Tortoise

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

_{(Addressing: @Raylah and @Jangel13)
(Starring: Abadi)}

At this point, to say that Abadi is having a bad day is just a little bit like saying that the sun is bright, that wind blows, or that the Zetans are gross. It's just obvious. Bad days have become intrinsic to her nature. To be Abadi is to have bad days.

Oh, and her friend is dead. That probably has something to do with it.

The Undefeated patched the news in some time ago, but it hasn't processed yet. That is, the computer has processed the data files, and the ECU government has understood the message- but for Abadi, it hasn't processed yet. Her mind is still running over it. Running over it again, and again, and again, wondering how it could happen, why it happened, why she didn't speak to Kelsie that last day instead of going to the stupid monkey parade...

Three bottles lay around her desk, arranged in no particular order. She never drunk so much before this job. One of the drinks was a gift from a fellow Oligarch, Andrei Federov: he drew a little heart on the bottle. He's been flirting with her since she turned eighteen. Never before was she emotionally low enough to really bother with him, but right now he is in her bed, a couple of rooms away.

She takes another drink.

There's a new colony on the scene, the only one the ECU hasn't reached out to yet. That's ironic: their policy used to be "Be first for everything!" Maybe it's an attempt to stave off that onsetting depression, or maybe it's even out of humor, but Abadi decides to take up that old slogan just one more time. She sends the new colony a message, all official and welcoming, as if her government and her way of life aren't collapsing beneath her feet as she writes it.

Message to the Mahre Collective

Welcome to the Meeting Place! I am Liaison Abadi, and I'd like to start with an apology for not reaching out to you sooner. I represent the Earth Cultural Union here, a nation dedicated to preserving the ways and forms of our ancestors, the glorious people of Old Earth.

We have heard good things about your people! Our stalwart allies, the Undefeated, have apparently reached some sort of bargain with you. As we trust their judgement, we hope this will mean good things for our two peoples as well. We should speak.

In hopes of meeting soon,
Jamila Abadi, ECU Liaison.

---

~~~~~~~~

---

White Flower Revolution
(Part Three of Four)

After hours of effort, the last mounted screen on Lawley Street is smashed. At long last, the little residential neighborhood is allowed some moments of perfect, blessed quiet. They sit in a little bubble of dark and silent, separate from the screeching lights of the rest of Neo London. There is no more music here; peace, peace, peace.

It does not last long.

A high voice rises from the darkness, shaking with emotion- it belongs to the same one who destroyed the last ECU screen. It shouts, "This is what they do!" In the shadows, a dozen of the other screen-smashing volunteers gather around to listen. The voice shouts again, "This is what they do!"

The one shouting is a young woman, Tiffany Holstead, and she is a recent Mixtist convert. When the old Mixies flooded back in from the wasteland, they got to work fast, making believers of the secular city-dwellers. Some of them, anyway; Tiffany is one. She was won over by the furious preaching of an old woman who had spent decades in the desert. The same desperation and fervor colors her own speaking, even when she doesn't always realize it. She speaks now, and people listen.

"This government, the ECU, they've had a boot to our throats since the day we were born. They can't live without control, they can't breathe without it."

So starts her thesis. It's an opinion everyone agrees with; it makes them eager to listen. She feels that power, right away. The unique, addictive sensation of a crowd that wants to hear what you have to say. She goes on.

"But, listen," she says, after some time, "they have a secret: they're weak." A few of the men in the audience cheer roughly at this. "That's why they have to lie- always, always, always. Because they're afraid of the Truth! Because they know, deep down in their hearts, that they don't have the power to stop us all. They have never had the power. All they ever had are lies." She smiles slightly, a sight nobody can see in the dark. "Have you ever seen how quickly a lie crumbles in the face of the Truth?"

Now more than a few men cheer. (In fact, a little girl overhears claps from up on her mother's balcony.)

Her audience is still secular, of course, like most of New Hollywood. But the rebels love the Mixies anyway; everything they preach affirms what the Flowers already believe. Everyone loves to hear themselves reassured. There is no pedestal here, in this pitch-dark alleyway that echoes everything she says, but Tiffany Holstead is on one. She feels a growing mass of people surround her, caught up in the sound of her sermon, and made bold by this, her soft voice becomes crackling lighting.

"No, no, they're wrong. They're wrong!" Her last two words bounce off the metal-concrete, like a chorus. There it is again: the giddy feeling of finally, finally saying something that you've wanted to your whole life. And now more than the walls are echoing Tiffany Holstead; the crowd joins in.

"They're wrong!"
"They're wrong!"
"They're wrong!"

She points in the direction of New Westminster, from where the Matuvistans think they run the city. Her words take on a life of their own: they call them murderers-for-hire, attack dogs. The ECU can't defend itself, she hears herself say, so they summon these brutes to do their dirty work. The blood of every New Hollwoodite in this alley boils; there is death in their hearts.

At last, and at a pivotal moment in her speech, she speaks the fatal words. "It's time to get rid of them." The mobs cheers. Because now it is a mob.

But at the very back, a man shakes his head, and limps away.

~~~~~~~~

He limps right into a pub.

And then he limps past the kitchen, down a secret flight of spiral stairs, and into the secondary, secret pub that's hidden beneath the main one. It's called the Underpub, and it's a prime gathering spot for one of the biggest gangs of Neo London. Here you can talk to anyone, so long as they're a criminal, and find anything, so long as it's stolen. It's a far cry from the mob-ridden streets above: here it is dim, cool, and quiet. Something out of a 20th century mafia film, fused seamlessly with 19th century British furniture.

The criminals of the ECU are just like the Oligarchs.

The man doesn't stop limping until he collapses, whole-body, into a well-creased leather chair, long reserved just for him. It even has "Mixie" cut onto the side. He gave the person who did that a black eye- but that's what it takes to be a Mixtist in a world of crooks. He wears it as a badge of honor.

"Mixie!" Calls one of the aforementioned crooks, from across a sea of smoke and classy design. This room is small and cramped, but something about the clutter of furniture and the fog of cigar smoke makes it feel ancient and huge. A world all its own. You could get lost, in this one room.

The crook, whose name is Johnny, weaves his way through it, even past the lightly manned bar. Everybody knows that the Mixie doesn't leave his chair. For one, because he has a bad knee. And for two, because he likes making people come to him. Johnny does, dragging up a little wooden barstool.

"What's the news, Dallas?" he asks, swiveling in his stool a little bit.
"I thought my name was Mixie," says the other, quietly. He doesn't bother to turn and look at his guest. It would show weakness. This is all about appearances.
"That's because you are a Mixie, Dallas! But hey, you're a Dallas too, Mixie. How've you been?"

Dallas wasn't going to answer, but Johnny will never know it, because he goes on talking without waiting.

"I've been good, me-self. Well, we've been good, you know. The Scuttlers." Dallas never thought that was a particularly impressive name for a violent street gang. "Since you Mixies and the Flower lads took over, we've been rolling in it, really."

"Don't say 'you Mixies'," Dallas interrupts. "I'm not with them."

Johnny's young face crinkles up in confusion, even folding away some of that teenage acne. "I thought you were a..." he struggles to use the proper term, "... a Mixtist?"

"I am a Mixtist. Just not that kind." Dallas taps his fingers impatiently, and that's the end of that discussion. How could he explain to this kid how different he was from the ones on the street, from the Tiffany Holsteads of the world? Everyone knows that the ECU drove the Mixtists out of the cities decades ago. Or so they thought: yes, most of them did go outwards, squatting in those ugly ruins for generations. Dallas had heard about them. The harsh life of outlaw taught them to be discriminating and fanatic- they cast aside the old ways, adopting an obsession with a singular god they named "Truth."

But that's not what Dallas is. He's the descendent of those who managed to stay in the cities, despite the protectors trying to drive them out. They went underground, hiding their faith behind secret passcodes and occult rituals nobody else could identify. Life is harsh for them, too, but in a different way: they've had to cozy up to criminals to keep themselves hid.

Like the Scuttlers.

The boy shakes his head. "Whatever, I can't keep up with your type. But we have been doing really well. Nobody is even protecting the good stuff anymore. Did you see the latest haul? You should join up officially, Mixie."

Far over head, Tiffany Holstead is stomping a mob through the street, heading for New Westminster. But Dallas doesn't hear it: all his attention is suddenly on the Scuttler's "latest haul." Little Johnny has begged his boss to drag out a big trunk full of micro-transmitters: an ECU device that can create touchable holograms anywhere. Highly experimental, illegal for citizens to hold- and worth millions.

The Scuttler boss smiles with pride. He's a fat, aging man, a paragon of his breed. No morals, no concerns but money and power. Dallas knows his kind, he's lived his whole life with that kind, and only barely stopped himself from becoming one; but that means he knows how they think. Looking here at these transmitters, and remembering the mob about to get massacred overhead, he begins to form a brilliant idea.

