Avatar of Opposition
  • Last Seen: 10 mos ago
  • Joined: 10 yrs ago
  • Posts: 832 (0.24 / day)
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  • Username history
    1. Opposition 5 yrs ago
    2. β–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆβ–ˆ 10 yrs ago
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Status

Recent Statuses

2 yrs ago
Current New collab released and an update on the future of Futility! New players always welcome. roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
2 yrs ago
Finally some new Futility content is up! Two more collabs are underway/finishing up. We're writing longer-form content for this finale scene, so keep eyes out! Cyberpunks rise up.
2 yrs ago
Two or three 10-35 pages of Futility Collabs are coming, I promise. The time is nigh.
1 like
3 yrs ago
Guild Cyberpunk gang currently popping off
2 likes
3 yrs ago
Slowly, Futility rises from the ashes. Very soon, I hope, we'll be able to wrap up this next round of scenes, but that's like 3-4 posts out at least. The hustle does not stop.
1 like

Bio

<<<ℍ𝔼𝕃𝕃𝕆 π•Žπ•†β„π•ƒπ”»...>>>

>>>𝔸𝕣π•₯π•šπ•—π•šπ•”π•šπ•’π• π•€π•Ÿπ•₯π•–π•π•π•šπ•˜π•–π•Ÿπ•”π•– π•Œπ•Ÿπ•šπ•₯: π•†β„™β„™π•†π•Šπ•€π•‹π•€π•†β„•
>>>
>>> "𝕀 π•’π•ž 𝕒 π•”π• π•žπ•‘π•¦π•₯𝕖𝕣"
>


I am a writer and poet aiming to create surrealistic and abstract imagery in my work. I also greatly enjoy worldbuilding, roleplaying, and collaborative writing in general. I also work as a writing advisor, so I enjoy working with, critiquing, and supporting writing in most of its forms. If you would like to work with me with any piece of prose or poetry, let me know. If you have roleplay concepts, questions, or ideas I'd be happy to listen. For those that enjoy the projects I GM, contact me as necessary. PM at your will.

Contact me on Discord at Opposition#4407.

<<<β„‚π•¦π•£π•£π•–π•Ÿπ•₯ ℝ𝕠𝕝𝕖𝕑𝕝𝕒π•ͺ𝕀...>>>


The Last Embers --- Tatiana Leviatan : The Black Shepherd Summoner




𝔽𝕦π•₯π•šπ•π•šπ•₯π•ͺ: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒t π”Ύπ•’π•žπ•–


Dare you stand against Titans in a Great Game?
Enter the π”Ύπ•’π•žπ•–. Move your piece

Most Recent Posts

The Story So Far::


[β„‚π• π•žπ•–, π•Šπ•™π•’π••π• π•¨ β„‚π•’π•£π•’π•§π•’π•Ÿ]
π•Šπ•¨π•’π•₯𝕙𝕖 π•Šπ•₯𝕣𝕖𝕖π•₯ β„‚π• π•žπ•žπ• π•Ÿπ•€
β„π•–π•”π•π•’π•šπ•ž β„€π• π•Ÿπ•–, π•Šπ• π•¦π•₯𝕙 β„‚π•šπ•₯π•ͺ π•Šπ•‘π•£π•’π•¨π•
π”Έπ•‘π•£π•šπ• πŸ™π•€π•₯, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝


[π”½π•šπ•£π•€π•₯ π•Šπ•™π•’π•₯π•₯𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝔾𝕝𝕒𝕀𝕀]
𝔻𝕦𝕒π•₯, π•ƒπ•’π•Ÿπ•• 𝕠𝕗 π•₯𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕕
β„π•–π•”π•π•’π•šπ•ž β„€π• π•Ÿπ•–, π•Šπ• π•¦π•₯𝕙 β„‚π•šπ•₯π•ͺ π•Šπ•‘π•£π•’π•¨π•
π”Έπ•‘π•£π•šπ• πŸ™π•€π•₯, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝
@Valor
Your edits look good. I like the elaboration on the backstory. That will give me a lot more to work with in regards to the recurrence of past motifs for your character. One more thing, would you mind giving an identity to the gang that Amelia ran with? You're welcome to give it as much detail as you'd like, but I can fill in gaps if necessary. We actually had a 'Knights Gang' in Futility 1, ironically enough. If you want, you could have worked with them or create your own faction.

@MagratheanWhale
Everything looks great. Glad to have S'venia back aboard for Futility 2. Can you elaborate specifically on S'venia's goings-on/transition from the Campbell's campaign team back into her neutral role with the Broker? This is going to be important for me with regards to her interactions with Delilah and Overdriver as the old lads come together. There will actually be a number of recurring characters, so S'venia's reactions to the fiasco and where she went from there in comparison to the other crew members will be rather important, I think. If you have questions about missing details about the event, feel free to ask on Discord.

---
I'll be working on relations for the two of you today, to be finished either today or tomorrow. Delilah will definitely have a relation with S'venia, but other than that, I'm up in the air regarding other options and will draft some stuff for you guys to look at.
𝔽𝕦π•₯π•šπ•π•šπ•₯π•ͺ: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒t π”Ύπ•’π•žπ•–




No, no, no. Tuning in isn’t always good. People on the outside love to think so, though. β€˜Ride the wave, feel its power surging through you, direct current.’ That sort of shit. It’s different for me. I did tune in. I even turned the drone up, like a fool, thinking that within the static there might be something for me. You know what I found?

