Anyone heard of D&D?
But, no, really. Click Me . . . Again!
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Tanto Monta
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icmasticc
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Sanity is not statistical.
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Awesome idea! All the best!
Hi e'erbody! How y'all doin'?
Due to multiple inquiries and further kibitzing of the post-mortem match, the following encompasses the algebraic notation of the embedded chess game within the last post.
1. e4 e5 2. Nf3 f5 3. exf5 Nc6 4. Bb5 Bc5 5. Bxc6 dxc6 6. Nxe5 Bxf5 7. Qh5 g6 8. Nxg6 hxg6 9. Qxh8 Qe7+ 10. Kd1 Bxf2 11. Qxg8+ Kd7 12. Qc4 Re8
Enjoy.
Due to multiple inquiries and further kibitzing of the post-mortem match, the following encompasses the algebraic notation of the embedded chess game within the last post.
1. e4 e5 2. Nf3 f5 3. exf5 Nc6 4. Bb5 Bc5 5. Bxc6 dxc6 6. Nxe5 Bxf5 7. Qh5 g6 8. Nxg6 hxg6 9. Qxh8 Qe7+ 10. Kd1 Bxf2 11. Qxg8+ Kd7 12. Qc4 Re8
Enjoy.
Infrared retinal scans. A grimy lock pad sliding out from the wall. Peeling fingernails followed suit.
31 41 59 26. Alphanumeric code accepted. Welcome to the Arcade.
“How fitting, Matthias. How do you like your new lab now within the agency’s third floor instead of our burlesque’s basement?” Hystrix beckoned with a muffled shriek, while pulling back the bleached hood revealing an ashen rictus, worthy of a volcanic eruption. The Turing-like gadgetry littered upon the cluttered linoleum was a feat in of itself, as their Vesuvian creator must have ruthlessly inactivated the self-scrubbing program installed on each floor that ran every janitorial vigil, upholding the integrity of cleanliness and the façade of godliness. Despite tip-toeing, with childlike stealth, through the cemetery of mildly obsolete contraptions, a white sleeve haphazardly jarred an invisible bar, triggering a virtual transparent chessboard to propagate perpendicular to her gaze, wherever she turned, with LED buzzing to life circumferentially.
A voice cried out from the ablazed gizmo wilderness. Then slowly a computer-generated silhouette bubbled into the air. “If it isn’t pomp and circumstance here for another rematch! Xri, yes, what a pleasant surprise! Let’s get started then, e4.” The white pawn treaded forward two spaces, resting on an opaque digital square.
“No, Matt. Okay, e5.” A charcoal piece mirroring the opening advance. “I’m here for our appointment. Yet, your timing always seems to be impeccably cumbersome, as if you know my itinerary before I do. And. Sometimes, a hint of appeasement can be seen through these jovial gestures. You would never lose . . . to gain. Would you, Dr. Übermensch?”
The ordinal inventor’s tones became softer. “Losing on purpose? Pishah! My gosh, what do you take me for? A heartless venus fly-trap?” A slight grin etched across his right digitized cheek. “Speaking of plants, you know, they are just as much machines as any other living thing, even if it be the mold beneath your toes. If you take biotech synthesis to its logical conclusions, there’s no reason why I couldn’t program a vegetable. Oh and knight to f3.”
“F5, then. Now, I promise to heed your ever novel spawn. Afterwards, though, okay? But, first, let’s get to the meat of the matter. Before you release your near infinite applications of everyday matter upon us, how’s the screening process coming along. I only have 10 minutes or so before my meeting on the second level.”
“Must be grandiose, then. Hmm… Likely Elton and David, routine customers of my previous cabaret, were summoned as well. Am I right? How I miss such regulars to my vaudeville! E takes f5.”
“Stop reminiscing. Black knight to c6.”
“Admit it! You love games. Stage. Table top. Bondage. Bishop to b5. At least I do. Combat tourneys, dungeon-crawls, shoot-outs and strategic world-builders are the ancient opiate of the masses. Most do nothing more than turn Chicago’s adolescents into mindless zombies wired for constant stim, but a select few provoke careful thought and encourage players to develop their mental acuity, puzzle-solving skills and critical thinking. These aren’t just wake-up calls for vid-addicts – they’re now recruiting tools, too. I call it TDR, as in “Too Damn Real” utilized to ultimately sift for potential virtual Rambos, harnessing the natural aggressions and frustrations of hormone filled pubescence to refine their reflexes into the next future Erasure force.”
