Awesome, that gives me something to work with mechanically as far as clearing these contracts.
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I think that it's very possible I've fulfilled "Maintaining Appearances" by upholding business as usual, as well as by placing Trophy in danger without getting her totaled. "Seeking Answers" seemed to ask why IA targeted OH, which I don't know the answer to. Unless it was just because Lews had a grudge. I may just be being dense though.
Lews is being held against his will by IA, whose personification avatar is seemingly omniscient. The jacks might be able to mind-slave people. IC-ish Question for Rache: If a person's actions are controlled, and they give a gift, to whom is the resulting Giri owed? (Lews gave LaChessa a jack, but he's controlled by something that isn't human. Does she owe Lews, or IA?)
Trophy smiles and leads the Dead Ringers away without further comment.
Trophy's eyes light up again. She's standing in the fake mist with Quinoa. "Pretty good security on that thing, but I'm afraid he's not the diamond in the rough I had hoped for. It'll just be a sec." She can't watch everything at once. She scans the room to clock the other Dead Ringers. The stream quality is throttled to handle the virtual drive where that woman still stood. The whole of LaChessa's database is at the other end of the stream, and she's suddenly acutely aware of her own vulnerability.
As a relay between LaChessa and the pocket world being streamed into the local IA digital landscape, Trophy would remain vulnerable. There were overrides for the same motion, pressure, or trauma notifications a living surfer would receive, but they would share bandwidth with the digital landscape and icebreakers. LaChessa is only one woman. A prepared toymaker, perhaps, but she can still only watch one scene herself.
Back to her plan, her motif, and her mission. She hadn't had much luck prying information out of Lews, but that was her longest game. "Welcome back, Quinoa. You're probably wondering why I've dropped a piece of hardware into your head. A piece of hardware you very much need, and presumably know how to use. Up until now, you have been trudging through the detritus of a lower level life, stealing to eat, eating to live, and living to support your mother. -because where would any of us be without family? I'll tell you where you might be now: you might be in the room that you die in. The device in your head is a very unique neurochip. You may be familiar with the corded models: safe, secure, reliable, cheap, but we who have the luxury of dialing up floors with four digits have moved on from such quaint, modular tech. Data jacks these days are wireless, and fully immersive. The Veil becomes less of a blanket to shroud the nightly misdeeds that lead to your jack getting blacklisted, and more like the transition between air and water... and you, an amphibian. Can your mind keep track of what's real? I see a man before me who is uncertain. Quinoa, I want to play a game..."
Trophy's eyes dim. "I had thought so too." This was awkward, and a little risky--surely Lews had cameras here--but she did feel he deserved some explanation. At least, something more than she would generally include in her show. "You and I are just too different. We don't understand business the same way. You're not wrong- neither am I, we're still in business, obviously, but you're just so... straightforward and concrete. You didn't understand publicity stunts, or heel/face dynamics, or really any of the meaty plot mechanisms that keep me afloat. As much as I think I liked you, and in another time, maybe would have loved you, we're just not in a position to tie ourselves together fiscally. As a dance partner, you're all left feet, and I can't afford to trip." LaChessa watches Lews through Trophy's eyes.
Trophy's sensory suite kicks into deep-processing mode, chewing through biometric and deep audio data to try and peel away the layers of the Veil without alerting the level security of the breach. Maybe it was paranoia, but there was something unsettling about Lews' statuesque demeanor.
Trophy laughs, gently. "You're not installing that thing in me. No. I'm having you install the jack into Quinoa here. -for battery-testing!" Her eyes shine enthusiastically. "I can't go gallivanting around in industry-changing technology if a basement-dweller with new tech can hotwire it. As I'm sure you wouldn't want your name behind a jack which a veteran could hack into through a satellite proxy." She pauses for effect. "I mean, I'm doing it either way. I just thought you might want to install it yourself. You know... do it right."
Trophy draws a small cylinder from her purse, removes a silver cap and twists the case to reveal a colored nub. She presses the nub to her bottom lip, applying a thick layer of some kind of paste or cream, before pressing her lips together. She checks her reflection in a nearby piece of chrome, running a long nail across the edge of the dark pigment.
