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

ii

[bittybat]

[The training room is, similarly enough, where Damian spends most of the ride. Everyone else is a giant nuisance (especially Jack), and in order not to be subjected to terrible musical choices, he ends up here.

It's the best and only way for him to release the extra energy he can't when they are traveling.] You stepped forward too soon. [Don't mind a ten year old watching and critiquing your work...]

But not bad.

[lotusmesenpai]

[It's okay - Kanda was that know-it-all little shit eleven years ago... wow, first person to make him feel old, boy.

Especially because the kid wasn't really wrong.

Even so, he arches a brow at Damian and waves to the wall as if to say 'pick one'. Today, it's staves for Kanda, the heavy metal at the ends covered in layers of leather to blunt the blows.]

Maybe. Pick something and show me you're not just talk, kid.

[bittybat]

[Staves it is.

There's no flourish or exaggeration when Damian takes one of them down, only the testing of its weight in his hands, with his arms and shoulders. For him, the stave is too long, made for a taller person, an adult, but that's the fun in it.

He'll have to adapt.] Did you come just because of your friend? [Not knowing Kanda yet except for what he briefly saw of the movements, Kanda gets a longer portion of the stave when Damian extends it at the ready. It'll keep Kanda at a good distance, protecting him from a bigger and stronger opponent.

The only downside is that he won't be able to swing it much, stuck instead being defensive until the right moment.] Did you think he couldn't do it alone?

[lotusmesenpai]

[He watches Damian, assessing as the young man gets a feel for the weapon, adjusts his hold and stance to accommodate its length to his own height, and nods in satisfaction with the way he'd adjusted.

The question has him blink, nonplussed, before he barks a short laugh.]

You mean Jack? Don't mistake his annoying personality as friendly to anybody. [Shaking his head, he shrugs, and then twists his wrist, brings the stave down in a sharp sweep down to test those defenses.]

The warrant is all, short-stack. Sentimentality for friends is a distraction.

[This one he knows all too well, especially since his actual partner isn't even on the ship with them.]

[bittybat]

It's a liability. [Damian doesn't waste energy on trying to needlessly block Kanda's stave when he can just hop back and to the side and let it miss him completely.

Since he doesn't guard, he now has the opportunity to follow up and jab. Not a violent thing, not even a serious one necessarily. Testing. Seeing if he can get close before he even tries to hit.] People who want you dead or obedient will use it against you.

The man we took the warrant from will, too, if it'll get him what he wants. [If it sounds like a warning, it's because it is, but Damian will deny it if pressed.]

[lotusmesenpai]

Smart, for a small fry. At least you recognize the man's true nature. [A slight shift brings the stave up to deflect the jab to the side, followed by a half-twist to rotate the staff, bring the other end in to strike lightly from the side.

Still testing and assessing, on both sides it seems.]

Unless you partner with someone capable of watching their own back. Regardless, there's danger in thinking you can handle it all yourself as well.

[Been there, done that, when Kanda was Damian's age - only he heals too clean to have the scars to prove it. He doubts (hopes) this kid doesn't have that same level of tampering.]

Overconfidence can get you killed.

[bittybat]

[Something puts a little fire in Damian's britches. The defending stroke of the stave that wards off Kanda's test is quicker and firmer, a bit more insistent.] You won't get anything accomplished if you're not confident. You won't take risks.

[He swings out suddenly, as hard as before, though he can't expend the strength to swing the stave around since it's long and heavy on one end. He tries, instead, for a triple volley of jabs at different areas of Kanda's waist. Two miss with guards, but one hits with a solid thump, and that's enough to make Damian sidle backward, satisfied.]

Don't call me a small fry.

[lotusmesenpai]

Cockiness will get you killed just as quick.

[Kanda flashes a fierce grin at that, despite the sting of a well placed blow and then immediately launches into a swift flurry of jabs aimed towards the kid's chest - little more than a firm distraction before he shifts into a hard sweep towards the boy's ankles and shins.

As he does so, he snorts, his expression more somber once again.]

Live through a few more level fours and I might bother remembering your name, short-stack. Until then, I'm just waiting on you to turn into blaster fodder.

