NationStates Jolt Archive

Corach Esiompeori took another long puff of his cigarette as he leaned against a wall, staring up into the sky. Even though he was a native, he could never seem to take in enough of the city's buildings. They seemed to be monuments to the glory of humanity, built as close to the gods as we could reach. Airships hauling cargo or important people drifted like clouds even higher, and for a moment Corach imagined he too could float among the rich high in the sky.

"HEY!" Corach felt a palm smack against his cheek. He raised his fists but cracked a smile when he saw the pudgy face of Horaitheol. Like Corach he was dressed oddly: camo pants, jackboots, a shirt he had found in the dumpster, and a gas mask dangling from his hip.

"Greetings Horaitheol! How goes it?" Horaitheol chuckled to himself, his stomach rolling in delight.

"Excellent. I just scored two canisters of Jet! Wanna hit?" Corach's heart skipped a beat, his blood moved faster, his vision seemed to daze. Jet was the the greatest drug in Roterban. Nobody knew who had created it, but it seemed to be both godsend and hellborn. One hit essentially flooded the brain with a host of unknown chemicals, duplicating the effects of hallucinogens, dissociatives, amphetamines, anesthetics, and the best club drugs money could buy all at once. A user became everything at once: god, lover, hero, genius, and devil. The drug was highly addictive, and had cost Corach everything.

"J-jet? Sure man, sure." Horaitheol smiled, revealing his sharpened teeth. The two searched the city for a suitable location, until coming upon an abandoned building deep in the labor district. They resembled rodents, crawling and squeezing into locked doors, until coming upon the room closest to the center of the building. Jet canisters made a whooshing sound every time they were fired, and a cop could be on them in seconds.

Horaitheol went first, attaching the canister to his gas mask and breathing deep. It hit him in seconds, his eyes going wild. His body began shaking and a massive grin split his face. His barely managed to pass the canister to Corach before slipping into the hallucinations, females and demons alike dancing around him.

Corach experienced much the same, and joined his friend in wandering around the room, his skin tingling with pleasure. A two headed bull burst through the wall on a rainbow.

"Corach, corach! Your back!"

"T-thats right....and ima...i's nu..."

"It's ok! You don't need to speak! We can live forever!" Corach didn't notice the new hue of dark colors spreading before his vision, nor the demonic visage his friendly hallucination and begun to take on. "You just need more Jet, and you can feel like this forever! Horaitheol has Jet, why not take it from him?"

"H....annna..."

"You can have her two. Kill Horaitheol! Take his Jet! Then you could run over to Hanna's squat and jet together! She'll love you again!" Corach grinned and drooled as leaned over and drew the large kitchen knife from his boot. He lunged at Horaitheol, each stab making the high more and more intense. Music, wonderful music seemed to be coming from everywhere.

It was every chocolate cake, every first love, every orgasm, everything pleasurable in this life and the next.

It was Jet.

"Mr. Xycalari, your car is here." The valet's hands shook as he passed the keys to one of Mr. Xycalari's armed guards. Xycalari nodded in indifference, climbing into the back, as he guards prepared to drive him. They peeled out, leaving a wave of smoke and dirt to cover the valet.

Xycalari looked out the window as the city passed by the window. He was in the "merchant" district, the clean and high society part of Roterban. Progress and wealth was everywhere, anything available for purchase. It was a dreamland, a utopia for those who had "deserved" it. But in the inner city Xycalari saw only human refuse. Addicts, Rivets, Gangs, the city seemed overrun with filth.

Xycalari knew this because he had made it all possible.

Both Mayor and Kingpin, he held sway over the entire city, and his word was law. He had made quite a fortune with jet, but now he wished to "diversify" his portfolio. He wanted immigrants, tourists, walking wallets to descend upon the city so that he might feed upon them. But how?

Roterban's natural beauty had been lost long ago, the land nothing but city or barren rock. The only green to be found was either smoked or found in one of the vertical farms that one encountered every so often.

He had decided what he needed were clubs: discos, raves, strip clubs, casinos, anything to play on people's vices. The Roterbani had never had much money, and traditionally if they had any to spare it was spent on either drugs or sex. Xycalari's customers were starting to die off, and he needed a new influx in cash for a "civil works" project he had been planning.

So, the word went out. Roterban was looking for artists, musicians, dj's, architects, and performer's looking to make a quick buck. Under the new "Cultural Rejuvenation" law, any person moving into Roterban with the aforementioned talents was provided with a place to live and a weekly stipend until they found work.

Nobody noticed the money had come out of the welfare fund.

Xycalari smiled as he whisked by one of his club's being built. It's neon lights and thumping beats would ride across the ocean, drawing in money like moth's to a light.

((Basically if you have any artists, musicians, dj's, architects, and performers in your country who need work, why not rp them coming into Roterban?)

The rain was coming down hard, drops exploding on pavement like hordes of artillery shells. Roterbani scurried like rats to keep from getting wet, newspapers and hoodies over their heads. Asid however just walked. His black trench coat and his shin-high boots kept him dry enough. He walked briskly to what appeared to be a broken down hovel. The windows were cracked and boarded up, leaving what could be happening behind them to the imagination.

Asid knocked 16 times, in a special little tune, and the peephole slid open.

"Wassa passwurd?"

"Nitzer Ebb."

"Alright."

The door flung open, and Asid hurried inside. The interior wasn't much: some tables, some chairs, a bar. Why then all the protection? A look around would provide the answer: the small bar was packed with Roterban's most dangerous criminals. Armed guards stood at the door, not only to watch for the police, but to make sure no "aggro" occured inside.

Asid took his usual spot at the bar.

"Evening Joidopytha."

"Ah, Asid! May the stars forever shine upon you!" Joidopytha was an old timer, and it showed in his speech. "What would you like tonight?"

"Gimmie one shot of Hot Onion, one of Riot Control, and one Flaming Hair."

"Whoa, sounds like somebody's trying to escape? Whats the matter?"

"Nothing, its nothing." Joidopytha shook his finger in Asid's face.

"Shame on you, not telling Papa Joidopytha whats the matter? Who's kept you from getting pinched more then me? Who always is ready to fence your goods, no matter how hot they are?"

"Alright, alright. You win." Asid took his drinks and leaned closer. "Word on the street is the Mayor is trying to get some foreign investment on the waterfront. Artists, and shit like that."

"Thats it?"

"No, no. That ain't it. Ya see Apostlecorp is kinda nervous about having more foreigners around, so word on the street is they've been hiring scabs like us to increase the crime rate."

"Oooh. I see."

"It isn't done yet. Versalife however wants more foreigners so they can move more product, and now is hiring scabs to kill the scabs Apostlecorp was hiring. Now granted, they haven't produced any contracts against each other yet, but mark my words, it ain't gonna be long."