Looks good to me, sorry about the confusion.
"Lew! So happy to see you aren't too busy launching your new product to attend me personally. I guess those trinkets market themselves these days! Speaking of which, explain to me and my guests how I was meant to make use of your lavish gift without one of your very own technicians to ensure the install goes smoothly? You know I don't know anyone with the skills to perform your outdated, barbaric, invasive, life-threatening procedures." Trophy flips her hair. "You're not afraid I'll wipe you out today are you?" She's clearly baiting him into asking how cyberware is going to be installed in an android.
"No he is not." Trophy looks aghast. She turns to the Dead Ringers. "Does one of you have recording? Is it on? Is someone recording?" Crisscrossing her legs with every step, Trophy walks to the security thugs, way more aggressively than she should be with little to nothing in the way of weapons or defenses. Her eyes blink red. "Now I want you doormats to choose your words carefully, because I just got back from a lovely engagement with Lew, and he has been so very kind enough to send me a datajack, and I'd like to know exactly what you plan to say to him when he finds out you wouldn't let me through to have the device properly installed. I am not going to be subjected to the services of one of your satellite chop shops. I want to know this because if you're telling me I am not getting through these doors, I'll be sending your excuse directly to him."
It was hard to get good weapons through the elevator. Trophy needed to start stockpiling explosives on 1515, which meant making solid contacts behind enemy lines, and it wouldn't hurt to get the pulse of the local rumor mill. Bravado aside, her next moves would take some finesse. When she and the Dead Ringers reach the elevator, Trophy swipes her executive ID and keys in floor 1515.
"Ever the steadfast companion, your good grace is much appreciated." She flashes a warm smile and traces a nail along Chanor's jaw before turning to the fresh meat. "Welcome to the Dead Ringers, my pets. Let's see that you get that payout, shall we?" As she leads the trio back to the elevators, walking backwards so she can get proper interviews. "Tell us all about yourselves: your hopes, your dreams, family, friends- really show the folks at home what's at stake. If you're lucky, you'll find a sponsor!" She logs away the clips for future editing while LaChessa disconnects and summons Chlover. So many threads interwoven, all of them at her fingertips. It gave the executive chills. She spins up old filters and agregators to help her aging mind process the maelstrom. Where to go from here...
The party hasn't started until someone rolls 15d6.
It's okay, I don't think I've had a post yet in Mouseguard that didn't have something wrong in it.
"A disposable entourage. Muscle. A few desperate souls with dangerously high estimations of their skills. I haven't had much luck with lone deadeyes or mavrick redhats, and I don't want my quarry thinking he's worth the trouble."
Hell 9000 is a pit of a floor to begin with, brushed steel panels of button LEDs and red, blue, and green wires sticking into walls largely composed of flesh like the most unspeakable facets of femininity. The climate is best described as moist. So much so, that when Trophy reaches Chenor's bunny ranch, she's beading with condensation like a two bit manual service provider herself. She combs her fingers through the gold thread and white silk as they fall across her hips in an attempt to polish her stance before delivery. What Chenor lacked in fluid Cred, he made up for in spacious real estate. He didn't own it all, as far as she knew. He occupies the only thing that might classify as a mansion in the lower K. It had taken three minutes for the bound and gagged doorman to walk her to the stuffed shirt's office. If she didn't the him. Her last deal with Chenor had come back to bite him. She left a redhat alive who was supposed to meet her end, and Chenor lost a client book as well as a leg. Always good to keep a few enamored thugs between one's self and the bone collectors. "This is as in-person as it gets these days, hun. Lookin for dead meat, per usual. Got a rerun planned." What he needs is a ticket out of Hell 9000. No telling how he might get that out of her. She supposed his filters would make some kind of connection, but if he wanted in on her spectacle, he's have to work for it.