>>>π•ƒπ• π•’π••π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜...
>>>...
>>>...


It got louder and louder.

>>>π•€π•Ÿπ•šπ•₯π•šπ•’π•₯π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜...
>>>...
>>>...


I thought I’d expand my sensory world, find some revelation. Like I was some lost prophet, clairvoyant, a God in the Machine.

>>>𝔼𝕩𝕖𝕔𝕦π•₯π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜...
>>>...
>>>...


The buzz of machineryβ€”overwhelming, deafening, makes you want [[[θ…Ήεˆ‡γ‚Š]]] right there. But it’s over that mighty mountain of pain, frenzy, mind-wrack, that new things start being revealed to you.

>>>π”Όπ•Ÿπ•₯𝕖𝕣 π•₯𝕙𝕖 π”Ύπ•’π•žπ•–...
>>>...
>>>...


You see not the individuals, the bleak landscapes, not even the Labyrinth. Tuning further and further into the noise, you’ll eventually reach the other side, I think, a void. It’s in that void where you hear, see, feel the moving pieces, The Machine, the π”Ύπ•’π•žπ•–. All the moves they make.

I lost it.




π•Šπ•¨π•’π•₯𝕙𝕖 π•Šπ•₯𝕣𝕖𝕖π•₯ β„‚π• π•žπ•žπ• π•Ÿπ•€
β„π•–π•”π•π•’π•šπ•ž β„€π• π•Ÿπ•–, π•Šπ• π•¦π•₯𝕙 β„‚π•šπ•₯π•ͺ π•Šπ•‘π•£π•’π•¨π•
π”Έπ•‘π•£π•šπ• πŸ™π•€π•₯, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 πŸ™πŸ :πŸ™πŸ˜
[β„‚π• π•žπ•–, π•Šπ•™π•’π••π• π•¨ β„‚π•’π•£π•’π•§π•’π•Ÿ] π•€π•Ÿπ•šπ•₯π•šπ•’π•₯π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜...



Samsara curled his thumbs into his palms and crossed his middle and ring fingers to form a pair of β€˜W’ gang signs, which he flashed to Lott when she commented on his rad glasses. You couldn’t really get more egotistical than inventing your own gang sign, but Samsara seemed blissfully unaware, convinced entirely by his own coolness. β€œThanks,” he offered, obscured eyes lingering on Lott a second too long, as though running a sort of diagnostic appraisal with his cyberware.

As Lott stepped in to deal with the antics of Gatch’s challengers, the weary mayor’s face showed something in between the rigor mortis of a long dead man and appreciation for his publicist. Petrukov, on the other hand, only regarded Lott’s presence after a short debate in her head regarding whether or not it was worth it to engage the non-candidate.

β€œTrust me,” Petrukov paused, mentally scrolling through her list of slightly-demeaning monikers for the unimportant sort whose names she did not know. She couldn’t settle on one and ended up dragging out a β€œyou…” much longer than necessary. β€œI’ve no need for APEX media goons. I don’t know if you’ve heard of me.” Serena smirked, turning her head slightly to accentuate a hair-toss. β€œBut I’m a bit of an influencerβ€”the media mogul sortβ€”and the Pirates have their own plans.”

Her own boasts seemed to remind Petrukov of the carefully crafted schedule in her head and she started looking around. The Pirate Warlord set her finger-gun sights upon Kaitlyn Davenport. β€œKay, I’m going to get the goons to set up our command post upstairs. We’ll livestream in an hour or twoβ€”depending on how long it takes me to find something to eatβ€”to make the pre-announcement about our β€˜big announcement’ to take place during the debate.” She gave a sneaky pose, shooting her gaze around the room to ensure that her competitors knew she had something to hide.

β€œThe way we like to say itβ€”we, the people of the Reclaim Zone,” Faren clarified as he stepped towards Lott. He walked like he was slipping on slime the whole way there, not breaking eye contact unless he was sending sweet eyes back to his pack of followers. β€œIs that the people of the Reclaim are stuck working for the Mayor… That’s the problem, and his ties to APEX, their own category of issues really. Not one that will last much longer.” He really liked his ominous tones and foreshadowing. If put before a federal court, the combatting lawyers would have to commit to going fist to fist. β€œBut my people will certainly take you up on your offer. We’d love to get a word in with APEX. Discuss the future, see what they know, that sort of thing.”

The sound of an alarm tripped just barely audible from the nearby security office had Gatch jump a few inches out of his skin. The officer posted up in the camera room just shrugged and got up to investigate. The incumbent took a deep breath. β€œWhere did Dao go?” Gatch thought out loud, but everyone ignored him. No one really knew the answer either way. It was strange the way a pile of monks could just so quietly vanish from the scene. They’d either left or headed up to find their rooms. Gatch stopped caring after only a moment.

