02-17-2017, 09:02 PM
Harlan dusted off his suitcoat and straightened his hat as he walked away from the large, metallic arch into Coruscant proper. It certainly was an incredible place, especially compared to those old black and white sci-fi movies he’d been fond of in the 60’s. Nevertheless, he’d just been inspected, detected, rejected, infected, injected, and selected by the Empire Peace Division’s prime registry unit stationed just inside the gate. It had been a simple matter to subtly alter his facial features and bodily structure to be different from his default appearance but just similar enough to pass a photo ID. He’d given them one of his myriad aliases, “Victor Hendy”, and using that name again made him feel sharper. Even though it had been the name he’d “died” under, that was the best thing about this Omniverse. No one had ever heard of Vic Hendy, or Melvin Schraeder, or Spades Mahoney, or Carson Mild. He had the feeling that it was a game ripe for some involved cons.
A brochure was foisted upon him as he wandered away from the gate, pulling his hat brim low to guard against the squeaky clean shininess of what he read about as Tier 1. Those white soldiers were everywhere. Far too present for the con man’s liking. He sat down on a bench, flipping the brochure open and read about the different tiers. Tiers 2 and 3 were advertised as convenient and luxurious locations for those who had jobs further up. Tier 4 was barely given a paragraph, aside from something called “F-Zero Racing”. Harlan felt the ancient curse of his blood stir at that, the compulsion of his Beast to gamble and risk and win and lose. Such was the blood burden laid on the Ravnos by their Antediluvian. He would definitely have to pay a visit to the track.
Tier 5 and 6 got less than three sentences combined. In a lifetime of scamming and conning, Harlan knew that the less that was said about something, the more opportunities there were. And he had the feeling that someplace this nice could only be built upon massive human resources. Had to be somewhere for the poor people to live and die. With that, he stood up from the bench, just as a group of stormtroopers approached on patrol and gave him a blank stare en masse. It was the universal stare of the lawman, constant throughout the multiverse. “Get moving, punk. I’m the big man around here and I can make your life severely inconvenienced with a word. I'm the big dick around here, and you better believe it.” Harlan just imagined the words in his head, having heard some variation of them in every city he’d been in.
Before he got the customary beating from the local law enforcement, the Kindred followed the brochure map to the nearest public elevator bank. Still, it was quite the walk. Every building gleamed with chrome and white plastic, security cameras mounted on every high corner. Citizens, tourists, working stiffs, and all sorts of snazzily dressed denizens flowed around him, occasionally being herded away from certain footpaths by the ever present stormtroopers. It took another ten minutes to get to the elevator bank, and another few suspicious blank glares from the identical troopers.
Tier 2 may as well have been the same as Tier 1, same glossy looks and omnipresent troopers. The patrols had thinned a bit though, which told the Ravnos he was on the right track. Another fifteen minute walk and elevator trip, and he could almost smell it. Heavily filtered, pulverized, and mixed with the antiseptic, lab formulated scent he’d smelled much more strongly on T1, but it was there. The real smell, the smell of a city. Smog, sweat, blood, trash, oil, energy, desperation, and sin. “Yess...that’s the ticket.” He mumbled to himself, traversing the third of the layers of the city. The further down you got, the less obvious the law enforcement. He’d already seen the odd collection of young people, wearing the loiterer’s cloak with confidence and the expectation that no one would bother them anytime soon. One more. He could taste the corruption on the filtered air, the pollution. It was his favorite scent, like a familiar cologne. It clung to him, to his clothes, to his demeanor. The smell of money and opportunity.
The smell of Tier 4. The Kindred stepped out of the elevator bank, streetlights winking on and off as he beheld a neon monstrosity lighting up an artificial night. There it was. No antiseptic smell here, no polished antibacterial facade to entice the tourists and assuage the wage slaves. His lacquered shoe crushed a soda can underfoot, the crunch echoing down the street as a breeze blew plastic bags down the road on their own commute. This felt much more like home. But yet….it still wasn’t enough. This was like the Las Vegas version of the real thing. Enough thrills to be found, but mostly sanitized, protected from the worst of the dregs of society. No, he was close, close enough to be comfortable...but that was it. Comfortable.