[Might seem harsh, but when you've entered your first combat zone around Damian's age it's hard not to come out of it with a low faith in the durability of humans.]

[bittybat]

[Retaliation was something Damian expected; however, he hadn't quite been aware to what degree. Kanda's training was just that, focused, easy, no intense strength or passion behind it. He realizes he's tipped the pot, but feels more satisfied for it.

Kanda is taking him more seriously.

He's forced to defend, block the jabs by using a hand to twirl the end of the stave behind him, deflecting in a circular motion. It leaves him open. To land steady, he has to abandon the stave altogether. It clatters on the ground when he trips, but he now has his hands free to flip, make a solid landing low, almost on his knees.] My name is Damian Wayne.

Start remembering it now because you'll need to know it when I'm level six. [Taking a page out of Kanda's book, he slips his fingers under the stave and tosses it up and over at Kanda from one end. A distraction.

Rather than jumping up and down at Kanda, he goes low first: baseline slides, trying to hook his foot around Kanda's ankle to trip.]

[lotusmesenpai]

Level six? Kids still believe in fairy tales, huh?

[Twisting away from the incoming weapon definitely provides the opening Damian needs - why people insisted on throwing weapons that still had use was something Kanda would never really grasp. You'd have to pry his from his corpse - , but it allows him to twist, despite the sting in his hand after the padded tip slammed into a fist clenched around his own staff and plant one end on the far side of the ground, use it as as an anchor to swing over that low slide.

Rather than press the advantage following Damian's slide, Kanda dismisses his own taunt in favor of a word of advice.]

Not bad, but next time don't throw the stave. With a bit more practice, longer weapons like a staff or this would have been a ground leveler between our sizes. It could have given you leverage or increased momentum to make up for the differences in physical strength.

They're going to underestimate you anyway, so use that against them.

[Note the 'they'. Kanda knows better than to underestimate based solely on size. Not when he's used that to go in for the kill shot far too many times.]

[bittybat]

[Without scrambling ungracefully, Damian flips hastily back up to his feet, prepared, both fists quick to raise for shielding if needed.] Don't lecture me. I know how to use them. [He'll remember, though, not that he had intentions of allowing the stave to be discarded completely unless Kanda happened to decide to break it.

But then he would just have a pair of escrima like a certain winged night bird from Gotham.] I don't need a stave to win. [He thinks he just has to use Kanda's own against its master.

With one hand, he reaches out, curling the fingers at Kanda in a beckoning motion.]

[lotusmesenpai]

Already know it all, huh? Alright then.

[He might admit you've got fire kid. If you live long enough to hit puberty.

For now, he offers a fierce not overly friendly grin, feet moving a sure rapid steps. A rapid turn, the staff all but a blur as he spins it in sharp arcs around him, closer to Damian before following through one arc, sweeping it in low and hard towards the young man's side.

Unfortunately for Damian - if the kid wants to be treated like an adult, Kanda will do so putting a considerable bit of his own strength and control in the swift move.]

[bittybat]

[It takes both arms for Damian to block Kanda's feistier blows. He uses the bend of his elbow to try to lessen most of the brunt of them, or sweeps his arm down and around and up, Wing Chun style, to roll it away.

But even blocking the attacks doesn't make him a solid wall. He's too small of frame, too light of weight. Despite having good footwork in position, the blocked hit to his side sends him skidding and dancing back.

His arms quickly come back up, ready, stiff and sure, but there's a growing, stinging ache on his ribs that'll likely turn into a nasty bruise. Pain is the teacher and redeemer, and he wills himself not to feel it mentally.]

Unless you're defeating me, that's the last time you'll touch me.

[lotusmesenpai]

[Oddly enough, it's the young man's words that bring Kanda up short, just shy of launching the next offensive. Stepping back, he watches Damian with a sharp eye, an assessing gaze, to try to determine just how hard he'd actually hit the kid before he lets out an annoyed sigh, weapon lowering into little more than a ready stance.]

I'm not here to defeat you right before an assault, idiot. Learn when to pick your battles - you'll survive longer for it.

[That said, Kanda steps to the side, reaches out... and grabs a bottle of water that he tosses with a negligent hand towards Damien.]

You've got instincts though, kid.

