[M] Futuropolis 2094 (OOC) (Constant Recruitment!)
Summary of the dystopian adventures in Nova Casqua:
At Takahashi's noodle shop on Greenflower street, a collection of characters intertwine as they witness the flooding of Paris on a big screen at the other end of the street. The chaos that followed led to the arrest of Khawarij Al'Aziz, the middle-eastern combat medic, and Joseph Richter, a young and relatively innocent drifter by the hands of the oppressive detective Fritz Cellobs.
Quintus Argentos, a privileged artist, hitches a ride in Auntie Simone's aerocab to his flat a few streets from Greenflower. After some drug-induced chillsession with one of Q's neighbors, Q and Simone get ambushed by an asian bikergang.
Meanwhile, Avalon Vernier, some tough-ass bikerchick, patrols the Casquan streets on the Babe during the chaos and is eventually cornered at the same police station Kaji and Richter are being held.
---------------------------------------------
The year is 2094.
A dying-yet-politically dominant Earth struggles to overcome internal conflict, extreme weather and her ever-growing population. Luna, Earth's moon, infamous for its crater-shaped utopias under the domes, harbours the more priviliged part of humanity. Lunar expeditions to Venus are well underway, and the recently colonized Mars is fractured by old-world influence, corporate interest and union disputes.
We're citizens (or bypassers, which we all are in the endless urban jungle) of Nova Casqua (frequently referred to as Casq City), one of the last bastions of western idealism in Europe. Mecca is lost under the sand, Lady Liberty has long been bombed by the french, and the economic heart of China has been washed away by the sea. From Gibraltar Isle to the Berliner Peninsula, there's a firm line of partly self-sufficient European megacities. Between the gated megacities is little to be found but savages, nomads, miserable villages and self-proclaimed states rebelling against the regime as part of a forgotten world war that's spanning for decades.
The city of Nova Casqua (located near old Calais) is dependent on trade with the other megacities along the Atlantic coast. Since the Netherlands, half of Belgium and the city of London have been flooded, Nos Casqua relies on Luxemburg, Paris-nord-et-Versailles and Ruhr am See, but Paris currently has a leak in the undercity. As a result, eight-million refugees flee north, on foot - to Nos Casqua and Luxemburg. Alas, a perceptive city dweller would know the city is already packed and any step for expansion could lead to the collapse of the Casquan undercity. The supply chain between Paris and Nova Casqua has also been cut; often shot out of the sky by militants. As a joint NCI (Nova Casqua Inquiry) and humanitarian aid effort, the crisis must be investigated and relayed back to the highrise. It will begin in the depths of the undercity, where the human trafficking is at its thickest. But ultimately, the investigation would likely extend to beyond the city walls, and it's increasingly hard to find people willing to venture out without ulterior motive...
(Props to Artur Sadlos, #2 of a long list of deviantartists I will be ripping from to portray the neo-urban vibes. Will add personally drawn map and cityscape sometime in future.)
Spoiler: Character Sheet
Name:
Nikname:
Age:
Gender:
Height:
Race:
Area of expertise:
Appearance:
Personality:
Opinion of ruling western regime:
Origins:
Clothing:
Most important items:
Spoiler: Example:
Name: Quintus Argentos
Nickname (optional): 'Q'
Age: 24
Gender: Male, and a bit of an alpha at that
Height: 1,81 meters/~6 feet
Race: Caucasian mutt
Area of expertise (optional): History and cartography
Appearance (picture is optional, would prefer detailed text): Long brown hair, distant green-gray eyes, with an average and non-intimidating build topped with the unkept stubble. To the streetwalkers in the undercity, he's ruggedly handsome, and even the ladies above the clouds can't always resist his wintered appearance due to that twinkle of rationalism ever flowing in his gaze.
Personality (optional): Some might say he's still a child locked in a hairy grown-up. Unless he feels his idealogy is being questioned, he's laid-back, relaxed and goes with the flow. If it is, he can become rash and apathetic. In the face of danger, he's as cool as a frog - he gets a certain fulfillment from adrenaline rushes.
