@bigscreech Actually, the corruption of Mayor Gartner isn't super well known. There's theories, like with any politician, but these are often written off as conspiracy. On the surface though, he seems perfect; tough on crime, supports public services. The biggest thing people disagree with is how pro-gentrification he is. As far as party politics go, I don't wanna say like democrat or republican, just because I don't think that's necessary. By 'hunt', if you mean like hunting down and killing, I'm not sure that'd be a great idea, just plotwise and everything. If you meant investigate, though, having either a cop or a freelance pi investigating the missing person problem in Esperanza (which Mayor Gartner seems to be ignoring) could certainly help a lot.
Ekreture
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@raleighallynn Hey, are you still in this?
"In the weeks following Theodore's death, the question of who should lead the party came to the top of everybody's mind, my womanhood being an obvious disqualifier for my nomination. We pushed through the prairies of what would be called the Territory of Nebraska, wanton for guidance. From God, who left us with the bible locked in my husband's gelid embrace. From civilization, who's Columbian trappings were bogged at the gate-mouth of the Mississippi. But principally, we sought to each other, and soon the voice of fear was heard with eminence in the cacophony of the pioneers, embodied in a frail farmhand from the Carolinas.
They called him Slim. I never learned his Christian name, nor did I care to. It was not who he was that mattered, but what he represented. He stood a height shorter than my own, and was a sickly child, with his negligible masculinity beared on the back of his aggression. For the mind he spoke to was one built on ignorance, his voice weighted by an ardent survivalism that had been nailed into the party's minds. He informed me, soon a week into my widowhood, that the typhoid fever which took my husband's life was none but the work of the Cheyenne, who conspired against good Christians like Theodore, and who adulterated our water with disease. That we should wreck havoc and vengeance upon the savages, and stood with rifle ready. I brushed him off, but his conspiracy grew in popularity. Soon, not a day went by without discussion of Cheyenne savagery, of encroaching violence.
The only man in the party who did not suffer these delusions was the Negro, Julius. A free man, Julius was an expert carpenter, having bought his emancipation from his master through the utilization of his mastery. But aside from his profession, the black man was premier in all judgement; he stood strong like an oak, with a sculpted physique and a kind smile. In the wake of the party's hysteria, Julius and I became friends and confidantes, him being surprisingly well-read, and a widower himself. We spent long hours chatting about the weather, scripture, and the infant which clung to my bosom, and I found comfort in the freed man's company.
One sable night, Slim and his followers approached me in camp, and advised me that Julius was an agent of the Cheyenne, that the colored peoples work together to destroy White civilization, and that were I to continue our friendship, I would surely find my honor defiled. I assured them of their foolhardiness, to which they responded that, though they are understanding of the way a woman's thoughts are clouded by tragedy, if Julius were to continue seeking my company, thus would only confirm their suspicion, and they would be forced to take action. I took Slim's ultimatum with no gravity, my mind dismissing him due to his impishness, and the next day continued as normal, and approached Julius, offering him some bread I had baked.
He seemed aloof, and ignored me. I pressed him, when he explained that he had been approached by Slim in a similar manner as I had the previous night. Finally understanding the severity of the situation, I walked away, but the damage had been done. The next day, Julius was gone. I knew what happened, but could say nothing, for an infant clutched to my bosom." - Eliza Montgomery, Autobiography
They called him Slim. I never learned his Christian name, nor did I care to. It was not who he was that mattered, but what he represented. He stood a height shorter than my own, and was a sickly child, with his negligible masculinity beared on the back of his aggression. For the mind he spoke to was one built on ignorance, his voice weighted by an ardent survivalism that had been nailed into the party's minds. He informed me, soon a week into my widowhood, that the typhoid fever which took my husband's life was none but the work of the Cheyenne, who conspired against good Christians like Theodore, and who adulterated our water with disease. That we should wreck havoc and vengeance upon the savages, and stood with rifle ready. I brushed him off, but his conspiracy grew in popularity. Soon, not a day went by without discussion of Cheyenne savagery, of encroaching violence.
The only man in the party who did not suffer these delusions was the Negro, Julius. A free man, Julius was an expert carpenter, having bought his emancipation from his master through the utilization of his mastery. But aside from his profession, the black man was premier in all judgement; he stood strong like an oak, with a sculpted physique and a kind smile. In the wake of the party's hysteria, Julius and I became friends and confidantes, him being surprisingly well-read, and a widower himself. We spent long hours chatting about the weather, scripture, and the infant which clung to my bosom, and I found comfort in the freed man's company.
One sable night, Slim and his followers approached me in camp, and advised me that Julius was an agent of the Cheyenne, that the colored peoples work together to destroy White civilization, and that were I to continue our friendship, I would surely find my honor defiled. I assured them of their foolhardiness, to which they responded that, though they are understanding of the way a woman's thoughts are clouded by tragedy, if Julius were to continue seeking my company, thus would only confirm their suspicion, and they would be forced to take action. I took Slim's ultimatum with no gravity, my mind dismissing him due to his impishness, and the next day continued as normal, and approached Julius, offering him some bread I had baked.
