The Mindset
18-11-2003, 19:15
This RP is to be conducted by myself, since it is to become a civil war of sorts. Since I already know how it shall end, I request that only OOC comments be made here - any IC actions will be ignored for the sake of the storyline. (Unless, of course, you are able to work a way to ICly discuss this without affecting the story...)
Midna Beta had set, and M-1 was a city of light. The pedestrian sidewalks were sleek silver streams of molten mercury, the soaring crystal-and-glass towers were a blaze of white illumination, and, barely in the distance, this quadrants telecom tower was a string of intense light rising impossibly up, up, up into infinity.
Yes, M-1 seemed constructed of light. And to Varien hle'Morna, viewing the cityscape from his private office balcony, it was as massless and insubstantial as the photons that composed it, for he knew it could not last much longer.
The city of M-1, home of over four-hundred million Mindsettians, was soon to be a place of ruins. Its civilization a ghost that does not yet know it is dead, these were its last days of greatness. Varien shook himself irritably. And how many more banalities shall we dredge up from historical fiction? He rubbed his index finger across an area of skin on the back of his left hand, activating the phosphorous imprint circuits, and consulted the chronometer that glowed a steady blue from under his epidermis. Yes, it was time. He squared his once broad shoulders, turned his back upon the city and strode purposefully inside.
He paused briefly to look around his office of forty-four years, admiring its architecture for the first time in decades. It was like a showcase for a tradition of understated elegance that had had millenia to refine upon refinement upon refinement . . . a showcase soon to be smashed by the unfeeling fist of an enemy without the concept of mercy.
Yes, perhaps one could do worse than trashy historical fiction as a source of inspiration now. History had begun again in this nation of The Mindset, and it's been so long that we've forgotten how to react. Better cliché than speechlessness.
Enough! He lowered himself into a leather recliner and took a set of wraparound, ear-covering goggles from a the small matching end table adjoining it. He then attached a few tiny movement sensors to his clothing at various points upon his upper body, put on the goggles and spoke a short numeric code.
Tarlann and Arduin were already seated at the satin-sheen black conference table. Sitting and talking was, of course, about all that the three of them, located in separate quadrants of M-1, could do; nothing more was required at the moment, and it would have been too much trouble to don the full VR suit required for total interaction. Never really liked the damned things anyway, Varien groused to himself. If they get any better, how shall we keep track of what is and isn't real? At least, this shared line was as secure as Varien's resources, and the military ones at Arduin's disposal, could make it. And the stark, utilitarian meeting room that the program had simulated around him was appropriate for the subject at hand.
“Well,” Varien began without much ceremony, addressing Tarlann. “Is everything in readiness?”
His son nodded, his unease palpable as the computer faithfully reproduced all the outward signs of human emotion it would never feel. “Yes father. I know it's useless to try to talk you into changing your mind. . .”
“Then don't bother trying,” Varien cut in. “Our time is limited.” He instantly regretted his curtness – he might never see his son again. He softened his tone, which had always represented his very best effort at apology. “Our plans have already been set in motion, son. And you've been running our enterprises on a day-to-day basis for years now, so the corporation shouldn't go into shock. Besides, It's not as if I was leaving permanently!” Which, he gibed at himself, might even turn out to be true. He turned to Arduin. “And at your end?”
Midna Beta had set, and M-1 was a city of light. The pedestrian sidewalks were sleek silver streams of molten mercury, the soaring crystal-and-glass towers were a blaze of white illumination, and, barely in the distance, this quadrants telecom tower was a string of intense light rising impossibly up, up, up into infinity.
Yes, M-1 seemed constructed of light. And to Varien hle'Morna, viewing the cityscape from his private office balcony, it was as massless and insubstantial as the photons that composed it, for he knew it could not last much longer.
The city of M-1, home of over four-hundred million Mindsettians, was soon to be a place of ruins. Its civilization a ghost that does not yet know it is dead, these were its last days of greatness. Varien shook himself irritably. And how many more banalities shall we dredge up from historical fiction? He rubbed his index finger across an area of skin on the back of his left hand, activating the phosphorous imprint circuits, and consulted the chronometer that glowed a steady blue from under his epidermis. Yes, it was time. He squared his once broad shoulders, turned his back upon the city and strode purposefully inside.
He paused briefly to look around his office of forty-four years, admiring its architecture for the first time in decades. It was like a showcase for a tradition of understated elegance that had had millenia to refine upon refinement upon refinement . . . a showcase soon to be smashed by the unfeeling fist of an enemy without the concept of mercy.
Yes, perhaps one could do worse than trashy historical fiction as a source of inspiration now. History had begun again in this nation of The Mindset, and it's been so long that we've forgotten how to react. Better cliché than speechlessness.
Enough! He lowered himself into a leather recliner and took a set of wraparound, ear-covering goggles from a the small matching end table adjoining it. He then attached a few tiny movement sensors to his clothing at various points upon his upper body, put on the goggles and spoke a short numeric code.
Tarlann and Arduin were already seated at the satin-sheen black conference table. Sitting and talking was, of course, about all that the three of them, located in separate quadrants of M-1, could do; nothing more was required at the moment, and it would have been too much trouble to don the full VR suit required for total interaction. Never really liked the damned things anyway, Varien groused to himself. If they get any better, how shall we keep track of what is and isn't real? At least, this shared line was as secure as Varien's resources, and the military ones at Arduin's disposal, could make it. And the stark, utilitarian meeting room that the program had simulated around him was appropriate for the subject at hand.
“Well,” Varien began without much ceremony, addressing Tarlann. “Is everything in readiness?”
His son nodded, his unease palpable as the computer faithfully reproduced all the outward signs of human emotion it would never feel. “Yes father. I know it's useless to try to talk you into changing your mind. . .”
“Then don't bother trying,” Varien cut in. “Our time is limited.” He instantly regretted his curtness – he might never see his son again. He softened his tone, which had always represented his very best effort at apology. “Our plans have already been set in motion, son. And you've been running our enterprises on a day-to-day basis for years now, so the corporation shouldn't go into shock. Besides, It's not as if I was leaving permanently!” Which, he gibed at himself, might even turn out to be true. He turned to Arduin. “And at your end?”