Entry tags:

June Player Plot Log

Who: Everyone
When: June 4rd to June 26th
Where: Earth 91c
What: Thisavrou’s Ingress connects to an alternate, technologically advanced version of Earth.
Warnings: Murder (and mystery!), potential violence, arguably slavery(?)

Important OOC Note: This event features NPC encounters in certain locations, with the NPCs Atarah (misassembled), Alex (outofstock), and Calla (TBA). These encounters may be used to gather information for the murder investigation, influence the world, or just to nab some interesting CR. If you are open to having your character approached by an NPC, please include the phrase “NPC-friendly” in the subject line of your top-level, or in the the heading of your preferred starter(s). Note that your chances of such an encounter may be greatly increased (or even guaranteed) by signing up for encounters on the OOC post. Have fun!

Earth 91c

While scanning through various universes for matching signatures, Thisavrou’s Ingress technicians occasionally find different versions of a single world, not quite matching the signature of anyone’s homeworld and yet not completely alien either. On the first of June, Thisavrou’s Ingress connects to one such alternate world—specifically, an alternative version of Earth.

Labeled “Earth 91c” by Ingress personnel, life on this Earth is fundamentally different than the life Earthlings on Thisavrou may remember. It’s the year 2610 and advancements made hundreds of years in the past have revolutionized every industry on the planet, allowing for an exponential increase in the production of food, goods, and commodities, while the cost in human effort and suffering has fallen to almost null. The result is a near-utopia with surpluses in almost every resource, creating an environment where humans can stretch their creative and scientific wings skyward, where no brilliant mind must be squandered in a life spent on unfulfilling menial labor. Art and technology flourish on this world and beyond, as humans, freed from such quaint concerns as food production and resource extraction, have extended their reach to the stars, even discovering an Ingress on a distant planet and relocating it to a city on Earth.

Upon exiting the Ingress, visitors will find themselves in a vibrant center of technological and cultural exchange, in the midst of a human civilization that seems to be in the midst of its golden age. The technology that made this prosperity possible is on full display throughout Eastgate City. And some of it is very familiar…

Welcome To Eastgate City

Once visitors arrive in Eastgate City proper, it will be very easy to see how exactly Earth 91c became the utopia it is today. Programs, AI, androids—whatever you call them, they’re known as the “Created” here and they’re out in force. They perform a variety of functions on this world, including (but not limited to) manual labor, factory work, personal and professional assistance, system organization, household drudgery, farming, construction, child care, entertainment, and companionship. A large portion of these Created are called “Programs”; they resemble humans, marked as different only by glowing markings that decorate their bodies, some simple and some so ornate and extensive, their wearers resemble walking works of art. Any who are familiar with Thisavrou's own small Program population will notice a key difference, however: the Programs of Earth 91c carry no disks on their backs. There are also AI, owned by individuals or companies, often resembling small, holographic humans who can be summoned at will by personal devices to provide information, analysis, or entertainment. Anywhere you go in the city you’ll see these Created, hurrying along to carry out their programmed functions, stationed in businesses or kiosks, or accompanying the humans (called, of course, “Creators”) who own them. To prevent any confusion between visiting and native Created, all AI characters who enter through the Ingress will be asked to wear identifying bracelets for the duration of their stay. All visitors are also referred to a message broadcast to their TABs for a list of the planet’s laws as they pertain to foreign guests, and as a means of getting in contact with Eastgate’s official ambassador, Daniel Wright.

And yet, for all the pretense of welcome, there’s a strange, tense atmosphere pervading the city. You might be able to see it in the wary glances of organic and AI alike towards more visibly foreign visitors, or hear it in the hushed whispers of a crime too terrible to imagine. Most natives you meet will be reluctant to discuss it with you, but you may be able to put together a few details: an incident occurred a couple weeks earlier in which a Created—a Program by the name of Kess—murdered two humans at a political rally for the rising political star Delilah Handler, a candidate with known ties to the “Equalist” movement—an umbrella term for activists who seek to further Created rights. No one is quite sure how such an attack was possible; the production of Created is strictly regulated so that none possess the capacity for such violence. But, speculation abounds. Some believe that it was a random, tragic glitch. Some blame the Ingress for bringing in some kind of foreign virus and fear that other Created may also become indiscriminately violent. However, the predominant theory is that Delilah somehow altered Kess’s programming and unintentionally created the glitch that caused Kess to snap. This theory is supported both by Delilah’s ties to the Equalist movement, which has been long suspected of editing Created to parrot their beliefs, and the fact that she was a former authorized programmer, meaning she might’ve had the knowledge to edit Kess. Whatever the truth, the incident has cast a pall of mistrust over the normally hospitable city. But for those willing to put up with the uneasy atmosphere, Eastgate has a number of locations available to explore.

