Tlaloc

Tlaloc's Travel Manifest

-snip-

Random Access Memories

𝖒𝖚𝖘𝖎𝖈

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𝔏’É𝔭𝔦𝔱𝔞𝔭𝔥𝔢
𝔏’É𝔭𝔦𝔱𝔞𝔭𝔥𝔢

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 — 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎.
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^{ᴀʀᴛ ʙʏ ꜱʜᴀɴᴇ ᴘɪᴇʀᴄᴇ}

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The year is 1935.

The city of New Orleans is a paradox.

On one hand, it is among the most effervescent settlements in the West. The city pulses with an unmistakable rhythm — a song sung by Frenchmen, Spaniards, Africans, and Caribbeans, all harmonized by the American South. Its culture echoes loudly throughout the US; jazz and blues, color and cuisine, festivity and hedonism.

On the other, the city is among the most poverty-stricken in the country. The wounds of the Great Depression fester on, suffocating the poor and marginalised, while draconian Jim Crow laws continue to enforce malicious racial segregation. The Prohibition has been repealed, but its rot lingers, soaked into the city’s bones. Speakeasies governed by gangsters remain havens for villains and crooks, and underground black-markets continue to fence illicit wares, with cocaine and opiates running particularly rife. The city government is a blunt blade, ill-equipped to combat the chaos, plagued by malfeasance and political intimidation.

Beneath it all, ‘neath the fog-heavy bayous and the perfume of magnolias, something fiendish and ancient lurks. The city’s soul is tangled in the unseen. In shadowed backroom parlors, mediums whisper to the dead, rootworkers cast bones for the desperate, and voodoo priests commune with the arcane. But what watches from within, beneath it all, compares not to any common witch doctor or conjurer, for it imperils the New World en masse. And it already knows your name.

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𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘶𝘮𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴, 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵é𝘨é𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘥𝘥 𝘢𝘤𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘖𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴. 𝘈𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺. 𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘴. 𝘠𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨: 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘱𝘶𝘻𝘻𝘭𝘦. 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 — 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯.

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Random Access Memories

Music

When I die, bury me in straight-lace shoes
I want a box-back coat and a Stetson hat
Put a twenty-dollar gold piece on my watch chain
So the boys'll know that I died standin' pat

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Tlaloc's Travel Manifest

𝖒𝖚𝖘𝖎𝖈

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𝔏’É𝔭𝔦𝔱𝔞𝔭𝔥𝔢
𝔏’É𝔭𝔦𝔱𝔞𝔭𝔥𝔢

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 — 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎.
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^{ᴀʀᴛ ʙʏ ꜱʜᴀɴᴇ ᴘɪᴇʀᴄᴇ}

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The year is 1935.

The city of New Orleans is a paradox.

On one hand, it is among the most effervescent settlements in the West. The city pulses with an unmistakable rhythm — a song sung by Frenchmen, Spaniards, Africans, and Caribbeans, all harmonized by the American South. Its culture echoes loudly throughout the US; jazz and blues, color and cuisine, festivity and hedonism.

On the other, the city is among the most poverty-stricken in the country. The wounds of the Great Depression fester on, suffocating the poor and marginalised, while draconian Jim Crow laws continue to enforce malicious racial segregation. The Prohibition has been repealed, but its rot lingers, soaked into the city’s bones. Speakeasies governed by gangsters remain havens for villains and crooks, and underground black-markets continue to fence illicit wares, with cocaine and opiates running particularly rife. The city government is a blunt blade, ill-equipped to combat the chaos, plagued by malfeasance and political intimidation.

Beneath it all, ‘neath the fog-heavy bayous and the perfume of magnolias, something fiendish and ancient lurks. The city’s soul is tangled in the unseen. In shadowed backroom parlors, mediums whisper to the dead, rootworkers cast bones for the desperate, and voodoo priests commune with the arcane. But what watches from within, beneath it all, compares not to any common witch doctor or conjurer, for it imperils the New World en masse. And it already knows your name.

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𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘶𝘮𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴, 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵é𝘨é𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘥𝘥 𝘢𝘤𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘖𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴. 𝘈𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺. 𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘴. 𝘠𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨: 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘱𝘶𝘻𝘻𝘭𝘦. 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 — 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯.

