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Topic: Star Trek: Operation:Persephone - Q&A
Subject: ?
There are turns?
Posted on 2008-02-22 at 02:04:22.
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Topic: Star Trek: Operation:Persephone - Q&A
Subject: I know...
I usually don't say one thing and do another, I promise. Hectic week with fourteen hour work days...I'll post soon though.
Posted on 2008-02-20 at 22:38:27.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: I may have missed something...
If I did, just remind me and I'll try to find a way to put it in place.
The lot of you are together again by the end of the post, the location of the Biotechnica lab will have been sent to Peacekeeper's phone and is located in the mountains east of Night City, some forty miles back into the country. Exact GPS coordinates have been provided...too bad none of you have a GPS device. Muahahahahahahaha!
Also, by way of equipment purchases at the stores in the Mallplex: let me know what you want to purchase and I'll let you know if you have the money to do so, update your sheets if you do, and make everyone more poor.
Posted on 2008-02-19 at 07:02:15.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Mature Content
Subject: Finally!
The Metalstrom – Upper East Side – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 5:40am
“Keahi, as you have the most Euro of all of us make a quick run to the nearest Stuffer Shack and get us some food for the next 24, Colton go with him to cover his back. Be back here as soon as you can. Knock twice, then three times, then once more to let us know it‘s you”
Croaker watched as the two of them left and the relocked the door behind them moving to the small bed he sat down upon its edge and for the first time all night he breathed out a tired but relaxed breath.
Firewind made no grumblings about covering the expenses. He was too tired, too hungry, and too done with that night to care. The pair hurried into the night barely saying a word to each other. They were back in what they figured was a short time carrying two bags of warm food and a few bottled beers.
“Croaker’s asleep, lets go ahead and let him rest, he can eat once he wakes up, so what did you find us to eat?” Peacekeeper said when they were let in.
“Soyburgers,” Bull’s Eye said matter-of-fact. “And beer.” The nomad was already popping a lid on one of the amber bottles. The group ate, waking Croaker so that he could share. Keahi knew it wasn’t food for twenty-four hours, but he hadn’t been about to walk the streets looking for a convenience store, and the burger shack had been relatively close, so he wasn’t concerning himself with that particular problem.
After the meal, they each fell asleep in the comfort of a guarded local with relative ambiguity. It was Firewind’s watch alarm that woke them leaving the group with a half hour to get to the Red Lantern for the meet. When they exited the Metalstrom, crews were still assembling the furniture, and cleaning up from the previous night’s activity. The storm was still in full swing, causing the group to hunch against the ferocity of it until they could reach a bus bunker. There they hailed a cab, and again at Keahi’s expense, they were carted over to the Red Lantern.
It didn’t take them long to spot Spiff, Scribe, Guardian, and Preacher. Informing the hostess of their pending meeting, they quickly found themselves seated around the table, the previous night’s hostility towards one another not forgotten and slowly poisoning the air until Peacekeeper’s cellphone rang.
“You still with that nomad output o’ yours, Lass?” The voice was Springed-Heel Jack’s.
(OOC: assuming a response to the affirmative…)
“Tell ‘im t’ expec’ some ‘elp in the form of a tall Asian fellow named MDK. I’ll upload target information t’ yer phone in a minute.” Then the line went dead.
The timing couldn’t have been better, because that’s when the tall Asian and his companion arrived.
The Red Lantern – East Marina – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 12:05pm
Crisis Medical Center – Medical Center – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 4:05am
Preacher was a patient man. He hadn't always been such, but life experience and certain paths he'd taken in his various careers had forced him to create a habit of patience. This wasn't to be mistaken with understanding however, and Spiff's attempt to call a bluff that wasn't there was something he didn't understand. This was, after all, the Twenty-First Century; the Net a known, and understood separation from the Internet--also not to be confused with the megacorporation Internet--with the IG Algorithms making Netrunning as different from Internet Use as space flight was from handling the remote control of an RC plane. At least, that was how Preacher had always viewed things, even back in his Three Musketeer days when he and The Girls had made fun of the geriatric methods most of their school mates were using to get by on the Internet during the IG Algorithm’s infancy.
