NationStates Jolt Archive

[ooc-

Random ego thread spawned by boredom, mostly. Standard disclaimers apply (tags, constructive criticism fine, etc). IC stuff will start with the next post, this way I can keep the OOC stuff isolated.

For those playing along at home, the lyrics starting each post will be from Billy Idol's "Cyberpunk" album, in order. "Post Subject"s in replys will list the name of the song. Some lyrics will be taken slightly out of context to make them work better. Each post will also largely be independant of the others, this is more a series of snapshots of modern life. I'm planning to use all my "major" characters, but some will be one-offs who's purpose is more to illustrate what life is like. So it's something of a fackbook thread too.

Note: Some of these stories (for instance, the first one) take place in unpleasant places, and will likely involve unpleasant words and descriptions. It's no 'Slaughter of Sin', but I figured I should let there be fair warning first.

I think that should about cover the OOC stuff.]

In VR land
The future of fun
Tell me what to do
In VR law
Computer crime
Um, so sublime


The red and blue lights of the police post swept across the corridor, casting errie shadows as the bums and vagrents of the Warrens scurried for cover. Officer Jackson scowled, it seemed things had fallen to shit already. It was supposed to be a simple bust, just another slacker. This one was armed, however, and he had two buddies bleeding to death already.

He grabbed his microphone, "Where the fuck is my backup?"

"WO-264, backup is en-route. ETA 2 minutes." The radio crackled badly, reception was always awful down here, they just didn't want to spend the money.

The sign designating this as Level 52 exploded into metal slivers as another high powered pistol round slamed into it. Jackson slunk lower behind the dumpster he was using for cover. He was thankful for the garbage strike. All that shit in it would probably keep him alive until his backup arrived. He lifted his helix pistol, and fired a few dozen rounds back towards the apartment door, 'Might as well slow `em down a bit...'

He tried recalling how many rounds he'd fired. He guessed 50 or 60, cursing the gun under his breath. In theory, they were great. Put the bullets into the clip in a helix, and you can have huge capacity in a relatively small space. In the Warrens, they were almost guarenteed death. He could easily go through over a hundred rounds in a firefight, and they last thing he needed was to run out of ammo while shooting. Who the hell is gonna count that many bullets when the bad guys are using hand cannons?

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" He dove to the side as the perps inside unloaded with a 6 gauge, blowing the dumpster to pieces. A fragment skirted off his leg armor, causing him to feel relieved for a fraction of a second. At least it was good for something. He kicked in a nearby door, and dove in, seeking cover mere seconds before the 6 gauge blew part of the wall to slivers. He poked his head out and started unloading at the perp's door, punching angry holes into it. He ducked back instantly, when he heard the sound of the slide locking open. He dropped the clip, and slotted his spare.

He glanced into the hallway, just in time to see his backup running down the hallway. Before he could act, he saw the barrel of the gun come back out the door. The 6 gauge thundered loudly, and one of the officers was reduced to a fine red paste. His heart sank when he saw the other officer turn to look at his buddy. Another near-explosion later and there was another stain on the floor. He raised his gun, and fired off a salvo of rounds, and heard someone scream and then thud to the ground. The 6 gauge clattered to the ground.

Jackson took a deep breath, and keyed his mic, "Backup's down. Perp's down. I need some guys who aren't idiots down here..."

His mic hit the floor moments before he did, a gaping wound in his chest armor. "Ne... never... never heard..."

Amazing. Back in the war, they said you'd never hear the shell that got you. Seems the same was true for shotgun slugs...

Very nice. This thread is very *tag*able, lol.

<first tag>


Edit: f--- beaten :/

<first tag>

lol, got to it first, :P

Say yeah, come on
It makes my world stand still
Ahh riot, rape, race and revolution, ah yeah
Here come the fire, and my world burns still


Ezekiel sat in his little room. His children, hell, his grandchildren had foresworn him.

The room was smaller than your average hotel room, with fewer comforts. The bed was terribly lumpy, the television was an ancient cathod-ray tube that took up an ungodly amount of space. All channels were sanitized by the staff. He was older than all of them, dammit, why couldn't he watch a violent movie (or, heaven forfend, porn) if he wanted to? There was a tiny little nightstand, and a lamp with a pathetic bulb in it. Barely enough to read by. He was one of the 'lucky' ones, he thought bitterly: he got a folding metal chair to sit in when he read.

"This place is a cess pit!" He declaired to nobody in particular. He hated this place. 'Nursing home' indeed! He remembered back before the war...