He seemed aloof, and ignored me. I pressed him, when he explained that he had been approached by Slim in a similar manner as I had the previous night. Finally understanding the severity of the situation, I walked away, but the damage had been done. The next day, Julius was gone. I knew what happened, but could say nothing, for an infant clutched to my bosom." - Eliza Montgomery, Autobiography
It was a sunny day in Esperanza, if not a bit cold, and a rain of typicality was falling over Mission Hills. Bikes and Priuses have started replacing the beat up trucks of days past, and going to a diner was 'retro' rather than something to do at the end of a nine hour shift at the plant, but the transient heart of Mission Hills still beat strong, especially in the landmark Gold City Records, who's famous sign still hung high above the building. It was quiet inside; nobody was in the storefront except for the eclectic collection of records and vintage memorabilia, but in the back was where the magic was coming to life.
Why did you leave me?
Why did you cleave me?
Why are you breaking my heart?
A young man and his three friends were recording in the most famous studio in Esperanza. The singer/songwriter wore a t-shirt that was too tight, while his friends didn't, but all of their jeans were tight. The song wasn't very good, and the producers weren't into it. Then a legend entered the recording booth. Greg, the producer, turned and smiled at the building's aging owner, the corners of his lips reaching up into his bald head.
"Tommy! How's it going man?" He went for a high five, but was ignored as Tom instead looked at the band in front of him, his face buzzing with interest.
"Who's this?" He asked, nodding at them. He didn't know what to make of the band; he didn't like them, that much was obvious. Very cliché, very wannabe-Nirvana. But they had a potential, something that the producers couldn't see; Tom was used to feeling things other people couldn't.
"Oh, uh, they call themselves, 'Firebrand', from up in Santa Maria," Greg answered, hands rested on the pot belly he attempt to hide with his black shirts. It had been a while since Tom was in, at least a couple of weeks, but it's understandable, what with his first grandkid being born. The old man was wearing his usual leather jacket, now worn from years of abuse, and a GCR shirt underneath. His hands, previously hid in his pockets, were produced, and began quivering as the band played their song.
"Ah. That's unfortunate," Tom quipped. He bent down and spoke via the intercom. "Hey guys, hold up." The band stopped playing, the last few drum patters tailing off as they looked up towards the recording booth, and all except the singer had wide eyes as they looked at Tom.
"Alright, first, lets turn that bass up, I can barely hear it. Ah...second, let's not use an amp emulator for distortion, let's get you a fuzzbox. Now-" Suddenly, he was cut off by the singer with a tight shirt.
"I'm sorry, who are you?" His bandmates began stifling their laughs, and he turned around to hush them, as Tom began chuckling himself.
"My name's Tom," he said, and the singer's face grew white with shock when he realized his mistake.
"Oh shit...sorry man, I-"
"It's all good," Tom responded with a light laugh. "Take it again guys."
1970
Tom layed back in the plastic diner booth, staring up at a plaster ceiling. He wore the same leather jacket, though it was much more pristine, and had the same long hair, with black instead of gray and white. His coffee rested half-drank on the table and the plate that housed his waffles and eggs was now clean. Across from him sat his wife, Daisy, who's hair was wrapped in a scarf and was looking over the newspaper with a smile. In the background played, "Got to be Free", by The Kinks.
"Hey, so uh...we added a couple tour dates, heading out to Texas," he said, hesitating as he knew what his wife's reaction would be.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Daisy said with a drop of the paper to emphasize the fuck of it all. He curled away from her to escape the anger, and she sat back in her seat with her arms folded. "You said it was ending in Albuquerque, and I've got my gallery showing the week after!"
"I know, I know, but uh...you know we're starting to record again, and Harry just thought-" He sat up and looked at Daisy. "I don't know, it's...I'm sorry, okay?" He was sorry, he meant it. But he'd rather be sorry than at that gallery showing. He didn't like Daisy's art friends, nor did they like him. He was a factory boy hanging out with a bunch of college kids, and everybody knew it. Daisy looked down at the paper, not making eye contact with him, and he reached out a hand to stroke her cheek. "Hey, look at me." Suddenly her eyes widened.
"Oh my god!" She exclaimed. Tom pulled his hand back.
"What, what is it?" His wife picked up the newspaper and showed him the headline.
LADY LIBERTY, DEAD AT 48
Daisy rested her head on her hand in confusion, while Tom sat back in his seat and looked up at the ceiling with a sigh. "I can't believe it!" Daisy exclaimed, shaking her head in shock. "I...it's dangerous. These powers..."
Her husband looked at her in confusion. "What, these powers?" He sat forward, quieting his voice. "Powers aren't dangerous. POWER is dangerous." His wife looked back at him in surprise at his sudden aggression.