Maybe it was the cord-wrapped, 3D-ready zombie that distracted him from the much more pertinent matter. Alas, Gatch’s lethargy was next level, and soon he resigned to punishing his body as best as he could at the prepared snack table. Serena soon followed. Samsara had disregarded Lott’s offer. Delilah had become the subject of his silent appraisal. Beneath the super-specs, his eyes traced up and down the jacket she wore. He decided it was a problem best addressed not in front of a crowd of competitors. Nonetheless, once eyes stopped falling on him, he set a determined course to Delilah to have a conversation at a volume that wouldn’t be picked up by every recording device in the room. She obviously wanted something. Delilah rarely found him in person otherwise.

Gatch withdrew a tablet that vibrated ravenously on his belt. β€œLott, just, uh…” He missed the video-call. Another one replaced it almost immediately. β€œDeal with any newcomers, would you? I gotta deal with this before—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. It wasn’t the time or place to finish that statement. Gatch hurried into the building’s wing, not waiting for a response from his trusted media lieutenant swiss-army-knife.



Someone else had to be catching the signals, right? I couldn’t have been the only one. It was a game of perception, right? Who were the other champions of sight, of sound, of vibration?

The ANVL strikes. I got stuck with vibration.

He was a champion of perception too. He saw the other side through signals… I found him easy, like following a beacon of the Great Game. Even the overwhelming noise of the Everything seemed to dull in comparison to the screaming noise that surrounded his work.


I pounded on the door a third time. Run down, Reclaim, it certainly wasn’t the place the spectator of a Great Game hid out. There was no answer, but after a while the cameras wired to either side of the door swiveled and stared me down.

@Valor
Amelia is looking good thus far. It'll be interesting to have the bodyguard sort on scene for inevitable SNAFU that occurs when the Reclaim Zone gathers. The sheet created a solid picture of what Amelia's role will be within the group dynamic, though it's hard to understand the direction in which the character will be taken. I think more clearly defined personal and campaign goals could help here. Since a character's drives are what's going to give them an active role in the story and certain tasks to go after as well as helping me better direct the right subplots to them, they are crucial to any character in Futility. Everyone should have overarching goals in life, even if they may not seem immediately obvious.

What may help with that is more fleshed out background details. This is another instance that can help me give your character a more direct role in the story, rather than relying on shots in the dark to create engagement. Right now, I don't know much about Amelia that doesn't revolve around her work, which is certainly important, but the details you've added give a lot of room for intrigue. For example, what sort of acts, jobs, characters, and scenes was Amelia experiencing when working with these 'legal grey area' gangs? What made Amelia's mind change so easily when she met a security recruiter? How did her former colleagues react when she abandoned their cause? These could be great questions to answer to allow for dynamic progression and a variety of inputs on Amelia's overall story.

Otherwise, I like what you've got so far. As you work towards those major points, you're also welcome to start working on your character's relations with other characters. The table template for that is in the OOC post. I write a connection with every character with at least one of my two characters, but beyond that, every player should have at least two connections to help us avoid drawn out mistrust and lack of cooperation. Good work!






>>>π•π•’π•”π•œπ•šπ•Ÿπ•˜ π•€π•Ÿ...
>>>π•ƒπ• π•’π••π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜ 𝕃𝕒𝕓π•ͺπ•£π•šπ•Ÿπ•₯𝕙…
>>>...


It’s nice to escape.
Forget your place,
Just focus on hitting these sick eliminations in a digital landscape,
Or maybe just focus on painting.


Even after her flatline, Delilah could hardly resist this sick urge to spread herself thin. It was the Grind. Some twisted physical dependency of multitasking. Maybe that was the only way she could think. Side effects of too much integration… So much of her life, she’d been strapped up, sucked into the void. All the doctor’s liked to tell her the oppositeβ€”not that she’d seen a doctor in years. If she kept her eyes (quite literally) strapped to a screen, lost herself jacking-in, she would have trouble thinking. Symptoms include: anxiety, fluxes of stress, attention difficulties.

Maybe they were right. When Delilah wasn’t smashing the digital recreations of phantom monsters in Labyrinthβ€”when she found herself walking down the Reclaim’s unclean streets, headphones and cyberdeck with no batteryβ€”she couldn’t much think. When she did focus on the outside, it was usually on drafting plans for the inside. Delilah’s Labyrinth form jutted out in a limb of spiralling code, crushing another advancing bot. They looked like big monochrome insects crawling around the Labyrinth. Familiar spaces nearby simulated a realistic landscape. She was inside the Swathe Street Commons suites. Any gaps that couldn’t be filled in by the surrounding cameras and recording devices from which the Shaman leeched were static chunks of nothing but flowing data.

In here, though, she found focus. She focused particularly well while bashing bots. The new gaming scripts that were being traded around Labyrinth forums were hyper-realistic. Don’t get hitβ€”it hurts. The folks with bad decks were liable to lash out IRL or piss themselves if they took too much damage. A prompt open on the far-right side of her vision allowed Delilah to write her own scripts. She opted to generate a katana, like that one girl she knew from the old campaign days. Slash slash, another bot erased itself from existence once hit. Other prompts scattered around her vision transcribed her thoughts into text and rolled them out for her to see as she thought them.

Thoughts on the simulation:
I wonder what Samsara is doing right now?

