November:
There’s one strong advantage to this decision. Immediately after being given the tip, Muffi assigns Surge to the stakeout with you for the meetup with the hardware’s original owners.
Surge, the Maid Man, looks like a Hollywood idea of Achilles. Not seven feet tall, but it’s how you’d describe him if you met him in a dark alley. Outside of work, his favourite profile picture to use is him laughing while lifting the ninth Ardblair stone at a recreation of the Highland games.
You’ve never seen him out of uniform. An intricate French maid outfit, white lace latticework ending in a big silk bow at the collar. White bows on the tips of his high heels, too. The edges of the black cat ear headband are covered by the lace doily headpiece, and matching gloves. And the hemline’s so short on the skirt that you can know for sure those are only thigh high stockings. Minus the heels, it’s even what he was wearing for the Ardblair stone lift.
Like Muffi, he’s one of the few people hired by the Headpattr union directly. His thing started with an informal offer to check up on people who needed it in his off hours, and ended with a whip around to afford to have him on-call. If something bad’s already happened, Muffi can sort through the blacklisting. If something bad’s already happening, then cops are probably going to be faster. But what about clients who just seem sketchy? That give you a vague, indefinable feeling that something bad might happen? When you don’t feel safe to try to leave a situation on your own?
Nine times out of ten, he isn’t needed. His talent is in showing up anyway, working out the nine from the ten, and making sure you know you did the right thing if you’re one of the lucky nine. Rumour has it he’s so good at this because he used to be a cleaner of a very different kind. Don’t bother asking, he just laughs if you bring it up.
Sitting at a cafe with Black, it’s half an hour into the meet and they’re a no-show. Surge isn’t surprised. “Would you?” He asks, checking his phone. “They must have run that rig for years before Muffi got suspicious. Why take the risk for something already burned?” He pulls out a chair to leave. “Thanks for the good company, though. This was fun. I know Muffi’s dying to get this thing set up. She’s pretty sure Headpattr’s lying about the scoring algorithm, but hasn’t had a way to test it. If there’s any chance this gets it for her…” He rubs the back of his neck. “She needs the win, is all I mean. I’ve got to run. Lucy Bell just got locked in by a guy’s security system, and I have to make sure it was just an accident. She swears she didn’t do anything this time, but she’s scared nobody’s going to believe her. You know how it is. She’s scared somebody’s not going to believe she’s changed, and I don’t want to tell her I’m more worried the guy’s just a scumbag trying to make sure she can’t leave while she’s on the clock.”
Another plus to giving it to the union? You don’t have to worry about where you’re keeping this, keeping it safe. People who know it’s hot and can handle it appropriately. If something comes up, they know they can come to you about it then. Just like you can go to them.
Who ended up delivering it to Muffi? Did they stay to help set it back up?
Fiona messages Pink.
You’re not going to like Thrones very much. Just as a warning. My advice is treat it like you’re on safari, looking for inspiration. If it gets real bad, pretend you’re my spy on a mission. You can report everything back to me over cuddles and sandwiches, okay? Look after your sisters and make sure they look after you too.
Crystal messages White.
I’ve never been, but from what Fiona tells me, well… I hope she’s just being uncharitable. Be kind to yourself.
The ship to Thrones docks at Selene. Even here, a good fraction of an astronomical unit away, the affect of Thrones makes itself known. The flight’s business class only; a pretense that there is no class divide here. No matter what you are going to Thrones to do, to be, you have made it because you are the best. Talent buys you the ticket, and money can’t separate you.
Whether that’s an idea that survives the journey though? To be seen. Certainly it doesn’t seem to have come with much of a pay bump, just a promise of endless perks.
More people come off the ship than go on. More androids are heading out than in. The difference between the inbound and outbound is serious, too. Go in young, energetic, disruptive. Just as many corporate aspirants as caffeine addicted satanists and academic anarchists. They come back middle aged and in the middle of an anger management disorder, or with all the symptoms of having come out the other side of one. Some took to it with a militant air, right-angled strides and clenched-fist discipline, some took to it with coloured glasses, wild hair and the undeniable aura of experimental pharmacology.
But here you're mostly seeing the waste product, what Thrones has spit out. Just who leaves.
