Atrophy

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Penny gave Elron a doubtful look as he pulled a filibuster to stall her and Zoey from leaving by warning them about the unknown dangers of the world. Penny didn’t really know what an Eldritch Shifter was (she made a note to research it later) but she was fairly confident in her ability to be the one tearing instead of getting torn. Still, Elron didn’t need to know that, doubly so if his agency wasn’t actually some work of fiction. The last thing Penny needed was to have Uncle Sam breathing down her neck and men in black knocking at the door. She rolled her eyes at Zoey as he suggested that they all left together, as if that wasn’t basically what Zoey had said in the first place.

Penny folded her arms and said, “Did it really just take you all of that to say you—”

"Get away from the door!"

“—FUCK!”

Penny shouted as Zoey tackled into her, knocking the pair to the ground as the wall beside them burst open and peppered them with dust and debris. She covered her eyes and hacked out a cloud of dust as Zoey scrambled off of her, allowing Penny to prop herself up on her elbows. The moment she saw the gangly smoke monster she felt her vision pulse. Every moving mote of dust and falling chunk of debris had a calculated path, and she forced out the junk knowledge to focus on the Apparition. Her chest rose and fell in sync with its floating. Her hand tightened around the slip of paper, careful not to smudge the markings, as a voice of white noise being chopped to bits with ice in a blender filled the room. Penny grimaced at the sound.

Her hand extended almost immediately after the Apparition began to reach out towards Stacey. She slapped it against the ground and the paper blasted across the floor faster than anyone could slide it. In fact, it moved so fast that nobody would be able to see it under normal circumstances; it had just simply disappeared from her hand. However, Penny could see it as it skirted across the ground, her vision returning to normal as the glyph on the paper snapped and a small stone column erupted through the floor between Stacey and the Apparition. There was no way it’d stop it, but hopefully she’d bought Stacey a few precious seconds. She hopped to her feet.

“Haven’t you heard of consent, you spooky bitch?” shouted Penny, trying to distract the Apparition as her mind raced for any kind of plan. The second slip of paper was ruined, destroyed by the rubble, but the vodka bottle still had an active glyph. She took a half step back towards the counter. Elron shouted for everyone to follow him out the back. Good plan, as long as by everyone he meant everyone else. She’d buy them some time.

“I got this! Get to the back!” yelled Penny at the others. Still, she needed to give her eyes a few more seconds before they were ready to see what’s coming. She slipped her hand into a pocket. Screw the defensive then, time to attack. Penny removed her hand and slung a fistful of change out in front of her. She repulsed the change, and In the blink of an eye the parade of Lincolns, Jeffersons, and Roosevelts blasted away from her as if they were fired from a machine gun. She doubted it’d do more than annoy the smoke Apparition. She needed that bottle.

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“I know you’re all Extra-Normal beings like I am.”

Penny felt as if a shot of adrenaline had been spiked directly into her heart as she read that last part, her eyes widening in surprise as they betrayed her apparent calmness. She had anticipated as much, and Odessa’s little superpower joke hadn’t done anything to quell her suspicion, but she didn’t expect someone to just outright say it or, in Lilith’s case, write it. Zoey was quick to call bullshit while Odessa brushed the comment off as if it was no big deal. Penny eyed the room with a new brand of suspicion. Assuming Lilith wasn’t a nutjob (and Penny knew she was right for at least half the room), then what did that make everyone else?

Dangerous. Then again, so was she. Penny glanced down at a paper carryout menu. Odessa chided Lilith for not continuing the name game. She tore off a scrap of paper and drew on it as Guitar Guy spoke up. Stacey. She gave him a sorry look. If that was actually his name then it must’ve been a shit life in high school. She knew for certain that the old Penny would’ve made fun of him relentlessly. Hell, the new one was biting her tongue not to say shit. Stacey bounced the focus over to Beret. Penny sucked in her lip. Let’s see how she manages to deflect this.

"Wow."

Wow indeed. Beret Girl had managed to summon a dickhead in a cheap suit. No, wait, she’d uttered something at the same time. Mao? Anway, not the weirdest presence any longer. Penny adjusted her collar. Dickhead wasn’t Penny’s initial thought. She’d smiled at him when he entered, as if she was actually working the bar and had just seen a customer come in. However, the smile quickly faded as he blew smoke at Stacey’s face, eyefucked Zoey in front of the entire room, and, most damning, sacrificed a perfectly good coin to the jukebox. She made a note to bust it open later. Scarface—Penny frowned, the new guy seemed like the kind of loser who’d love that fucking movie for all the wrong reasons—leaned up against the jukebox.

“Maybe if you consider fuckery special,” muttered Penny under her breath. Even with Scarface’s disruptive entrance, she was still stressing about what Lilith had said. A bunch of Extra-Normal assholes all walk into a bar. Yeah, there was probably a reason they were all here, but it wasn’t special. Nothing good ever came when a bunch of people like them showed up in one area.