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Agents of H.E.L.P. - Per Angusta Ad Augusta

A week ago...

Tapping his foot with a jittery impatience, Siro waited in line. He was in a bus terminal somewhere near Edmonton. The place was a stinking cocktail of mildew, diesel and coffee; shaken, not stirred. It wasn’t too busy, but busy enough to stifle Siro in his current state.

He was spent; his endocrine system burned-out from overuse. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. It happened when he overextended himself, which, given his stubbornness and propensity for foolhardiness, was more often than he’d admit.

He was paler than usual, and afflicted with a cold, clammy sweat. His posture had sank, as had his eyes. His heart-rate sauntered, bradycardia and tachycardia exchanging blows, leaving him light-headed and sensitive to his surroundings. The unfiltered light bit at his eyes, the rabble of the crowd, however small, screamed at him, and the ache of his body set his hair on edge. All of this discontent was punctuated by visible tremors and twitching, giving him the appearance of some kind of junkie. Passers-by looked at him with disdain, concern, or fear. He needed them to stop looking. He needed to be somewhere dark and dry. A numb, persistent anxiety had fallen over him — not quite panic — something more slow and gnawing. “Shit,” he rasped, digging his fingernails into his palms.

Two days ago he’d been dispatched to de-escalate an incident involving a Delta-class Hyper who’d snapped and started smashing up a block of buildings. The kid, whose skin could harden up like steel, was up on the rooftop when Siro arrived. He had a young woman by the scruff of her neck — ex-girlfriend, it turned out. Didn’t take the break-up so well, apparently, and let the whole neighbourhood know about it. Even when Siro subdued him and prevented any immediate threat, the kid would just not budge; he knew he was going to end up getting arrested, he knew his ex would put a restraining order on him, and he knew his life, in its current form, was over. Siro felt for the kid; he’d been in the same place, felt the same kind of terror, when he was eighteen. Even without the fear, without the rage, the kid was frozen in place. They were up on that rooftop for six hours before the kid eventually let his skin meld back to flesh and threw himself off the ledge. Siro stayed a while longer to try and quell the young woman’s agony, as she knelt by the rooftop’s edge, wailing out in regret. After all was said and done, Siro found a motel to crash into and slept for seventeen hours. Now he had to get back to Base Alpha. Rinse and repeat.

Things were moving slower than usual. Checkpoints had been implemented by local law enforcement after a surge in incidents. It never used to be like this. Damn-near border patrol at the local bus terminal.

Over time, the line in front of Siro thinned out. He eventually found himself at the front of the queue, where two security officers stood, filtering people through the line, one by one. They took a good long look at him, and then exchanged brief glances.

One of them cleared his throat. “Sir, you’re sweating through your jacket. I’m gonna need you to step aside.”

“No.. It’s alright, I’m uh…”

Siro trailed off. His hand reached for his wallet in its usual spot. Nothing but lint. He patted around himself, disoriented. A little panic set in. Had he forgotten his wallet in his feverish state? He began to search and re-search every pocket he had, instinctively dropping his rucksack to the ground as he did so.

The second officer, while Siro was preoccupied, heaved the bag up onto a counter.

“Sir,” the first officer repeated. “Please come with me.”

“Just hold on a second, I —”

That was it — his wallet was in his other jeans, he recalled, which were buried at the bottom of his rucksack. In his delirious haze last night he’d vomited all over himself and wrapped up his clothes in a trash bag, his mind too delirious to worry about retrieving his wallet. He glanced over to the second security officer, who was now fishing through his rucksack.

“Hey, jackass — get your hands out my bag.”

The second officer, who had been wincing at the bag’s odour, seemed to almost stifle a smile from what he found inside.

“You thought you could stumble through here with paraphernalia that easy? You people are dumb as bricks.”

The fuck? The word paraphernalia bounced around Siro’s skull like a cueball. He blinked at the object in the man’s hand. It was a subcutaneous auto-injector — a syringe, sort of like an EpiPen — that Siro used to administer inhibitors when his tank was empty.