"Hey, Boss," Dallas says, slowly, "I think I have a plan that'll make you more money and more power than you've ever seen... I'm talking real, political power. A place in the new government, maybe." He lifts his head, making eye contact. "And all you need to do is help me stop some sheep from getting slaughtered. Deal?"

~~~~~~~~

_{(Addressing: [@Irreedeemable] and @SgtEasy)
(Starring: Tiffany)}

It was a deal.

As Tiffany's mob grows, chanting its way through the streets and busting every screen on the way, the Scuttlers stalk behind them. They walk in the darkness left in Tiffany's wake: where her people destroy the lights, there is a hiding place for the Scuttlers. Crooks in the shadows, like every ECU holo-film about them.

And speaking of holograms...

The Matuvistan squadron they come upon are very, very surprised, when the men they shoot at don't die. They aren't real men, after all, but holograms created by the micro-transmitters. The Scuttlers have sent out holographic soldiers- borrowed from some war game Johnny likes to play- that have simple combat programmed into them. They can't coordinate or follow orders at all, but after the Matuvistans waste bullets shooting at light, well, that's when the real fighters came out.

After weeks of psychological torment, this mob is in no state for mercy. They leave the Matuvistan's bodies lying on the sidewalk. A bloody sight. Vengeance incarnate.

Then, the chimpanzee shows up.

This one is a surprise for everyone. He claims to come from an entire planet of apes- with, apparently, very strong political views. His mercenaries are ready to fight for the White Flower cause, if only they would accept them. They seem to already see Tiffany Holstead as a leader (and, she is a little shocked to realize, so do all the men and women around her) and, reluctantly, she agrees. Normally, even the Flowers would refuse aide so strange, but these are desperate times.

Despite some hoping, they come upon no other Matuvistan squad by luck. Soon, the make-shift walls around New Westminster, the headquarters the Matuvistans have been living in, are before them. They draw out the holo-soldiers again, even taking a few of their enemies out that way, but soon the jetknights and the real warriors are alerted. The apes in particular fight fiercely here, a real terror in close quarters, where the strength and power of a gorilla can face down ten men. But the Matuvistans have their walls: they retreat, firing from above.

Then, despite their allies and their holograms, and all their desperate cleverness, the Flowers are hurt. They are mowed down. And in panic, with foreign bullets raining down and screams all around, they are broken and scattered. The Holstead Uprising, as it will come to be called, has fallen.

But not all is lost. Tiffany Holstead herself survives to fight another day, and if this night proves anything, it is this: the occupiers can bleed.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

@Damo021
PM'd!

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

_{(Addressing: @Irredeemable)}

There's something evil in the air. In New Beijing, Oligarchs have gone missing. To the ECU, the source would seem obvious: those White Flower rebels who have wrested control from their local governments. Except... well, it couldn't be them. Firstly, because they chose to imprison Oligarchs in tight little cells instead of outright killing them. And secondly, because these kills are far, far too efficient. Like it wasn't even human. Like a machine did it.

A machine. Something made of metal and smooth surfaces, with a face like death itself. Someone spotted that, exactly that, prowling outside an Oligarch's villa. This was a while ago, before they all fled the city. Except that one never got the chance to flee, because he was found dead the next morning. Along with ten security guards, four protectors, and his wife. Bullet analysis suggests all shots were fired from their own guns.

Three days ago, a cell was found empty. Something had pried the bars open. Then it had slipped inside, and gutted the high-up protector imprisoned there. The White Flowers had put him there for 'safekeeping' until trials could be held; this was one they would never have to try. Security cameras fizzed out as it approached, whatever it was, but the other prisoners heard the echoes of clanging footsteps. Then they heard the protector scream.

Yesterday, an Oligarch who publicly espoused anti-cyborg rhetoric went missing in a small town outside the city. When they found his body, everyone thought the Flowers must have done it. But what Flower would have cut out his tongue, after killing him?

Today, finally, today, action is taken. The White Flowers of New Beijing are determined to be a real government, and not only a lawless mob. This thing may be killing their enemies, but it is still killing on the streets the Flowers claim as their own. So, even with the lights blaring and the music flashing, they put together a response. Flyers are printed out and plastered to street corners, poles, windows and- with some irony- the ever-present screens, offering a reward for information or the capture of this new nemesis: the so-called "Demon of Zeta."

~~~~~~~~

_{(Addressing: @SgtEasy)
(Starring: Abadi)}

The ECU segment of the Meeting Place is, for want of a better term, on fire.

Well, not literally (except for one small table in the bar), but all of the energy and panic of a fire is present. On a screen mounted in the center of the grand hall, arrayed around with gloss and curtains, their fate is flipping by. Three cities have fallen. New Paris was swallowed whole last night- struck by refugees fleeing the nearby Neo London, that house of cards finally fell inward, and anarchy took hold. The lights were turned on, and the music began to play; but the White Flowers have claimed control.

It seems certain now. The sense of impending doom settles over the ECU diplomats. It makes them angry and inattentive. It sits in the back of their minds, telling them they don't have long left. It sinks down deep into their bones, so that they pace back and forth on the station, looking for release. Liaison Abadi is one of these. She walks right out of the ECU segment, this morning, and wanders around the Meeting Place.

Her head is aching, while she drifts around these halls, full of thoughts of failure. Cramped corridors. A hundred different kinds of engineering, almost none of it true to Old Earth. It's easy to get lost here. And something about it makes your mind roam: she keeps thinking back to what will happen when the ECU falls. It's a national embarrassment. Will the proud Oligarchs have to find refuge? Would Matuvista take them in? All that she's believed and, and all that she's worked for, is crumbling apart.

She makes a turn into a familiar hallway. Abadi's feet seem to constantly want to lead her in a very specific direction: towards the Undefeated section. Well, she thinks, maybe that's alright. Maybe she'll see Kelsie. Maybe they can talk over a drink, like they sometimes do. It won't make everything okay, but-

What's that sound?

Throaty, deep vocalization seeps into this hall from somewhere. The Liaison has heard music like this before; "throat singing." Her teacher showed her some back in the academy; she loved it immediately. It's the opposite of other music: it goes deep, earthy, feeling so solid. It wants to drag you down to the ground instead of lifting you into space. It was never a part of her Cultural Expression- which remains primarily Arabic with American and British influences- but she still has an aching, deep fondness for it. She doesn't even have to think. Abadi follows that sound.

She emerges into the light of a neutral section of the Meeting Place.

She stops still, not able to process what she's seeing.

They'd noticed the arrival of new foreign ships, naturally. But the ECU segment is in such a panic right now, they hardly paid attention to them. A thousand problems needed putting out, half the staff has wanted to go home, there's a delay on the paychecks, and more- so they pushed it to the side, and figured they'd greet the newbies later.

Now Abadi was caught unprepared. Unprepared for this, definitely. A parade of primates. Gorillas, chimps and orangutans carrying banners and weapons that- huh- Abadi just starts to recognize. That one's a USA style gun. And those are definitely muskets. They're singing Mongolian music, and marching in line like a parade...

But the weight doesn't fully come crashing down on her until the lead one starts to talk. With orange, hairy arms spread wide, he lectures about history and the legacy of Earth. And then the connection is made, and Abadi starts to laugh.

Of course, of course. The apes love Old Earth! Just like the ECU! After all, the universe has already done all it can to mock New Hollywood since the Gateways first reopened. The Undefeated could barely stop themselves from laughing, when they first saw the way New Hollywoodites dressed. Or what about when their head ambassador had to go, hat-in-hand, begging cyborgs to save his life? Or now, when their cities have become a playground for foreign armies?

Oh, and it all goes on. Until finally, finally, when all their news screens say the ECU is just on the brink of collapse, they finally meet people who look to be as fanatic about human history as they are. An ally, with their bare paws making ridiculous flip-flap sounds on the Meeting Place floors. An equal, hoisting up simian banners that make a parody of Earth history. They hold in them a thousand cultures and peoples, ideas and dress codes, all represented in a single nation. A walking culture clash. The perfect representation of ECU philosophy- but everyone has the face of a monkey.

Abadi laughs more, louder and louder, until eventually she feels hot tears of shame streaking down her face.

It's all been a joke, the entire time. Her entire life. And this is the punchline.

~~~~~~~~

_{(Addressing: @TimeMaster)
(Starring: Kayla)}

Kayla wakes up, and she isn't Kayla anymore. Or she is. But so are all these other people, because they have her memories. And she's all them, because she has his- theirs. They're her, and she's him- them- us. One. But Two.

Let's back up.

Kayla wakes up, and she isn't Kayla anymore. Because her mind and memories were transferred into a cloning machine. The machine did its job perfectly: her memories were copied over to the One, and the One's memories were copied back into her. Tonight, two distinct lifetimes are swimming around in her head. She remembers the streets of New Beijing, and the ancient ones of Old London. She remembers surviving alone on the One's homeworld. She remembers-

"Wait," she says aloud, "you guys were feeding me human meat?"

She remembers everything James William Grant was, and now everything he is. She knows the last thoughts of the Williams who died to become her dinner, and the memories of the James who brought it to her. And she definitely remembers how nobody bothered to tell her about this.

She gets why they wouldn't, of course. But the vomiting still lasts for a good two minutes.

With that out of the way, she's able to pick herself up off the landing bay floor and take in the sight around her. It's chaotic. The One has destroyed every screen and device in this area, but further off, just passing the little bubble of darkness they're standing in, she can see the endless light-show of New Beijing. It's near to midnight, right now, but you would think it was clear daylight. Every light in the city is on full blast. And then there's the sound: music of every variety echoes outwards, distorted by the strange acoustics of metal skyscrapers.

"Is... is this what they're doing?"

A member of the One tells her that, yes, it is. Nobody sleeps anymore. And they've spotted huge crowds of refugees trying to flee, just to get caught by protector gangs lurking along the major roadways. The whole city is a trap.

The old Kayla would have been paralyzed with rage. But not this one: since the memory-transfer, she's different. With three centuries of survival moving around her mind, no obstacle seems too great. She's beaten worse than this. (Or she feels like she has, anyway.) She cracks her knuckles- a habit borrowed from someone James met back in London, three hundred years ago.

"Come on, boys. I know what we can do about this."