She ripped another piece of the menu. What had happened to the first? If anyone had been paying close attention to her instead of Scarface that would’ve seen her drop it at her feet right before she had adjusted her collar. However, it wasn’t there anymore. It was under the stairs now, resting against the wall that led outside. Kicked there somehow? Whatever happened, she clearly missed it because she was drawing the same design on this one as Odessa questioned the newcomer. Her sketching stopped at Scarface’s—Elron’s—mention of god being dead. Penny smirked. No, they couldn’t actually know that. It was just pretentious prattling, like Mao with her talk of the Void. Or was it? Did his agency actually exist, and had they monitored the events in Montana?

"... and I don't think we're dead, I don't feel dead. Going off my hangover."

“Pretty sure you defied death too many times for it to come take you in your sleep. If either of us were actually dead I’d imagine we’d remember being hounded down by him,” said Penny. “But you’re right, Zoey, figuring this out is dumb. We should really just fucking go.”

Not to say that she didn’t want to learn more. She just wanted to do so when she knew they were safe. There was an easy enough way out. She reached for her phone—no signal, no wifi, no nothing. Figured. So much for the easy way. She sighed, and grabbed the bar phone. No dial tone. Cool.

“Let me guess, none of you have working phones?” she asked, not even bothering to wait for an answer to a question that’d only receive nos. Penny shot a look at Lilith and Elron, “She says we’re all extra-normal, and Special Agent Scientologist over there works for the Ghostbusters. Y’all wanna go ahead and magic us a quick way out of the city?” She scoffed. “Well, while you’re all making sure the summoning circle is properly salted and the candles are respecting mercury’s retrograde by only being placed in the proper quadrant, I’ll be walking.”

Penny stepped from behind the bar, the slip of paper still nestled between her fingers. They could ask questions until the sun came up, assuming that this city even had a sun, but hanging around would get them nowhere—and hanging around other extra-normals would get them nowhere good even faster. She took a few steps towards the door and then looked at Zoey expectantly.

“C’mon, stop pouting and start moving, girl. You know I’m not gonna put you on the back burner,” said Penny, winking. She glanced at the others. She didn’t trust them but the words were already coming out of her mouth, “Don’t be stupid and just hang here. Best case scenario the owner actually comes back and has you all arrested for trespassing. Let’s go, Zoey.”

R E D U X .// 2047 //.

Maysah had irked Arbiter with her probing, secretly pleased at her ability to get underneath his skin. Nevertheless, she took his advice and let the uncomfortable silence wrap around her like a blanket as she nodded off. When she awoke it was still dark out, although the cheap neon glow of the nearby nightclub made it hard to tell. Maysah leaned closer to the tinted glass and looked up beyond the club at the Steel Citadel that loomed over all of Denver as a constant reminder of who really owned the city. She clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth. Envoy murdered fifty thousand people and was handed one of the biggest cities in the US. Maysah was framed for the accidental death of fifty people and had to spend over the last decade of her life in hiding. Should’ve been a villain. Damn her for having morals.

Envoy may have owned Denver, but her city still played by some of the rules. Big cities meant lots of cameras, lots of witnesses, and lots of police—not a great thing for a wanted criminal. It was unlikely that her face would instantly be recognized the moment she got out of the car, but it would come across a scan at some part and bring loads of unwanted attention to the trio. The fact that Shade had run off didn’t sit well with her either. It would’ve been smarter to wear her mask the whole time in Albuquerque. It definitely wasn’t an option here. Couldn’t let Envoy feel threatened. Couldn’t let Stardust just take her out sixteen years ago. Maysah grumbled under her breath and pulled out a discreet pouch.

Four glamours left.

“...this place is good for information. I found it on vacation. We're going to go in, ask a few unpointed questions, and see if anyone knows anyone who knows anyone useful. Questions?"

“Yes,” said Maysah to Arbiter, her voice raising as he left the car, “Who vacations here!?”

She sighed at her unanswered question, pulled a glamour out of the bag, and swallowed it dry. There was no cringing, no painful transformation, no pop, really no fanfare at all. Maysah glanced at the rearview mirror and another woman glanced back. Higher cheekbones, darker eyes, grayer hair, thinner nose, and a handful of other minute details that made Maysah no longer look like Maysah. Hopefully nobody in town was slinging around counterspells, if that was even a thing. She frowned in the mirror. Almost the last of the supply of Hex’s gift for a peaceful life, and she was squandering it at three in the morning to go talk to a bunch of drunk lowlifes.

“Don’t act surprised, and don’t call me anything other than Maria,” she said as she joined the two men. She wrinkled her nose at Arbiter’s civie uniform. “Well, at least I’m not going to be the worst-dressed person in the club.”