Hundreds of see-through video panes plopped, before Hystrix, into existence, a ceiling fan of today’s adolescents as both curmudgeons and victors. Some screaming in delighted frenzy. Others tearful for the early maturity beset upon them. All in all, human experience was sluggishly and youthfully rotating around the unveiled eye of Xri, like a hurricane of vexed testimony.
“I adore the idea, but what if it generates more havoc than value. Half the Agents in this city are not passionate to the calling society has endowed upon them. Bishop to c5.”
“Trust me. I’m a doctor. Bishop takes c6. It forces gamers to discern on their feet, change the way they decipher problems; the AI, in turn, learns how the person adapts, forces them to evolve more creative and inventive answers. A perfect safety net to not only mold the C-Central’s army, but to entrap psychopathic behavior, as well.”
“Excellent work. Any other propositions do you have for us, before I depart? D takes c6. I'm always late . . . with you.” The wintry witch shuffled her left foot, in angst-ridden nervousness.
“By Crom, yes,” a Schwarzeneggerian chatter stereoed, “Wait . . . before you take flight, your promise, remember, to my new venture. Ready? Here’s the sales pitch on my Kaleidoscopic Repigmentation Organic Memory Module. It uses a fungus that’s been mutated and bred to be incredibly sensitive to certain narrow bandwidths of light. When exposed to a laser of the appropriate wavelength, the mildew instantly toggles colors from a dull green to a bright red or an illustrious violet, generating a quantum bit of sorts. The hue change precisely matches the illuminated area, spreading no more than a nanometer, remaining perceptive even when dried out and dead. White knight captures e5.”
“Bishop takes f5. Have you…”
The simulacra interrupted her, mid-inquisition. “Yes, my mind has been missing for some time. White Queen to h5. Moreover, I have constructed a glass case to cancel the beam’s refraction through each surface, assuring its arrival straight through without deviation. Thus, the prototype system, I’ve engineered, can store 40 billion q-bits in a one millimeter square area, translating to a storage of slightly over 4.5 giga-q-bytes. Using lattice framework to maximize body surface area and mirrors, a 75 mm cubic platform can sieve 150 terra-q-bytes of data in seconds.”
“Pawn to g6. Let me guess. There’s a catch.”
The smirk now incised across both dimples. “White Knight captures g6. Unfortunately, the yeast’s powerful sensitivity to light is also its weakness, instantly reformatting in the presence of any stray ray, that of a light bulb or even the smog obscured sun. This eliminates the possibility of a portable unit. But TDR and KROMM can be renegotiated along with my sentence. If I only had the funding and the freedom, that is.”
“H takes g6. If only we could meet face to face. I have so many questions. But, for some reason, I don’t fully trust you.” Hystrix hissed with her parched uvula.
“White Queen captures h8. We did, except you were in the womb. And, what’s there to fret? I’m in an eternal prison, now.”
“Black queen to e7. I constantly wish that the Erasure Program was fully in vogue so you could have been rehabilitated into our citizenry once more. Not downloaded to some hard drive. Luckily, you still were confiscated into our hands. The good guys.”
“King to d1. Indeed. And. Maybe. Just possibly. Flesh and blood might not be too far off.” The elder imitation eerily mumbled and cackled.
“Bishop takes f2.” A quick mental tango. “Queen captures g8. Check!”
“Now, you’re getting sloppy, Matthias. Black King to d7. I hate when you throw a match away, especially when I’m already tardy.” Via retaliation, Xri vehemently waded in tongue and in boot, towards her exit, crushing semi-sentient objects in her Stygian path.
“White queen to c4. You win again. Checkmate in 2 moves.” The addictive sighing bellowed. The lights were killed, as the invisible bar was jarred once more.
“Rook to e8. Alas.” Hystrix scurried swiftly past the portal of entry, as if consumed by a fresh fear of the dark, as the laboratory entombed the voice. Without hesitation, she scampered to the adjacent stairwell, marching towards the kingdom below.
In her aspiring approach to a conference room buoyant of Camelot ideals. Gathered together.
As a task force.
31 41 59 26. Alphanumeric code accepted. Welcome to the Arcade.
