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

A - day 1!

[impulsors]

[ let's say it's a streetcorner.

a streetcorner just steps away from itsuki's shoddy-bricked hole-in-the-wall means that it's packed in the middle of the day, yellow-lit as citizens swarm forth and back from the daily grind. it's a mingle of the city's strangest blood from overalls to shabby suits, some wheeling chrome-gaudy cycles along while others fumble by on foot, clutching at wobbly pyramids of takeout and coffee. it means you get all sorts drifting in from westerley's cross-sections, from children to lumbering pedestrians to salesmen hawking god-knows-what. (keith's shaken off two in the last fifteen minutes alone: veiny, knuckling men with ink-bright eyes and whozits-and-whatsits-galore tucked under their coats. so each claimed, unfastening their topmost button -- and keith'd spun on a heel and torn off in a hurry.)

but a streetcorner means lamp-posts just wide enough for slouching, means gum-patched sidewalks and street-signs. and, unluckiest of all: it means means a light permanently stuck on red, and a stream of vehicles pouring across the road in a torrent begging to amputate the first careless jaywalker. this, ladies and gentlemen, is what comes of not having your own ride.

it explains why keith's eye deigns to swivel from the light (seriously, it's been two minutes) over to. . . a slim, bright-eyed shape in a jacket too good for old town.

. . . ]

Maybe you should try a different street.

[ look, it's very simple math, the kind all the westerley kids learn: streetcorner + illegal sales all around + pretty-looking man + nice hair + complaining about getting too many men among his customers during times of stress = . . . ??? ]

im screaming

[nightchild]

[There is nothing about Itsuki that most definitely says informant and not sex worker, so surely, this is also Itsuki’s fault for being so vaguely skeevy.]

[Then again, it’s been a while since he’s??? been??? Assumed to be one?? He’s climbed the ladder. He’s worked his way up! Most people who come on by actually know who he is! No longer are there awkward moments of men and women sidling on by and winking at him while asking his rates just as there’s no longer awkward moments of Itsuki giving them said rates and then realizing as they run their hands down his body that it’s sex that they want. Which is fine, honestly, Itsuki respects every Westerley occupation (and he’s done his fair share boosting that particular industry), but like??? HE THOUGHT HE WAS PAST THIS!!]

[Is what he’d think if he actually cottoned onto what Keith was implying. The sad thing about it having been a while, is that you don’t realize that it’s actually happening until later probably.]

[For now, he waves a quick dismissive hand.]

Here or there, it’s all the same. I’ve been around enough to know. [He heaves a sigh, sounding dangerously dramatic, as he straightens up from the wall he’s been leaning on for the past hour. Even though Keith didn’t necessarily approach him, he did unfortunately make eye contact with Itsuki. And he also talked to him. So like, he’s in for it now.] But it’s fine. I mean, it’s not really fine, but the joy’s the same at the end of the day, so.

[this sounds awful!!! Itsuki squints at Keith.]

So, what exactly are you looking for? [This one’s a new guy, Itsuki notes, looking him up and down with the intention of studying him, but like??] I’d hate to brag, but I’m pretty experienced, so there’s a good chance I can do whatever you’re looking for.

[THIS SOUNDS AWFUL!!! Anyway now Itsuki’s left the wall and is probably approaching Keith, hi]

❤!

[impulsors]

I'm not looking for anything.

[ It's firmer than he needs, an instant defense, two syllables short of a bite. He doesn't retreat but his shoulders square; one arm folds over another at once, jutting elbows. ]

. . . but I meant what I said. People don't buy stuff like that in broad daylight.

[ And then, with a strict sort of deadpan - ]

Most people.

[ Look, who knows what this hooker's looking to cater. Never trust a man who dyes his hair. ]

[nightchild]

[WOW THIS IS HIS REAL HAIR what kind of anime is keith if he doesn't understand the anime laws of weirdass hair!! LOOKS AT ALLURA!!!]

They're usually a lot more subtle yeah, but times being what they are... [Keith's tone doesn't faze him, nothing short than an actual punch would. (that's happened before honestly). Itsuki's squinting look of observation turns into amusement.] Everyone wants to get in on the action.

[The action of BABIES IN SPACE, though Itsuki himself has no personal interest in what's going on there beyond 'making money and accidentally putting people on wild goose chases']

Everyone who's looking to score, that is. So what are you supposed to be? Company? Killjoy? Maybe a merc who isn't good enough to be either?

[impulsors]

[ Um, Allura is an actual alien.






Though being an alien would explain a lot about Itsuki. With equal subtlety, Keith bristles a little: hackles and fists and all the way to the ends of his hair. ]

Killjoy. And some of us don't have to buy it.

[ Keith, why are you talking like you've ever scored. ]

[nightchild]

[Keith, this is doing the exact opposite of convincing Itsuki to leave you alone and hawk his 'services' elsewhere!! It's like the more bristly he is, the more Itsuki is sticking around in his debonair jacket and getting people to side-eye the both of them.]

I figured. You killjoys are a grumpy bunch. [Number of killjoys Itsuki knows who like him: no one. there's no one.] And yeah, you guys have your own people, but it's handy to buy from someone without RAC breathing down your neck, don't you think?

[not that RAC would have their own mandated sexters... though Itsuki wouldn't put it past them to have like a whole set of seemingly neutral hookers. BUT HE'S NOT EVEN TALKING ABOUT THAT, HE'S TALKING ABOUT WARRANT BROKERS]

I can promise that much at least. I'll make it worth your time, with the pleasure of being incognito.

[SCORE!!]

[impulsors]

[ ???????????¿????????????????????¿¿??¿??¿¿¿¿¿¿? ]

What? No, they don't. [ wait. ] We don't.