The Center for Created Oversight and Affairs

One of the largest structures in the city, this sprawling facility is made up of multiple interconnected buildings and courtyards. The Center for Created Oversight and Affairs (or the CCOA) manages almost every aspect of Program and AI life, from their creation to related policy-making. Though most of the buildings are off-limits to visitors, there is a museum open to the public with exhibits that display how Programs and other AI are created and the role they play in Eastgate’s society. Simple, easy-to-understand exhibits explain that Created are coded by highly trained programmers using advanced computers, and that those meant for “outside use” are then made tangible through a complex “reverse-digitization process.” There are regular tours through the museum, delivered, of course, by beaming Created docents.

Though security in the museum is relatively light, all other areas of the facility are heavily guarded and monitored.

The Gardens

Marked only by a neon sign showing a flower in bloom, The Gardens is a popular, high-end entertainment venue, which includes a bar, lounge, dance floor, and casino, all connected by a verdant courtyard. As one might guess from the name, the entire venue has a botanical theme that extends not only to the interior and exterior decor, but also to the Created who work there. These Created include Programs marked by very thin, fine circuits on their faces, wrists, and ankles that are wrought in a delicate floral pattern and are named after flowers corresponding to their circuit colors. These Programs serve a variety of functions here, from running the casino games to keeping the venue clean to accommodating the requests of the venue’s various guests. There are also holographic AI, resembling foot-tall humans with insectoid wings, stationed at the bar who can help you find a place to sit, direct you to the venue’s various attractions, and place an order for drinks (though the bartender himself is human). Visitors here can drink, dance, or gamble the night away, though they should be warned: fighting and destructive behavior are not allowed on the premises and violators will be removed by the venue’s (human) security.

Manufacturing District

On the outskirts of Eastgate lies the center of production, a vast maze of factories and refineries that produce most of the goods consumed by the city. Here, Created outnumber humans several times over; after all, they staff all of the factories. In fact, there are some factories that operate almost entirely independent of human supervision and are only given a general inspection a few times a year. If you speak with the right people, you may even hear word of a factory that has ceased to be a factory. For those who can rub elbows with the criminal elements of Eastgate, “Rook Manufacturing” may prove a useful place for your less-than-legal needs. Here, visiting AI can get their mandatory bracelets removed free-of-charge—and any organics wanting to see how the other side lives can purchases these bracelets for themselves, if they have something worth trading. AI can also pay for illegal upgrades; even a full function change isn’t out of the question, though the side-effects would be severe to say the very least. However, even with such services available, unfamiliar guests shouldn’t expect a completely cordial experience during their visit. A certain AI is known for testing newcomers’ patience—quite literally, as it turns out. Finally, those interested in challenge rather than commerce may be interested in Rook Manufacturing’s next offering: a chance to fight with willing, combat-ready Programs looking to try out their new upgrades in the ring. All fights MUST be non-lethal. Attending the fights is the leader of this operation, a green-circuited Program by the name of Atarah. Judging by the awed hush that falls over the assembled audience when she appears, it’s no secret that she commands a great deal of respect here—from Creators and Created alike.

Missions Available

♖Visitors to Rook Manufacturing may hear excited rumors that Atarah is looking to recruit outsiders for a more meaningful kind of fight. There are whispers that something precious has been taken from her and her fellow Created by a faction that identifies as “Extinctionists”—a movement that opposes the very existence of Created in the outside world. And she is willing to pay any sum to anyone who is willing to get it back—if you can prove you’re worth her time.

