Bork Lazer

Straits of Steel (A South East Asian Cyberpunk Thriller)

Alright, then. Guess all the attention's on me right now. I will probably get a post out by the end of this week. Fingers crossed.

Straits of Steel (A South East Asian Cyberpunk Thriller)

I love the recent uptick in posts. I'm aiming to probably get a second GM post out by the end of next week or the early week before. (At least, before my birthday) Nevertheless, I am very encouraged by the quality of the posts that have arrived so far. I'm just typing up the skeleton of my post at the moment.

The Consortium

Barnabum Yericksford

Once the Sky Maiden had eventually reached an altitude high enough for a blind man to see the stars, Barney gave a wistful sign. His analytical mind yammered away at the back of his mind, pointing how the specific names of star systems that he was seeing, the location of various nebulas that buffeted the blackness of the cosmos and the paths of various comets that streaked across the night sky like migratory birds. The skyport soon became a speck in the distance.

Stardust looked beautiful from a skyship rather than through the suffocating guise of a planetary atmosphere. Barney briefly remembered an elf sorcerer who tried to enchant his corneas for a university project. He ended up being blinded for the next semester until a nearby cleric could provide their services. He had to thank the benefits of gnomish darkvision, though.

The Skyship swayed a little as it ascended, a bobbing lurch like a feather floating about in a gale. It was imperceptible to most of the crew but Barney frowned. He double checked to make sure that the engines wouldn’t hiccup. It was his finest work yet. For a newly built engine to have a slight malfunction in the first few hours…….The gnome checked over his shoulders to make sure no one was following him before sneaking down towards the engine room. Perhaps, he’d tightened the bolts too much or -

Uh oh.

“ KILL IT! KILL THE STAR DRAGON!” The pixie pirate along with several others were banging the engine with pieces of lumbar and their swords, slashing away at the assembly with all the fury their tiny bodies could muster. The engine was belching smoke and coughing, several nicks in the pressurised valves and tubes that connected it to the thrusters. The pixies eyes were bloodshot and the room smelt heavily of smoked mushrooms.

“ Alright, that’s it, ya little blighters.” Barnabas was picking up the pixies one by one and tossing them out of the engine room but it was too late. He then stared in horror at the mangled mess of the engine and began to pull on the roots of his hair. Oh, he should have never given those damn flowerspawns his supply of mushrooms. What was he thinking? What would the captian do if she found out? Nevermind that, the whole crew would die once the engine self-dest-

He paused for a moment. Why did he need to tell her in the first place? The mushroom fumes gave the air an electric tingle as he breathed it in, wondrous ideas flashing in his mind. Oh yes, he could improve the engine. He could make it even better than it was before.

“ Well,” He strapped on his googles and took out his trusty wrench. “ What the captain doesn’t know won’t harm her.” He rubbed his hands eagerly together as he pulled out a cobweb tattered box from the corner. Blowing the dust off, he clicked open the lock and opened it, the room filling with a nauseous green glow.

“ Besides, I’ve always wanted to experiment with radioactive fuel.”

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

Before Petrukov could get in, the garage door slammed down. The rest followed, making him feel like a cornered mouse.

He should be afraid. That made sense.

So, why wasn’t he?

His muscles are tense, his stomach flutters, his skin trembles but it’s not due to fear. It’s the thrill. The excitement. The fear of being afraid that runs through his nervous system. He hates this. How the odds excite him more than they frighten him. The flutter of adrenaline in his chest. How his heart beats so fast that his rib cage feels like it might break. It’s as if everything before this was a hazy daydream.

A jolt from the back knocks him out of his stupor. Damage readings, blinking inside his iconoclast, pop up and mark out a portion of the Jury Rigg as burning red. A quick glance makes him slightly worried. He’s built the chassis to take punishment but even carbon-laminated steel has its limits. There’s more dull thumps that follow, sparks combining with shrieks of metal to form a single drawn out sound that reminds him of a rope being pulled to its seams. The Jury Rigg’s audio receivers pick up the words of the Herald’s leader, who speaks about him casually as if he’s an animal in a slaughterhouse.

“ Aim for the wheels and we’ll drag him from out the back.”