"Look, friend," Preacher closed his eyes and forced himself to remember that not everyone was as tech savvy as he was. "I think you've confused Netrunning fer pokin' around on the surface of the Internet. Quick explanation is one's a puddle, the other's a frackin' ocean o' Spring Break babes deep water, and a frackin' motherload o' sharks. I don't swim with the sharks no more...too much blood still in the water. All I done tonight is splash about in a few puddles--it ain't nothin' you couldn't have done had you spent a few minutes with a search engine.
"You want someone to throw the scent off for those big dogs that are on the hunt? Well, you're gonna hafta hire yourself a true netrunner--one that's been in the game a lot more recent than I. Puddle skippin' ain't gonna cut it for what you need done. Now, you interested in letting me pay your kindness back with twenty-four hours of watching your six, well, that I can do. Hell! I might be able to hook you up with a real netrunner if I dig hard enough."
"Now I'm gonna ask this as a guy who knows what you're worth, and a man who knows how much cash is in your pocket." Spiff took a deep breath and looked Preacher square in the eyes. "What's it gonna take to get you on board?"
Preacher watched as the fixer retrieved the dropped cell silently wondering after the benefit Spiff had received from treating his electronics with such irreverence. Even though he'd given up the netrunning, he still viewed technology with a near pious mentality. As the fixer finished up his thoughts, Preacher found one point hard to argue. A netrunner was definitely useful. Unless they went so low tech they'd be mistaken for nomads, the Biotechnica netrunners could track them in their daily use of amenities; depending on what information was available, obviously. And in a city that never slept, where everyone had a price, it was only a matter of time before someone fessed up to seeing one, or more members of their sorry little party. After that it'd be "Connect the Dots" to catch up with the rest of them.
The solo hadn't known this bunch for long so he wasn't sure he could trust any one of them not to sell his skin to save their own. That meant he'd have to take his fate into his own hands, and his own particular brand of honor stated quite clearly that he had to pay Spiff back for the medical care.
"Let me think on it a bit," he drawled as the cab came into view. "At the very least you got an extra gun on hand fer the next few hours."
That was apparently satisfactory, and the solo was grateful for the change in attention as Spiff offered to make good on his bid to take care of Scribe’s camera.
“You scuffed the casing’s all, Spiff.” Scribe looked down at his bag where his precious camera was stowed. “Everything still works fine. Look, the cab’s on me. It’ll drop you boys wherever you want to go, but I, for one, am going to a motel where I’m going to try and catch a few hours of sleep before starting on the second leg of this adventure."
"I hope you're right, those were armor piercing rounds. I appreciate the ride, and all your generosity this evening, but that wasn't the crux of our conversation gato. What about the broadcast?"
Scribe motioned towards the dingy cab interior and smiled a winning smile. “Nope. Not gonna reveal that secret just yet, Spiff. Besides, I’m groggy-tired, and I might screw up the story enough to send you in circles for hours. Be patient, gato and we’ll take care of that upload when we’ve a little sleep behind us.”
***
Scribe accepted Spiff’s payment for his and Preacher’s room with a nod and a wink, once again indicating that he wasn’t about to spill the beans. Then the group parted company on the third floor leaving Spiff and Preacher to their room while Scribe and Guardian made their way down the hall a bit further to where their room was located.
“All right, Gato,” Preacher said as Spiff took care of his Mark II. The solo had dropped his own bag on the scarred table and had his back turned to the fixer as he slowly removed his armored clothing. “Here’s the just of it straight as straight can be. I’m beat up—passable, but beat up none-the-less. Truth of the matter is that I won’t be nearly as effective even with the medical care you’ve been so kind as to pay for.” The solo turned to Spiff and slowly removed his hat, revealing the bloodstained bandage about his scalp and his pale complexion. “There weren’t no fronts, no lies, bein’ told back at the hospital, despite what you think. I made a vow some time ago not to set foot in the Net again, and that’s why this cowboy plays with guns. Now, I’m not much good at neither in my current shape, but as much as I’d like nothin’ more than to drop down on that bed and hope to God that Biotechnica catches up to me before I wake up and my pain meds wear off, I’m in this as deep as you—deeper maybe, since I was with the original crew.
