticket.
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Jan 26, 2020 22:05
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Brains and Speed!
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Jan 26, 2020 23:18
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Speed and Telepathic Boost.
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Jan 26, 2020 23:27
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I forgot to include a time estimate in the update, but this is a big one. Let's cover my mistake by calling a 24-hour warning for this vote here.
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Jan 27, 2020 15:56
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Armor and Brains. Be completely immune to harm while mentally loving up their day
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Jan 28, 2020 14:36
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Shots! "If there really is a way to lessen the interference of the telepathic control, I'm sure my boss would appreciate it." You are going to be doing a lot of juggling as it is. Keeping the nanovores under control requires concentration, and even if you can use the Rat King to deal with a lot of the mundane upkeep, it's going to be different in a fight. This would allow you to be more reliant on your telepathic gifts during the action, and honestly, you like it best that way. "Please, ma chérie, I've worked with telepathic engineering before. It is a rare gift, but not unheard of. I know what I am doing." Dr. Mortum almost sounds insulted. --- "These suits can be rather clunky. I was told to make sure that it won't slow the wearer's reactions down." Even if you are not at your peak, you always relied on agility and reflexes. You don't want to get into something that will slow your reactions too much, as that might be the difference between success and failure. Both Lady Argent and Ortega are fast, and you need to be able to keep up with them. Luckily Herald—who might technically be the fastest—is less experienced than the others, if you judged your fight with him correctly. "Have no fear, ma chérie; this suit won't hinder movement. Rather the opposite, in fact." Dr. Mortum looks so pleased with herself that you are inclined to believe her. "That sounds good," you say, looking at the screens already changing under Dr. Mortum's agile fingers. "And the overall design aesthetic?" "No changes there," you say, resisting the urge to reach up and touch the holographic representation of your hopes and nightmares. "My boss still wants it looking…" …functional, without useless ornamentation. …imposing, like a true conqueror. …terrifying, like a monstrous creature from beyond. > …mysterious and featureless. This is the closest we'll get to playing as a featureless cipher this time through. Might as well indulge that idea.--- People's minds can be used against them in more ways than one. If they can't guess who—or even what—you are, they can't prepare against you. The unknown makes people speculate, and their imaginations run wild with wrong assumptions. This is a strength and a shield in one, and a role you are comfortable playing. Nobody will ever know. "I still think it would have been easier if I could have talked to them directly." Dr. Mortum shuts off the holographic displays with a decisive gesture, smiling a little at you. "In my line of business, I've learned that's often the only way to avoid complaints. That, and getting everything in writing." The laugh is short and amused. "I would have thought that your line of work also included respecting your client's privacy." You can't help sounding rather dry—she's been a little too curious for your liking. "Of course, ma chérie, I just don't want any misunderstandings. As you can imagine, I have no wish to end up on their bad side." "If that's what worries you, you can rest easy." You shrug, feeling a little awkward standing here in her lab, talking about yourself. "I'll be the one bearing the brunt of any complaints." "Maybe that is what worries me," she says with a soft sigh. "I know all about the dangers in your line of work. It's not easy being stuck in the middle." > Is she really interested in me? I steer the conversation towards the personal. I keep it safe and focus on business. Dr. Mortum is just about to deliver. Let's not take any chances and continue indulging her; it's worked so far, after all. Getting too businesslike now might make Jane look too invested in her "boss's" work.--- "Speaking from experience?" There's something in her tone that speaks of more than simple concern. "We all have to do our dog years before striking out on our own." The shrug is nonchalant—the look on her face less so. "I have a hard time imagining you as just a lab assistant." It's not entirely a lie; Dr. Mortum has always given you the impression that she is very much in control. You can't really imagine her as a pimply assistant in a lab somewhere, even if you know that's how she must have started. "Good." The laughter sounds genuine. "I'd hate it if that part still showed." "Did…" You hesitate a moment because she is looking at you, and if there's anything that really makes you feel uncomfortable, it's that. "Did you ever hesitate? I mean, taking the step?" "Merde…" Thankfully, she looks away to fiddle with some of the control panels on the wall. "I guess. It's not like I had much choice. At least, it