...nobody ever had any money, and didn't seem to care all that much; the government ran everything. It was strange changing from a pure socialist, near communist state to an insane capitalist one. With the tech-whoring of the Hack, he went from having money outlawed, to having nonexistant 'electronic' money.

The old were always cared for. And rather well, if his fading memory was accurate. Of course, there was manditory retirement at age 50. Every now and then, he recalled, there was a big stir as a scientist or professor wanted to stay around longer, but they were all sent off to the Retirement Villages regardless. He never went to one for a visit, which was odd, but he knew the elders were taken care of.

Then that damnable war happened. He was pretty sure things weren't better because of it. The war ravaged the environment, and the new government didn't seem to care. He remembered the rivers of blood, and the areas where you couldn't go because so many rotting corpses were there. The burning cities, the child-soldiers, the death-squads...

He sighed, he was even more depressed now. He figured that was part of the plan. Leave people to rot in this hole, let them get all depressed until they lost their will to live. Or took their own life. Both would suffice, he guessed.

He looked at his watch. Almost time for dinner. Mystery psuedo-meat on a shingle, probably. He sighed again. If they were trying to crush his will to live, they were doing a damn good job. Of course, he was a bitter, stubborn old fart. He knew he would hang on as long as possible, sapping the funds of his ungrateful children bit by bit.

Every now and then, he recalled, there was a big stir as a scientist or professor wanted to stay around longer, but they were all sent off to the Retirement Villages regardless. He never went to one for a visit, which was odd, but he knew the elders were taken care of.
:shock:

<Tags R us>

tag. for great justice!

Well you know I'm free on arrival
Left behind my babe, by guilt of survival
I don't know where I'm runnin' to
I lost my love, lost my hold
....I lost my Heaven too


Rain. Hard rain.

It poured down, trying to beat the Acolyte into the ground. The drops were monsterous and fell as if propelled by some daemon hand. He pulled his cowl further down on his head, trying his best to stay dry. It was futile, really, as his robe was completely soaked, chilling him to the bone. He stood in the shadows, staying out of view, watching a used-book store. His dull blue eyes stared, unblinking. He was to follow the movements of a certain book. It had been at this store for three days now, and there had been no customers today. No shipments, either, which made his job easier. He wasn't sure how he'd verify if the book was shipped out or not, and hoped that he wouldn't face that eventuality. He'd probably have to break in later tonight, to see if shipments were planned.

The Jihad.

He had joined five years ago, severing all ties to his previous life, his family, his money, his girlfriend, even his name. There were only two people in the Techno Jihad: Acolytes and The Neuromancer, their leader. Their deity. The Neuromancer had sent him on this mission. He didn't understand why, he just knew that it was his duty. The Jihad was all about information, and that was why he was here. Nobody questioned the types of information The Neuromancer wanted, they just did it. So he just did it. The words of The Neuromancer rang in his head as he stood there.

"Cities are living things," he said, "Chiba City is alive. It is sick, and it is dying. The Warrens are cancer, the skyscrapers are meglomaniacal delusions."

The acolyte smiled darkly as the light went out in the shop. The Neuromancer was right, of course. He could see the decay and the disease everywhere he looked. He didn't know how watching over a book would fight the disease, but he knew it must be done. The Neuromancer said so.

He waited in the rain for another hour, before slinking across the street. Nobody noticed him as his lockcracker bypassed the biometric lock and granted him access. This shouldn't take long. He'd look around a bit, then resume watching.

This was his life now, and he was relieved. He was fighting, in his own small way, to keep the city, and thus the nation, alive. It was righteous, it was glorious, and he was part of it.

Long Live The Neuromancer! His Invinite Wisdom Will Redeem All!

[ooc - bleh.

I'll update this later. Went to a wedding, and have managed to catch myself a cold, so it'll be a few more days.]

They've broken your heart
Ah yeah, they're gonna tear your world apart
Why make up a lie
And believe it's true
Ah, tear it all apart
I know the shape of things to come
Why this now girl
Will we murder each other


Elizabeta stood on the verandah, watching the sun slowly rise over the horizon. The colors were breath-taking, a side effect of all the pollution, she'd been told. She sighed sadly, turning her eyes from the view, instead looking at the grounds surrounding her. It was nice, certainly, but she wasn't happy. She hated living here.