“I guess what I’m sayin’ is that you’ve got my skills, as they stand, though I still figure they ain’t much compared to what we’re facin’. If you’ve got cash-money, I’d suggest you let me try and hook you up with a netrunner you can trust, who is up to speed on the latest tech. I can jack in, but I don’t know how pretty it’d be, and I don’t have the—“ he paused for a moment and drew in a steadying breath. “—The crew with me that I was used t’ runnin’ with, so it’d be a whole different experience than what I’m used to. Still, I’ll do what’s necessary to stay alive, and pinching the nerve of a megacorp is just a bit of icing on that cake.”
Spiff’s response, whether physical or verbal, is answered by silence and Preacher makes his way to the restroom to clean up before bed. Within fifteen minutes, the solo is lying on top of his covers, apparently oblivious to the raging storm outside the window, and the habits of the fixer as he prepares himself for sleep.
***
"Alright Preacher, I want you to meet the gang.” Spiff said out of the blue the next morning as the two finished returning to their streetwear, and snazzing up a bit in the fixer’s case. “Reverend's my right hand man. He'll be the one you'll need to get to know for the rest of your job." He put the clip back in his Mark II and chambered the round, sheathing it in his holster. He then threw the trenchcoat over the ensemble, mostly to protect it from the weather, but it would also help serve the purpose of covering up his weapon.
He stretched one more good time, put his jeans and shirt back into the bag, packing up his overnight-kit and zipping the bag, checking if Preacher was ready to find Scribe and head out.
“Fair enough,” Preacher still looked pale, but he was ambulatory, and that’s what apparently counted. Within seconds, the two of them were stepping out into the hall and making their way down to Scribe and Guardian’s room. Preacher kept scanning the hall, his hand hovering near his weapon just in case. He was now on duty, and despite only a few hours sleep, he needed to be on his top game or his reputation would suffer. In this day and age, reputation was as valuable as Euros.
Spiff rapped on the door leaving a quick, sharp echo in the hall that dwindled to nothing in less than a heartbeat. After a moment, the deep voice of Guardian asks, “Who’s there?” The answer was satisfactory, and the group found itself joined up once more.
“Morning, Sunshine,” DigitalScribe grinned broadly and raised his eyebrows a bit at Spiff’s attire. “All right, as I was just telling Guardian, we’re in the door, now all we have to do is deliver the story.” That said, Scribe nudged his bag with the toe of his boot.
“And that means?” Preacher asked, leaning against a wall, arms folded across his chest. The rain had done a decent job of clearing away most of the blood from his outfit. Sad fact was that it was still raining.
“That means I need a studio, and a genius.” Frankie continued to smile as he bent and shouldered his bag. “And I know just where to get both. Kinda a two for one deal, you know?”
“What of Croaker an’ the others?” Preacher pressed.
“We still have about three hours,” Scribe answered. “If we hurry I can drop off the footage and give the instructions before we make our way to the Red Lantern. Besides which, I’m gonna need a coffee, and maybe a burrito, or something. Breakfast is on the way.”
“Where?” Again, Preacher seemed reluctant to step foot outside the door without some direction.
“To the New Harbor Mallplex. You done with the twenty-questions, Cowboy? ‘Cause I’ve got me a mighty hunger,” Scribe faked the country drawl that set Preacher aside as not from the city, though he smiled as he did so.
The location Scribe spoke of resided in the New Harbor district of Downtown Night City. Every one in the party knew the location, though the exact boundaries weren’t every actually discussed, it was a well-known fact that the McCartney Stadium and the New Harbor Mallplex were basically the district. It fit well with Spiff’s plans to get new clothes, and was conspicuously public in case anyone were out to hit them. It was also practically next door by way of city districts, and was an easy enough, inexpensive ride by Red Cab totaling ten Euro for the group.
McCartney Stadium resided on one side of the small canal that separated the two facilities. Looming and not unlike a rather futuristic version of the Roman arenas of the Ancient World, the stadium was well known for housing the Night City Rangers football club, the Night City Slammers baseball club, The Night City Heat basketball club, and the Night City Deathdealers combat soccer club as well as being a favorite place for slashers and bashers to hang out before roughing a few people up.
