Chapter 1

[thenine]

Who: OTA
Where: Quad
When: Week 1, Day 1 - Week 2, Day 1
Summary: Game launch prompts!
Restrictions/Warnings: Violence, blood, et cetera. For anything surpassing 'R' on a rating scale, please create your own log.
Notes: Please title your subject line in the following format -- Open / Closed | Date. OOC event information can be found here.

Quick Navigation
The Nine
The Company
Leith
True Leithians
Westies
Resistance
The RAC

The Nine

Hushed whispers and conversations behind sealed doors spread throughout Qresh, carrying with them rumor of the Lady Derrish's illness. Poisoned, some say, as they speak their quiet murmurs and the news travels like wildfire. It lights up the nobility with a new cause - there is no heir to the Derrish name. At least, none that is known. A surrogate mother carries the only Derrish child to be related by blood. She dwells on Leith, though her location is obscured to everyone who seeks her - both those who wish to help and those who would do harm. Some wish to procure the heir - whether following the warrant for his retrieval or hoping to gain favor with the Nine by gift or by blackmail. Some wish the heir dead, seeking to cause a power vacuum that could lead to a bloody war as families of the Nine scramble to gobble up Derrish land. All have backring that can be traced back to the nobility, each family pursuing their own agenda. 'False' heirs, those who claim to be related, or bastard children, either rise up in hopes of fortune or hide in fear of those who would stamp out the family name for good. On Leith there is said to be a hotel staffed by the most beautiful woman, run by a man who no one has ever seen. Only those with money or influence may stay the night at Blessed Branches, though anyone seeking fine wine and good company may occupy its lounge. Many come hoping to spend time with the hostesses, though the girls aren't known for taking bribes or slipping away for a 'good time'. It is here, in one of the premium guestrooms, that the surrogate heir and his mother are housed. The other women are unaware of her status - simply taking care of her as one of their own - and how much the owner knows is as difficult to pin down as he is. Any display of violence is sure to be noticed, as Company officials and RAC agents alike guard the building for significant pay. Getting in may be simple for some, but getting out is far more difficult. The mother's room is on the 10th story, with its few windows locked and curtains closed. As she approaches her delivery date, help comes and goes with frequency, but on no specific schedule. Criminals and RAC agents alike chatter in the streets of Westerley and Leith over just who, and where, this woman could be. Many assume she lodges with the surrogate clusters hidden on Westerley - heavily guarded by men and treacherous landscape alike. Others seek beyond the Quad, and some assume she's already dead. No matter the cause, no matter its difficulty, the rush to find the woman and unborn baby only grows. Some may consult information brokers, some may attempt to find their way into the genetic databases, some may rely on word of mouth, and some may lay in wait for others to do the sleuthing work before closing in on their target.

The Company

"We need to send a message," every Company employee receives the same directive, "Loud and clear." Rules are rules, and there is no room for disobedience - neither within nor outside of the Company. The citizens of Westerley have become more unruly than usual, taking out their frustrations with their lot in life on the Company and on society. Or so the directive says. It is for the good of the Company, and for those loyal citizens who keep their heads down and do their duty, to expunge the corrosive minds from society and extinguish the flames of a foolish rebellion. From prisoner guards to those selected to string criminals up for execution, to those who stand watch over the sizzling corpses (or soon to be corpses) belonging to symbols of the rebellion left out in the rain to die, to those in charge of door-to-door or man-to-man ID checks, every bit of available manpower in the Company is being used to secure the city. Some may begrudge their work, while others delight in the lax restriction on violence towards citizens. All should keep their heads down, lest they become yet another target for the efforts to 'increase security' in the city. A heatwave that brings with it Black Rain makes the job difficult and treacherous - stay out too long and you could get caught in a storm. Just the same as the local Westies, all of whom are more or less stranded in their homes - or the bars they passed out in the night before - everyone is scrimping by with whatever provisions remain. Only those Company officials lucky enough to live on Company property, a compound of barracks that provides middling levels of comfort, don't worry for their necessities. Travel through the tunnels may afford the few who know of their existence more mobility - the ability to help others, to stockpile what they need, or to make an impressive capture - but comes with its own dangers. From the culture that lives there to the increased presence of resistance groups making their safe-houses in the vast, winding network, some may decide that the potential dangers aren't worth the trip, and others may wish they had.