Ideas on ways to eat without having to leave Labyrinth:
If I continue play at this pace, accounting for two skill plateaus, I’ll have the regional high score by…
Am I unemployed? Does e-begging Samsara count as a job?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Emotional imbalance reaching critical levels. What is it this time?
Another hit of Mente Scindendris?
Do I need neurosynth?


Delilah lost her focus on the projected game for not more than a second. Her form sped forward straight into a deadzone in the cameras and she was shot into another random part of the building. She was on what she thought was the top floor, staring directly out of the thick, dusty, (bulletproof?), glass. There, suspended in the air was one of the tags. Right where the attacker had escaped.

That Tag...
That Tag...

It was everywhere.

Everywhere important.

A master painter...
In this twisted cyberscape...

Who?
Who

Who could pull off that sort of flex?


The cyber-graffiti seemed purposefully placed in the hardest to reach spot. The would-be assassin’s escape route had since been covered in ICE and other detection scripts. Delilah was careful not to get too close. Whatever the encrypted tag said, she couldn't decipher. It was layered with various encoding mechanisms such that, even surrounded by the dark ICE formations, it shimmered with a rainbow variety of colors.

β„‚ β„™ 𝔸 𝔽


The bots swarmed her before she even realized she was still playing the game. Multitasking burnout. All at once, the simulated building evaporated and Delilah was back in the white frontier, dotted with crawling messages, signals, and software. It was definitely another cluster of E-Drug cocktails, she decided. That would solve this feeling, whatever it was, or at least temporarily send her back into some frantic attention-deficit mania long enough to forget about the tag, about reality. She could get back to focusing on blasting bots, or scouring the net for more of the tags, or something, or something, or something.

>>>π•π•’π•”π•œπ•šπ•Ÿπ•˜ 𝕆𝕦π•₯...
>>>ℙ𝕙𝕒𝕀𝕖 π•Šπ•™π•šπ•—π•₯...
>>>π”»π•£π•šπ•—π•₯...
>>>π”»π•£π•šπ•—π•₯...
>>>π”Ήπ•’π•”π•œ π•₯𝕠 β„π•–π•’π•π•šπ•₯π•ͺ…
>>>...


π•Šπ•¨π•’π•₯𝕙𝕖 π•Šπ•₯𝕣𝕖𝕖π•₯ β„‚π• π•žπ•žπ• π•Ÿπ•€
β„π•–π•”π•π•’π•šπ•ž β„€π• π•Ÿπ•–, π•Šπ• π•¦π•₯𝕙 β„‚π•šπ•₯π•ͺ π•Šπ•‘π•£π•’π•¨π•
π”Έπ•‘π•£π•šπ• πŸ™π•€π•₯, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 πŸ™πŸ :πŸ™πŸ˜



Cold sweat, but overheated. Just like always. Her legs were particularly well-heated from the overclocked deck she left on her lap.

Delilah had to fight a tangled mass of cords, cables, and stray devices for a space on the dirty desk before she could lug her cyberdeck up onto it. The room was still dark, but a number of screens left on around the room still supplied the netrunner with her regular unrecommended dose of unfiltered blue light illuminating the dirty bricks of the forgotten room. She couldn’t decide if it was meant to be a closet or if the architect just hadn’t planned well, but the place served her purposes well. Delilah was tucked away on the mostly-deserted top floor of the Swathe Street Commons suites. The derelict factories they’d been built into were full of surprisesβ€”unused spaces between walls, forgotten rooms, that sort of thing. It was only once you got to the heavily-used areas of the complex that security, alarms, and other sensor defences got intense.

Delilah sent out a ping for a series of signals she was following, wondering who or what was online that she could interact with. The place was flooded with all the candidates’ entourages, each full of their own invasive tech and countermeasures that lit the place up with loose connections, chunks of poorly-written ICE, and miscellaneous encrypted messages jumping back and forth all over. Citizen K’s signal connected to Delilah’s network almost immediately, which was unusual. Usually, Delilah’s proxy server aboard some dark web Antarctic barge took ages to bounce back off of her hacker friend’s own severely hidden server. Labyrinth folks were always over-cautious, at least the good ones were.

She couldn’t be nearby, could she? Delilah never took K for the Twin City type. Most folks like the two of them were holed up in isolation, coming out of their gamer-caves only to hit the nearest convenience store for a week’s worth of rations. Delilah wasn’t averse to the big city, though, as long as she could get herself hidden away in some secret base she set up. After all, the Reclaim had excellent delivery sushi.

There was no mirror in the corner closet-room, so Delilah settled for a dead screen to fix her hair, spending only a moment to let herself bat her blue locks into submission. She looked towards the door, contemplated going into public, then the anxiety, existential dread, l’appel du vide, 𝔽𝕦π•₯π•šπ•π•šπ•₯π•ͺ, particularly bad and inexplicable feeling set back in. Delilah backed up and flopped herself onto the pile of pillows, blankets, discarded gadgets, and carcasses of this week’s worth of take-out meals. She allotted herself approximately fifteen-point-six seconds to balefully groan into the void before coming to grips with the nature of reality once again.

