Welcoming to Different Skies, an original science-fiction roleplay. Please mind the air locks and try not to get stuck in a vacuum.
 

 
 

 
 

 
"Humanity can survive, my friends. But it will take effort and it will take sacrifice. But first, we must rebuild the wheel to study these assailants from beyond. Any piece, any fragment of the Deus Pinnae that rears its head will be ours. Yamata 16 can no longer afford to linger in the shadows. If we must, we will take all of Bastion space in our grasps and ravage it until every metal sliver of the Pinnae is revealed... By any means necessary."

Jonathan Langdon.

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AGE: 57
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Clynes

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Aug 6 2015, 07:51 AM
Hrimpursar
2515 Sometime



<--48 Hours Ago-->

"You'd think they'd realize hiding in the outskirts just makes them easier to track down, in the long run."

"You'd think."

The sky was the color of dead air, the snowy white haze over an imperfect connection painting a picture of a world not well connected to the hyper-technological mainstream that the innermost Federated planets were accustomed to. Hrimpursar had no glamorous beaches, it had no scenic sunlit vistas. It's sun was far, far beyond any Goldilocks zone, and its outer atmosphere was harsh, only just suitable enough to allow colonization, but likely never settlement, at least not in the fathomable scope of human society.

The nearby star's weak rays did little to puncture the cloud cover, but even what little light blanketed the planet's daytime in dull gray sheets of eternal gloom mattered little where the planet's few inhabitants lived. Deep beneath the glacial crust, Neuros' light would never truly penetrate. But down here in the deeper parts of the world, they were closer to the real reason Hrimpursar mattered at all - ore.

Osmium, Titanium, Palladium, precious metals in deep running veins; it was theorized that the planet's core was a solid ball of some of the most precious minerals in the galaxy, but the planet's relative remoteness made it impractical to move a planet cracker out so far, and furthermore, many believed the planet a potential golden goose, and to split it open would only reveal stone and magma, and every shell fired from a planet cracker had to be worth it's weight in gold, to use an archaic expression.

But Hrimpursar tended to attract a certain brand of people - those who needed to disappear, or restart their lives. There was no official police element on Hrimpursar, only disparate mining corporations and their respective security branches, steeped in a red-tape maze of jurisdiction and litigative posturing.

Extradition and Execution Warrants meant little when the nearest authorization office was light-years away, but as little as they meant to the populace, they were still good to be collected on.

That was why Clynes was here.

Ude's face flickered over the holographic HUD in the cockpit of the Kyoto.

"You're sure he's there? Hrimpursar seems like a stupid place to hide out. Sure it's remote, but your options are limited, especially if you're trying to lay low. You can't exactly just go buy a farm out in the countryside."

"Every bread-crumb traces back here. Likely at Johto or Niven, they have research outposts here so that they can skirt the Ethics and Morality Concordance. Black Science and the like, the kind of outfits that want Yamata secrets for themselves."

"Well, you find him, props. Cut's as usualy, 40-60 your way, remember though, they want him alive and they want whatever he's carrying, if he's already sold it off, particularly to Johto or Niven, Yamata's lawyers won't pay for the warrant and the bounty will be nulled."

"I'll get him." She said.

=============
<--Present-->
=============

The sky hadn't changed.

Sensory data was strange to Clynes, it was a data feedback, something her brain could break down into numbers and code if she thought about it hard enough. It made it easy to forget the cold and the frost coating the body sleeve that covered her being, that kept the frost from icing up joints and control surfaces.

She reckoned that, if she could feel, she'd be dead already, her teeth shattered from clacking together. But she couldn't, so she wasn't, and she wouldn't.

You didn't rely on eyesight to navigate Hrimpursar's surface. Drift Maps updated via satellite every hour painted a picture of moving mountains of snow. The planet only received between three and four centimeters of snow each stellar cycle, but as it rarely, if ever, melted, it added up over the millenia creating a frigid and arid desert of nothing but shifting hills and valleys of crystallized water.

The treader moved towards a latitude and longitude fed into it before she'd left Joraya Station in Ferrum.

Normally one would transit between Hrimpursar's settlements by rail. Beneath the ice was a giant network of tramlines and tunnels that interlinked most of the settlements beneath the surface, but Johto Annex and the Niven Research Complex were both black book establishments, private entry and exit only, and she wouldn't be announcing her presence at either.