didn't feel like that at the time." "I know what you mean," you mumble quietly to yourself. "Destiny has a gravitational field all of its own." She keeps talking without turning around. "I got a push, and I could either fall or fly." The pause grows longer, almost turning awkward before Dr. Mortum finally turns back and smiles at you, all cocky confidence once more. "Make sure you pack a parachute, ma chérie, because you never know when you might have to use it." "I told you I could take care of myself," you retort, a bit annoyed at the implication. Especially since it hits so close to home. Do you have a parachute, maybe even wings? If so, they are here in this lab, in a new face and new identity that can be whatever you want them to be. "As you say, ma chérie. Besides, I am not being paid to give good advice, am I?" "For this price, maybe you should include that for free." It is a joke that neither of you are laughing at. "I could throw in a cape?" There is a moment's pause as you both look at each other while you try to tell if she's serious. "A cape. Really?" You hadn't considered one before; it's a fashion choice that went out of style years ago. "It fits very well into the theme actually," Dr. Mortum says, turning the screen back on again. "Your boss wants this thing to be mysterious, and what is more mysterious than a hooded cape? Anything could be hiding under there. "Besides, cape technology has come a long way since the eighties. With the new nanoweaves, even a light cape won't tear easily, and force-sensitive clips ensure that it comes off if it gets stuck." No thanks.You watch the image of the armor rotating in the air as Dr. Mortum adds a variety of capes to the sleek image. There's a look of almost childish joy on her face that makes it hard not to smile in return. "I didn't know you were so fond of capes," you tease. "I'm not." There's a pause, and a sheepish shrug. "Alright, maybe I am. It adds a sense of style that I feel most people these days lack." "Fine, add the cape." > "Forget it, no cape." --- "Forget it," you say with a dismissive shake of your head. "No cape." "As you wish," she says, sighing theatrically as she strips the cape from the schematics. "Don't look so cross; it just wasn't in my specifications." You have a hard time not laughing at the look on her face, which takes you a bit by surprise. It's been a long time since you felt this human. "Are you finding something funny, ma chérie?" Dr. Mortum looks at your suppressed mirth with fond amusement. "Not really," you protest, but your eyes are drawn to the projection of the suit still hovering in the middle of the room like a mirage. "I guess I just feel…" You hesitate for a moment, trying to figure out what you really feel. …sad that this collaboration is ending soon. > …nervous that things won't go as planned. …impatient to get the show on the road. The first option is the most flirtatious, but she saw us nearly laugh - not cry. And she was talking before about our (Jane's) safety. She should buy this.--- "I guess I just feel a bit nervous," you admit with a sheepish smile. "I can understand that. It's never easy being the go-between when it comes to things like this. But," she continues with a wide smile, "I've never had any complaints about the quality of my creations." "Never?" you ask, because the cause for your nervousness is something completely different—but it's not like you can admit that. "Well, rarely," she says with a shrug. "It happened…oh, maybe three times. And none of those were my fault. Some people are just impossible to please, you know?" "I know." You have grown up with some of them. "Speaking of impossible to please…how about continuing this discussion somewhere more pleasant? Let's say, over a drink?" > "I hope you're not just being a cheapskate here. I was expecting dinner…." "I thought you had a job to do." "Business or…pleasure?" Is it wise to talk about this in public? But this is in character. Jane has faced down an armed Dr. Mortum with just banter; we might as well fire back now.--- "I hope you're not just being a cheapskate here," you tease with an artfully raised brow. "I was expecting dinner." "And dinner you shall have, ma chérie. But there's nothing wrong with a practice drink first, is there?" > "Yes, I'd love to." "I have time for a drink, I suppose." "Sorry, but I will have to decline." "No, let's keep this purely professional." Nailed it.--- "Yes," you answer, surprising yourself. "I'd love to." "Perfect! Now, my apologies, I need to refit the blindfold before we leave. I'm sure you understand." "Of course." You don't protest as she puts the blindfold back on, because secrets and the need for them are something you understand intimately. In fact, you would hazard that you have more of them than she could ever guess. --- A car ride later: The car ride takes a lot longer than you would have guessed. You suspect this is because Dr. Mortum never drives the straight route anywhere, as you can feel the turns, even if you can't see them. It takes half an hour before you are allowed to remove the blindfold, and another hour before you are both seated in a booth at Joes. You feel… …odd. When was the last time I did something for myself? …interested. I'm sure Dr. Mortum has a reason for this excursion, but what? > …awkward. I am playing a role here; I can't slip up. …annoyed. I am only doing this to manipulate her. …nervous. I shouldn't be, but my heart is racing all the same. …excited. I thought she'd never ask me out. I'm pretty sure Dr. Mortum is genuinely falling for Jane. Which is...unexpected. We've committed to the act, though, so we have to see it through.