They entered. TONDE didn’t outright appear seedy, but any place that was open this late likely had a layer of filth buried beneath the glitzing lights and the pulse of music. Maysah right away didn’t like it, and it was clear from the way people moved when they entered that they didn’t like them. Maysah was thankful the Tower was there. Someone had known about them in Albuquerque, and if Shade had tipped people off about them heading to Denver then at least there’d be a shield to take the first bullet for her before she absorbed every cheap neon sign in this building and demolished the place thrice over. This had been a terrible idea. They should’ve split up.

She was about to turn to Arbiter and give him a piece of her mind when she caught sight of a man beckoning them over. Someone expecting them? Already her danger sense was tingling, unless the balding man stuffing his face had been a drinking buddy of Arbiter’s when he was on holiday. She glanced at her two compatriots and then moved towards the man. No point in running from him. She waltzed up to his table and gave him a quick once over. Wealthy, or at least dressed to convey wealth, but with a questionable taste in jewelry. Shady, but only because of his environment and the fact that he appeared to be eating...was that foie gras? She couldn’t stop the disapproving frown.

“What do you want?” she said, a sour hint of annoyance on her voice.

“More of what you want. A Union Jack, a soccer mom, and a cop just walked in,” said the man. His voice was surprisingly nasally yet refined. He gestured at them with his fork. “Unless you’re just drunk and lost, you’re here for information.” He took a bite of food and smiled. “Can help with that.”

“We could just be here to get to the point of becoming drunk and lost,” said Maysah, sliding into a seat. “I’ll settle for information, but let me know who we’re talking to first. I take it you’re one of Envoy’s envoys?” she asked, pronouncing the name differently than the word and smiling at her own cleverness.

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Penny’s eyes flicked over to Zoey and Beret Girl at the mention of black magic and stayed to linger on the cigarette. She forced herself to breakaway and return her attention to Guitar Guy, but she couldn’t escape the disgustingly delicious smell of a slow death. She didn’t even realize that the pen had made its way back into her mouth. A smoke would definitely take the edge off right now, and despite how she presented herself she was on edge—she just didn’t show it like the guy in front of her. He was clearly (and rightfully) disturbed by the situation; he had practically frozen in place when she had asked him a question.

“Just a water, please,” he said.

She figured he’d be a water guy. She couldn’t help the curl of her lip as she turned to Zoey. Penny figured that if the girl was going to raid the bar, she might as well play bartender. She was about to holler for two waters when the door opened. Penny’s head snapped towards the entrance as her left hand shot into her pocket, the initial look of pure hostility softening as an ill-dressed tattooed girl entered the bar. For a moment it almost looked like the stranger was shocked to see Penny, but it must’ve been in reaction to the murderous look Penny had thrown her way.

Something was off about the tattooed girl who asked the question that all of them should be asking, but then a blue-haired girl came in out of the snow. “Oh dear God no, there’s two of her,” muttered Penny to nobody. Penny wondered how Zoey would feel to another girl copping her style. Penny responded to the wave and written down “hi” with a lazy peace sign and chuckled at the added note. Could she not talk? Well, in Penny’s mind that put the new Zoey a few pegs above the old Zoey. She had heard that crime dog comment. She’d go to blows about McGruff later. For now they needed to figure out what was going on.

“So helpful,” said Penny curtly to Guitar Guy before looking back at Tattooed Girl, “but, honestly, yeah. Nope. Only ran into these kids because Zoey”—she jerked her thumb at the girl—”opened her big mouth.” She gave a look towards the Beret Girl as she continued, “Perhaps if we all actually said where we were before we woke up here instead of speaking in riddles then we could actually begin to figure things out.”

Penny paused. Come to think of it, she was the only one who ever mentioned waking up in the strange city. Maybe the whole thing about the void wasn’t some nonsense word salad but straight up earnesty. She looked at Beret Girl more intently than she had done before, as if she was going to unearth some secrets just by staring her down. No, this was pointless. The girl wore a beret. Girls who wore berets were inherently unfathomable, because if Penny could ever actually relate with a girl who wore a beret it meant she’d have to kill herself for being a poser. But there was something else. Penny’s eyes narrowed. It was like she was looking at a doll.

Fucking creep.

“Anyway,” she continued after the pause that was too long not for everyone to notice, “as I was saying: I think it’ll be smart if we all shared a little about ourselves.”

Beret Girl wasn’t the only one with something off about her.

“Since it was my idea, I guess I’ll start,” she said cheerfully as she stood up.

Looking at the new girls, she couldn’t help but notice how the Newer, Bluer Zoey still had some snow on her while the other girl didn’t.

“My name is Penny,” she said as she began to walk down the stairs. Her tone was casual as she made her way toward the bar. She continued, “I’m from Montana, but I was travelling to New York. I closed my eyes while waiting for my flight in Chicago and I woke up on some park bench.”

Of the people she knew, why one from that time? Why Zoey fucking Gray?

