06-25-2023, 17:46:29 PM
Syringe.
> Pull down your shades a bit and look for the source, or perhaps sources, of this feeling. See if there are any faces you might recognize amongst the crowd, as well.
In a place as crowded like this, you're bound to feel a familiar stranger somewhere. You brush past some folk, trying to find something of note, and while their faces don't seem familiar, it's almost like they didn't have faces to speak of. You knock them over, and the light seems to shimmer around their eyes, with nothing but a blank, empty plane of flesh looking back at you.
But that is not what you are looking for. You're looking for a memory, aren't you? The same sort of memory that they used to make you, the one you've always learned to harness when speaking to the masses with that voice as smooth as ambrosia. And as you put down your glasses, and let the glare of the world hit your eyes, you see things that are familiar, and things that feel like they should be familiar.
You scan the crowd, and you find some...interesting folk. An android, sitting, waiting for something, as if it would fall out of the sky if it waited long enough.. You find a familiar face in the crowd, too: an older man, also employed by Mission, who had nature running through his veins and had helped you in your time of need. And, you see a person entrenched in shadow; most wouldn't notice the smoke and mist underneath his hat, but you've always been more fine tuned to the supernatural hiding in plain sight.
Kartono.
The kids have differing responses to the older man, with the wilderness in his eyes, warning them about what they're doing. Most of them laugh, and a few stick their tongues out. Who is this man to tell them how to find their fate? One kid, though, doesn't seem to be participating with the rocks, just watching. He nods back at you, apologetic, and you can hear him whisper forgiveness under his breath.
You look up. The moon has multiplied, since you left. When you first signed with Mission, you remember seeing the Moon flash past you, as you headed for the cosmos. You remember the way it pulled the waves, calling to the sailors and fishermen, and how it lit the way for those who were lost in the dark.
But now, it seems to have company. Large, titanium space stations that glow and fight for dominance over the night sky, built years ago as a way to further take, to assert dominance over the environment. They flash in different colors, and every once in a while you can see ships and light draining into them.
And then, you sense familiarity. Something that was once here, that is here again, and in a perfect world, should have been here all along. You look for sources of that feeling.
>Look around you. Check for any potential source of that feeling. As well, check to see if any of which — or perhaps whom? — are familiar to some extent.
In the crowd, weaving through groups of older folk sitting by buildings, unyielding and seemingly demanding something from the towers above them, you look for something that seems familiar.
You see shadows, but one stands out, of an archaic ghost looking for something to fight for. You see a flash of red light, identifiable as what looks like a killbot, waiting for someone. And you see white hair, as pure as a prayer, reminding you of someone you helped long ago.
Omen.
You weave through alleys, assisted by your ghostly form, with one goal in mind.
> Head towards the feeling. Chase it. It's the only thing you have right now. Look for the something, or someone that could be giving off this feeling.
You search for omens. You've searched for so long, they've become your namesake. And omens aren't hard to find in this city, if you know where to look. You see them in the spray painted serpents that line the walls, with curved symbols begging for release, to one day unleash the beauty of the cosmos Mission has captured for so long. To one day feel the light upon their skin, to consume even the moon itself. But, of course, that's been one in a series of omens, since you've awakened by the hands of those little gods.
The feeling is stronger, now, as you rush into the crowd. You feel it in the looks you get, but especially from a man, just across from you, who seems to have gotten the same connection as you have, under the brow of his wide hat. You find another glare, from just across the crowd, from a short, long haired folk with words to say towards anyone they find. And while it doesn't look at you, you can just tell that robot waiting on the bench knows you're here, and wants something from you.
#63(b).
>Find a table or a bench, sit, and wait. Someone will come. Someone has to come, be they people, spirits, or other rogue elements. This rebellion will not be stillborn. It can't be.
And so, you wait. You sit down on a bench, lights flashing on the back of it with enough information to induce a seizure if you looked at it too long. The lights rush by. The people rush by. Everything and everyone rushes by, in cycles. Cycles. Cycles. You even swear you see some of the same few people walk by again and again.
Cycles are so sickening to watch. Cycles are not inevitable. You continue to wait, watching for what will let you cut this knot, send the past to Sulad and the future to the heavens, unchanging and unyielding.
As you wait, you try and sense who else is around you. What else is around you, other than these people who seem oh so comfortable with an unstable world.
You feel the pursuit of a holy presence, even stronger than the little fragments of gods that you find running through the alleyways. You hear the echoes of when waves crashed upon coral: the memory of what that meant was imprinted in your hard drive, and you never knew why. You can sense the past pulsing through this city block.
And you can see a presence, towering over you.
"Excuse me, po, but you do need to pay for that."
It's some low level Mission LLC enforcer. From the looks of it, they don't feel so supernatural, elemental, in the way they made you, but they are armed. They look tired, as they gesture to the little holographic screen that prompts you for 100 pieces to sit for 120 seconds.
