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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.
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3 yrs ago
Guild Cyberpunk gang currently popping off
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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.
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.
I really love that fluff text in your Resume about the inner workings of the Stationary Shogunate. Shit like this is what the Wal was made for. There were ideas that I had for a faction that lived in the vents and on the Roof Tops but I digress. I could nitpick stuff like Bushido having been bastardised into Brushido by the Stationary Shogunate and other minor things, this is a really good sheet.
My only complaint is that you didn't make this more insane that it already is.
Here is sheet #1, boss. I had two different ideas vying for control, and may try to formulate the other next week when I have time. Let me know what you think.
I would like my Wal-Coupons now.
PERSONAL ACCOUNT
NAME: Origami Runs-With-Scissors
GENDER: Female
DEPARTMENT: Stationary Shogunate
AGE: 18
APPEARANCE: Origami, despite her offbeat appearance, is the type to be looked over as though part of the environment. If she stood still, she could easily be mistaken for some sort of cardboard cut-out. She certainly has that mascot look, after all. The first thing anyone will notice about the girl is that she wears a brown paper bag over her head. Most often, it is quite simple, bearing two immaculately circular eyeholes and a slit for a mouth.
What lies beneath the mask is a mystery to even the most sage denizens of the Wal. Occasionally, tufts of black hair stick out from beyond its opening and fall along Origamiβs shoulders. Everything below the mask looks like it was peeled right off a stock character design and pasted on. She is a relatively small girl with no distinct musculature, and she wears a plain uniform with a white shirt, black skirt, and black knee-socks. Often, every pocket, waistband, or opening in her clothes is overflowing with miscellaneous stationery.
RESUME
Runs-With-Scissors was born into a humble family of papersmiths that had carried their craft for countless generations. Some would go as far to say that their modest hamlet βhidden in the sheafsβ produces some of the best folders in retail. The hamlet, believed to be directly under a massive pneumatic tube that leads to the Recycler, is filled with excess paper and must fight just to avoid being buried in the miscellaneous sheets and scraps. Her family is renowned for their talents to turn even piles of scraps into the finest sporting goods. As such, Runs-With-Scissors was raised to be a great artisan, taught the Way of classical folding and penjutsu from birth. It is rumored that the first time Runs-With-Scissors was left alone, she folded her first 999 cranes with no instruction.
Despite their grand talents, Runs-With-Scissorsβs clan, the KamiKami were devoted to their craftsmanship and had little interest in the unvirtuous realms of politics and territorial feudalism that seemed to guide the shogunate. Guided by ancient Bushido doctrines, the clan of masters retained their neutrality, making their great tools of war for only the most worthy warriors. Their rectitude, however, would ultimately lead to the scheming of their enemies, and thus, the downfall of the hamlet βhidden in the sheafsβ.
While Runs-With-Scissors occupied her idle time with fervently decorating her village and folding new plantlife into the mounds of sheafs, the elders of the KamiKami clan were caught in heated negotiations between various Daimyo of the office supplies. While KamiKami refused to provide aid to the troops of Bicβs vast army, they were humiliated and shunned from the greater summits of the shogunate. As tensions with the Tronic Temple increased, however, the shogunate knew that the skills of the KamiKami were necessary for victory. Spitefully refusing once again to give up their masterworked art in favor of mass-produced weapons, any dissenters of the KamiKami clan were sentenced to be scrapped along with their village. KamiKamiβs Old Masters fought bravely for 8 Β½ days and 11 nights, but the village hidden in the sheafs inevitably fell to the vile new world tactic of pyrotechnics.
The young Runs-With-Scissors watched the Old Masters fall one-by-one in the attack. Those who managed to beat back the Bic troops would give up on the 11th night, committing Hara-Kiri as a final dignified act of KamiKami unity. Of course, there were remnants. The wise old ronin βOrigami Spills-His-Inkβ knew it was unwise to die with the village, and sought to save the youth before he escaped. Just as the village hidden in the sheafs was surrounded and a final charge of Stationari Samurai came to run through any survivors still writhing in the flames, Spills-His-Ink, in a ditch effort to save the young Runs-With-Scissors, undertook the greatest fold he had ever attempted: the Million-Fold Crane Technique. In an ultimate display, Spills-His Ink folded a massive bird mounted atop a paper balloon and lashed young Runs-With-Scissors to his project with a roll of wrapping-paper. As she rose into the sky, the great bird taking flight due to lift generated by her burning village, great ronin Spills-His-Ink turned and leveled his mache-blade against the approaching horde.
Runs-With-Scissors, one with her fate, had no choice but to sail up into the monolithic looming vent of the Recycler. The millionth crane of the mysterious ronin sailed through the air for days before it was taken down by the biting winds of the Recycler pipes and Runs-With-Scissors was set free. She soon found that attached to the ground was Spills-His-Inkβs final draft of the βcalligraphic experimental memoirβ he told everyone he was working on. They all thought he was just lazy, but now Runs-With-Scissors held the manuscript in her hand, and it was much more than a manuscript. It was a collection of all the roninβs knowledge about the eldritch nature of the Wal, and it was a guide to his esoteric way: The Way of the Million Folds.
Ever since then, Runs-With-Scissors has become infatuated with the mysteries of the great Wal and its interworkings. Taking up Origamiβs name, she has also taken it upon herself to finish the great guidebook βCodex OmniWalβ. Residing in the vents, Origami Runs-With-Scissors uses the overly-complex piping system to navigate the Wal and document her encounters while mapping the nigh endless maze.