Opinion of ruling Western regime (optional): Once firmly opposed it; now shrouded with indifference.
Origins (optional): Born in 2071 in a refuge camp in southern Holland, he was already well traveled before hitting adulthood. An artist at heart, he knew the most likely place his arts were going to be acknowledged was in Nova Casqua, arguably the most diverse of the remaining European cities.
Clothing: Leather jackets, chelsea boots and usually a cigarette behind his ear. He almost exclusively wears brown and dark green. The only bit of real colour comes from his trusty blue-ish sweater: it's got all kinds of mountains on it, along with a few spots of oil paint.
Most important items (optional): A monocular, passport, holopad, sketchbook, pencil, eraser and e-pay card.
Spoiler: Details you don't wanna be bothered with
- The RP is rated [M] for Maturior. It will likely contain drug use, violence, death, prejudice and erotic themes.
- Forum rules apply. I should read them too.
- I think it's a good rule to let sexscenes fade to black. If there's a third person present and not involved with the act, one might describe the fidgeting underneath the sheets while dialogue is played, but please refrain from overly blunt terminology - keep the romance alive, boys.
- Posting just a single paragraph now and then is fine, as long as it doesn't affect the quality of writing. Perhaps, and it's just stonerphilosophy here; one can write a smaller text to engage other roleplayers, and then follow up with a chinese wall (I say it's still standing in 2094) of intricate explanations.
Spoiler: Rulebook of Fiction
- Aside from Martian microscopical lifeforms, no aliens! You can ofcourse claim to be an alien and some of the undercity might even buy it, but there's nothing aside from machines that rival human intellect in any space-opera kind of ordeal.
- As humanity focuses on mechanical evolution, the fauna adapts along with them. It's no stretch to have an intelligent primate speaking monkeytongue to his human peers, as long as he's far from literate.
- No FTL-drives, alas. I'm a huge sucker for it personally, but it just wouldn't fit the fiction. Absolute distances remain to be a thorn in humanity's wrinkled ass.
- Gravitational technologies are at a minimum. Most of the spaceships touring to Mars and back depend on centrifugal force to keep active gravity. You can, for instance, not propel your 22nd-century aerocar with forcefields.
- The average skyscraper in Nova Casqua is around 120 stories tall. Every few stories, there's usually a street, hanging plaza or commercial market to provide for its citizens. Most of the highrise hits 500 meters in height, yet there are a few exceptions that reach above 800 meters. On the Channel side (strait of Dover), the city wall is at its thickest. Historically, the poor live in the undercity, the middle-class in the alti-mid and the rich in the highrise. Because of this precarious situation, all of the city is reliant on the foundations on which it was built and thus, the well-being of the poor. Furthermore, the towertops of Nova Casqua (and many cities around Earth) are often a dark-bright blueish green due to the infinite amount of solarpanels absorbing and mirroring lightbeams throughout the city.
I wanna be as lenient as I can when it comes to adding to the lore (cyberpunk is hardly rocketscience), so if something sparks your enthusiasm, but might conflict with the setting, post it either in this OOC (preferably) or in a PM to Kamakiriad Q, your not-so-humble lackey. If it is one of those modest and cool inventions that everybody's just gonna love: post it in the IC! Bedazzle us with your supreme intellect!
Spoiler: Characters
Spoiler: Avalon, the rebel
Name: Avalon Vernier (vern-yay)
Nicknames: None, as of now
Age: 28
Gender: Alpha Female
Height: 5’7” / ~1.7 m
Race: Caucasian
Area of Expertise: Guns. Big guns, small guns, guns that shoot lasers. If it’s lethal, she can use it. (She also happens to be a pretty great biker)
Appearance: Avalon possesses a lean but muscular build that is dappled with many tattoos, some iridescent or glow-in-the-dark. Her silver-dyed hair, cropped stylishly short, accentuates a mostly masculine appearance. Overall, Avalon’s appearance emits an aura of edge and rebellion, while still retaining an air of mystery.
