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

[riastraid]

[ Being reliable's one thing, being prompt is another. Lancer's got a good track record at finishing jobs, but it's at his own pace, which means in today's case—clocking in whenever he feels like it. Granted, he's not used to having security detail waiting around, and god only knows what the (heavy) pack he's been saddled with has inside. Not his job to ask. Discretion's a good habit to have in this industry.

Whatever it is, it rattles a bit as he slumps it onto the bar with an overblown sigh. ]

Man— [ He cracks his neck, hardly taking a good glance at his 'partner' before he reaches for a bottle himself, delicately tipping it his way. The bartender owes him one anyway. ] I always thought there'd be more to being a killjoy than being Westerley's top billed packmule, y'know?

[ 'Hello, sorry for being late, excuse me and thank you.' No harm done, at least apparently not to him. ]

[lotusmesenpai]

['Fuck off and die' would have probably been the response. So it's probably good Lancer hadn't bothered with the apology.

Kanda would much prefer prompt, because he's not stupid enough to believe in reliable with anyone - even if (or maybe especially if) he's worked with them before. And now that everyone's here, he's just going to scowl at the free way the other helps himself to Kanda's caff because sorry Lancer...

No one's ever really taught him how to play well with others, though some have tried.

Instead, he snorts and shoots his temporary partner a smirk, raises a brow at the man.]

That's what you get for taking the shit jobs. You want more joy and less Westies, stick to the higher warrants.

[riastraid]

[ The nice thing about growing up in a rough-and-tumble environment (rowdy was putting it gently) is that he's used to all manner of rude bastards. Curses, threats, growls and scowls; he's seen the best and worst of them.

So he's unfazed, pouring himself a half-shot with a bark of laughter. Barely anything, but he doesn't actually tend to work drunk. ]

Can't argue that. But y'know—I kinda like it here. It's got personality. [ He says it like a joke, though there's a brief, genuine quality to his smile before he downs his (or probably more accurately, Kanda's) drink with a refreshed sigh. ]

This all seems a little below your paygrade though.

[ actually they're the same paygrade but whatever, he's curious what brings surly mcsurlyson here. ]

[lotusmesenpai]

[Snorting, Kanda sets his now-empty cup down and leans back to cut Lancer a look because what the hells is that supposed to even mean? This place - Old Town as a whole, really - smelled like stale alcohol and unwashed bodies. It reeks of oppression and desperation to survive so how does that translate to something worth liking?

Nuance of phrase is lost on this one.]

Personality.

[Whatever.

Looking around, he scowls and curses bartenders that actually pay attention to their tabs and the fine print attached. And then he shrugs dismissively.]

I throw out the trouble makers in my downtime for free hokk...Bastard that owns this place realized it's been a while since I've worked here, so this is how we break even.

[No big deal, right? Right. But honestly - they are the same rank so what else, beyond personality, would bring Lancer down here as well?]

So what's the bastard got on you?

[riastraid]

[ It felt a little belittling to say Old Town was charming—it isn't, it's downright fucking tragic—but there's something unpretentious about it compared to Leith. The higher up the food chain, the more everything turns to cloak and daggers, and he'd much rather deal with a bartender with a fine command over his tabs than any sort of politics.

Which is why Lancer looks a bit puzzled, then bemused. ]

A lot of drunken antics. [ Inebriated assholes give a whole lot of ammo to use later. However. ] I'm just here 'cause I felt like it, though.

[ Bartender buddy needed an extra body, and so here he is. Simple as that. He claps Kanda sympathetically over the shoulder, tone turned teasing. ]

Time for you to earn your keep! I'll tell on you if you don't get your job done.

[lotusmesenpai]

[They're all controlled by the Nine - the same bastards that had foot the bill on the experimentations that had been his nightmares for so many years - so as far as Kanda's concerned?

The whole damned Quad could burn and he wouldn't piss on the flames for them.

That double answer doesn't so much surprise Kanda and so he shakes his head at Lancer.]

Bastard.

[There's the faintest hint of amusement at the admission before Kanda smirks and pushes back off his chair. It's automatic, the way he systematically pulls each weapon, inspects it, and sets the firearms just shy of lethal before re-holstering them.

It's a process Lancer's probably seen before, given that it's nearly the exact same methodological process he's used since he was ten.]

[riastraid]

[ Some habits die hard. He remembers Kanda a little better than most—battle merit sticks to the brain a more than faces and idle chatter. The drill-like precision had stood out to him then, certainly.

But he also remembers him as a shitty little kid, so he simply responds with a chuckle as he hops over the bar in one easy vault despite his cargo (nevermind just walking around it), heading to the tunnel entrance for the Nth time. It's as innocuous as a storm cellar, a basement, what have you. ]

D'you think you'll actually need that thing?

[ He toes open the door, and nothing greets them yet but silence and a musty draft. Still, no telling what they'd run into today. Sometimes it was just a strung-out rat, but...

With the threat of rain already driving people inside, somehow he doubts it. ]

[lotusmesenpai]

[Glancing up, Kanda holsters the weapon and then follows Lancer's lead, vaults over the counter to land beside the man before he shrugs, face twisting in distaste.]

Last time we were down there, some piece of shit bit me. Had to get a whole damned series of shots to get rid of the infection.

[What should have been a strict and rigid series was really more like three, total, given the nanites in his blood. They'd done far more to repair the damage than any damned vaccine ever could.

Glancing from Lancer to the open door, he makes an impatient noise and starts the descent. He thinks it's overkill to send two level fours on a supply run, but hey. He's here as the 'hired' guard so might as well play the part.]