“How fitting, Matthias. How do you like your new lab now within the agency’s third floor instead of our burlesque’s basement?” Hystrix beckoned with a muffled shriek, while pulling back the bleached hood revealing an ashen rictus, worthy of a volcanic eruption. The Turing-like gadgetry littered upon the cluttered linoleum was a feat in of itself, as their Vesuvian creator must have ruthlessly inactivated the self-scrubbing program installed on each floor that ran every janitorial vigil, upholding the integrity of cleanliness and the façade of godliness. Despite tip-toeing, with childlike stealth, through the cemetery of mildly obsolete contraptions, a white sleeve haphazardly jarred an invisible bar, triggering a virtual transparent chessboard to propagate perpendicular to her gaze, wherever she turned, with LED buzzing to life circumferentially.
A voice cried out from the ablazed gizmo wilderness. Then slowly a computer-generated silhouette bubbled into the air. “If it isn’t pomp and circumstance here for another rematch! Xri, yes, what a pleasant surprise! Let’s get started then, e4.” The white pawn treaded forward two spaces, resting on an opaque digital square.
“No, Matt. Okay, e5.” A charcoal piece mirroring the opening advance. “I’m here for our appointment. Yet, your timing always seems to be impeccably cumbersome, as if you know my itinerary before I do. And. Sometimes, a hint of appeasement can be seen through these jovial gestures. You would never lose . . . to gain. Would you, Dr. Übermensch?”
The ordinal inventor’s tones became softer. “Losing on purpose? Pishah! My gosh, what do you take me for? A heartless venus fly-trap?” A slight grin etched across his right digitized cheek. “Speaking of plants, you know, they are just as much machines as any other living thing, even if it be the mold beneath your toes. If you take biotech synthesis to its logical conclusions, there’s no reason why I couldn’t program a vegetable. Oh and knight to f3.”
“F5, then. Now, I promise to heed your ever novel spawn. Afterwards, though, okay? But, first, let’s get to the meat of the matter. Before you release your near infinite applications of everyday matter upon us, how’s the screening process coming along. I only have 10 minutes or so before my meeting on the second level.”
“Must be grandiose, then. Hmm… Likely Elton and David, routine customers of my previous cabaret, were summoned as well. Am I right? How I miss such regulars to my vaudeville! E takes f5.”
“Stop reminiscing. Black knight to c6.”
“Admit it! You love games. Stage. Table top. Bondage. Bishop to b5. At least I do. Combat tourneys, dungeon-crawls, shoot-outs and strategic world-builders are the ancient opiate of the masses. Most do nothing more than turn Chicago’s adolescents into mindless zombies wired for constant stim, but a select few provoke careful thought and encourage players to develop their mental acuity, puzzle-solving skills and critical thinking. These aren’t just wake-up calls for vid-addicts – they’re now recruiting tools, too. I call it TDR, as in “Too Damn Real” utilized to ultimately sift for potential virtual Rambos, harnessing the natural aggressions and frustrations of hormone filled pubescence to refine their reflexes into the next future Erasure force.”
Hundreds of see-through video panes plopped, before Hystrix, into existence, a ceiling fan of today’s adolescents as both curmudgeons and victors. Some screaming in delighted frenzy. Others tearful for the early maturity beset upon them. All in all, human experience was sluggishly and youthfully rotating around the unveiled eye of Xri, like a hurricane of vexed testimony.
“I adore the idea, but what if it generates more havoc than value. Half the Agents in this city are not passionate to the calling society has endowed upon them. Bishop to c5.”
“Trust me. I’m a doctor. Bishop takes c6. It forces gamers to discern on their feet, change the way they decipher problems; the AI, in turn, learns how the person adapts, forces them to evolve more creative and inventive answers. A perfect safety net to not only mold the C-Central’s army, but to entrap psychopathic behavior, as well.”
“Excellent work. Any other propositions do you have for us, before I depart? D takes c6. I'm always late . . . with you.” The wintry witch shuffled her left foot, in angst-ridden nervousness.
“By Crom, yes,” a Schwarzeneggerian chatter stereoed, “Wait . . . before you take flight, your promise, remember, to my new venture. Ready? Here’s the sales pitch on my Kaleidoscopic Repigmentation Organic Memory Module. It uses a fungus that’s been mutated and bred to be incredibly sensitive to certain narrow bandwidths of light. When exposed to a laser of the appropriate wavelength, the mildew instantly toggles colors from a dull green to a bright red or an illustrious violet, generating a quantum bit of sorts. The hue change precisely matches the illuminated area, spreading no more than a nanometer, remaining perceptive even when dried out and dead. White knight captures e5.”