“What? That’s medication, genius,” Siro said, voice low and rasping. “Ain’t party supplies. You think I shoot up for fun with that thing?”

“Sure looks that way,” the first officer said with disdain. “Now, this is the last time I’ll ask. Come with me, Sir.”

“Now just hold on a second, I’m not goin’ anywhere. You’ve got this whole situation twisted —”

A hand clasped his shoulder and jolted him forward. In his weakened state, it felt like an anchor dragging him down to earth, and he nearly lost his footing. Reflexively, he pushed out his arms, shoving back the officer who’d tried to restrain him.

The second officer didn’t flinch — he wanted this. Siro saw it in his face as soon as he looked up. A little vindication. He’d seen it before in these kinds of men; the sort that thought putting a badge on their chest made them some kind of god. He was already gripping the taser at his belt, thumb lazily resting over the release.

Siro staggered a half-step toward the officer, arms loose at his sides like they might swing. “I swear to God, you hit me with that, and I’ll—”

CRACK.

Siro’s legs buckled as a wave of static tore through his nervous system. Onlookers gasped and scattered backwards as he let out a croaky, dulled yelp. One knee locked, the other folded under, jaw clicking as his teeth rattled together. His fingers scratched at the tile involuntarily, and then he lay still, too exhausted to move.

Somewhere, a little girl started crying. Someone else snorted, either in laughter or disgust. Then a smug voice above him: “Freak tried to pull a stunt. But look at that, down like a lawn chair.”

Siro might’ve had a quip or a comeback on a better day, but all that came out of his mouth was slurred nonsense.

And then he passed out.

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_{Location: Siro's dormitory, - Base Alpha, Dundas Island}

Time of Trouble #1.03: Cocoon

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_{Interaction(s): N/A}

Previously: N/A

♩ ♪ ♫ ♬

Five days had passed since Siro made it back to Base Alpha. H.E.L.P. pulled some strings and got him out of police custody without any issues. Didn’t make the shame sting any less, though. Even if he hadn’t needed the rest, he’d have likely recoiled back to his dormitory for a while, as he often elected to do in times of fatigue and recovery.

His room was dim. Almost midday outside, but it was hard to tell. The curtains were drawn, all lights were off, and the door was shut like a seal. Siro was flat on his bed, fully clothed, looking up at the ceiling vacantly. He fidgeted with a tennis ball, which he’d periodically throw up against the ceiling, causing a soft, rhythmic pulse.

He hadn't moved in hours. Aside from fetching food and bathing, he hadn’t done much at all since returning. This was just part of the process. When he hit rock bottom, he had to retreat away into his cocoon to heal.

Soothing jazz throbbed out from the stereo in the corner; one of his favourite cassettes that he played as part of a wider rotation throughout his seclusion. He knew it well enough to let his fingers dance along with the sparkling keys, and to hum in unison with the saxophone. It massaged his tired skull, but wasn’t intrusive enough to poke its way inside.

Recovery looked like this, most days. His power came back in bursts, never all at once. Until then, he went still. Lowered his vitals. Pretended the world didn’t exist.

The telephone in his room began to ring. A dormant part of his brain registered that he had a call appointment with Dr. Chloe Morin, a psychologist who worked with the HR department at H.E.L.P.. He’d spoken with her briefly after his incident, but he had been in no state to provide much insight into his condition. HR usually wouldn’t bother him so soon after a crash, but Siro had been offered a new opportunity, and Dr. Morin was more than likely checking to see if he was up to the job. He composed himself and reached over for the phone.

“Good morning Siro,” came the voice of Dr. Morin. Her tone calm; professional.

“Hey.” Siro matched her restrained energy — not that he had much to give, anyway.

“I heard about the offer.”

“Course,” Siro said dryly. “Why else would you be calling me?”

“It's always good to check in. In any case, congratulations. It's quite the opportunity.”

“Thanks, Doc,” he said, toying with the tennis ball as he spoke. “But I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”

“No — it’s not. I just need to run through a few things before I can finalise your clearance.”

Siro sighed. “Right. The old rubber glove.”