RECEIPT
PERSONAL GOAL: Origami has taken up his mantle after her final encounter with Spills-His-Ink, aiming ultimately to complete the Codex OmniWal and uncover the complexβs Great Mysteries. It is not uncommon to see the enigmatic ronin frantically scribbling in her mystic guidebook. To unravel its grand plan and complete the instructions on βthe Wayβ is Origamiβs purpose. She also has a great penchant for collecting souvenirs of her journeys like a pack rat, which she stores in her impressive collections within the beastβs ventilation shafts for careful study and addition to the Codex.
REPUTE: Origami is generally unknown to the denizens of the Wal. While Runs-With-Scissors may be known to a select few Stationari in the shogunate involved in the execution of the KamiKami Clan, she has since become nothing more than a fly on the Wal. Those who have managed to glimpse the elusive Origami know little of her origins or motivations, though legends may circulate regarding a strange shoplifting ronin the roams the Wal with mysterious goals.
HEEL: βNo Thoughts Head Emptyβ Having very little formal education about the world, save for intensive training in her Arts and the knowledge pulled from the Codex OmniWal, Origami is extremely naive to the general order and structure of the world. While she is known to be extremely independent, that has left her with an extreme degree of naivety. She lacks a capacity to judge people accurately, and often takes things at surface-level. A woman of few words and many actions-per-second, Origami doesnβt strike anyone as the βthinking typeβ.
CODE: βDao of Walβ Guided by the esoteric doctrines penned by a lineage of outcast ronin, Origami follows the Way. In her complex, confusing (and perhaps contradicting) Way, the ronin covets harmonizing with Wal. To achieve perfect understanding of the Walβs machinations allows for perfection of the self. It is the ronin that accepts the Walβs chaos as the Way that can operate in complete unity and harmony with her environment. To achieve this, Origami aims to empty herself of βselfβ and exist only as the Way.
QUIRKS: βΊOrigami collects as many Crayola colors as possible. βΊDue to her excessive Art, Origami has a tendency to leave a trail of dropped, lost, or forgotten stationary wherever she goes. βΊOrigami often marks where sheβs been throughout the Wal by defacing it with whatever supplies she has on hand, often being various crayons. βΊOrigami is constantly taking down notes in her Codex, drawing maps of her surroundings, and sketching pictures when not occupied. This often draws her attention away from important things.
PERFORMANCE REVIEW
The Way of a Thousand Folds βΊ Guided by the ancient doctrines transcribed by Spills-His-Ink, Origami is a practitioner of The Way of a Thousand Folds. The martial virtue instilled in her by KamiKami and the Codex OmniWal have provided Origami with just the regimen to perfect her Arts and Crafts. Her speed with paper is immaculate, often producing deeply intricate folded works in the blink of an eye. Origamiβs use of papercraft provides the basis and majority of her arsenal and tricks. She relies on endless supplies of discarded stationary taken from wherever she can find it to fuel her craft.
Crouching Paper Tiger, Hidden Dragon βΊ Having lived her life as a ronin, Origami has spent an inordinate amount of time traversing the Walβs eldritch ventilation shafts, scavenging, and shoplifting to survive. To even stay alive, Origami has had to develop a honed sense of stealth, polished reflexes, and quick thinking skills. Moving through the Wal, evading potential dangers, infiltration, and exfiltration are all her specialty.
Journey to the Text βΊ Hidden within the Codex OmniWal is Spills-His-Inkβs collection of maps, techniques, and tactics for operating within the Wal. Because of her careful study of the text, Origami has a vast knowledge of many pieces of the Walβs layout and functions. She uses the Codexβs wisdom to exploit the Wal and use it to her advantage. An example of this would be her use of the ventilation and recycler shafts for traversal unnoticed. This is how she has evaded the Sec-Bots for so long.
Quick update as we near the end of this duo of prologue scenes. For those involved in [[[βπ ππ, πππππ π¨ βππ£ππ§ππ]]], we are going to finish up this massive collab and close that scene. Once Bork has dropped his final solo post for [[[π½ππ£π€π₯ ππππ₯π₯ππ£ππ πΎπππ€π€]]], he, Atrophy, Firecracker and I will throw together a final collab in the smoking aftermath.
Once both scenes have reached completion, I'm going to start work on the next array of scenes which will take place approximately 2-3 days from now (around 1-2 days before the Reclaim Zone debate takes place). I am planning on either 3 or 4 options for the players to flock to surrounding major events that will be going on around the Reclaim and providing some room for you guys to further sink your teeth into the various subplots that you are looking to pursue. While the details on these scenes aren't finalized, I'll likely have some information for you guys in the discord as requested, though I'm going to try and get the first scene posts up without too much spoiled.
"Producing and developing, Producing without possessing, Doing without presuming, growing without domineering: this is calledβ"
"Magic?" The enigmatic girl evoked a soft laugh through closed lips. For the briefest moment, those watching may have noticed the corners of her lips curl upwards. That straight stare remained, though, a different sort of complexity. "Noβ Lao Tzu preferred 'mysterious power', 'the constant', 'the Way'."
She brought her drink to her lips yet again, unmoving eyes frozen upon the girl who questioned her. Uncertainty, hesitation, confusion ran through all of them, and immediately some would let their minds become foggedβdrift into the irrational. Not her. "Take your pick, Zoey," she said, flicking a gaze towards the girl who had arrived second and already searched desperately for order in purgatory. The girl took another drink, then another, and another. She tried to tell herself it was to keep her mind clear.