She'd grown up in the aftermath of the Corporate Rebellion, in Chiba City, which was a microscoptic fraction of it's current size. There was only about fifty million people in those days, and they were the survivors. The rest of Mhu Thulan was essentially inhospitable, and it was only through the work of Carl Gibson that Chiba was livable. The largest industry back in those days was sanitation and water purification.

Things certainly had changed. Chiba's area had exploded, as had its population. Over a billion people in one city. She shook her head, unable to fathom that many people in one place. Skyscrapers and warrens. Only way it was possible. Even then, it wasn't pleasant at times, or in most places.

But, still, it was home. Now she was here in Mae Thulan, hundreds of miles from Chiba. Hundreds of miles from home. Hell, aside from servents and her husband, she was hundreds of miles from anyone. This was the only estate on this island. The only people. Even with that damnable association with GMC or "The Federation of GMC Military Arms" as Victor would put it she thought bitterly, and all their people moving to the mainland, Mae Thulan was isolated.

She wandered inside, and flopped down into one of the overstuffed chairs, wrinkling the Hell out of her dress, but she didn't care. She gazed up at a painting on the wall, a portrait of her and Victor, before their son had been born. And died.

The tears started to well up again, but she refused to cry again, she was too pissed off for that. She was still mad that their son had died, but that she couldn't tell anyone. She didn't even know how. She was told a 'hunting accident', but she didn't believe it. She doubted that Victor had been responsible -- he had actually cried at the private funeral -- but she wasn't sure the true story.

She stared at the portrait again. Victor's stoic face stared back. He was a rather handsome man, she thought to herself, part of the original attraction. The problem was his emotions. Or lack of them. She had known that he had Hyperborean blood in him the Hack's version of the Elf? she wondered, but she didn't realise how cold he could be. Every move, every action, every word was thought out before executed. He was a brilliant politician, and a great leader, but as a husband or as a father, he was... lacking. She really wasn't sure if she loved him anymore or not. Especially considering President Gibson.

She frowned as her train of thought followed that dark tunnel. The facts were very disturbing, but it seemed that she was the only citizen to think in this fashion. She had known Carl was sick for ages, and very old, but... but the way Victor sometimes talked, it seemed like he was dead. Even before it was announced. She didn't like where this journey took her, but she was becoming more and more convinced that Victor had pretended that Gibson was alive long enough to have his ascention to president secured. Maybe he was even responcible for Carl's death.

She shook her head. That couldn't be true. Victor may be cold, but he wasn't cold blooded. He couldn't be.

OOC- Sorry for the long delay, been busy and ill

My body's sweatin' toxins,
Of my own demise
Only from space, can you see
How much earth is burning
Smokin' out the innocense inside
The child


Mikhael put down the small bottle, counting his breaths, one, two, three, four, five... before collapsing to the ground and curling into a little ball, twiching as his muscles spasmed on their own accord. He tried to focus on breathing, but it was becoming difficult, he kept forgetting to breathe. After a few minutes, his muscles relaxed enough for him to pull himself into his chair, now breathing so quickly he ran the risk of hyperventalation.

The adrenochrome was, once again, working its way through his system.

With shaking hands, he pulled open his secure client, quickly writing a message.


Begin Message

Encryption: Unique Key 1356e390x135
TO: Emporer Devon Treznor
FR: Mikhael Aronofsky
RE: Latest Shipment
TX:

Have you been treating this stuff? This most recent shipment seems markedly more potent than what you usually send me. Not that I'm complaining, just curious.

Anyway, thanks for keeping me supplied, and, as always, let me know if you need my "services".

-Mikhael.

End Message


He cracked his knuckles, pulling up the latest feed from the numerous satellites the Hack had criss-crossing the globe. It was the same story, everytime. Some pointless shit-hole was attacking some equally pointless shit-hole; some dictator was oppressing his people; some fool was having a pointless conference that wouldn't solve a damn thing; and on, and on, and on. He pulled up some of the lesser advertised satellites, the ones spying on allies. Nothing much of interest in GMC, or DDLN, or the Empire, for that matter. As usually, the Hack's sphere of influence, such as it was, seemed to be pretty quiet.

He switched to the priority sats, pulling up what he could on Eurusea. He wasn't sure about the burning interest in spying on Eurusea, but the Speaker seemed Hell-bent on monitoring them, wanting any notable updates ASAP. One of the sats had been blacked out for awhile, and he noticed that they still weren't able to pierce the jamming that Eurusea had thrown up. This irritated him to no small degree, as he was desperately interested in knowing what the Hell was going on there. He'd already told Anesca to see about finding a way to break through, but so far she hadn't come up with anything. He was loathe to ask her again, as his relationship with the AI was strained, to say the least.