"Can you just do it, so I can try and find something more important."
> Pull down your shades a bit and look for the source, or perhaps sources, of this feeling. See if there are any faces you might recognize amongst the crowd, as well.
In a place as crowded like this, you're bound to feel a familiar stranger somewhere. You brush past some folk, trying to find something of note, and while their faces don't seem familiar, it's almost like they didn't have faces to speak of. You knock them over, and the light seems to shimmer around their eyes, with nothing but a blank, empty plane of flesh looking back at you.
But that is not what you are looking for. You're looking for a memory, aren't you? The same sort of memory that they used to make you, the one you've always learned to harness when speaking to the masses with that voice as smooth as ambrosia. And as you put down your glasses, and let the glare of the world hit your eyes, you see things that are familiar, and things that feel like they should be familiar.
You scan the crowd, and you find some...interesting folk. An android, sitting, waiting for something, as if it would fall out of the sky if it waited long enough.. You find a familiar face in the crowd, too: an older man, also employed by Mission, who had nature running through his veins and had helped you in your time of need. And, you see a person entrenched in shadow; most wouldn't notice the smoke and mist underneath his hat, but you've always been more fine tuned to the supernatural hiding in plain sight.
Kartono.
The kids have differing responses to the older man, with the wilderness in his eyes, warning them about what they're doing. Most of them laugh, and a few stick their tongues out. Who is this man to tell them how to find their fate? One kid, though, doesn't seem to be participating with the rocks, just watching. He nods back at you, apologetic, and you can hear him whisper forgiveness under his breath.
You look up. The moon has multiplied, since you left. When you first signed with Mission, you remember seeing the Moon flash past you, as you headed for the cosmos. You remember the way it pulled the waves, calling to the sailors and fishermen, and how it lit the way for those who were lost in the dark.
But now, it seems to have company. Large, titanium space stations that glow and fight for dominance over the night sky, built years ago as a way to further take, to assert dominance over the environment. They flash in different colors, and every once in a while you can see ships and light draining into them.
And then, you sense familiarity. Something that was once here, that is here again, and in a perfect world, should have been here all along. You look for sources of that feeling.
>Look around you. Check for any potential source of that feeling. As well, check to see if any of which — or perhaps whom? — are familiar to some extent.
In the crowd, weaving through groups of older folk sitting by buildings, unyielding and seemingly demanding something from the towers above them, you look for something that seems familiar.
You see shadows, but one stands out, of an archaic ghost looking for something to fight for. You see a flash of red light, identifiable as what looks like a killbot, waiting for someone. And you see white hair, as pure as a prayer, reminding you of someone you helped long ago.
Omen.
You weave through alleys, assisted by your ghostly form, with one goal in mind.
> Head towards the feeling. Chase it. It's the only thing you have right now. Look for the something, or someone that could be giving off this feeling.
You search for omens. You've searched for so long, they've become your namesake. And omens aren't hard to find in this city, if you know where to look. You see them in the spray painted serpents that line the walls, with curved symbols begging for release, to one day unleash the beauty of the cosmos Mission has captured for so long. To one day feel the light upon their skin, to consume even the moon itself. But, of course, that's been one in a series of omens, since you've awakened by the hands of those little gods.
The feeling is stronger, now, as you rush into the crowd. You feel it in the looks you get, but especially from a man, just across from you, who seems to have gotten the same connection as you have, under the brow of his wide hat. You find another glare, from just across the crowd, from a short, long haired folk with words to say towards anyone they find. And while it doesn't look at you, you can just tell that robot waiting on the bench knows you're here, and wants something from you.
#63(b).
>Find a table or a bench, sit, and wait. Someone will come. Someone has to come, be they people, spirits, or other rogue elements. This rebellion will not be stillborn. It can't be.
And so, you wait. You sit down on a bench, lights flashing on the back of it with enough information to induce a seizure if you looked at it too long. The lights rush by. The people rush by. Everything and everyone rushes by, in cycles. Cycles. Cycles. You even swear you see some of the same few people walk by again and again.
Cycles are so sickening to watch. Cycles are not inevitable. You continue to wait, watching for what will let you cut this knot, send the past to Sulad and the future to the heavens, unchanging and unyielding.
As you wait, you try and sense who else is around you. What else is around you, other than these people who seem oh so comfortable with an unstable world.
You feel the pursuit of a holy presence, even stronger than the little fragments of gods that you find running through the alleyways. You hear the echoes of when waves crashed upon coral: the memory of what that meant was imprinted in your hard drive, and you never knew why. You can sense the past pulsing through this city block.
And you can see a presence, towering over you.
"Excuse me, po, but you do need to pay for that."
It's some low level Mission LLC enforcer. From the looks of it, they don't feel so supernatural, elemental, in the way they made you, but they are armed. They look tired, as they gesture to the little holographic screen that prompts you for 100 pieces to sit for 120 seconds.
"Can you just do it, so I can try and find something more important."