More folks trickled in after that. First came a heavily-tattooed girl who was certainly underdressed for the weather, but then, werenβt they all? Next came someone, who by the girl had guessed, was mute due to her scrawled messages in place of any verbal correspondence. When the group started to exchange introductions and rattle off questions at one another, she dropped her hands back onto the bar, falling into a seat gently and silently atop the counter. She settled closer to the wall once Penny had moved behind the bar. Her intentions were unclear, but her demeanor was easy enough to spot. She was relaxed, but her back was judiciously kept away from the parade of strangers.
She wasnβt one to speak up when it wasnβt all that necessary, particularly when her newfound horde was busy interrogating one another. She did observe with an unscrupulous eye, perhaps for the briefest moment showing a glimpse of perplexion. They all talked so strangely, she thought. All suspicious and knowing. Of course, she wasnβt one to judge in that department. That was her whole deal, after all.
Having collected herself, posted upon the edge of the barβs roof, she traced the newcomer. An airport? The empty girl wondered just how empty a predicament sheβd found herself in. However unfortunately, these others were all close enough to make it a party. Purgatory, she thought, would have to wait. This limbo was still occupied. The newcomer seemed to know one of the others, which threw her off. It must have been a glitch in whatever simulation she found herself splayed in.
The more the world confounded around her, the more she tried to think back to that last moment. It had to be the pipe, the devilish nectar. Alas, no hallucination had ever reached her brain so vivid in its portrayal. She held her head in her hands and braced for a pain that never came. Unless she was still dosed, it couldnβt have been long since she vanished from the crumbling high rise in the night. She wasnβt really focusing on the gathering after that, but before long each individual started to file towards the bar and head inside. The night was nice, blanketed in that sort of midnight blue, but she hated the snow. It was the cold, she was sure to clarify to herself. To be alone in purgatory had nothing to do with it.
The girl stood and started to scour the roof for an entryway. Getting down was always harder than getting up. There was a hatch in the concrete, and she yanked it with vigorous fervor, making all sorts of racket in the process. Despite her frenzied pulls, however, there was certainly some sort of lock blocking her way. It was fine. She was fine. Taking the easy way was lame anyways. A second story balcony was easy enough to reach by lowering herself on the lip of the building, and from there, she ventured inside the unlocked door to seek out the company of strangers. How far sheβd come in mere minutesβ¦
She thumped down the stairwell and into the bar and passed another of the stranger along the way with little more than another weak salute. She paused for a long moment to survey the array of strangers and was sure to eye up each one of them. Each of them was plenty unique, but evoked no memories within her. The girl with the blue streak in her hair had already taken to raiding the bar, and the more she thought about it, the more she cared not for any purgatoryβs laws. Without words, she also carried herself behind the bar and ran a hand over the various bottles. There wasnβt anything authentic enough for her usual tastes, but she settled on a bottle of clear lychee liqueur and was fixing her own drink in no time. Drinking straight from the bottle was way too anti-aesthetic for her.
βMy deal?β She looked to the girl with the blue streak in her hair, who coincidentally was the only other of the condemned lot that went straight for the bottleβstraight pulls of vodka with no remorse. It almost made her cringe to watch, but there was a degree of respect to act, she supposed. Her poker-face remained. βI tried to launch myself into the void, but wound up here instead.β She looked around. βQuaintβ¦ Was expecting to be alone, too.β
βNever the matter. Welcome to purgatory, or stillness, or the constant. Whatever you'd like to call it.β She rose her glass up to the other girl who definitely didnβt have a problem in a far too dramatic gesture. It felt strange to reach the next stage, she thought. Alas, all she could do was remember her doctrines. The 'Climax of Emptiness', it seemed, would continue to elude her.
Smooth Caravan, Carry Me Awayβ¦ Let It Be, Just Maybe, The Final Time I Stray From the Pathβ¦ Silently, Let Me Fade... Carry Me Into Entropyβ¦ Into The Void... Into Emptinessβ¦
"The Girl Who Lost Herself in the Emptiness..."Is that what they would call her? She thought so... Maybe. She was never quite sure. That was part of Zen, right? It was a fitting time for it all to go downβstraying from the Way, a shell, a husk, an entity endlessly enraptured by her own emptiness but never quite achieving that blank state of immortality or whatever the hell it was. It was a fitting place for it, too. She was huddled up against herself, knees-to-chest, blanketed in the darkness but old yellow streetlights illuminated her from below. The skyscraper was in the center of downtown, just adjacent to the city hall building actually, but that didn't prevent its vacancy. She was invisible from below, a silhouette against the dark sky. It didn't matter. No one wandered the streets in the quiet night.
She sat in front of one of those tan and green tournament travel chess sets, having taken the time to set up the board completely before going back through her earlier game. It was just him and her in an empty corner of the deserted school library. "Outcast Club", they called themselves, but the university only saw Philosophy Club mentioned between the misfits. She stared at the board's final position. Open Sicillian, Accelerated Dragon, Exchange Variation. She sat in front of the black pieces. It was a game that weaved in and out of aggression and defense for both sides, but eventually, having castled opposite sides with pawns completely locked, they had to shatter the tension. It was move twenty-three. He played Knight F6 and she captured without calculating. She dropped a rook and the final bell rang, signifying the building's close right before she resigned.