Her gut pointed her to Niven, an upstart megacorp born together out of an alliance of blackmarket bio-engineering outfits gone quasi-legit. Johto were questionable in ethics but ultimately not big or ballsy enough to try to pull one over on Yamata, and Niven already had ties to the the Redshift Company, so it wasn't like they were even trying to seem clean.

The treader neared its destination, and, just outside Niven's radar tracking range, it stopped.

She would have to walk the rest of the way.
Aug 1 2015, 07:41 AM
_searching Z:\ for query...
    _uploading requested file...
    _opening heuristic personnel dossier:
    _dossier template: DEFAULT
    _script execution time .006 seconds

    CONTENTS OF FILE ARE [CLASSIFIED] AND REQUIRE SECURITY CLEARANCE OF [BLACK] TO VIEW.

Z:\ P L A Y E R - I N F O R M A T I O N.ooc

    _requesting RL:\ for established query...
_player alias:Sycophant
_other characters:NA
_modes of contact: PM

Z:\ C H A R A C T E R - I N F O R M A T I O N.ic

    _analyzing system settings...
      _generating personnel dossier: DEFAULT
      _rendering holographic display:

old-ass pictures of Winona Ryder


_affiliation: Unaffiliated

_full name: Five Delta Clynes
_nicknames/alias: Clynes
_date of birth: ca. 2457
_age: 57
_home planet: Space Foundry Patoria
_current residence: APC Kyoto
_relatives:
Dr. Gregov Kassarian, Mentor
Vicmas Ude, Employer
_orientation: Asexual
_marital status: Single

_gender: Female
_height: 5’8”
_weight: 350 lbs
_hair color: Dark
_eye color: Red
_identifiable marks: Cybernetic Assault Chassis

_occupation: Bounty Hunter

Z:\ P S Y C H O L O G Y.ic

    _psychological evaluation loading... COMPLETED.
_personality:
To the outward observer, 5-Delta Clynes is a quiet, almost shy individual. She seems to have very little time for the questions others may have or the social sensibilities that organics have so fully raised up on a pedestal. Her ‘childhood’ was brief in that her positronic mind developed (or redeveloped) at a much faster rate than any neurotypical newborn human or adam. Emotions like anger, frustration, sadness, depression, happiness, and joy are regulated by subroutines installed into neuroglial-based simulators in her brain, and so she is almost despondent and detached unless she forces herself to emulate emotion, something she finds more cathartic and entertaining than she finds it relieving or therapeutic.

Most of Clynes’ drive lies in her curiosity to discover her origins. Where did she come from? Who built her? Who was she before she was 5ΔCLYNES? Her proclivity towards paid murder is two-fold, her natural emotional detachment allowing her to make business decisions as opposed to moral ones as well as the nature of her chassis being designed from the ground up for extended conflict. While she doesn’t relish in violence, the logical side of her mind points out that it simply makes sense for her. Without friends and without moral connections or a sense of real shame, capitalizing on her half-humanity’s lack of ethical scruples is the best way to fund her search for answers. She is good at what she does simply because she has the ability to keep herself from ever thinking too deeply about it, a human brain enhanced with optional firewalls – an inherent ability to keep secrets from herself, an irony that has not escaped her.

Z:\ P O W E R - I N F O R M A T I O N.ic

    _genetic sequencing algorithm initiated... COMPLETED.
_archetype: Promethean

_powers:
Clynes is a cyborg; 95% of her body is synthetic, with only her brain remaining an in-tact part of her former physical presence. In the days of her creation, it was much easier to keep one organ running forever than an entire bodily system of them, and so while the surgical process of removing a brain and placing it in a synthetic cranium was unavoidably traumatic, it was the more simple procedure given the technology at the time, meaning less neurological fine-work and more centralized focus on the operating table.

As such, Clynes’ “powers” are mostly based around the physical capacities of her body as well as her ability to interface with the technological biospheres in her environment.

>>>>>>>:_physical enhancements:
Clynes’ chassis is an Assault Model; It is compartmentalized and sectioned to allow the hot-swapping of various universal combat adaptors, such as a wrist-mounted lens-caster laser weapon on her right arm, jump jet modules that allow her to leap great distances and slow descents to avoid trauma from falling great heights, and a physical cyberwarfare adaptor on her left arm. Her limbs are jointed in such a way that they can twist and turn in what organics might consider unnatural ways, and the actuators that control her bodily movement grant her an inhuman strength, giving her a grip of 2000 lbs, roughly twenty times that of a peak-performance human. All this is further enhanced by a speed of movement and computer-calculated dexterity and agility that defies her weight class. She might not be breaking sound barriers, but she can keep up with street-speed vehicles with relative ease.