“Standard evaluation. Nothing invasive.”

“So why's this a call, huh? I coulda jogged to your office faster than it took for you to dial me up.”

A pause followed.

“— I have to ensure my results are authentic.”

“You think I'm gonna juice your dopamine and mind-fuck my way into a promotion?” Siro scoffed. “I'm not like that.”

“I'm not suggesting you are. But protocol exists to prevent any disruptions.”

“Do you also put on a snorkel when you evaluate a hydrokinetic? I'm insulted, Doc.” Siro’s cadence suggested he was joking, but, in truth, the distrust did irk him. The Doctor didn’t want him in the room with her in case he manipulated her biochemistry: made her favour him in one way or another.

“It's for everyone. But I understand why it might feel personal.”

“Nah, nothing personal about a psych evaluation. Let's get it over with.”

“Very well. Let's begin. I'll be asking a series of questions. You can answer freely, but I need you to be honest with me.”

“You got it.”

And so the questions came. Cold; clinical. There were curve-balls in there, but he knew what they were really getting at. Was that shitshow at the bus terminal going to be a recurring problem? Was he going to shame his new team with a pathetic taser-slump in the midst of a crucial operation? He knew people judged him for it; saw him as a sloppy agent. He told himself he didn’t care. And when the question came, he told Morin it wouldn't happen again. Both were lies.

The tennis ball thumped softly against the wall. Again. And again.

Random Access Memories

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ＦΛＣＴＩ♢ＮＳ
ＦΛＣＴＩ♢ＮＳ

█████████ ʙʀᴀᴠᴏ, ɪɴᴄ. █████████ Born out of a historic merger of several tech giants in the mid-21st century, Bravo is the largest of the 'big three' megacorporations. An enterprise of peerless size, over 36% of the world's population works for Bravo or one of their many subsidiaries. While most known for their near-monopolisation of e-commerce, entertainment services, household tech, and AR/VR; they are also the foremost innovators of artificial intelligence. ██████████████████████████	████████ ᴋᴀᴠᴀᴄʜ ɢʟᴏʙᴀʟ ████████ A biomedical juggernaut, Kavach Global catapulted into worldwide dominance after developing the first multi-strain cancer cure. Founded in Mumbai, Kavach is a leading factor in India's rise as a global superpower. In addition to its place as the largest medical corporation in the world, Kavach leads a variety of other multi-trillion dollar industries via its subsidiaries; including cybernetic augmentation, lab-grown food, and architecture. ██████████████████████████	████████ ꜱᴏʟ ᴀᴇʀᴏᴛᴇᴄʜ ████████ The global leader in aerospace, orbital weapons, and autonomous defense systems, SOL is the spearhead of human militarisation on Earth and beyond. Originally formed from a merger between private spaceflight firms and classified military contractors, SOL now operates as an extraterritorial entity. Answerable to no-one, SOL holds control over deep-space comms, private militaries, and enough WMDs to flatten Saturn. ██████████████████████████
███████ ʜʏᴘɴᴏꜱ ʙɪᴏᴛᴇᴄʜ ███████ A black-budget corporate defense contractor and neural research syndicate that are responsible for the Sleepwalker Directive. Despite having quitely become one of the most profitable underground enterprises in the world, their methodology and internal leadership remains shrouded in secrecy. They hold a strict policy of neutrality in regards to political conflicts, selling without prejudice to whomever the highest bidder may be. ██████████████████████████		████ ᴘ.ᴇ.ᴀ.ᴄ.ᴇ. / 'ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇᴋᴇᴇᴘᴇʀꜱ' ████ Pan-Earth Authority & Control Enforcement is a supranational defense coalition formed after the fall of NATO, operating under corporate supervision. They maintain a semblance of order in wealthy sectors of megacities, but rarely stray into the urban underbelly; unless explicity necessary and in large quantities. They have been known to enlist Ciphers to conduct covet operations in ganglands and uncooperative territories. ██████████████████████████
██████████████████████████ Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum. ██████████████████████████	███ ꜰɪᴠᴇ ʙᴏʀᴏᴜɢʜꜱ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀᴄᴛ / 5ʙᴄ ███ The closest thing to governance in the lower city of NYC is the Five Boroughs Compact, an unofficial federation of five crime syndicates that maintain an uneasy alliance by keeping to their own respective boroughs. Any aspiring crime group must answer to the 5BC, who have the power to snuff them out in an instant, should they see fit. While the 5BC often collaborate through law-resistance and trade, they also infight and clash frequently. ██████████████████████████	█████████ ᴛʜʀᴇꜱʜᴏʟᴅ █████████ A radical technocratic order often labelled a cult, Threshold positions itself as a governance model for the post-human era. It is their belief that man must evolve beyond flesh, and work towards a cloud-based existence free of poverty and suffering. They have a structured ranking system of 'Thresholds' reflecting neural and cognitive purity, with great boons offered to the highest tiers, which are typically populated by the mega-rich. ██████████████████████████

