Roleplaying > Moderated Freeform

White Out [Cosmic Era RP]

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--- Quote from: caesar193 on January 26, 2013, 04:17:50 PM ---Brian read Johnson's email with equal parts delight and dismay. Yes, $300k was good amount of money, but Alaska... Why did it have to be Alaska? Brian would have to buy cold weather gear. Or maybe he could convince Johnson to pay for that. Brian grinned to himself, and started typing up his acceptance, as well as questions to the tune of the particulars. When and where would they meet? Would Johnson pay for any necessary gear? If Johnson allowed neo-ethnics and augmens into their group, would Brian get a bonus for working with such wastes of human flesh?

--- End quote ---

Johnson was exasperated as he responded to Bolles, the young man's value as a hardware hacker was tempered by his unprofessional attitude and blatant xenohuman racism. Johnson typed a response, that his expenses would be comped after the job. He also sent a reminder that any extraneous expenses incurred unrelated to the job would not be comped, such as designer drugs, augmentations, sex parlor visits, it was all cut and paste work. Their guide would meet and assemble the team at Anchorage. 


--- Quote from: EchoMirage on January 26, 2013, 05:22:15 PM ---Tappity tap tap tap. Scratch tap thud tap.
It was code what Blue was sending, and a simple one at that. Nothing special there. Yet when it's your mind drumming against a receiver located a block away, which you just happen to see through that tiny window, it's something else alright.
Surveillance cannot intercept pure thought yet, even though said thought is telling reality to bend over and be a good &^%$@.

Whistling, Blue strolled along the delapidated promenade, bought a noodle soup from a Chinese vendor so wrinkled that prunes envied his face, and thought about the last months.
The Eureka arcology was seedy, and the quarter Blue called "my turf" even seedier - just the way the Draenei liked it. As for external surveillance, it was entirely off the grid - and Blue enjoyed tossing any scout drones that barged in into the trash.  Best pitch so far? A single prod, and the probe landed square in the middle of the trashcan, mangled - without cheating and adjusting its course. Same happened to any newly installed cameras - 'mysterious malfunction'.

Ever since escaping, Blue was irate at the thought of being watched. Sure, the system had to go offline, and the recordings had to go. Sven, the head of security? He was a boon, especially as Blue barged in on him whacking off to the footage of 'Master' playing one of his games in the middle of the lobby - with Blue no less.
He might have been a creep, but all blood is beautiful.

They'd drill into the armories soon, in utter silence, melting through the floors with chemicals, without tremors or noises to give them away. Where fine touch was needed, Blue would step in. Nothing like levitating a slab of floor to get you going.
And with Blue's way of giving orders, no one would ever expect it until it was too late.


Blue's den was modest and secluded - as is wisest for a would-be revolutionnaire. Nadia was still there, spent, gazing at the roof and playing with ice cubes inside a glass of irish cream.
"Eric left?"
"You wonder?" the readhead asked, chuckling.
"I'll drag him back, fear not."

Screens were buzzing with information in the 'headquarters', occupying almost all wall space in the tiny room, connected to a plethoira of feeds.
What was that? A work offer?
What an ironic name for a humble fixer - especially considering his income would be paid by Johnsons, he'd be yelled at by Johnsons, do work for Johnsons and curse Johnsons all day.
"300k?" Blue mused. The money's good - and playing a corp off against another, coupled with property damage, perhaps personnel loss? Who knew if there was a possibility to make both lose? And if not, 300k bought a lot of bang, from people who could not care less where said bang was used, and who was to be banged.

Back in the bedroom, Nadia's head rested in Blue's lap, the psychic mused: "We strike tonight - then I leave for Alaska. Oversee the storage of the arms, and lay low. There aren't enough yet. But soon..."

--- End quote ---

Feel free to skip ahead to going to Anchorage, the Iditarod Inn.

Muldoon was staring at a herd of humans centered 171.2 meters from his current position.  He wished he didn’t know them.  He was 26 meters above the ground, grasping the trunk of Sitka Spruce.  He put one of the smaller humans in his cross hairs, and chambered a rifle round.  It was the male juvenile who always smelled of feces and sugar.  Muldoon didn’t have to remember him that sent though, he could still smell the boy on his coat.  That child called, Thomas Paine Worthington, was one of several of the underage humans who insisted on touching him.  This kill would be a useful culling of the herd.  Muldoon brought his cross hairs in line with the boy’s chest.  He could see the boy’s chest spasm as he coughed heavily, the boy had been sick ever since his family moved him out of the Archology and to this Alaskan wilderness. “This kill would be a useful culling of the herd.“ Muldoon said aloud.  He wasn’t sure if he had mimicked Ryce’s voice (Muldoon could mimic many voices and sound) or if he just heard it.     With a thought Muldoon’s internal servos pulled the hammer back on his built-in rifle, but he couldn’t take the shot.