The New Harbor Mallplex was partially on the same side of the canal as the stadium, but mostly resided on the south side; with its shining, sleek surfaces, neon-gilded signs, and holographic overhead displays, the mallplex is definitely a bastion of technology and compact living all rolled into one. But they’d all seen it before, and Scribe wasn’t waiting around for sightseers anyway.
The media led the group straight through the main shopping concourse, apparently oblivious to the three levels of open shopping, the massive amounts of people wandering about in their designer clothing: Icon America, fashionwear, Dignity, MaxiWear, Destry Fashions, even Gibson and RufTread. There were Mohawks mixed with hundred-Euro hair styles, diamond necklaces mixed with spiked dog collars. It was the Petri dish of society, the melding pot of class, and Scribe wasn’t so much as mildly concerned for the scenery, even when the group passed Bastion Swimwear where a paid swimsuit model paraded around in the glass window wearing less clothing than what was necessary to cover herself up properly and sporting light tattoos in all of the right places to draw the eye to just those spots unsuitable for public display. No, Scribe was explaining things to Spiff as they went.
“I met this guy a while back while covering a story about braindance porn. He was as dirty-minded as you could possibly imagine, but he was good. Did a job on Kari Eurodyne—made her up from scratch, and put such a scandal in place over her sex recording that her popularity skyrocketed. That was just the beginning of his particular brand of genius though—“
Led by Scribe through the maze of vendors and storefronts, the group eventually found their way into Action Jackets where everyone outfits themselves to their tastes with clothing accessories and armorjackets, jeans, t-shirts—fashionable, but useful. Then, renewed and in clean clothing, the group proceeded on to the concourse bridge-way that led them across the canal with an open, clear plastic view of the still-raging storm. Stopping at the huge plas-glass face of the Business Tower, Scribe stepped forward from the rest of the party.
“J.D. Billet, Ebertech.”
”One moment please; searching… Mr. J.D. Billet is registered as a braindance design engineer with Ebertech. Is this who you are searching for?” a sensual, yet somehow businesslike disembodied female voice asked while the shimmering image of the perfect secretary appeared just a few feet in front of DigitalScribe’s position.
“Yes,” Frankie said with a bit of a smile.
”Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” Scribe was still smiling. “But let him know that DigitalScribe says he’s a lame-ass excuse for a designer will ya? Tell him that the Kari Eurodyne looked like a plastic blow up doll.”
”One moment please, Mr. DigitalScribe,”
“It’s gonna repeat all that?” Preacher asked in a monotone voice. He’d opted to keep his hat, but had bought a can of nanoagents to clean it, leaving it with a couple of holes in it, but otherwise as good as new. He knew all about AIs and was just then figuring that this secretary was only a partial construct, and would likely reveal to this J.D. Billet exactly what Scribe had asked it to. Sure enough…
”Mr. Billet has asked me to show you up. He says to tell you, Mr. DigitalScribe, that your stories are about as believable as your hair, and that you would never make it on the air without his help given how you are uglier than the view of a bull elephant in heat from the underbelly, but that you are more than welcome to come on up and try to beg for his assistance now.”
Scribe chuckled and followed the AI as it passed through the doors when they opened, leading the group on through to the elevators with a seductive sway to her transparent hips.
Ebertech was a fairly well-known software firm that focused on the addictive, yet popular, braindance medium. The top two floors of the business tower were its domain, and it was to the first of these two floors that the four were led. After disembarking from the elevator, they were led down a long hall, passing numerous people who gave them cursory glances, open lounge areas where people reclined on couches barefoot, with exceptionally thin laptop computers at work. Then, they made their way through a set of swinging doors painted blue and red, into a tiled hall with pale lighting and few doors marked as studios, to a series of small offices; one of which had the plaque bearing J.D.’s name on the door.
J.D. Billet was a very large man though he stood no taller than five and a half feet. To those who entered the office he appeared to weigh nearly four hundred pounds. His mouth was practically lost in the roundness of his face, and his eyes were beady with digital readout displays. He was overflowing from the ergonomic office chair that he remained seated in as he swiveled about to greet his visitors, an interface wire running from his left temple to the star-shaped pancake box on his desk. There were various vidscreens up about his desktop, a rather high-tech looking keyboard, three large storage devices, and at least two cameras, three microphones, a holographic projector, and any number of action figures from various braindance games including more than one naked ceramic woman.
