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I have been writing as a hobby for around eighteen years now (wow does that make me sound old). I have been a regular member and roleplayer of no less than eight different online forums during that time (including the old RPG), five six of which no longer exist.

I was previously a regular on the Homestuck forums, but I became so sick of thread turnover there that I asked around and eventually found the Guild. Since joining, I have exclusively only participated in Advanced RPs. Before Mahz gave NRPs their own subforum, I used to be an NRP regular in the Advanced Subforum.

If you ask anybody who has written with me in previous RPs, they should tell you that I have a generally open schedule, I post regularly and in a timely fashion, and I never drop an RP once I join unless the thread dies. Some of them may tell you that I have extensive expertise within the realms of Biology, Psychology, and Physics, which I will make no effort to validate since there is no way I can provide hard proof of aforementioned alleged expertise to anybody over the internet (though I am happy to try and answer any questions you send my way).

My favorite fandom is the Myst franchise, which seemingly nobody other than me has ever heard of.

I was a Contest Moderator for the Writing Contests Subforum for just a little bit over two years. I wrote the Moderation Policy for that subforum and I ran a contest called the Twelve Labours; you can still go there and see all of them and the entries people wrote for them in the Contests Section and the Victory Archives.

I have been quadruple secret banned from the guild chat. That is not a joke.

Most Recent Posts

@OppositionJ, next time you are on, drop by in the Discord channel if you can. We are working on a collab between Sirroc and Hecuba, and the Archivist has just been invited into the room.

We can technically post what we have and leave it off for post-by-post responses, but we figured we might as well check with you first.
"And if there's anything going to be wrong with him other than fragile packaging without all his metal, a warning would be nice."

"Like I said earlier. Once that gunk I just shot him up with finally starts peeling off from his neurons, his brain blood toxicity will skyrocket and he'll probably hemorrhage to death. That will happen in around a day, maybe. Probably a little less. Just get him to your people so they can put him on a slab, I'm sure they can do something for him." Tracy's entire body seemed to be distractedly shifting continually in the direction of the door, his eyes sliding across every surface of the room as he glanced around nervously.

"Wuh?" Golemeth managed.

"As for getting him to nap, just yank your coat's biomonitor feed. Once its source disconnects all of his autonomics will lose power again."

"Wuuuuugh?" Golemeth attempted, his eyes growing as wide as dinnerplates. From the way what remained of his neck muscles were shifting he was furiously struggling to move pieces of him that were no longer there.

"Now forgive me for saying I hope we never see each other again. If we do though, maybe we can try this again. The uh, helping each other thing, not the interrogating cyborgs in a sex dungeon thing. Bye." He turned and booked it out the room's door, the plastic-paneled door rocking against the opposite wall as it slammed open before starting to close again.

As Tracy was about to breeze by reception, the man in the wifebeater rapped on the glass divider to get his attention. Tracy stopped, clenched his fists, grit his teeth, and slowly turned his head to look at the man.


"They might not have known something was wrong before." The receptionist said with a thin smile. "But they definitely do now."

"Do you even know who they is?" Tracy snapped back. The receptionist's eyes flicked down and to the left at the monitor on his side of the wall briefly in response.

"Yeah that's what I thought. Stick to your little niche and don't be such a smartass, you'll live longer." Tracy muttered as he hurried out the front door.

The brief exchange had been more valuable than the receptionist could have known. Tracy had been operating on the assumption the Phantasmagoria had already been en-route, but now it seemed more likely than not they had not been made aware of how Davidson's disappearance had fucked up their arrangement with him. Which meant Tracy might - might - have an extra day or two before the end of his world.

The next course of action was pretty clear. He had to head to Deeptower ASAP and try to start eliminating possibilities in the great chain of things that could have gone wrong. Maybe Davidson had never handed the case off to his proxy. Maybe he handed it off to the proxy but something happened to them. Maybe the proxy got the case and went to Deeptower but never checked in. All Tracy knew was that something tied to Davidson's appearance had prevented Tracy from being informed he had to go to Deeptower to pick up the case. But now he knew. In the best scenario, the proxy was still there with the briefcase wondering where the hell his contact was. Tracy doubted the reality of the situation was going to be that tidy, but assuming he managed to get in and out alive, hopefully he could at least pinpoint at what step things had gone wrong.