~~~~~~~~

_{(Addressing: @SgtEasy)
(Starring: Abadi)}

After her outburst, Abadi has had a chance to cool down. The dog probably helped: when the Khanate released the puppies, one of them ran straight to Abadi. He licked the salty tears off of her face. She's never been an animal person, but everyone likes dogs. It's required.

She's in her office now, with one hand idly stroking that Golden Retriever fur. Meanwhile, her eyes are flitting over the message the Khanate just sent, offering medical aide and some rather interesting "mercenary" assistance. The former is impossible: after what happened to Tanaka, the ECU wouldn't allow medical help from any other nation. The mercenaries, though...

It's gone well so far. The Colombian "volunteers" were a major success on Zeta, even if they couldn't really penetrate the cyborg cities more than anyone else could. And the Matuvistan men-at-arms have worked wonders in Neo London. So what's the harm in one more? Or a dozen more, or a hundred. New Hollywood is on fire; calling all fire-fighters.

Abadi chuckles at her own joke, and feels a little light-headed while she does it. She's been under way too much stress lately. Deep down, she knows this won't work, more than anything else they could do would. But she sends a message of acceptance anyway. Her fingers write it almost automatically, exhausted and stumbling over the keyboard. No proof-reading is done. She falls asleep at her desk.

Message to the Khanate

Greetings to the Khanate from the Earth Cultural Union. We regggret to inform you that medical asssistnatce can not be accepted at this time, do to lugostical problems. We apologise.

Mercenaries can and will currently be accepted. Please coordinate witsh ourm Matubistan allies about hotspots of dissent. New Paris has fallen. Also, please advice your former citizens to be aware of psychological disturbances in cities currently held by the rioters: eye and ear protection, against brightness and sound, is recommended.

The "White Flower' rioters have no legitmate complaint. It is simply a coup. Rhetoric from them is dangerous and full aof lies. Thankyou.

Liaison Abadi.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

_{(Starring: Yun)}

Yun hates having to go out, these days. Everything you see is a reminder. No, scratch that: everything you hear is a reminder. There is no silence on New Hollywood. The Oligarch-controlled media is everywhere, omnipresent. It stands at each street corner, shouting at you through speakers attached to the neon streetlamps. Only partially drowned out by the beat of distant music, and the little thumping of raindrops all around.

Because, of course, it's raining again.

He doesn't bother with an umbrella, or even a hood. Just like he didn't bother shaving today. Or yesterday. Or whenever it was that his facial hair started to look like a wiry jungle. He could pass as homeless, if he didn't have a home.

Is that a stupid observation? Probably. Yun doesn't care any more. He looks like a wet dog, by the time he finally gets to the little market stall- the only one nearby to have survived both the recent weather and the recent politics. Everyone else is shutting down. As soon as the White Flowers took over New Beijing, the local economy near imploded.

On a mounted screen nearby, jutting uncomfortably out of the brick wall, a new announcer has a lot to say about that. Yun tries to ignore him; Oligarch mouthpiece. He focuses on the old woman running the stall.

"Hey, uh, you happen to have any mushroom?" Some people think it's strange, but Yun always had a taste for them.

The old woman at the stall nods her head. She's so old, it's barely noticeable amongst all the shaking she's already doing. Yun nods back. Silently, trembling, the woman starts to move; it takes her a thousand years to reach down into the depths of her stall. Yun begins to wonder how long he's going to wait.

In the meantime, the news announcer keeps talking, unaware and unabated.

"You see, Leong," he's saying to another man on the screen, who must be Leong, "these White Flower rebels have no idea how to run a city. None. I'm telling you, they're running the beautiful city of New Beijing into the ground. The Colombians are having to evacuate their people from our whole planet, is how bad it's getting. It's an embarrassment."

Below his talking head, the headline "NEW HOLLYWOOD EMBARRASSMENT" appears in ultra-bold text. The old stall woman can't seem to find the promised mushrooms; but don't worry, deary, she's still looking. Yun assures her it's alright.

"And that's the problem!" Leong answers back, still on the screen. "We only barely won the Zetan war, but you know what, we went out there and we did it. We did what we had to do. Nobody else was going to stand up for humanity. No other nation cared enough. The Earth Cultural Union is the only colony in the world that has truly, honestly held on to who we are. And these White Flowers, or Mixtists, or whatever they're calling themselves these days-" he snorted, a sound that was distorted so strangely by the static and the rain- "they just have no appreciation of that. None at all. Honestly, I hope to Earth the Matuvistansa kill every last one of them. Is that too harsh? I don't think so. They've turned their back on what it means to be human. Just like the Zetans. Just like the Xandalians."

Aha, some mushrooms! They were buried underneath only five or six million pots and pans, each one styled after a different culture and time period. How much kitchen equipment does this one stall sell? Its overhead tent is tattered and full of holes, only barely holding out the water. One wonders how the uncovered screens and speakers never short out. The woman wraps up the mushrooms slowly, tenderly, each one individually.

"The Xandalians," not-Leong starts up again. "Oh, boy, let me tell you about the Xandies..."

Yun pays for his mushrooms. He holds his hands over his ears on the way home.

~~~~~~~~

_{(Addressing: @Crusader Lord)}

Floating far over the lights and joys of New Hollywood, someone is pretty bored.

Since the Zetan war ended, life as an ECU fighter pilot has not been particularly exciting. You spend half your time docked in a cruiser. You spend the other half of your time doing meaningless "patrols" around the Gateway and the planet. You do drills nobody cares about. And, if you're like Pilot Klaus, you watch anime on your infopad while the hours crawl by.

Klaus has been watching anime since he was old enough to pick his own shows. His favorite are the action-themed ones, released in Old Japan largely at the end of the 20th century. All bright colors, dramatic fight scenes and a generous helping of explosion. Part of him knows they are aimed at kids, but the rest of him doesn't care.

Beep, beep! Interrupting the anime time that Klaus takes very seriously, sensors detect something rising up out of the atmosphere of New Hollywood. Whatever it is must be relatively small, built for stealth, and highly insulated: to ECU scanners, it read like the echo of a ghost. But it's close. Very close.

Curiosity wins over. Klaus pivots the entirety of his shuttle, aiming carefully so that he might see what it is with his own eyes. And then his jaw drops.

Rising out of the hazy gray-blue atmosphere of New Hollywood, against a backdrop of wastelands and cities, is a man. But not a man: it is metal, all black, with a face almost like a knight's helmet. For a moment, the sunlight bounces off of its smooth exterior, and Klaus swears he can make out hands and feet of alloy.

It's a mech.

In shock, Klaus flies to his feet. His head bangs- ouch!- against the cramped ceiling, and the little infopad in his lap goes scattering to the floor. By chance, it lands in a very acoustic spot, so that the whole cabin is suddenly filled the sound of a familiar song that has just begun to play.

For a moment, inspired by the thematically appropriate theme song, Klaus doesn't even want to fight the creature. He just wants to stand there and stare out his cockpit, taking in the awe of a spacecraft in the shape of a robot in the shape of a man. It rises out of the hazy air, fully in space now, right alongside Klaus' ship; which now feels clumsy and garish by comparison. But then, sadly, whoever is within the black suit seems to spot him, and Klaus quickly has to jerk his ship out of the way before he is obliterated.

A missile flies through where he used to be. The moment of awe passes; panic asserts itself. With a finger jabbed on the "Comms" button, Klaus sends out a distress call, soon answered by four other fighter pilots. Together, they give chase.

The mech is not alone. Five identical comrades appear, rising up from the surface in the same way. The fighter pilots are divided in trying to catch them all. The unknown figures duck and swerve, move sometimes like humans and other times like ships. Klaus calls out, "I can't catch them!" His commander cries back, over comms: "Then just fucking shoot and hope!"

All at once, the ECU fighters open fire, releasing a motley assortment of mass-driver weapons. Bullets built for spacecraft crash into two of the mechs at lightening speed, sending them spinning. It is several seconds before they can right themselves. But the ones not hit release a kind of weapons fire that flare up in the void, like a light show in space.

"That's- so cool!"
"Klaus, they are trying to kill us. Please focus."

Klaus tries to focus. They pursue the mysterious figures for another two minutes, even though it feels more like two hours. At last, all six disappear behind the moon of a local gas giant. And when the fighters round it, they are gone.

"Who were those guys?"

~~~~~~~~

_{(Addressing: @Irredeemable and @TimeMaster)}

Far below the interstellar dogfighting, and far to the West of Yun's silent little struggle, is a man on a mission. His mission is simple, but heavier than the world. Because he is the man who will save the ECU.

Technically, that man should be Savant James Heralds. But, well, he's not. The Savant has been almost an absent commander lately, withdrawing more and more into his old passions of philosophy and engineering. He'll see nobody but his friends; and even them he mistrusts. Dark rumors swirl around his head.