Furthermore, her chassis is a ceramic-based nanomesh amalgam of carbonized titanium nanotubes and modern plastics, making her bullet-proof against most common-sector slug-based weaponry. An ablative coating provides some protection from laser-based weaponry

>>>>>>>:_weaponry/utilities:
<<Wrist-Mounted Laser Weapon: Stun/kills settings; stun emits an electric burst similar to a taser bolt, kill emits a high frequency laser beam at 1000 degrees Celsius; this is colored by a red lense for tracing shot accuracy.

<<Left Limb Cyberwarfare Jack: While Clynes’ brain has a wireless uplink, security is too great for it to invade a system, so a local connection is required; a jacking spike located between the second and third knuckle on her left hand allows for this manual interfacing and hacking. Hacking however is a secondary function and this jack allows only rudimentary security bypass and interfacing elements (i.e. digital lockpicking)

<<JumpJets/Airfoils; Jumpjets located in the soles of her feet, shoulders, and palms work in concert with motorized panels that maneuver left to right and up and down to steer short bursting jumps of up to twenty five feet/sec of upward momentum to a height of about fifty feet, and then use the retro principle to guide descent. These are fueled by a pneumatic heat compressor, and thus require no fuel, but offer limited use, as they require cooldown between uses.
<<Internet Interface; Mental interface with both global internets and any interstellar holonets presented visually in her cybernetic eyes

<<Nanogenetic Neuroglial Composition: While Clynes’ brain is the only original part of her body, it too is enhanced by nanoscopic neuroglial (shorthand: nanoglial) cells that allow for both its preservation over time and its interfacing with the rest of her body. This provides some protection from psionic or biological interference with her brainwave patterns (i.e it affords her a buffer from mind control, though not a complete one)

_weaknesses:
Though relative EMP Shielding has been an advent for years, no complete security from the effects of electromagnetic pulse has ever been fully developed, and as such, while her electronic components might not be irreparably damaged by an EMP, they will be taken offline, with the severity of damage being dependent on the frequency of the EMP. Various subroutines and mechanical, non-electronic functions allow for a recovery process that is automated but this takes time and a safe space in which to do it.

Z:\ H I S T O R Y.ic

    _individual background loading... COMPLETED.
What her name was, why she is a cyborg, and where she came from, she does not know. She remembers only waking up to a confusing mix of imagery and reality as her brain rebooted itself with a huge piece of memory loss. For the first few weeks, life on the satellite foundry Patoria was a re-education on what it meant to be a person. Movement, speech, crossing over from robotic to human-esque was the goal of her rescuer, Doctor Kassarian. But he did not have what she wanted, and what she wanted was answers. He said her manufacturing date was fifty years prior, but beyond that, he had nothing to give her. That single year was both frustrating and peaceful, but whether it was further damage from whatever had led to her discovery in a junk rig, or her nature as something less than fully human and thus less than empathetic, she could not focus enough of her mind on ‘presenting’ herself as a full fledge human.

In those first twelve months of rebirth she made herself useful around Patoria, first helping Kassarian run his mechanics shop and then, eventually, helping around the foundry station itself, aiding in repairs of its failing mechanics and systems. While her neighbors seemed to appreciate the help, they remained guarded despite Kassarian’s assurances, seeing her as more machine than human, perhaps due to the totality of her cybernetics.

For the first anniversary of her time on Patoria, Kassarian gifted her a new face, one from a discarded social interfacing robot. While this seemed to assuage some of the prejudice against her by the others, things remained cool for the duration of her time there. Kassarian was perhaps the only person she has ever counted as a friend. But things were not intended to last. A remote station with little or no security, Patoria found its way onto local criminal radar, and came under pirate attack. Her body destroyed in the fighting, a dying Kassarian escaped with a highly damaged Clynes and, arriving on a nearby planet, left her in the hands of a friend, Vicmas Ude, the leader of a bounty-hunting ring. It was Ude who had her body replaced with an old Izanagi Security Chassis and took her into his employ.

It has been five Earth-Standard Years since her escape from Patoria. Kassarian is long dead, Ude is now, essentially, her employer, and in those five years she has acquired both a reputation and resources. Her main form of transport from place to place is a refitted personal carrier spacecraft. Currency earned from bounties goes into a fund that pays off an ever increasing debt to Ude and his band of hunters, but she makes more than enough to get by. She is unsure if Ude is a friend or merely a capitalist.