Trophy reaches the elevator terminal, waltzing past the TSA compound to swipe her new executive ID. "Level six hundred and sixty six, please. I have business with Chenor." Chenor is a low-level fixer who makes his money connecting wealthy investors with desperate meat. He takes all the money up front, which is a hassle, but none of his charity cases expect to come out alive. They hope to, for sure, but the risk is what they're paid for. The two of them have a brand deal running, what with the parallel themes and all. He should be expecting her. He's been trying to leverage the relationship into a partnership, but LaChessa doesn't marry down. Wonder what he'll think of the new threads...
Trophy grants Na-Zo a smile. “I trust you know your way out. I have business to attend.” That said, she turns her back, and leaves the duct trash alone in a room with her prone and practically unconscious body. As she leaves the censor zone and ducks into an uber, she sends out a notification to her Die-hards and goes live through the dashboard confessional. “Hey there SnuffBox, TwitterVU, Gallows.hu, dARKnet, and last, but certainly not least, every one of you tuning in from Olympus Heights Municipal Home for Veteran and Infirmed Persons--let’s not talk about that today--I’m coming to you live and in consumate fidelity to read the day’s obitz. I’m feeling very nostalgic today. I was just putting the last touches on a new design.” A swatch of cloth materializes in Trophy’s hand and she pulls it over her chest, “Doesn’t that just look marvelous? Anyway, I was finishing that up, which you can find in my designs closet, and I noticed some unfinished business making a very public boast about a recent conquest. That’s right, old friend of the show Nosrettap has found a new position with IA.” The feed cuts to a third party perspective of LaChessa, in the pique of organic prime, dropping a passenger elevator on then-partner Lew in order to take full market share on their joint venture. The video is layered with slow motion and vignette filters to cover the passengers that have been edited out. Anyone who could survive that and rebuild their portfolio had a special place in Trophy’s hard drive. “Yes, the only things that are certain are death and taxes, and I’m not here for your money, honey.” “Now, some of you viewers are thinking to yourself--you’re a very perceptive bunch--Maybe the old LaChessa could outsmart Lew, with his nerve wires and Optifine scopes, but Trophy can’t, not over satellite relay! Well, you just watch me. I’m coming for you, Lew. You’re at the end of your rope.” She rolls a censor bar across her knuckles before retracting it.
Easing into her process, and further into her chair, LaChessa syncs into Trophy. What was IA again? We're they Peabody's Corp? She had done so many jobs, they were all starting to bleed into each other. The constant mergers didn't help. She was confident it would come back to her, especially once Trophy's IO accelerator made everything sharper. Trophy's eyes blink online and her posture becomes more organic. A hand rests on one hip, adjusting the fall of her chains and silks. She hated admitting it, but slipping into this body gave her a surge of Confidence.
People live in starscrapers. The biggest starscraper is the one built around the space elevator- the one we built before we realized space travel was impossible? Now it's used to ratchet the livable structures up above the global devastation below. It's like a beautiful chandelier counting down humanity's demise. Good thing we're all transhumanist and such. People still live in the scyscrapers built on land. Squatters mostly. Kings of filth. It's a good place to lay low, or schedule mayhem. There are also undocumented persons in the infrastructure (the ducts, the pipes, etc.) For the mostpart, outside is not a thing. There's no veil outside. How would there be? Why do you want to go outside? Don't go outside. We have outdoors. Very well simulated. Our historians are second to none.
Trophy makes a public show of taking in strays. During the escaped weapon incident that wiped out your club, or whatever, she brought you in (occasionally) kept you paid (occasionally) and has allowed you a certain degree of freedom in perusing your investigation. You're played up as the unhinged orphan of an underground cult, and it's presented in the most culturally destructive way possible. She's one of the few people who will give you a regular job without any extra questions or forcing you to wear a camera rig. Fast money comes to those in the spotlight, and without a camera on you... or in you, you won't have the capitol to pursue interests beyond survival. There is a personal affectation in the way Na-Zo dresses (which has no cultural significance) which fans of Titan Inc. understand to be part of your ninja outfit. You find replicas in discount bins everywhere.
Tested by a constant paranoia that every little thing is a sign that LaChessa is loosing her mind. I'm also eyeing the "change playbook" and "make a new character" options in the lvl 6+ advancement list. Tested by borrowed chairs, voyers at the foot of the bed, Immersive Feedback Syndrome, backdoor entry, man-in-the-miiddle attacks, etc. Tested by psychopaths, privileged crooks, and the innocent downtrodden.