In his place, an Oligarch named Jean Pierre Dupont stands tall as the new Emergency Director. Except he doesn't stand tall, because he is only 5'2, and the nickname "Neo Napoleon" has already began to haunt his every step. (He constantly reminds others that Napoleon was average height for his time, and they constantly remind Jean that he's not.)

He walks over a large, holographically enabled map that dominates the floor of the Strategic Command Warroom. As he steps, little three-dimensional displays project upwards from the floor map, responding to his presence. They display cities: seven of them. Two, labeled Neo London and New Beijing, are wreathed in a very menacing shade of red. Enemy territory.

The other five are colored after the ECU's trademarked gold. Mostly, that is: little dots of red represent where White Flower activity has created hotspots of dissent. Already, they're exporting their revolutionary ideals. If it did not frighten and anger the Oligarch Dupont so much, he would be impressed at their quick spread. The Flowers are populists to the core, promising a better life for the disenfranchised, the outsiders, and the poor. And there are plenty of those in New Hollywood today.

"We need to make them doubt themselves," said a voice. It belonged to a man named Aamadu, who like Dupont, was a native to Neo Istanbul; one of the cities being overtaken by a sea of red dots.

Dupont shook his head violently. "We've done that, my old friend, a trillion times. They still hear the news. And get the holo-films." Another red dot appeared, this time on the city of New Rome. An open air holo-suite had just been bombed there. "We need to use force."

"Force? Come on, Napoleon-" Aamadu is the only non-oligarch Dupont has met who's not intimidated by his title- "force is what created this problem. The protectors." He spat the word out like it was a curse. "And we are not soldiers. It doesn't matter how many maps you make, or Strategic Command Warrooms you build. The ECU is not an army. We're storytellers. We're propagandists. We are..." he smiles, clearly having an idea, "magicians."

But Jean just rolled his eyes. "Stop talking in riddles, and tell me what you think I should do."

"I don't think, I know." He tapped the hovering recreation of Neo London, which enlarged itself at his touch. Neo London was displayed in perfect, exacting detail, down to the last piece of litter on the sidewalk. And in the center of all the red lighting, New Westminster was a glowing beacon of blue. "We have powerful allies here. Far better in the art of war than we could ever, ever be. Yes, I know that our back is against the wall. But that is the time to rely on only our skills. Tell me, do you Oligarchs still have access to the media systems?"

Jean affirms that they do. And finally, Aamadu begins to spill his plan.

First, they'll pump up every light in Neo London and New Beijing, making it brighter than daylight even in the middle of the night. Then they'll crank up the volume on the street-side speakers and screens, too, so that you'll hear them indoors with a pillow over your head. Jets will fly over the two cities in random patterns, occasionally blasting off fireworks, and occasionally dropping bombs onto the homes of well-known rebels. They'll turn the public holo-suites off. The 24/7 news broadcasts are to be replaced with a constant, loud music that plays into every street and alleyway, because there is no escape from the music of New Hollywood.

And more: Jean mentions that the Flowers often communicate via electronic messages, shared through their infopads. Every citizen uses such things; it's New Hollywood's version of the internet. But loyal agents will now hack into every vulnerable White Flower message board, and flood the rest with false information, making it completely untrustworthy.

In the end? A city of uncoordinated, sleep-deprived, on-edge civilians who have no chance against any military effort. And then, then, says Aamadu, they can call in Dupont's beloved protectors to sweep everyone up.

The two men talk late into the night, until eventually, their planning turns to celebration. They order champagne and propose a toast. Not because they are certain they're going to win. No, just the opposite; because in their hearts, they know this is the last ditch effort before the rebels overwhelm them, and the last chance to save their peculiar culture. Because, if the ECU is to fall, at least it shall fall doing what it has always done.

As they clang their glasses together, golden champagne spills out over the floor.

