04-20-2017, 12:49 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-20-2017, 11:29 PM by Kelly MacAryn.
Edit Reason: Minor cleanup, and a few missing words.
)
The last time Kelly walked through Darkshire it was evening, and the townsfolk had been preparing for a siege. The only people on the foreboding, rain-sodden streets had been groups of nervous soldiers hurrying from one urgent task to another, and a few mismatched, daring Primes.
Darkshire at mid-morning, several weeks after an important victory, was a very different place.
It was drizzling, but that was to be expected. The city's massed architecture of brick and masonry, and the occasional wooden home, which clustered so tightly and loomed so brooding in the dead of night, looked merely weathered in the light of day. The stones were worn, the bricks chipped and the plaster grayed, but the sheer enduring solidity of Darkshire's construction lent the city a quiet, reassuring dignity which even the subdued hustle of its people couldn't break - a gothic study in pre-industrial urbanism.
As the traveler headed for the city gates, he passed through loose crowds of citizens going about their lives. Some carried parcels of goods, some carried ledgers, some were soldiers, others drove carriages. Their clothing varied from the commonly plain pants-and-doublet or ruffled dress to the rarely extravagant waistcoat or ballgown, but all of it was well-worn and hand-made, and banker or baker, the people all had one thing in common. It was a quality Kelly valued in himself, but rarely saw in others; The people of Darkshire were all keenly, obviously aware of their surroundings. They peered into shadows, watched the rooftops, avoided walking too close to sewer-grates or alleyways with the natural ease of long practice.
Interesting - but not a mystery. Even when the city isn't under siege, for all practical purposes they live in a war zone.
While he walked, and watched the people, the psychic kept a playing-card-sized dataverse window open, transparent and hovering at a fixed distance in front of his left eye while he drafted a message to PepsiCo. In it, Kelly notified the Board that Alan Mayhew had finished his latest freelance contract (which he couldn't discuss as per the standard non-disclosure agreement) and was now free to pursue Doctor Regal's case (as forwarded by the junior VP of Operations for Coruscant). He also asked if they had any additional points of concern to the Company which he should be aware of during this undertaking.
I might be able to use this to further establish Alan Mayhew and Kelly MacAryn as separate people.... we'll see how it goes.
By the time the message was finished and sent, Kelly was in sight of the fortified gates through which he'd first come to this city so many weeks ago. Here, signs of the bygone assault still lingered - cracked, blackened streets and damaged buildings ringed by wooden scaffolding and busy workmen. Even the gatehouse where he'd spent the night when he first arrived was ruined, the tower smashed to pieces. The construction of a replacement was already more than halfway complete, the newer, less weathered stone contrasting with the older masonry of the wall proper.
The psychic strategist was just beginning to compose a second message, this one to Doctor Regal, when he heard the click and zip of hard-soled shoes running and slipping across the rain-slick cobblestones behind him. A voice called out, gasping from unaccustomed exertion:
"You there... Wait!"
Well. That was un-ambiguous.
Just shy of the city gates Kelly stopped and turned, shifting his grip on his quarterstaff very slightly as he closed the dataverse window, just in case. Hurrying towards him, dodging awkwardly among the denizens of Darkshire was a blond, fresh-faced young man in a khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, dockers and slacks. The clothes were travel-stained, and he had a lab-coat tied around his waist, flapping behind him as he ran.
There was a metal gauntlet on his left arm, similar in some ways to the traveler's wristcom, but larger, with a keypad and a more practical screen.
The man stumbled to a halt in front of Kelly, doubling over and gasping for breath while his quarry waited patiently, studying him.
Young, tallish, reasonably healthy. Skinny. Doesn't seem to be a Prime, and probably doesn't exercise much. The lab-coat is interesting. Combined with his physique, that probably makes him a medical doctor or a research scientist.
"Can I help you?" asked the psychic.
The runner straightened up, still breathing hard. "Kelly MacAryn?"
Kelly nodded, his face carefully impassive. "Yes. Again - can I help you? I'm positive we haven't met."
"You're right... but even so, yes. And not just me...the whole Omniverse is in danger... dangit, I'm messing this up... just a second..." The khaki-clad man finished gasping, took a deep breath, straightened up and adjusted his collar. The sounds of feet and carriage-wheels on cobblestones, and chisels and hammers at work continued unabated around them. People paid the two men only passing curiosity.
The traveler had a sneaking suspicion he knew what was coming next. "Take your time, " he said.