You're intimately familiar with the style of liner you're going out on, a metatitanium Ratha class with gleaming third-generation plasma engine. The hull is shaped like a flattened egg, sitting in the center of a single flowing wing like an astral stingray, the long tapered engine emerging like a tail-spine. Safe, solid, no cut corners. The passenger area takes up only a small fraction. Most of the body is cargo space, right now being filled with bulk containers of refridgerated produce. By comparison, the liner was empty when it shipped in. Two containers of specialist equipment, not suited for mass production.
It’s not zoned like an airplane, like a train. Passengers are allocated two areas, a personal compartment to sleep in, and a communal lounge. While the dimensions of a sleeping compartment give about as much space as a CD case gives a CD, the Ratha takes advantage of its width to seat passengers more like a restaurant than a dining car. Still, most gravitate to the area of seatbelted cinema-seats aimed at the polarized frontpiece of the hull, aimed outward at the stars.
This could be your first time seeing Aevum from the outside again, since a very long time. Do the recent thoughts on dysphoria make that easier or harder on you?
Elsewhere in the lounge, a woman will be using a Rough on this flight, that toolset that Sasha used to imagine renderings of cybernetics. Green already knows everything she’d need for you to be able to make your hands work with her software. Judging by the Pirate Political Party badge she’ll have on her computer bag, she’d have no problems sharing her copy.
I use future tense here, because you might not plan on leaving yet. Could be one of you came down here to scope the launch, check bags, make sure Muffi’s been good to her word, and you have other things you want to do before the flight out. But this will be your path to Dad.
Persephone:
Sleeping dreamlessly is one thing, but you wake up with the chemical hangover worthy of that Faustian bargain. Waking up will be hell; A thing of getting vitamins and minerals into you, changing bedsheets soaked with sweat (if you are so inclined to be bothered by this), some kind of stimulant to make up for the crash, or just knuckling through. A normally fifteen minute routine might take an hour, here. And it’s already 2pm by the time you wake up.
You’ve gotten a text from a missed call you slept through, not from a number you recognize. Straight through to voice mail, you do recognize the voice if you check it.
“Hey, not sure if you remember me, I’m the guy you caught that day in the park. Bigsby. You know the…” Beat. “I’m not asking you out or anything, I don’t know what that sketch thing was about? If that’s what you’re worried about. Just calling to uh- Actually, better if we meet up somewhere quiet. I’m free from five, today. Can you meet me at The Log Inn, up in von Bismarck?”
Catching the train you can make 6pm, sure. But it won’t give you time to check on anything else, not until you’re already moving. Why would you follow up on this, though?
There’s a missed call from FUCKING SKELATOR too, but no messages and no voice mail. Hard to tell if that makes it important or not. If you try to call him back, the line’s busy but the call doesn’t ring out. Nothing from Sasha.
3V:
About aglets? Who knows. Even at the best of times he’s not the most hinged, and becoming a conspiracy theorist is just an occupational hazard. If nobody believes you when you’re right, then it becomes impossible to believe when you’re wrong. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness…
About real-estate, though? Anecdotally, a few of your regulars actually do own their own places. Thinking of them tells the story, though. Reed’s got a big stack of hereditary wealth he uses to cruise through life as a professional patron of the arts, living off the interest and throwing money at whatever kickstarter takes his interest. You can’t think of a single example that wasn’t inherited.
Even the well-paid tech industry folk rent. It’s not just that house prices are high, it’s that nobody seems willing to sell. The station is underpopulated for its size, with plenty of space for new development.
Most people don’t question this. Aevum’s a closed system, finite space, and entirely made bespoke. The idea that somebody owns everything is intuitive enough to be thought-terminating. There’s nothing to really be curious about.
… is there? Because it’s also just assumed property is changing hands somewhere. Someone’s buying and selling, surely? Even if it’s just corporations and the ultra-rich between themselves. Because property is privatized on Aevum.
Why does that matter, though? Rent’s a fraction of what people would be paying on a mortgage. Even if it’s true, what would the story here even be? Why do you care?
Junta hisses in his sleep as he accidentally puts weight on the broken shoulder. It’s still not enough to wake him up. When he comes to, though, he’s going to be severely dry of whatever pain medication they’ve put him on.
A text from Luisa. Her mum just took a bad fall, she can’t work tomorrow. Have you got the store covered?