♔ Knowledge of foreign technology, particularly as it relates to artificial intelligence, is highly valued by the CCOA. Those with expertise on such technology, whether from Thisavrou or their own world, will be paid 200 sencs for a seminar on the subject, assuming they can provide new information about technology not yet present on Earth 91c. It’s possible a charlatan might be able to give a seminar on a piece of technology that doesn’t actually exist—just hope that there’s nobody from your own world in the crowd who might be able to call you out.

OOC: If you have any questions about the event or setting, please post them here!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Clu missed one. He did. Rinzler is Clu's weapon, Clu's hunter—but Rinzler, too, is not quite so eager for Clu's blame as to contradict his admin on the point. Bad enough that he failed to wipe or capture it today.

Still, there is another explanation. "...Ingress import." The words grate out nearly as harshly as before. They're true, though—he saw the users' tag. It isn't from this system.

Which means it might source from any timestamp, on the Grid.

More data is, of course, saved to disk: signature and visual ID, how it fought and what vector it disappeared on. Rinzler waits to be instructed to present it.

Of course the fault is his. He's the Administrator. It's his plan; it's his responsibility. Rinzler is his and it's not like there's anyone else around to blame. However. His best warrior let the thing escape. Maybe even lost a fight to it, which calibrates the assessment. Facts require logical responses, clear and measured.

"That's not better," low, gritty with distaste, but not loud. "You're sure it's only the one?"

There is a more efficient way of processing this inquiry. However Rinzler may or may not feel about it is immaterial.

Snip-snap, popping both fingers, ending in a flat palm, expectant. "Let's have it."

A twitch of a shrug before Rinzler catches himself. He shakes his head instead. It was the only one he saw, but that means very little, with no disk or confession to [confirm/deny] associates.

Dead or alive, Clu could have pulled the data from its mind. The alternative is natural. Fitting, perhaps, in its symmetry. But necessary is more important than correct, and the fact that just cycles ago, this would have been Rinzler's only method of report...

...well, that too is irrelevant.

The enforcer ducks his helmet, reaching back. Hands open, head bowed, disk presented to Clu's grasp.

Was that a--Clu’s head swivels on his neck as he considers--yes, definitely the precursor motion to an old, old gesture, in a subset of gestures that only Users used and only to express ambiguity or ambivalence, throwing up roadblocks to clarity just because, man.

Apparently his orders merit a shrug. That will want adjusting.

...Irrelevant beside the data folded into Rinzler’s cognitive routines.

The interface ticks open in his palm with a soft rattle, truth unfurling black and white and red up from the open display.

There’s a sharp hiss of recognition, air quick and redundant through clenched teeth. He’d let her go. She’d laughed at him, she’d jibed at his research, and he’d let her go. Just let her prance off on her merry way.

Rinzler...Does not have that data, and there’s no reason he should. Not yet, anyway.

“Thank you,” a low hum, forestalling any other reaction that might have installed there, “for bringing this to me.”

If Alan knew about her, the game might change yet again, but there’s no evidence of that in Rinzler’s recent memory.

“Oooh!” Wincing, for the playback and the damage readout and the neat gash not quite oozing partial voxels, magma-red to grey. “Kid has a right hook on her, doesn’t she.”

It’s not a question, but it carries the weight of prompt, the draped hook of an implied offer for repair.

After all, the first test of whether Rinzler wants things enough is whether he’s willing to ask for them.

His disk slips out of reach, and Rinzler waits, hands lowering empty to either side. Helmet bowed, spine curved, hands open. It's a posture trained to perfect habit, a litany of gesture: three points to focus on in the absence of reply. Check. Wait. Don't react to the not-touch, distant awareness of hands sorting through his code. Don't project (don't flinch) as whatever Clu sees elicits a sharp hiss.

His failure.

Rinzler cannot, of course, look up.

Thanks is just as hard to read, but against all expectation, he can't hear much edge or venom to the phrase. No, the sympathetic mockery comes after. Rinzler's glare fixes on the ground, noise grating up a little louder. It is going to die. But that isn't the purpose, isn't the prompt, and the lowered mask twitches a little to one side. Almost accidental. Almost casual (if he weren't already stupidly angry) (if he hadn't always hated these Games).

Curiosity. Question. Was Clu requesting output of some kind?

Rinzler slides into default, absolutely still, sloped to exact points and hovering in wait with perfect posture.