Leith

Every season brings a new batch of harvest workers—old, young, adventurous, desperate. But it doesn’t matter whether a worker has tended to the same hokk farm for ten years: when the limits of a work visa are reached, they must return to their planet of origin or face severe penalties. Sometimes, though, people slip through the cracks. Sometimes people change their genetic records altogether to make sure it happens. Whether it’s an individual who refuses to return to the cage of Westerley or a merchant willing to look the other way for off-the-books labor, visa law enforcement is critical to the Quad. Targets identified as “high risk”—those individuals who have a profile of criminal behavior or have given the Company reason to take a second look at their credentials in the past—are being routinely rounded up to ensure their genetic identities and visa information still coincide. Killjoys and Company enforcers are being deployed in equal measure to address this potential security concern in the days leading up to “harvest week”, the seasonal break where workers return home and a new batch of hopefuls arrives on Leith. For some, this can be a minor inconvenience, taking DNA samples and conversing with understandably irritable workers—for others, this could be a potentially fatal encounter and lead into Leith’s darker underbelly. For whatever reason a target has chosen to stay or change their identity, they have done so at great and calculated risk. They will fight without discrimination to stay hidden and maintain their secret--as, at times, will their employers. Maybe they've decided to pursue a more lucrative line of work, using Leith's fertile soils to grow illicit substances, or perhaps they've simply decided that their fate should be in their own hands, and not that of a visa agency. Either way, they won't go quietly.

True Leithians

Gunfire is lost under the sound of the rain. The pitter-patter of acidic water beats in tandem to Company rifles and shouts, the flash of grenades like fireflies in the distance. The Family Registry Bureau, well-guarded and set on the outskirts of Old Town, shakes and shudders with each successive boom, debris falling as the battle escalates. “For Leith!” A single voice rises above the commotion and for a moment, the night is still, the incessant rain seeming to take heed, as if the clouds themselves have paused to see what will unfold. The building collapses. Fire billows out in violent plumes, snaking through the twisted metal and broken glass. Survivors on both sides disperse like scattered marbles. By morning, the dead have been dissolved to bone by the rain, and Company enforcers are out to ensure that scavengers don’t take their pick of the remaining materials. Officials are tight-lipped about what, if anything, was taken during the attack, but word on the street spreads fast—there’s a man hunt and hundreds of genetic identities are up for grabs. Criminal activity in Eulogy sees an all-time spike as bartered goods come in, though not everyone in Eulogy or the criminal world takes kindly to stealing from their own. Nor do they care for the sudden attention drawn to their illicit little den, making it a hot bed of Killjoy and undercover Company activity. But Eulogy isn't the only place to see unwelcome guests. On and off Westerley, news of the attack spreads, and agents of each organization race to come out on top. Whether it’s a Killjoy tasked with locating the perpetrators, a True Leithian conspirator on the run, a Westie out for revenge and securing their future in the Seventh Generation accord, or a Company Enforcer on orders of execution off planet—everyone has someone’s number, and time is quickly running out for each of them.

Westies

The heat hangs over Westerley like a blanket laid down over a fever, suffocating and addling. Sign posts flicker erratically between Company propaganda and storm advisory warnings. Old Town’s streets, normally buzzing and bursting with life, are like a ghost town. The few stragglers that remain move like worms, slowly and carefully, their bodies bowed over the carts they push as if the sun has melted away their will to walk. In the square of the town, a group of well-clad Company men and women hurriedly work, bolting modern day stocks into the concrete. Prisoners, red jumpsuits and heads covered in black shrouds, are roughly shuffled between the soldiers as they’re chained and bound to the stakes. Only once they’re secured are they allowed to see the light of day—for the first and last time in years. The squadron commander, a stalwart woman, takes up the intercom on her truck, her voice booming through each sign post in Old Town when she speaks. “Westerlens, for high treason and threats to the public good, these prisoners are hereby brought to this place of execution where they shall be exposed to the elements until dead. By order of the Company, serving the Quad.” Seconds later, the sirens start. The soldiers finish their work with haste and pile into their vehicle. The sky, moments before overbearingly bright, disappears under inky shadow, bruised green and red as violent clouds spread out like reaching fingers. The storm rolls in without mercy or pause, enveloping the light of the day by visible inches. Acidic rainfall begins to pelt down, not lightly, not drifting, but in a hard, unrelenting stream. Anyone caught within it has but hours to survive, and moments to escape disfiguring injury. The storms will rage for three days with few breaks in between. But the environment is hardly the only, or even the worst, thing Westies have to worry about.