“You look like sh*t, J.D.,” Scribe said with just a little fondness to soften the observation. It was true, the man’s long, brown hair was oily and thinning. His moo-moo-like t-shirt was stained down the front, right across the nose of a blond vixen making a lewd gesture with her hand while only barely covering up her nakedness.
“Can’t say much better about you, ya attention hound,” J.D.’s voice was a high wheeze, like he functioned the same as a bagpipe. There were a few more pleasantries before Scribe introduced everyone all around simply by their names and then made sure the door was closed trapping the lot of them in with the odor of sweaty fat man.
“Are we Kosher?” Scribe asked, only proceeding after he’d received a heavy nod from the computer programmer. “Good. I’ve got a job for you if you’re up for it, but I need it this evening.”
“Tight schedule, Mr. Dancing Chicken. What is it?”
“I’ve some footage, but the people in it need to be dressed differently than they are now, and the tampering needs to be sooooooo hard to notice that it wouldn’t be worth the network’s dime to flip for a check.”
“Tall order,” J.D. let out a sigh that sounded like the air decompressing from a vacuum. “What’s the pay?”
“It’s barely a couple minutes of bytes, Choomba. What’s your price?”
“Five grand,” J.D. blinked rapidly as though that number frightened him.
“One.”
“You’re killin’ me, Scribe. Four seven five. This ain’t gonna be no easy thing.”
“One two five. That detective ever get back to you about that underage footage?”
“You’re a dick. Four five.”
“One five, and remember who happened to find you that one-of-a-kind Jenna Davison, uh, action figure.”
“That was in payment for something entirely different! That goes against the rules! Three eight. That’s a righteous price for the quality. You remember just how tight my work is, Media Hound? Well worth it.”
“Two straight,” Scribe answered generously acknowledging the jump the programmer made in price with one of his own. “You know, I hear tell there’s this pirate datafortress just crawling with celebrity images—non compliant images I might add. Some real good Kari Eurodynes walking around flashing their breasts to those lucky enough to get in…”
“You’re trying to get me killed!” J.D. was sweating bullets now, but Scribe was still smiling his friendly smile. “All right, all right. Two. I’ll do it for two. Now gimme the data.”
The media produced his camera as well as an interface cable. Plugging one end into the camera he handed J.D. the other.
“Hey, J.D.,” Scribe said as the fat man plugged the machine in. “I really appreciate the offer. That was right big of ya.”
“What offer?” Billet was busy typing on his keyboard in order to get the connection to download where he designated and was only half listening.
“The discount. You’re one helluvah guy to realize that this was a tight spot and offer me that discount.”
“Huh?” J.D. was still only half listening.
“One helluvah guy.” Scribe fetched his wallet from his jacket pocket and produced a handful of bills. Counting out a selection he set them on the desk and replaced his wallet. “I mean, to accept five hundred Euro when I know you had your heart set on two grand is mighty big of you. We’ll see you around closing time.”
The media gave the large man a pat on his shoulder and then motioned everyone out. Just as he was closing the door behind him J.D. woke from his interface dream.
“Five hundred!? I said two—“
“Helluvah guy,” Scribe said with a wide grin on his face as he closed the door behind them.
“You don’t think he’ll give you crap now that you’ve stiffed him?” Preacher asked as they made their way out of the building.
“Naw,” Scribe grinned over at the cowboy. “He’s got too much pride in his work. He’ll produce the best he can in the timeframe he has. Nothing to worry about. Now, what say you we get some coffee, and then kill some time at Gelbert’s World Information before heading over to the Red Lantern?”
“’Every man’s work shall be made manifest.’ 1st Corinthians iii. 6.” Preacher muttered just loud enough for Spiff and Guardian to hear as they followed Scribe to the store front of the city’s best known information gatherer (besides Infocomp, of course), pausing just long enough to grab some coffee and a bagel from a vending booth.