Clu's not-precisely-query kicks up a rumble of something suspiciously like discontent, a sharp uptick and a positively stubborn cant of the head. He never did like to play, not for stakes at this tier.

...Still.

"So she got lucky." A little shrug, perfunctory, almost rote; I meant to do that.

Clu's fingers tighten on the mylar, stroking, kicking up a cloud of confirm and wait soft as the brush of an eyelash. They can get started any moment now--it's Rinzler's choice whether he feels it or not--that's a fair counter offer, surely.

"It's not like she'll get a second chance."

Rinzler's gaze stays down, but the twitch of gesture—of ambivalence—doesn't escape him. Surprising leniency for an error of that magnitude. Almost enough to make him wonder... if, of course, Clu weren't already dangling a different question of consequence overhead.

Contact teases at the edges of his code: not the shift and tug of unknown values changed, but a lingering, ethereal pressure. He doesn't move, doesn't react—is locked and tense with stubborn spite to not do so. Clu isn't moving forward—not with edits or repair. Just... playing. Making the potential clear.

Stiffly, the black mask ducks a margin further, and rises back. True. She won't. Just do it.

Rinzler remains rigidly aligned, tensed to exact margins, the very picture of belligerence through perfection.

...It's a very old game, and Clu didn't get where he is by blinking first.

However. There are external factors at work here, the most pressing of which is always time, the duration that they can expect to remain invisible, to remain undiscovered and unmonitored in a society quite literally built upon both.

Up, down, a frisson of acknowledgement from Rinzler, and Clu's never needed an excuse to keep score.

The fracture is deceptively neat, ends lucid and clean--and sheared very deep, forked in all the way to the shoulder. Had she known where to cut, she could hardly have done better.

There's an interesting subsidiary value here...

Get it over with? Was that the implication?

He stretches his fingers over key pairs with a sigh. It's a simple enough thing to call, pulling the correct wireframe up from the root directory.

"Now, don't move," distant, light; he's too busy concentrating for real mockery, too keen after the feel of live code under his hand. Strings part for him, numb with the pressure to self-correct, nudged into almost--straining to receive values that do not yet exist.

"The margin is very thin...There."

Plus one. Good as new--grafted on all at once, drag-and-drop.

This may sting a little.

The acknowledgement is marginal, but still, apparently, enough. Rinzler tries not to show his relief as the teasing pressure of potential fades to the more accustomed nudge and slide of code. Rinzler tries not to run calculations on exactly what values might be changing. Clu promised not to reset him. Clu doesn't have the time (the resources) to spare on creative punishment right now.

Rinzler doesn't move. Clu doesn't stretch the process out—not further, not now. Rinzler can feel when the tug of lines ceases, directories pulling out to leave his code complete and whole in its new form. He can't feel what. He can't feel how.

At least, not until the disk slides back in dock.

Rewrite. Changes fix and code warps, functions self-correcting as he runs and no he doesn't want to be shut down. He locks in place, aggressively rigid against the pain as the lines that make him up pull apart and back together, finding their new shape. Data rezzes in the gap, flitting up in voxels from raw wireframe to a cohesive shell. Less than a micro, and his arm is whole. Half that again, and Rinzler unlocks motor functions, tension bleeding down his spine as his head ducks and rises to default.

Not thanks. Just confirmation.

He'll do better next time.

...Stubborn, stubborn, slicing functions to their bases to hold rigid against being able to feel himself grow--cinders spinning up into sleek darkness, ashes into splendor.

Another micro and Rinzler's nodding his Wilcos, whole and complete.

"All better?" The inquiry tag is there, if largely rhetorical.

Of course he's better. Clu made him that way.

It's barely a question, but Rinzler nods again regardless. Mid-report isn't the place for thorough testing (at least, not his), and all immediate data reports full function is restored. There don't even seem to be any other modifications—at least, that Rinzler can detect.

That's more than can be said for some.

The enforcer stills. Lags. He's lucky, to have been let off for one mistake. He has no right to even think about committing more. And it would be a mistake, Rinzler knows; Rinzler knows. He isn't meant to question Clu, much less evaluate. Much less lay out judgement that his actions might be wrong.

...

"Frisk. Asriel." The mask stays bowed, but raises just a fraction: new line. Additional input. Important. Rinzler doesn't have a flag for the last, but he's never raised a subject of his own to Clu. Not in any frame of time he can remember.