Personality: Rough around the edges, to put it nicely. Avalon puts up with little nonsense in her line of work, and this carries over to her personal relationships. While she is known to crack jokes and loosen up in the presence of friends, during a job she is nothing but professional. A bit of a sadist, too, though you didn’t hear it from me. When guns are blazing, she strives to keep a level head, lest it be blown off.
Opinion of ruling Western regime: Aggressively apathetic. Literally couldn’t care less, as long as jobs keep coming.
Origins: Born in NosCas, raised in NosCas, will die, guns blazing, in NosCas.
Clothing: Usually dresses in typical cyberpunk fashion; dark trenchcoat, combat boots, splashes of neon blues and violets. Iridescent nail polish and dangly faux-silver earrings add a feminine touch to a mostly androgynous look. Additionally, she’s rarely seen anywhere without a pair of Aviator-style sunglasses, despite the fact that it’s never sunny enough outside to warrant the use. Style over practicality, it seems.
Most important items: A machine pistol, her papers (which are DEFINITELY all in order, by the way), and a flame-less cigarette lighter. Her most prized possession is her Yamaha Jaeger-A model motorbike, AKA “the Babe”, equipped with all the newest tech.
Spoiler: Auntie Simone, the pilot
Name: Simone Temple
Nikname: Auntie Simone
Age: 46(?)
Gender: Fem
Height: 5' 1"
Race: Mixed
Area of expertise: Pilot, Survival
Appearance: This serious woman has deep-set brown eyes that are like two splotches of mud. Her fine, curly, white hair is worn in a simple, businesslike style. She is short with a slender build. Her skin is dark. She has delicate ears.
Personality: As a child, she was already a pessimist, suspicious of everyone's motives, and incredibly irreverent, but she was dependable and self-sufficient. Following her ordeal of two decades at the prison workcamp, she has developed phobias about men, sex, and snakes.
Opinion of ruling western regime: Bunch of pious greedy bastards out to steal the last penny from the sinking ship.
Origins: Grew up as a street kid in the Undercity, parents unknown. "Simone" was spelled out on a dirty alphabet bracelet on her wrist, she has no memory of when she got it or from whom. Cataloged during the XXXX census at the Temple Street Shelter, estimated age of 9. Census taker recorded her DOB as being that day, June 16th, ten years prior.
The priest who ran the shelter introduced her two years later to retired three-star General Rafael Hammond, who was touring the shelters to find someone to become the face of homeless youths in the Undercity. As it was explained to him, it would only be a matter of time before she was sold to one of the Undercity brothels. He took her in, treating her like a daughter in all but name, even teaching her how to shoot! She travelled extensively with him, explaining life as she knew it in the Undercity and gaining support for charity programs. Over the years, she blossomed into a beautiful young woman - which begat a series of malicious gossip about her and the general.
Enraged by this, Hammond's nephew, Elias Durand, a Colonel in the Army, began pestering his uncle to "kick the little gutter bitch back to the Undercity." When the Ninth Penninsular War broke out, he arranged for Simone to be drafted - however, her status and General Hammond's influence got her a commission as a 2nd Lieutenant, Army Aviation, and eventually found herself reporting to Colonel Durand. He assigned her to shuttle duty, ferrying troops, supplies and replacements to the front, and taking the wounded back to the rear.
On her last supply run, her location came under heavy fire as the enemy attempted a heavy push. Managing somehow to get her badly damaged shuttle into the air, despite heavy flak, she put it into a power dive into the headquarters of the enemy's segment, ejecting at the last moment. She punched a hole into the enemy line, but a stray shot caught her in the left knee. Rescued by friendly forces, she hadn't been at the MASH unit for more than twenty minutes when two MPs showed up to arrest her mid-treatment for insubordination and disregarding orders.
At her Court Martial, Colonel Durand explained that her orders were to avoid contact with the enemy and to assist with the movement of wounded back to the aid stations. How damaging would it be if pilots disregarded orders by crashing their supply shuttles into enemy lines instead of taking care of supplies and wounded? The board sided with Colonel Durand and Simone was summarily drummed out of the Army. As a result, she no longer qualified for follow-up treatment for her knee injury at a Veteran's hospital.