Once there Scribe spent a few more bucks to peruse the “Public Knowledge Database” leaving Preacher standing near the door carefully watching the concourse outside and occasionally trading glares with the security detail on hand while Spiff and Guardian did as they pleased. The group left Gelbert’s with enough time to catch a cab (another fee of ten Eb) to the Red Lantern where they entered, snatching up a table suitable for ten. By this time, they were hungry once more, and had just begun perusing the menu when Croaker and party arrived a little wet, but none the worse for wear.
Red Lantern Restaurant – East Marina – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 12:05pm
Sam’s Place – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 10:33am
The blonde man sat, the other remained standing, watching MDK’s every move like a cat ready to pounce on a tense mouse.
“I’ve got a gig for you if you’ve got the cohunes. It pays big, by way of five figures. I was told you weren’t the type to just jump at money, so I’ll paint you a picture. Ten people need to wind up dead. Ten very specific people. You don’t even have to do the killing, just get the people to a particular local and you get paid. Two grand for each person with a kicker of four for the tenth. That’s twenty-two grand to just arrange a…meeting. What say you?”
(OOC: No matter the response, and back-posting required…)
MDK and Lightning were the last two to arrive at the noon meeting at the Red Lantern. Neither man knew who they were looking for specifically, but MDK had received a brief description on his phone that morning while waiting at the café and it was pretty easy to match that description with Croaker and Peacekeeper. Beside’s which: he’d heard of Peacekeeper, had even seen pictures of her in the Solo of Fortune magazine, though the story hadn’t been on her, she’d received brief recognition for her part in bringing down a rather infamous criminal. The piece had been on bounty hunters, and though she wasn’t the main story, a brief mention in Solo of Fortune was something. Another individual that stood out at that table was the large black fellow. MDK felt he knew that man by reputation as well, and if he were right all those hours with his ear pressed tightly to the ground had just paid off. He had to be about to share lunch with Guardian, a fairly well known bodyguard if you had access to the right circles. The others at the table he didn’t recognize, except Croaker (and then only because of the description on his phone).
There was the islander with the tribal tattoos covering his face wearing medical combat armor and looking tired; the short, heavily tattooed, leather wearing tough; the cowboy who wore bandages like they were accessories; the suit who could likely charm the skin off a snake, and a slick-looking fellow in a trench coat with TechHair v.2 currently glowing with a low-intensity red out of the ends.
The two men approached the table, with MDK’s lead and Lightning following until they reached the group under the watchful eyes of the bounty hunter, bodyguard, and cowboy.
Red Lantern Restaurant – East Marina – Night City – March, Friday 13th, 2020, 12:05pm
Posted on 2008-02-18 at 04:58:31.
Edited on 2008-02-19 at 06:58:35 by Bromern Sal
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Topic: Continuing Where We Last Left Off Q&A
Subject: I love interest....um...
You still have the every difficult to understand Char ready to roll...and rock...and boogie too.
Posted on 2008-02-18 at 01:54:59.
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Topic: Star Trek: Operation:Persephone - Q&A
Subject: ummmm
I believe that'd be me...
This weekend. Life's been a bit...uncontrolled as of late.
Posted on 2008-02-16 at 00:58:17.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: What?
You wanna play?
I'll post this weekend.
Posted on 2008-02-16 at 00:56:30.
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Topic: Star Trek: Operation:Persephone - Q&A
Subject: I think they're all dead.
The Borg got 'em.
Posted on 2008-02-14 at 04:26:39.
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Topic: A Cold Day in Hell Q&A
Subject: I posted again...
I posted a response to Kane's observation about the observatory...anyway, please correct me if my assumptions indeed made an ass out of me.
Also, what kind of precautions beyond what we're already toting would be necessary. Maybe I misunderstood the situation. I presumed that the station guards had been there a while and were fine, so we would be as well.
Posted on 2008-02-14 at 04:22:52.
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Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject: Sounds off...
I'm lost...I have no idea what you mean by "longest gunfight ever..."
Posted on 2008-02-14 at 04:18:00.
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Topic: A Cold Day in Hell
Subject: Already considered...
Lt. Kernan gave Kane a nod of approval at the regulation tactics, but he'd already considered that point. If necessary, those remaining behind could still exit through the observatory ceiling (OOC: Correct me if I'm wrong, Olan, but all observatories I've seen have easy access points to the ceiling deck, and the telescope for maintenance and adjustments. Should be an easy escape if pressured, but not an easy way in).