Familiar words from long ago slither into his ears, above the belching groan of the exhaust. He remembers the cold chill of the Ni-Cola in his left hand. The feel of flesh sticking to metal. His car parked right next to OverDriver’s Monica. They’re both sharing crappy instant-ramen and then, out of nowhere, when Detroit just begins to set, he says the words.

“ There’s two endings for people like us in this world, Demon. Dying quick or dreaming quick. I’m not sure which one comes first.”

He thumbs the gear stick, fiddling with it, deciding his next course of action. As if he has a choice. Petrukov was trapped away from him. The Ark hated him. He was trapped within this shithole of a city trying to claw itself out from futility.

They wanted to drag him out? He’d let them drag the Demon out.

He shifts into reverse gear, ripping out the front of the Jury Rigg embedded in the garage door before chucking the stick left and swinging it into a high third. He sends it into a sweeping pendulum drift before pushing the gear forward into first and sending the Jury Rigg zooming forward in a blazing trail.

The first Herald slammed wetly into his windshield, cracking the right upper glass. The second became a road bump under his wheels. They’re just meat to him. Everything outside the car is a blur of gunfire and flailing bodies. Inside the air-conditioned filter-scrubbed interior is his world. His second body. He whips the wheel to the left and shatters a Herald’s spine from behind, sending the merc crawling on the ground like a newborn.

The brakes squeal, the extra momentum swinging his helmet right and left. He’s staring face to face with the leader. His Octadactyl grips the wheel tightly with its titanium paddings, leaving a shallow indentation in the carbo-olymer framework. There is only anger now, an ocean that fills his lungs and makes his head light and hot. There is no man in front of him. Only a target.

His boots slams down on the accelerator and the Jury Rigg burns forward, a half-ton blur of blood-spattered steel and eth-fumes.

50 kmh.

He closes his eyes.

100 kmh.

His heart beats in anticipation.

150 kmh.

“ Swim, Keah. Swim away”

He gasps, rising out from the tide of rage, and pushes on the brake, just barely managing to avoid the leader. The interior of the car begins to feel like summer, the roof above his head glowing like a hotplate. He turned to the right, the laser raking a trench across. Then, something that sounded like a wet balloon popping rang his eardrums as he could barely make out the shrill alerts from his helmet.

WARNING. WARNING. FRONT LEFT TIRE IN CRITICAL CONDITION. FRONT LEFT TIRE IN CRITICAL CONDITION.

The Jury Rigg, for the first time, spins out of control, his grip of the wheel loose and slack. The ruined. Maneuvering with three wheels is easier than maneuvering with two. It feels like sailing in the Atlantic with only a lifebuoy and two spoons for paddles. He’s not sure whether or not he’s driving or a passenger along for the ride. His mind soon fills in the patterns for his vehicle’s drunken chaos as he slightly turns the wheel to the right, swerving past a trio of Heralds that blast at his bullet-riddled doors with wild abandon.

Keah doesn’t question his luck when the garage doors open again in unison. All he focuses on is Petrukov and Lovecraft standing out in the open, the Pirate Queen looking paler than ever. To his left, the Bannerlord was in the midst of the firefight. The bullets currently raining down on the both of them left him little choice. He brushed past a Herald, the sideswipe leaving the merc tumbling and clutching his hip in pain, thundering towards the shellshocked form of Petrukov and Lovecraft.

“Maám, get in. We can still get you out of here. The election matters more than a dea-” Keah’s head flinched as his right side mirror exploded into a puff of glass and metal. He was more worried about whether there would be a Jury Rigg left to repair rather than how much it would cost to repair his ride after Petrukov’s botched deal. The side door clicked open with a screeching whine, Keah waiting for both of them to get in.

“ Lovecraft, I only got three wheels left.” He pumped up the gearstick to first and squeezed the accelerator, the engine purring gently in response. “ Make sure it doesn’t get below that number.”

Straits of Steel (A South East Asian Cyberpunk Thriller)

Loving the posts so far. Just remember that there's no official posting time or posting order so just keep working at your posts while you're at it, guys!

Straits of Steel (A South East Asian Cyberpunk Thriller)

@Bork Lazer I just noticed there isn't a description for the orange key zone. What is that area?