The war ended a few months later - as it turned out, the enemy's prince, eager for glory, had come up to personally lead the attack and had died when the shuttle crashed into the headquarters tent. Colonel Durand argued that giving a medal to a pilot who'd been cashiered for insubordination would look bad for the Army, so it was quietly forgotten.
She was quickly hired by Caron Courier service, and worked for them for a year and a half. Hand delivering a package to her boss one night, she was hit from behind. When she woke up, her boss was dead, the package was missing, and the police were arriving. It was later determined her gun was used to kill him, and she was covered with gun powder residue. Simone was convicted and sent to a work camp, where she became an immediate favorite target of the guards. Half her first year was spent in the camp's infirmary.
A general amnesty was declared twenty years later and Simone found herself back in the city. Fortunately, she had a few connections left that were willing to help her get a job as a pilot with Globus Charters, which runs the older LTI aerotaxi VII and chartered aerobuses. While she does take out the aerobusses, most of her time is spent in the aerotaxis.
Clothing: Loose black culottes pants with the pant legs wrapped around the calves and tucked into knee-high steel toed boots, scarlet tank top, black utility pocket vest with concealed holster, black jacket-wrap with trumpet sleeves and a Kevlar lining, black infinity scarf, studded leather gloves.
Most important items: Titanium Shock Cane, carbon fiber knee brace, MiniDek5 SmartWrist (cyberdeck you wear strapped on your forearm, out of date model), AR Glasses (linked to the MiniDek), glass-filled carbon fiber lapel daggers, Swiss Army Multitool, Beretta Px4 Storm Compact 9mm.
Spoiler: Q, the philosopher
Name: Quintus Argentos
Nickname: 'Q'
Age: 24
Gender: Male, and a bit of an alpha at that
Height: 1,81 meters/~6 feet
Race: Caucasian mutt
Area of expertise: History and geopolitics
Appearance: Long brown hair, distant green-gray eyes, with an average and non-intimidating build topped with the unkept stubble. To the streetwalkers in the undercity, he's ruggedly handsome, and even the ladies above the clouds can't always resist his wintered appearance due to that twinkle of rationalism ever flowing in his gaze.
Personality: Some might say he's still a child locked in a hairy grown-up. Unless he feels his idealogy is being questioned, he's laid-back, relaxed and goes with the flow. If it is, he can become rash and apathetic. In the face of danger, he's as cool as a frog - he gets a certain fulfillment from adrenaline rushes.
Opinion of ruling Western regime: Once firmly opposed it; now shrouded with indifference.
Origins: Born in 2071 in a refuge camp in southern Holland, he was already well traveled before hitting adulthood. An artist at heart, he knew the most likely place his arts were going to be acknowledged was in Nova Casqua, arguably the most diverse of the remaining European cities.
Clothing: Leather jackets, chelsea boots and usually a cigarette behind his ear. He almost exclusively wears brown and dark green. The only bit of real colour comes from his trusty blue-ish sweater: it's got all kinds of mountains on it, along with a few spots of oil paint.
Most important items: A monocular, passport, holopad, sketchbook, pencil, eraser and e-pay card.
Spoiler: Khawarij Al'Aziz, the field medic
Name: Khawarij Al'Aziz
Nikname: Kaji (Kah-zhee)
Age: 25
Gender: Male
Height: 5'11
Race: Middle Eastern
Area of expertise: Field Medicine, First Aid
Appearance: Built tall and medium-wide, not explicitly large but not lengthy either. His head is shaved. His right arm is tattooed with the following words in arabic, "I heal the sickened. I do what is right. To save a life, another life may have to be taken. Justice is not clean." His skin is cinnamon with eyes of similar color. There is light scarring on the left side of his chest.
Personality: Quiet, stoic, yet in times of comfort friendly and joking. When doing work, does not fuck around.
Opinion of ruling western regime: Indifferent, as long as he is allowed to save lives in the field.