"Thank you. Let me start over - My name is Palmer Mason. I'm a cybernetic engineer, and I represent a great man - Doctor Regal, of Coruscant. A situation the Doctor has been monitoring from his laboratory has been rapidly deteriorating. It affects every part of the Omniverse, so in order to organize a response team, he's been gathering information on potentially helpful Primes. After the assault on Darkshire, your name came up as a potential candidate."
Kelly nodded and made an interested noise, propping his staff across one shoulder. It wasn't surprising that people knew he'd been involved- he'd given his name at the gate, and to several other Primes, and he'd probably appeared on a casualty list somewhere. What was interesting was the fact that Doctor Regal had contacts and resources so far-reaching that the 'great man' was able to collect detailed personnel-data from all the 'verses simultaneously.
That was something the psychic wanted for himself.
"What's the nature of the threat?" he asked, recalling the information already gleaned from Alan Mayhew's inbox.
Palmer cleared his throat, glancing around until he found a likely-looking alleyway nestled between two damaged, shuttered storefronts, then hurried over and ducked inside, gesturing for Kelly to follow. When the scientist wasn't immediately snatched into the shadows by something awful, he did.
He doesn't want us to be seen talking about this. Whatever the organization Regal and his people are worried about is, it must have similar overwatch capabilities to Regal's own...
After the traveler had joined him, Palmer started to retrieve something from his shirt-pocket with his gauntleted hand, realized it was too big, and quickly switched, producing a small, sleek hand-held fob.
"The Doctor would have preferred to brief you himself," he said, "but time has gotten a little short." The scientist clicked a button, and a tiny holographic projection appeared between the two men. Kelly's eyes narrowed, glaring surgical sapphire fascination.
It was a computer chip - large, as such things went, and according to something deep in the psychic's brain which thought that computers should be made of monoatomic superconducting filaments and strange math running raw on quantum foam, a quaint technological artifact... but there was something about it. The colors were strange - a seemingly incomplete deep-purple casing allowed glimpses of a fibrous black interior. It was adorned with a row of brassy gold electrical contacts on one end, like a digital memory-card or circuit-board, and a sort of amber jewel was embedded deeply in its strata which suggested its workings had very little to do with anything as simple as transistor-based logic.
The steady, low-burning purple flame that danced and flickered around it was also highly suggestive.
Kelly frowned and rubbed the bridge of his nose. That dark-flame effect was giving him a headache, and his arm was itching again. Beyond the alleyway, the murmur of the street suddenly seemed unbearably loud. Unbidden, the image of the grinning harpy he'd seen while caught within the cascade of his fractured memories leapt into his mind.
"This," said Palmer, "is a Dark Chip."
Darkshire at mid-morning, several weeks after an important victory, was a very different place.
It was drizzling, but that was to be expected. The city's massed architecture of brick and masonry, and the occasional wooden home, which clustered so tightly and loomed so brooding in the dead of night, looked merely weathered in the light of day. The stones were worn, the bricks chipped and the plaster grayed, but the sheer enduring solidity of Darkshire's construction lent the city a quiet, reassuring dignity which even the subdued hustle of its people couldn't break - a gothic study in pre-industrial urbanism.
As the traveler headed for the city gates, he passed through loose crowds of citizens going about their lives. Some carried parcels of goods, some carried ledgers, some were soldiers, others drove carriages. Their clothing varied from the commonly plain pants-and-doublet or ruffled dress to the rarely extravagant waistcoat or ballgown, but all of it was well-worn and hand-made, and banker or baker, the people all had one thing in common. It was a quality Kelly valued in himself, but rarely saw in others; The people of Darkshire were all keenly, obviously aware of their surroundings. They peered into shadows, watched the rooftops, avoided walking too close to sewer-grates or alleyways with the natural ease of long practice.
Interesting - but not a mystery. Even when the city isn't under siege, for all practical purposes they live in a war zone.
While he walked, and watched the people, the psychic kept a playing-card-sized dataverse window open, transparent and hovering at a fixed distance in front of his left eye while he drafted a message to PepsiCo. In it, Kelly notified the Board that Alan Mayhew had finished his latest freelance contract (which he couldn't discuss as per the standard non-disclosure agreement) and was now free to pursue Doctor Regal's case (as forwarded by the junior VP of Operations for Coruscant). He also asked if they had any additional points of concern to the Company which he should be aware of during this undertaking.
I might be able to use this to further establish Alan Mayhew and Kelly MacAryn as separate people.... we'll see how it goes.
By the time the message was finished and sent, Kelly was in sight of the fortified gates through which he'd first come to this city so many weeks ago. Here, signs of the bygone assault still lingered - cracked, blackened streets and damaged buildings ringed by wooden scaffolding and busy workmen. Even the gatehouse where he'd spent the night when he first arrived was ruined, the tower smashed to pieces. The construction of a replacement was already more than halfway complete, the newer, less weathered stone contrasting with the older masonry of the wall proper.