--- You can't help but feel a little bit awkward, sitting here. Of course you're smiling, and looking as confident as you can, but it's all an act and you know it. You want her to like you because that means she will do a better job. Money is one thing, but feelings are a great motivator. You were taught that. You were taught to smile and laugh and pretend to be interested, to be real, to find things funny. Maybe that's what is making you feel slightly sick here—that you're reminded of what you used to be. No. That's not true. Because back then you had your telepathic powers, weak as they were. Now you have nothing but years of experience. You hope that will be enough. "…Penny for your thoughts?" "Huh?" You tear yourself away from your internal world, giving Dr. Mortum an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I was a hundred miles away." "I can see that." "I was just wondering if she's got any sense of self-preservation." You nod towards the argument growing at one of the central gaming tables. A massive, scarred Latina with implants all over the back of her skull is arguing loudly with a sharply dressed Asian man in a suit. You vaguely remember her as Mecha-something, a boosted mercenary with a gambling problem. You're not sure what the man is called, but you know who he works for. "Picking a fight with one of Hollow Ground's henchmen is not a choice I'd make." Hollow Ground is the closest thing this town has to a kingpin. You've heard a hundred stories at the various underground bars you frequented before settling on Joes. And while none of them go into detail, they all agree on one thing: Hollow Ground is dangerous and not to be crossed. Her criminal empire is ruled with an iron fist, and one way or another, her fingers are in most of the tastier pies in this city. Of course, this means that sooner or later you will come into conflict. But hopefully you will have time to prepare before then. You'd rather trust your telepathy to tell you the truth about a person than baseless rumors. The one worry you have is that you haven't been able to ascertain what sort of powers Hollow Ground has, if any. She won't use them in public, preferring to rely on henchmen. "Not a choice you'd make? Really?" Dr. Mortum winks at you. "Are you sure about that?" I guess she's figured out that Jane has some serious courage of her own from the way we've handled things so far.--- "What are the chances that this will escalate, you think?" You sip your drink, pondering the odds. It's not unlikely; fights break out at Joes now and then, the unwritten rule being that you shouldn't use offensive powers. If you do, chances are you'll end up banned or worse. "Seventy-eight percent," Dr. Mortum answers without hesitation. "Did you just make that number up?" "Of course, ma chérie. Did you expect me to answer 'somewhat likely,' like some hack?" Dr. Mortum winks at you. "Scientists," you say with the deepest of sighs. "Sometimes I wonder how many of your numbers really are made up." "Not made up—this is simply an estimation of a statistical probability." "And what are the odds of it escalating to disturb our drinks?" You keep looking at the table with a faint frown, not sure how you feel about the prospect of a bar fight. The rest of the players are slowly inching their chairs backwards in preparation for violence, and you spot Bo there as well. Looks like he'd been making good use of his latest paycheck. "If it starts, around fifty percent, depending on how fast the bouncer steps in. You know that with these people, escalation is inevitable." Dr. Mortum sighs, as if she's the lone adult in a room of unruly children. You should feel the same; you should be above this sort of excitement. But for a moment, you're tempted to go over there and get into it. It's not a wise move, but you've been playing it safe for so long that sometimes the urge to just do something rash becomes overwhelming. Perhaps that's why you liked working with Ortega; it was anything but dull, and his recklessness spoke to that part inside you that longed for action. That was one of the reasons you put on the mask in the first place, wasn't it? To feel the freedom in the moment? Well, one of the reasons. I'll just ignore the growing commotion and keep talking with Dr. Mortum. I'll go over there and try to defuse the situation before it escalates. Bo looks worried; I'll go over and check what's going on. > A bar fight would liven things up—time to throw some gasoline on the flames. If there's one thing people like, it's being proven right. Keeping Jane cocky will make Dr. Mortum think she has our number; she'll be even less inclined to question her assumptions.