“This actually isn’t the first time something like this has happened to me,” said Penny, as if that in itself was no big deal. She uncapped the pen from her mouth, lowered her eyes, and began to draw on Zoey’s abandoned bottle of vodka. “Not the whole being teleported from an airport and waking up in some strange city with a bunch of confused strangers, actually, that part is new, but weird things?” She grinned and looked up from her graffiti. Her eyes weren’t smiling. “I can handle weird things.”

She didn’t trust these people.

No, it’s not that...

She didn’t trust that these were people.

“So, that’s me. Who’s next?” She had made certain that her back was to nobody as she set the vodka down and spun the bottle. It hadn’t stopped before she pointed a finger at Tattooed Girl. “You're it. Who are you, where are you from, how’d you get here, and how in the fuck aren’t you freezing right now?”

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She

The girl with the knowing smile nodded at the suggestion to go inside, “Yeah, this is no place to catch up.”

She’d refuse to acknowledge it, but she was definitely freezing her ass out here. With a shrug at the other two, she stepped towards the bar to see it was literally just called Bar. She did a double take and, no, that was actually the name. Probably some pretentious ass hipster joint like the ones her brother would take her to with forty beers that were all IPAs and tables made from locally sourced trees and glasses hand blown by their hobbyist bartender. She paused before going in. It truly was a quiet city. Even her small hometown had the occasional junker backfire or dog bark at a raccoon. She exhaled a cloud of air and glared down the street. The Guitar Guy looked like he was sick but before she could call out he gathered himself and quickly shot past her into the bar.

She looked up at the Beret Girl and met her empty eyes, and then turned to look back down the street. She had an eerie sensation that there was something else out there. Her vision blurred and then sharpened as she analyzed her surroundings, her blue eyes moving from building to building. Nothing but paranoia. She blinked and massaged her temple. The only movement she detected was of the soft little flurries of snow as they drifted down lazily. Things seemed okay. Well, okay, things weren’t okay, considering she woke up in a place she didn’t recognize, but they were okay in comparison to what else could have happened.

She entered the bar. It wasn’t some craft brewery like she had been fearing, but a well-stocked sushi bar. Her stomach grumbled. Maybe there was something she could snack on. Of course, there was nobody to pay and stealing didn’t sit well with her. The place was so well maintained that clearly there had to be an owner. She pictured some old wizened Japanese dude, crafting perfect cuts of sashimi while his granddaughter pours cups of sake and chats with the customers. Could he be upstairs asleep? The girl with blue streaks in her hair seemed to have no such concerns about helping herself. Already, she was behind the bar and helping herself to a drink.

“Zoey, seriously?” she said with an annoyed huff as she made her way to the curtained doorway and poked her head inside to see an empty kitchen. She turned and made her way to the stairs as she chided the girl behind the bar, “If you’re going to be a thief then at least be a smart one.”

The upstairs was just a storage area, stuffed with boxes of dry goods and dry booze. No old sushi artist, no young granddaughter, no tiny table with that heated blanket thingy they could warm their legs under that really sounded like the best thing in the world to have to forget about the outside chill right now. She came back downstairs, took a seat on a step around the midway point, and said, “Okay, we’re alone.”

“Hey dude,” she said to the Guitar Guy, her voice hushed. He looked like an alarmed cat ready to dart at any moment. “I saw what happened out there. Are you feeling okay?” she asked as Zoey questioned the other girl. The pen twirled and twirled and twirled in her hand. “Want something to drink?”

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She

She caught her head in a downward drift, blue eyes flashing open to fight off sleep’s approach. It was late, late enough that some people would start calling it early, but not early enough for the coffee stand to roll its shutters up so she could buy a matcha latte and a croissant. Her stomach growled. Poor planning on her part, taking an overnight layover without having the money to book a nearby hotel and too full of burning pride and cold fury to call up Dad for an assist. He had disapproved of her plan to travel to NYC, especially when it was to meet with some stranger from the Internet. She tried explaining it to him, but she couldn’t tell him the whole story. In the end, she had just gotten her brother to drive her to the airport.

That downward drift again. This time she snapped her head back so fast it hurt. The terminal was empty, but she didn’t trust falling asleep in it. There were enough cameras around that she felt certain that nobody would do anything, but there was nobody else around to guarantee that something would do nothing. It was hard enough sleeping at home. Here? It’d be damn near impossible. Maybe on the plane, maybe, but while alone? Not happening. Her stomach rumbled again. Her eyes drifted to the vending machine. If not a croissant, then maybe some stale animal crackers. She had enough change for it, but she needed her change. She couldn’t spare a single penny. Did it take card?

Down, down, down her head drifted.