"Tom-"
"You think she would've sat in that machine, or her chair or...or whatever, if some fucking general didn't-" Their waitress approached the table, oblivious to the conversation at hand.
"Can I get you folks anything else?" She asked.
"We're good!" The singer shouted back, not looking up at her, and she walked away insulted.
"Tom, you're scaring me!" Daisy said, and the artist looked back at her, in her eyes, and sighed, sitting back in his seat.
"I'm sorry, Days, it's just..." He couldn't think of the right words before she shook her head and left the restaurant.
That night, Tom was practicing with his band, the Jipsees. He sat on the floor of the studio with no shoes and his acoustic guitar, while his bandmates talked and joked without him. There was a weight on his mind that sealed his lips and brought his hand to the guitar strings. Finally, his bass player noticed him and spoke up.
"Hey, Tom, you good man?" Tom snapped back into reality.
"What? Yeah, yeah man...I uh...I wrote a new song, it's in G, four four time." The band looked around to each other, and Jim, the other guitar player and singer spoke up.
"Yeah man, just give us a sec-"
"Or you could do your fucking jobs, that's an option," Tom retorted mockingly. Jim bit his lip and looked back at after a good few seconds.
"Sure. Whatever you say." They assembled their equipment, Jim his guitar, the drummer grabbing a bongo, and the bass player, Paul, grabbing an acoustic bass. Tom started without counting them in.
Hey Mr. Nixon,
What’d you do with all the flowers?
Hey Mr. Nixon,
Why’d we go to Vietnam?
Hey Mr. Nixon,
I know you’ve got all the power,
But don’t you forget just who put it in your hands.
Hey Mr. Nixon,
I can hear a new wind blowing,
Hey Mr. Nixon,
Will you ever understand?
Hey Mr. Nixon,
With the secrets that you’re knowing,
How could you see all the callous in my hand?
Oh, I just want to be somewhere,
Where a man musn’t kill his fellow man,
Oh, I want to see the people,
Across the world just stand hand in hand.
Hey Mr. Nixon,
Now that we’re together,
Does a dead man walking,
Weight heavy on your mind?
Hey Mr. Nixon,
You won’t be alive forever,
So don’t you forget just who you left behind.
Tom didn't know this song would be his undoing.
Urelynnde, Chapel of the Lord Emperor's Demise
Kisha e Vdekjes Së Perandorit Të
The room in which Locian sat was far from the pews of the main chapel, far from the massive statue of the Halwende, and his final blow to the Lord Emperor, and yet despite the distance from the cavernous hall of preaching, the sermons and chants were abundant still.
The tongue of Lynnde bounced off the impossibly smooth stone walls, and the gilded decorations, almost lulling Locian into a sort of enlightened slumber, if not for the piercing old eyes across from him. The Archbishop found himself in the company of none other than the Archbishop d'Kamwell, the old man having returned to Urelynnde from Abigail's coronation in time to meet his fellow consituent. The two men were drastically different, with Locian being of youth and d'Kamwell being of an indescribable old age. The man held a grandfatherly look to him, and was immensily comforting when he smiled, which was often.
The room was a smattering of silvers and blues, with every imaginiable decoration and ancient painting on display, as if the room served more as a museum than a place to relax and greet distinguished guests. Even the robes of d'Kamwell were ostentatious in age and prestige alone rather than decor, and his very attempts at humility in behavior simply gave him the proud aura of a renown sage.
A bishop was just leaving the ancient room as d'Kamwell continued the conversation, "bishop Bernard of Tralusee," he identified the leaving man, "a good lad, a smart man, and a great leader. I have every bit of faith in him to take up my mantle when the Serene One bids me home."
"But," d'Kamwell smiled, his old wrinkly cheeks curtaining the warmest grin, "I feel as if that may yet be long from now."
The Archbishop of Olira stood to face his fellow, similar in the humility of his garb, and his knees shaking with his bow, despite his apparant youth. "Your Serenity," he began, his Lynnfarish perfect but with the twinge of an accent. His stay Urelynnde had been quite eye-opening so far, as he learned about the homeland of his faith, and the differences in their respective applications.
d'Kamwell waved an old hand, "bah, know me as friend, or Albert when in good company."
Albert d'Kamwell motioned to a ring of plush seats, "won't you sit down?"
"Of course," Locian said as he sat slowly, adding, "and you can call me Locian...friend." It fell strange treating a man who was so much his elder, both in age and in experience, as a peer, but he respects d'Kamwell's humility, something which he has so long aspired to.
"A pleasure," d'Kamwell smiled, "last I saw you, we hadn't a proper chance to meet. I pray the funding has reached your hositallers and your refugees of the storm."