Even the small, simplistic chain of getting 'in' and 'out' of Deeptower alive was laughable on its own of course, and figuring out anything once he was inside was going to require a miracle. Deeptower had been architecturally inspired by the Kowloon Walled City, with the planners having more or less said: 'You know what would be great? This, but with a whole lot more verticality.' It was a hollow-interior tower nearly forty-stories in height above-ground and with nearly forty subterranean basement levels. It was made up as one massive empty shaft, with residential 'suites' built directly into the walls all the way up and down, all of them connected only by a tenuous network of rickety metal walkways and, nominally, by a pair of elevators that had likely never worked even when they had first been installed. The tower was rated for a presumed residential population of around two-thousand, assuming two people for each of the individual units on each floor of the building. In reality, Deeptower was presently home to well over ten-thousand people, if not more. Many of the individual residential units, already barely the size of broom-cupboards, had been converted into makeshift brothels, drug dens, ripperdoc sheds, and more. A thriving grey-and-black market industry flourished within Deeptower's internal shaft, with an entire working population being able to live their whole lives without setting foot outside or seeing the sun. And that was all without even touching upon the innumerable illegal tunnel networks below-ground that the residents had been carving out since forever. Even SWAT teams would not set foot in the place, and Corporate Security and Paramilitary firms rated the building as a 'Sextuple Hazard Pay Risk' area.

The entire place was a deathtrap and catastrophic public catastrophe waiting to happen. People in the surrounding neighborhoods took bets on when, exactly, the tower would collapse in on itself. It had already survived more than four historical fires that swept through every floor, and every layer of its structure had been punched through and riddled with unstable modifications by its residents. And Tracy was going to have to dive in, on his own, to look for a lead that may not even exist.

He hesitated. He had already poked around Babbage Cell earlier and had not found any trace of the case. That did not necessarily mean it was not there though. Davidson had a lot of high-security safes and storage units in there that Tracy had not been able to look in, conceivably it was just as likely the case was in one of them as opposed to the sprawling hell that was Deeptower. There was the small issue that those storage units possessed ultraviolet security ratings and that Tracy stood zero chance of getting inside them on his own of course, and time was a factor here. For a moment Tracy simply stood on the curb of the street, teetering at its edge as though he were standing atop a precipice in indecision of whether to fling himself off or not.

What he really needed right this second was more to go on. Another hint. Then it occurred to him.

Nailtooth was still in town. Alone. Without his crew. Probably without much in the way of backup. If Tracy could jump him, catch him by surprise...If he could even find him, of course. He could be anywhere in Night City, and Tracy had no decent means of tracking him down that would not also lead to him getting reduced to a black scorch-mark on the ground. Except...

He eyed the duffel-bag as inspiration struck. He had a time and place. He had something that had belonged to Nailtooth. What he needed was somebody who had top-shelf olfactory augs. He could hire them with a bluff, then have them track Nailtooth's location all the way from Babbage Cell to, hopefully, wherever he currently shacked up. The tricky part about that would just be finding somebody like that on such short notice.

Thus, Tracy began obliviously walking away from the parlor where he had just been working with Theron - who had the exact set of augs Tracy needed right that second.
The Capital City of Tarantis
Southern Gate Watchhouse

Hecuba shivered in the warm confines of the guardhouse, studiously examining the rough flagstone floor so she could at least pretend she was not aware of the lecherous looks the Sergeant and his men whenever they passed by. She had not really anticipated being cloistered like this. While she had been standing in line she had seen more than a dozen people in front of her who had been cleared to move through the city gates, even without any documentation. She wasn't sure why the Captain had even had her set aside like this as opposed to letting her enter the city normally so she could present her invitation to the Royal Guards at the palace proper.

Well. Not entirely sure. The looks he had given her and the occasional muttered promises - threats really - from the sergeant made it clear they thought the letter was a fake and that they intended to take full advantage of the predicament. That the letter was genuine was a cold comfort to her, given all the things that could go wrong. Maybe the runner would fall into a ditch or get pulled into an alleyway and robbed. Or maybe it would reach the palace and get sorted onto a mail shelf where it would would remain for weeks before getting opening while she was left to the tender mercies of the guardsmen. Or maybe it would actually get delivered but the Court Mage had died the previous day and his replacement knew nothing about the matter.

Or, perhaps more realistically, the runner had taken the letter just out of sight before shredding it, giving the guards all the pretense they needed. Kron-Nesis was a long way from Ithell, and if anything were to happen to her the worst that the Grand Observatory would do would be to send a strongly worded letter of complaint.

And although she was anxious about what the guards might do to her, she was more worried about what they might do with her belongings - particularly the carboy and its contents, or the marbles of enchanted pitchblende. If the guards started messing with them, the former would be...particularly compromising, the latter would be catastrophic and most assuredly get them and her killed. All in all, this complication was as unwelcome as it had been unforeseen.