Resistance

The rebellion suffered a crushing blow. Of course, rebellions in Old Town are used to that--but with key leaders gone, Resistance members are scattered like grains of sand across glass, rolling further and further apart. Some individuals seek to take the power vacuum as their own chance at power, but they're met with staunch rebuttal, splitting this already fragile organization into smaller and smaller cells. Under the cover of the acidic storms, the remaining members of the Resistance take to the undercity, whispering into the ears of the discontent and angry. Follow the branch that's extended to you, they say, and you'll find a new place to grow roots. And so those roots do grow, down walls, on pieces of passed paper, across the hands of those who harbor dissent. It's a symbol, a living, growing map, of a new haven. Innocuous to those who don't know what it means, symbolic and religious, but to those who seek out its meaning? They'll delve to the very deepest parts of the undercity, a place manned only by those wearing the yellow and gold of the Scarbacks. There, a secure military bunker is hidden beneath the layers of Old Town, lost to all but the original blueprints of the city. Its concrete walls hold the barest bones of supplies, but there's potential, a skeleton upon which the rebellion can build its strength and muster the will to stand again. Finding the bunker, though arduous, isn't the hardest part. Getting in? That will take connections, charisma. Trust. The Resistance is in awful short supply of that last right about now.

The RAC

The RAC, as ever, maintains its neutrality and follows its singular mandate: the warrant is all. But that isn't to say that there can't be a little fun in the process--between serving out warrants issued on behalf of the other factions and singular individuals, the top teams within the Quad will receive a special directive. Black Warrant For all teams, whether temporarily formed for the sake of pursuit or permanently aligned, this presents a unique opportunity to compete against their fellow RAC agents. All manner of subterfuge is encouraged, although directly attacking your fellow Killjoys will receive at least one bad review on social networking apps. But while killing your competition isn't allowed, making their life impossibly difficult and taking the prize for yourself? That's the very definition of the game. This is a competitive warrant, open to all Killjoy teams with a level 4 agent or higher. Your task is simple in description but far from it in nature: find and secure an heir for Land Derrish before your opponents. The catch (there's always a catch, isn't there?) -- you'll be fighting off more than your compatriot Killjoys. Criminals and mercenaries will be gunning for the same targets, and there's a mountain of bureaucracy standing in your way to figuring out who is a legitimate heir, if one exists at all. Your time is short* and your competition is fierce. May the best team win. *Week 1, Day 2 - Week 1, Day 5

Comments

fenris | ota

[eleutheron]

WESTERLEY;

i.

[ There's no joy in this. Not that Fenris finds much joy in most things, but his orders to chain a bunch of pitiful criminals to stakes and let them melt into boiling goo are certainly towards the bottom of the 'things that might ever possibly make me happy' list. Some of these people are petty thieves, stealing to survive. Some of them are murderers; some worse than that. And some of them are simply defiant.

Fenris does not hesitate as he secures the locks. No one tries to fight him, though one woman--marked as a member of the rebellion--spits in his face. He does not strike her; does not even move to wipe his face. He simply stares at her, his dark green eyes bright, the circuits in his skin gleaming. Unnervingly silent.

After what feels like hours, he's nearly finished with the last of them. A few whimper; others cry or wail. He goes on as though unaffected.

If he sees anyone approaching, whether to lollygag or interfere, he turns to them. ]

Move along. This has nothing to do with you.

ii.

[ Chaos breeds opportunity. Or just opportunists. The recent confluence of rebel attacks, the unfortunate weather, and the sudden influx of cheap identities has made the populace intractable. Fenris doesn't like needless violence, but he's hardly above it, either. He tries to discourage any funny ideas through sheer intimidation: he is not a tall man, but he is wiry and taut, and he has the look of a coiled snake. His carved skin and pointed ears set him apart, and when he's put on ID check duty, most people try to avoid his line. But he drags them over, anyway.

If there's dissension or if someone tries to resist once their ID is found false, he grabs their wrist. Maybe you overhear the sound of bone fracturing; maybe you want to step in.

Or maybe it's you he's got cornered. ]

You, there. Let me see your ID.

LEITH;

iii.

[ Towards the end of this increasingly long week, Fenris arrives at the Blessed Branches hotel. He has to keep the surrogate safe, and that's what he means to do. It's one of the few orders he'd take even if he wasn't in thrall to the Company; killing pregnant women will not stand, and he means to protect the surrogate with his life.

For the present, he's out in the lounge, drink in hand. Ice clinks against his glass as he sits on one of the red velvet couches, his back straight, his expression alert. He's looking for familiar faces--or for unsavory strangers. If he sees someone skulking about, or looking like they might be here for something other than a luxurious weekend getaway, he'll approach. ]

Mind yourself.