“Bishop takes f5. Have you…”
The simulacra interrupted her, mid-inquisition. “Yes, my mind has been missing for some time. White Queen to h5. Moreover, I have constructed a glass case to cancel the beam’s refraction through each surface, assuring its arrival straight through without deviation. Thus, the prototype system, I’ve engineered, can store 40 billion q-bits in a one millimeter square area, translating to a storage of slightly over 4.5 giga-q-bytes. Using lattice framework to maximize body surface area and mirrors, a 75 mm cubic platform can sieve 150 terra-q-bytes of data in seconds.”
“Pawn to g6. Let me guess. There’s a catch.”
The smirk now incised across both dimples. “White Knight captures g6. Unfortunately, the yeast’s powerful sensitivity to light is also its weakness, instantly reformatting in the presence of any stray ray, that of a light bulb or even the smog obscured sun. This eliminates the possibility of a portable unit. But TDR and KROMM can be renegotiated along with my sentence. If I only had the funding and the freedom, that is.”
“H takes g6. If only we could meet face to face. I have so many questions. But, for some reason, I don’t fully trust you.” Hystrix hissed with her parched uvula.
“White Queen captures h8. We did, except you were in the womb. And, what’s there to fret? I’m in an eternal prison, now.”
“Black queen to e7. I constantly wish that the Erasure Program was fully in vogue so you could have been rehabilitated into our citizenry once more. Not downloaded to some hard drive. Luckily, you still were confiscated into our hands. The good guys.”
“King to d1. Indeed. And. Maybe. Just possibly. Flesh and blood might not be too far off.” The elder imitation eerily mumbled and cackled.
“Bishop takes f2.” A quick mental tango. “Queen captures g8. Check!”
“Now, you’re getting sloppy, Matthias. Black King to d7. I hate when you throw a match away, especially when I’m already tardy.” Via retaliation, Xri vehemently waded in tongue and in boot, towards her exit, crushing semi-sentient objects in her Stygian path.
“White queen to c4. You win again. Checkmate in 2 moves.” The addictive sighing bellowed. The lights were killed, as the invisible bar was jarred once more.
“Rook to e8. Alas.” Hystrix scurried swiftly past the portal of entry, as if consumed by a fresh fear of the dark, as the laboratory entombed the voice. Without hesitation, she scampered to the adjacent stairwell, marching towards the kingdom below.
In her aspiring approach to a conference room buoyant of Camelot ideals. Gathered together.
As a task force.
I wish one could stop time. So busy.
Post will likely be processed and submitted tonight. Thank you for your cooperation.
Post will likely be processed and submitted tonight. Thank you for your cooperation.
Name: Xri S. T. Harley
Alias: Hystrix
Age: 43, born on Groundhog Day
Gender: Female, 47 XXX by karyotype
Appearance:
Phenotypically construed upon several desiccant mutations of ABCA12 within the chromosome locus 2q34, Xri's fissured skin and paretic absence of eccrine sweat glands instantly crescendo one's first visual grasp of her small, but aged, ichthyotic dermal demeanor. However, her ciliary obsession of an opaque spectrum and equally poised hatred of hyperthermia and dry wind has forced an entire closet dedicated to the color white, largely accosted with full body robes and hoods, all to mask her afflicted concrete-like complexion while simultaneously preventing rapid dehydration of her 4 foot, 7 inch frame. Ranging from mostly burqas to a few tank-tops, the plated clash of her dark Persian skin and hair against a blanched attire yields, in certain instances, a dancing yin-yang from afar, when in action. Whilst, up close, her supernumerary teeth shining through the ironed reveal of her cemented maxillary eclabium showcase a permanently contorted grimace that welcomes all intentions and companies, by both smiles and grits, conveniently and paradoxically shading, at times, her true intentions to proselytize.
Personality:
A much wanted criminal of the early 23rd century, Suri Tiram Harley, while unknowingly 10 weeks pregnant, earned the expectant wrath of the Caribbean and US governments. The silently orchestrated bounty was issued for two competing bureaucratic Erasures, to either extract or destroy her recently publicized musical compositions of psychopathic cryptography, social experiments that already had subconsciously inflicted mass hysteria in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, a week prior. These crafty fractal ballads, in essence, wormed their self-replicating patterns, via auditory intrusion, into a person's synapses, literally establishing a revolutionary serenade that neurons must recursively dance to, all the while spiritually evoking a graveyard spiral of anger, hatred, and disgust with life and its status-quo. The global media glorified itself as her next and only target, to mathematically sway the world-wide proletariat to a civil upheaval via broadcasted multivariate symphonies. Her intervening capture and exhaustive mental interrogations resulted in S.T.H.'s eventual brain-dead body to require full life support, allowing Agents to finally rape and reap unhindered any and every rebellious diapason from her desecrated soul.