Where are we even taking that shit? He never actually said.

[riastraid]

[ Oof—the human mouth is a disgusting place. Wouldn't want to get space-rabies or whatever's lurking in there. He shows his sympathy by laughing a little at the mental image—Kanda having to shake off some mouthy junkie—trotting along with no obvious care in the world.

...The pack is still heavy, though, rattling quietly as though answering Kanda's question for him. ]

Mm... We're supposed to be meeting a guy. I got the directions earlier, kinda convoluted rendezvous point if I'm gonna be honest. [ Undercity is easy enough to get mixed up in for the uninitiated, though Lancer's memorized the laid-out path well enough to lead today. Dryly, ] Sending us so out of the way to deliver some hokk and shit. Honestly, the nerve.

[ Surely there's nothing more suspect in there. ]

[lotusmesenpai]

Hokk and 'shit', huh? I really have to watch my tab closer with this bastard.

[He snorts at that, because down here? That means it's probably a hand-off to one of the Resistance cells. But hey - what they don't know, can't get them in trouble with the RAC and so he's content to follow along. Without offering to play pack mule, since he's supposed to be the hired gun.

Either way, it's definitely overkill.

As they go, though, a small, tiny, little sliver of curiosity manages to break through - this, though, he names caution and self-preservation. After a moment, he finally speaks up, his voice gruff and dismissive, but his attention focused on his companion.]

...You still in contact with anyone from the old unit?

[Do they know he's not dead, as Sion had reported?]

[riastraid]

[ Overkill for sure, though given who they're probably going to see—a little caution's probably warranted on their end. Plus, anyone flimsier getting sent out into the middle of nowhere could get shanked and left to rot.

This threat doesn't seem to bother Lancer any; rather, he's comfortable enough to be a bit smug. ]

Oh, what's this—is someone curious about his old battle buddies?

[ Doubtful, but who knows. Lancer shrugs as best he can under his pack. Marginally more serious: ]

I could be.

[lotusmesenpai]

Fuck that - like I care about any of those assholes.

[The look Kanda sends him is thoroughly affronted, scowl darkening as he scoffs and looks pointedly away.

After a moment, though, he clarifies. Because that 'could be' could well turn into a complicated mess if they did find out that his deceased status was slightly exaggerated.]

But if you are, don't mention a damned thing about me. They think I'm dead, and it needs to stay that way.

[riastraid]

[ Lancer can't help a laugh, though it's stifled a bit—was he genuinely offended? Hard to tell with the surly types. Sometimes they'd just get irritable at the implication of liking people.

But on the other hand, it's military, and though he had a strong stomach for the lifestyle it wasn't shared. He sobers up slightly, expression going from glib to a more mild curiosity. ]

Why's that? Some people might not be too sad about hearing you're doin' all right for yourself.

[lotusmesenpai]

[Offended… only in the sense that those people had never been ‘friend’ to him. He didn’t live with them, barracks maintained separate to be kept under tight control, and he’d always been one to sit apart from the others.

He hadn’t wasted time making friends, because so far as he’d been concerned, it was pointless.

They were weaker, more likely to die in the next battle, so why bother getting to know a soon-to-be ghost?

That, and the way they’d look at him, like he was something to be pitied or feared because he’d been a child soldier far too efficient at killing, no remorse to be found… they were all stupid.

This guy, though.

He’d always been annoyingly friendly when they’d crossed paths. It’d been strange, because he’d thought everyone had known but maybe…

Frowning over at Lancer, he can only blink in mild disbelief.]

I seriously doubt that. More like… they’ll decide that it’s within their right to reclaim lost property.

[Sneering at that, he turned his gaze back to the side, automatically scanning dank corridors as they pass, senses alert, wary, despite the relative quiet.]

It’d be a pain to have to kill your friends, if they’re the ones sent. But those researchers can be pretty fucking stubborn.

[riastraid]

[ He probably (almost definitely) got a briefing about it somewhere along the way, but Lancer rarely bothered memorizing anyone's files. Ex-felon, child soldier, military-bred brat, downtrodden dude who'd settle for rations, bright-eyed recruit with a mind for glory—it didn't matter as long as they could point a gun or stomach shoving a blade in someone's gullet. He'd learn their histories as he learned them, if they lasted that long.

...Or maybe it was a sort of empathy, one battleborn kid to another. Hard to admit to that amount of sentiment, even harder to say so many years after the fact. His eyes stay forward as he navigates, pensive. ]

Oh yeah... there was something like that, wasn't there.

[ His words pause even when his feet don't; when they return, it's with a new sort of bemusement, his same good humor but more resigned. ]

Well, don't worry. Lotta 'em are already dead. [ In a way, Kanda wasn't wrong—they were weaker. ] And you don't have to worry about me—I don't think they'll be asking for any favors anytime soon.

[ He takes a sharp turn, voice ringing around the corner. ]

How's freedom treating you?

[lotusmesenpai]

[Grunting an affirmative at the question that doesn't really seem a question, he's careful to keep Lancer in the corner of his eye - cautious as ever, so he could assess the person beside him.

Nothing in the man's body language to give away a lie. Nothing to indicate duplicity.

Rather than say anything about the increased dead within their old unit, he just shrugs it off, unrepentantly unconcerned with their respective demise as they turn another sharp corner.

Only then does he finally turn fully away, his gaze sweeping along this new corridor with the same attentive efficiency as before.]

Fine. Been doing this bullshit since I left.

[Another glance to the side, curious despite himself.]

You?