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

[cauterised]

[Around them, rain falls quicker, cloth and skin searing away at a more accelerated pace than before. They don't have time for this. But she also doesn't have a cold enough heart to expressly forbid either boy from this last request.

The other Enforcers are already on their way out, grumbling under their breath about the bad luck of getting caught out in the rain. Not a particularly heartwarming bunch, which is no doubt why he'd targeted her instead of any of the others.]

Not wanting to leave. Demanding her release.

[They've been at this for a few days now. The answers should be obvious.]

One minute.

[Make it quick.]

[snuggies]

[ The breath he lets out his heavy when she grants him permission, and he doesn't give her a smile or anything that might earn her ire, but he does look noticeably relieved--or rather, a little pleased.

(It's stupid.)

He gives her a nod then, before hurrying toward the sound of the boy, who's protests he can still hear. The rain hits his face as he hurries, but he doesn't notice, the scars healing as they form. The boy he finds isn't as young as he could be, perhaps around ten, looking distraught under the hold of his family member. It's a relief at least, Scott's not sure he could make this work with someone younger, but the boy listens, and bundled up with coats and jackets they head back out.

They both apparently have the same amount of optimism as they approach Riza and the prisoner, though the boy at Scott's side stubbornly refuses to show any weakness, either at how scared he is that something will go wrong and he'll get in trouble, or how horrified he is to see his mother in such a state.

Scott's attention wanders to Riza, watching her gaze to make sure that she isn't going to spring something on them, and when the boy shuffles forward a little quicker to his mother side, he turns to the Enforcer - ]

Are you going to get in trouble for this?

[ Not really something he'd wanted to ask before. ]

[cauterised]

[The wariness on their part is well-founded: Enforcers have not been kind of late. Regardless of whether or not she's done anything personally to offend either of them is moot; the actions of the whole taint the reputation of the individual.

Not that she makes it any easier, eyes dark as she watches the young boy take first one step and then another towards his ill-fated mother. She keeps her gaze firmly trained on the boy for any sign of trouble, not even shifting when Scott speaks up again. A cute question, though not one that warrants any detailed response.]

Does it matter? We're both already here.

[He's none of her business (yet) and she's none of his. Besides, she's well aware of local sentiment towards anyone affiliated with the Company right now: frustration, wariness, fear, ire bordering on hatred. If she's to be punished - and there's something about the way her shoulders don't relax at all, the scant lift to her chin that seems to point towards the affirmative - shouldn't he be happy?

Inside, her mental countdown's still running. Forty-five seconds left.]

[snuggies]

[ Scott shrugs, watching the boy as well know, as he speaks quietly to his mother, not crying even as he leans in close toward her scarred face. There's awareness seeping back into her features now, and Scott almost wants to reach out and leech away her pain, but he doesn't want to test Riza further. ]

I thought I'd say thank you. [ Something he should probably say regardless, but.

He still needs a minute to warm up to her.

Their warm and fuzzy moment doesn't last the full minute however, and Scott tenses when he hears footsteps, the heavy thud of Company weaponry, and he turns just in time to hear

What exactly are you doing over there? ]

[cauterised]

[She whirls at the unexpected interruption, arms lifting slightly from her sides and stance widening. Not out of any particular need for aggression - though anything extra helps - but out of protection, an instinctive desire to shield as much of Scott and the boy as possible.

An older man, definitely higher ranking than her. Probably here to double-check everyone's work before the rains hit in earnest.]

Routine ID checks.

[The lie slides easily off her tongue despite the rain, and two boys clearly unrelated that stand still too close to the prisoners. It's not entirely incorrect; if she asked right now for their IDs, they'd have to provide, and all of this would be the truth.

Turns out, her lie becomes the truth regardless, the second Enforcer raising a dubious eye before turning his gaze on Scott, fingers outstretched.]

Yeah? Let's see 'em then.

[Briefly, she prays that both of them have their IDs on them.]

[snuggies]

[ Scott's hackles are back up now, and his gaze is going back and forth between Riza, the other Enforcers, and the boy. It's fine though, Riza's covered for them, and Scott knows well enough to always be quiet and compliant when Enforcers are feeling aggressive. It's the quickest way to be free of their attention, and go back to his business. He thinks the boy is smart enough to cooperate too.

But his mother isn't. Though attacking her intelligence is unfair--her senses are clouded from the pain and torture, and all she knows is that two Enforcers are approaching her son, and that it's probably because he shouldn't be with her.