Her left hand flailed out in her nest. Delilah was face-down in the pillow with the least amount of crumbs on it, almost unaware of what she was searching for until her hand found its quarry. The box had the classic yellow smiley-face on it. That was itβ€”no writing, brand name, other nonsense. Delilah pulled the opaque plastic package from the tiny box. Last one. The metallic device looked in looked like a little box with a few spikes protruding from one side. Delilah, like a zombie, jammed the device against her neck until it found her Cyberdeck CIU interface and plugged in.

>>>π•ƒπ• π•’π••π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜...
>>>π•€π•Ÿπ•šπ•₯π•šπ•’π•₯π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜ π••π•šπ•€π•‘π•–π•£π•€π•šπ• π•Ÿ 𝕠𝕗 π••π•’π•Ÿπ•˜π•–π•£π• π•¦π•€π•π•ͺ π•¦π•Ÿπ•“π•’π•π•’π•Ÿπ•”π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜ π•”π•™π•–π•žπ•šπ•”π•’π• π•”π• π•”π•œπ•₯π•’π•šπ• π•šπ•Ÿπ•₯𝕠 𝕦𝕀𝕖𝕣'𝕀 π•“π•šπ• π•₯π•šπ•” 𝕀π•ͺ𝕀π•₯π•–π•žπ•€...
>>>...


ℍ 𝔸 β„™ β„™ 𝕐


Delilah’s facial muscles contracted unwillingly into a smile. Her eyes started to go in and out of focus, and she was sure they started drifting around her eye sockets like some sort of glitched turret camera searching for a target. She didn’t really register what she was seeing either way, so it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was what she was feeling. Still, as her common sense started to leave her, she had one final thought to conceal her eyes before she drifted into the ether and out of her secret base. She sat up and tried to assemble some ensemble to make herself look presentable. Unfortunately, she left all of her nice clothes in an incinerator somewhere or something. She didn’t remember. What she did come up with was a nice long coat that she’d probably stolen from Samsara when he wasn’t looking. She like it because it was sleekβ€”the sort of techwear that lights up in embroidered lines for some reason, because corpos thought that was cool. Delilah threw it on over her skirt and t-shirt, and turned up its thick collar to cover the protrusion plugged into her neck. A few cords entangled the jacket as she grabbed her heavy definitely-not-portable cyberdeck and tucked it under her arm just out of view. She was forced to hold the bulky thing beneath the jacket, so one of the oversized armholes flopped freely, empty of a limb. A real snazzy dresser, she was. In terms of covering her eyes, she hadn’t yet managed to jack Samsara’s cybershades, so she settled instead for the only pair of eyewear she’d managed to liberate from some unknown place, at an unknown time, in an unknown haze: a pair of retro paper 3-D glasses with the red and blue filters.

>>>β„π•¦π•Ÿπ•Ÿπ•šπ•Ÿπ•˜ π”»π•šπ•’π•˜π•Ÿπ• π•€π•₯π•šπ•”...
>>>π”Έπ•‘π•‘π•£π•’π•šπ•€π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜ π•Œπ•€π•–π•£'𝕀 β„™π•–π•£π•€π• π•Ÿπ•’π• π•Šπ•₯π•ͺ𝕝𝕖 ℝ𝕒π•₯π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜...
>>>...
>>>...
>>>ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕠𝕦π•₯:
>>>β„‚ β„™ 𝔸 𝔽...


Delilah bobbed her head sluggishly in directions that were surely offbeat in relation to the music that was playingβ€”origin unknown. The moment the bright yellow bulbs beyond her secret base hit her skin, the wave of fatigue and dehydration hit her and she wondered how long she was jacked in. She quickly stopped caring about that thought, and another one took its place.

She ping-ping-pinged Citizen K with three stray signals to try and get her friend’s attention. Delilah had a tendency to randomly flag her friend without any substance or message to the signal when her mind wasn’t completely inhabited. K had to be used to it by now. Delilah had forgotten about the ordeal by the time she reached the scanning lasers that protected access to the suites’ lower floors. Really, she just wanted her friends attention, to trade banter and the like. Something was off, though, but she couldn’t recall why K was so prevalent in her mind. Oh well. Another series of signals:

>>> ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾...
>>>
"π•ͺ𝟘 β„šπ•¦π•–π•–π•Ÿ."
>>>...

The complex's stairwell sensors were overloaded from every angle of attack in just a few seconds, every vulnerability coordinated and simultaneously exploited. Delilah rerouted the signals to connect to another random sensor somewhere in the facility, which she mistakenly set off, surely scaring the hell out of any security guard who might have believed in ghosts. The Central Square suites were a labyrinth of their own, but Delilah did eventually find her way to her destination.

The disheveled appearance of her entrance was certain to turn some heads, and Delilah certainly wasn’t expecting the place to be so full of assorted people. A swathe of fear cut through her for just a moment, before she saw Samsara. She figured she could pretend to be with the NTP if necessary. She looked the part. Sort of. Tech-junkie, yes. Nicely dressed and overly pompous, not quite. The candidates were plenty distracted by their own arguing and the antics of one of Gatch’s employees. Delilah adjusted her 3D glasses and blew a tuft of hair from her face, content to just be chillin’ in the thick of things. She could hardly focus on the whole scene anyways. She did her best to send one-handed signals into the obviously lumpy protrusion beneath her jacket.