Her fears were thankfully alleviated with the arrival of a scantily-clad beastkin from the palace. The guards had gawked and stared in equal parts disbelief and disappointment. At first it looked like the sergeant was going to object - who did this beastkin whore think she was, barging into the guardhouse like that? But his mouth snapped shut when he saw the emblem of the Court Wizard on the surface of her collar and heard her announce her arrival from the palace. Hecuba felt a surge of relief and practically skipped after the beastkin messenger as they led her out of the guardhouse, and beamed excitedly at her surroundings as she was led through the streets of the capital. It was still immensely tacky and gaudy to her eyes, but a near-brush with misfortune had a way of aggrandizing how one perceived their surroundings after the fact.

...But only for a moment. Less than a block later, Hecuba noticed all the stares and murmurs the two of them were getting as they walked down the streets, and her face perceptibly reddened as she realized what they were saying. She was used to the same accusations being muttered about her back at the Grand Observatory, but those were spread by singularly malicious rivals and jealous apprentices. Here, she was suddenly being judged by complete strangers due to her exotic appearance in conjunction with her proximal presence to her scandalously dressed guide. It was an altogether different twist of the unpleasantness she usually had to deal with, if not faintly worse since she could not even run away in this circumstance! What if somebody tried to proposition them in the street? Was this beastkin women really even a messenger from the palace, let alone an assistant of the Court Wizard? Hecuba did recognize the emblem on the collar, but why would anybody with this women's profession dress like that during the regular course of business? Hecuba had seen enough tribal beastkin to know some of them genuinely dressed like that, but civilized city beastfolk - like seen in the cities of the island of Kelnore and elsewhere - wore more conventional garments.

After nearly half an hour of uncomfortable walking later, during which time Hecuba had occupied herself by consciously endeavoring not to grind her teeth together due to some of the catcalls she and the beastkin messenger had received - they arrived at the palace. The royal guardsmen at the front gates let them both in without any issue, but Hecuba was immediately tipped off that something was off when the palace staff kept throwing the both of them askew glances and odd looks as the messenger gave her a tour of the palace interior. They were clearly not familiar with her guide - perhaps she was new? Hecuba was halfway tempted at multiple junctures to stop the tour so she could abandon this strange woman and look for anybody else to show her the way to the Court Wizard, but at the same time she recognized that despite the irregularities, the women had gotten her inside the palace, her collar had the emblem of the Court Wizard, and she actually seemed to know what she was talking about. Hecuba's receipt of the beastkin's anecdotes and historical references went largely undigested as she simply strove to understand what exactly the deal with her was. Her inflection seemed regularly, but her eyes looked a little glassy and unfocused.

Eventually they arrived at the Court Mage's chambers.

"Aaahhh...Miss Personal Assistant; what can I do for you? I hope that my servant gave you the proper tour on the way here. Marvellous collar I must say. My own invention. Eliminates any resistance and eventually makes the wearer want it themselves, removing the need them to wear it. Truly amazing don't you think? But where are my manners. I'm Firh Wystan Auleaus Caliean Aibek Sirroc, Court Wizard of the Grand Kingdom of Kron-Nesis, but most just call me Sirro."
Firh Wystan Auleaus Caliean Aibek Sirroc, Court Wizard of the Grand Kingdom of Kron-Nesis

"Oh my goodness!" Hecuba exclaimed, hunching over and exhaling deeply. "So that's why!" She exclaimed with equal overtones of realization and relief. She then realized where she was and who she was speaking with and hurriedly corrected her posture before returning Sirroc's bow with one of her own, ending it with a stylized flourish customary in the lands of the Court of Stars - touching the lower half of her chin with her left hand whilst raising her right arm and making the arcane gesture of the starcaller. "I am Hecuba Amaranth, apprentice at the Grand Observatory of Ithell and personal assistant to High Astronomer Ormoneric. May Dawn's Law favor you, Wizard."

"I must say we don't see too many Halflings, or perhaps more distant, with your particular looks around here. Perhaps an older bloodline..Hmmm...Would you care to leave me with a blood sample? It would be interesting to see what I can find in there. Oh yes, I'm sorry. Your visit. How much has the old codger told you about the visit?"