It seemed petty, didn't it? Embracing the void over something so small. Was that what they would think of her? Was that what she'd be remembered for? She pushed the thoughts aside. Those truly following the Path won't let their heads be clouded by past actions, but damn, it was such a simple mistake. In the darkness, up above, all alone, she did calculate the best line with strained eyes. Seven moves ahead. It really was an impressive mental effort, at least for an amateur like her, but when she went to move her rook, the city's winds resigned for her. Her king toppled, slid from the board, and rolled along the rooftop to teeter at its edge. She just watched the little plastic piece rock, didn't scramble to reach it. She'd already lost interest in the board. It was a fitting way to finish up.
She reached for the ornate and long pipe just next to the board. It looked like it was liberated right out of some old ethnic antique store, and considering her locale, it probably was. It even came pre-locked and pre-loaded, though that was her doing. She knocked the top off, gazed into the glaze of the choice nectar of the Ancient Mariner, and flicked a match across the roofβs tarmac. Perhaps, she thought, sheβd see visions in the ice beyond too, come back with stories to tell and all that. There was no ice there, though. Only wind.
It was a perfectly fitting place, a perfectly fitting night, a perfectly fitting way.
The Way of Walking Alone
βΊ2, Do not scheme for physical pleasure.
βΊ3, Do not intend to rely on anything.
| | | | |
βΊ17, While on the Way, do not begrudge death.
βShinmen Musashi, one week before he perished.
She held a third breath of searing smoke in her lungs and forced herself to stand despite the feeling that her body and her senses were beginning to betray her. It only got worse when she was on her feet. Exhale, like a dragonβs breath. Then, she took another breath of pestilence. Her vision began to leave her, but she saw the edge. She dropped the pipe. Things went black. She heard the doppler wail of sirens, and she wasnβt sure if she was falling forwards, backwards, or into the emptiness...
It was the doppler that brought her back. Not an ambulance, but a familiar sound. The blackness retracted. Damn. One more bout. It doesnβt have to last. Get your knives out, And get up off the ground.
Turns out death wasnβt an endless black void. It was white, and cold. The wind sliced through her and made her shiver. She didnβt want to open her eyes, but once the gusts grabbed hold of her black cap, she shot after it. From her prone, aching position, the tips of her fingers barely grasped it in time as she nearly sent herself over the buildingβs edge. Her opposite hand felt the lip of the brick building cracking and she pulled back.
This wasnβt quite in the forecast. Perhaps it was the lack of light that assaulted her eyes, but her city didnβt look quite right. The derelict, it appeared, had transformed into a well-kept cityscape. She was still at the heart of the urban jungle, but there was no sign of its struggling beat. It wasβ¦
Emptyβ¦
The doppler caught her again. It carried shouts from far below, but their message was distorted by the monoliths off which it echoed and resonated. She looked around, the chess set was gone, but pressed into her palm was the wicked device that gave her lost time. She figured that this must have been what death was like. The city was nice. The Emptiness was satisfying.
The girl did her best to find her way down. It was strange, that place. She knew she shouldnβt have been so serene, but no matter what happened, she knew she wouldnβt turn back. The high riseβjust like the last one, she supposedβwas empty. It was a different kind of empty. No exposed wires on the ceiling, no worries of asbestos, no musty smell of water droplets forming puddles that hadnβt evaporated in years. Each floor was pristine, with its own array of shops or restaurants. With each stairwell she took, the whole place just felt more foreign. She started to hesitate about her plans.
She diverted herself on the second floor, stepping out onto a lower terrace to see if she could catch sight of the street-level wanderer. In a world of mystery, it was best to take things at a nice, cautious, slow pace. She stepped to the roofβs edge and tried to post herself up in a seated position. What she hadnβt accounted for was the overnight blizzard, or teleportation, or death, or whatever. Both of her arms shot back, and she barely caught herself from slipping off the building entirely. She dragged herself back into a cold seat, only hoping that the nearby wanderer, who had since been joined by another. The new one looked equally as confused, which eased the girlβs panic.
In her awkward position, she figured that silence was an admirable option. She certainly wasnβt hidingβnot after that near-fallβbut the two down below approached one another. They were going to talk, or fight, or something. Whatever it was, the girl could go from there. Any glances cast her way were met with her best attempt to keep cool in the confusion. She tapped the ridge of her open hand to her forehead in some sort of half-assed salute. When she did finally offer her own utterance, she spoke no louder than a normal conversation, almost muttering.
All eyes on her, Delilah was used to it. What she was not used to was being unable to fire off strings of 3-dimensional countermeasures to send any onlookers into a frenzy of blind, mind-wracking Flux panic. She took stock of the horde of bourgeoisie corpos staring back at her. Her eyes fluttered in and out of red-and-blue focus. Delilah could have almost sworn that the damned paper glasses were busted. She kept seeing glitches where everything appeared 2-D.
A series of taps made the Shaman blink a few times. Was she receiving a message?
Delilah half-jumped, half-stumbled back when the security guard entered her field of view, leaving her glasses a bit skewed on her face. She equipped two karate-chop formations on her hands.
