@User Yesterday was Thanksgiving guys. Things will probably pick up soon when everyone is back from Black Friday shopping and awaking from food comas.
SuperTacticalDerp Member
The New Monarch
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- SuperTacticalDerp 10 yrs ago
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@Undine Ok awesome. I already have a character already in mind for this then.
Interested! Any idea what kind of film we will be making? Something Oscar-bait-ish, a big Hollywood blockbuster, or etc.?
Arnold's eyes shot open as he awoke, slumped over in his first-class seat. His head ached like someone had beaten him without mercy, and his eyes mourned the darkness of sleep. Even in his not so modest accommodations, (sponsored by his now voided company credit-chip,) spaceflight still ripped through his very essence and nearly tore him to shreds.
Arnold was finally here, "Tsiolkovsky Station". Some nowhere station in the middle of nowhere space. The Mining Authority needed a new Foreman here, so instead of sending a capable veteran of actual mining...they sent a glorified businessman. Arnold was not pleased when he got the news.
Arnold collected himself from his seat and grabbing his suitcase and his arm, (damn stewardess made him put it in the overhead bin because "it could be a distraction to other passengers"). He was one of the first to exit the shuttle, a much better deal then sitting all the way back in Economy-Class waiting half an hour.
The station itself wasn't as horrible as he expected, but he wholly felt overdressed as he passed miners and space-folk alike. As he walked, Arnold popped in his prosthetic like he was slipping on a large metal glove. The device latched onto his arm and twitched into life, flexing every servo and joint to make sure nothing was damaged in the flight. He cracked his knuckles loudly as he joined his two hands together, ready to deal with whatever came his way.
Arnold stepped up to Bay One, hoping to learn how he could retrieve his things. He swiftly learned that he need to go to Bay Six by a fifty-year old cow of a woman and that he need to talk to the "MA representative." He sighed, pushing of the woman's desk and walked all the way over to Bay Six were a younger sweaty gentleman sat staring into his terminal monitor.
"Excuse me," Arnold greeted with the voice of an executive, "I'm from the Mining Authority and I'm trying to get ahold of my things. I've been transferred from Mars." The kid's eyes bolted up to Arnold, red with blood and cloudy with exhaustion.
"Oh thank god you're here!," the rep comment as he wiped sweat of his forehead. "I've had different managers and people off-station contacting me all day making sure you got here on time. I've never been this worry about my job in my life! When do you get here?" Arnold looked around, puzzled by the reps crazed behavior and held back a mild chuckle.
"Look, I just got here..."
"Good! Good, ok. Look here's a key for a room at the Asimov. Not the best place on the station but it's cheap. Your apartment is undergoing sanitation right now after the...uh...loss of the former Foreman. Your first day is tomorrow, seven A.M. station time."
"I'm taking the guy's place too?"
"Yes! What are you stupid?" The kid's eyes grew wide, realizing what he had just said. "Sorry, sorry! Too much pressure for one day. So sorry!"
Arnold took the key and raised his hands up, throwing an uneasy smile as he backed away from the rep. "It's fine kid," he lied as he backed away more and headed towards the Civilian Deck. Goddamn freakshow, he thought to himself.
After a short lift ride to the Promenade, Arnold was on his way to the Asimov. The walk there was nice, with a fountain that almost looked like a cheap knock-off of the one back in Eos Central and some clocks that displayed the time to places no one probably cared about. A gentle mix of humans and varied alien-folk made up the majority of the people ahead of him, either giving him a strangle look for wearing a nice designer suit or his obviously mechanical arm. People preached unbiased respect for all, but put a guy with a robot arm in the room and people gets jumpy. At the moment the only thing Arnold wanted most was something so strong and vile that he'd forget the last forty-eight hours. That or some coffee. Maybe both?