Don't stop. Don't lag. Keep talking (while you can) (because you can) (have to).

"You edited them."

Rinzler nods for the inquiry tag; confirmed.

But he slides to total stillness, lags there for just long enough to give Clu pause.

His hand suspends halfway to the necessary action, motion canceled, fingers reset in a loose clutch at his side as Rinzler grits out his next words: names. The designations of his newest assets.

Clu knew this was coming. He'd expected it. It's no hardship at all to warm his words on his tongue before pushing them across, almost serene:

"I did." The words nearly bend beneath the rich weight of satisfaction.

The swell of satisfaction curls against audio; settles, sick and heavy: a different pressure on his code. It makes it easier. But then, anger always does. Reminds him he has a jaw to tighten. Eyes to glare. A voice to sharpen, under the building rattle of errors.

"They're not yours."

Oh, no; no, no way.

No way.

No amount of newfound, hard-won backbone is harshing this moment for him. He's waited almost a dozen decicycles--over a faulting User year, for anybody to even say anything about it.

For the only one who is even alive to matter to finally notice.

"Poor Asriel was on death's doorstep." Gentle, no denial anywhere. "Massive systemic damage. Cutting himself to pieces on his own skin and crying like you wouldn't believe. And no wonder: diagnostics suggested he was drowning, slowly, in his own blood."

Now the words are hard, clipped, compressed tight and bitter:

"You weren't there. His friends," neatly disclaiming, encircling, describing Rinzler as a separate value, ¬(A∪B); "weren't there."

But this isn't about blame. Or. Not only.

"I thought about letting him go, about letting him suffer and die. I thought about leaving him."

Neat, inescapable truth: "I couldn't."

The disclaimer is accepted. The blame... the blame has been logged already, so many times and in so many ways. Rinzler has failed the beta far too often. But that doesn't make it acceptable to add another section to the list.

"Repair: valid." A beat, a pause, hesitation and the crawling, impossible acknowledgement of what he's said. Clu assigns validity, not—

Don't process. Don't loop. There's a quiet, burning fury lodged deep in his root code, and Rinzler clings to it, because he can't stop now; he promised—

"Frisk too." It blurts out, harsh and a little sick. He knows what happened. What they'd done to themself. They needed help.

Still.

"Not the rest."

Unbelievable.

Entirely accurate, certainly possible within their new arrangement, correct and in some ways inevitable.

...Still. He's not here to haggle.

"No?"

To quiet their fear, to dry their eyes, to reach in and replace all that suffering with bright, aching adulation--to overcome sorrow with joy.

To get: acknowledgement, whether it should be his or not, because he was owed it, because it was never forthcoming from--

From those he'd built a world to live in, who had only wanted out again.

"I didn't hurt them," low, coarse.

He's never given an account of his own limits before. Not to anyone. He doesn't owe it to Rinzler, but it falls from the queue anyway.

"I didn't. I wouldn't--" Irrelevant. Garbage data. The truth has never helped him before. "They're too new! I know that. They've been through enough."

"I made them well," and it was good, "I made them strong," and it was better--

"And they'll hate me," soft, matter-of-fact, "when they wake up."

Edited (TIME.) 2017-08-12 17:05 (UTC)

The question is enough to freeze at. Soft and calm, innocent and lethal: reminder, call, and 'no' has never been his place. The low rattle rises, thick enough to choke, like a thousand glass-edged shards of memory. A thousand projections. He knows better—and he does.

But Clu doesn't touch him. Doesn't move to take it back. There's nothing in the way but words, a promise filled with far too many loopholes. One Rinzler hadn't known (doesn't know) if he could trust.

But Clu's rage converts to explanation, and Rinzler forces the shocked ache aside. Logs it all—to process later. Certainly, he knows he couldn't manage now. Clu is speaking and he needs to listen; Asriel was changed when Rinzler said he'd keep him safe. Frisk is a user. Too many variables, and it's the most he can do to parse them. To cling to the anger, lights burning bright in agitation because it wasn't well, they weren't, he hates it—

...

They'll hate him.

"...when."

Not if.

He only uses words because only words were called for; excess force as a concept is at least sixteen point bar-eight percent of the problem descriptor for most of their shared set.