Tropy's a piece of work, cobbled together with standard cyberware parts and topped with a state-of-the-art Satelite Relay, Responsive interface, that's Slaved to a sim-chair. Her arms fire Censor Bars, a common-enough corp weapon that does little damage, but jams streaming tech. The black blades extend and fire from between her knuckles. Her chest is a shielded container, which should pass most scans, but will choke up all of the accessory throughput on her battery. Her eyes and ears are factory standard for an executive: Telescoping and Biometric eyes, Isolating and Analyzing ears, both Recording, both Sponsored. Her legs are Stuttgarte MkIV Dance equipment, rated for room-temperature use only. I see my #1 and #2 as being too similar, and 1 being the more interesting of the two. I'm not sure about the details, but I think we can work on that in play. Rache knows a secret about LaChessa's work for Titan Inc. Something Olympus Heights would ruin her for. Na-Zo's #1 sounds like something Trophy would do. She doesn't like seeing valuable human resources get 86'ed over corp negligence when that same resource might work with her (or become a paying mark) in the future. It also implies Trophy was at least marginally involved in the Iconoclast raid. LaChessa's probably under an NDA, and Trophy's A/V records are OH property. ChLover would have checked in soon after to make sure Na-Zo was okay. Looking at the Honorbound, I'm not sure what fits best for Trophy. Maybe the reduced sentence, #2. ~~~ I've lost track, is there a fourth player we're waiting on?
What's next? Introductions? Giri questions? Among the figureheads of Olympus Heights, Trophy is a character the public loves to hate. Ruthless, conceited, demanding, shrewd, destructive, Trophy doesn't just start drama, she ends fights. You're considered lucky if she'll meet with you over the boardroom table, as she is a fan of the overwhelming use of force. Giri
If someone knows you’ve skimmed off the top to further your own agenda and they kept it secret for you, they have 1 Giri on you. If you use someone as an exclusive asset for your own paying contracts, you have 1 Giri on them.
I think it would be interesting if we framed that in a "of the people by the people" light with the lives and conflicts of "heads" of corporations also playing out in reality TV. Grandiose, stockmarket-based WWE/Soap opera-style media saturation. That's how the corporations fake an appearance of transparency. Their big moves are cartoonishly exaggerated. A corp survives on its ability to keep the individual's attention, and keep them consuming the corp's branded products based on team fanaticism. Clusters of corps play out bitter rivalries, which they depend on for symbiosis. When a corp knocks out its competition by literally rigging their HQ for demolition, it's because it's sweeps week. Everyone assumes they cleared out the workers beforehand, because it's on the feeds, right? The veil allows the common citizen to remain blissfully unaware of how paltry the price of human life has become. My pillar in this setting is that corporations have lost sight of any purpose beyond staying relevant, because relevancy is currency. Feeds is short for newsfeeds. All media is news.
I was mostly trying to start the conversation about the setting with the group. I may be being impatient. Sorry. If Trophy is a unique product, then the other option for the Board is: They attempt to bring a new form of tech into the mainstream industry. putting me at a starting total of ±0 Capitol. Everything Trophy does is a tech demo. News reports and ads intermingled in a subversive ad campaign targeted at people in high-risk occupations who might distrust reaction times or the uncanny valley. Trophy's purpose is to get in and out of trouble gracefully. I was asking if we've got a sea of androids, or mostly faceless automotons, and what side of the Turing test we were on. I think I've got an idea from the other answers. The belief would be tested by unexplained digirealm charges, disobedient hardware, people recognizing Trophy whom LaChessa has never met... Present situations that should split their best interests. Generally sowing distrust or resentment between the three personas. The belief that they are of one mind is forced overtop a paranoia that LaChessa is losing control of her life since the corp takeover delayed her retirement. ChLover will be more or less important to the story depending on if we get, like, an Architect or spend a lot of time in digispace. My other two beliefs are "Telepresence is a safer alternative to Cyberwear." and "Suffering is the source of all evil." |