The entrance of the Asimov just smelt old fashion, designed to look like the type of place grandfather's grandfathers drank at and played pool. Too no ones surprise, it had an actual pool table. Along with that, a godforsaken jukebox sat in the corner pristine like they day it was manufactured. Arnold snickered to himself, amazed at the ends people would go for a classics vibe on a space station thousands of lightyears away from Sol. He took a seat up the the bar, dropped his newly acquired key and a wad of Terran currency. His tab for the night.
He looked around and noticed the mustachioed barkeep, a reptilian Jekult, some other guy with an empty beer, and a cute red-head. Arnold would probably send her a drink later if she wasn't preoccupied. Nice to see that this station wouldn't just be a sausage-fest of miners.
Arnold was finally here, "Tsiolkovsky Station". Some nowhere station in the middle of nowhere space. The Mining Authority needed a new Foreman here, so instead of sending a capable veteran of actual mining...they sent a glorified businessman. Arnold was not pleased when he got the news.
Arnold collected himself from his seat and grabbing his suitcase and his arm, (damn stewardess made him put it in the overhead bin because "it could be a distraction to other passengers"). He was one of the first to exit the shuttle, a much better deal then sitting all the way back in Economy-Class waiting half an hour.
The station itself wasn't as horrible as he expected, but he wholly felt overdressed as he passed miners and space-folk alike. As he walked, Arnold popped in his prosthetic like he was slipping on a large metal glove. The device latched onto his arm and twitched into life, flexing every servo and joint to make sure nothing was damaged in the flight. He cracked his knuckles loudly as he joined his two hands together, ready to deal with whatever came his way.
Arnold stepped up to Bay One, hoping to learn how he could retrieve his things. He swiftly learned that he need to go to Bay Six by a fifty-year old cow of a woman and that he need to talk to the "MA representative." He sighed, pushing of the woman's desk and walked all the way over to Bay Six were a younger sweaty gentleman sat staring into his terminal monitor.
"Excuse me," Arnold greeted with the voice of an executive, "I'm from the Mining Authority and I'm trying to get ahold of my things. I've been transferred from Mars." The kid's eyes bolted up to Arnold, red with blood and cloudy with exhaustion.
"Oh thank god you're here!," the rep comment as he wiped sweat of his forehead. "I've had different managers and people off-station contacting me all day making sure you got here on time. I've never been this worry about my job in my life! When do you get here?" Arnold looked around, puzzled by the reps crazed behavior and held back a mild chuckle.
"Look, I just got here..."
"Good! Good, ok. Look here's a key for a room at the Asimov. Not the best place on the station but it's cheap. Your apartment is undergoing sanitation right now after the...uh...loss of the former Foreman. Your first day is tomorrow, seven A.M. station time."
"I'm taking the guy's place too?"
"Yes! What are you stupid?" The kid's eyes grew wide, realizing what he had just said. "Sorry, sorry! Too much pressure for one day. So sorry!"
Arnold took the key and raised his hands up, throwing an uneasy smile as he backed away from the rep. "It's fine kid," he lied as he backed away more and headed towards the Civilian Deck. Goddamn freakshow, he thought to himself.
After a short lift ride to the Promenade, Arnold was on his way to the Asimov. The walk there was nice, with a fountain that almost looked like a cheap knock-off of the one back in Eos Central and some clocks that displayed the time to places no one probably cared about. A gentle mix of humans and varied alien-folk made up the majority of the people ahead of him, either giving him a strangle look for wearing a nice designer suit or his obviously mechanical arm. People preached unbiased respect for all, but put a guy with a robot arm in the room and people gets jumpy. At the moment the only thing Arnold wanted most was something so strong and vile that he'd forget the last forty-eight hours. That or some coffee. Maybe both?
The entrance of the Asimov just smelt old fashion, designed to look like the type of place grandfather's grandfathers drank at and played pool. Too no ones surprise, it had an actual pool table. Along with that, a godforsaken jukebox sat in the corner pristine like they day it was manufactured. Arnold snickered to himself, amazed at the ends people would go for a classics vibe on a space station thousands of lightyears away from Sol. He took a seat up the the bar, dropped his newly acquired key and a wad of Terran currency. His tab for the night.