"I am afraid I have been instructed not to offer any substance of my own vigor for any particular purpose during our endeavors, my lord." Hecuba offered apologetically. "As for our arrangement, the High Astronomer has fully informed me as to most of our purposes here, save of course for his scheduled audience with his Grand Majesty of course. He apologizes profusely for having to request the King reschedule, but the agents of the Archclericy are singularly unreasonable. As I suspect you know." She smiled at Sirroc conspiratorially. "In fact, he even told me a little about this compulsory magical experiment of yours, back when he arranged to have certain texts from the Grand Archives shipped to you. The results are very good! Even knowing that you were working on it, I had no idea your assistant was being controlled until you told me just now. Her eyes are a little dull, but there were no other residual signs of influence that other forms of indoctrination might create. " She paused emphatically for a moment as she moved to open a satchel hanging from her shoulder just under her traveling cloak, and fetched her tines and the striking rod for them.

"Although I must say, dressed the way she is, I am afraid certain members of the palace staff and the commoners who saw us may conclude this women is your chatelaine. One moment please..." Hecuba then raised the tines and struck across both of its prongs with the accompanying rod, filling the room with the clear purity of its reverberating tone. Hecuba craned an ear in the direction of Sirroc's unwilling assistant.

"Hm. I see. That's a very recent enchantment on the collar, isn't it?" She remarked. "Is that why she's dressed like that? I thought I was going crazy, thinking she was wearing that of her own volition in broad daylight!"

"Perfect..finally succeeded.."
Sirroc, some time earlier that day.

"Is the enchantment a work in progress? Its coherency seems pretty tenuous. It almost came unraveled when I dowsed it just now. Err." Hecuba momentarily looked embarrassed. "Sorry about that. I got a little over-eager. But claim eventually the enchantment will allow her to serve you without the need for the collar? Have you even had time to test the long-term effects of the enchantment to be certain there are no attenuating effects?" After a brief pause while she looked at the Court Wizard expectantly, she suddenly seemed to realize who she was speaking too a second time. Her face flushed as she realized she might have offended her with her presumptions.

"My apologies, my lord. The work is yours, not mine, and I imagine you are much more intimately familiar with its workings than I am. I should not have been so forward. Perhaps we should discuss a matter I have actually been fully entrusted with." She hurriedly put her tines and rod away as she spoke, her expression clearly embarrassed.

"As you already know from prior correspondence, the High Astronomer is in need of large quantities of Black Blood of the Earth. Such large quantities and in such specific cuts, in fact, that we have given up entirely on natural harvests and have turned to getting the necessary circuits cast using molds. We considered consignment with the Darakeene Prot-" She caught herself from making yet another faux-pas at the last moment, stopping in the middle of her sentence and starting again. "with the Darakeene REBELS due to their clear expertise in such matters, but the High Astronomer was concerned that they might object to such procedures due to cultural and traditional values concerning the living blood of the earth. I was informed that the Kingdom's pursuit of such an investment would necessarily be contingent upon matters of discussion between the High Astronomer and his Grand Majesty that I am not aware of, but that you would be willing to assist us with some of the geomantic uncertainties due to the potential for personal mutual benefits, apart from any agreement made with the Grand Kingdom proper. If you are still interested, we would of course need a purpose for the very first Black Blood matrix ritual performed in known history - and as this is your home region, the High Astronomer will naturally defer to your own preference and seniority."



Nalon Tret - Nailtooth - veteran of the Sixth Division of the Grand Army of Kron-Nesis turned brigand and confidence-man, grimly tossed a dreg of meat into the campfire and took a deep swig out of his canteen, only slightly spiked with ale. This would probably be the last chance he had for a proper sit-down and rest for a long while. When it had just been ambushing nobs on roads there was usually time and safety with which to celebrate properly at the nearest tavern their blood money, either stolen or made by pawning stolen items. Now they were at the point of no return. Surrounded by the enemy at every angle, and they would be on the move soon, heading towards the Aemonvale.

Andromache still expected to carry out her will. She expected many things. Having been an infantryman in her section back when she had still been a Sergeant, the idea of carrying out the impossible did not cause him to balk. No, like any good soldier, he was simply annoyed over how exhausting the ordeal would be and how much running around it would entail. He was practically going to have to be in two places at once at every hour of every day in order to cover everything that needed covering, and that was even without assuming that the Grand Marshal and the attending nobility were not about to ream through their entire retinue with steely-eyed focus and watchfulness to root the band out.

As he glumly dwelt on the future of misery that awaited them, Trennor - a lad who audaciously claimed that he was eighteen summers old when Nailtooth was fairly certain his balls had not even dropped yet - came up to the fire looking as exhausted as Nalon imagined he was going to be when this was all said and done. He sat on one of the stools at the opposite side of the fire, clenching the sides with both hands nervously as he stared into the flames. Remembering what had transpired earlier, Nailtooth said nothing and idly poked at the wood in the campfire with a stick, waiting for the boy to speak first.