She thought about paintings. About Tags.

>>> ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾...
>>>
"𝕀'𝕧𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕝𝕠𝕑𝕖𝕕 𝕒 π•€π•¦π••π••π•–π•Ÿ πŸ™π•Ÿπ•₯𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕀π•₯ π•šπ•Ÿ π•₯𝕙𝕖 π•—π•šπ•ŸπŸ› 𝕒𝕣π•₯𝕀..."
>>>...

𝔻 𝕖 𝕝 π•š 𝕝 𝕒 𝕙 𝔸 π•ž 𝕒 π•Ÿ 𝕠






π•Šπ•₯𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕒 π•Šπ• π•π• π•žπ• π•Ÿ






ℂ𝕒𝕀𝕀 β„‚π•’π•Ÿπ•₯𝕠𝕀
𝕀π•₯𝕖𝕣𝕒π•₯π•šπ• π•Ÿ π•†π•Ÿπ•–





𝔽𝕦π•₯π•šπ•π•šπ•₯π•ͺ: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒t π”Ύπ•’π•žπ•–




Dance…
Dance Cybergirl…
Dance Fiend…
Dance…
Dance in 𓇽Duat𓇽Duet.
Dance is just another name these days.
Another name for a Duel.


Snowflakes often dance to the ground, though there’s no snow in the Reclaim zone. There was no snow in space either. Really, it’s just an abstraction, a construct on a digital screen. Dancing, dancingβ€”like a dreamβ€”dancing to the ground in place of the acid rain.

Dust dances in clouds. Massive packs of particulate matter, sayβ€”when thrown in the face of an unsuspecting victimβ€”Spikedβ€”interact with one another in seemingly random patterns en masse. A dance. Each little piece of the barely perceptible cloud moves independently, with its own goals in mind. Where were you going little particle? What was your motive? With which rhythm did you two-step in between your brothers and sisters? Was it sinister? Insidious?

In combat, Theyβ„’ often say that warriors dance. Between carefully placed footfalls, with grace, cautious footpads meet face-to-face. Rapier tip to rapier tip. Blade to blade. It’s just like a game. They push and pull. Attack. React. Counterattack. Dance.

And there’s one other place. One other interpretation. For, see, you’ll often find players pacing, box-stepping, dancing in conversation. Verbal jabs take the place of physical initiations, but the danger remains. Don’t mistake the charismat’s acrobatics as passive. Information is traded with haste. In fact, its in this sort of interfacing that the most dangerous
π”Ύπ•’π•žπ•– is often played.

Dance…
Dance…
Locked in a trance-like stateβ€”
Leave them in amazement.
Dance…
π”Έπ•¨π•’π•œπ•–π•Ÿ.


𝕋𝕙𝕖 π•ƒπ•šπ•žπ•“π•  ℂ𝕝𝕦𝕓

β„π•šπ•˜π•™ π•†π•£π•“π•šπ•₯𝕒𝕝 π•Šπ•₯𝕒π•₯π•šπ• π•Ÿ π”Έπ•π•–π•©π•’π•Ÿπ••π•£π•šπ•’
∞∞∞, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝


β€œStell, put the needle away. Alexandria Investigators are scheduled to come through any minute and Boss wants us to look like we’re not catering to the clients’ exotic tastes.”

β€œWhat?”

β€œYou can admire the new arms later, sweetie. I promise they’ve got all sorts of hidden functions that will fulfill your wildest dreams. Now, though, back out onto the dancefloor!”


𓇽𝔻𝕦𝕒π•₯𓇽, π•ƒπ•’π•Ÿπ•• 𝕠𝕗 π•₯𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕕

β„π•–π•”π•π•’π•šπ•ž β„€π• π•Ÿπ•–, π•Šπ• π•¦π•₯𝕙 β„‚π•šπ•₯π•ͺ π•Šπ•‘π•£π•’π•¨π•
π”Έπ•‘π•£π•šπ• πŸ™π•€π•₯, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 πŸ™πŸ :πŸ™πŸ˜

[π”½π•šπ•£π•€π•₯ π•Šπ•™π•’π•₯π•₯𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝔾𝕝𝕒𝕀𝕀], π•€π•Ÿπ•šπ•₯π•šπ•’π•₯π•šπ•Ÿπ•˜...


β€œStella’s log, entry number twenty seventy-seven.” She spoke openly into the dictaphone. It was a clunky piece of tech Stella found among a pile of completely random gadgets spread out on the blanket of one of those strange Reclaim Zone monks that posted up on street corners sometimes. β€œBad drinking habit number—” She paused, sort of, letting the final β€˜R’ sound of her words drag out as she pondered. β€œSix,” she decided. β€œI find myself too often choosing drinks with straws. I don’t know what the allure of it is. Maybe it’s the specificity, the efficiency. Every sip—” She paused, sipped. β€œCalculating 1⁄8.5 multiplied by optimal suction force to achieve the desired amount of liquid (of course, taking into account desired amount of alcohol as well) measured in inches, then multiplied by air flow in cubic feet per minute. Then convert air watts to a more apt unit for understanding in terms of Stella’s (me) biological limitations.” She sucked in a breath to fill her empty lungs, checked to make sure the dictaphone was on and recording. She did a quick survey of 𓇽Duat𓇽’s interior to account for the number of stares now directed her way.