Locian nodded somberly. "Yes, my provenance of Tacraif has been aided dutifully, as have the funds to all Laghad and the capital of Rilik, and for that I thank Serenity, although I'm afraid much of the country still seeks salvation." He stratched the back of his neck. "For instance, the non-serenists of Formor have recieved no funding at all...though that is due much to the royalties of Olira rather than the Serene Council." He sighed before continuing. "But I digress. How goes the war? I met the Queen only recently."
"Ah yes, Formor," d'Kamwell seemed to reminice for a moment, "as for the war, it is a war and war is war; however, I do believe it to be on it's last legs. The Queen is coronated, and her support grows daily. My yes, last legs indeed."
"That is good news to hear," Locian said with a smile. "I have been quite enamoured by Lynnfaire, I am glad to see her people guided by such caring hands." The archbishop sighed. "That said, I am sad to have to leave so shortly."
"Ah yes," d'Kamwell nodded, "I've heard of your pending mission to Matathran." He paused and nodded his head a while, "I'll be happy to join."
The younger man's eyes lit up, and immediately tried to hide the shocked expression enveloping his face. "Join? Why..." He thought back to his days as a young man, his missionary work in Freishann, and the punishment that followed. He chose his next words carefully. "Are you sure your...physicality is to the standard necessary?" He asked, hoping not to offend his elder.
d'Kamwell's eyes crinkled as he smiled almost playfully mocking his younger peer, "my dear Locian, shall I preach the proverbs of judgment while yourself is the one judged. My legs are as able as your own, do not take offense to my observation, but we are one and the same in physicality."
"I shall go," he concluded, "d'Drouchester has lost his champion and is in repentance for his lack of forsight, the nation has their Queen, and the war has no need for an old man like me, unlike our friends in Matathran. Besides, I too have been planning this for quite some time indeed. I already have an entourage sorted, it so happens."
The holy man chuckled at the archbishop's machinations. "You weren't quite asking to join, were you?"
"More or less stating a fact," d'Kamwell gave a sly elderly grin.
Locian nodded. "Alright. I shall need someone to coordinate our legality with the Imperial government if we are to stay for longer than a single moon." He reached into his cloak and withdrew a scrolled, which after unrolling revealed itself to be a map of Matathran. "I have selected the location of the mission to be the city of Darjai, although I would like to extend our operations into the slave fields of the South Savanna, if it were possible." Sighing in contempt, he added, "I have found that those with the least in material wealth always see the most value in the spiritual."
d'Kamwell nodded, "these maps look quite like our own." He moved his fingers across it, "you will find that the current Administration of Matathran figures itself the owner of the souls of those rich or poor, and further more uncooperative past old oaths in allowing ease of worship for current Serene citizens let alone the conversion of new Serene citizens. I suggest we work the top down as well as the bottom up, to which I have my own ideas."
"Repeated requests for funds have reached all our doorsteps, but the largest problem as pointed out countlessly by d'Drouschester has been the fact of how money flows in Matathran versus how the church flows. We are continiously stoppered as well as segmented in such a way that there is little hope any money unsupervised will ever reach its intended target and even if it did, if a paper written rule of law would simply make an island of the attempt and suffocate it, much like the current standing churches. So, in a sort of round about conclusion, while we work the word to the lower totem, we must also find friends in the burocracy to ensure a flow of life into the nigh choking institution that is the current affair of the Matathran church. It is imperative we strike a concordant and understanding to allow even the simplest of behaviors that are as of now restrained by law, such as the simple act of attending a sermon, or even giving the sermon."
Albert looked up from the map and at Locian, "of course you already knew that.
He paused, "The immediate situation of Matathran calls for reconstruction, to allow the current churches to flourish once more. Open up the dams so to say. Speaking the word is important, yes, but a good farmer knows to plant in irrigated land should it be found dry. Our top priority is making the church an accessable and beneficial option once more."
"Of course," Locian began, "I was just not expecting the Archbishop d'Kamwell to join me," he said with a laugh. "My retinue knows little of the dealings of the wealthy, and, with much of our offerings to the poor being in the form of relief, I simply found that it would be a task too laborious to take. But, with your aide and the aide of Lynnfarish deacons, this task would be far easier to perform."
"There also exists a group in Matathran known as the Freedmen Pitfighters. Despite their low caste, they have exceeding influence among the Matathrani masses. While most of them are violent and chaotic, I have heard word of a few individuals in the area of Darjai who would be far more open to the word of the Serene Church. I suggest we indoctrinate as many of these individuals as we can, as soon as we can." He paused, looking to the side with a frown, adding, "I know that one exposed to great barbarism often seeks to escape it."
d'Kamwell listened in silence, his eyes following the younger Archbishop. He nodded in understanding, "you're young, I can hear it in your voice and how you talk. While yes it is good to have friends in Serenity, our doctrine is not a plague, not a sickness, not to be spread in a quick and haphhazard manner. Should our voice to the people be only the men of bloodgames, the people will know only their words on our doctrine. We must use a tender hand, care and slowly dig our channel through the land once more. Let the flock come graze on our fresh grass, and tend to them as they come. To do this, we need reforms, not celebrities. The words should pour from diverse sources, and the administraiton should allow it, so in that it may flourish naturally and wholly. This is a large task before us, one that will not be solved through simple grabs of the loudest people."