"Hey Tret. How do..." Trennor began, then paused. His face was equal parts bleary and terrified. He did not resume.

After waiting a minute, Nailtooth finally spoke up. "You know, before you came along, nobody else other than Andromache actually had the guts to brand any of the nobs we tuckered." He voice was low and stated matter-of-factly, as though he were speaking of the weather. Trennor visibly flinched, the grip of his hands tightening until his fingers were white.

"Nobody." Nailtooth repeated. "She would always do it herself, like you saw the time before. Never asked anybody else to do it for her. But somebody else always could have. She's never minded anybody else handling the iron, or even brandishing it. One time, a ways back, a fellow even tried to intimidate one of the fuckers when we had 'em pinned down. Had it floating over their chest when Andromache came up and started doing her thing. When the time came, he couldn't do it, it had just been bluster. Once she finished he just...drew it back and handed it to her."

"Not..." Trennor began haltingly. "...Not even you?"

"Not even me. Sort of been going out of my way to avoid being too close to that action." Nailtooth admitted, his voice slow and even. "I believe just about everything Andromach has told us. But nobody gets by on just faith, Tren. There is a boundary between what a man can accept, what a man can want, and what a man can actually do." He tipped the stick he had been prodding at the fire with so that it fell headlong into the flames. Several minutes of silence stretched out between the two, Trennor looking sick as he rocked lightly back and forth on his stool while Nailtooth simply weighed his canteen in one hand. Eventually, Nailtooth spoke up again.

"You were never in the army like you said you were, Tren." He stated. Trennor did not attempt to correct him. "So you probably got caught up in this on principle. You got her message. Well boy, let me tell you. Lot of people agree with the principle of things like Kings and Wars, killing other people for a cause and dying for it. Because of course they do, as long as they only have to say it and not do it. Anybody whose fought in the frontlines has felt what you're feeling right now. That sort of awning sensation of disgust and dread, not just with yourself but with the entire universe. Like you're standing on top of a bottomless chasm, and you're not sure whether you want to throw yourself or the entire world down it just because of how fucked up everything is." He took in an airy breath. Trennor was staring at him like he was a wizard, with eyes wider than the full moon.

"Right now, you're feeling uncertain. Just know, you're not the first. There was another man with us, around two full moons ago, name of Feldis. Now Feldis, he was...he was really good with words. Natural speechifying type, probably would have done well for himself if he'd been a priest. Nobody was ever more behind what Andromache was doing than he was. Not an hour of the day would go by where he wouldn't parrot somethin' she'd said or be telling the rest of us why and how she was right about everything. Was pretty damn annoying actually, but necessity makes for annoying bedfellows." He raised his canteen and took another brief swig from it, mulling over his words for a moment.

"He left us the very night after a hit. He was all gung-ho up until the moment he watched Andromache break that nob's arms with her mace, so hard you could heard the bones getting shred into bits. He couldn't even get up to the knife, the moment she took out the dagger he just split. Couldn't bear the mere thought of what she was about to do. Found him sobbing underneath a tree. Begged us to forgive him, said he just couldn't live with all the anguish we were doing to others. Pleaded with us not to kill him, said he still knew we were in the right, that he was just a coward."

Nailtooth finally looked up over the fire, straight at Trennor.

"You could leave right now. I wouldn't say a thing. Nobody would say a damn thing. Because we've all been exactly where you've been right now. And it ain't such a bad thing to not want to be here. It's ugly, bloody work. A whole lot of bad and misery coming out of it, and the only good that will ever come of it is going to be in principle. And Andromache's word ain't nice or good. It's hard, and a whole lot of bad will probably come out of it more'n anything else. So while you're asking yourself what the hell you're doing during the night, wondering if it's all worth it..." Nailtooth fetched the cap for his canteen and screwed it back on casually as he spoke. "Ask yourself if the principle on its own could be better than what we have now. Just ask any king or priest." Nailtooth got up, brushing off his legs as he did as he gave one last look at Trennor.

"Nothing important ever got decided without a war, and no cause ever got around unless you had steel behind your words." He turned and began to walk off. "You take the watch, boy. If you're not here by the time next shift gets in, they'll just assume I was just being lazy."
@Terminal, I will chime in come tomorrow.

I'll have a response up by the end of the day.
Is this still open?