She bolted up from her seat and whipped around frantically with a fistful of quarters. The terminal had shifted. The vending machine was gone, replaced by an empty, street lit trash can. The uncomfortable chair with the broken cushion was gone, swapped into a metal bench with an advertisement on the back. The faint smell of toilet cleaner and sweaty businessmen had, thankfully, disappeared too, replaced with a crisp, clean air. It was the kind of air country people liked to take a big old sniff of and brag about before striking up their twelfth cigarette that hour. It kind of smelled like home. Her original home, not the new place they were all staying. There was one problem with that sentiment: she was over a thousand miles from home. The terminal hadn’t shifted. The terminal had vanished, or rather, she had vanished from the terminal.

A dream? She looked to the sky. Normal, black sky, only orange coming from the sleeve of her sweater as she focused on the palms of her hands. She took a quarter from her pocket, flipped it, and studied the result. Tails, commemorative state one for Virginia, black speck on the right most flag. She looked away, and then back to the quarter: tails, commemorative state for Virginia, black speck on the right most flag. She flipped it again, turned it over to the back, and studied it one more time. Same result. Reality, then.

She was in a courtyard. She looked up at the building around her. They were New York-ish, but she imagined any buildings taller than five stories to be New York-ish. She looked at the ad on the bench she’d woken up on. There was the face of a smiling, bronze woman next to a slogan that said “Welcome to Paradise”. She smiled in response. Paradise, is it? She’d always imagined it to be sandy beaches or fluffy clouds, but skyscrapers and empty streets would do. She continued to smirk as she wondered how long the advert would be up before it got removed for copyright infringement. Well, if it’s Paradise, then maybe there were no more lawyers.

She left the courtyard and wandered out into the street. There was a noticeable drop in temperature and she pulled her cardigan tight around herself as her boots went from clacking on concrete to crunching through snow. Weird. The street was empty except for the glow of streetlight. It was lined with office buildings and bodegas, every single window dark. Not a single car was parked on the side of the street, not a single bum was sleeping on a stoop, not a single footprint was in the snow aside from her own. There was nobody else around. That was even weirder, but not an entirely unwelcome life change.

"Yooooooooo!” Fuck, nevermind then. “Anybody here?!"

Another traveller who had completely missed their flight, perhaps? The voice came from the t-junction down the way. She moved slowly to the intersection, slipping one hand into her pocket and the other to rest on her bag. She peered around the corner. A block away stood a girl facing the other way, looking towards a boy in a white sweater as he approached her. Was that a guitar case on his back? She scoffed. The most she had learned from college was that at every party there was always the asshole who showed up with an acoustic guitar. Apparently, this weird Paradise was no exception. Above the two, perched on the edge of a low roof like a black cat, was a girl in a black beret, whose less than cat-like-reflexes saved herself from falling. She stifled a laugh as she watched the girl recover.

“Well, it ain’t nearly as empty as it first seemed,” she said, announcing her presence to the others, pushing her words past the pen hanging from her lips. Ain’t? What was it about being in a big city that drew the repressed country twang out? Would she spit on the ground next and thumb her belt buckle? She brushed a loose strand of blonde hair out of her eye and continued, “The rest of y’all fall asleep in the airport, too, or am I outing myself for...”

She stopped as the girl with blue streaks in her hair turned and she saw her face for the first time. Blue’s face was an unexpected, but not unwelcome, sight. The blonde relaxed her shoulders, jutted out her hip, and plucked the pen from her mouth. A sly smile wormed its way across her face.

She knew this one.

“Hey stranger. Been a minute. Anyway...” she dragged the word out as she gestured with her pen between the two actual strangers. "What is the deal with the two of you?"

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

“Excuse me, shill.”

Lott would’ve shuddered at that word if her body was capable of such convulsion, turning from the low performing cop to the over performing gnat. Instead of a shudder the ever microscopic narrowing of the eyes would do the job as it showed her disgust at being called a shill. She was no shill: she was an active representative, she was a face, she was a somebody, oh God, what idiot made her a somebody? There was no time for such anxiety inducing questions; she stored it away for later, something to cry about in the shower while she washed her mask of cool uncaring away. Besides, she had to deal with something more important. Way, way, way more important. In fact, it was a matter of life or death.

Delilah had just drawn on her.

Lott stared down the barrel of the business gun. In the hands of an expert it was the most dangerous weapon known to man, money grubbing gunslingers shooting down kindhearted idiots in boardrooms across the nation for the sake of a few more dollars. This woman was no such cowboy. The form was all wrong, the flourish was too much, and, Lott huffed, the safety was still on. Lott didn’t even blink, a secret smile line forming at the corner of her glazed eyes. Delilah hadn’t even realized that she’d already lost the duel. Lott’s one hand was busy holding the phone up like a ticking time bomb, but her other hand was where the magic was happening. The moment Delilah had even started to press her fingers together it was already over. The moment Delilah even began developing fingers in the womb it was already over. The moment a fish crawled out of the ocean and its fins developed into tiny, little, useless hands it was already over.