WILDCARD;

iv.

[ Let me know if none of these suit, or if you have somewhere else in mind--Fenris can move about pretty freely! I'm happy to write more specific starters, also. ]

Day 3

[lotusmesenpai]

ii.

[Pushing his damp hood back enough to let Fenris see just who he has caught in his grip, Kanda smirks at that man before he pointedly looks down at the hand holding his wrist - his expression clealy saying take it off or he will.

It's only a glance, though, before he looks back to level an intent gaze at the man before him.]

Fuck that. I have a job for you, for once. Still need to walk around intimidating people, or can you spare a few minutes now?

[A beat before he leans in, blue eyes narrowing thoughtfully.]

It's not something to discuss on the streets, but I can say it's something you're going to want to hear.

[eleutheron]

[ Fenris isn't cowed by Kanda's glare--there's not much that gets to him, really, not anymore--but he does let go. Takes a step back. They're familiar enough that he knows who and what Kanda is.

He glances 'round at the surging throngs of people. ]

Suppose I can take a break.

[ He jerks his head towards a side street. There's a bar there, its bright sign glowing luridly in the approaching dark. ]

Come on.

[ He turns and starts walking, not actually waiting for a response. ]

[lotusmesenpai]

[Better and better, since it's the very bar that Kanda had just left - the one floors below where Jennifer is currently living. It's easy, then, to retrace his footsteps, weave through the mesh of humanity until they're both in the bar.

Once there, he taps Fenris on the arm, points to an empty table in the back corner.

This is one conversation where he doesn't want anyone listening in.]

You grab the table while I get something from the bar. Preference?

[A free drink never really hurts as an opening to negotiation, right? ]

[eleutheron]

Wine. The redder the better.

[ He prefers it dry and bitter, just like his soul. Day drinking isn't a good look, but it's chaos out there, and Fenris has a solid tolerance. A single glass wine might as well be water for how much it affects him. So, sure. He'll indulge.

He finds them a booth in some relatively quiet corner of the bar, tucked away enough that any eavesdroppers would be immediately obvious. He slides in, then taps his fingers impatiently on the table while he waits. ]

[lotusmesenpai]

[With a snort and a nod, Kanda steps up to the bar and orders one bottle of ale for him and a glass of wine for his morose acquaintance. Drinks in hand he weaves through the bar with practiced ease, gives the area around them a quick sweeping assessment as he sets them down on the table before sliding into the seat across from Fenris.

Taking a moment to consider the other, he finally just sighs in irritation before diving right in.]

The RAC just issued a black warrant to find a Derrish heir. They're looking for a true-born one, but the wording of the warrant is ambiguous enough to leave a door open for people to use... others... with that Land's bloodline. I happen to know someone that fits this category.

[A beat and a sip from the bottle.]

With me so far?

[eleutheron]

[ There's something disturbingly familiar about this scene: sitting in a noisy dive bar, drinking, listening to the details of a job. It's played out in his life here a hundred times before, but as he sips the wine Kanda's brought, he feels a more disconcerting sense of deja vu. Like he's done this, but not exactly this. He shakes it off; Kanda's talking, and it sounds important.

He furrows his eyebrows; he's sure he heard something about this situation among others in the Company, though he hasn't been fully informed yet. First there were IDs to check; rebellions to intimidate. ]

I expect I can guess where you're going with this.

[ If he recognizes anything about a mention of the Derrish, he gives no sign. His own connection to them is lost in his ruined memory. ]

[lotusmesenpai]

[There had been a moment of something familiar in the far-away look Fenris had worn - probably because he's had that same distracted look more often lately. There and gone, and not something Kanda has a right or reason to inquire about.

Instead, he sips his own drink and waits on a reply, blue eyes narrowing slightly in consideration.]

Is that so?

[A beat, before he leans forward, forearms resting against the edge of the table.]

She's not like the rest of her... peers. She's an idiot, and too damned clueless for her own damned good. She's going to need someone that can guard her.

Still going where you guessed?

[eleutheron]

[ He raises his dark eyebrows slightly. Such warm tones! But truthfully, whether the girl is competent or not, Fenris is already on board. He's sure that keeping the heirs safe is in the Company's best interest, first of all. Secondly, he's not much fond of needless slaughter, regardless of who it is. ]

More or less.

[ He swirls the wine in his glass. ]

How much interest has there been? Is her status well-known?