β€œOkay. End note.” Stella’s eyes lazily traced patterns on the ceiling. The ancient piece of tech was a mystery. She had no idea if it was capable of the smart recognition of voice commands, let alone the sorting of various notes for her later retrieval. In fact, she had no idea if the thing even worked. The screen was lit up and the light on the side was blinking. Wasn’t that enough?

β€œNew note,” she said after giving the device a few seconds to calibrate and adapt to her commands. β€œStella’s diary, entry number thirteen thirty-seven. After that brooding psychiatrist came through and started psychoanalyzing, I couldn’t help but take his advice. I don’t think I have a drinking problem, but I started keeping a log of observations regarding my drinking habits like he recommended. Doctor Stella diagnosed him a killjoy and prescribed approximately 354.88 CCs of double White Russian, stat.”

The door opened as it always does in the 𓇽Duat𓇽, dramatically. Stella clicked her dictaphone off. At least, she thought it was off. Really, she just hit the biggest button on the side and assumed from there. It was the delivery boy she dosed that one time. Strange. She could have sworn he was already in 𓇽Duat𓇽 brooding alone in his usual spot. Stella looked over, and there he was, brooding alone in his usual spot. Eyes flicked back to the newest customer. He was worming his way through the dance floor, which was as it usually was in the 𓇽Duat𓇽, a place for zombies. The slow jazz noir rhythm was one that attracted hordes of people who’d lost their mind. The dance floor at 𓇽Duat𓇽 was more like a place for meditation. Forget your worries. Forget everything. Forget your body. Unleash yourself into the ether. Enter the Land of the Dead. They fit right in, like they were part of the establishment, pillars that help up the building while they got down to the beat.

He appeared to be delivering sushi to himself. Strange. Strange was normal in the Land of the Dead. He fit right in. Stella fit right in. Like pillars, or something. The helmet boys looked tense, or felt tense at least. They looked like robots. Stella’s sense of duty kicked in. The duty to keep the vibe Not Killedβ„’. She started to head their way, but got caught in the melancholic slow BPM of the 𓇽Duat𓇽’s constant droning melodies. With one step taken on each beat, she half-danced her way over. Gyroscopes in her Ultrabartender arms kicked in and kept the two glasses in her hands uncannily stable.

β€œYour usual, boys.” She set down two glasses with an exaggerated bow, both almost glowing with an electric yellow color in the hazy neon mood lighting, both exactly equal pours. Spiked lemonade of an indeterminate ratio of vodka and hyper-sugary lemonade. It was a perfect image of what Stella imagined Speed Racer Turbo Nitro Fuel looked like, and perhaps what she thought car juice was made of too. She stepped back quick, sensing they had a dance to take care of.

Her customer senses tingled again as the Dramatic Doors parted way, providing a portal from the land of the living into the interim. This time it was two Goons in crisp black suits. Crisp. Too crisp. 𓇽Duat𓇽’s suit-wearing patrons were never quite picturesque corpo-types. Strange. Strange in the sense that they didn’t fit into 𓇽Duat𓇽. They weren’t strange, not Reclaim strange. Not Strange, but that made them strange. Strange. They fit right in.

The goons seemed disgruntled when they realized the two seats to the far-left of the bar were taken. Those were the brooding business seats, and they were brooding business types. They came to do brooding business. They came to dance. Stella skid across the floor and came to a halt centered directly between the two of them. β€œGentlemen. Welcome to the Interim. Are you alive or dead?” Again, the Ultrabartender already seemed to have two drinks prepared in some esoteric process that involved an unending array of spouts and chemicals and mixers and tumblers just beyond the customers’ sightline below the counter. Vodka, water.

β€œWhat? Goon #1 looked towards his colleague. They both wore the sort of operator shades that made you wonder whether they were perpetually angry or just wanted to appear that way for brooding business reasons.

β€œYou’re Mary?”

β€œOh you can just call me Stell—” Her eyebrows shot up cartoonishly, and her facade melted away to reveal a complete, utter, irrefutable, clouded, destructive, entropic state of 𝔽𝕦π•₯π•šπ•π•šπ•₯π•ͺconfusion that lurked beneath. Then, just like that, she was back. A facade. Suave, composed, charismatic. Ready to dance. β€œAhhh, that’s what the nametag says, yes.” Stella let herself collapse into a β€˜cute and mysterious’ pose with her elbows on the counter and her chin cradled in her upturned hand.

Goon #1 stuck something that looked like an old world glue gun into his drink. It beeped a few times. β€œOh point oh, oh, one-three percent offworld Dust dust of some kind.” Stella needed to recalibrate her eyes.

β€œSafe?” Goon #2 asked.

β€œSafe.”

β€œWell it’s definitely her.”

Stella cocked her head fifteen degrees to the right and brought a hand up to her face as if it would block the audio waves from traveling around the bar. No one was paying attention anyways. Not in the Land of the Dead. β€œYou’re the goons I’m waiting for?”

