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

[eusford]

[ The reply earns a soft chuckle. ] Are you like this to everyone that says it's fine to be a bit less formal? You wouldn't treat my women like that, would you? Or maybe it's because I'm a Nine...

I can understand being biased, if that's the case.

[ Anyway, it would be an embarrassment for him to get sick and have someone else clean it up. But then again he can't remember the last time he was sick, let alone the last time his body felt incredibly weak, so he doubts that anything bad would come during the course of this trip. ]

You can sleep soundly knowing you won't have to clean up any mess from me.

[ He's in the midst of examining something else before Lavi catches his attention again, looking to the room he's appointed to without any sort of complaints. ] Wait. [ Yeah he's just gonna throw his bag onto what he claims to be his bed. ] I wanna see it.

[ The cockpit.

Lavi used Escape!

Crowley used I Think The Fuck Not.

Lavi couldn't escape! ]

[inksplashes]

[ Lavi is whatever you tell him to be, if it suits him, so long as you never ask him to be himself. But this, of course, he does not offer readily, rubbing at the back of his neck and waving a hand haphazardly by way of explanation rather than saying anything useful.

For once, it's not any particular bias against Crowley's blood that drives this motivation, but a more universal form of prejudice: if you mess up his ship, you clean it up and pay for the repairs. Noah is, by and large, one of his favorite things in this world. Other humans aren't. The hierarchy system is simple this way.

Still, he offers a little wider of a smile with the reassurances and bow of his head, happy to dodge the rest of the conversation--

"Wait." ]

Eh?

[ It couldn't be that easy, could it? Looking at Crowley's discarded bag, he fixes the older man with a slightly pained smile, as if imagining the hours of pestering and questions that the other's demeanor seem to suggest will follow, and then sighs, waving him on. ]

Yeah, sure. It's not anything exciting, but I guess if you've never seen take off, it could be kinda cool?

[ Shoulders bowed slightly in defeat, Lavi continues down the hallway to the cockpit--there are four seats available, but evidently most of them have been turned into a spare place for Lavi to store his manuscripts. The seat adjacent to the pilot's, at least, has the least amount of papers and looks reasonably accommodating to another human. Slipping into the pilot's seat himself, he mutters briefly and overlooks the control panel. ]

Noah, we got clearance yet?

[ "Yes, Lavi," a smooth, mildly feminine voice replies overhead, "Who is our guest today?" ]

This is Crow. Crow, meet Noah. Noah, Crow. [ He points at the harness hanging off the chair, clearly not used in any recent times and adjusted for a shorter individual. ] You might wanna strap in if you're gonna stay and watch take off.

[eusford]

Thanks for being honest, I'll keep my expectations low.

[ He drawls, unapologetic as Lavi shows obvious signs of disappointment through his body language, and already striding behind until they arrive at the cockpit. Based off of first impressions he doesn't know whether to be intrigued by the interior or the design (because those manuscripts weren't important to him in the slightest, not in the way they possibly were to Lavi).

Crowley perks his head up upon hearing the third voice, slightly taken aback. ]

Am I supposed to say hi back? [ He's only half serious.

And since he's in no rush to possibly getting hurt he nods, moving to the chair with the least amount of papers, taking note of a few before brushing them off, and seating himself. Adjusting the harness was relatively simple, thankfully, and Crowley performs these actions all with a smile on his face. ] When's the last time someone over six feet has been in here?

[inksplashes]

[ "Is this a friend of Yu's?" the electronic voice asks, and to anyone unfamiliar with the ship AI, it's a perfectly innocuous question. But for Lavi, it summons a bead of laughter to his lips, low and quiet, shaking his head. ]

Easy, girl.

[ More concerned with watching where the papers fall than his guest, Lavi frowns softly when a particularly pertinent scrap floats near his feet, but thinks better than to reach for it just now. Crowley seems the sort to latch onto the smallest of reactions and become all the more intrigued for it--and while the language is dead to anyone outside of his clan, he doesn't feel like dodging questions over it.

