Interesting, Hoopy, and well written.
Are we close to having everyone make their opening post so we can begin?
Thanks. BTW, for any wondering, my character is typically not that verbose or eloquent. When there are others around, he generally allows them to do the talking, since he’s still not overly comfortable in social settings. However, at home, he’s pretty much fully in control of the situation, and so his anxiety drops. He’s been doing this for about 8 years now so he kind of knows the score.
(Orks have shorter life spans than humans, but they also hit puberty earlier and take a shorter amount of time to reach adulthood. My character entered college at 16 and started running right after he turned 17. He’s 25 now.)
If you ask a six year old to describe a hitman, or perhaps a really obvious spy, the description he would give you would probably be an impressively close match to Ms. Kirsikka Orvokki. ‘Kirk’, as she tends to pointedly “invite” people to call her with diction so irritatingly sharp it could cut a hole in a jewelery case, is a petite elf whose exceptionally pale complexion hints at an unhealthy obsession with the indoors. She sports a sheer black Italian suit, the masculine cut and rich cloth in either incredibly poor or extremely good taste, generally depending on how out of touch with reality the beholder is.
“Etiquette and a desire to abstain from impairing the operational efficiency of the group via a fracture of our cohesion at the unit level stemming from incompatible social factors compels me to introduce myself in person,” she offers, “Although I hope you will please not be offended if I take this opportunity to express my fervent desire that our next meeting be the first in a long line of meetings that I do not have to attend personally.”
Her eyes are currently invisible behind the thick sunglasses perched over her narrow features, and she occasionally turns to obviously look at something, but in general she seems content to stiffly stand in place, her head and hands occasionally twitching and reacting to unseen stimulus.
“I seek to neither bore nor mislead you with daring skills and boasts of exploits half-imagined,” she continues, her hands flexing oddly underneath her thick leather gloves before dropping to hang at her sides, motionless save for the occasional seizurelike twitch. “Therefore, in the interest of providing the group with a relevant appraisal of the tactical capacity in which I have been contracted to operate, I feel obligated to inform you that, barring death, disability, dismemberment, decapitation, or deleterious action from some dorka, which further social considerations obligate me to clarify is Finnish for idiot, I have been contracted to act as an intermediary between the terrifyingly nonsensical subjectivist construct that passes for life in the shadow of the corporations and the realm of machines, which I hope you’ll forgive me for noting is massively more comfortable, and which I would be in right now if etiquette and a distinct desire not to alienate you all and destabilize the group dynamic.”
The woman falls silent and extends her hand to the open air, pantomiming shaking hands with goodness knows who for a long, incredibly uncomfortable moment before she lowers it with a pointed movement and returns to twitching and swaying vaguely in place. “I have no idea what the parameters of our mission will entail,” she offers, “But it is my distinct suspicion that between the tools immediately available to me and the frankly ridiculously bad job most security companies do securing their property, I should be able to negotiate with the machinery to an extent at least minimally necessary to ensure that my impact on the opposition’s threat matrix constitutes a positive return on investment for our employers. Beyond that I have absolutely no idea what if any value I will be, given the unknown nature of the contract and the wild inconsistency of human and meta moods, but at the very least I intend to try and keep the team alive. This guarantees me the greatest statistical chance of personal survival, which I hope comes as a comfort, or at least a useful piece of information. If it comes as neither that’s probably not my fault so much as it is someone else’s.”
She pauses and falls still again, turning to face the wall near the door for an extremely long period before she lurches back to life and turns to face the group. “Did I mention that I hope I never have to see any of you face-to-face again?” She shrugs, a surprisingly fluid, feminine motion given her demeanor, before easily continuing “I should however mention that should my physical intervention become necessary, while I am somewhat literally the last person you would ever want fighting with you, I suspect that my sensory suites are far in excess of what an individual could reasonably carry on their person while attempting to keep a psychiatrist from adding “paranoia” to a list of clinical pathologies that is presumably quite long already, given that they’re talking to one in the first place.”
She falls silent again, wrinkling her nose as if considering a particularly foul odor before she stills her features and continues “In other words, I won’t really be able to fight my way out of a cardboard box, but at the very least I’ll be able to gather some very precise data about whatever kills us, should we become so desperate as to require my physical intervention.”
She casts about the group for a moment as if lost, somehow managing to cast a fluid, full-body shrug at the entire room at once. “So was there something I actually need to stay around for? Or have I sufficiently demonstrated why my literal presence at group meetings is probably best avoided in favor of a vastly more sanitary virtual excursion?”
Kirk is a technomancer who specializes in the control and manipulation of drones, with a secondary but utilitarian emphasis on more traditional hacking. While her bearing and demeanor tend to be disassociated and almost schizophrenic when dealing with anything she views as “unnecessary” social interaction she proves to be significantly more sane and sober when participating in mission planning and discussion relevant to jobs. On the rare occasions when she is physically present but not the point of focus, she tends to eschew her odd physicality in favor of finding a seat and either sitting silently or simply going limp and corpselike until obligation ends and necessity calls.
Donovan Kane doesn’t look like much. He’s not too tall, and he’s kind of scrawny even so. He’d say scrappy, if you asked, but most folks don’t. That suits Donovan just fine. He didn’t go into working in the bowels of Synthcorp’s computer division to deal with people. He didn’t get into it to work with computers either, to tell you plain. Donovan isn’t too keen with computers. He got his education on 'em, but that’s only because it was the quickest way to an honest 9-to-5. And that was the quickest way off the streets.
Donovan’s childhood was very much typical for his neighborhood. Typical in that he grew up dirt poor, on the street, and on the run. First from the bigger kids who wanted what little he had. And then from the law, what little there was in the old hood. He did what he could to stay fed and stay alive. Pops helped out whenever he was around, but that was little enough. There was only so much a low level runner could do, such as he was.
Was.
When Pops died in a deal gone bad, his Company disavowed any involvement. Pops had put in years with them. Dozens of runs. Pops was loyal, and in the end the Company wasn’t. But that was the way of it, and Donny saw that plain. So he saved up the last of his winnings and put himself through a local school, got himself an education. Went to work for an honest day’s wage. Pops’ final lesson was the most important of all - live on the streets and you’ll die on the streets.
That old life is years behind him now. Donny makes his pay working as an analyst for Synthcorp, making his way up the corporate ladder the best he can. The next rung is making sure this job goes smoothly, and Donovan isn’t going to let some filthy street runners make a muck of his next promotion.
Well, my character is finished, barring GM approval. It took all evening o_0. So, I apologize, but my character introduction will have to come tomorrow. I’ll have enough time at work to get it cranked out.
OmiNoKami, are you still an alternate or are you in?
Omi no Kami has replaced ArrMatey! in this campaign.
All character sheets are in, and the first game post will be made tonight (Monday) shooting for 9:00 pm PST. Although the first post is today, we’ll be taking it slow until Autolycus is able to introduce his character. I’m hoping for a minimum of one post per day on average from each player. If you’ll have trouble meeting that standard, just give me a PM so we can figure out a way to accommodate everyone.
Some of you are waiting for agendas. Those will be finished around te same time as the first game post.
Anyway, it’s bedtime for the night shift. See you all again this evening.