Rinzler's sound rolls to a low idle, clotted thick and loud as he tenses for the gesture Clu had already tucked away.

It's not a question, but Rinzler wants answers just the same--it's there in the cant of his head, in his posture's tense refusal to curve, in the way that single word grinds free of the queue.

...There are too many variables in play. He has never liked surrender. And he hates, hates to waste even captive resources.

When they do leave, and they will, they'll be gone for good.

They don't belong to him.

"The interval is unimportant," a hard sour hum, "but I will."

The black helmet jolts just a fraction to the side. It's small, and impossible, and at this point, just one of many violations logged in queue. He shouldn't, but he has to, and it falls as inevitably as any gesture of submission. Just as naturally built in.

Refusal.

Rejection.

'No.'

"...It matters."

The interval. One cycle. Or a thousand. It matters so very much, and lights brighten and dim, scarlet and [unclassed] and it's not—they aren't Clu's, they aren't—

This is new, this is critical, this has never happened before--or not to this degree--

...Of course. Of course.

He'd made a mistake. Error hooked barbed fingers in, a gleeful sizzle down the queue: he'd made the wrong case. He'd pushed the wrong angle. He'd let the truth hold the weight. He'd made a mistake.

Oh, not the repair--they'd needed it. Not the rest of it, no--he did not miscalculate; it was very effective, resilient and absolute, with nearly all of their higher functions intact and unaltered. Those poor children were so scarred, so desperately lonely--even together as a unit--that it had been easy to make friends.

No.

Clu's major fault was giving Rinzler an external case to make.

...He'd always been intractable when he had someone else to fight for.

"Well, not here," sticking to the facts. "It's too dangerous."

For all of them.

Not here. Limit laid out, obstacle established: but a small one. Easily surmounted, especially with momentum pressing onward (don't stop)—

"When?"

Not where. Where is the wrong category, a reference that allows for infinite delay. Where means the interval is unimportant. It matters, and they do (and he'll fight for that) (he promised).

This time, it is a question.

No; of course he didn't take the bait, not in the high gear Clu's pushed him into, the turbine snarl of processing focused on his goal, intense and singular, directive-adjacent.

That resolve--nothing matches it, nothing has ever withstood it for long.

It is also contrary to his purposes.

"...Within the cycle, margin plus or minus point-zero-six." Tightly, ringing with mechanical treble: "More precise estimates are not available at this time."

He can't abandon them here.

...Letting them go at all will take time.

The cycle.

It's too long. It's shorter by infinity than what he knows. It's almost exactly what it had taken him to find the fault. To confront Clu.

...

Fair for Rinzler. Not for them, and he can feel the pressure building. Splitting. Bow, agree, retreat before a new cost levels itself. Drive forward. Get them out. They can't be like him, they can't, they can't...

They could be worse.

They could be empty.

The black mask dips, stiff and rigid, into place. The sound that comes from Rinzler is less natural: rasping and quiet. But just as solid, in the end, as anything Clu's done.

"Outside limit."

He is half-expecting something--someone?--else, but this instead is better for all of them, here.

A tension he hadn't even monitored flows out from the nape of his neck, bleeds away from his shoulders for the harsh, sudden clip of Rinzler's acknowledgement: up, down, less of a nod and more simply the weight of his own agreement.

"Yes, of course!" Warm, rich, with every ounce of meaning he has, agreement as parody. "Done."

And in the intervening while, there's no more struggle.

For a time, at least, they are all still his.

Edited (the superlative was too good here my bad) 2017-08-27 02:14 (UTC)

The mask stays lowered. The enforcer's low rumble ticks out—not easily, but without the harsh clattering it had before. This is acceptable. This is necessary. This is better than opposing Clu.

...

"Don't harm them."

That is short and curt, a line scraped out with tones both more and less accustomed to output. Less elegant than a flicker of light, but more precise. It's not a request. It's not trust, either. It's a compromise. A warning.

He won't allow Clu to break them.

Rinzler's head ducks a little further. Standby position, hands open, spine curved. Anything else?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

June Player Plot Log

Earth 91c

Welcome To Eastgate City

The Center for Created Oversight and Affairs

The Gardens

Manufacturing District

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