The original plan to lift the hardware was done without full knowledge of just how serious the software behind it was. Ironically, this made the process even harder to know what to do with. If it was just a matter of doing a reset to factory defaults and then selling some graphics cards like they fell off the back of a van that was one thing, but the value here was in the tight integration between hardware and software. The difference between a corpse and a person
The problem then was: what target to aim such a device at? Commercial transactions were out for ethical reasons, and aiming it at a Megacorporation meant picking a fight with a Megacorporation while she had an active fight with the concept of law enforcement going. It was Red who suggested handing it to the Union as a way to help get ahead of the nightmare that was the Headpattr app. It was a hateful suggestion because it was so obviously correct that it only left room for lamenting rather than arguing.
There’s one strong advantage to this decision. Immediately after being given the tip, Muffi assigns Surge to the stakeout with you for the meetup with the hardware’s original owners.
Surge, the Maid Man, looks like a Hollywood idea of Achilles. Not seven feet tall, but it’s how you’d describe him if you met him in a dark alley. Outside of work, his favourite profile picture to use is him laughing while lifting the ninth Ardblair stone at a recreation of the Highland games.
You’ve never seen him out of uniform. An intricate French maid outfit, white lace latticework ending in a big silk bow at the collar. White bows on the tips of his high heels, too. The edges of the black cat ear headband are covered by the lace doily headpiece, and matching gloves. And the hemline’s so short on the skirt that you can know for sure those are only thigh high stockings. Minus the heels, it’s even what he was wearing for the Ardblair stone lift.
Like Muffi, he’s one of the few people hired by the Headpattr union directly. His thing started with an informal offer to check up on people who needed it in his off hours, and ended with a whip around to afford to have him on-call. If something bad’s already happened, Muffi can sort through the blacklisting. If something bad’s already happening, then cops are probably going to be faster. But what about clients who just seem sketchy? That give you a vague, indefinable feeling that something bad might happen? When you don’t feel safe to try to leave a situation on your own?
Nine times out of ten, he isn’t needed. His talent is in showing up anyway, working out the nine from the ten, and making sure you know you did the right thing if you’re one of the lucky nine. Rumour has it he’s so good at this because he used to be a cleaner of a very different kind. Don’t bother asking, he just laughs if you bring it up.
Sitting at a cafe with Black, it’s half an hour into the meet and they’re a no-show. Surge isn’t surprised. “Would you?” He asks, checking his phone. “They must have run that rig for years before Muffi got suspicious. Why take the risk for something already burned?” He pulls out a chair to leave. “Thanks for the good company, though. This was fun. I know Muffi’s dying to get this thing set up. She’s pretty sure Headpattr’s lying about the scoring algorithm, but hasn’t had a way to test it. If there’s any chance this gets it for her…” He rubs the back of his neck. “She needs the win, is all I mean. I’ve got to run. Lucy Bell just got locked in by a guy’s security system, and I have to make sure it was just an accident. She swears she didn’t do anything this time, but she’s scared nobody’s going to believe her. You know how it is. She’s scared somebody’s not going to believe she’s changed, and I don’t want to tell her I’m more worried the guy’s just a scumbag trying to make sure she can’t leave while she’s on the clock.”
Another plus to giving it to the union? You don’t have to worry about where you’re keeping this, keeping it safe. People who know it’s hot and can handle it appropriately. If something comes up, they know they can come to you about it then. Just like you can go to them.
Who ended up delivering it to Muffi? Did they stay to help set it back up?
Fiona messages Pink.
You’re not going to like Thrones very much. Just as a warning. My advice is treat it like you’re on safari, looking for inspiration. If it gets real bad, pretend you’re my spy on a mission. You can report everything back to me over cuddles and sandwiches, okay? Look after your sisters and make sure they look after you too.
Crystal messages White.
I’ve never been, but from what Fiona tells me, well… I hope she’s just being uncharitable. Be kind to yourself.
The ship to Thrones docks at Selene. Even here, a good fraction of an astronomical unit away, the affect of Thrones makes itself known. The flight’s business class only; a pretense that there is no class divide here. No matter what you are going to Thrones to do, to be, you have made it because you are the best. Talent buys you the ticket, and money can’t separate you.
Whether that’s an idea that survives the journey though? To be seen. Certainly it doesn’t seem to have come with much of a pay bump, just a promise of endless perks.
More people come off the ship than go on. More androids are heading out than in. The difference between the inbound and outbound is serious, too. Go in young, energetic, disruptive. Just as many corporate aspirants as caffeine addicted satanists and academic anarchists. They come back middle aged and in the middle of an anger management disorder, or with all the symptoms of having come out the other side of one. Some took to it with a militant air, right-angled strides and clenched-fist discipline, some took to it with coloured glasses, wild hair and the undeniable aura of experimental pharmacology.