(special thanks to Exit)

A Hard Rain - Urban Fantasy Noir

@Tlaloc I don't mind you asking! Yes I plan to stick to 3-4 players. I'll be selecting them based on the concepts, are they interesting? Do they add something to the world? Do they fit in with the supernatural noir vibe?

@Penny

Good stuff. I'll work on a concept. I just know what the success rate is like for advanced RPs of a certain size 😅

A Hard Rain - Urban Fantasy Noir

I believe we have enough interest the OOC is up https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/195524-a-hard-rain-urban-fantasy-rp/ooc

@Penny

If you don't mind me asking, do you plan to stick to the 3/4 player limit? And if so how will you select them?

Agents of H.E.L.P. - Per Angusta Ad Augusta

S I R O C L E M E N T E
S I R O C L E M E N T E

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^{_{"I don't crack shells—I make people crawl out of them."}}

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P R O F I L E I N F O R M A T I O N P R O F I L E I N F O R M A T I O N ________________________________________________________________________________________ NAME: | Siro Clemente Burgos _______________________________________________________________________ STATUS: | Active _______________________________________________________________________ INDEX DATE: | 1985/12/06 _______________________________________________________________________ DATE OF BIRTH: | 1967/11/13 _______________________________________________________________________ ALIAS(ES): | Cicada _______________________________________________________________________ RESIDENCE: | Victoria, British Columbia _______________________________________________________________________ CITIZENSHIP: | American, Italian _______________________________________________________________________ CLEARANCE LEVEL: | Special Agent B A C K G R O U N D B A C K G R O U N D ________________________________________________________________________________________ The sixth of seven children, Siro was born in Brooklyn, New York, at the wane of the '60s. He was in utero when the October 18th CME left Earth at a standstill, and came into the reeling world less than a month later. With a Puerto Rican mother and a Sicilian father, Siro's parents faced their fair share of predjudice, and had worked tirelessly to distance themselves from negative stereotypes. This meant, while exemplary role-models of work-ethic and fortitude, they were seldom present around the family home, and Siro was largely raised by his elder siblings. He was a smart boy, with a quick wit and a lust for knowledge; among the brightest in his neighbourhood, but was destined to live a life of hardship, with his family scraping together pennies to ensure food filled the table. Poverty, as it often does, begot lawlessness. When their father broke his back and was forced out of work, Siro's older brothers found ways to compensate for his lack of income — by hook or by crook. Their involvement with thieves and drugdealers was an open secret. Siro, like a flower budding in the cracks between concrete, was unavoidably bound for the same fate. When his abilities began to manifest throughout puberty, they were subtle; difficult to detect. A child cannot understand true power, no less use it wisely, and Siro, in his adolescence, was no different. He exerted his influence on others; for favour, for loyalty, for a kiss from the prettiest girl at school. He knew no different — this, he thought, was a simple exercise in charisma. In time, he, along with those he had manipulated, came to realise he was different. At first, he was feared; then, he was coveted. He was only fourteen when he became embroiled in a life of crime. Petty, for the most part. Convincing clientele to pay a premium for the newest strain of cannabis by elevating their high; exacerbating the fears of rival gangs to drive them away from the neighborhood; intimidating clerks into cooperation in robberies. All of these actions he conducted in secret, a silent accomplice to men much older and more malevolent than he. He became a valuable asset of his brothers' street-side associates, far more valuable than anyone who had came before him. As the years passed, resentment bred among some of his brothers, who had done the dirty work to build favour, and they drifted apart. One in particular, Matteo, tormented Siro; jealous of his talents, envious of his likeability. If it was not for Matteo, Siro might never have been found by the Bureau. Perhaps he would have came to realise the wrongs of criminality in adulthood, and sought out to follow his father's path into a life of labour work — or, perhaps, more fatalistically, he might've continued down