The psychic strategist was just beginning to compose a second message, this one to Doctor Regal, when he heard the click and zip of hard-soled shoes running and slipping across the rain-slick cobblestones behind him. A voice called out, gasping from unaccustomed exertion:
"You there... Wait!"
Well. That was un-ambiguous.
Just shy of the city gates Kelly stopped and turned, shifting his grip on his quarterstaff very slightly as he closed the dataverse window, just in case. Hurrying towards him, dodging awkwardly among the denizens of Darkshire was a blond, fresh-faced young man in a khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, dockers and slacks. The clothes were travel-stained, and he had a lab-coat tied around his waist, flapping behind him as he ran.
There was a metal gauntlet on his left arm, similar in some ways to the traveler's wristcom, but larger, with a keypad and a more practical screen.
The man stumbled to a halt in front of Kelly, doubling over and gasping for breath while his quarry waited patiently, studying him.
Young, tallish, reasonably healthy. Skinny. Doesn't seem to be a Prime, and probably doesn't exercise much. The lab-coat is interesting. Combined with his physique, that probably makes him a medical doctor or a research scientist.
"Can I help you?" asked the psychic.
The runner straightened up, still breathing hard. "Kelly MacAryn?"
Kelly nodded, his face carefully impassive. "Yes. Again - can I help you? I'm positive we haven't met."
"You're right... but even so, yes. And not just me...the whole Omniverse is in danger... dangit, I'm messing this up... just a second..." The khaki-clad man finished gasping, took a deep breath, straightened up and adjusted his collar. The sounds of feet and carriage-wheels on cobblestones, and chisels and hammers at work continued unabated around them. People paid the two men only passing curiosity.
The traveler had a sneaking suspicion he knew what was coming next. "Take your time, " he said.
"Thank you. Let me start over - My name is Palmer Mason. I'm a cybernetic engineer, and I represent a great man - Doctor Regal, of Coruscant. A situation the Doctor has been monitoring from his laboratory has been rapidly deteriorating. It affects every part of the Omniverse, so in order to organize a response team, he's been gathering information on potentially helpful Primes. After the assault on Darkshire, your name came up as a potential candidate."
Kelly nodded and made an interested noise, propping his staff across one shoulder. It wasn't surprising that people knew he'd been involved- he'd given his name at the gate, and to several other Primes, and he'd probably appeared on a casualty list somewhere. What was interesting was the fact that Doctor Regal had contacts and resources so far-reaching that the 'great man' was able to collect detailed personnel-data from all the 'verses simultaneously.
That was something the psychic wanted for himself.
"What's the nature of the threat?" he asked, recalling the information already gleaned from Alan Mayhew's inbox.
Palmer cleared his throat, glancing around until he found a likely-looking alleyway nestled between two damaged, shuttered storefronts, then hurried over and ducked inside, gesturing for Kelly to follow. When the scientist wasn't immediately snatched into the shadows by something awful, he did.
He doesn't want us to be seen talking about this. Whatever the organization Regal and his people are worried about is, it must have similar overwatch capabilities to Regal's own...
After the traveler had joined him, Palmer started to retrieve something from his shirt-pocket with his gauntleted hand, realized it was too big, and quickly switched, producing a small, sleek hand-held fob.
"The Doctor would have preferred to brief you himself," he said, "but time has gotten a little short." The scientist clicked a button, and a tiny holographic projection appeared between the two men. Kelly's eyes narrowed, glaring surgical sapphire fascination.
It was a computer chip - large, as such things went, and according to something deep in the psychic's brain which thought that computers should be made of monoatomic superconducting filaments and strange math running raw on quantum foam, a quaint technological artifact... but there was something about it. The colors were strange - a seemingly incomplete deep-purple casing allowed glimpses of a fibrous black interior. It was adorned with a row of brassy gold electrical contacts on one end, like a digital memory-card or circuit-board, and a sort of amber jewel was embedded deeply in its strata which suggested its workings had very little to do with anything as simple as transistor-based logic.
The steady, low-burning purple flame that danced and flickered around it was also highly suggestive.
Kelly frowned and rubbed the bridge of his nose. That dark-flame effect was giving him a headache, and his arm was itching again. Beyond the alleyway, the murmur of the street suddenly seemed unbearably loud. Unbidden, the image of the grinning harpy he'd seen while caught within the cascade of his fractured memories leapt into his mind.
"This," said Palmer, "is a Dark Chip."