"Good thinking, Sarge," Kernan paid him the respect of keeping eye contact so he'd know he wasn't just being dismissed outright. "But we're leaving two men behind with theses soldiers, and I'd feel better about the situation were there less for them to cover should trouble hit. 'Sides, there's always that way out." The Lieutenant pointed towards the ceiling bay doors as he reached with the other hand to retrieve his weapons.
(OOC: On to Blake)
"Yeah," Monty peered over at the operation underway to get base camp organized. He really wanted that satellite uplink in order, but weird wasn't enough to report. The brass had already taken weird into consideration. That's what they were there to deal with. Only..."I was trying to avoid all this hypothetical sci-fi bull, but it's getting less and less likely that I will for much longer, isn't it.
"All right people!" Monty turned from the Chief and made his way to the door. "Move out!"
Posted on 2008-02-14 at 03:57:41.
Edited on 2008-02-14 at 03:58:28 by Bromern Sal
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Topic: A Cold Day in Hell
Subject: Next step
Monty offered his friendliest smile as he strapped his arctic gear back in place and motioned for the door where his team remained in position. He felt a wave of relief wash over him as the incident wound down, and as he turned away, sure that his face was no longer in the line of vision of these two soldiers, he allowed his eyes to close and the tension to drain from his shoulders.
At the door, he paused, let the two acclimate themselves with the rest of the team while he watched the NCOs deal with a little maneuvering. Then, once he was sure introductions and such were handled he started into the orders.
"As much as I hate to say it, we've got to check out the main lab," Monty was addressing the two new soldiers as much as his team. "Near as I can figure, this here's the best spot to establish base camp. One way in, one way out, easy to cover. So, pull it together folks."
Lt. Kernan turned and pointed towards the far wall. "Camp'll be there. Sgt. Kane, establish a two man watch on the door. Doc, check out these boys and see if there isn't something you can do to help them recover from their exhaustion. No injuries, boys? OK, Doc here'll make sure we ain't missing nothing if you'll let her.
"Blake, let's chat."
That said, Monty stepped off to the side and waited for the Chief to approach. Once she arrives he speaks in a low tone and on a comm frequency that only the Rangers would be able to pick up (provided there's no chance of the two Army grunts hearing). "They've been experiencing some serious side-effects of exhaustion near as I can tell. Pretty dead set on some loco ideas, such as the Rangers being disbanded, etc. I ignored that part of things 'cause I didn't want to throw of that conversation any more than it already was. In any case, they spoke of some machine being activated in the main lab--near as I can figure that's only a hop, skip, and a jump from our current coordinates. That's where we're headin' once the watch is set and those two good ol' boys are settled in.
"Thing is; they said that strange sh*t started happening once their CO turned the machine on--a CO that's really a civ, but that's something else to wonder at--You got anything we should know in that computer brain of yours? Any idea what we might see, what we might encounter?"
Posted on 2008-02-12 at 03:37:30.
Edited on 2008-02-12 at 06:55:43 by Bromern Sal
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Topic: Star Trek: Operation:Persephone - Q&A
Subject: Answers
The amount of freedom you have wholly depends on the situation. For example: your character is on DS9 in Quark's. Can you introduce a new dani girl NPC? Sure! Does that character seriously impact the plot where other character's are concerned? No. So, have fun. Another situation: you are an officer on board the ship and in charge of a department. Can you create the NPCs that fill your department? By all means. Can you toss in plot twists? Provided they don't ruin the storyline, detract from the main story, or step into other character's jurisdictions without consulting the player, you should be fine.
We encourage small side stories that force character interaction, cause some problem solving scenarios, etc. A couple of us know the plot and will set things straight should it become necessary.
As for the Charon's departure...she isn't leaving DS9 until the Cerberus arrives. I haven't designated which docking gate she's currently harbored at for repairs either.
Hope that helps.
Posted on 2008-02-09 at 23:29:12.
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Topic: Star Trek: Operation:Persephone - Q&A
Subject: Sci Fi has been playing a lot of Enterprise.