[bittybat]

[For a moment, all of Damian's muscles tighten, and he considers jumping Kanda when the man appears to let his guard down. He's insulted Kanda brushes his threat off, and his lips twist sourly.

But he says. The water bottle surprises him, but when his hand snaps up, it catches it without effort. Not exactly what he wanted, though perhaps he needed it.] Do you always let your opponents live?

[lotusmesenpai]

[Never judge a book by it's cover - he doesn't trust you enough to let his guard down entirely.]

Pointless.

[Shaking his head at the question, he flicks open the lid and gulps down a quick sip of water before staring down impassively.]

Right now, we're team members. So right now it'd be like shooting myself in the foot by wearing your endurance down before what will likely be a lethal fight. Assess the situation before you and prepare for that instead, idiot.

[bittybat]

I didn't ask about us or right now. [Just gauging whether or not Kanda happened to be lenient with other fights, especially serious ones. Unlike the other man, he doesn't open the bottle and drink any of the water, just holds it in his fist.] I want to know if you kill your opponents, or if you let them live.

[If he seems prepared to judge, it's probably because he is.]

sorry for the late!

[lotusmesenpai]

[If anything, Kanda's expression becomes cooler, more closed off, no emotion in the icy gaze. He'd been around this kid's age when they'd started sending him behind enemy lines, a smaller door-kicker with the enhancements to keep him alive while he cleared a location of all enemies without the loss of their own soldiers to do it.

If anything, Kanda's got far too much blood on his hands, and not a moment spent wasted on regret for those that lost it there.]

If the warrant calls for a live catch, they're brought in alive. Anyone gets in my way, dies. I've never failed a mission.

[He shrugs at that, before stepping over to put the practice weapon back on the wall.]

The warrant is all, and all that bullshit.

no problem!

[bittybat]

[Strangely, Damian doesn't seem pleased nor upset about Kanda's answer. His face is as flat as it had been when he came into the training room in the beginning. A man who lives by the job, or so Kanda claims.] The warrants don't make the rules. [He slides the toe of his boot under the discarded stave, hefts it up so he can catch the length along the middle. It spins along his arm and elbow, and he catches it vertical by his side.]

Following the jobs you take without question will make you mindless. You kill and spare just because someone writes it down for you? [The stave gets hung back on the wall where it came from, and he heads for the door with the water bottle in one hand.] The people that get in your way are still people. You're just on the side that paid you better.

You've never failed a mission? [He pauses at the door, glancing back.] There's a first time for everything.

[lotusmesenpai]

...You're too soft for this job, kid.

[There's no heat or accusation in the statement, just calling it as he sees it.]

The warrant sets the parameters, short stack. Don't ever forget that. I kill those that get between me and my objective, I authorize my team based on an immediate situational analysis. I am not only responsible for the warrant, but my partner's life as well. So no, I don't question a decision once made, and if someone is willing to put themselves between me and the target, then they chose how to fight or die.

Stick to the lower levels, killjoy. You're gonna get yourself killed at mine.

[That's the most advice he's given to a rookie, kid. Take it or don't - that's not his problem.]

[bittybat]

[For a moment, his mouth opens, eyes burning with a readiness to start (and win, he's sure) an argument, but then he closes his mouth again, so quick his teeth click.

Too soft. He doesn't think it's about being soft so much as--good? He's not exactly cut out for diplomacy, sociability. He couldn't be a mole in the profession of ambassador, business owner. So he has to be an agent with the strange morals of his supposed father.] Everyone is glad to follow orders as the best excuse but then forgets other people are doing the same. The people who oppose you likely had no say in what they're ordered to do. Meat shields. Protect, attack.

I'll come find you when I'm level six.

[Yes, some kids still do believe in fairy tales.]

[lotusmesenpai]

[Morals are a dangerous thing for a killjoy to possess - they really will get the kid killed.

But hey. He'd been that know-it-all-little-shit at that age, too.

It'd be a waste of breath to try to convince the kid otherwise... especially when he still believed in boogeymen tales like Level Six.

Instead he just shakes his head and starts to lift his water bottle again.]

Whatever, short stack. Let's see if you make to to the end if this one first.