Locian was silent for a bit, eyebrows knit in thought, making sure not to let his own experience take hold of his duty. "I understand. I...sometimes have much more faith in the Serene One than I do in my fellow man. But there is great use in Matathran having two more archbishops. Reform should be a target of ours, and the cynosure of our operation. But we both are aware of the failures and cruelty of the Matathrani governance. I trust in your ability to speak to the men of the nation, but I must do my best to speak to the men of the people. If there could be no liberty for the slaves and commonfolk in life, then perhaps they could at least sit beneath the shade of our tree, and find sanctuary in Serenity." He coughed, and looked back at the Archbishop d'Kamwell, finding himself back in the moment. "That said, you are right, our attempts at reform should be the primary objective of the Darjai mission."
"To ensure the longevity of the movement," d'Kamwell agreed, "we move from the top down for longevity, legality, and assurance of prosperity, and bottom up to build the foundation of faith and order. It will be done, praise be. But let us not step on the gardens of another, we should rendevous with Archbishops Trimalchio and Vettii then combine our efforts."
"Of course," Locian said with a nod. "They are already to greet us upon our arrival in Darjai." The archbishop thought for a moment. "Are there any other concerns you have regarding the mission?"
"You've contacted Trimalchio and Vettii?" d'Kamwell seemed shocked.
"Er..." Locian looked away embarrasedly, scratching the back of his neck. "They had actually contacted me, you see I am embarking on this mission at their behest...I think they had read some of my writings...but yes, I have been in correspondence with them for some time."
"Oh, I see," Albert d'Kamwell sratched his bald chin, "what does your entourage consist of thus far?"
"The mission was planned to be staffed with missionaries from the Order of Laghad, who I have brought with me. Additionally are our Taisafirin bodyguards, to ensure our safety on the trip."
"How many of each?" d'Kamwell asked.
"One hundred missionaries, with forty Taisafirin. What could you bring with you?" Locian asked in return.
"I will be sending a letter prior to our departure with hopes of recieving word before heading out, just as courtesy to their border structure," d'Kamwell stated, "but to answer your question, about three wagons of honey and wax, two of supplies, and a compliment to suffieciently guard such a chain as well as no less than sixty lynnfairish deacons and thirty labourers. This of course, shall be stated in the letter in hopes of easing any problems that may arise."
"Good, my missionaries act as their own labor, so yours should not be overencumbered. We shall also be bringing a wagon of medical supplies, an abundance of grain, a wagon of Serenist and Laghadi literature, and building supplies for to build the mission itself." He paused for a moment, thinking before asking, "Pardon my asking, but for what purpose do you require such a high volume of honey?"
"For sermons, gifts, dessert," d'Kamwell listed, "boil it for sugar if you must. As for the building of a mission, I think you may be a bit presumtious on how much leeway we are going to experience in Matathran. We need to discuss zoning with the administration first hand, and after such talks we are likely to purchase an existing dwelling before they let us build on their land far and few in fetility. As you can see, this is another reason I stress our talks with the higher ups to be of utmost importance. We can't waltz in, unannounced and set up shop, we aren't hawkers."
"Of course. The Archbishops of Matathran already know of our impending arrival, but I am a stranger to...finding friends in high places. How do you suggest we approach the adminastrative blockages?"
"With appointments, and things to bejewel their eyes with," d'Kamwell answered, "the Archbishops of Matathran don't have enough pull in their respective areas to give us what we need, so I will be sending letters to Imperial Administrators of my intentions of collaboration and mutual gain in hopes of appointment and talks. The other Archbishops will be needed once we secure zoning as well as affirm routes that different castes can take to even hear the sermons let alone worship. Not to mention they have a better lay of the political land than we do, so they will be a keystone in the reformation."
Locian nodded.
d'Kamwell stood up, "well that's enough talk of this for now. You should retire to your quarters, and we can discuss things further tomorrow. You can meet my entourage and I can meet yours. Rest assured the letters will be sent once I finish writing them this very night."
A Sunny Day in Esperanza
"Good morning Esperanza!"
The station's logo, "Fox 11", played on the screen, and as it wiped away, the hosts of the show were revealed to be sitting behind their desks, on a set designed with hues of gold, blue, and red playing across the brightly lit view. The hosts, an older, distinguished looking man with a suit to match his speckled, graying hair and a fake tan to match with the gold of the set, and a beautiful young woman with an ethnically ambiguous background and a gold dress, both smiled with pure white teeth while the morning music played in the background; a tepid mixture of acoustic guitars and light saxophone.