βA panic?β Delilah repeated. βDisturbing of the peace?β She threw her arms up in defeat, or at least, she tried to. Her right arm got tangled up in her deckβs rigging and the cords ensnared her so she could hardly raise her hand above her head. βWoman, the Reclaim Zone is full of shadowy assassins and thereβs a mysterious hacker leaving art everywhere that only I can see because of my immense power.β
Delilah commenced battle with herself, attempting toβhowever dangerously, considering the whirring fans that signified her concealed kit was clearly runningβuntangle herself with aid of her teeth. Delilahβs new drinking partner took it upon herself to approach the situation, and Delilah inferred, help her battle the security woman. How wrong she was. The Anprims were busy cackling amongst themselves. Delilah could only figure that they were talking about vaccines or something. She didnβt care much. It took too much focus to try and maintain a deathly scowl on her face while she stared at Lott. It may have looked a bit more like she was having a stroke, but Delilah couldnβt see her own face. Not always.
βExcuse me, shill,β Delilah glared harder at Lott, and pointed a gun at her. Index and middle fingers extended, and thumb raised, Delilahβs threat was no idle threat. She meant business. βBut Iβve only been here for four minutes and twenty seconds, and if Councilman Samsara and I had actually been drunkenly wrestling, Iβd have killed him by now.β Delilah cleared her throat, gagged, and added, ββwith my bare hands.β
Samsara, who had been staring directly into the wall, trying to count the grains of degrading brick, turned back around when he heard his name. He couldnβt help but brush his shoulders off, straighten his posture, and wear that smirk that just screams βHustlerβ when he heard Delilah call him Councilman. He stepped back towards the room when he heard the mention of contraband but stopped in his tracks when he noticed Delilahβs βgunβ. He was either trying above all else to hold in a laugh or trying above all else not to shoot himself right there.
βAnd itβs not contraband unless you count all of the custom mods inside. Itβs very serious equipment. Iβm packing heat.β She really was. She could feel the overheating fans desperately whining with all their motors against her body. Delilahβs arm tensed and started shaking when she saw Lott wasnβt taking her threat seriously. Already, her newfound enemy was reading off a list of rules or something. βIβll show you.β
She dropped the gun and dramatically flicked her arms back to flutter her jacket in her best display of majesty. Suddenly, the idea came to her. The idea. Her greatest one yet, she was convinced. She grabbed a fistful of cords, tossing some aside and she tried to sort them with grandiose and unnecessary gestures while getting a running start towards the NTP candidate.
βSamsara,β she exclaimed. βCatch me. Iβm going in.β With that, Delilah stabbed the end of a jack into her neck, missing the first time but hitting her target on the second go. Immediately, Delilahβs entire body went limp, tangled in cords and heading for the floor. Samsara lunged forward and wrapped his arms around the flopping Delilah, if only to keep her jacket closed and cover the stencil of spray paint along the side of her now exposed cyberdeck that clearly read πΈ π πΈ π πΎ πΈ.
Delilahβs senses awakened and she was still in the room, but all her senses were damp. Few features of the suites were even left, leaving in their stead the black and white emptiness of the Labyrinth doing its best to simulate the environment while her deck strained to probe for more data to complete the picture. Delilah wormed around in the darkness. Something wasnβt quite right. She shouldnβt beβ¦ Feeling. Not here. There are no Feπliπππ€ in the Labyrinth. Particularly not an
π
π
πΌ
β
π
π
πΈ
π»
β πΈ β β π β πΌ π π
ππ ππππβ¦
And she felt invincible. Immediately jumping back to that day, lost in the Labyrinth. Happy. For the first time since the incident, she could remember it. It played back in her mind, every synapse repeating its exact duty to recreate the memory. She was working overseer stuff for Dexter Campbellβs Reclaim Zone Mayor campaign. She was talking to the Overdriver. She was managing the cameras. She was monitoring Campbellβs dialogue. She was everywhere at once, consciously-split, ripping at the seams, barely on the brink of breaking into a quadrillion pieces.
She was triangulating the street samuraiβs location. Overdriver lost his partner. Her brain was at its limits. Her overclocked deck was smoking back on the outside, burning hot against her thighs. Black lines started to cross each of her visions, like cracks in glass. Everything was splintering. Everything was in pain. Everything felt great. She was the queen of the high-speed digital seas. She was a beast. She wasnβt one of the many, she was the many. She pushed again and again. Another perspective exploded across the cracks. Another channel of perception. She couldnβt keep track of any of them, the cracks expanded. She was overcome with blackness, but not before she caught sight of that last zone of split-consciousness, in some strange, foreign place in the Labyrinth. She saw the tag, half-complete. Then something saw her. Her heart stopped.
Then the cartridge wore off. The bootleg juice was already millimeters from empty when Delilah jammed it in her neck. She was doing it again. Delilah found herself connected four perspectives. She couldnβt have been there more than a few seconds before the crash happened. She pulled back, feeling the heart palpitations even without any connection to her senses.
Outside the Labyrinthβback in that dreaded worldβthe population of the Central Square suites saw the four CCTV cameras mounted in the corners of the lobby spazz out, whirring and spinning around in circles like there was some sort of electronic earthquake. They were looking at nothing, just struggling to exist as they were viciously attacked by some evil cyber-witch, poor machines. After a few seconds, the cameras stopped. Samsara struggled to pulled Delilah up to a semi-upright position. Already, her face was flush red and feverish.
But she wasnβt quite finished. She still had vengeance to enact on the mean shill that didnβt even flinch when Delilah menaced her with a gun.
Lottβs phone was menaced next. Any Knights Enterprise code was suddenly replaced with a graphic that overtook all of the device's function. Its depiction was simple, bearing a sprite of red and blue glasses over a pink heart backdrop. Crossing the heart was a series of three converging heart monitor readouts. Each of them flatlined upon meeting one another. To menace her even further, the device started uncontrollably vibrating, like the something bad is definitely happening sort of vibrating. And then it all stopped.