He’d been comfortable in Ocean City, comfortable playing his games with the courts of Baltimore and the endless procession of pompous Princes that thought they would be the ones to maintain the thin line between anarchy and order. Comfort had gotten him killed. Even if he was protected from Final Death here, for Omni’s amusement, comfort was....boring. He needed some wounds, to feel a blade twisting in his gut, to see the fear on a young punk’s face as the cut drew no blood and Harlan broke his wrist with a clenched fist. To smell the acrid scent of gunpowder and a cooling body, to run frantically for an empty dumpster as the sun burned his heels. To live, as much as an undead bastard like himself could. One more level down.
The elevators here were out of order, and by the looks of it, had been for some time. A shuttered, rickety public stairway was offered as an alternate route. The vibrant energy and the smell wafting up from it was exactly what he had been looking for. He felt like celebrating, a new hunting ground and metropolis ripe for the game and the thrill. As he stepped down what felt like endless flights of worn stairs, the Ravnos decided to test out Omni’s gift to all Primes. An illusory cigar was summoned within a few seconds, and while it smoked like real, the heat and the cloud of pungent fumes as real to anyone unfamiliar with the dream-constructs of Chimerstry, it was hollow to Harlan. Which was to be expected.
Really concentrating this time, using the same basic process as illusion casting, he drew it out. Poured the fuel into the idea of a cigar, the slowly dried leaves of rich tobacco, the essence of the deadly sun put to good use. Subtle notes as it was shredded and rolled, hints of oak and cherry and coffee and dirt. A room-clearer if there ever was one. Harlan Higgs liked cigars. They had a way of influencing social dynamics in a way that was respectful yet impish.
Just as he exited the stairwell, the cigar finished materializing in his hands. This one was real. Real enough to have just come right out of his old humidor. As he raised it to his thin, grey lips and bit the end off, he beheld the smoggy, hot, and intensely familiar sight of Tier 5. Allowing himself a small chuckle as he lit the end of his victory smoke with a momentary burst of flame, he walked off down the block with no real direction in mind...but forward. “I wanna be a part of it, New York. New York…” He sang softly to himself, a cloud of smoke marking his trail.
A brochure was foisted upon him as he wandered away from the gate, pulling his hat brim low to guard against the squeaky clean shininess of what he read about as Tier 1. Those white soldiers were everywhere. Far too present for the con man’s liking. He sat down on a bench, flipping the brochure open and read about the different tiers. Tiers 2 and 3 were advertised as convenient and luxurious locations for those who had jobs further up. Tier 4 was barely given a paragraph, aside from something called “F-Zero Racing”. Harlan felt the ancient curse of his blood stir at that, the compulsion of his Beast to gamble and risk and win and lose. Such was the blood burden laid on the Ravnos by their Antediluvian. He would definitely have to pay a visit to the track.
Tier 5 and 6 got less than three sentences combined. In a lifetime of scamming and conning, Harlan knew that the less that was said about something, the more opportunities there were. And he had the feeling that someplace this nice could only be built upon massive human resources. Had to be somewhere for the poor people to live and die. With that, he stood up from the bench, just as a group of stormtroopers approached on patrol and gave him a blank stare en masse. It was the universal stare of the lawman, constant throughout the multiverse. “Get moving, punk. I’m the big man around here and I can make your life severely inconvenienced with a word. I'm the big dick around here, and you better believe it.” Harlan just imagined the words in his head, having heard some variation of them in every city he’d been in.
Before he got the customary beating from the local law enforcement, the Kindred followed the brochure map to the nearest public elevator bank. Still, it was quite the walk. Every building gleamed with chrome and white plastic, security cameras mounted on every high corner. Citizens, tourists, working stiffs, and all sorts of snazzily dressed denizens flowed around him, occasionally being herded away from certain footpaths by the ever present stormtroopers. It took another ten minutes to get to the elevator bank, and another few suspicious blank glares from the identical troopers.