@SleepingSilence Feel free to have spotted Tracy during the firefight. Just note, if you run his facial profile and retinal data through various databases you'll turn up a big fat dud - which is faintly interesting on its own, since even the lowest resident of Night City probably creates some kind of electronic record/footprint with every spare breath they take. But there it is.
@Hekazu A quick summary for you and also everyone else whom it may concern:

Theron and Tracy both started tracking down a solo with substantial cybernetic augmentation. He had so much chrome and plate, he could just tank 11mm caseless tungsten penetrator rounds. Theron was sent after Golemeth by his corporate sponsors, the Intellitron Corporation, who provided him with most of his bioaugs. At the start of that thread, we did not know why Tracy was after Golemeth.

They were not the only ones after Golemeth. A number of gang bosses had put a price on his head, and he had spent several hours in one of the city's combat zones tearing gangers to shreds with heavy ordinance. Theron and Tracy both spent a few posts dancing around Golemeth, Gangers, and each other until...

A Hardware Spider showed up and no-selled Golemeth by hacking into his hardware and shutting him down on the spot. It then extracted a laser-disc CD from an internal drive in Golemeth's hardware and booked it. The gangers fell on Golemeth's carcass and ripped out most of everything else even remotely useful, leaving Golemeth without any limbs and most of the hardware needed to sustain his cybered-up autonomic functions and rendering him comatose even after the Hardware Spider left.

Theron was in the midst of dragging Golemeth away when Tracy confronted him in the middle of the street and bluffed/persuaded him to drag Golemeth to a private location where they could interrogate him together. The chosen location was a sex parlor that uploads personality templates and schemas into the bodies of human traffic and debtors for paying customers. Tracy, via some kind of unknown contact, persuaded the proprietor to give Theron and Tracy a room and equipment they could use to resuscitate and interrogate Golemeth.

Tracy then proceeded to interrogate Golemeth, revealing several potential leads.

Overall Summary of Pertinent Points:

-Somewhere in the combat zone, a Hardware Spider has a laser-disc CD they pulled out of Golemeth. His whereabouts and its contents are unknown.

-Lieutenant Davidson had one of his primary holdings at the address 5757 Babbage Cell. He was last seen there four days ago. There may or may not be anything left over there.

-Lieutenant Davidson had a meeting yesterday at that address with an individual named Nailtooth. Golemeth was present at the meeting since he was buying equipment from Davidson as well as having an interview with Nailtooth, who was interested in hiring him. Nailtooth gave Davidson a mysterious briefcase and told him to hand it off to a contact, Tracy.

-Theron's contacts at Intellitron failed to identify Tracy via his facial profile, retinal data, or voiceprint. Theron now knows who the case was supposed to be handed off to, but does not know that his erstwhile accomplice is that person.

-Davidson said he wouldn't be able to hand off the briefcase himself and would give it to somebody else to do so. We do not know if he actually did so or who might have been assigned to hand it off.

-The briefcase was supposed to be handed off to Tracy somewhere called Deeptower.

OOC Inference:

-Tracy obviously never got that memo or else would not have had to pursue Golemeth in the first place. Something obviously did not go according to plan.

How Tracy knew about Golemeth, or the meeting at Davidson's place, or Nailtooth, is presently unknown.
@The Harbinger of Ferocity

A small note for future reference and posterity, the mystery scent Theron would be smelling early on once he manages to get it identified by another party would be traces in the parts per million range of Plutonium-239. Normal background levels of Plutonium-239, for reference, would normally be in the parts per trillion range, so that's a significant leap in prevalence.
"Fortunate for us he ain't about to go anywhere fast with no limbs and only his essentials still kicking. So once he's on, shouldn't be too trying for you. You seem to know way too much for your own good on how to make a bot talk."

"Not bots, really. general. Probably not much better, but those are the breaks." Tracy muttered as he drew independent measures of all three substances via the electronic syringe, which with a quick press of its tactile interface sorted and stored all three separately within. He gestured for Theron to present his arm for better viewing of the small screen on the arm of his jacket. With his arms wrapped around Theron's as the two men sat on the edge of the bed, the Hunter's GENX Olfactory boosters let him get a real good - if not necessarily welcome - read on Tracy's biochemistry.