@silvermist1116

Aw piss, I probably need to change that. I didn't notice that error in MS Paint. Ignore that orange zone for now. It's nothing of any importance.

Probably.

Maybe.

Anyway, I'll replace it with an edited version soon.

Straits of Steel (A South East Asian Cyberpunk Thriller)

So, the IC post is out. Here are a few clarifications.

- The first round is just for you to establish your character. There is no general posting order that will be gathered from whoever replies first and last.

- Despite this not being mentioned, you are encouraged to make pre-existing relationships with other players. This is optional, however.

Please ask me if you think there are any concerns or confusions I should clear up.

Straits of Steel (A South East Asian Cyberpunk Thriller)

---

JUNE 15th 2099 - 27 C - 15 MPH - 1:00 PM

VIRAL CONTAMINATION IN MYCO VATS FORCES RECALL OF ALL HONGYANG PRODUCTS - SOMALIAN PIRATES SPOTTED NORTH - PLATINE-TAKAHASHI HEIR ANNOUNCES DIVORCE

---

Chew Law Cafe , Canton Canal

The evening clouds wept over New Malacca, yet, the neon fire kept burning in the sea.

At least, that’s how Marcus sees it. Pearl of the orient. Jewel of the South China Sea. Hah. The only jewel of the sea he ever saw was one at the bottom of a ceramic mug. Speaking of which……….

“ Kopi Kosong. Susu soy ” Marcus speaks in a clipped voice to the robotic waiter - an old 2030 model that’s more of a tourist attraction now rather than something functional. Its old hydraulic joints shift and clack as the holo-screen glued to the front of its chassis reads out his order before grinding on to the next table on its treaded tires. Chew Law Cafe is in a paradoxical state of being packed and empty at the same time, customers filtering in and out at a dizzying rate. It reminds Marcus of a factory line, automated, precise, efficient. The sad truth for most in New Malacca is that to live here is to be on the move constantly. Marcus sighs, shakes his head and looks outside the kopitiam while mindlessly rifling through his afternoon paper.

There are two things that Marcus believed were a part of Hibiscus Lanel. First was the nosy hawkers that got in your way and second was the rain. The latter was on the forefront today as the sky thundered above. It rattled on the corrugated tin roofs that were a staple of the district and poured down the gutters onto the syncrete walkways, pooling into puddles. All of it flowed down towards the central river that snaked its way through New Malacca.

The main headline almost made Marcus puke. The 70th anniversary of New Malacca isn't something to celebrate about, no matter how much Mayor Yokgan touts it around like a political bat. New Malacca isn't rising above its bloody past. It’s sunken already and anyone who tells themselves otherwise in Marcus’s mind is a fool. He flips over to the next page. Corpo adverts. Independent journalism hidden behind mountains and mountains of useless drivel. He’s lucky that his order arrives fast enough to distract him and even luckier that the kopitiam has a refill policy.

5 hours pass in a tumble of odd passerbys, more cups of kopi and crossword puzzles. He looks at the clock when the sun streams onto his table top. 6:30 PM. It’s only a fifteen minute walk anyway. Marcus folds the paper two times into a bundle and tucks it underneath the crook of his elbow. He sets out on a stroll on the east side of the Canton Canal. The sunset turned the Canton Canal from its blue countenance into a river of rust, its oily glimmer rippling over the surf. It has darkened into the color of brick, eddies of red swirling as if something lived underneath the great wreck, with gnashing jaws, waiting to grab him by the neck.

Marcus takes his time walking. Life is meant to be savored, not rushed into a pit of needles and gunfire. All the while, he stares at the set of coordinates stuck within the bottom right hand corner of his cyber-optic along with a single name.

Suraiboshen. Silver Ocean.

The distance doesn’t matter. 1 kilometer, 200 meters, 10 feet. Only one number matters.

500,000.

He crosses over an old bridge, past a young tourist couple who were politely haggling passersby to take a photo. He walks past a labyrinthian alley of drooling AR addicts with a pile of burnt out sim-chips on their side. Past a lazing gang of motorboat racers lounging on their rides. Past the thick heavy fume of incense and myrrh from street shrines that were plastered to the sides of old buildings. His joints creak and crack. His lungs feel like they’re on the verge of popping like over-inflated balloons. The metal glued to his flesh repulses him, even after all these years. His mind tries to focus on the destination but his body pulls him back with doubt.