[ That is to say: what level of danger are we talking about here? ]

sorry for the late!

[lotusmesenpai]

Black warrant was just issued a few hours ago, so I doubt too many people even know to look for her just yet.

[He pauses then, a thoughtful frown pulling into place as his mind races. There are other things he can do as well. People he's worked with before that might be able to help him keep it that way...

He starts slowly, a plan already forming to further this current state.]

I know a couple of useful brokers. I can use one to put people onto someone else's track and use the other to help deflect awareness away from her.

[Glancing up, he shrugs before taking a long sip of his ale, sets it back down.]

She's been disowned, but the blood still counts her as one of them. If nothing else, they know about her. [Depending on their angle, she might be in more danger from the Nine than anyone else.] Best to be wary.

np!

[eleutheron]

[ Fenris is mostly through his glass by this point. He listens carefully as he sips, thinking it over. His primary concern with any job brought to him outside of official channels is whether or not the work would conflict with Company interests. He thinks of them, of what they want and what they would want of him, before he thinks of anything else. Before his own comfort, his own judgment.

But in this case, he does not have to suffer a disconnect between what is right and what might be demanded. ]

I understand. Send her to me, and she will be protected.

[lotusmesenpai]

[Rather than take the man right up the stairs to meet Jennifer, however, he sits back in his seat and narrows his eyes suspiciously.

Because that?

Too damn easy.

Easy usually means shit goes sideways fast and next thing you know, you have a rabid psycho trying to bite your neck. (Don't ask). ]

...So that's it? No 'what's in it for me bullshit'? Just going to agree to play meatshield out of the kindness of your heart?

[eleutheron]

What do you want me to do? Shake you down?

[ He waves a hand, and the inscribed circuits cut into his skin flash in the darkness of the bar. ]

Threaten you? That would serve no useful purpose.

[ He finishes off the wine and shakes his head. ]

The Company will want these heirs protected. You offer me a chance to do exactly that. I see no issue here--unless my making this difficult would be more fun for you.

ii

[cauterised]

Easy.

[Another hand cuts in, smaller in size but no less firm. A woman this time, hair cropped close to her chin and with a face slightly less angular, but her outfit still sports the Company insignia and the gun strapped to her thigh looks loved and well-worn.

Still, her gender and her size have always worked against her during first impressions; hope flares briefly in the suspect's eyes as he swivels towards her, words spilling forth from his lips about how this must all be a mistake, his ID is completely genuine and always has been, and if they don't let him go now his wife will kick up a fuss when he's late for dinner a third time! Excuses, all of them, and she doesn't buy a single one of them.]

I'd suggest doing as he [with a nod towards Fenris] says before we're forced to add 'lying to a Company officer' to your list of misdemeanors.

[She's might not always approve of Fenris' methods, but she does trust him to do the right thing.]

[eleutheron]

[ Fenris listens to this litany of tears with a scowl. He doesn't believe any of them, either; not for a second. In his experience, the people who bawl the hardest are usually the ones with the most to hide. He's about to yank on the guy's arm none too kindly, but Riza's presence stops him. She's a good deterrent that way: calm, reasonable, implacable. Fenris himself has only a veneer of calm. In truth he seethes constantly, angry not even so much with this individual man but with so many things he can't properly name or control.

He takes a breath. ]

Comply, and you will have an easier time of it.

[ He loosens his grip, just a little. The man looks from Riza to Fenris, his terror mounting. Nervously, he does as he's asked ... and, just as suspected, his papers come up false.

He immediately starts in with another laundry list of troubles, of tragedies -- terrible circumstances that lead him to this crime.

Fenris's head aches. He's not kept around for his love of nuance. He looks to Riza. ]

You know what we have to do.

[cauterised]

[With a nod:]

I do.

[Months in prison, first and foremost, though deportation and years of hard labor both lurk in the periphery depending on the severity of the falsification. The latter she finds too severe for such a crime personally, but the Company is unyielding in their quest to imprint the importance of the law onto the minds of the citizens.

From her waist, she unclips the set of handcuffs she usually carries with her. Simplistic in design, but functionally sophisticated: each cuff's built with a sensor for wrist size, so that the cuffs can enlarge or shrink as necessary for maximum restraint. (If nothing else, money brings with it a whole host of fancy trinkets and toys.)

It's as she reaches over to clip them around the man's wrists that he makes his move; since he can't run, he opts to fight back. His free hand darts down and comes back up with a gun, waved wildly in the air as he screams.]

I'll kill you! I'll kill them too! I'll kill everyone!