Delilahβs eyes shot open and she clawed a weak arm up at her neck, content to let Samsara worry about holding her weight up.
βSamsara.β She gave a dramatic, but weak cough. βIβm having a heart attack.β Samsara tried his best to drop her, but she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down. All her battle-ready energy had left her unfortunately. She curled up against her bossβs leg.
βCall the police.β βWait no. Not them.β βCall someone. Not the police. Maybe the army.β βA foreign army.β βA foreign impartial army.β "Or the navy."
Ohhhh no. Not again. Hustle sister, shit is rough. Itβs dangerous. Cumbersome. Another oneβ Another thunderous moment is coming up. Run.
Iβve seen it before. I wasnβt one of those that wept. I saw it, inflicted with a twisted, different, wicked curiosity. You see it as a speckβa seedβa little piece of the void peeking into this reality with its threats. Itβs like an embryo of chaos. I call it The Vortex.
Spiralling. Spiralling. That sort of thing, itβs infectious, relegating any safe environment instead to a place of dangerous intent. Alsoβitβs odd. Itβs odd how often you find that the loss of total controlβthe spiralβemerges from this worldβs most ordered elements. Itβs like finding death at the site of a resurrection. I saw it first hidden in infrastructure, coming forth, evoked from the crumbling crevices. Even in space, there is decay. You canβt avoid The Vortex. Everyone has their day.
I didnβt think Iβd find it in my safest place. Right there in the walls. I thought I was safe, that I could escape the chaos. Nay. It came. But instead of fleeing, I embraced it, And there was never again a place where it could get the jump on me.
S A V E Y O U R B R A I N πΈ π π π π π π πΈ π πΌ
βNonono! Do not touch the console yet. We barely use it unless bossman gives us the go ahead to go full entropy-mode during parties. The type of events where he gets enough money to redo the entire joint.β
βWhat does it do?β
βOh sweetieβ¦ Letβs wait for tonight. Trust me.β
βItβs the ventilation unit, Stell. Ever think about that?β He stumbled forward, both hands pressing desperately into the counter. His world was turning in circles, but he was glued to the floor. His expanding pupils were concealed behind mirrorshades, but Stella could still see themβstare into their depthsβsomehow. βItβs a biosphereβ¦ βBiosphereβ. Closed system and all that. All recycled.β
The world tilted 45 degrees. He was leaning no longer on the counter, hands instead pressed against the lip of the open ventilation shaft. Like a dragon spitting flames, he exhaled long and loud into the mystery shaft. βA biosphere. All the microbes, germs, viruses, grime, and infectious particles. All of them, all the time, dispersed and shared by everyone lost in Limbo.β
βLike communismβ¦β
βCommunist Bio-warfareβ¦β
The vent teleported to Stella, or she teleported to the vent. Her colleagues' eyes watched on in amazement. They saw it too. They wereβ
βLike a collective...β
She smiled, or her face was a mask showing teeth. She levitated her wrist to the vent, bent the wrist back. They watched. They couldnβt stop her. Time itself stopped. Who commands the magic of passing seconds save for chaosβMister Vortex? The way she cocked her wrist, it sounded like a shotgun. Then, Dust. It puffed forth, fluttering unto the mystery tube aloft into the ether, or wherever any such God of Chaos might send it offβ¦
She forgot to stop. Didnβt. Not until both her chambers were empty. Her new Mixologist friends were amazed, mouths agape.
Reality skipped. Everyone came back. He started rushing out towards the dance floor. Stella was frozen. There was a beat, then the conversation played in reverse.
βLike a collective...β βCommunist Bio-warfareβ¦β βOhhhhhβ Itβs a celebration.β
The air was an amorphous aqueous purple sludge, she might have thought, but she didnβt have thoughts. The only places that were safe were occupied by tightly-packed people with bank accounts that looked like fake numbers. The Bohemians. People who shouldnβt exist, but because they did, they knew they were the only ones that mattered. A mass of πΎπ£πππ₯ intellect, πΎπ£πππ₯ power, but now they were just amoeba, worming their way through a place that didnβt exist. A place in Limbo, and it was full of purple sludge.
Calculate.
Maybe thatβs what she was thinking, but she knew that wasnβt true. That was automatic, a reaction of the eyes and arms and heart and soul. The real calculations were in the back, each Mixologist inputted their planned commands before the air, the Limbo took hold. From there, what happened was like magic. It was out of their control. They were programmed, only expecting a thousand bugs and interruptions based on the wills of their loyal customers. Bohemia. Bohemians. Welcome to Limbo. A place where the air itself sparkles with magic.
βHold upββ He could hardly get a word in. βI think my legββ His dancing partner, a Korean idol magnate that had been controlling the game for at least half a century had him pressed against the wall. He wasnβt complaining. After all, she didnβt look a day older than her manufacture date. It wasnβt love, but something ravenous, the actions of an animal in captivity freed only in the land of Bohemia. He couldnβt resist either way. The 13th Saudi Hyperprince had jammed a sword through his calf earlier. It was still there, lodged in place. He didnβt really feel it.
Calculate. No. That wasnβt it. It wasnβt calculations thatβd save the day. Let the programmed commands guide the way. She just had to ride the wave.