He looked around and noticed the mustachioed barkeep, a reptilian Jekult, some other guy with an empty beer, and a cute red-head. Arnold would probably send her a drink later if she wasn't preoccupied. Nice to see that this station wouldn't just be a sausage-fest of miners.
Name: Arnold Kent
Race: Human
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Appearance:
Personality:
- Charismatic.
- Business savvy.
- Womanizer.
- Cheap Bastard.
- Occasional Drunk.
- Ruthless (If necessary.)
Skills:
- Genius Businessman.
- Military Training as an Intelligence Operative.
- Years of climbing up the ranks of the Mining Authority.
- Information gathering.
Reason for Visit: Corporate transfer from Mars due lose of former Foreman to "airlock failure." Not the promotion he was hoping for, but beggars can't be choosers.
Bio: Born and raised on the now terraformed Mars under two wealthy parents working for the Mining Authority. Young Arnold hated the idea of working under the corporate thrall of Mining Authority and his parents. Joined the Terran military as soon as he could, hoping to escape from Mars and his family's hold.
Picked up some business skills from his parents and found that he had a knack for negotiations and intelligence gathering. Was promoted to Intelligence Officer after further training and months on the ground working with military police. Only served a few years before his accident, an explosion of enemy fire during a negotiation gone south that cost many lives and Arnold's arm. Was honorably discharged and was given a PNP/1 Artificial Arm and Hand so he could go back to a normal life.
With no other options left Arnold began working for the Mining Authority back on Mars without his families knowing. Started from a crappy desk job to nearly becoming a Senior Operations Manager, but sadly due to the lose of Tsiolkovsky Station's Forman Arnold was unceremoniously transferred and denied any chance of moving any further within the company. Livid at his sour luck, Arnold only hopes that this new job pays well and those nearest bar on station has enough booze to deal with his misery.
Equipment:
- PNP/1 Artificial Arm and Hand: Standard issue prosthetic for soldiers and operatives injured in the line of duty. Made entirely of space-age metals and connected to the wearer's nervous system.
- One suitcase: Clothing, business shoes, personal smart-tablet.
- One container: Several designer business suits.
Position applying for: "I'm not applying for anything here you stupid piece of [REDACTED]! I'm [REDACTED] replacing the [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] Forman! Were the [REDACTED] is the Cargo Hold and were the [REDACTED] is the bar!"
Race: Human
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Appearance:
Personality:
- Charismatic.
- Business savvy.
- Womanizer.
- Cheap Bastard.
- Occasional Drunk.
- Ruthless (If necessary.)
Skills:
- Genius Businessman.
- Military Training as an Intelligence Operative.
- Years of climbing up the ranks of the Mining Authority.
- Information gathering.
Reason for Visit: Corporate transfer from Mars due lose of former Foreman to "airlock failure." Not the promotion he was hoping for, but beggars can't be choosers.
Bio: Born and raised on the now terraformed Mars under two wealthy parents working for the Mining Authority. Young Arnold hated the idea of working under the corporate thrall of Mining Authority and his parents. Joined the Terran military as soon as he could, hoping to escape from Mars and his family's hold.
Picked up some business skills from his parents and found that he had a knack for negotiations and intelligence gathering. Was promoted to Intelligence Officer after further training and months on the ground working with military police. Only served a few years before his accident, an explosion of enemy fire during a negotiation gone south that cost many lives and Arnold's arm. Was honorably discharged and was given a PNP/1 Artificial Arm and Hand so he could go back to a normal life.
With no other options left Arnold began working for the Mining Authority back on Mars without his families knowing. Started from a crappy desk job to nearly becoming a Senior Operations Manager, but sadly due to the lose of Tsiolkovsky Station's Forman Arnold was unceremoniously transferred and denied any chance of moving any further within the company. Livid at his sour luck, Arnold only hopes that this new job pays well and those nearest bar on station has enough booze to deal with his misery.