His left hand, flesh and blood, not the plastic fake on his right, tightens, nails biting into his palm. He can do it. He still has to. New Malacca will have to die first if he doesn’t.

It’s only when he crosses over 34th Mcgonagall Street and turns the corner of a conga line of antsy hover rickshaw drivers does Suraiboshen finally come into view.

Situated near the borders between the Canton Canal and Hibiscus Lane, it’s awfully quaint for its popularity. For one, it’s not plastered with enough holo-adverts to make him puke nor is it like the multi-story high rises of the tradeplex. The restaurant settles for being a relic of a past with its squat temple-like facade and terraced bamboo eaves. Paper lanterns dangle on the corners as a wind blows through the area. It’s bold in its unassuming nature. Marcus respects that.

A single rope bridge connects it from the side of the canal to a set of sliding lattice doors with Japanese iconography. Two men, with sloping shoulders and tower like frames, are waiting side by side to each other at the front of the entrance as he walks closer to them. Each of them have clean-shaven heads, save for the top-knot sprouting from the back,a web of circuitry and metallic sutures lining the sides of their skull. Their hands rest on a blocky handgun that looks more like bricks of metal. Both of them wear clean-pressed dark suits with polarized shades that fail to hide their red optics.

" Are we just going to stand here? " Marcus holds out his hands to the side, nodding at them. " Or are you going to search me?"

The left guard holsters his heavy-calibre sidearm and pulls out a oblong device that screeches intermittently every so once in a while as it passes along each and every corner of his body. He pauses, checking the instrument. His eyes glow meanwhile, a minute long conversation taking place in the span of seconds inside his head. He then nods, " You're clear to go through. Don't go in waving your heat around and you'll be fine."

" Surprised you're letting me keep my weapon." Marcus says sarcastically. " Seems like a high-class joint like this should practice more stricter security standards."

" Our employer believes that our client should have adequate insurance." Big and Large to the right gruffly sighs in annoyance. " To a reasonable extent, of course. If you had any explosives or packed something much larger than that dinky little thing...." His voice trails off as he lets out a snort of amusement. "Besides, you're not much to write home about, old man."

" What my partner means to say, sir,...." The left guard softly speaks in a more diplomatic tone. "...is that Suraiboshen operates with the open-carry firearm laws of New Malacca. We trust that you understand the consequences if you discharge your weapon in this place. Many guests are fond of this place." He emphasizes the last word. “ That being said, please wait in the hallway. You will be called by our employer once the others have arrived.”

Others? Marcus did his best to not show his surprise and merely raised an eyebrow. “ I thought this was going to be a solo job.”

“ Our employer never specified otherwise.” There was a sharkish smirk on the guard’s face that was quickly replaced by a stoic mask of professionalism. Marcus wondered how they entertained themselves if their job was to stand around and look intimidating all day. All right. He’s willing to play along. Marcus enters into the building and the door shuts with a soft click behind him.

A lacquered wood hall greets him with long benches on either side. Two people have arrived already, sitting a fair distance from each other. One is as small as him, dressed slick in a stylish long coat that is adorned with heavy metal buckles. Marcus immediately doesn’t like him. The toothpick in his mouth doesn’t do him any favors. The other is still, spine straight like a sign post, with their legs locked at a 90 degree angle. The hijab covers her features so that only her face is revealed. Her dimpled grin is offset by the black rims around her twitching eyes. He makes note of the curved scabbard behind her back, barely visible underneath her polyester cloak. How did they allow thatin?

Marcus ignores the piercing stares he gets. Let them judge. He understands that in terms of appearances, he’s practically endangered as it gets. 30 is the new 90 in the age of Paradigm organics and other bioware startups. One telomere therapy is all you need to turn back the clock. He sits down, brushes the dust off his pants and rolls his shoulders, taking in a deep breathe.

He just needed to do one job. Even if it meant working with other people, one job. 500,000 asyuan. The door at the end of the hallway was the key to his future and he'd be stupid to let as something as trivial as teamwork get in the way of that.