It was damn near levitation the way she surfed across the dancefloor. The ceiling mounted vodka dispenser was on full blast, angled 15 degrees from its perpendicular point with the ground and sailing across the ceiling on its own programmed line. It blasted a stream powerful enough to form its own small river, formed approximately 41 milliseconds behind Stellaβs surfing tray that sailed her across the dancefloor. She dismounted at her exact destination, spread her arms wide with a glass in each hand. Another two dispensers fired off a full pour of pre-mixed cocktails just on target. One for each of the twin heads of the family that own the Japan Rail zaibatsu.
She rode the Vortexβor maybe succumbed to it was a better word. She couldnβt know. She couldnβt think. She could just spin and spin, a human spider serving sickly smooth spirits to the shadow demons. She gathered a tray and several glasses, somehow unbroken, and the game began again. Vodka and absinthe falling from the ceiling in torrents. The kickback of her wrist shot flames this time to ignite the trace poisons in the air while the second layer settled nicely into the glass for a very aesthetically pleasing, Bohemian cocktail.
It wasnβt long after the esoteric stone statue was wheeled into the center of the dancefloor before it was toppled over and cracked in half. Stellaβs colleagues were uncannily reunited as the idol nearly took a hit. From atop the statue and pressed against the wall, two red-strings were reunited by none other than fate in the Vortex. They knew it probably wouldnβt happen again before Bohemia ended.
βYou have a sword in your leg.β
βThat explains a lot.β He slumped down onto an upturned table that had somehow been ripped from its bolts and thrown into the wall. She joined him. βIf I leave it there, and he forgets about it, I probably get to keep it.β
βHow do you think Stellaβs doing at her first Bohemia?β She tossed her glasses off and into the Vortex, looking towards their newest partner. βSheβs a machine.β
βSheβs definitely enjoying herself. Still working, right in the center of the horde, unscathed, dangerous, dusted. Thatβs bad.β
βSheβs got the make of an Ultrabartender for sure.β
In the Vortex, a dangerous place accepted as little more than fateβthatβs when you see its meaning in the game, and thatβs what she learned that day. When youβre in the midst of the maelstrom, you engage it. Lost in the chaos, pop off.
Sheβd seen into the spirals, and once youβve looked within, it never leaves you. Youβre just left, lying dormant untilβ
βit came back, and she acted like magic. Two objectives solidified in Stellaβs head, and then she was readied, prepped, calculated, awaiting to begin the πΎπππ. She didnβt think of her plan. It kind of just appeared in her head what felt like seconds before her shit got rocked. After the catalyst, it was all immediate action.
Oh god, she thought. The guy was fighting himself. One sushi-driver slammed the otherβs head into the bar with the force only found in some mutant cybernetic hand. The table rattled and their drinks jumped a few millimeters into the air. Stella watched the lemonade mixture tilt and tap the counter, teetering too farβjust a tad. Then it was in the air, heading to the floor fast.
Ultrabartender senses sounded the alarms with a series of synaptic zaps at the moment of the impact. That was the call to action! The Vortex suddenly attacked, Timed to the rhythm of the beat of the
[[[π½ππ£π€π₯
ππππ₯π₯ππ£ππ
πΎπππ€π€β¦]]]
Then came the crash. Stellaβs optics took note of the pressure changes, the first bottles flung from the wall, the shockwave before she could even see what happened. She knew the wave was coming. It was the same feeling as Bohemiaβjust behind her, and it was time to ride the wave.
Her legs were like springs and her hands were the needles there to guide the thread. Stella threw herself into a somersault over the bar catching sight of her beautiful, beautiful stock, for just a moment cascading across the air in the cacophony. All of the pristine bottles lostβ¦ Or maybe not. Her optics crossed, each tracking a bottle on the side of their opposite. A handle of overproof rum and a handle of classic Jack Daniels, so perfect. She couldnβt let them die, she thought, not even if all of π½Duatπ½ dropped. When she landed, her cybernetics acted without her, and the bottles joined her hands.
The car busted straight through the bar and the counterβs contents became a mosaic of sharp shards carried by the wave over any and all patrons. It plowed straight into Goon #2 and flattened one of the dancefloorβs zombies in the process. Goon #1 drew his concealed handgun the moment he recovered from the blastback. Stella didnβt know why he aimed it at her, but it didnβt matter. Goon #2 was the competent one. What was one more shatter in the massive mess?
A handle of Jack Daniels had the sort of shape that made her wonder if the manufacturers had expected it to be the bar-breakerβs weapon of choice. It was a heavy bludgeon long enough to shatter into a shiv, so that was just what Stella did. She smashed the bottle through the Goonβs gun and sent his shot rocketing off into the ether. The splash of whiskey was inevitable, and it seared his eyes. Stella was used to the smell, the taste, the feeling. In Bohemia, in the Vortex, to the Ultrabartender, the sting of whiskey was indistinguishable from pure oxygen.
Stella had plenty of adversaries. No enemies. An enemy implied that they could ruffle you, or something like that. She was un-ruffleable, but the adversary that came closest was the car, and whoever or whatever was operating it. There was something she couldnβt escape, though. Was that what fear was? Some unescapable bubbling sense of π½π¦π₯ππππ₯πͺ, inevitability, anxiety that wrenched at your internal organs with an eight-fingered hand, which you look down to see, despite the pain, and it turns out to be your own hand?