OK, to catch the fever again (how come we have so much interest in Trek games, but never seem to get anywhere with them?) answer the following questions:
What was your favorite series (Original, cartoon, comic book, TNG, DS9, Voyager, or Enterprise) and why?
Who is you favorite character, and why?
Who is your least favorite character, and why?
What is your favorite species, and why?
What is your favorite episode, and why?
I'll answer after I've seen some other responses.
Posted on 2008-02-07 at 06:20:26.
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Topic: Continuing Where We Last Left Off Q&A
Subject: Did it hurt?
I find myself in pain almost every time a silly bug bites me. Usually the pain resides somewhere near the part of my arm my wife strikes in utter disgust. Occasionally, the pain resides near my pride too...
Posted on 2008-02-07 at 02:35:21.
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Topic: Star Trek: Operation:Persephone - Q&A
Subject: uh-oh
Bad Captain! Minus two replicator rations.
Sorry, YeOlde. I had completely forgotten that Talon jumped down Gavison's throat. I'll post again as there's no reason the Charon has to wait on Eol's RL intrusions.
Here's for hoping Eol returns to life as normal soon.
Posted on 2008-02-06 at 01:05:20.
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Topic: Star Trek: Operation:Persephone - Q&A
Subject: I think...
If I remember correctly, Olan has to do something to make it so you are a crewmember.
Olan, if you'd be so kind as to authorize my pilot, I'd appreciate it.
Posted on 2008-02-04 at 06:21:05.
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Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject: Yippee!
And the choirs sing! Hallelujah!
Posted on 2008-02-03 at 19:34:59.
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Topic: Continuing Where We Last Left Off Q&A
Subject: Oh, blessed be!
Wow! Definitely looking forward to having you back in action, Roger.
Posted on 2008-02-03 at 19:34:23.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: All good
Everything went well. I appreciate the well-wishing, but it was nothing serious. Anyway, I'll be looking to post this next week during one of the evenings, and then hopefully get back on track.
G'night all ya crazy peoples!
Posted on 2008-02-03 at 08:07:21.
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Topic: Star Trek: Charon Staff Fulfillment
Subject: Sorry for the delayed response.
Dark fits the crew of the Charon. Captain Gavison is a pretty gritty character. Toss your ideas my way. We'll make something work.
Posted on 2008-02-01 at 06:12:07.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: I'd have to check the character sheets...
Heads up, Choombattas. I won't be posting this weekend like I normally would due to going under the knife tomorrow morning. I don't anticipate feeling up to much of anything until next week.
Posted on 2008-01-31 at 19:01:22.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Answers and Info.
Sui, so that you know. Posting your message to the BBS wasn't netrunning. Netrunning constitutes interfacing with the Net via the interface plugs. What Preacher had done before was basic Internet work just like me posting here. I bring this up so you can decide what level of knowledge Spiff would have in that area and alter your post if need be. You can leave it as it is and Preacher will correct Spiff--after all, Spiff made some good arguments.
Tann, the only way you'd be able to tell is by asking the staff, or by trying. You're always welcome to make assumptions, but that could raise a little Cane...for the sake of expediance: the owner of the club relies on the Brawlers for security, and isn't there at the moment. The club's manager won't be keen on strangers in the joint after hours in the first place, let alone wandering in and out after hours. Your saving grace however is in the cleanup crew that arrives to put the broken furniture back together (it is designed to break apart) which gives you about two hours of opportunity to come and go before it is really locked down...and yes, it closes at 6am.
Drakar, you're good. Lightning likely wouldn't expect to see MDK with company anyway.
Posted on 2008-01-28 at 20:57:40.
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Topic: Cerebral Paradox - Cyberpunk 2020
Subject: Not prisoners.
I thought Scarface had mentioned it, but I might have just been thinking it. You have twenty-four hours worth of access to this back room. You can come and go as you please, but during the hours that the club is closed you'd have a difficult time getting back inside once you'd left the club seeing how the place is locked up and the only key you have is to the back room.
I left off where I did due to the many things any of you could do, or interaction that needs to take place.
Posted on 2008-01-28 at 07:16:10.
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Topic: A Cold Day in Hell Q&A
Subject: Who me?
Posted on 2008-01-28 at 07:09:37.
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