Tier 2 may as well have been the same as Tier 1, same glossy looks and omnipresent troopers. The patrols had thinned a bit though, which told the Ravnos he was on the right track. Another fifteen minute walk and elevator trip, and he could almost smell it. Heavily filtered, pulverized, and mixed with the antiseptic, lab formulated scent he’d smelled much more strongly on T1, but it was there. The real smell, the smell of a city. Smog, sweat, blood, trash, oil, energy, desperation, and sin. “Yess...that’s the ticket.” He mumbled to himself, traversing the third of the layers of the city. The further down you got, the less obvious the law enforcement. He’d already seen the odd collection of young people, wearing the loiterer’s cloak with confidence and the expectation that no one would bother them anytime soon. One more. He could taste the corruption on the filtered air, the pollution. It was his favorite scent, like a familiar cologne. It clung to him, to his clothes, to his demeanor. The smell of money and opportunity.
The smell of Tier 4. The Kindred stepped out of the elevator bank, streetlights winking on and off as he beheld a neon monstrosity lighting up an artificial night. There it was. No antiseptic smell here, no polished antibacterial facade to entice the tourists and assuage the wage slaves. His lacquered shoe crushed a soda can underfoot, the crunch echoing down the street as a breeze blew plastic bags down the road on their own commute. This felt much more like home. But yet….it still wasn’t enough. This was like the Las Vegas version of the real thing. Enough thrills to be found, but mostly sanitized, protected from the worst of the dregs of society. No, he was close, close enough to be comfortable...but that was it. Comfortable.
He’d been comfortable in Ocean City, comfortable playing his games with the courts of Baltimore and the endless procession of pompous Princes that thought they would be the ones to maintain the thin line between anarchy and order. Comfort had gotten him killed. Even if he was protected from Final Death here, for Omni’s amusement, comfort was....boring. He needed some wounds, to feel a blade twisting in his gut, to see the fear on a young punk’s face as the cut drew no blood and Harlan broke his wrist with a clenched fist. To smell the acrid scent of gunpowder and a cooling body, to run frantically for an empty dumpster as the sun burned his heels. To live, as much as an undead bastard like himself could. One more level down.
The elevators here were out of order, and by the looks of it, had been for some time. A shuttered, rickety public stairway was offered as an alternate route. The vibrant energy and the smell wafting up from it was exactly what he had been looking for. He felt like celebrating, a new hunting ground and metropolis ripe for the game and the thrill. As he stepped down what felt like endless flights of worn stairs, the Ravnos decided to test out Omni’s gift to all Primes. An illusory cigar was summoned within a few seconds, and while it smoked like real, the heat and the cloud of pungent fumes as real to anyone unfamiliar with the dream-constructs of Chimerstry, it was hollow to Harlan. Which was to be expected.
Really concentrating this time, using the same basic process as illusion casting, he drew it out. Poured the fuel into the idea of a cigar, the slowly dried leaves of rich tobacco, the essence of the deadly sun put to good use. Subtle notes as it was shredded and rolled, hints of oak and cherry and coffee and dirt. A room-clearer if there ever was one. Harlan Higgs liked cigars. They had a way of influencing social dynamics in a way that was respectful yet impish.
Just as he exited the stairwell, the cigar finished materializing in his hands. This one was real. Real enough to have just come right out of his old humidor. As he raised it to his thin, grey lips and bit the end off, he beheld the smoggy, hot, and intensely familiar sight of Tier 5. Allowing himself a small chuckle as he lit the end of his victory smoke with a momentary burst of flame, he walked off down the block with no real direction in mind...but forward. “I wanna be a part of it, New York. New York…” He sang softly to himself, a cloud of smoke marking his trail.
“I don’t wanna be a product of my environment. I want my environment to be a product of me.”