--- "I won't be a moment," you say as you rise from the table, giving Dr. Mortum a confident smile. The altercation is a welcome distraction from the strain of keeping your mask on. A bit of chaos might help. Not that you're about to tell her that, or she might try to dissuade you. "I'll tell them to quiet down a little." "I am not so sure that's a wise thing to do, but do as you please." The look on Dr. Mortum's face betrays little but curiosity, as if she's wondering how you're going to pull that off. That is exactly why it's fun. As you saunter over towards the table, you get a closer look at what is going on. The table is full, every seat taken but for the two vacated by the people arguing. It's a busy night, and people are always up for the chance to win—though as with any game of chance, most walk away broke. In a bar like Joes, frequented by villains and henchmen alike, games of chance always require special consideration. The telepathic dampeners may stop any psychic abilities from invading people's privacy, but there are plenty of physical powers that could interfere with the game. How do you stop someone with x-ray vision from seeing through cards, or someone with telekinesis from manipulating the fall of dice? The solution to that is 'Quantum Roulette.' At first glance it seems like normal roulette, but instead of a ball and a spinning wheel, the numbers are generated by a small quantum generator and projected holographically. Since quantum decay has resisted any attempt by science to apply logic or control to the process, this gives a reasonably foolproof randomness to the game. Not that it stops people from arguing about the outcome. Loudly. "I don't care—this stinks!" The tall, scarred, woman doesn't have much money in front of the seat she has vacated, a sure sign that things are not going well for her. "Mecha." Bo reaches out to touch her arm, but she shrugs him off with an angry growl. "Don't start anything…." "It looks like she already has." The tall Asian man who is the focus of her ire pushes his chair back and stands up as well. He's solidly built under the suit, a suit you would deem too expensive for these surroundings. Someone's slumming. The single earring adds a touch of style to his conservative exterior. "You're drat right about that, Jake." Mecha's hands are clenching and unclenching, but whether a blow or a grab is coming you are not sure. I turn to Mecha, gesturing towards her seat. "Are you gonna argue or play?" I turn to Jake, gesturing towards his seat. "Are you gonna argue or play?" > I strike up a conversation with Bo, getting a feel for the situation first. I'll sit down in Mecha's vacated seat. I'll sit down in Jake's vacated seat. As always, knowledge is power.--- No point in jumping into this blindly. Bo is a friend of sorts, so you might as well use that to test the waters. Nobody else is showing any signs of interfering—in fact, the other players have slowly started to collect their money, just in case things get out of control. The croupier is an old man with a bland face; he's patiently waiting for things to resolve themselves, though you wonder if he has a panic button for calling in the bouncer if things get too bad. Bo looks like he's trying to defuse the situation but has little idea how. Mecha looks like she's searching for an excuse to pound someone into dust. And Jake? Jake doesn't look worried at all. That worries you because that either means he's got a good mask on, or he's really as confident as he comes across. Working for Hollow Ground gives him more clout than most minor villains in this room, but is he prepared to push that advantage? You're not sure. What you are sure of is that Mecha will snap soon. You can see her face darkening another shade, her already narrow eyes becoming dark slits of fury as she keeps ranting at Jake, accusing him of cheating somehow. "Hey." You give Bo a smile as you approach the table, pointedly ignoring the argument. "How's your luck running tonight?" "Not bad. At least, not as bad as…" he makes a face in Mecha's direction, keeping his voice low. "I heard. As did the rest of the bar." You keep your voice a loud stage whisper, strong enough to cut through their argument, as you continue. "I wish they'd take things outside. No need to ruin everybody else's evening." > "What's their beef anyway?" "You wanna come over and have a drink? I think this might blow up soon." --- "What's their beef anyway?" You ask the question with a pointed nod at Mecha. "She thinks Jake is cheating," he whispers, looking between the two of them. "Are you seriously saying she thinks Joe runs a crooked game?" You give her an incredulous look, voice raised enough so that other people are sure to overhear. The croupier doesn't bat an eye, his face still devoid of emotion. "No, I'm not," Mecha interrupts with a snarl. "I'm saying he is cheating!" She points directly at Jake, her cybernetic finger digging into his chest. For a moment, you think things are about to explode. Instead, Jake brushes off his shirt, straightening his suit with a frustrated sigh. "Wait," you say, looking between the two of them. "Let me get this straight…." "I don't see how it's any of your business," Mecha snaps. "You're loud enough to make it my business," you retort, staring her down. "She's not wrong about that," Bo mutters quietly. "Are you really saying someone working for Hollow Ground has to stoop to cheating?" > "Sounds like you just want to pick a fight." "He's not the one running the game," I caution her. Mecha seems like the safer heads-up fight. Her visible implants make it unlikely she's hiding any Boosted powers; she probably won't breathe fire at us or anything. Hollow Ground's man could be anything - or nothing, but let's not put Jane on Hollow Ground's poo poo list. And let's definitely not paint a target on Joes. I like it here.