But here you're mostly seeing the waste product, what Thrones has spit out. Just who leaves.
You're intimately familiar with the style of liner you're going out on, a metatitanium Ratha class with gleaming third-generation plasma engine. The hull is shaped like a flattened egg, sitting in the center of a single flowing wing like an astral stingray, the long tapered engine emerging like a tail-spine. Safe, solid, no cut corners. The passenger area takes up only a small fraction. Most of the body is cargo space, right now being filled with bulk containers of refridgerated produce. By comparison, the liner was empty when it shipped in. Two containers of specialist equipment, not suited for mass production.
It’s not zoned like an airplane, like a train. Passengers are allocated two areas, a personal compartment to sleep in, and a communal lounge. While the dimensions of a sleeping compartment give about as much space as a CD case gives a CD, the Ratha takes advantage of its width to seat passengers more like a restaurant than a dining car. Still, most gravitate to the area of seatbelted cinema-seats aimed at the polarized frontpiece of the hull, aimed outward at the stars.
This could be your first time seeing Aevum from the outside again, since a very long time. Do the recent thoughts on dysphoria make that easier or harder on you?
Elsewhere in the lounge, a woman will be using a Rough on this flight, that toolset that Sasha used to imagine renderings of cybernetics. Green already knows everything she’d need for you to be able to make your hands work with her software. Judging by the Pirate Political Party badge she’ll have on her computer bag, she’d have no problems sharing her copy.
I use future tense here, because you might not plan on leaving yet. Could be one of you came down here to scope the launch, check bags, make sure Muffi’s been good to her word, and you have other things you want to do before the flight out. But this will be your path to Dad.
Persephone:
Sleeping dreamlessly is one thing, but you wake up with the chemical hangover worthy of that Faustian bargain. Waking up will be hell; A thing of getting vitamins and minerals into you, changing bedsheets soaked with sweat (if you are so inclined to be bothered by this), some kind of stimulant to make up for the crash, or just knuckling through. A normally fifteen minute routine might take an hour, here. And it’s already 2pm by the time you wake up.
You’ve gotten a text from a missed call you slept through, not from a number you recognize. Straight through to voice mail, you do recognize the voice if you check it.
“Hey, not sure if you remember me, I’m the guy you caught that day in the park. Bigsby. You know the…” Beat. “I’m not asking you out or anything, I don’t know what that sketch thing was about? If that’s what you’re worried about. Just calling to uh- Actually, better if we meet up somewhere quiet. I’m free from five, today. Can you meet me at The Log Inn, up in von Bismarck?”
Catching the train you can make 6pm, sure. But it won’t give you time to check on anything else, not until you’re already moving. Why would you follow up on this, though?
There’s a missed call from FUCKING SKELATOR too, but no messages and no voice mail. Hard to tell if that makes it important or not. If you try to call him back, the line’s busy but the call doesn’t ring out. Nothing from Sasha.
3V:
About aglets? Who knows. Even at the best of times he’s not the most hinged, and becoming a conspiracy theorist is just an occupational hazard. If nobody believes you when you’re right, then it becomes impossible to believe when you’re wrong. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness…
About real-estate, though? Anecdotally, a few of your regulars actually do own their own places. Thinking of them tells the story, though. Reed’s got a big stack of hereditary wealth he uses to cruise through life as a professional patron of the arts, living off the interest and throwing money at whatever kickstarter takes his interest. You can’t think of a single example that wasn’t inherited.
Even the well-paid tech industry folk rent. It’s not just that house prices are high, it’s that nobody seems willing to sell. The station is underpopulated for its size, with plenty of space for new development.
Most people don’t question this. Aevum’s a closed system, finite space, and entirely made bespoke. The idea that somebody owns everything is intuitive enough to be thought-terminating. There’s nothing to really be curious about.
… is there? Because it’s also just assumed property is changing hands somewhere. Someone’s buying and selling, surely? Even if it’s just corporations and the ultra-rich between themselves. Because property is privatized on Aevum.
Why does that matter, though? Rent’s a fraction of what people would be paying on a mortgage. Even if it’s true, what would the story here even be? Why do you care?
Junta hisses in his sleep as he accidentally puts weight on the broken shoulder. It’s still not enough to wake him up. When he comes to, though, he’s going to be severely dry of whatever pain medication they’ve put him on.
A text from Luisa. Her mum just took a bad fall, she can’t work tomorrow. Have you got the store covered?