”Make that two counts of threatening a candidate’s life,” said Lott.

Not that it mattered. There was no way to arrest the woman, because Delilah was already dead, blown away by the cocked thumb and smoking forefinger that had shot through the pocket of Lott’s suit jacket. She wouldn’t even have to argue that the murder was in self-defense. Drawing a business gun on a professional office drone like Lott was an act of suicide.

The shots hit, why else would the woman’s jacket blow open like that as she pulled out her last line of defense? Lott took a reflexive step back, the animal inside of her still capable of keeping itself alive even if the woman wasn’t, and watched with an inner horror at the sight of Delilah jacking in. No, actually, the horror came when Samsara dived to stop the other woman from falling. He should be falling for Lott, not falling for these pedestrian theatrics. Lott’s phone started buzzing. Like, it really started to buzz. It was going to blow, the metaphorical timebomb turning into a real one. Lott let it drop from her hand, a month’s paycheck ruined as the phone cracked on the ground, and it didn’t even explode. What an uncool way to destroy one of the most important things in her life.

What was even more uncool was faking a heart attack to get out of a losing battle, but not as infinitely uncool as wrapping around the leg of Samsara Washington who, clearly, was so desperately trying to get away. Thankfully, even the cop—and cops were inherently uncool— was aware of how uncool the other woman was being. As Glory moved to put a bullet in a rabid dog, Lott gave one more double tap and then holstered her finger gun. Stone cold. Totally cool. Cooler than Antarctica or whatever that fictional place was called. She should say something smart, something that’d make Delilah have a real heart attack, but she couldn’t think of a thing. Fortunately, her trusted crony appeared beside her, sensing that she was in need of some assistance.

”Ah, Ms. Ramana?” said Theresa. ”Perhaps we should leave her for the authorities.”

Lott reminded herself to give the girl a gold star. First, the girl would have to go buy some gold stars. It was a beautiful assist, a wonderful setup that Lott was about to spike down with something cool like I am the Law before the cop turned and said something that made Lott speechless.

”That phone is also now considered evidence, it will be examined by our technical staff for details about what exactly has happened and then returned to you when the investigation is concluded.”

The color would’ve drained from Lott’s face if there was any. Instead, she settled for swallowing. Confiscate her phone? It should be given a proper pharaoh’s burial, complete with the sacrifice of all the other phones in the area, or at the very least taken into the shop for some cheap repairs until she could afford a new one. Surely it must’ve been the drinks settling in and she had misheard Glory.

She went to speak, and was cut dead once again: ““I’m going to request that everyone in any area between the main entrance and the refreshments area please move out of the way as well so that medical can get in quickly. Thank you for your cooperation. That meant the both of you, too. I’m required to stay here as security, but you two are not, and are thus required to leave. Also, Lott, I'll be taking your phone as evidence. Sorry.”

She had turned the rules on her. It was a beautiful parry and counterthrust, and one Lott had to respect even if the blow had struck her in the kidney. She slid her phone over to Glory with her foot, saying a silent prayer for her fallen comrade while clutching her gut. How the woman knew her name Lott had no idea, but her recording was running. She’d scan her face later. Find answers, find her phone. For now, she had to respect her demands. With one longing look at Samsara, she turned to the bar, snatched a bottle of vodka and a glass(it wasn’t stealing if her people had funded the event), and handed the bottle to Theresa (it definitely wasn’t stealing if it wasn’t in her hands).

“Come, dear Theresa. We should leave her to the authorities,” said Lott, echoing her intern intentionally. It was a lesson. All good ideas came from above, never below. Rule one of business. She picked an invisible piece of lint off of her lapel and headed for the exit, certain that Theresa would be on her tail.

Outside, the plaza buzzed with activity. Lott reached for her phone, her heart aching as she realized it was no longer of this earth, and unleashed her tablet instead. She clutched the old tech to her chest like a newborn babe and powered it on. Maybe Gatch needed her. Even better, maybe Gatch didn’t need her and she could go somewhere a bit more lively. She could use another drink. Speaking of which...she flicked the glass in the air with a flourish like the way Stella did, catching it in a much stiffer, definitely-almost-nearly dropped it kind of manner, and held it out expectantly to Theresa. It was time to see how long this intern would last.

closed or whatever don't look at this

Penny, the Girl with the Knowing Smile

╚══════════════╝

[The Stranger Who Pushes Back What They Seek]

AT A QUICK GLANCE

• Five foot seven
• Athletic build
• Blonde hair
• Blue eyes
• Lightly tan with freckles
• Young twenties
• Long orange cardigan, gray top, black jeans, and ankle boots.
• Overstuffed messenger bag
• A tattoo between her collarbones.
• Colorful tattoos on her arms

APPEARANCE

The girl has a lean, athletic build. Her skin is no longer oversaturated in foundation and bottled tanners, allowing an array of sun-baked freckles to blossom on her lightly tanned skin. She keeps most of her makeup limited to her lips and her eyes, or so she claims. Likewise, her smile has definitely always been this white and was not treated with any kind of product. She has slight muscle definition and even slighter curves. Her right arm is covered in a sleeve of flowery tattoos and her left inner forearm hides a tattoo of a wand surrounded by roses. A tattoo of two interlocked rhombuses is just below her collarbone and another tattoo of a runic glyph is between her breasts.