the path of crime and ended up dead or imprisoned. Whatever the case, that was not what fate had in store. When Siro was eighteen years of age, he had an explosive row with Matteo; one that resulted in his brother beating him severely. To this day, due to the rush of adrenaline in the air, Siro does not recall how it happened — or if he wanted it to happen. Matteo had a devastating, anomalous seizure; one that left him severely disabled. At the time, Siro thought he had killed him. He ran and ran, hiding away in the streets, petrified of what would become of him. Before law enforcement or his family found him, a stranger did; one who offered and outstretched hand and a proverbial get-out-of-jail card. A man he came to know as Tiberius Church. If responsibility alone hadn't kept him away, then the shame of nearly killing his brother would have. In the blink of the eye, Siro's life in his hometown was brought to an end. R E C R U I T M E N T R E C R U I T M E N T ________________________________________________________________________________________ 1985. The year Hyperhuman panic infested the globe. Before then, Siro hadn't known what he was by any kind of name. The craze coincided with his departure from New York City, when the Bureau first took him into their custody. He was lucky, in many ways, that the bulk of his crimes had occured when he was a minor. While undeniably a juvenile delinquent, he had been groomed into a ne'er-do-well by adults who saw him as a tool. Someone within the Bureau took pity on him and looked beyond his record to see him for what he truly was: a smart young man who had been forced to grow up far too soon. He was given a chance to train and study through the Bureau; to use his abilities for what he believed to be good. He was grateful, and he had no other choice. Siro's relationship with his family was nearly nonexistent, aside from with his eldest-sister, Anna, whom he viewed in many ways as a surrogate mother. They wrote to one another, and she was candid with him — most of his kin feared him. Some loathed him. Right as the Hyperhuman scaremongering had reached its fever-pitch, they had witnessed Siro cripple his brother with nought but his mind. He was living proof of the dangers of the Hype-Gene, and he would be kept at a distance from his family as a result. He found kinship within the Bureau throughout his training, but it never scratched the itch of true belonging. As a Hyperhuman that was able to blend in with the rabble, he studied Biochemistry at the University of British Columbia. He sought to learn the science behind his powers, to understand them implicitly so he would never harm someone mistakenly again. He vowed also to never exercise his powers to manipulate someone for trivial personal gain, such as a romantic partner — though none of his flings would believe him, anyway. He knuckled down, trained diligently, and sought to amend the trajectory of his life for the better. C A R E E R W I T H T H E B U R E A U C A R E E R W I T H T H E B U R E A U ________________________________________________________________________________________ Siro completed his training for the Bureau as a freshfaced idealist. Inspired by his mentors, he set out to make a difference in the world. His idealism, it would seem, was rather fragile, however. When once again thrust into the proverbial trenches of the world, he found that the dark corners of his hometown were present in every city in every nation; the same cruel opportunists lurked in every hollow; the same bitterness and prejudice in every community. The optimism that galvanised him through his studies abetted into a jaded sense of duty. He still felt strongly about H.E.L.P.'s cause, but it took months, not years, to re-evaluate what kind of future was even attainable. The need to operate within bureaucracy, and to co-operate with clueless law enforcement, caused him great frustration. Nonetheless, he trusted in his colleagues, and continued to defer to them when he otherwise lacked the professional touch. He has since grown to be pivotal in H.E.L.P.'s field-work; his street-smarts complimenting his biochemical abilities to make him one of the Bureau's most promising agents. However, he has been on the end of multiple disciplinaries, having garnered a spotted reputation for cutting legal corners and slacking on paperwork. Privately, he struggles with the comedown of ability-intensive assignments, which lead to intense mood crashes. This had led to periodic inhibitor use to curb the effects. His occasional 'disappearances', as he retires into isolation between assignments, along with his pheromone coordinating abilities, have led to the coinage of his alias: Cicada.