[Mixed cries and shouts erupt from the crowd, and the nearest bystanders cower back in fear.]

[eleutheron]

[ ... well, that's a problem. A not entirely unexpected problem, if he's honest. The man's desperation was obvious from the start, and it's not unusual for such desperation to boil over into action--however ill-advised.

Fenris is unafraid; he has stared down bigger barrels than this, and wielded by more capable people, too. His grip on the man's wrist turns crushing, shattering, and then, quick as a serpent, he snatches the weapon out of the man's hand. The circuitry on his body pulses. ]

You had a chance for mercy. You've wasted it.

[ Fenris does not always like or agree with the orders the Company hands down, and their draconian way of doing business doesn't endear them, either. But Fenris does believe in order. He believes in peacekeeping, in safety, in someone acting as a bulwark against madness. Even if the methods are brutal. Even if the methods sometimes breed the very madness they're meant to quell. ]

westerley, ii.

[snuggies]

[ The days tend to be trying in Old Town--some days mean not enough food, some days mean fights and violence, and some days are just bleak, filled with suffocating loneliness from living in a world where people are bred to prioritize themselves above all else. Scott's gotten pretty good at handling these days, even though the rains and prisoner executions had grated his nerves. He doesn't snap when he sees the dogs out for blood, bodily grabbing citizens and demanding ID. He just clenches his jay, and anticipates the moment that he's pulled over--

There it is. ]

Just...

[ But his eyebrows shoot up at the sight of Fenris, an alien of he'd ever seen one. His nostrils flare on his instinct, trying to sniff out the other man and get a read on what exactly he's dealing with. ]

[eleutheron]

[ What the hell is this kid doing? Fenris doesn't let go of him right away, but his grip isn't so tight as it might've been -- because it's clear that, yes, this is a child. A young man, at least, not out of his teens. And he's ... breathing deep.

Scott will taste bitter red wine and crisp electricity in his mouth; the latter smell is sharp, slightly acrid, but not overpowering. The circuitry cut into Fenris's skin glows pale against the cloudy afternoon, suggesting an origin point for the scent.

Fenris's voice is gruff, but not unkind. ]

Be still. It will only take a moment.

[snuggies]

[ Different. Not like the Alpha subject that Scott had battled with in the past, but different still. And still an Enforcer if his uniform and conduct are anything to go by. Fenris could have an entirely different narrative--could've willingly volunteered himself to the Company to receive modifications. There's probably plenty of people that wouldn't see anything wrong with altering their bodies for enhanced senses and strength.

As much as he wants to, he probably can't ask the Enforcer for his story. ]

Yeah- I. One sec.

[ His gaze drops, grabbing his device from inside his jacket to bring up his ID. He's a little distracted at first, but when he focuses his attention back on the information displayed-- ]

Wait. Something's wrong... there's information missing.

[eleutheron]

[ The Company has some strict laws about falsified identities. Many people have simply disappeared into their penal system after a serious infraction--and Fenris can't deny that he's been responsible for his share of those disappearances.

His already agitated expression turns even more sour as he notes the discrepancies in Scott's ID. He's not keen to cuff a kid. ]

I assume you have an explanation, then.

[snuggies]

Me? [ Scott shoots Fenris a baffled look, tearing his gaze away from where he'd been squinting at his information. ] Why would I have an explanation, isn't it the company's job to keep tabs on people?

[ Maybe he shouldn't be so snappy with an Enforcer, but the statement had genuinely made him incredulous. It's not as though Scott has any control over the whims and administration of the Company. They made official what information that they wanted about him, and it was out of his control. ]

[eleutheron]

[ Fenris taps the screen, his irritation mounting. ]

It is our job to ensure that you are not falsifying your identity. This information does not match with what's on file. Either you tampered with it, or someone else did.

[ He narrows his eyes. ]

Statistics tend to favor the former.

[snuggies]

[ Fenris isn't alone there, with Scott's own frustration obvious on his face and in his tone. ]

I don't even know how to tamper with it. I-- My genetic history is missing, why would I get rid of that information when it's the only thing guaranteeing my family a way off of Westerley?

[ He fixes Fenris with a questioning expression, trying not to come off too aggressively, but obviously not about to stand and receive blame for something he didn't do. ]

Don't you have some way to trace who might've tampered with the information? If it happens so often.

[eleutheron]

I do not. That type of investigation is beyond my purview.

[ He sounds more tired than angry, at this point. ]

I'd have to arrest you, and you'd have to wait for the results.