"It's 5:00 am, I'm Brett Farthing," began the male host, his Botox lips crinkling as he smiled.
"I'm Vanessa Moreno," said the female, before they both said, "And this is Esperanza Today!"
The screen shifted to the week's weather forecast, while Vanessa's soothing voice spoke over it. "Right now we're looking at a cool 68 degrees, which should go up to a high of 73. Looks like tomorrow we'll be getting a little bit of rain with a high of 50 and a 40% chance of precipitation."
Brett started chuckling. "Looks like I won't be headed to the beach!" Despite the lack of humor, both hosts began laughing with a forcible weight behind it. Vanessa sighed in content before she continued.
"Well Monday we should be getting clear skies with a high of 74!" As the weather forcast played off the screen, she turned back to the older host. "Looks like you might be getting your beach day after all, Brett!" Brett chuckled in response.
"Yeah, weather's starting to warm up." She smiled with a soft coo for a response and the camera moved to Brett. "Later we'll be talking to a teacher at Johnson Elementary who thought of a clever new way of teaching those pesky times tables, and our reporter John Michael will be looking at Starling Science's new exhibit at the aquarium, 'Oceans of the Past'," he said in a jokingly ominous voice, looking to Vanessa before adding, "Should be exciting. But now," he turned back to the camera with eyebrows knit in journalistic integrity, "We've got a representative of Mayor Gartner's campaign for governor, Todd O'Brien."
The camera zoomed out to reveal a new face; a balding man in his thirties with round glasses and a bad suit. One could swear to smell his coffee breath through the screen, and Brett turned to shake his hand. "Todd."
"A pleasure to be here, Brett," the representative said, shaking his hand vigorously and a smile plastered to his unnecessarily shaved face.
"Oh believe me, the pleasure's all mine. Now Todd-" The male host put his hand down on his desk. "How's the campaign?" Tom began chuckling and sat back in his chair.
"Un-believably, Brett. Today the Mayor's headed to San Francisco where he'll be meeting with local charity leaders, and if you look at the polls, this is starting to look like a sure fire victory," he assured with a smile. Brett chuckled back to him.
"That's good to hear. But," He looked down to his desk with a mockery of consternation, "Are you sure the mayor can continue his job effectively during the election?" Todd held his hand up in response.
"Absolutely. In fact, I'd say Mayor Gartner's been doing his job better than ever. New road projects have been planned around the city, unemployed is at an all-time low, education-" Suddenly, a voice spoke from off screen.
"What about the missing people?" There was a lengthy pause after that, and the camera panned out to Vanessa. Her concern was not feigned.
"I-I'm sorry, what was that?" Tom replied.
Vanessa cleared her throat and sat up, preparing her papers. Brett looked nervous, and would have been sweating if he could.
"The missing people. There's been, let's see...fifteen new unresolved missing persons reported since the beginning of 2018. Does the office of the mayor have any comment?" The representative began feeling around his collar at the line of questioning.
"Uh...well the mayor doesn't have time for conspiracy..."
"Well this isn't conspiracy, this is fact. There's been fifteen-"
"Cut to commercial!" Brett shouted, and suddenly an ad for a local orange juice company came onscreen. A few minutes later, Brett was back, faced towards camera with the representative at his side, and his fake smile plastered on a face he wasn't born with.
"We're very sorry about that folks," he began, "my co-host hasn't quite been herself lately. She'll be taking a leave of absence, but when she comes back..." he paused. His face, usually weighted down by plastic and silicone, seemed to twitch a bit, and he let out a soft sigh, looking down the floor and biting his lip.
"What'll it be, Brett?" Todd asked, chiming in, smiling a dagger at the old host, who looked at him quizzically.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"When she comes back, what'll it be Brett?" Todd's hands were clasped tightly as he leaned forward onto Brett's desk. After a second, the same plasticized smile returned to Brett's face, and he turned back to the camera.
"Right." He cleared his throat. "When she comes back, rest assured, it'll be a sunny day in Esperanza."
@Papayasnmangoes Looks good! Move it to the character tab when you're ready.
@dabombjkDo you think you can go to the discord? I have some questions.
@dabombjkDo you think you can go to the discord? I have some questions.
Mature ✶ Modern Superhumans ✶ Plot-Driven ✶ Sandbox
Enter Esperanza, The Golden City. A city of long nights and bright mornings, of white wine and fish tacos, of wind in your hair and sand in your toes. Nestled a bit north of Santa Barbara in between Los Angeles and San Francisco, the city of six hundred thousand, with a greater metropolis of two and a half million, boasts a bustling nightlife, a distinctive music scene, sandy beaches, and a history tied deeply to the great State of California. This is, of course, in addition to crime, corruption, and a high density of people with superhuman abilities.