Back before the revolution-that-wasn't, he had been more sure of his position. He was clearly her superior, but with the ascention of the Oligarchy, she had become substantially more important, and more of a power-figure, even if she wasn't actively seeking that position. Of course, it was a lot easier to boss her around when she was seven. However, she was older now, and less likely to take his shit. Of course, she was also less tolerent of his little addiction. She would mention, every now and then, about how his addiction was going to kill him, or make him flip out. Little bitch, he thought bitterly.

Mikhael was quickly growing into an anachronism, and he knew it. Of course, he wasn't about to change. Especially not for an uppity little AI.

[Holy crap, it's been a year. Might as well fool around with this some more.]

I'm out of control
I think I'm goin' crazy
I'm out of my mind
You can see it in my eyes

Uyo's hands and feet moved with a blur as she practiced against the Mook Yan Yong, the practice dummy shuddering with the force of her blows. As she practiced she moved faster and faster, hitting harder and harder before kicking square in the middle, the teakwood shattering and the Mook Yan Yong broke in half, crashing to the floor with a loud thump. She glared at it and firmly kicked the base, causing it to splinter even more. She growled softly in the back of her throat only pausing as she felt a hand on her shoulder. She grabbed the furred hand, momentarily suprized at the weight of her opponent, but quickly adjusted and threw the stranger across the room.

Fusayoshi crashed into the wall, dust from the drywall forming a hazy cloud around him. He climbed out, grinning broadly as he eased into a comfortable Eskrima stance. Uyo glared as she dropped into the stance of her own preferred style: Wing Chun. She'd never much cared for Eskrima, largely because it tended to hurt and because Fusayoshi was very good at it.

The two Kitsune circled each other, the rest of the world seeming to fade away as they focused exclusively at the upcoming fight. The practice room was now only a vague abstraction; Uyo's concentration was at its peak, Fusayoshi awaiting her attack. A couple nameless Section 4 operatives watched through the whole in the wall, their own practice session forgotten. They were silently thrilled that no weapons where in the practice room: both styles tended to prefer decisively fatal or maiming weapon strikes.

Uyo moved in, her rapid verticle punches being blocked by Fusayoshi, who seemed to be making no effort to counter or do much of anything aside from block, in fact. While Eskrima was a defensive art, it wasn't usually this defensive. The growl from Uyo grew louder as she moved faster and faster, her arms once again beginning to blur. As Fusayoshi continued to simply deflect, Uyo stopped holding back. Wing Chun typically involved simultaneous hand and foot strikes.

With Uyo clearly trying to seriously cause injury, Fusayoshi stopped holding back as well. His looping, graceful moves standing in stark contrast with Uyo's efficient, even lackluster attacks. The two were evenly matched: Fusayoshi's naturally enhanced speed and strength blending with his artifically enhanced strength opposing Uyo's artificially enhanced strength and speed. Uyo was faster, but Fusayoshi was stronger. These differences played nicely to their chosen styles: Wing Chun focusing on fast light strikes, Eskrima focusing on hard, disabling blocks.

Fusayoshi shrugged off the blows that hit, countering many of Uyo's attacks by strikes to nerves in Uyo's wrists. She growled loudly as she engaged her pain editor and started attacking as quickly as possible, causing Fusayoshi to back up as he blocked. He growled softly as he blocked before ducking slightly, grabbing Uyo's left arm with one hand and firmly striking with the other, Uyo's arm breaking with a snap of bone and metal. He then swept out with his leg, knocking Uyo to the ground. "I think it's time to stop, Uyo."

Uyo kicked him firmly in the gut, sending him staggering back as she went to the Mook Yan Yong and grabbed one of the training arms in her right hand. She charged Fusayoshi again, using the broken stick to strike at his eyes and throat. Fusayoshi shook his head, grabbing Uyo with a Dumog move, holding her firmly and stopping just short of finishing the move by breaking her neck. "Stand down, Uyo."

Uyo panted heavily, clearly torn between her desire to try and throw Fusayoshi and her realization that with very little effort Fusayoshi could kill her. Fusayoshi felt her beginning to tense again and calmly whispered in her ear, "I'd really hate to tell Kaori that I had to kill you." With that Uyo's body went limp and she sighed in resignation. Fusayoshi released her and moved to face her, "I'm worried about you Uyo..."