"To our final act!"

~~~~~~~~

His office isn't as clean as it used to be, Tanaka thinks, correctly. And it smells like oil. Both these observations are true, but he will not say them. You can't say these sorts of things to a Savant.

The Savant in question, James Heralds, is leaned over the metal carcass of his most recent project. Even if there were a gun aimed at Tanaka's mechanical heart, he couldn't guess what it was for. It's something with spindly, leg-like appendages that jitter and jump while Heralds prods at them. It reminds you of a patient on an operating table.

He does not like that thought, and quickly brings up the subject he came here for.

"Savant Heralds," he says, in a carefully modulated tone, "I was sent by the Noocratic Counc-" but he is interrupted.

"Tanaka, my youthful friend!," Heralds exclaims, without bothering to turn around from his twitching metal abomination, "It has been too long since we've seen each other. You've been so preoccupied. The Meeting Place is a harsh world."

The young man smiles. (Heralds, still having his back turned, has not bothered to wear one.) "Indeed, Savant. I'm glad to be on temporary leave. And as I was sayi-"

"Are you now? That doesn't sound like the Tanaka I know. In fact, I'm positive you still want to be up there." Tanaka feels a stab in his chest, and at that same moment, remembers what it's always like to talk to the Savant. Heralds goes on: "But I don't mean to contradict you, my youthful friend. You know, you've always been my favorite. Have you gotten the chance to visit Old Japan since you've been back?"

The youth shrugged. "I have never been one for culture parties, Savant." Or for Old Japan. "And of course, in the holo-suites, I prefer-"

"The Wild West!" Heralds turns around. His face is wearing that smile now, for the first time in three or four weeks, and is also covered in grease and oil. Almost nothing is left in him of the Savant, genius leader of the ECU: he looks more like a deranged mechanic. Tanaka wonders how long Heralds has been stuffed up in here. The Noocratic Council contacted him specifically to check on the Savant. They said...

"Oh, yes, cowboy shoot outs and wandering heroes. Yes, very playful. Quaint. Childish. Not," he promises, "that there's anything wrong with that." But his eyes say otherwise.

Tanaka swallows it. "Savant, may I ask-" he gestures to the room at large, as grandly as he can without feeling like he's taking too many liberties- "what is all this?"

"Just projects," Heralds answers immediately. And when he talks next, his voice is somehow harder. Like gray iron: "Why? What did they say? Who have you been talking to?"

This time, the other man doesn't even get the chance to be interrupted. Heralds has resumed before he can open his mouth. "That's why you're here, isn't it? My enemies. They got to you? Who got to you?" Tanaka notes the scattered language. He has never heard the Savant speak so messily. "The Noocratic Council? The ex-protectors? That crazy woman, Kayla? The... White Flowers?"

Tanaka's face goes near as white as those flowers, when Heralds says that, and then the Savant is laughing loudly. He turns and picks up a little box made completely of gears. He tightens one screw, then another, then places it down to whir loudly on the table. "I know you're not my enemy, Tanaka. Not you. But you must be aware. There are some who would kill me, if they could. And you are so foolish. So young. They would use you to spy on me. Don't tell anyone a word. Don't trust anyone who is not me." He rubs his gray, stubbly chin. "If they kill me, they will kill you. Never forget that. You are my closest ally. They know this. My life is your life."

Tanaka looks down at the floor.

"My youthful friend," Heralds repeats again, "don't be so discouraged. This is the way things must go. You see, I am the Savant. I know things. I've read all the histories of Old Earth. Every nation, every culture, every war. Even the ones we censure from the public. I alone know them all. I am the Savant. And I know something else," he steps over scrap metal, leaning in close to Tanaka, and speaks in a conspiratorial whisper, "I know how this revolution will end. There's only so many ways these things can happen. And once certain evens have begun, and indeed passed, the outcome of any war is all but determined. Oh, those stupid, superstitious Mixtists may talk of 'prophecy,' but I know a real prophecy. I know how the White Flower Revolution ends."

Is it too much to hope for? Tanaka meets Herald's eyes. "How, Savant? Do... we win?" He wants to believe. So, so much he wants to believe. In the Savant, in the Noocracy, in all of it. His heart- robotic as it might be- is still fully loyal.

Herald's smile falters. "You've always been so... naive."

With that, the Savant turns to work on his miscellaneous projects again. Gears, wires and engineering consumes his world. Try as he might, and as he does, Tanaka can't stir the Savant to conversation again. It is a steel wall.

He turns to leave, at last. But as soon as he reaches the cramped office door-

"Tanaka, look!" He turns around, and Heralds is holding... something. A misshapen lump of metal and plastic, beating rhythmically, bouncing the cords that dangle off of it. "It's your heart!"

He feels sick to the stomach. He walks out of the room without saying another word. When the Noocratic Council contacts him to ask if the Savant is still stable- because all the whispers suggest he is not- he will lie and say that Heralds is fine. Everything is fine.

Everything is fine, everything is fine.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

Announcements

Hey y'all. Most of this gets discussed in Discord, but just so that we can have it in a more permanent, less-cluttered format, I'm making some major RP announcements here.

To start with: a Time Skip is planned. Following the conclusion of the White Flower war and preceding the introduction of Sigma's Gaians, there will be a 6 month skip. Everybody can use this time to say that they've been working on their military, or developing major projects, or restructuring their society to better deal with the post-Gateway world, or whatever else.

Secondly- drum roll please- Irredeemable is now co-GM! Why should be obvious to everyone. Irr has been here since the very start, made more IC posts than I can possibly count, and has been a part of every major plotline. Me, them and Sigma will be collaborating on major discussions and future events.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

White Flower Revolution

(Part 2)

There's supposed to be stars in the sky. Not the big spheres of burning gas that planets orbit around, that you see in astronomy maps, but stars. Real stars. The little twinkling lights in the sky that you wish upon. But you can't see any tonight- or most of the nights that Li has seen. Not that she's worried about it.

"Isn't it beautiful up here?" she asks.
"Yeah," he answers.

It's the cities, they say. New Beijing, like every New Hollywood city, is an endless parade of light and noise. Li likes it like that; even if all that brightness hides the night. It might be near to midnight, but the sky overhead is only a plain gray sheet.

"I would stay up here forever, wouldn't you?" she asks.
"Sure," he answers.

Her boyfriend has never been as enthusiastic about these things as she is. She was hoping they could really enjoy the Ferris wheel together, or any part of Nosi Amusement Park, but he's been distracted the entire time. No reaction to anything. It's all that news he watches, she decides. Hearing revolution this and Gateway that, he never thinks about anything else any more. He pinned a white flower on to his shirt a week ago. It's still there- Li truly does not like that.

They're coming to the peak of the Ferris wheel now, riding slowly up to its zenith; the ever-present carnival music picks up the pace a little, like it's playing just for them. And it might be. Late on a Monday night, following an entire day of solid rain, almost nobody is still here. It's just Li, Ramesh and the staff. And a lot of animatronic clowns. They move in strange dances.

Honestly, there's too many for comfort. The fear of clowns has never been as rampant on New Hollywood as it might be in other places (strange costumes and bright colors are too common to be scary) but there's just something in the way they move that puts Li on edge. Robotic. All wearing those poofy clothes and those plastic masks. Why couldn't they just use holograms?

"I don't like the clowns," she says.
"Then don't look at them," he answers. She tries not to.

Ah, there. That's a sight that puts even the clowns out of her mind. Gorgeous. Her and Josh have now reached the precarious tip of the Ferris wheel, and they can see everything. To their left, the lights and joys of New Beijing. To their right, a vast open wasteland dotted with Bezian ruins. And right in front of them, the war between them both: the little bits of grass encroaching on the wasteland, the little tale-tell signs of terraforming and buildings making this alien world into something human. Li, the true New Hollywoodite that she is, sheds a tear at the sight. This ride was worth the price.

Below, some clowns stop dancing. But Li does not notice, because she's still watching the view.

"Look!" Li tells her boyfriend. He looks. He nods. She jostles his arm: "No, really look! Can't you see it?" He nods again, faster, with a little latent irritation behind it that she pretends not to notice- but she does.

Below, some clowns take off their plastic masks.

"Listen," Li says, "we paid a lot of money to come here today, okay? We've been planning it for, like, three weeks. It took us both forever to get this day off."

Below, the clowns aren't really clowns any more. They were never animatronic. Li hasn't looked yet.

Ramesh finally smiles back at her, but in a sad kind of way. "You're right, Li," he says. "I've just been thinking a lot lately. With all the stuff on the news channels. It gets you going, you know?" He forces a laugh. "I'm sor-"

The Ferris wheel stops. It's a creaking, shuttering stop that feels very unintentional; it cuts Ramesh off in the middle of his apology. It cuts Li off, too, from milking it. It's silent for a moment. Nothing but the whining of the wheel. Some puddles splash.

"Uh... hello?" Li is shouting down the side. "Hey, we're still on this!"

The wind blows as an answer. It's not a very articulate one.

"Hello!" She shouts again. Ramesh has to be elbowed in the side before he joins in. "Uh, hey... hey, me and my girlfriend are up here!"

"You're not being loud enough, Ramy!"

Splash, splash. Far beneath, something is running through the rain puddles. An army is on the move, an unknown one that can't be seen in their dark robes. They're almost to the Ferris wheel.

"I can't be louder, I have vocal cord damag-"
"Oh, shut up, you've been complaining about that for ten years."
"I've had it for ten years."
"Ju- woaaahh!"

Their stomachs fly into their throats as the wheel drops. A lever has been pulled.

This is not the gentle, playful kind of ride down that the advertisements promised. It's a screaming, screeching, grabbing-each-other kind of ride down where both people briefly think they're going to die. Bang, banging against their metal seats. Plummet hits several Gs. Ramesh sprays the contents of his stomach onto a neon poster on the way down, but has just enough presence of mind to realize it might be an improvement.

They groan in unison when, after swinging back-and-forth like a pendulum, their cart comes to rest at the bottom. The spinning in their heads makes the carnival around them look like watercolor; it takes them both more than a moment to realize what is standing in front of them.

"Oh, uuuugh, it's you guys," Li says. She moans the words.

The guys in question are Mixtists and Flowers- two of the former, and a dozen of the latter. More of both are scattered across the park. They've been planning this 'take over' for three weeks: not only of the Amusement park, but of all New Beijing. Neo London, too. At midnight, every major business and political office is to be seized. And then held- indefinitely. The Oligarchs will all wake up to find a world run by the rebels.

The clown costumes came in to the plan only recently, as a last resort. Security around the Nosi Amusement Park had jumped up lately; some over-zealous, would-be rebel sent in a bomb threat. It nearly stopped the plan in its tracks. But then someone realized: on a dreary Monday night, after rain? Nobody would notice a few extra robo-clowns. They sneaked in, deactivated security cams, and flung the central gate wide open for the small army of rebels waiting outside. A brilliant plan, executed brilliantly.