Whoever this guy was - corporate had run his face, optical data, and voiceprint through their database and come up with absolutely nothing when Theron had consulted them via the kiosk from earlier - he was clearly a lot more than just the homeless bum slash rock-bottom dreckhead ganger aestheric he was rocking. He had been wearing the same set of clothes for the last several days by the smell of them, and Theron's boosted metabolic genetic molecular identifiers let him individually sort and process each individual scent. Unlike a hardware booster, he couldn't identify any of what he smelled unless he had sniffed something similar previously, but binding enzymes in his nasal cavity and tongue could even retain samples of what he detected so corporate could identify anything he couldn't later. Which was great, because Tracy was giving off a lot of scents that Theron had never encountered before that were throwing up all sorts of warning bells. The few he did were already telling.

First and foremost, once Theron got past the thick musk of sebum cortisone Tracy exuded like an excess of cheap cologne, he smelled ionized air, the kind of dirty, polluted heavy murk thick with tension while a thunder-storm rolled by. He also smelled like a tremendously illegal military-grade category three broad-spectrum performance enhancing drug called Xcell, motor oil, a mixture of hydrogen peroxide and isopropyl alcohol, the process-oil whiff of plastic explosives, faint traces of some kind of perfume, and...

Bunched up with all the others was something particularly iffy. He had no idea what it was, but it actually stung his nose a little at some indiscernible level, whatever it was, even though he was only smelling remnants of it in the parts per million range. If nothing else, it might have even been distinctive enough to identify a specific locale, so it would definitely be worth running by corporate when he got back to them.

Beyond that, he could smell the cheap printed plastic replica uzi Tracy had obviously concealed in his overcoat, and he could smell the oils and smears left all over its grip and trigger that belonged to a completely different person. And then there was the duffel bag. Tracy was still awkwardly hoisting the bag around with both his hands on Theron's arm as though putting the thing down still simply had not occurred to him, despite the fact that it had to weigh a decent amount from the smell of all the spare clothes in it. Possibly even heavier, in fact - the clothes in the bag were so odoriferous that Theron could not actually tell if there was anything else concealed inside.

"Ok, I'm not exactly a wizard here," Tracy grunted. "...but all biomonitor hardware is required by Federal and Corporate law to use the same handshake protocols and conversion packets. So that competing corporate profit margins don't get in the way of triage and medical interventions, yeah? And his biomonitor should have his stats..."

He wrapped his fingers and thumbs around Theron's forearm awkwardly as he used the arm-mounted panel's switches to move through the plethora of corporate-aesthetic safe-mode desktop menus, muttering breathily as he went for several minutes while navigating the unwieldy designed-for-consumer plasticrap software. Eventually, he found what he was looking for - Golemeth's CABMI (Cybernetics Adjusted Body Mass Index).

"Good enough." Tracy said hoarsely as he picked up the electronic syringe again, and manipulated the injection measurements for all three separate fluids. He then flipped open the safety-slide for the mechanism and pushed down on the plunger, the device dispensing its contents with a mechanical hiss. Putting the syringe down again, Tracy then yanked on Theron's arm again - somewhat more insistently than was strictly necessary - and spent another minute or so just eyeballing Golemeth's rapidly fluttering vitals.

"Again, good enough. At least for now. Brain-blood toxicity may become a small issue in a day or so once all that gunk finally peels away from his axons, but your bosses can worry about that when they have him on the slab in a considerably more sterile environment. Let's see what he has to say." He spent another few moments navigating panels on Theron's arm-mounted control panel, and redirected power from the biomonitor in Theron's arm to the one in what remained of Golemeth's chest, and then set both to restore functionality to the wiring responsible for running Golemeth's higher autonomic functions. Golemeth's awakening was uneventful and anticlimatic. His eyes flickered open and his slackened jaw opened and closed a few times, his tongue rolling about in his mouth as his eyes blearily traced eddies in the ceiling.

"Hey there, we're here to help. You took it pretty bad, but you'll be fine." Tracy subvocalized, leaning in close to Golemeth's head. "We need to ask a few questions to make sure you're alright. You ok with that?"

"...Shure..." Golemeth slurred drearily.

"Ok. First, can you tell me what six times two is?"

Golemeth's eyebrows knitted together slowly. For perhaps a full ten seconds he said nothing, but finally he seemed to work through the request.


"That's right, good answer. Now, can you tell us how long ago your last meal was?"

"'Round fihve." Golemeth said instantly and easily, no sign of hesitation on his face.

"Cool. What'd you have?"

"Meatballs withn' on-ons 'n garc." Golemeth sputtered a little, his lips flapping as though he were blowing a raspberry, but there was no sign of hesitation or confusion on his face. " had 'it wit a bunna yellow hots."

"Yellow hots?"

"...yhello shots."