Equipment:
- PNP/1 Artificial Arm and Hand: Standard issue prosthetic for soldiers and operatives injured in the line of duty. Made entirely of space-age metals and connected to the wearer's nervous system.
- One suitcase: Clothing, business shoes, personal smart-tablet.
- One container: Several designer business suits.
Position applying for: "I'm not applying for anything here you stupid piece of [REDACTED]! I'm [REDACTED] replacing the [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED] Forman! Were the [REDACTED] is the Cargo Hold and were the [REDACTED] is the bar!"
Hey, this looks very promising. Working on a cs now.
Hey, just wanted to post here and apologize for running off so long ago. Things were looking down for me a few months ago and I probably should of at least talked to you guys about leaving the RP. Hopefully you guys can forgive me, but I honestly understand if you're pissed, lol.
I'm interested! Are we allowed to play as non-humans?
Rain poured through his form as he floated through Nueva York, along with a heavy breeze that seems to rip through city like the claws of a twisted beast. Ghost could almost never get over this feeling, something close to omnipotence or death as he hovered above the dirty streets and watched flying vehicles blaze through the downpour. He truly was a ghost, and he was happy to haunt this city's rich and corrupt.
After much travel, he'd finally made it back to his headquarters of operation. The former Baxter Building, a relic of years far gone by now as a authentic fixture of old "New York City" life reduced to tenements and weight-bearering for fat corporate dogs. Ghost dropped altitude and landed inside the building's empty main lobby, a dirt ridden hole of neglect and poverty. He looked around, imagining this filth infested structure as it must of been at one time.
He sighed. There was no time for good thoughts these days. Ghost when intangible again, dropping through the floor and landed inside his true lair. Formally a fallout shelter built during the fifties and sixties that luckily never made it into the building blueprints, Cold War paranoid made for the perfect hiding place for a crazed corporate saboteur. He'd installed maybe the best of the best in network security here, making his actions almost impossible to trace and very good at leaving his attackers with parasites and infestations that would rip their own systems apart.
But, to Ghost's dismay, not of those counter actions activated during his...well...business dealing with the Pyms. Almost every single one of his firewalls were down, each laced with passcodes and authorizations long enough to wrap around the world in triplicate. He swiftly floated over to his terminal, pulling up the newly aquired data-keys and check to see what "Janet" had gotten into during their little skirmish. In the most part everything looks untouched, expect an outside trace that was visible and very apparent as her doing.
Ghost grumbled, removing any hint of her trace with lightning fast fingers sprawled across his terminal's keyboard like a spider constructing it's web. Within seconds the trace was gone, but if she was smart she would already know exactly where he was. He distinctly remembered her bringing up something about burning his servers down. He growled and mumbled a little more to himself, beginning the process of recoding and resetting all of his firewalls with new protections hopefully strong enough to withstand another attack.
But how do you fortify yourself against a highly intelligent machine? "Janet" was smart, or at least connected to the web to access needed information. She had displayed that with her little demonstration. She also had a built-in holo projector, the abilities to mentally invade his mind with touch, and had access to her "father's" Pym Particles.
Silently, Ghost began pulling up different government sources and investigating the name "Janet Pym". By all accounts, everything was there. Birth records, etc. etc. etc.. But he knew something was off. He could see it just by looking at her, and the Pym relation was too much not to ignore. The Ultrons and by extension Vision, Jocasta, and the lesser known Alkhema.
There were also multiple etceteras in that mechanical family tree too, but Ghost caught himself in his thoughts. Why did he care so much? He moved away from the terminal, pacing in the dark metallic room. Was the idea of just another secret to crack distracting him from his real intentions. Yes, to uncover a Pym Family plot did sound enjoyable at first...but in honesty it didn't really solve anything.