Then they spotted Josh and Li still on the Ferris wheel.

"By Earth, y'all, what are you doing here?" asked a man named Jeb, a Mixtist who normally did not use such Oligarch expressions. But by Earth, y'all, everyone should have left the park an hour back.

"We didn't leave the park yet," Ramesh says, stating the very obvious. "She thought it would be more romantic at midnight."

"It's more romantic than staying in for the eighty-seventh ni-" but Li is cut off. Jeb has clasped his hand over her mouth. "Shhh, he hisses. "Do you hear that? Listen!"

They listen. There is a faint sound, just on the edge of hearing. It's something repetitive, something high-pitched, something getting louder, getting closer... it is...

Even from under the hand, Li bursts out laughing. Jeb pulls his arm back. "It's carnival music!" she declares. "We're at a carnival, and you're surprised to hear carnival music!" Ramesh toys with the white flower on his shirt, and doesn't laugh along.

Jeb whirls around, to the baker's dozen of rebels behind him. It looks like they think of him as an authority figure. Everybody's spine straightens up a little when he glances over them. "Which one of y'all forgot to turn off the music?" Nobody answers. "Come on, who was it?"

A girl's hand is slowly raised. "It was my responsibility," she says, "but... I did it, I swear. I double checked!"

"What about..." the Mixtist starts, hesitates, stops, and starts again. He feels uneasy; he couldn't explain to you why. "What about the staff? We've got them all locked in the office, right?"

"Under lock, key and death threat," says a man. "We triple checked." Some people look over at the girl again, with those looks that say Well, you must have been the one to mess up. She shirks away from them.

Li rolls her eyes so hard, they should fall out of her sockets. "You guys have no idea what you're doing. Come on, Ramy. Let's just go home. We're loyal citizens. We'll let these morons stay here and play rebel."

She pretends not to notice the hesitation in his movements. He climbs out of the Ferris wheel cart like he doesn't really want to go. Like he wants to stay here and play rebel, too. She takes him by the arm, a white-knuckle grip on his wrist, and practically pulls him along with her to the main gate.

That's when they see it. Hear it, too. It really does sound like carnival music. But it looks like an army.

And that's what it is. An army, all dressed in black, their metallic armor being three inches thick, some carrying speakers that blast music very appropriate to the setting. They march in-line with the clownish beat. Classic ECU: crash the party, but keep with the theme. The only thing that still marks them as protectors is a little gold badge, pinned where their hearts should be. It is molded in the shape of a fist.

"Oh, f-"

Ramesh finishes that word. Then finishes it a few more times. It's fortunate that will not be the last word he ever says, if only because next he has to beg his girlfriend not to go up to the army and ask them for help. "Are you insane!" He hisses into her ear, more animated than he's been all night. "Those are protectors. I don't care what you learned in school, they aren't on our side. And-" he looks down at that white flower on his shirt, now the same as a target on his back, "-they will kill me, Li. Is that what you want?"

They're only a few steps away. The protectors have seen them; their mass fills the gate. There is no exit, there is nowhere to hide. Ramesh grabs his girlfriend's arm, this time, and they run as fast as either can.

The black-gold horde marches behind them, lock-step, unflinching. They don't even speed up. After all, where are the two going to run? Back to the rebels, they go, and frantically recite everything they just saw. Jeb's face goes white. (Really, it goes a shade even lighter than that, for which there is no word but 'terror.')

There is, for half of half of a second, talk about who leaked information, and who the traitor must be- but Jeb silences it. That's not important right now. From what Ramesh and Li say, at least fifty protectors stand out there, and only fifteen rebels- Li bristles at being included in the rebels, but doesn't argue- are here to stand against them. That makes strategy vital, he says. So for just a moment, everyone stops to listen closely to what this supposed strategy is, this thing that will save them from a squad of professional murderers.

It can't be said whether Jeb's plan would have worked, sadly. Because even though they listen, nobody hears him speak. They hear two other things, instead. The first is a man with a deep voice and an American accent shouting: "Initiate Motion 10-A, boys!"

And the second is an unintelligible, horrific wailing. It fills the atmosphere. The speakers have stopped playing circus music; they're playing this instead. This sound that finds you and crawls under your skin, so that you want to claw your ears off to make it stop. This wail that lies somewhere between an infant screaming and a tornado warning. The rebel's flight-or-fight instinct is beyond triggered.

Another command is given, which none of the rebels know of, but the protectors can hear just fine in their protective ear-pieces. "Motion 10-B." Now yellow and red lights are strobing, frantically fast. All the world becomes wailing and flashing. Logic is gone, and instinct takes over.

Just as the protectors intended, the White Flowers break. The girl, the youngest and least ready for this, is the first to run. She doesn't know why she's running, or where to, only that every cell in her body tells her that she must. Seeing her flee strikes the boy beside her in the heart- he runs too. One by one, great and small, the Flowers fall apart. Like roaches when you turn the light on. The proctors laugh, but nobody can hear them.

Li grabs Ramesh's hand again, and for the first time in years, he doesn't pull back. Neither of them can see anymore. With eyes closed, they grope around the amusement park, only knowing to get away from that wailing sound. Their feet scrape and stumble awkwardly against the concrete. They're trying to walk together, but neither knows where the other wants to go. When the couple finally stumbles into something cold- a flagpole?- they silently agree to make this their stopping point.

The wailing has calmed down. Not stopped. Not even close. But it's quieted to the point of only being an awful background sound, instead of the intense, mind-breaking experience it was just twenty seconds ago. Feels like an hour. Ramesh opens his eyes to see Li trembling all over, her feet and her hands. Every one else in view is the same.

The protectors round them up, after that. The Mixtists are too shaken to put up much resistance. Only Jeb escapes, climbing over a lower section of fencing and fleeing into the wasteland. Every one else is taken into custody. After talking to interrogators, and expressing much loyalty to the state, Li is released; but she never sees Ramesh again.

He's not the only one. All over New Beijing and Neo London, the White Flowers are met with these kinds of sudden, psychological attacks. The protectors in black uniforms, the wailing and the flashing. And many do die; but when dawn comes, the rebels have claimed just enough to take control. Neo London and New Beijing, two of the largest ECU cities, are now White Flower territory.

Back in their apartment- now her apartment- Li decides Ramesh would have been happy to hear that.

An Unseasonable Chill: A Horror RP

Present.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

@Liotrent

Sure! You might want to write first about the Gateway reopening, and your people's reaction to it. Here's some descriptions of what that looks like:

In the depths of space, ancient machines whir to life. A signal has been received, written in a language of code that only the Gateways know, that says: Come back. And they do. From one end of the Galaxy to the other, overlooking worlds of hostile deserts or sunken marshes, they come back. First with a spark, a wavering in space- and then a flash of blinding light and heat, a storm in the void, a celestial crescendo like a sun being born. And then only a steady light. Billions of lifeforms witness it. They wonder for a moment, perhaps, but then they go back to their lives, not knowing that over their heads now sits a portal to countless other worlds.

A spark started in the Collective's processing. It was lit on a small scientific space station, hanging in orbit above Zeta's sandy surface, gazing out at the universe around the small, yellow dot. The spark, once lit, blossomed immediately. It grew from an ember to a conflagration in only a few moments, a flame racing across the minds of the Consciousness. On the moons of Z and 3, workers moved to see through the translucent hab-domes, on the surface of Zeta, they stared upwards, organic and biomechanical eyes adjusting to the brightness, and deep beneath the planet's surface, those that could not afford to rapidly emerge instead stared through the eyes of their friends, out onto a second sun, burning bright in the sky.

The flames said only one thing- just one short sentence. The Gateways are back.

Those are written by me and Irr, who were both waxing poetic, but you could always go with something simpler. The agreed upon traits is that the Gateway is bright, and that it wavers and "sparks" before it opens.

------

Now, with your Gate up and running, it's fully up to you where you go. The Gateway automatically "links up" to incoming ships (don't ask me how, it's a plot device ) and presents them with a list of star systems with active Gateways. In practice, that means your people can now reach any other nation. You could pop over to visit the One or the Undefeated or the Xandalians or whoever.

Buuuuut the Meeting Place is recommended because that's where all nations gather and conduct diplomacy. Going there allows your people to be seen and received by the whole galactic community, without us having to write our your meeting everyone individually. It's in orbit of Earth, so following are descriptions of what Earth and the Meeting Place have been said to look like:

But it's all ashes now, gray and still. Sorrowful.

Earth, that defeated lump of clay outside

Earth, the blue planet that was depicted in old pieces of art, in various media back home, and from tales passed down from generation after generation. It was...dead, a world covered in gray and muck, no life to be seen. "Oh no.." Julian uttered to himself. Small droplets of tears running down his cheek.

When he emerged, he wasn't entirely certain what he was going to find, but it certainly wasn't this. A swarm of vessels, of many and varied designs shuffled to and fro through the gateway, all heading towards a lump of steel...

You'll notice we haven't actually described the exterior of the Meeting Place a ton. But hey, maybe you'll be the one to fill in the gaps ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Either way, your colony can easily get started in the RP by going there and reaching out (with a message, or sending a diplomat, or whatevs) to the Meeting Place. Then we'll have our nations reach out back to them, starting the diplomacy and interaction and war and so on.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

@Liotrent

Approved! You can drop them in the char tab and start posting whenever.

It'll be interesting to see how a more normal, science-focused nation reacts to all the weirdness of the other colonies. We've got clones, cyborgs, and... whatever the ECU counts as, I guess.

Through the Gateways: Humanity [Closed] [Soon to be Concluded]

Collab between @Tortoise and @Irredeemable

Isabella was having a wonderful evening. She had managed to wrangle herself aboard the Santa De Angelo’s prestigious gala, not as one of the entertainers, but instead, simply to enjoy the evening. Not even just the evening too- the journey out here had been a sumptuous experience filled with fine alcohol and wonderful food, and she’d gone to countless practises and rehearsals. Now, with the gala in full swing, she had given herself a personal mission.

In her pocket was a metal capsule of ‘Alicia.’ Among the various…. Extramedical pharmaceuticals that Matuvista’s chemical plants produced, Alicia was new, unique and pricey. It was the designer drug to beat all designer drugs, a full audiovisual hallucinogen that allowed for mutual hallucinations. Isabella didn’t understand it of course, she was no mathetes and had not the attention to figure out how it worked. She would merely enjoy it with a foreigner. Speaking of which, here came two now, leaving one of the poetry readings.