"Cool. Was it a party?"

"Naw, waz a danse wifth a grill."

"Cool. Was Lieutenant Davidson there?"

"No, saw him las'...lasterday. Fur days ago." Golemeth tripped over the words, but it was remarkable how coherent his answers were considered how his eyes appeared to be drifting in different directions. Tracy leaned back away from the side of Golemeth's head, pausing to wipe a single bead of sweat that was running down the side of his face before leaning back in.

"Ok. Was the address 5757 Babbage Cell?"

"'Ink so. Yeah. Am I gunna be good?"

"Just checking out your autonomics now, hang with us here a bit please. How do you feel?"

Golemeth's face was briefly wracked with indecision.

"Fffffffkin picksed." He settled on. "But I also don' eel car."

"That's the anesthetics taking off the edge. I'd be angry too, but we're patching you up right now so try and relax. Can you do that?


"Was anybody else there with Davidson?"

"Yesh. Nobtook."

"Sorry, did you say Nailtooth?"


Tracy leaned back upwards again briefly, letting out a long, deep breath of relief, as though he had been holding his breath the whole conversation. Theron could already see his eyes dilating faintly as he Tracy crossed over the threshold of some unknown mental checklist. He then slowly leaned back down and went back to his questions.

"Did you arrive with Nailtooth?"


"So why were you there?" Tracy flinched visibly as the last word left his lips, as though he had only just realized his mistake at the last second. Golemeth looked visibly confused now, his lips shuddering and his nostrils flaring as he tried to both simultaneously recall a memory while also trying to puzzle out his own, unspoken, abstract motivations from the day before. He eventually pulled together an answer, but his eyes were just a shade less cloudy now as well.

"Waz buyin'...and meetin' Nailtook. 'E was thinkin' about hirin' me." He rumbled.

Tracy brought a single finger up to his own brow in frustration, possibly with himself, before continuing.

"...Cool. Did Nailtooth have anything with him?"

"Yeah. Suitcase."

"Was it chrome, with colors near the handle?"

"Yeah. Hainbow 'heel thing. Eel 'iddly."

"Why did Nailto-" Tracy stopped himself short as he almost led Golemeth into another question that was just a hair too complicated than was strictly advisable. He took a short breath and tried again.

"Did Nailtooth tell Davidson anything about the case?"

"Yesh. 'Aid to hand it goff tub some guy, Hazy."

"Some guy named Hazy?"

"'Racy." Golemeth snorted. He eyes both flittered in the same direction for the first time, in Tracy's direction. Ignoring the look, Tracy continued.

"Did he say where to hand it off at?"

"...'Eeptower." Golemeth said. There had been a slight pause before he had answered, and he was now staring firmly in Tracy's direction, his eyes slowly roaming across the skittish man's face as Tracy steepled his hands together just over his nose, leaving his mouth uncovered to continue speaking to Golemeth.

"Did Davidson say anything about it?"

"...Ouo a cup, pug?" Golemeth practically spat his own question in response. Tracy glanced away furiously, wiping at his mouth with his steepled palms before turning back to answer.

"Nah, ripperdoc. Gotta stay cool friend, your wetware's gettin' hot." Golemeth did not say anything in response, but continued to stare at Tracy.

"Did Davisdon say anything about the case?" Tracy repeated.

"...ouldn't do it himshelf." Golemeth slurred. "'Aid 'ed givit to a mug to do it."

"Cool. Did Davidson give it to anyone?"

"'Unno." Golemeth paused, and after a moment actually craned his neck to get a better look at Tracy before speaking again.

"You ain't a hipperock, pug." He said in a flat, unimpressed tone. Tracy glanced at Theron before standing up.

"Well, I'm done here." He announced. "This is where I get off the Davidson ride. The big boy is all yours." He looked at Theron, his expression a carefully sculpted deadpan. "Are we done? You satisfied with that?" He demanded. The hand he had on the duffel-bag's strap began a staccato tap on the faded blue fabric.

"'Ou better lemme up." Rumbled Golemeth from the bed.

@The Harbinger of Ferocity
Given our schedules seem to be paired at opposing times and I am more than confident this is your character's scene to shine, I have no qualms with Tracy posing his questions. Assuming nothing prevents Theron from asking a few of his own, should any exist, once the other questioning is done, that is all I might have to add directly digging into the information, @Terminal. I suspect otherwise collaboration might just slow down the moment, so feel free to have at it what you will - I can well adapt around it. I appreciate the notification all the same, however.

So noted. I'll have a response for you sometime tomorrow.
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