Starting in the mid-1940s, governments around the world began using human test subjects for increasingly dangerous and far-fetched experiments in the hopes of swiftly crushing opposing powers in the ongoing second World War. They inevitably found that under controlled conditions, radiation therapy could unlock and enhance certain abilities, allowing people to perform feats otherwise thought to be the stuff of fiction. As if over night, radiation therapy gifted America's complex hierarchy a new social class -- The Superpowered. One such facility where CRT (Controlled Radiative Therapy) was tested during the war was the Los Padres Relocation Camp, an hour or so out of Esperanza. Los Padres was a Japanese Internment Camp whose leadership was arrested after the war's conclusion, and all of its experimental records classified. CRT research was then picked up by the CRT Lab at the Central California Institute of Technology (CCIT), located within Esperanza. Because of these two events, power-giving mutagens were heavily released around Esperanza between the 40's and 60's, contaminating the local gene pool with mutagens for generations.
While superhuman abilities are often sought to be taken advantage of, their presence is largely kept away from the public eye, or at least made to be seen as less present than they are. Costumed crusaders were all over the newspapers in the 1940's, certainly, but most of them died of radiation poisoning by the 70's. "Superheroes" in the sense you would think of them are increasingly rare in a world that grows increasingly less welcoming to its superpowered denizens. Powers are not something that are flaunted if it can be helped, and for good reason. This is a world where humans have read X-Men. Humans don't hate the superpowered because they're allegories for racists. They hate them because they're dangerous, and their proclivity for danger only worsens the situation by making criminals of today's powered youth.
In this superhero RP, in addition to delving into the lives and struggles of every hero and every villain in the story, I want to make the city of Esperanza come to life. While I'm hoping to possibly make a map at some point, at the very least I will discuss districts and areas of the city, introduce local personalities, and talk about city history. Because of this, I don't want every character to be a superhero or a supervillain; I want nurses, doctors, professors, newscasters, anything to help make the city feel more real. In addition, I don't want characters to simply be classified as heroes and villains; I want to see the lines of morality blurred, the concepts of good and evil to be consistently questioned and appraised. We're not as dark and gritty as Watchmen, but I should certainly hope we can be as dark and gritty as, say, Kick-Ass with actual powers.
As far as rules go, try and post weekly. If you can't, make sure to tell me or the Co-Gm. If you have ideas for powers outside of the radiation therapy line (power suits, drugs), feel free to bring it up. Mature themes are fine, if not encouraged, but try to have some taste. Try and push yourselves, not as much as length per post (though it should be at least a few paragraphs, we're not pussyfooting about in the Casual section here), but to go as deep as you can into your character's development. It's better to have a shorter post with a lot more meat than a long, whispy post that says nothing. Also, while this shouldn't need reminding, be nice to each other? Don't be a dick.
Starting in the mid-1940s, governments around the world began using human test subjects for increasingly dangerous and far-fetched experiments in the hopes of swiftly crushing opposing powers in the ongoing second World War. They inevitably found that under controlled conditions, radiation therapy could unlock and enhance certain abilities, allowing people to perform feats otherwise thought to be the stuff of fiction. As if over night, radiation therapy gifted America's complex hierarchy a new social class -- The Superpowered. One such facility where CRT (Controlled Radiative Therapy) was tested during the war was the Los Padres Relocation Camp, an hour or so out of Esperanza. Los Padres was a Japanese Internment Camp whose leadership was arrested after the war's conclusion, and all of its experimental records classified. CRT research was then picked up by the CRT Lab at the Central California Institute of Technology (CCIT), located within Esperanza. Because of these two events, power-giving mutagens were heavily released around Esperanza between the 40's and 60's, contaminating the local gene pool with mutagens for generations.
While superhuman abilities are often sought to be taken advantage of, their presence is largely kept away from the public eye, or at least made to be seen as less present than they are. Costumed crusaders were all over the newspapers in the 1940's, certainly, but most of them died of radiation poisoning by the 70's. "Superheroes" in the sense you would think of them are increasingly rare in a world that grows increasingly less welcoming to its superpowered denizens. Powers are not something that are flaunted if it can be helped, and for good reason. This is a world where humans have read X-Men. Humans don't hate the superpowered because they're allegories for racists. They hate them because they're dangerous, and their proclivity for danger only worsens the situation by making criminals of today's powered youth.
In this superhero RP, in addition to delving into the lives and struggles of every hero and every villain in the story, I want to make the city of Esperanza come to life. While I'm hoping to possibly make a map at some point, at the very least I will discuss districts and areas of the city, introduce local personalities, and talk about city history. Because of this, I don't want every character to be a superhero or a supervillain; I want nurses, doctors, professors, newscasters, anything to help make the city feel more real. In addition, I don't want characters to simply be classified as heroes and villains; I want to see the lines of morality blurred, the concepts of good and evil to be consistently questioned and appraised. We're not as dark and gritty as Watchmen, but I should certainly hope we can be as dark and gritty as, say, Kick-Ass with actual powers.