--- "Sounds like you just want to pick a fight," you say, giving her a pointed look. It's not even a guess; the aggression here is a roiling cloud you can pick up even without your telepathy. Anything could trigger this woman—she's reached the point where she doesn't particularly care whom she punches. "And what's that to you?" She diverts her attention from Jake for a moment, turning all that frustration on you. "Take your mess outside—don't mess up the game." "You're disturbing my night, that's what." > I punch her. Shades of the 'fight' we engineered between Lady Argent and Herald - straight into the action! Of course, the power dynamic is backward this time...--- It is completely out of the blue. Mecha did not expect things to escalate this fast, and above all she did not expect anybody but herself to throw the first punch. Your hit her straight in the nose with a right hook, the blow hard enough to draw blood. Looks like her enhancements didn't extend to any form of skinweave. Maybe the plugs in the back of her head are for connecting to armor. This is gonna be fun. > I keep focusing on Mecha. This is fun. Let's escalate the fight! Let's not get too crazy. One-on-one with the element of surprise, and Bo handy in case of emergency, is about as much trouble as I want.--- There's only one person at the table who really wants a fight, and that's Mecha. You might as well oblige her, and boost your own reputation in the process. Keeping your guard up, you swiftly parry her blow as she throws a punch at your face. Your retaliatory strike hits her right on the nose, causing her to stumble back with a swear. She's bleeding now. Badly. You can't help the smile creeping onto your face as Jake tries to go for Mecha when she's off-balance. Bo throws a chair at him, leading to an angry charge that sends chairs and players flying. So, looks like he's a strongman then. Good to know. "That's enough!" The bouncer claps his hands together with enough force for you to feel the pressure wave. "If you've got beef, take it outside—or you will be taken outside." He growls the last words, and you can see chitinous plates starting to form on his skin. He must be almost seven feet tall, and you once saw him put his fist through a car. Joe pays his bouncers well enough to get some real talent. "Fine by me," Jake says. "I never wanted a fight." He nods at Mecha, who's still fuming with her fists up. "He was cheating—" she starts, before the withering stare of the bouncer makes her sober up. "I mean…things happen, yeah?" "One more 'thing' happening, and you'll be banned. This is your second strike, Mecha. I thought we had this conversation." "But—" "Don't make me bring Joe; he'd throw you out of here faster than you've been throwing away your money." "Fine." Her shoulders sag. "I get it. I'll play nice." "You'll play nice outside." The bouncer nods towards the door. "Go home and sober up. As for you…" He turns to you with a sigh. "Me?" I try to look innocent. "What do I have to do with this?" > "She was the one who started it." I point to Mecha. "He was the one who started it." I point to Jake. "I was just trying to help a friend out." I nod at Bo. Let's bank again on people liking to be proven right.--- "She was the one who—" "I don't care," the bouncer interrupts, giving you a stern look. "Just don't get yourself killed on my watch. You're a norm, and the people here are dangerous. Picking a fight with them, not the smartest option." "I wasn't—" "Again, I don't care." He picks up a chair, straightening it. "Just don't be an idiot. I've got my eye on you now." "Fine, I'll be careful. Thanks for the advice." Your smile is wholly faked, but some of the tension leaves your body as you turn away from the mess at the gambling table and head back towards Dr. Mortum. Adrenaline. There's nothing like it. --- Telepathy Strength of Mind: 63% Subtle Manipulations: 73% Psychological Profile Infamy: 20% ||| Obscurity: 80% Arrogance: 67% ||| Anonymity: 33% Ruthlessness: 42% ||| Empathy: 58% Daring: 58% ||| Caution: 42% Oh boy; Infamy is moving for the first time all game. It's difficult to say exactly what did it, but I think getting into a public tussle against a metahuman has brought some attention to Jane. Maybe the Hollow Ground goon reported it. And if Jane's associated with us, it's no wonder the city is starting to take notice.Allies and Enemies Charlotte's relationship with Ortega: old friend. Jane's relationship with Ortega: flirting. Jane's relationship with Dr. Mortum: flirting. Charlotte's relationship with Lady Argent: neutral. Charlotte's relationship with Marshal Steel: distant. Charlotte's relationship with Herald: distant. --- We're leaving off without a vote this time because the bar scene was longer than I expected. I've never played this scenario before; I'm flying totally blind. To fill the couple of days before our next update and hopefully keep me from double-posting again: How do we feel about Jane and Dr. Mortum? Is this continued romance a good idea, or should we break it off once we have the suit? Sorites fucked around with this message at 23:20 on Jan 28, 2020 |
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Jan 28, 2020 23:16
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drat the torpedoes full speed ahead!
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Jan 29, 2020 06:40
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