[ A year's stretch and it's still hard to remember to fit the plural between his teeth. But never mind that. ]

Are you always this bad at selling yourself?

1/2 it started from the bottom and now we're still at the bottom

[nightchild]

[STOP THOSE QUESTION MARKS SHOULD BE ITSUKI'S!! anyway he's all about to interject with a 'Whaddya mean they don't??? u guys have ur own informants??? that's why I can't charge you guys too much or you'll whine about it']







[And then, he finally registers the question.]

[nightchild]

[








ah.]

Ah.

[ah]

[this is the face of a man who's rapidly losing all belief in humanity, at least the part of humanity that apparently likes assuming that he's a hooker. anyway, with the measured tone of a man who's losing that belief but will still fight for patience,]

You think I'm a hooker.

[mmmmmmmmmmmm now he's running their entire conversation through his mind and he wants to scream, stop even if he was a hooker HE WOULDN'T WANT TO BANG KEITH!!!!]

You weren't coming off as all that bright while I was talking to you, but... Way to prove me right. [it sounded like he wanted to bang keith??? AHHHHHHHHH] That means I'm not, by the way.

[impulsors]

[ Congratulations! You have leveled up Keith's BRISTLE move! BRISTLE is now Lv. 3! ]

It's not my fault you sound like one. And not even a very good one. Who starts complaining about not getting any girls on the street?

[nightchild]

[can he return keith to prof oak]

Uh, people who like girls?!

[Itsuki believes he's still being patient. he's not, but let him dream. anyway, he points at Keith!! aggressively!!]

Look, you. I'm an informant. You know, info broker? I sell information. And I've had a really long day of selling info to dudes like you and to no one cute, so I think I'm allowed to complain a little!

[BREATHES, he's patient. he's a patient guy.]

Geez, haven't you ever done business with an info broker before? Are you totally new at this or something?

[impulsors]

I've been around for long enough.

[ Long enough, at least, to know the basics: the boundaries of excessive force, how to hold and fire a gun, and never offend someone you want to sell you the right intel. ]

But I try to look for people who know what they're doing.

[ Oops. ]

[nightchild]

[Itsuki sends him a particularly irritated look at that, goodbye patience.]

Like your warrant brokers? Getting hand-outs from RAC-approved sources sure is convenient. Except your track record for warrants must be shit if that's all you get your information from.

[impulsors]

And how good're the people you help out?

[nightchild]

You don't expect me to answer that without getting paid, do you?

[He's still a little irritated and it shows on the edges of his voice, the way his fingers tap away on his upper arm, but his face is sporting his usual grin now.]

See, I don't just hand out information because of a bunch of rules, or because the RAC might haul me out on my ass if I don't do my job. I just operate with joy. That makes me independent, and being independent means hearing things from all sorts of places -- even the ones that aren't RAC-approved.

[impulsors]

I'm pretty sure my garbage collector's independent, too.

[nightchild]

[ya little shit!!!]

Yeah, but you don't need a garbage collector to do your job. That's a bad comparison. [GOD!!!] Unless you do need one. Does he runs back-up for you on the warrants you can't handle or something?

[impulsors]

That's not what I meant. Being independent doesn't mean anything. So far you're just saying a bunch of stuff that anyone could say. I'd probably get the same answer on other streetcorners too.

[nightchild]

As long as you don't flat-out offend them, maybe. [POINTEDLY!!]

But yeah, I know what you're saying. There are a bunch of guys out there who lie for fun, but they don't last long in this business. Can you imagine? Selling the wrong stuff to the RAC and the Company? [Itsuki might talk shit about both, but he's of a mind not to get on anyone's bad side.] I've been an informant for more than a couple of years now. It's my job, and it's how I survive.

[He pinches the bridge of his nose. He's not unused to giving this spiel, god knows how difficult it's been just getting his foot in the door, but it has been a while.]

Anyway, shit like that's just part of the risk. You can stick to the RAC however you like, but keep in it mind that there are others out there who aren't on the payroll -- the next time a guy walks up to you and asks what you like.

[impulsors]

The light's green.

[ itt: a fine display of shounen dumbass listening skills. ]

1/2

[nightchild]

. . .

[CONTROL UR SHOUNEN FOR FIVE SECONDS KEITH]

[nightchild]

[okay u know what, it's fine. that's a good end to a conversation as any, so Itsuki just sighs and decides to move on with his life. by crossing the street that Keith very helpfully pointed out just now, goodbye, sayonara, shall we meet again etc, etc...]

[Itsuki gets five steps forward before an enthusiastic courier on a stupid bike comes vrooming down the street, knocking helpless pedestrians and tiny strays out of his way because apparently there are Westies who own bikes who are also colorblind, who knew -- and continues to run along and rams straight into Itsuki, immediately killing him]

Fucking shit -- !!

[jk he just rams into Itsuki, who barely avoids instant death but most probably just got a concussion, BUT THAT'S NOT STOPPING THE BIKE COURIER, WHO heads straight where Keith is too because this is apparently a two-for-one special today!!! NO SHOUNEN LEFT UNTURNED TODAY]

[impulsors]

[ but keith, on the other hand, has actual reflexes.

he jolts behind the lamp post, swings around it as the courier whirls blithely by, mere centimeters from crushing his instep, speeding too quick to chase. the rest of the world trundles along the crosswalk as the light burns green-green-green, because prettyboys come ten a penny in this city and nobody loses out on joy if itsuki bleeds out right there between the cracks and the gutter.

what an apt metaphor for his life. only -- ]

Hey!

[ sorry, did you think that being too fast to chase meant that keith wouldn't try? there he goes. please enjoy dying alone, itsuki. ]