As far as rules go, try and post weekly. If you can't, make sure to tell me or the Co-Gm. If you have ideas for powers outside of the radiation therapy line (power suits, drugs), feel free to bring it up. Mature themes are fine, if not encouraged, but try to have some taste. Try and push yourselves, not as much as length per post (though it should be at least a few paragraphs, we're not pussyfooting about in the Casual section here), but to go as deep as you can into your character's development. It's better to have a shorter post with a lot more meat than a long, whispy post that says nothing. Also, while this shouldn't need reminding, be nice to each other? Don't be a dick.
History of Esperanza
Esperanza was founded in 1788 as a village populated by Native Americans to support the nearby La Misión de La Purísima Concepción de la Santísima Virgen María in what is now the district of La Purisima. A small fishing village for the first few decades of its existence, Esperanza received a sizeable population boom during the California Gold Rush, the previous native population being supplanted by white settlers, as well as a major influx of immigrants from East Asia, mainly China, who founded Esperanza's famous Chinatown. As central California developed its agricultural industry, Esperanza became the corporate center of it, where agricultural goods were packaged and then shipped. Also heavily involved in the agricultural industry were another influx of Asian immigrants from Japan, who founded Esperanza's Little Tokyo. During WW2, Esperanza became one of the primary suppliers of rations for the military, and as stated above, the Los Padres Relocation Camp became infamous for its radiation experimentation.
Following WWII, research in CRT was picked up at the CCIT, which openly existed throughout the fifties, when radium therapy was publicly prescribed by doctors, and while the CRT lab was publicly closed, rumors persisted that the CRT lab remained open throughout the Cold War. During the 60's and early 70's Esperanza was a center of hippie culture, due to the natural scenery and the carefree lifestyle provided by economic prosperity. When the nineties tech boom hit and jobs began getting shipped overseas, Esperanza was largely left in the dust, and the city took a turn for the worse, which, while recently has gotten better, led to much of the being gentrified under the current mayor of the last ten years, Adam Gartner, who's running a very successful campaign for governor.
Following WWII, research in CRT was picked up at the CCIT, which openly existed throughout the fifties, when radium therapy was publicly prescribed by doctors, and while the CRT lab was publicly closed, rumors persisted that the CRT lab remained open throughout the Cold War. During the 60's and early 70's Esperanza was a center of hippie culture, due to the natural scenery and the carefree lifestyle provided by economic prosperity. When the nineties tech boom hit and jobs began getting shipped overseas, Esperanza was largely left in the dust, and the city took a turn for the worse, which, while recently has gotten better, led to much of the being gentrified under the current mayor of the last ten years, Adam Gartner, who's running a very successful campaign for governor.
Districts and Notable Locations:
Narlon - A northern district of Esperanza that's very upper middle class, with a suburban lifestyle, quiet beaches, and the last remnants of an aging hippie culture.
Casmalia - The northernmost suburb of Esperanza which hosts the Esperanza International Airport.
Tortuga - The center of Esperanza's shipping and fishing industries, it was once much more industrial than it now is, and has since been very gentrified and is now full of hipsters, with the old factories being turned into lofts and breweries. Is also home to Little Tokyo.
Mission Hills - Once the center of the city's industry, Mission Hills has been somewhat gentrified, though most of the families of the old factory workers still live there. This is due to Mission Hills being the center of Esperanza's somewhat famous indie music industry.
Downtown - The heart of Esperanza, Downtown is a commercial district home to a hub of entertainment, museums, the Goldigger Stadium, and City Hall.
Lompoc - Though almost completely surrounded by Esperanza, and under the jurisdiction of the EPD, Lompoc is technically a separate city which elects its own mayor. It's also one of the poorest parts of the area, and is home to many immigrant populations. CCIT, one of the nations top technical schools is contrastingly also in Lompoc.
Oceano Beach - Beautiful and historic, Oceano Beach is a landmark of Esperanza, and shares a similar spot in the city's culture as Venice Beach in LA and Coney Island in New York. Aside from its many tourist traps along the boardwalk, Oceano Beach has many nightclubs, bars, chain restaurants, arcades, and a well-known aquarium.
La Purisima - The location of the mission Esperanza was founded to serve. Very urban, expensive but not necessarily rich, and the location of Chinatown. Also where UCE (University of California Esperanza) is.
Arlight - The wealthiest district in Esperanza, Arlight is home to most of the city's millionaires and billionaires.
Concepcion - The southernmost district of Esperanza, and the largest by land mass, largely being very suburban, with the coastal areas being more well-off and the northern areas being more urban. Some of the rich people there have horses.
Starlingville - The strange neighborhood surrounding the Starling Science HQ. Aside from the statues of Seymour Starling that decorate the sidewalks, Starlingville is known for the Starling Blue color scheme for every public utility -- mailboxes, lightpost, and telephone booths -- its many technologically-centered public parks, and every single building displaying an indicator that it can be used as a fallout shelter.
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