A shot here would spook the herd and a human herd often doesn’t scatter properly. They might even take the boys carcass with them and he would never be able to claim a trophy. Besides they had been his pack or so he had thought.  “But if you want to kill a member of your pack, then perhaps you aren’t part of the pack”  he thought.  He unchambered the rifle. This group of 154 humans had fled their arcology and hired to him guide them into the Alaskan wilderness, and help them set up a new community.  He had helped them kill moose, haddock a squirrel and other animals. He explained to them how to eat and prepare meat, how to drink water from natural sources and how to dispose of their own waste safely.  It had been time consuming but it had not been a challenge.  Plus these humans wished to talk with Muldoon about other things: About siebertronian rights, archologies and democratically elected governments.   They were his employers, but they under used his skills.  They also were not hunters.  He had preferred his last job in Kamachtka, even though it had been illegal.  It had paid better and it presented more of challenge.  The human he had killed, had been some of the most difficult beasts he had ever stalked. But Muldoon had been lonely.  What is the point of a kill or a trophy is Mr. Ryce does not share in it?  But he had been able to buy a boat once the job was done. 

He had taken this job because it paid and it was to his knowledge legal.  Illegal jobs ran the risk of imprisonment or execution which he had thought outweighed  the positive aspects of the job.  But he underestimated the weight of caring for a herd of humans. He crawled around the tree like ant and turned his view away from the camp. Muldoon looked east, and consulted a map. He looking east, towards the ocean waters underneath Alaska’s chin. His boat was secure down on the shore.  He would go cancel his contract with these Archology refugees, “they are more prey than predator, and I belongs in a pack not a herd,” he thought. Did he think it or had Mr. Ryce told him that long ago?   He would look for a new pack and new prey, and more money. 

The split hooves conferred excellent footing on ice,  spreading, adapting to the uneven surface, cutting into the frost with their sharp edges - a welcome side effect of someone's fancy.
The rest of the Draenei was wrapped in layers of fur, thermo-cloth... an Arco-dweller could never be too careful when plunging into te heart of winter.

The Iditarod Inn was built in a rustical fancy, hinting at pioneers and gold-diggers with its massive wood and trophies - and inside, it was warm.

Logs, logs everywhere. One of them approached, clad in a flanel shirt though, and a beard instead of moss. Looking at Blue's digitigrade legs, he chuckled: "What will it be, deerbutt?"
"A can of tea, dear chimp - and venison, if you have, I am in mood for some canibalism tonight."

He brought some tea promptly enough, slices of deer in a thick sauce, and a joint and lighter.
Blue looked at it positively puzzled, before chuckling and proceeding with the meal.

Anchorage is flat, a strip of mud and volcanic sand sticking westward into the sea. The land mass of Anchorage was more fill and man made support pylons heading to the bed rock than anything else these days.  Muldoon's 12 foot red and white schooner rounded the Northern most point the massive Joseph Hazelwood Memorial Air Frieght center.  A Dangeroulsy loud transorbital roared off over the sound, Muldoon peered up out of the tiny cabin.  The trans-orbital was freight craft, no passengers, Mr. Ryce and he would often take Transorbital flights to seek out their various targets...of course Muldoon travelled with the freight.   Muldoon was powering the boat with the its ethanol engine so he could charge his own internal batteries.   

The only other surface traffic in the sound, besides ice, was large rust colored barge hulling petro-salvage.  Mr. Ryce owned several petro salvage interests. "The petro was gone, but those that had pursued it left a civilizations worth of material behind, not just the obvious stuff either.  The real worth is in the trace metals and rare minerals, if I can get 500 kilos of coltan from 500 tons of salvaged rust and plastic than I can turn a profit.  Mr. Ryce would talk to Muldoon, when they were in the blinds or on the trail.  But unlike the Archo refuges he never expected a response.

Muldoon consulted his maps, a good hunter's map had overlays, because prey generally don't read road signs, and you learn a lot about the land from looking at was once there.  The volcanos had changed this land scape a great deal, as he could by overlaying  a map file from 1871 with a map file from 1991, we was heading for an area that was called Turnagain in 1962, than his 1991 map stated that it was called Earthquake park. Today it was Rededit Corp. Gold Rush village.  He found the location on the map and climbed out of his tiny cabin and looked southeast towards the shore.  He could see the  Iditarod Inn was built in a rustical fancy made of wood or a wood like substance. Out of habit Muldoon thought to pull up his records of fire codes in Alaska, to see if Mr. Ryce could stay in such an Inn, but then realized he didn't have such records.  He hadn't done any research....he didn't know what he would be hunting. 

He would have to take his boat North east to but in the Marina. He zoomed in on the Inn, its doors facing the bay. A large hooved by-bed wearing a massive amount of cloth was pushing through the door.  Behind the Inn was a stand of Sitka spruces, older than the Inn itself.  Muldoon would next in those spruces until his new pack assembled. He made sure his internal comlink was turned on, and took his boat towards the marinia.  All the while keeping a precise tally of his fuel expenditure.  He would be preparing an expense report.


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