Ghost sat back down to the terminal, reopening the file with the data-keys and just stared at them for a while. This is what he should be focusing on, not some legacy family conspiracy. He opened up a data-splicer, copying the data-keys nearly a thousand times so that he could flay and experiment with every line of code he could. He need to understand every line locked away, and it would probably take all night.
Slowly, Ghost moved to remove his hood and revealed his full helmet. It was something close to an old gas-mask fused into a human skull with eyes of pure white LED, bleach to a stark white. After unclamping some harnesses, he popped his helmet off to reveal...another mask. A white balaclava, drenched in sweat only revealing his bloodshot blue eyes as he continued investigating the keys. It felt strange feeling air touch his eyes again as he worked.
After much travel, he'd finally made it back to his headquarters of operation. The former Baxter Building, a relic of years far gone by now as a authentic fixture of old "New York City" life reduced to tenements and weight-bearering for fat corporate dogs. Ghost dropped altitude and landed inside the building's empty main lobby, a dirt ridden hole of neglect and poverty. He looked around, imagining this filth infested structure as it must of been at one time.
He sighed. There was no time for good thoughts these days. Ghost when intangible again, dropping through the floor and landed inside his true lair. Formally a fallout shelter built during the fifties and sixties that luckily never made it into the building blueprints, Cold War paranoid made for the perfect hiding place for a crazed corporate saboteur. He'd installed maybe the best of the best in network security here, making his actions almost impossible to trace and very good at leaving his attackers with parasites and infestations that would rip their own systems apart.
But, to Ghost's dismay, not of those counter actions activated during his...well...business dealing with the Pyms. Almost every single one of his firewalls were down, each laced with passcodes and authorizations long enough to wrap around the world in triplicate. He swiftly floated over to his terminal, pulling up the newly aquired data-keys and check to see what "Janet" had gotten into during their little skirmish. In the most part everything looks untouched, expect an outside trace that was visible and very apparent as her doing.
Ghost grumbled, removing any hint of her trace with lightning fast fingers sprawled across his terminal's keyboard like a spider constructing it's web. Within seconds the trace was gone, but if she was smart she would already know exactly where he was. He distinctly remembered her bringing up something about burning his servers down. He growled and mumbled a little more to himself, beginning the process of recoding and resetting all of his firewalls with new protections hopefully strong enough to withstand another attack.
But how do you fortify yourself against a highly intelligent machine? "Janet" was smart, or at least connected to the web to access needed information. She had displayed that with her little demonstration. She also had a built-in holo projector, the abilities to mentally invade his mind with touch, and had access to her "father's" Pym Particles.
Silently, Ghost began pulling up different government sources and investigating the name "Janet Pym". By all accounts, everything was there. Birth records, etc. etc. etc.. But he knew something was off. He could see it just by looking at her, and the Pym relation was too much not to ignore. The Ultrons and by extension Vision, Jocasta, and the lesser known Alkhema.
There were also multiple etceteras in that mechanical family tree too, but Ghost caught himself in his thoughts. Why did he care so much? He moved away from the terminal, pacing in the dark metallic room. Was the idea of just another secret to crack distracting him from his real intentions. Yes, to uncover a Pym Family plot did sound enjoyable at first...but in honesty it didn't really solve anything.
Ghost sat back down to the terminal, reopening the file with the data-keys and just stared at them for a while. This is what he should be focusing on, not some legacy family conspiracy. He opened up a data-splicer, copying the data-keys nearly a thousand times so that he could flay and experiment with every line of code he could. He need to understand every line locked away, and it would probably take all night.
Slowly, Ghost moved to remove his hood and revealed his full helmet. It was something close to an old gas-mask fused into a human skull with eyes of pure white LED, bleach to a stark white. After unclamping some harnesses, he popped his helmet off to reveal...another mask. A white balaclava, drenched in sweat only revealing his bloodshot blue eyes as he continued investigating the keys. It felt strange feeling air touch his eyes again as he worked.
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