P H O T O I D E N T I F I C A T I O N P H O T O I D E N T I F I C A T I O N _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ P H Y S I C A L D E S C R I P T I O N P H Y S I C A L D E S C R I P T I O N _________________________________________________________ RACE: | Italian & Latino _________________________________________________________________ SEX: | Male _________________________________________________________________ HEIGHT: | 6'1" _________________________________________________________________ WEIGHT: | 170lbs _________________________________________________________________ HAIR COLOUR: | Black _________________________________________________________________ HAIR LENGTH: | Medium tapered _________________________________________________________________ EYE COLOUR: | Hazel _________________________________________________________________ HANDEDNESS: | Right A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T S, & W E A K N E S S E S A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T S, & W E A K N E S S E S _________________________________________________________ H Y P E R H U M A N A B I L I T Y || BIOCHEMISTRY __PRIMARY CLASSIFICATION || Exoteric __SECONDARY CLASSIFICATION || Biological __POWER SCALE || 5 __THREAT CLASSIFICATION || Δ (Delta) Through manipulation of hormones and pheromones, Siro can potently influence the biochemical state of those he encounters; capable of shifting anger into rage, lust into infatuation, or numbing joy into mild contentment. Often mislabelled as a 'mind-controller', Siro has no ability to force an action or override an individual's nature. He can, however, bring someone to their emotional extremes with a shift of serotonin, dopamine, cortisol, etcetera. Where most CUPID-type Hyperhumans find ease with enhancing rage (adrenaline/cortisol) and lust (oxytocin/pheromones), Siro has, through extensive research, sought to sharpen every tool in his kit. He has practiced his manipulation extensively on animals, able to exert powerful influence over pheromone-dependant species, such as insects. While understandably feared for his subtle manipulation of adversaries, he is also able to use his talents to aid his allies, as well as himself. Through surges of adrenaline or metabolism control, he can boost strength, speed, energy, and fatigue-resistance. He can offer makeshift medical support by manipulating immune-boosting biochemicals and growth hormones, or facilitate surgery by providing melatonin or endorphins to encourage sleep or numb pain. He is very physically fit; not through tireless hours in the gym, but through HGH and testosterone manipulation to accelerate muscle growth. L I M I T A T I O N S || Siro cannot conjure a thought into his enemies' minds. He can only enhance or reduce what is already there. He cannot make someone infatuated with him unless they already feel some form of attraction, nor can he instill fear in the fearless. And while he may be able to boost melatonin in an advesary to make them drowsy, he cannot force them to lay down their head and rest. Likewise, there are some individuals with such a limited range of emotions that even when brought to their extremes, their behaviour does not change dramatically. This means that, ocassionally, Siro may come across a foe that he is almost powerless against, aside from any narrow physical edge provided by the enhancement of his own biochemistry. Hormonal changes can take time to come into effect, and pheromones require proximity and airflow to effect others. His powers could easily be nullified under the right circumstances, should his foes be adequately prepared to face him. Furthermore, biochemistry is very complicated. Precision is required, and if Siro was to get lax in his approach, he could quite easily cause unintended side effects, such as seizures, mania, or hormonal crashes. W E A K N E S S E S || The constant micromanagement of his own biochemistry leaves Siro prone to emotional burnout and mood instability. While he can quickly rectify these things when healthy, he places himself at risk of a mental breakdown if overly fatigued. Overuse of his abilities can exhaust the endocrine system, causing hormone crashes and illness. Ironically, while he is a master at manipulating the feelings of others, when his tank is empty, he finds it incredibly difficult to balance his own. Finally; while not strictly a weakness, Siro's powers pose a moral dillema — one of agency and free-will — one that can gnaw away at him when in a slump.

A Hard Rain - Urban Fantasy Noir

Sounds fun, especially if kept small.