Her style is heavily-lifted from fashion blogs that some would turn their noses up at and scoff at as “basic”. She typically wears something along the lines of long tops that fall mid-hip over dark jeans or leggings and some kind of boots. Her blonde hair is still dyed a few shades lighter than its natural color, and she keeps it in a loose braid that falls just below her shoulders. She carries a brown leather messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

She comes off as confident to the point of cockiness and moves with a kind of hurried impatience. Her voice is high pitched and exhausting, both in the sense that she sounds as if she’s almost out of breath and it can be tiresome to hear her speak. She stands with her pointed chin held high and her eyes on constant overwatch, with her hand always resting near the latch of her bag like a gunslinger stepping out into the street at high noon.

ANYTHING... OFF?

She dances a coin between her knuckles, her fingertips stained with ink from the fine point marker she’s been idly chewing on. Nervous tics, the ghost of a former bad habit, or perhaps it’s something more. But it’s really that smirk that’s weirder than anything. It’s like a shield around her, deflecting anything that should harm or upset her. She appears unflappable, seems untouchable, and acts unstoppable, and it's all because of that smirk.

OTHER

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

_{@Opposition@Valor}

Despite it being such a clear liquid, Lott and vodka had a colorful history. It had become her prefered liquor of choice after the rest had betrayed her and left her alone in the shower curled up in the fetal position with her brain beating against her skull like a subwoofer. However, it’s unquestionable loyalty wasn’t the only thing her old comrade vodka had going for it. Once, an APEX sales rep had taught Lott that his go to trick when trying to seduce business partners over drinks was to keep ordering vodka tonics. As the night wore on, he’d swap to straight seltzers while keeping the booze flowing for his financial prey to loosen their inhibitions and their purse strings. Lott took his tip and reversed it: she’d drink vodka while everyone else sobered up on water.

The bartender—not the Ultrabartender but the Ultraforgettable bartender of nondescript appearance and lackluster style—had been trained to stand there and make sure nobody completely raided the open bar. It was a typical Central Party party move, rationing their liquor like the thirsty political coat-tailers were in a soupline, but Lott’s boss paid their wages. He didn’t even blink at all as the publicist filled her glass to be one stray cigarette flick away from turning into a molotov. Even without it being a firebomb, it was enough to burn her throat in a painfully delightful way as she drained it at an alarming rate. A tap on the table rang the bell for round two, and she drifted from the table. Didn’t want to look unprofessional and chug her second “seltzer” right away, especially with some geek breathing down her neck. Lott moved, but was close enough to hear the outburst: “Besides— Gatch and his goons are too easy these days. I’m a ghost, Samsara. A spooky ghost.”

Lott froze and half-turned towards the woman at the mention of Samsara. She tried her best to not appear interested, which wasn’t a difficult task for the human cog, as she gave the woman a once over. Lott couldn’t be sure if the other woman was or was not a ghost, but she was certainly ghastly. Perhaps it was an unfair assessment from a woman who also looked like the living dead, but at the very least Lott dressed like she was going to be buried in it. On the other hand, the disorderly woman dressed in clothes that should’ve been banned, burned, and buried. Yet somehow the fashion criminal wasn’t just talking about Samsara—they were talking to him.

For a moment, Lott was certain that her brain had imploded in on itself, or perhaps her eyes had malfunctioned and was still rolling playback that she was going to save for later. But no, despite the toxins raging inside of her what she perceived was, in fact, reality. Samsara was there, in the flesh. In fact, he was nearly in arms reach. In fact, he was reaching out. To her? Lott held her breath. No, it was to her, the pile of dirty laundry hiding under a cheap, convenience store dyejob. He couldn’t keep his hands off of her as he fondled underneath her jacket. To anyone else, the sight should’ve been disturbing. To Lott, it was disturbing for the wrong reasons. Samsara Washington liked women like that? No, this must’ve been a game. Nobody could ever be attracted to anyone in a jacket like that. He was trying to make her jealous, that was it, he was just trying to make Lott jealous.

It worked.

“Aren’t the Reclaim people done with him yet? I am. Send him my way. I’ll rip off his other arm. The flesh one. Am I right?”