Soon enough, mindful scavengers discovered another little drummer in their immersions, eventually resulting in her mother's rotting corpse, through extensive political debates, to continue to serve as a dysfunctional incubator for Hystrix, a classified project to birth a deformed babe with a hopeful heart towards a Machiavellian balance. Since said origin and engenderment as a ward of international states, Xri, through four decades of masochistic pedagogy, has cultivated a holy vision to exist simply as a pure antithesis to her previous villainous ancestry. Righteous legitimate suffering now drives her current gospel to breed a new race of Jungian precision; a ministry founded upon pursuing peace through necessary pain of the few to save the many, with she as the ultimate poster child. Thus, she unequivocally endorses the festering belief that these deranged and demented anomalies --- and those who propagate them --- must be erased.
Alias: Hystrix
Age: 43, born on Groundhog Day
Gender: Female, 47 XXX by karyotype
Appearance:
Phenotypically construed upon several desiccant mutations of ABCA12 within the chromosome locus 2q34, Xri's fissured skin and paretic absence of eccrine sweat glands instantly crescendo one's first visual grasp of her small, but aged, ichthyotic dermal demeanor. However, her ciliary obsession of an opaque spectrum and equally poised hatred of hyperthermia and dry wind has forced an entire closet dedicated to the color white, largely accosted with full body robes and hoods, all to mask her afflicted concrete-like complexion while simultaneously preventing rapid dehydration of her 4 foot, 7 inch frame. Ranging from mostly burqas to a few tank-tops, the plated clash of her dark Persian skin and hair against a blanched attire yields, in certain instances, a dancing yin-yang from afar, when in action. Whilst, up close, her supernumerary teeth shining through the ironed reveal of her cemented maxillary eclabium showcase a permanently contorted grimace that welcomes all intentions and companies, by both smiles and grits, conveniently and paradoxically shading, at times, her true intentions to proselytize.
Personality:
A much wanted criminal of the early 23rd century, Suri Tiram Harley, while unknowingly 10 weeks pregnant, earned the expectant wrath of the Caribbean and US governments. The silently orchestrated bounty was issued for two competing bureaucratic Erasures, to either extract or destroy her recently publicized musical compositions of psychopathic cryptography, social experiments that already had subconsciously inflicted mass hysteria in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, a week prior. These crafty fractal ballads, in essence, wormed their self-replicating patterns, via auditory intrusion, into a person's synapses, literally establishing a revolutionary serenade that neurons must recursively dance to, all the while spiritually evoking a graveyard spiral of anger, hatred, and disgust with life and its status-quo. The global media glorified itself as her next and only target, to mathematically sway the world-wide proletariat to a civil upheaval via broadcasted multivariate symphonies. Her intervening capture and exhaustive mental interrogations resulted in S.T.H.'s eventual brain-dead body to require full life support, allowing Agents to finally rape and reap unhindered any and every rebellious diapason from her desecrated soul.
Soon enough, mindful scavengers discovered another little drummer in their immersions, eventually resulting in her mother's rotting corpse, through extensive political debates, to continue to serve as a dysfunctional incubator for Hystrix, a classified project to birth a deformed babe with a hopeful heart towards a Machiavellian balance. Since said origin and engenderment as a ward of international states, Xri, through four decades of masochistic pedagogy, has cultivated a holy vision to exist simply as a pure antithesis to her previous villainous ancestry. Righteous legitimate suffering now drives her current gospel to breed a new race of Jungian precision; a ministry founded upon pursuing peace through necessary pain of the few to save the many, with she as the ultimate poster child. Thus, she unequivocally endorses the festering belief that these deranged and demented anomalies --- and those who propagate them --- must be erased.
Morgen to all! A CS will soon spring forth. Though, likely later tonight, after a few shifts of work.
Besides. My voracious mind desires to masticate a few more nuptial sinews, before the inky commitment to paper.
Tootles.
Besides. My voracious mind desires to masticate a few more nuptial sinews, before the inky commitment to paper.
Tootles.
May I inquire on the Erasure program's longevity? 20 years plus?
Just to historically serve and frame future main and NP character submissions.
Just to historically serve and frame future main and NP character submissions.
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