So she screams.

She screams and yells and protests with energy that should be long lost to her now, and when the Enforcers reach for their batons, it's only expected that the boy couldn't watch them abuse his mother any further.

He stands guard. And so does Scott, because the sticks swing down with enough force to send pain blooming sharp and angry through his entire body. He doesn't know what it would've done to the kid, and he's not about to find out, powering on as though the situation isn't needlessly escalating - ]

We have IDs! [ He insists, hoping to ignore the issue of the woman and the boy altogether, reaching into his jacket to get his communicator. ] Just hold on--

[cauterised]

[This is nothing short of a nightmare. A nightmare that happens every single day on the streets, in shady back alleys and carefully concealed rooms, but a nightmare all the same.

It takes every ounce of her willpower not to let her mask crumble as the ruthless violence unfolds in front of her. (Exposure dulls the pain but never fully erases it.) But even as her body stays still, her mind's racing once again, sifting through every possible alternative for a solution that might at least minimize the physical impact if not quell it completely. There's not much, but she's got some leverage on her side, having been with the Company for some odd five years now.]

Is this really necessar—

[The rest of the word's cut off, a loud jangling to their left enough to grab everyone's attention. It's the sound of chains loosening and falling to the ground, and the sound of one lucky (soon to be unlucky) prisoner freeing himself from his shackles and making a mad grasp for freedom as he bolts down the street, hoping to take advantage of the momentary distraction and lose himself in the darkest corners of Old Town. His unlucky break happens to be Scott's lucky moment; the Enforcers assaulting him shout in alarm and immediately give chase. After all, who cares about routine ID checks when there's a convict on the loose?

In the midst of this commotion, Riza whirls back towards Scott, mouthing one single word — go — before following behind her fellows.

If they're lucky, the two boys'll be able to make their getaway. If not....she doesn't want to think about it.]

[snuggies]

[ He watches her for an instant, so grateful for her and fully intending to make use of the opportunity. Except that when he turns, grabbing the boys shoulder and shouting let's go!, the boy in turn refuses to leave. He's yanking instead at the chains, shouting about how his mom can go free. She can be free too!

And for a second, in the rapid speed of the moment and how quickly the events and rain are rushing past him, Scott nearly reaches down to rip the chains apart and free the woman.

He doesn't though. He doesn't because there are still other Enforcers around, speaking into their communicators and reporting the events that are taking place here. He doesn't because even if Scott could escape their tracking and their weapons alone, he can't do it while carrying the boy and his injured mother along. Scott doesn't rip the woman free because even if it is the right thing to do, it's not the smart thing to do, and when you live on Westerley, you have to live smart. This boy needs to learn that too.

So he yanks the child from his mother, tucking him under his arm so that he can bolt, away and toward safety even as the boy pounds his fists against Scott's abdomen and legs, because it's the smart thing to do, a lesson that he tries to impress upon his unwilling charge, even as he cries and cries.

Which is how he leaves him, because Scott can't watch him forever, and he hopes the boy's smart enough not to go back. He heads back toward his clinic now, walking carefully in the streets to avoid too much notice, and it's then that he runs into Riza again, now spent too long out in the acid rains, and it's out of concern that he's reaching out from the shadows to grab her shoulder.

Silently. ]

[cauterised]

[The Company is not kind. They reward handsomely, occasionally turn a blind eye on shady dealings should it suit them, but Riza cannot say that those actions are born out of any particular goodwill. And when the Company feels it has been slighted, been done a grave misdeed....well.

They catch up to the escaped convict sooner rather that later, batons already out even before the first Enforcer's hand closes around the man's wrist. They beat him, of course they do, and though Riza does not participate outside of tossing over a set off cuffs when sufficient punishment has been doled out, she cannot help but feel directly responsible as they march back to the outcropping in the main square to tie the man up again, twice as tight this time.

By now the rain falls harder, enough of a deterrent for the two stray boys to go forgotten, and all the Enforcers hop into their van and make a getaway. All except Riza, who opts to make the quick walk to her apartment a few blocks away.

Not that she makes it there - the sensation of a hand on her shoulder has her whirling, gun immediately pulled out of its holster and pointed at the offender. The very familiar offender. Her eyes widen in recognition, and her gun drops an inch.]

You made it.

[There's a sheen of relief in her voice. But even as she says that, her eyes are scanning the perimeter, looking for the second smaller figure she'd last seen him with.]

Where's the boy?