Still, he could've moved them nicely. The papers were there first.

Lavi himself doesn't bother with a harness, long legs stretching out and propped up on the dashboard once he's locked the controls, fingers knitting behind his head. Glancing to his temporary first-mate, he laughs again, shaking his head. ]

Nope. I tend to prefer 'em shorter. And curvier. And just generally less you-like. Sorry, buddy.

[eusford]

[ Crowley realizes that Lavi is speaking to an AI, but even if he is familiar with technology he still has to question why individuals speak to them as people. It's quite an interesting concept but at the same time he clearly has no intentions of treating this like there's a third party--more like a third wheel at most. ]

Are you saying I'm not your type? [ Said flatly. ] I'm glad, if I had to choose a man it certainly wouldn't be you. It's good to know we're on the same page.

[ Wait! Better question: ] Is this Yu person someone that's short and curvy?

[inksplashes]

Wow, just shoot me down like that. I was just saying I prefer 'em more girl-like! Such a cold guy, Crow. I'd have given you a chance at least..

[ Though he doesn't seem all that offended, laughter still warming his voice as the ship shakes slightly and begins it ascent from the ground. The climb is steep at first, rising over Qresh and the Simms estate in what feels like slow-motion even as the individual trees and statues become mere specks of colors against an oceanic backdrop.

Crowley really is a strange Qreshi. Much too comfortable with informality. Too curious. The sooner he's out of Lavi's hair, the sooner Lavi expects he'll breathe better.

But for now, at least, he provides amusing questions. ] Yu is.. hm. Short. Great eyes. Hair like the commercials. Kind of flat-chested, but you know.

[ Waves a hand from behind his head. ]

It goes with the overall look of deadly efficiency. Also, he'll kill you if you ever repeat this or call him Yu. So you probably shouldn't.

[eusford]

Well I'll inform you now that I'm not interested.

[ Which isn't in a lie, in a sense. Crowley has no interest in any sort of relationship beyond acquaintances, so only death awaits.

what am i writing ]

He'll kill me? [ He quirks a brow. ] Even if I'm repeating everything you said?

[inksplashes]

I'll be sure to keep that in mind.

[ He won't. Lavi has far more pressing matters to consider, but he's sure to sound almost sincere when he adds that rejoinder.

(idk ashe what's going with you are you ok do you need a hug) ]

For sure. Probably doubly so because it's me. Let's just say I'm the PR guy in this partnership.

[ And that's where the info-session is going to end, Lavi nodding towards the front view of the ship to draw Crowley's attention away from the topic at hand and to the view he presumes has drawn the Qreshi into the cockpit--the atmospheric burn as they begin to enter the planet's protective layers.

Neon magenta, orange, and green burn at the edges of the windows as the deep midnight of space peeks out from the top of the paler blue of the day sky. For Lavi, it's a common enough occurrence to ignore, if outright disregard in favor of a nap (which he'd be doing now, thanks Crowley), but he imagines someone never off planet might enjoy it. Pretty colors. ]

After this it gets pretty boring. Lasts for a few minutes though. Space is a lot further away than it looks.

[ Lavi uses Evade! ]

[eusford]

[ Okay Lavi won't keep in mind that Crowley's not interested? This one sided romance is going to be the death of someone. Like Kanda idk. ]

Doubly so because he'd kill you too, right? I'm not going down for something you said.

[ Not like he was afraid of dying, he didn't really see this "Yu" person as a threat and he's confident that he won't be put into any legitimate danger anyway. So that comfort helps coax him into looking in the direction Lavi nods to, red eyes flickering as his features shift to a mild look of surprise.

But it's not the view or colors that has him in a state of awe. (He's certain that his sense of beauty had probably waned to a certain degree in the past year or so.) What gets him is that he's finally leaving after years of being sheltered like some pet. ]

Ah, for a moment I got a little flustered thinking that this was all a dream.

[ Just go to sleep Lavi, Crowley's finally going to feel content for a good hour. ]