“Hello there,” she said pleasantly. She looked ravishing; the Lobasla family was more than wealthy enough to afford to have her in fine clothes for the main event, and the muscle and scars that marked an experienced jetknight were neatly hidden behind her clothing. “I hope you’re enjoying the festivities…” She paused for a moment. “And I was wondering if one of you would be interested in enjoying a… New sensation with me. It’s freshly approved for human usage, as safe as could be.” She procured the small metal cylinder, which sat innocently in the palm of her hand.

Tanaka and Abadi quirked eyebrows at each other, but Abadi's eyebrow quirked noticeably faster. She was much quicker on the uptake with that kind of thing.

New Hollywood had drugs, although they were (of course) of the Old Earth variety. And since many of those were narcotics, they were also of the illegal variety. Some criminal gangs pushed them around here or there; nobody cared enough to stop them. For an Oligarch, it started and stopped with alcohol or tobacco.

Well, officially. Many Oligarchs went in further behind the scenes. But since they were powerful, nobody commented on it. Abadi didn’t go that far, but her family sometimes said she was too fond of the 1960's Rock Culture Parties, and a few of them guessed at the reason. She occasionally came home smelling a little herbal.

"A... new sensation?" She asked. "That sounds like a euphemism for something."

“Ah yes! I forgot! I heard that you ECU types weren’t all that big on narcotics. A shame really, but luckily for you, this is Matuvistan territory!” She smiled. “And we’ve gotten very good at what we do. This is a capsule of Alicia: one of the latest and greatest inventions from our pharmacological mathetes. I’ve never tried it before, and I’ve heard the greater the difference between the people taking it, the wilder it is. And who’s more different from me than a total foreigner?” She gave the capsule a soft shake, although it didn’t rattle.

“So, what do you say? Interested in seeing what happens when things go topsy-turvy?”

Tanaka and Abadi gave each other another look; and then a few more, more intense looks during the argument that ensued. It was done quietly, off to the side and in English- which they both secretly hoped Isabella didn't speak.

Abadi wanted to try it, but Tanaka thought it was dangerous, and "beneath her status." Abadi asked if Oligarch status would ever start being a privilege for her instead of a burden. Tanaka said that Heralds wouldn't like it. Abadi said that nobody has cared what Heralds thought since they lost a war on his watch- and you know, maybe she wanted to use her position to try something fun for a change, instead of just covering for Tanaka every single day.

And at that Tanaka's face fell, Abadi felt very guilty, and they both silently agreed to go separate ways for the evening.

Abadi returned to Isabella and, with no preamble, said "Sure, why not, sounds fun."

Isabella thought it best to not reveal that she understood what they were saying. Yes, the plebeians spoke Tongue Nuevo, the bastardised mixture of Spanish, Portuguese and English that had slowly subsumed the planet to become its dominant language, but patricians learned English as it was spoken back on Earth, along with proper Spanish, Portuguese, and even a little Latin on top.

So it was that when they returned from their argument, she pretended she hadn’t understood a word. “Just you then?” She said innocently. “Wonderful! Now, please don’t take this the wrong way: would you like to come to my berth?”

"Just me then," Abadi confirmed. She struggled only slightly in making out Isabella's words; Spanish was her third language, after English and Arabic, and this woman's speech sounded like some fusion of English, Spanish and something Abadi didn't fully recognize. Like you put three languages in a blender and left it on for a few centuries.

The ECU phrase for that kind of language-mixing, "Dog Tongues," was not considered polite.

Abadi laughed a little when she heard the offer. Well, she did come to meet another culture. "Alright, amiga, lead the way."

The patrician grinned and, just as promised, guided Abadi through the Santa De Angelo. Unlike all the other guests, they took a peculiar little elevator-shuttle away from the main event and to the accommodation hub of the craft, and then wandered through abandoned, hotel-like halls until they reached one innocently marked 129B. There was a mechanical clunking sound as Isabella opened the door, implying some kind of locking system, but the patrician hadn’t drawn anything out or spoken a command, indicating that whatever kept this door shut was doing so through a much more sophisticated system than normal, and then the door clunked close behind them.

Inside was, unusually for a berth in a spaceship, although perhaps not for the Oligarch, room and comfort. It was a peculiar cross between a teenager’s dorm room, a colonial-era boudoir and a barracks. A rapier hung above a double postered bed, jetbike schematics were affixed, poster-like to the walls, a partially disassembled rifle sat next to a pile of physics textbooks, a small electronic machine sat next to what was unmistakably a bong, despite three hundred years separating it from the old world, and, of course, like any good Matuvistan, a golden cross hung on the wall, just above a shelf that had been populated with various common religious texts. Exaltations of the Saints, On The Nature of The Divine, Standing in The Saint’s Garden, Life Beyond Life, and so on. To a Matuvistan, the bare minimum a patrician’s religious education should have covered.

“Alejandro,” she called out to the room, and a series of lights embedded in the walls faintly glowed in response. “Put on my… Eh... “ She paused for a moment. “Why not. Put on playlist: Songs To..” She turned towards Abadi, suddenly feeling self conscious. “Songs To Get Railed On A Jetbike To.” The walls lit up for a brief second again, and then a flamenco guitar broke through the quiet of the room, lonely and mournful, then joined by trumpets, a drum machine, synthesisers and a heavily autotuned voice.

Abadi might recognise it, if not for the content, than for the style. This was a throwback to years bygone, a peculiar retrofuturistic flavour of what the music of tomorrow would sound like. She restrained the urge to laugh at the name of the playlist: she’d made several, all labelled things like "Playlist A3" just to avoid that situation. She considered it to be her lifetime smartest decision.

“Alejandro?” she joked. “Mine’s just called ‘Butler.’”

“Yours? Oh, no.” She grinned for a second. “Alejandro isn’t a unique system or anything. Santa Alejandro was De Angelo’s squire, and his name is used for these types of systems all over Matuvista. He comes with the ship. In Lobasla we have unique pseudo-AIs though.”

But, that was irrelevant. Isabella set the capsule she had in her pocket down atop the physics textbooks and flicked a switch on the device, causing it to open up into… What looked like a harmonica had been welded to an inhaler’s canister. “I guess it’s a little unhy-… Oh, no, wait! Here! ‘Room setting.” She grinned, then gave the mouthpiece a twist, opening it up like a flower’s petals.

“Alright, and then just…” She depressed a button, and the capsule let out a slow, soft hiss, a visible purple haze seeping out of it. “Should just now fill the room. Effects begin between five and ten minutes after activation, and last between one and two hours.” She examined the capsule carefully one last time, then eased her shoes off and hopped up onto her bed.

“So, now I guess we just wait for it to kick in.”

It struck Abadi as a little odd, the way Isabelle could combine such clinical language with such a casual setting. She was used to performing roles, being fully this, or fully that. The "Liaison" role had taken up her mind fully lately. Whatever this Alicia stuff is, hopefully it’s strong enough to take her mind off of it?

It was.

It started with the floor falling out. Although she was sitting on her bed, Isabella suddenly became aware that she was actually plummeting down through the floor, into what appeared to be an endless black void. Too shocked to say anything, she tried scrambling forward and only succeeded in toppling off her bed (which now didn’t exist any more,) and landing on the floor hard enough to hurt her tailbone.

And then… They were… In… Space? She looked around; up above her was the floor of the Santa De Angelo, notably without a hole in it. The milky way swarmed around her, far more stars than she’d ever seen looking out of the ship blanketing space in a thick cloud of brightness, and the sun’s light, gloriously incandescent, brighter than all the others combined, all shining upon…

“Hijo de puta, the fuck kinda Earth do you think about?”

It was Earth, but not Earth, because it was without any flaws. Like the world seen through a nostalgia-tinted filter: even from this distance, they could both make out shimmering blue seas, golden shores and impossibly green forests that went deeper than the imagination. It was a kaleidoscope of colors that never clashed.

"That," Abadi said, trying to sound casual even though she felt anything but. "That's the kind of Earth I think about."

Their descent looked slow at first, but only because of the distance. By the time they passed through the atmosphere- that may have smelt a little like lilacs- they were clearly hurdling into Earth like little comets.

Isabella’s mind was struggling to keep up with what was going on. Not only was she dealing with the conflicting sensations she was getting from her aching rear, but this… This was definitely a foreign look at Earth. A gorgeous one, nonetheless, but a foreign one. As the duo hurtled down through the atmosphere, the patrician’s instincts kicked in and she reached for a jump pack that wasn’t there, her eyes widening as the two careened wildly towards a strange, square-shaped peninsula on the western coast of one of the continents.

“GAH!” She screamed, a second before the duo smacked into the ground, but, of course, no harm came to them, even if she swore she could feel the branches whipping past her face and the crunch of undergrowth beneath her. Both her hallucinated form and her real one pushed themselves up to their feet, looking around. “Mi madre…”

"What does your mom have to do with this?"

Abadi leaned over to the side, running her fingers over the emerald-shade grass shining underneath them, and-

She burst out laughing. "It's foam! Girl, the grass is made of foam! Oh, that's gotta be a metaphor for something, I swear." She dug deeper, and the dirt was definitely some kind of soft plastic, and she’s pretty sure those trees they felt on the way down were… well, wooden, but not alive wood. Not a tree. Just wooden.

“That’s not what that means.” Isabella frowned, then looked as Abadi dug into the ground and discovered it to be… “The perfect Earth is fake, eh?” She raised an eyebrow. “Shit amiga, you’ve got some funky thoughts banging around up there.” The track had changed now, their soundtrack as they explored this bizarro Earth filled with electric guitars and psychedelia.

Looking up from the ground, Isabella paused. Those trees… Weren’t… As she looked up, the trees seemed to elongate and extend, rising up higher and higher as she craned her head. Falling back down, this time, thankfully, back on her bed, she gazed up, to where even the sky itself had been blotted out by these towering creations.

Then, through the forest, figures emerged, sat astride horses. They were shimmering and pale, so much so that it hurt Isabella’s eyes to look at them for too long, and she had to squint and shade her gaze. “Dios mio…”

Now, Abadi knew that had to be an addition of Isabella's; the New Hollywoodite had never imagined something like this in her life. Her eyes didn’t even want to look at them. They were stars made into people. Spectacular, in a completely alien and terrifying way. These guys probably were not foam.

"Hey, you're not made of foam, right?" she asked anyway, for some stupid reason.

Even squinting as she was, Isabella could make out recognisable faces among the crowd. Santa De Angelo, of course, leading the host. “Santa Jorge. Santa Alejandro, Santa Don Juan, Santa Pedro…” She hadn’t even realised she was saying their names out loud, the host pressing past and through the two women. Turning around, Isabella’s eyes widened as she saw…

That was a monsturo. Like the kind she had trained to fight back on Matuvista. Towering. Imposing. Nigh indestructible without struggle and sacrifice. She had never fought one herself, thank the lord, but their mere existence reduced humanity to ants… and here it was, down on Earth? If this trip didn’t give her a heart attack, maybe it was time to go and visit a psychiatrist.

