Interbreeding Fertile Imaginations
My life is measured out in four-inch portions of cheap tobacco. I take another draw, smoke clawing up toward the low ceiling, and note that I'm halfway through this one.
Another slug burns the feeling from my throat, from my heart. I raise the glass in an empty toast to synthahol, my equally empty mistress. I look out through plastiflex glass. The streets heave with the crawling masses of metahuman vermin, the tawdry tinsel of augmented reality. Pining corp virals, sleazy promises and dirty leads tug at my vision. I nudge at my commlink, disable the neon mirage. Reality was always more than enough for me to deal with.
Johnson's through the door now, a beeline to the bar, an aggravated wave at the 'tender that belies his nerves. Typical suit, but not many years on him. Not the ones that matter a damn. My glass is out. I sidle up near, close enough that he knows who I am, far enough that nobody else does. Time to do business.
* * *
It's a month until Calibration, and all across Creation, people are preparing for the festivities to come. Barrels are rolled out of basements, lanterns are strung from every roof, and everyone's best attire is being freshly aired for the upcoming Calibration Ball!
Well, almost everyone. The monolithic Deathlord, the Mask of Winters, doesn't have a date. He DOES have an enormous Creation-destroying doomsday device, though, and a mean self-harming streak when things are down. Cue the Bureau of Serenity! Cue YOU!
Attached by hook and by crook to your heavenly benefactors, you are a ramshackle group of Exalts with a simple task: to save Creation from certain destruction! Can you find the grumpiest, gloomiest person in all the worlds a date, before he destroys the world in a fit of ennui? More importantly, can you find your own?
* * *
A lot can change in five years.
To think that you descended so full of anticipation, of youthful vigor. A year down below with the greatest hearts, minds and bodies the nation could offer, a chance at that elusive million pound jackpot. It sounded a bit of a laugh, at the time.
But then things changed. It wasn't more than, what, six months in when The All Seeing Eye's voice stopped? What a clever trick it seemed, at the time. Eight months before the first pair ventured out. Petty rivalries, silent cameras, the endless stillness of the bunker. You can hardly blame them. Of course they didn't return. You were sure they were disqualified, at the time.
The year passed. Still silence. Thirteen months when Jenny and Esteban left. Sixteen when Marco walked. You probably remember his return, two days later. The burns, the scarlet-flecked vomit. The babbling and muttering and slow, mewling passage into the jaws of death. You stayed put after that.
Twenty months before Shanelle was killed, twenty-three before Vivienne took her own life. Maybe they were linked, maybe not. You don't know. But you know this: five years have passed, and you are out of supplies. The game's over. You're going to have to walk.
* * *
I'm now safely ensconced in London, if still pawing at employment. It'd be pretty cool to set up a roleplaying group, and I'd like to know who's interested. I'm a GM by nature, and the snippets above are a few of the concepts I've been dabbling with: pulp-noir-Shadowrun, madcap-romcom-Exalted and postapoc-horror-homebrew, respectively. However, I'm very open to suggestion.
I like proactive players, mixed-sex groups and drinks afterwards. This post is temporarily open, in case any passing acquaintances want to join in the fun. Drop a comment here, and we'll sort something out.
Another slug burns the feeling from my throat, from my heart. I raise the glass in an empty toast to synthahol, my equally empty mistress. I look out through plastiflex glass. The streets heave with the crawling masses of metahuman vermin, the tawdry tinsel of augmented reality. Pining corp virals, sleazy promises and dirty leads tug at my vision. I nudge at my commlink, disable the neon mirage. Reality was always more than enough for me to deal with.
Johnson's through the door now, a beeline to the bar, an aggravated wave at the 'tender that belies his nerves. Typical suit, but not many years on him. Not the ones that matter a damn. My glass is out. I sidle up near, close enough that he knows who I am, far enough that nobody else does. Time to do business.
* * *
It's a month until Calibration, and all across Creation, people are preparing for the festivities to come. Barrels are rolled out of basements, lanterns are strung from every roof, and everyone's best attire is being freshly aired for the upcoming Calibration Ball!
Well, almost everyone. The monolithic Deathlord, the Mask of Winters, doesn't have a date. He DOES have an enormous Creation-destroying doomsday device, though, and a mean self-harming streak when things are down. Cue the Bureau of Serenity! Cue YOU!
Attached by hook and by crook to your heavenly benefactors, you are a ramshackle group of Exalts with a simple task: to save Creation from certain destruction! Can you find the grumpiest, gloomiest person in all the worlds a date, before he destroys the world in a fit of ennui? More importantly, can you find your own?
* * *
A lot can change in five years.
To think that you descended so full of anticipation, of youthful vigor. A year down below with the greatest hearts, minds and bodies the nation could offer, a chance at that elusive million pound jackpot. It sounded a bit of a laugh, at the time.
But then things changed. It wasn't more than, what, six months in when The All Seeing Eye's voice stopped? What a clever trick it seemed, at the time. Eight months before the first pair ventured out. Petty rivalries, silent cameras, the endless stillness of the bunker. You can hardly blame them. Of course they didn't return. You were sure they were disqualified, at the time.
The year passed. Still silence. Thirteen months when Jenny and Esteban left. Sixteen when Marco walked. You probably remember his return, two days later. The burns, the scarlet-flecked vomit. The babbling and muttering and slow, mewling passage into the jaws of death. You stayed put after that.
Twenty months before Shanelle was killed, twenty-three before Vivienne took her own life. Maybe they were linked, maybe not. You don't know. But you know this: five years have passed, and you are out of supplies. The game's over. You're going to have to walk.
* * *
I'm now safely ensconced in London, if still pawing at employment. It'd be pretty cool to set up a roleplaying group, and I'd like to know who's interested. I'm a GM by nature, and the snippets above are a few of the concepts I've been dabbling with: pulp-noir-Shadowrun, madcap-romcom-Exalted and postapoc-horror-homebrew, respectively. However, I'm very open to suggestion.
I like proactive players, mixed-sex groups and drinks afterwards. This post is temporarily open, in case any passing acquaintances want to join in the fun. Drop a comment here, and we'll sort something out.