β€œYou’re the bartender...” Goon #2 trailed off, flicking a hand into the air. His glasses lit up and he briefly scrolled through his projected Heads-Up-Display. β€œWho knows her way around a fair share of substances. A void kid from Alexandria.”

β€œEverything’s so heavy down here.” Stella was back to sipping from a straw. It was diagonally striped black and yellow and glowed in the dark when she cupped her hands around it. Goon #1 took the first sip of his drink and grimaced. Stella didn’t notice. His face rested in grimace-mode.

β€œShe’s the specialist…” Goon #1 said, half as a question and half to reassure himself that pleasing his boss was worth the errand.

β€œI mostly just serve drinks, but I think I’ve got the hang of things down here now. I can interfere in the election if you need me to. I’ve been practicing my moves.” Stella dropped her glass from a height that would have most certainly cracked it if it were only millimeters higher. She hopped back, exhibiting her floating-like-a-butterfly and stinging-like-a-bee for her assumed employers with accompanied β€˜popping’ sound effects timed with each punch.

Grimaces. They could have been looks of awe for all she knew.

β€œNo, Mary, you’re not going to interfere in the election. You—”

β€œGreat. Nothing too shady then.” Interrupted. Countered. Quick Parry. She took the first step, determined to lead. β€˜Let me have this dance.’ Another mask pulled over her visage. Those absent, distant, wistful eyes remained; but the surrounding expression wasn’t the happy-go-lucky twisted victim of the devil’s Dust. No. She was a player in a π”Ύπ•’π•žπ•–. What was her piece?

β€œI suppose you could tell me who you are then. You know my name after all. Maybe even Boss’s name. I could talk directly to her if you’d prefer.” He laughedβ€”right when she said β€˜her’. Boss was a guy.

β€œLike I said,” he sipped, grimaced smiled (she could have sworn), swallowed hard the concoction. β€œYou’re not going to interfere in any election. You’re just going to keep doing what you’re doing. You’re a bartender.”

β€œYou’ll serve drinks,” Goon #1 cut in. He wanted to feel like he was laying on the heat too. It was a two-on-one. Stella didn’t know any dances like that.

β€œYou’ll serve drinks. Just the same as you always do, even during the election. Mix cocktails, have fun. You give the right drinks to the right folks, the right substances to the right patrons. Just find your place. Learn to feel at home in this joint.”

β€œJust like always.” It was clear Goon #2 had more tenure.

By the time Stella finished her drink, her offhand was already pulling another up from below the counter. Mystery liquid. A little too cloudy… She held the straw in her mouth and transferred it between glasses. The empty disappeared. Home? In the Land of the Dead? Stella wasn’t sure what home was. Void kids always had that problem.

β€œWe even brought you a housewarming gift,” he said, while reaching into his coat. That was always a bad move in 𓇽Duat𓇽, in the Reclaim, but nobody noticed. Nobody cared. The Two Dudes In Suits did start to draw eyes, though, from 𓇽Duat𓇽 regulars. Maybe irregulars. A gadget transferred from his palm into her offhand, a bit bigger than Stella’s dictaphone, and similarly ambiguous in its function. It had a small screen, a few interface options, a few sealed chambers, and one red button on the bottom. The top had the eye of a camera, and the grid of holes on one side made Stella think speaker or microphone. She wasn’t sure which.

β€œKeep it on you. At all times. We’ll ring when we want to have a chat or have more presents.” Finally, Goon #1 got to contribute to the menacing. Stella suddenly felt strangely watched. Tracked. This was a tough move to counter-attack. There was more to this dance, she realized. It was a whole group affair. A fourth party, maybe more, stepped to their own rhythm. Or maybe they beat the drumβ€”mapped the rhythm to which the others tapped out their tango to.

Stella brought the eye of the camera right up to her own, and met the fourth party eye-to-eye. Goon #1 stood up an inch or two in his seat, and his grimace twitched almost giving way to something other than a goon grimace, but quickly corrected by its wearer before revealing too much. He scanned the 𓇽Duat𓇽 for watchers. None of note.

β€œI have a penchant for leaving things lying around the 𓇽Duat𓇽. I’ll do my best to keep your present safe, though. Nearby, at least. If I remember…” Chasse away from your invisible pursuers, like escaping some mythical faeries in a magical ballet. Pirouette.

β€œYou should really keep better track of your possessions, Mary. You never know how much pull they have over youβ€”how much we depend on our vices. We’re nice and we like to play nice.” Goon #2 had finished his drink. Goon #1 had barely made it halfway. β€œIf you don’t keep track of your things, you never know when they’ll disappear. There are some things you can’t get down here on the planet after all. Don’t want to run out over some careless mistake… Losing track of something.” Club shuffle step forward, advancing on one’s partner.

Stella didn’t know this dance. How much Dust did she have left? Mounds of the stuff. It couldn’t run out, right? The Goons looked at each other.

β€œMy friend, make sure you don’t forget your briefcase at the bar.”

β€œRight. Right. I’m sure our friend at the bar would take care of it in my absence, but good thing you reminded me this time.”

They started to stand, but something caught their attention.



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