Origins:
Kaji was born in what we would call today, the United Arab Emirates to an upper-middle class family. His father was a doctor, his mother a physician. As a result, science not only taught but indoctrinated in his home. While he did want to pursue art as a child, his predisposition to the sciences set him apart from other children. At age 10, he was selected through standardized testing to join the state-sponsored military boarding school known as Siaghat Hadidia. While there, his scrawny, bookish nature saw him excel in class, but fall apart in combat training.
Because of this setback, he began to synthesize his study time with his workouts, building muscle and power. In addition to this, he began to design a new steroid that would build muscle mass at a slower and safer rate compared to traditional chemicals. This combination of wits and athletic capability caused him to once again rocket to the top of his class. However, just as he had been alone at the bottom, he was now alone at the top. Despite this, he led a successful career at school, ranking second in his class.
Upon graduation of Siaghat Hadidia, he immediately transferred into the UAE's special forces team known as the Jannisaries. If that Siaghat Hadidia had been an oven, the training for the Jannisaries was hell itself. Kaji was mentally and physically broken day after day. In fact, the Jannisarie program had less than a 5% success rate. And just like he had been a percent in a percent before, Kaji summitted this challenge as well, his talents for field medicine, genetic modification, and anatomy setting him apart from other candidates. And this time, Kaji was not alone. The other 9 that graduated with him were not only colleagues- for the first time, his classmates were friends.
The Jannisarie 19th squadron became renowned among the UAE Corps' ranks. They successfully assassinated targets around the world. Dozens of terrorists plots foiled. Hundreds of lives saved. However, 5 years into his career as a Jannisarie, Kaji was faced with a situation that would either save the lives of 7 members of his team, or the lives of a small enclave of UAE citizens. He chose to save the seven members of his team, reasoning that lives not saved now would make up for the lives the team would collectively save later. Needs of the many over needs of the few. Due to factors beyond his control, both groups were lost. He tried to convince his commanders. Unfortunately, his commanders disagreed, and as a result he was dishonorably discharged from the Jannisarie Special Forces Squad. As he left, he locked eyes with his former friends. There was no mercy there. Only hate. He recieved a message from the same friend later that night. "Run. If I ever see you again, I will not hesitate to kill you."
Panicking, he stole away to Nova Casqua in order to start again, taking his tools of the trade and his great-great-grandfathers handgun. He found his place in the underworld working as a gun for hire and medic for those who could pay. Despite his seemingly clean exile, he has heard rumors of Jannisaries beginning to be spotted in the city. He only hopes he can put his head down and push through this as he has pushed through before.
Clothing: Wears small, square wire framed glasses in order to do fine work. Wears a forest green knit long-sleeve shirt underneath a grey military surplus medic's jacket. He wears long length khaki cargo pants and standard issue UAE Corps combat boots. Around his waist, he carries field medicine tools including bandages, alcohol, and painkillers. He also keeps a paper surgeon's mask in his pocket for moments of need. A Jannisarie 19th patch is sewn onto the left sleeve.
Most important items: His first-aid kit, filled with both fresh and old supplies. A M1911 handgun passed down from his great great grandfather to him, which he cleans every day. When not at work, he makes sure all of his steel tools are immaculate. A paper surgeon's mask.
Spoiler: Joseph Richter, the prospective sailor
Name: Joseph Richter
Age: 23
Gender: Male
Height: 6'2''
Race: Caucasian.
Area of expertise: Sailing, pulling favors and turning the best out of a bad situation. Joseph is not a very good fighter but he makes up for it in his shrewdness and cunning.
Appearance: Physically fit out of necessity, if leaning on the grossly skinny side, and has clearly lost a lot of weight in a very short time span. Sports a pair of distant blue eyes and a bizarre hand-cut hairstyle.
Personality: In his current state, Joseph is a mess of regret and self-loathing, only strengthened by an over-reliance on psychoactive chemicals to ease his boredom. At heart, however, Joseph is an optimistic and positive man who will stop at nothing to reconnect the broken pieces of his life and making things right with the biomedical company partly responsible for his mother's death. Dreams of owning a boat of his own and living on the ocean to leave this cyberpunk hell behind.
