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

[inksplashes]

[ His turn to volley that look right back at you, kid. His chin tilts from one side to the next before his smile morphs into a grin and he chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck again.

Ah, Company propaganda at its finest, it is. He fixes the young man with a mildly sympathetic look, voice lowering. It's not illegal to talk about, but on the off chance this happens to be one of the few places in Westerley with a hidden Company soft spot, he'd rather not broadcast information about this particularly interesting subculture of theirs. ]

Think... more like another city beneath Old Town as opposed to handfuls. Though I guess if you had really big hands, that might be accurate, but man, who would want to be that guy?

[ His eyebrows raise, expression melodramatically contemplative. ]

He's definitely not getting any dates. [ Or maybe he's getting all of them. Who knows? Women are weird. ]

[snuggies]

Are you— [ being serious? he's about to ask, when one of the other nurses shuffles by, nudging him to ask if the computer is free.

Moving from behind the front desk with an apologetic look, Scott gestures at Lavi so that they can relocate their conversation, down the hall and off to the side, by a door leading to one of their supply closets. He crosses his arms once they get there, looking both baffled and curious. ]

A whole city? What for? What are they doing down there?

[ From what he could guess it was miserable enough for even one person to try and live down there, he couldn't imagine an entire city managing to survive in the tunnels. Granted, it's not like he actually knew anything about what the conditions were like underground—it had nothing to do with him, and he'd never cared enough to even wonder. ]

[inksplashes]

[ While he hadn't intended to start a discourse about the tunnel rats, he's not disinclined to follow after Scott, especially if it can get him those desperately needed supplies. (Those people need help, he needs to foster the bonds with the local Scarbacks--it's not a selfless pursuit, but it is a worthwhile one.)

But that question, well-meaning as it may be, strikes him as particularly strange. Lavi is silent for a good moment, studying the young man intently.

What are they doing down there? ]

The same thing you're doing up here.

[ Another chuckle, a little darker, a little tired, before he turns to lean against the wall, the badge on his arm identifying him as a killjoy in full view. ]

Trying to survive any way they can. Except they don't have clinics and nurses. They have monks, and..

[ (Don't get caught up in the moment. Divorce yourself from attachment.) ]

Not enough.

[snuggies]

[ His eyes skim over the badge for a second, but Scott keeps his gaze focused on Lavi's face. He's not interested in any altercations, though he doubts that Lavi would pick a fight in the middle of the clinic in order to get what he needs. This isn't official RAC business either, given the way that the other man is going about it. Honestly, whether he should or shouldn't be, Scott isn't too threatened by the killjoy, though he is wary.

He focuses on the way Lavi trails off, trying to make sense of the information he's getting. ]

Why don't we know about them?

[ It's not an accusation, as though he thinks Lavi's lying to him about the entire thing, but he is open about his curiosity. An entire city existing under their feet seems like something people would know about. ]

[inksplashes]

[ Now that, Lavi thinks, is the right question.

From the killjoy perspective, the answer is simple: because they're not proft-turning cogs for the Company. But were this the simple matter of a killjoy, he wouldn't be here, wouldn't be conducting himself in the affairs of others this way.

So it's not the reclamation agent that answers, but the bookman. The historian who has walked through over a decade of watching societies rise and fall.

His voice is low, and for the most part, emotionless. Not cold, not sharp, just to the point. ]

Because you don't ask. You've been taught not to.

[ He smiles, shaking his head. ]

Sorry, that sounds a bit harsh, doesn't it? I don't mean to insult you. It's a common pattern in social structures like the Quad.

[snuggies]

You're-- are you from outside the Quad? [ Scott's face is all open curiosity and wonder, emotions plain and clear on his face.

There's just! So much to address. He's never met anyone from outside the Quad, at least not that he's aware of.

But he should focus, Lavi came here looking for help, not to give Scott a lecture about the world and society that they live in. Of course, the two don't have to be mutually exclusive. An entire town in the tunnels. There could be so much down there; people, information, resources. He still has no idea what's going on with his body, what more to expect and whether or not he can be cured.

Maybe this is an opportunity. His stance noticeably changes as he considers it. ]

Forget that. Could you... take me to the tunnels? Can anyone get there?

[inksplashes]

[ He's perceptive, at least, despite his sheltered point of view. But Lavi isn't one to let his persona slip so easily or stay without the comforting mask of bland idiocy, so he's quick to a grin and awkward laughter. Hands held up to stay the evident urgency he's inspired in the young man, the killjoy shakes his head, considering the best angle to approach this.

Anyone can go to the tunnels if they know how. Not that many people have the mettle to survive it, so it'd probably be a bad idea to let the kid wander down there on his own--

--but Lavi is also here for a reason, and he sees an in. Besides, if there's a killjoy to escort him, the nurse probably won't die. Any subsequent trips taken to the undercity might result in death, but that's not really Lavi's problem. ]

Anyone who has a reason to be there. Like bringing supplies.

[ Smile smile. ]

[snuggies]

[ Scott's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, before it hits him that Lavi is suggesting a little trade, and a smile quirks on his lips. Lavi obviously knows how to work people to get what he wants. Scott doesn't mind too much in this case, delivering medical supplies to those who can't afford them is a good cause, though he thinks the other man might be overestimating how badly Scott wants to see these tunnels.

Or not, since the teen is pretty readily considering it. ]

I guess I'll really have to see what I can do then. [ He lets the other man know with a pleased little smile. ] Give me a second.

[ Before he disappears into the supply closet behind them. He hadn't been trying to be difficult when he'd told Lavi earlier that they don't run on a surplus, and his smile fades into a thoughtful frown as he surveys the contents of the closet. He does what he can, picking up packs of cotton swabs and gauze, running his gaze over their containers of distilled water before poking his head out. ]

Do they have clean water?

[inksplashes]

[ Well, field trips notwithstanding, at least this excursion is proving more fruitful than others. Nodding pleasantly and backing away as Scott disappears, Lavi waits patiently, head tilting to the side when the other pops back out like one of those children's games with a gopher.

Strictly speaking, nothing in the tunnels is clean, and the water supply is chief among them. Some of the more inventive have found ways to tap the water mains, but they're often discovered when enough residents complain and subsequently.. relocated. Forcefully. ]

Uhh... no, but..

[ Lavi frowns, trying to think of the gentlest way to say this without canceling the deal he hasn't quite yet cashed out on. ]

We should probably focus on things we can carry easily, so if it's very heavy, don't worry too much about it! Even just a little bit helps a lot.

[ In other words, we may get shanked so don't bring anything that prevents us from shanking them back. ]

[snuggies]

[ Scott steps further out, holding out the supplies he'd gathered so far, though the concern does waver from his face. ]

I don't know what the incoming weather is going to be like, but if it's damaging skin, it's probably similar to a chemical burn. [ Probably, he doesn't really know what they're dealing with here. ] The most important thing is to be able to wash out the corrosive liquid...

[ His brows furrow, wondering how the people are even surviving without clean water. ]

I can spare a jug. But after that you're going to have to find your own way of getting clean water.

[inksplashes]

[ The causticity is less a concern than the open wounds left behind, in Lavi's experience, but he's not offering any further explanations, just nodding amiably to the nurse's assessment. His medical expertise runs the strange gamut of ancient homeopathy and gritty field dressings, so he defers to --

Oh, he never got the kid's name, did he?

A good chaperone should probably identify their charge's name. It makes filling out missing persons reports easier. ]

You're the boss.

[ Glancing down the hall they'd turned down to get more privacy, Lavi smiles sheepishly, voice low again. ]

I'm Lavi, by the way. What's your name?