Z:\ S A M P L E.ic

    _accessing individual's archive footage files...
      _generating script... COMPLETED.
Pirates. Lawless skirters of astronautical law, as flimsy a concept as that could be considered. What sway did sapience truly hold over the governments of the vast stretches of nothing behind the relatively pixel-width pockets of ‘civilized’ society? It wasn’t global law, the stretch of road and wilderness between cities was a pittance compared to the intractable distances between worlds, and so while one could say ‘no violence, no theft here in this place’, the sheer incalculable (or at least, unfathomable) size of the thing made any attempt at truly universal enforcement laughable, and so, bounty hunters.

Patoria had been a smoking hulk of space trash for two years now. She’d been a kill puppet of Ude’s for just as long. Kassarian was, somewhere, spinning eternally into space, shrouded in a funeral wrap until such a time as his corpse landed somewhere, or flew into some wayward star. She wondered at that as she entered the pub, what the sensation would be of instantaneous vaporization; the nanonsecond-long instance of organics becoming carbonized before they were shredded apart in the span of half an instant by thunderous photonic energy and radioactive wind.
She did not envy the thought. Sensory feedback was binary in her mind, a facsimile of touch. Pain was an alert, not something that actually caused pain but instead warned of immediate danger. She hadn’t felt pain in her entire life, so far as she knew.

The global internet had been in the corner of her eye since she’d stepped off the Manchuria. She wasn’t looking for a specific name, rather, the absence of one – pirates tended to try to skirt through booking and customs.

Six months prior she’d gotten a lead on the pirates who had destroyed Patoria. She was above the concept of revenge, or so she’d thought, but the knowledge had taken the forefront of her mind frequently, a fact that reminded her of her oft-times nominal humanity. She’d no real attachment to Patoria – the place had stunk of rust and mildew, as much as she could smell anyhow, without thinking of it as machine readable sensory data, and the people had been cold and distrustful despite her aid. Still, Patoria had been the only home she knew, regardless of the gap in memory that represented the entirety of that mystery she knew only as ‘before’.

She found who she was looking for. The cut-rate ID hack made itself apparent; mismatched photo with incongruences in height and build, something made to fool feckless and inscrutinous basic security mechs and readers.

“The differences between Promethea and Haphaesti is simple”, Kasssarian used to tell her. “Promethea simply have the concept of having been human, where the Haphaesti seek only to endlessly emulate their idea of it. The resulting disconnect tis obvious.”

Clyne did not emulate an idea of humanity, she knew it could not be done, and so the over-fluid movements of her body through the crowd drawing stares from the fleshy patrons of the juice bar didn’t bother her. She didn’t care to pass for organic, she was here for money and murder and she’d the license for it, having just paid the head fee at the offices of the local law office.

“Gygax.” Her voice was humanly inhuman. Not quite uninflected but certainly monotone in color.

The man turned, a smile on his face and the cylinder of rotgut booze in his hand spilling over with the sudden motion. His grin faded a little but not enough to signify any sort of loss in revelry. “Who’s asking?”

The face matched up with the one seared into her retinal memory banks. Cybernetics were detected. A freejack memory backup. That would be useful.

“I’m a designated Regulator under the employ of Vicmas Ude. I’m serving a warrant for your execution issued by this planetary region’s local law office.”

Gygax was already reaching for his weapon, but her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist and shattering it like thin glass. His scream accompanied a wave of telekinetic pressure washing over her, pushing her back. His Pythian status had eluded her, thanks to his bogus ID registration, but he did not account for her grip, and his hand came off at the wrist, spraying carnage outward and sending him reeling to the floor gripping the pulsing red stump as she recovered her balance and the crowd around began to realize a fight had broken out.

“My hand! My hand, you Proth' bitch, you tore my hand off!”

Further expletive vitriol coursed from the sewers of his mouth as she closed the gap between them, and she wordlessly extended the jack in her left hand, spiking it into his neural implant, sending him gibbering and limp in her grip. A wrenching motion tore the implant free, along with a relatively large portion of gray matter and Gygax slumped, quivering, to the floor. Downloading the memory files from the implant into her own mind, she turned to face his gathering friends who opened fire. She reached for her own weapon, and prepared to leave.
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