Opinion of ruling western regime: Joseph isn't very interested in politics by nature, of the opinion that the only thing that matters is staying alive. He'd like nothing more than to leave the entirety of Europe behind him on the horizon.
Origins: Joseph had a very good childhood compared to some, even with how rocky his parent's marriage was, he lived happily and loved them both dearly. Joseph's dad, Martin Richter, was a gentleman and a sailing enthusiast. The father and son spend most of their time together on the Intangible, where Joseph learned that the key to happiness was a lust for life and a positive attitude. The facade shattered when Joseph's mother, Suzanne Richter, passed away due to complications caused by nanomachine rejection in her bloodstream. She spent her last days wasting away in her bed, and by the time she died Joseph wasn't sure if she had really been alive since the accident. To make ends meet, Joseph's father sold the boat and began working long into the night. The night Martin came home with the blood still fresh on his dress shirt was the night Joseph left on the long road to Paris.
Clothing: Not a sense of fashion on this one, although to be fair he hasn't had much the opportunity. Stolen clothes, frequently a size or two big, are a necessity to save him money. The few clothes in his wardrobe that actually belong to him include a pair of tan dress pants and an offensively wrinkled white button-up shirt.
Most important items: The keys to the Intangible, taken from his father's jacket before the sale was made and the vessel was vivisected for parts. His only weapon is an old iron pipe that he carries in his backpack, along with his clothes and other essentials.
Spoiler: Cellobs, the detective
Name: Special Detective Fritz "Fridge" Cellobs
Nickname: Fridge, Special F.
Profession: NCI Detective
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Height: 1,90 meter
Race: Caucasian, predominantly German
Area of expertise: Overall detecting and such
Appearance: Grizzled gazes, short dark blonde hair, a permanent frown and a muscular, intimidating build. His features are typical for a Noscasqian citizen: a mutty mix between British, Italian and German complexities. Fridge has gray-blue eyes.
Personality: Detective Cellobs is quiet, stoic and emotionally dissociated with the rest of the world. He's quite passionate when it comes to his own emotions, but these are often misguided responses to base instincts. For instance, he'd be quick to use racial profiling to get the investigation running. His success comes from his machine-like obedience to his superiours. Though he's clearly lost all will to live for himself, he would never admit it. He's a solo at heart, but able to cooperate with fellow detectives. One would wonder whether he can adapt to the shift in Nova Casqua's political climate; from borderline fascist to a more humanitarian touch.
Opinion of ruling western regime: Unwavering loyalty
Origins: His father was a cop in the middle-class of Nova Casqua, who died before 'Fridge' reached puberty. After nerding it through high school, he enlisted with the NCI when 18. He's got a close and loving bond with his mother, who lives in the upper city in naivety about her boy's harshness.
Clothing: Long dark-green coat with wool lining, much like many dystopian detectives. Typical for NCI detectives, the inside of his collar is patterned in wine-red. He has dark and sturdy boots and a thick dark-beige ribbed sweater, often accompanied with a bulletproof vest. As per protocol, he has been ordered to keep his face uncovered, so he can portray some form of humanity to the citizens of Nos Casqua.
Most important items: An insignificant-looking cylinder that can expand to a disc-shaped drone assisting him with investigations, as well as relay info back to the Inquiry. In a holster on his left breast, a five-shot multi-purpose PKD detective revolver fitted with a variety of solutions such as rubber pellets, stun darts, tracker darts, low penetrative bullets and armour-piercing rounds.
Spoiler: Roles to be fulfilled:
- An NCI chief investigator or PI hired by the city hall, probably packing that gun from Blade Runner. She or he will guide us through the urban jungle as the highest authority in this investigation. (Partly fulfilled by my own Detective Cellobs, though Nova Casqua probably needs more metaphorical blade running)
- Someone with a huge, moving (preferably flying) vehicle with at least eight seats. (Fulfilled by Enigma's Auntie Simone)
I'm working on a map of a dramatically flooded north-western Europe. It's far from finished; if you've got any ideas about migration or geopolitics, now is the time.
Snatch the keys to that flying Peugeot and let's run through some walls, woo!
Link to the In-Character thread
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