Abadi stumbled backwards in shock. (Somewhere in the real world, her body knocked a jetbike schematic off of Isabella's wall.) She looked up at the towering creature, and kept looking up, because it kept going. That thing reached high as the sky- did it still smell of lilacs up there?- and she found herself shouting "Hologram: Exit!" by instinct. It's what you say to end a holo-program when it's gone a good bit farther than you would've liked.

The program didn't end, since there was no program. The air did shimmer and mist exactly like a hologram turning off, but instead of vanishing and leaving a plain white room behind, as Abadi thought it well should have, it simply morphed into another world completely.

The world was clouded with fog and mist, blanketing the duo. Reeling further back, until she hit the headboard of her bed, Isabella paused, looking wildly about for what was next to come. Half of her was confused and wanted off this ride, whilst the other half was almost eager to see what their combined subconscious would drag up next.
Street signs formed. Neon advertisements hanging off nondescript skyscrapers and apartment complexes, their colours a swirling kaleidoscope. Above them, she heard the distinctive roar of jetbikes zooming by, but this wasn’t Matuvista… Or at least a Matuvista that she knew. Gold-armoured officers strode through in lockstep formations, against… Colonial protesters?

Abadi recognized this particular variety of neon vomit: the many clashing colors of New Hollywood. With jetbikes added.

“The men in gold are protectors,” Abadi realized and explained at once. “They put down dissidents. Like those people over there must be?”

“They’re…” Isabella paused. She was dragged back to a news article, and even as she remembered it, the same footage was pulled into the hallucinations. One chant in particular, ‘Hell no, we won’t go!’ She remembered that one. It had been after a large Yyasum incursion across the four celestial bodies, and mandatory conscription had been instated for the first time in fifty-six years. On Matuvista, it had been orderly and neat. Offworld, it had been… Well… This.

The protectors moved forward in lockstep, wielding batons. Intermingled with them, men-at-arms, dressed in riot equipment, activated stun-maces and hefted riot shields. Despite their differences in appearance, they were as one.

This is so trippy, Abadi thought. Isabella knew that the colonial protestors were rebels, and Abadi knew that the protectors put rebels down. But how did the drug know those two concepts had a connection?

And more than that, how did she see what Isabella was thinking? It played like a holo-film in her mind, the footage of the colonial conscription protestors. It reminded her of the White Flowers she’d watched and read about. They always sprinkled petals on the ground, for some reason, coating the streets in…

There they are. Abadi looks down at her shoes, and white petals are on them. From the opposite end of the distorted neon-lit street they’re standing on, a familiar marching sound beats out, and a crowd of White Flowers and Mixtists round the corner.

They exchange glances with the colonial protestors, and with mutual nods, it's obvious the two kinds of dissident understand one another. They charge together in a riotous roar. Abadi thinks they're going to attack the protectors and men-at-arms, but her heart skips a beat when she realizes- they're rushing directly at herself and Isabella. A thousand imagined footsteps, coming to kill them.

"Protectors!" She called out, panicked, as she was taught to do if her life was ever in danger. And as she said it, the golden men formed around her and Isabella to protect them both; and the men-at-arms came with. Together, they stood in a circle around the two, shielding them from mutual threats. The rebels could never break through their combined ranks.

A chill went down Abadi's spine. Is this a drug, or a vision? Because she thinks she sees an answer here.

“To me” Shouted Isabella, and just like that, her steed had arrived, hurtling through the air along with a host of other jetknights, set astride their bikes. As the men-at-arms and protectors lashed out, clubs and maces beating back the crowd around them, and the riot descended into a bloody street brawl, Isabella clambered atop her bike and kicked the ignition, offering a hand down towards her new friend.

“We are peculiarly alike,” she mused as the other woman clambered aboard the vehicle, and even as the jetknights on either side drew out their carbines and began to fire into the crowds, she was lifting off, up, into the rain and the strangely logic-defying colours of the advertisements. Flying like this was an instinct so ingrained into the patrician that her body was fooled along with her mind.

They both left behind the messy streets, people of lower classes fighting beneath them. While they soared higher and higher into the sky, into the horizon, into…

Reality. The scene faded, gently returning to normalcy. The walls of room 129B were back, with their decorations and schematics and rapiers, and Isabella in the midst of it, leaned against the headboard of her bed. Abadi's hands were grasping against the wall, which she now realized was not actually her friend’s jetbike, and very quickly straightened herself. What to do now? Her whole life was based on assuming roles: the dutiful student, then the fresh new Oligarch. The girl at the party, and then the Liaison at the Meeting Place. But she didn’t know what role this was. How do you behave after an experience like that?

“So, that was… cool,” she started, awkwardly. Testing the waters.

And at last, the veil was lifted. “That was fucking insane chica.” Isabella looked to the oligarch. “How the fuck does that even work? Those pharmacy mathetes are crazy fuckers.” She shook her head as if to clear out the last of the hallucinations, realising as she did so that there was a faint smell of… Lilacs? In the air?

Lilac in the air, thought Abadi, at the same time. Funny. A little bit of the hallucinations left-over? She realizes now how fried her brain feels.

“Yeah, they must be. This is why we have restricted research back home.” Abadi rubbed her temples. “That, and protectors to enforce it. But I guess you saw what they are already.”

“Those your men-at-arms. Yeah? Fighting the protestors?” She eased herself down from the headboard and lay supine on her bed, a hand slung underneath her head. “Restricted research just means you don’t get shit like that.” Isabella laughed a little. She was exhausted: she felt totally fucked in the head, but at the same time the whole thing had been more than she possibly could have expected.

“You got a riot problem eh? My papa’s in the Upper Senate back home. Think that would be a good idea?”

Abadi thought about it. The recent news had White Flower “protestors” organizing into cohesive groups much larger than protests; rumors were that they’d try and take over areas of Neo London, Neo Paris and New Beijing soon. That’s three major cities crippled by... well, maybe it’s time to just call them what they are: rebels.

Abadi didn’t like the idea of dragging foreigners into this. It didn’t work so well last time. But something strange lingering in the air made her trust Isabella just a little more, and made her just a little more anxious at the thought of rebellion. That hallucinated image of charging discontents flashed back through her mind.

“You’re offering back-up? Yeah, yeah, we’ll take it.”

Isabella promised she would talk to her Papa about it. Abadi said thank-you, and offered support in kind. The conversation gradually drifted from there, skipping semi-randomly around different subjects while both women dealt with the aftereffects of Alicia. Somewhere in this, Abadi couldn't help but notice that the Matuvistan didn't seem to go more than three sentences without some reference to "Santa" whoever. Santa Pedro, Santa Teresa of Ávila...

Really, Abadi had no idea what a Santa was, except a myth about a guy who gave children presents by going down their chimney in a way that totally, definitely wasn't terrifying. Supposedly he did that on December 25th, but she didn’t know what was special about that date. Anymore then she recognized the golden cross on the other woman’s wall. But she liked the color, and- perhaps this is because of the lingering high- somehow felt herself striding across the room to touch it. "What is this?"

Isabella froze for a moment. Right, of course. This foreigner wouldn’t know about the saints. “Don’t touch that please,” she requested quietly.

“It’s the Matuvistan Cross. A symbol of the saints, taken from Old Earth.” She paused. “It reminds me that there is always something greater looking down upon us, shining light into darkness, truth into lies.” She paused for a moment. She was unsure exactly how she should go about introducing her own religiosity to a woman who had no clue about any of it.

“You don’t worship anything?” She eventually asked.

“Earth,” Abadi answered, without being sure why. Nobody ever said that they worshiped Earth, out loud, but it felt so true that her lips said it for her.

Isabella’s mind was dragged back to that first hallucination. The Earth. Gold. Shiny. ‘Pure,’ and yet at the same time totally fake. Was that really what the oligarchs believed in?

Abadi felt high-jacked, and immediately covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry,” she said, recovering from the embarrassment just a bit, “don’t know why I said that one. No, I don’t worship anything. New Hollywoodites don’t.” Except the Mixtists.

“You ca-” Isabella was cut off. Alright, sure, they didn’t worship anything, she guessed. Reluctantly, she reached up towards the shelf and took down Exaltations of the Saints, flipping to a random page. The Selfless Conscription.

We, the saints of the sea and sky.
We who have heard our descendants cry,
All who dwell ‘neath tyranny
Our hands shall save…

She handed the book almost gingerly over to Abadi. “Be careful with that please. Mama’d kill me if I got it damaged.”

Abadi took it just as gingerly, even though she didn't fully catch what could be so delicate about a book. There have to be other copies of it, right? If you spill coffee or something on it, you just buy a new one. That was elementary.

But she didn't argue. And out of politeness, flipped through the pages meanderingly. Faith, prayers, saints, faith. It all reminded her of exactly one thing back on New Hollywood.

"You know, this feels like Mixtist stuff. They're a religious group on New Hollywood, the only one. But they're dangerous. They encourage dissent. You can't be loyal to your nation and to- gods, or whatever- at the same time. You have to value one over the other, right?" This was a commonly held belief back home, one of the usual justifications for keeping Mixtists down, which she never thought would be seriously questioned.

“You…” She paused, blinking a few times. The idea of splitting your loyalty like that… It confused Isabella. “No? I follow my government and the saints equally. I am loyal to the former, and I love the latter, with all my heart.” She smiled.

“But what if they, I don’t know, disagree? Like if the government asked you to do something you don’t think the saints would like?” But then Abadi stopped, and smiled back. “You know, it’s not that important. Have there been any new saints, since the Tragedy?” She cleared her throat. “I mean, since the Fall of Earth?”

If they disagreed? Isabella thought on this for a while, and was about to reply before Abadi retracted the question and gave her a new one. “Oh yeah! Lots! The one this ship is named after is the most famous: Santa De Angelo. Without her, we’d still be living under a series of idiotic, uncultured tyrants.”

A series of idiotic, uncultured tyrants. A rough way to paint your own history- but then, ECU history was taking its own turn for the worst lately. Abadi and Isabella kept talking about these things, for far longer than either of them realized, and both latched on to those things they did agree intimately on. Rebels are a threat, culture is important, and force is sometimes required to stop the first from destroying the second. The lines were drawn; the Matuvistans would help the ECU keep their dissidents down.

Abadi left the party with a strange feeling. Neither her nor even Tanaka had seriously expected to win over anything more than empty words and pleasantries, but it looked like a real- alliance, friendship, bargain?- had been formed. The two obviously most cultured nations had found each other.