Forsaken

“ Ah, fresh air!” Lak Lok lifted out his arms and basked in the glow of the sun. “ Thank goodness we don’t have to taste the food of this establishment anymore.” He momentarily retched, his face curdling as if he’d sucked a raw lemon, shuddering at the memory of that abomination of an owlbear steak.

Lak Lok watched in silence, keeping his scaly lips sewn shut, as the genasi and moon elf interacted. As much as he felt as he was wrong in his assumptions, he could still sense a lingering spark between the two of them. It was true that Kobold coupling consisted of both the wife and husband attempting to murder each other during their honeymoon but Lak Lok saw the hints of affection between the both of them. Why, the genasi was positively glowing with passion.

Or was it anger? Lak Lok couldn’t differentiate between the two. As soon as the Genasi and Moon Elf walked away, Lak Lok turned around to speak to Nemorad and Graves.

“Well, gentlemen, I’m not occupied with anything at the moment, so, let’s say, all three of us meet at the morgue in about an hour? I am quite eager to see…...……”

Lak Lok’s voice trailed off as his nostrils flared, an intoxicating aroma filling the air around him. It was heavenly, saliva pooling in his mouth, as he could taste the dozens of different spices that were suffused in it. He eventually located the source of the smell, a single solitary cart of meat buns being carted around by a warthog. Two elderly gnomes held the reigns, egging the beast forward every so often.

Is that…...sunlight saffron glaze?

Marbled unicorn buns.

Concentrate, Lak Lok.

Marbled unicorn buns.

You need to focus on the -

I NEEEDDDDDD IT!

Lak Lok wiped the drool off his chin and stammered. “ O-on second thought, I just remembered.” Lak Lok’s eyes trailed as the cart of deliciousness was escaping from him.

His stomach rumbled.

“Seeyoulaterinanhourgottago!” Lak Lok sprinted off down the road, waving for the cart to stop.

---

One afternoon supper later, Lak Lok arrived at the morgue, plumper than he had been in the morning. It was a squat building that was located relatively far away from the rest of the town, secluded underneath the shadow of a great husk of an elder tree that saw better days. The kobold patted his slightly distended gut and burped. Oh, that was a good snack. Lak Lok stared around for any sight of the necromancer or Nemorad before growling in impatience.

He wasn’t one to wait around. If the others weren’t here yet, he might as well take the initiative then. He walked out towards the entrance and then, a large war club slammed into the earth in front of him. A large burly orc had stepped out from behind a guard post. His right hand held the beefy looking weapon while the other scooped out trail mix from a small satchel and tossed it into his mouth.

“ Yes?”

“ Ahem.” Lak Lok cleared his throat before speaking. “ I am here on behalf of Mister Garrick. We require access to your morg-” He then eyed what the orc was holding and spoke in a horrified tone of voice “ Excuse me, are those dried grapes in your trail mix?”

The orc raised an eyebrow, staring back at the kobold and back at his snack.

“ Yeah. Ya got a problem wit’ it? “

“ No, nothing. It’s just that, um - “ The kobold coughed, cursing his lack of tact. “ Couldn’t you substitute it with something more palatable?”

“ I’ll have ya know that mah great grandmummy made this fer me!”

“ Your great grandmother fed you poison?!” Lak Lok’s eyes widened and covered his mouth before giggling nervously as the orc raised the club over his shoulders, his large shadow looming over his minuscule form “ I mean, your great grandmother fed you passion……..”

Straits of Steel (A South East Asian Cyberpunk Thriller)

Alright, after thinking through, I have made my final decision on what the roster will look like.

@Opposition - Xiaolan Dagon

@Shiva - Nadia Kumara

@Rapid Reader - Tamara Malikova/Toma

@BingtheWing - Nicolas Rosa

@vietmyke - Raymond Cheng

@silvermist1116 - Xia Lang

If you want more detailed feedback on why your sheet didn't or did get accepted, please PM me in private. Otherwise, thank you to all of those who submitted character sheets. Your interest and enthusiasm is appreciated, even if you didn't ultimately make it into the final roster. If an empty space pops up in the future, don't be afraid to message me about whether or not you can join!

On a side note, the IC will be up by most likely next week. I'm half-way done with the initial post.