It was that point in the night where Lott could no longer feel her face, but she hid whatever horrified look she certainly gave the woman by draining her drink. If anyone caught it, perhaps they’d mistaken the look for a loyal subordinate in shock. In reality, it was the look of a woman hazily calculating if she could get away with ripping off the loud girl’s arm—assuming, of course, she could rip off an arm in the first place. Lott disengaged and retreated to the bar. There was nothing more she wanted in the world right now than to see Samsara’s young floozy girlfriend (no, she couldn’t be, could she?) live up to her word and become an actual ghost, but Lott could settle to just slowly die from yet another drink.

As Lott swished the poison around in her mouth and waited for it to kill her or, at the very least, kill her worries, she watched in a quiet fury as the loudmouth continued her soliloquy. For a moment Lott felt like she was the only one suffocating, except she quickly became aware that all of the air had been sucked out of the room. The bit—Lott swallowed the thought, for even in anger she would never think such a thing—the punk in the jacket was now hoarding all of their oxygen, using it to fuel her incendiary comments. Someone should stop the woman before she incited a riot. Lott, honestly, should’ve stopped the woman, if only in the name of good press for the Mayor, but she saw the looks the Neo-Ludds were tossing at one another. It wasn’t her fight, and the way Samsara stepped back was enough to let her know he wouldn’t be waiting too long before moving on if something happened to his girl. In the end, Lott could spin whatever happened to benefit Gatch.

But then the rent-a-cop moved in to diffuse the situation and blow up all of Lott’s hopes and dreams in one fell swoop. Lott chugged her drink and slammed it on the table hard, causing the Ultranobody behind the table to jump. The peacekeeper had given the troublemaker a warning. A warning! Would she put her in timeout next and have her face the wall? Take away her toys and make her go to her room? What a farce. Lott approached the pair, the fire in her belly fueling her to stand up to the familiar-looking enforcer. Even with her heels, Lott had to look up so she could stare down the security woman.

“Excuse me, but a warning?” Lott’s voice didn’t even hint at her previously felt frustrations. She spoke in a hushed tone with the pacing and programmed pattern of a convincing robocall. “In less than five minutes this woman has threatened the well-being of one candidate’s health, drunkeningly wrestled with another candidate, and attempted to provoke some kind of violent reaction from known volatiles. Not to mention, she is clearly hiding something under her jacket, which is already criminal enough in its own rights even if it isn’t smuggling contraband.”

“I have read through the safety protocols outlined in the contract with Knight Enterprise. Twice.” Something about the legalese in contracts made the former auditor hot under the collar. Like a derringer springing out of a sleeve, Lott’s phone practically materialized in her hand and it moved up to her face. “Contact Knight Enterprise.”

An actual automated voice seeped through the speaker, impossible to clearly make out to anyone but Lott. Lott covered the mouthpiece with her hand and stared at the peacekeeper, “Situations like these must be treated seriously for the safety of the candidates and those in their parties. The proper procedure is to detain any potential security issues and remove them from the room for later questioning and proper threat assessment.” To the phone, “Option three. Extension Six-Two-Five.” Back to the hired goon, “Your handler is slow to answer. Perhaps by the time they pick up you’ll have reconsidered and properly perform your responsibility when it comes to public safety. If not,” Lott gave an attempt at a sincere smile, “I truly hope they only give you a warning.”

R E D U X .// 2047 //.

Maysah sat riggedly in the back of Arbiter’s self-driving car. The Tower’s presence had dampened her fervor to interrogate the man, and after a while she even stopped glaring at Arbiter through the rear view mirror. Her vision drifted to the road and she even allowed herself to enjoy the gentle rock of the supercar as it burned down the road. She could possibly match speed with the vehicle on anything but a straightaway, but it was nice not having to exert herself every now and then. She rested her eyes and leaned her head against the window, but couldn’t bring herself to fall asleep.

“So, Denver,” said Arbiter. “Anyone been there since 2029?”

“No,” said Maysah, lazily opening one eye. “It was officially decided that the best course of action to take against someone like Envoy would be a reaction. Naturally, I disagreed, but I also didn’t want to be the one to spark her to kill another fifty kay. In the end, it was an American problem. So I never returned.”

Returned. That word alone revealed the fact that Maysah was glossing over. She hadn’t been to Denver since 2029, but she had been there after Envoy’s attack—she had just arrived too late. Maysah lacked the access to private jets the more corporate supes had, and so she arrived in Denver the same way she did to New Mexico: on foot. By the time she got there, Envoy had already killed three other capes and marked her territory. Maysah was determined to go in, but some harsh words eventually convinced her to step down. In the end, the dead were little more than a statistic to those with the real power. Avenging them would be more costly than just marking them down as acceptable losses.

“I imagine the Tower must’ve been too busy protecting the crown jewels to be bothered to get on a plane, but where were you during all of this, Arbiter? You must’ve been on some kind of team by then. What, was local small time gang activity more important than dealing with a potential national threat?” she asked, seizing the opportunity to probe at Arbiter's unknown background.