She growled softly, "I'm fine." She turned and left the practice room, heading for the infirmary to see about getting her arm set. Fusayoshi shook his head sadly and noticed the two Section 4 guys, "Problem, gentlemen?" They quickly found someplace else to be. He rolled his neck, cracking it slightly before leaving the room himself, "Should probably put in a work order for the wall..."

I've only got one left, so I'll use it here...*inserts massive TAG*

Back thru time, I know
You're calling me
For a saviour--I know
It's my destiny
So I'm gonna rise
Face the morning sun


"Okay, now rotate your hand to the left... good! To the right... good!" The Section 4 technitionwas running Kaori through her daily work outs to help her get used to using her new hand. The strange warrior in the cave had removed Kaori's hand, and Section 4 had removed several inches of her forearm. They told her it was to make cybernetic integration easier, but she wasn't sure she believed them.

Section 4 had access to cybernetic devices above and beyond what would normally be available in the Federation, as was evidenced by the fact that they were the ones responsible for her first round of augmentation. Currently, there were no modifications to her hand, but Section 4 had been working to get her to agree to some of the other systems, including a cutting torch or a small offensive laser.

Needless to say, Kaori wasn't too thrilled with such a plan. She would have far preferred a vat-grown hand, but she was still out when Section 4 had performed the surgery. Her tendons had been replaced with meat, but her hand was a dull titanium affair, rather similar to Josef's, in fact. Her round of rehab over, she was allowed to leave the infirmary, but not without the doctor badgering her over how she should have her hand modified. She finally grew sick of it, and, taking a page from Uyo's School Of Dealing With People, she grabbed the doctor by the throat and growled at him.

"Ah... ah... okay... sure... we'll... um... talk later..." He was dropped by Kaori and she stalked out.


In the hallway she bumped into Futami, who was on her way to visit her sister, "Oh! Futami... um... hi?"

Futami smiled and hugged her, "Kaori! Feeling better?"

The younger kitsune nodded, brushing her hair out of her face, "Uh-huh... um... have you seen Uyo?"

Futami giggled a little a nodded, pointing down the sterile, unadorned corridor, "She's down in the lounge... scaring the locals." She gave Kaori a hug before heading off again, "She's still pissed at Fusayoshi..."

Kaori sighed and nodded, mutely walking down the hall.


The lounge formed a stark contrast to the rest of the compound; it had plush, comfortable couches, a TriV, a couple snack machines and pop machines, as well as several posters scattered about: here was one of the Tindalos Hounds, there was one for the Chiba City Cubs, over there was a racey poster of Akiko (the popstar seemed to specialize in those), a couple calanders, a dartboard, and a few other random items. Sitting on a large couch was Uyo, her arm still in a cast; she was watching a ball game on the TriV, scowling darkly. All the other people in the lounge had found other things to do.

Kaori walked in and sat down next to Uyo, trying to smile happily, "Hey, Uyo... um... 'sup?"

Uyo muttered something under her breath. Kaori couldn't quite pick it up, but it seemed to involve 'Fusayoshi' and 'cocksucker'.

Kaori tried again, "Er... yeah... I kinda heard about what happened. You okay?"

More muttering.

"Please... say something..." Kaori sniffled a little. She knew that Uyo wasn't mad at her, but she couldn't help but feel hated.

Uyo sighed, turning and glaring at Kaori, "Look, just..." Her voice trailed off as she looked into Kaori's eyes. Uyo's mind was thrashing against itself, the extensive cyberwork done to her body had caused a weird disconnect, which only fueled off her own buried feelings of general inadequacy. Being humiliated, from her position, by Fusayoshi only made things worse. She knew he was better and stronger than she was, but to have him break her arm was just too much to accept. That, and his playing off her emotions only fractured her already tenuous grip on right and wrong. She was getting an up close and personal look at cyberpsychosis, and while she'd never admit it, it scared the hell out of her.

Kaori only made things more difficult. The two had trained together when Kaori replaced Ieyoshi on the team. She was closer to Kaori than anybody else on the team; hell, anyone else period. She found herself wishing she hadn't had so much work done; that she was stable.

Her one arm was bandaged to prevent infection from where the D had flayed her, the other sported a cast. The nanites in her blood were working overtime to repair the damage done; when she had healed, there would be another surgery to replace with 'weave and 'lace, and repair the 'lace on her broken arm. She put her non-broken arm around Kaori and pulled her close, hugging the smaller kitsune gently, "I'm sorry..."


Feel it calling me,
Wanting me
Believes in me

Love labours on
Love labours on