Kelvin didnβt even try to run out. Most of π½Duatπ½βs patrons hadnβt bothered. They made it, but their βurgencyβ was more of a zombie-shuffle to the skipping music, now accompanied by the orchestra of the Vortex, but his bum leg made him slow to escape. Stella grabbed his hand and dragged him towards the front exit, but she wasnβt quite done. She had to keep her focus split on all the adversaries invading her bar and ruining its long-term-cultivated chill vibe.
One of the clones stepped inside the car. Stella stared him down with dead π½Duatπ½ eyes. After she gave him and his other self a free drink, this was what happened. She took a few steps over the dancefloor, calculating, but her eyes were locked on the helmeted soulless disaster behind his tinted windshield. Each step cracked and crinkled with broken glass. Two free drinks, and where did the clone drones go with them? The four-thousandth shattered glass, she thought. What was two more?
It took a lot of time to hang a neon-infused, glowing, golden disco ballβnot long to take it down. It was a well-placed half-handle of Jack. Thatβs all it takes. Her aim never wavered, but one on-target shot wasnβt enough. She spoke up, watching the bottles cascade through the air. She knew the arc was perfect, so she didnβt stay to watch.
βOne more drink on the house. Overproof Rumβ for the road.β
The disco ball cracked, sent sparks streaming out of it like fireworks as gravity took the wheel. It met the rum right on target. The ball of flame flared up right over the driverβs windshield. The Land of the Dead became a momentary fireball.
Stella glanced back only once, letting her optics bathe in the light of the flash and her hair ruffle in the wave of the bang. A sliver of glass clipped her temple and left a blood gash that spread a swathe of red down the side of her face. She held a metallic briefcase in her hand.
Youβve been served.β Any last sight of Stella from the interior would catch a glimpse of one of π½π»π¦ππ₯π½βs eye-like signs crashing down and igniting yet another fire. The sign still glimmered as it sparked up another fire.
[h2][color=#008B00]<<<βπΌπππ ππβππ»...>>>[/color][/h2]
[color=#008B00]>>>πΈπ£π₯πππππππ πππ₯πππππππππ ππππ₯: πββππππππβ
>>>
>>> "π ππ π ππ ππ‘π¦π₯ππ£"
>[/color]
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.
[h2][color=#008B00]<<<βπ¦π£π£πππ₯ βπ πππ‘πππͺπ€...>>>[/color][/h2]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/167756-the-last-embers-dark-steampunk-fantasy-closed/ic]The Last Embers[/url] --- Tatiana Leviatan : The Black Shepherd Summoner
[hr][hr]
[center][h1][color=#44F03E]π½[/color][color=#42E93C]π¦[/color][color=#40E33A]π₯[/color][color=#3EDD39]π[/color][color=#3DD737]π[/color][color=#3BD136]π[/color][color=#39CB34]π₯[/color][color=#38C532]πͺ[/color][color=#36BF31]:[/color] [color=#32B32E]π[/color][color=#31AD2C]π[/color][color=#2FA62A]π[/color] [color=#2C9A27]πΎ[/color][color=#2A9426]π£[/color][color=#288E24]π[/color][color=#268823]π[/color][color=#258221]t[/color] [color=#21761E]πΎ[/color][color=#20701C]π[/color][color=#1E6A1B]π[/color][color=#1C6419]π[/color][/h1][/center]
[center][color=008000][b][i]Dare you stand against Titans in a Great Game?[/i][/b][/color]
[color=008000][b]Enter the πΎπππ. [url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/180490-cyberpunk-political-intrig/ic]Move your piece[/url][/b][/color][/center]
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;"><div class="bb-h2"><font color="#008b00"><<<βπΌπππ ππβππ»...>>></font></div><br><font color="#008b00"><span class="bb-greentext">>>>πΈπ£π₯πππππππ πππ₯πππππππππ ππππ₯:	πββππππππβ</span><br><span class="bb-greentext">>>></span><br><span class="bb-greentext">>>> "π ππ π ππ ππ‘π¦π₯ππ£"</span><br><span class="bb-greentext">></font></span><br><br>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. <br><br>Contact me on Discord at Opposition#4407.<br><br><div class="bb-h2"><font color="#008b00"><<<βπ¦π£π£πππ₯ βπ πππ‘πππͺπ€...>>></font></div><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/167756-the-last-embers-dark-steampunk-fantasy-closed/ic">The Last Embers</a> --- Tatiana Leviatan : The Black Shepherd Summoner<br><hr class="bb-hr"><hr class="bb-hr"><br><br><div class="bb-center"><div class="bb-h1"><font color="#44f03e">π½</font><font color="#42e93c">π¦</font><font color="#40e33a">π₯</font><font color="#3edd39">π</font><font color="#3dd737">π</font><font color="#3bd136">π</font><font color="#39cb34">π₯</font><font color="#38c532">πͺ</font><font color="#36bf31">:</font> <font color="#32b32e">π</font><font color="#31ad2c">π</font><font color="#2fa62a">π</font> <font color="#2c9a27">πΎ</font><font color="#2a9426">π£</font><font color="#288e24">π</font><font color="#268823">π</font><font color="#258221">t</font> <font color="#21761e">πΎ</font><font color="#20701c">π</font><font color="#1e6a1b">π</font><font color="#1c6419">π</font></div></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><font color="#008000"><span class="bb-b"><span class="bb-i">Dare you stand against Titans in a Great Game?</span></span></font><br><font color="#008000"><span class="bb-b">Enter the πΎπππ. <a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/180490-cyberpunk-political-intrig/ic">Move your piece</a></span></font></div><br></div>
Creative Chaos
NoriWasHere
Atrophy
