Scene #8487:

Owner	Pose
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	<B-anter> Dysnomia says, "...What was everyone's worlds even like? Are you all from Earths?" <B-anter> Phreak says, "Rubi-Ka. Two suns. Huge desert planet being terraformed and fought over." It is midday on the frequently embattled desert planet. Two suns hang overhead, one larger and red, the other smaller and blue. Newland City is, geographically, located in one of the more arid regions of the planet. It is laid out, flat, occupying a sparse stretch of greenery, with the east end pressed against a steep, rocky cliff, and the west nearly flush with a massive lake several times the size of the city. Apart from the greenery that rims the city and the lake, there is little in the way of plant life for mile out, save hardy desert shrubs, alien cacti, and such like. Sturdy prefab walls encircle a highly walkable city, which seems to put emphasis first on pedestrians, next on aircraft (many of the brown-grey buildings sport landing pads and comm antennae with beacons to pierce sandstorms and the odd rains), and lastly, nearly as an afterthought, to ground vehicles, with roads for them winding around the perimeter so as not to make a hostile environment for pedestrians. The entrance to the scrapyard sits on the end of a tunnel bored through the eastern cliff, which runs clear through to the other side, into a wide open space. Heaps of old robots, clunker vehicles, stripped weapons and burnt out computers are organized and sorted through by skeletal, dull brown droids that warble seeming gibberish, while bulkier robots with shoulder-mounted engines carry and rake through the heavier bits with long, specialized claws. Smaller detritus is scooped up by vaguely insectoid drones which collect it and load it into mounted spherical compactors. Phreak is hard to miss. A svelte grey-skinned space elf, for lack of a better word, symmetrical black tattoos resembling circuit boards running down either side of his face, is leaned up against a light pole, in an outlandish far future outfit. Red crop top with a horizontal keyhole window, star-print black tights and combat boots, matched off with wraparound mirrorshades and, in seeming defiance of the climate, a black leather longcoat with a popped collar and sleeves pushed up to the elbows. He gives an informal two-finger salute.
Dysnomia	The red sun overhead is a comfort, in a way. Closer to the warm orange of her home star, enough that she could forgive its crimson glare. She slips through the atmosphere like one might past a silk veil, cutting into the gravity well in a line across the sky. She spotted the Newland city on her descent, then pulled away from it. Away from the city's various landing pads and and shelters for aircraft, and into the desert. Her great wings unfurled and beat as she pulled out of her dive, killing her momentum, then, touched down, her claws crunching the earth beneath them, dust spreading around her from all angles. Her great serpentine body distorted, shrank on itself with a cracking sound, until it became the shadow of a girl seen through the kicked up dust pushed upright. Newland City Scrapyard Dysnomia came at a steady, unhurried walk. She could have been here earlier, if she'd used one of the many landing pads. She could have been here even sooner, if she'd just flown directly here. But she did not, instead coming at a walk. In sharp contrast to the futuristic look of Phreak's outfit, Dysnomia was wearing a black simple black hoodie (stolen), as well as a pair of jeans. (Same) She held a black bundle at her side. But while her outfit could have belonged on any earth, the rest of her definitely set her apart. Her eyes burned little like little orange stars, and her silver-blue hair was pulled back in a tail behind her. Pupilless eyes snapped to the space-elf, sizing him up, her expression terse, before she began her approach. "You Phreak, then?" She asked, blunt as a bludgeon.
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	"Yep," says Phreak. "Dysnomia?" he waits a moment, to confirm, before he pushes off of the lighting pole and gestures to the bundle in her hand. "What do we got, here?" he asks, reaching up with his free hand to remove his shades. Golden eyes flick curiously down towards it, then back up to meet hers. He folds the shades--though rather than stuff them into a pocket, he simply waits as they are disintegrated by an encroaching sky-blue wave that travels across the surface of the frame. "C'mon," he says, motioning with a nod of his head, towards a paved pavillion walled off with a waist-high barrier. It's a break area for the workers who maintain the robots, and it's empty. Sturdy, utilitarian metal chairs and benches overlook the heaps of scrap, as well as a retention pond that seems to have attracted several salamanders the size of an average Earth dog. Phreak sits down at one of the tables, patting its surface with the flat of his palm. The other hand extended over the weather-resistant surface, he calls forth a closed toolkit from the same place he banished those shades to.
Dysnomia	"...It's called a Holocephali Exploration Suit. Not like that means much...AEgir doesn't have contact with the rest of the multiverse yet, and this is a custom job, anyway." She cratched at her side, unfamiliar to the way these clothes felt on her. "Comlink integration, telekinetic array, subspace storage...Basic stuff." She slipped inside and looked around, grunting with something like approval. She laid out the suit in front of him on the table, slipping into a chair. It was a sleak, dark thing; clearly not meant to provide its wearer combat armor. The nanofiliments were finely made from exotic materials, and it was easy to spot what Dysnomia mentioned. Lines were drawn across the palms of it, dimly glowing in the industrial building, where it interfaced with her hands. Pouches that opened into broader spaces. On a whole, It was flexible and perfectly sized, and the collar... "This is the psychc interface, I'm pretty sure." She tapped at the collar of the suit. It was one of the more solid pieces. In its front, there was a symbol of a half-shaded sphere, orbited by nine circles. "It's been trying to shut down more and more. A couple times, I've opened coms and got errors saying I need to go...back. I don't know how long it'll be until it won't do anything but try to point me home anymore." Her mouth made a thin, hard line. "And that's not happening. So."
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	Phreak nods along with the explanation. The particular name is unfamiliar to him, as she might expect, but 'basic stuff' isn't--not even 'telekinetic array.' He opens his toolkit. Mixed in with simple tools like a screwdriver, soldering iron, and lockpicks, there are other, more specialized things, packed into the soft, insulated foam. Among other things: a handheld computer in two parts, what looks like a contact microphone, and a faintly glowing cylinder of indeterminate use. "Makes sense," says Phreak, nodding, brow furrowed as his golden eyes fizx briefly on the collar. "About the psychic interface, I mean. Closer proximity to your brain. And whatever the fuck vertebrae are right here," he says, running his index along the back of his neck. "Problems at home, huh." It's uttered conversationally, in that way that some professionals will, while they work. With him, it sounds like he has some experience with that. Phreak reaches into the toolbox and procures that cylinder, his thumb sliding onto a button on its surface. It emits a gentle whine, sonic vibrations directed at the collar. This tool then, must be one to use when there's time, and no worry of getting caught--its purpose seems to be discerning through vibration where the access point for a given piece is. From there, he'll use either the screwdriver, make use of a file as a tiny little crowbar to pop it open, or, otherwise, find the right setting on that cylinder of his to simply shake it open without damaging the inside. "Used to be a heavy hitter for somebody?" he asks, once he's got the collar open.
Dysnomia	Dysnomia looks, with professional interest, at the varied pieces as he draws them out. "I'm not used to this kind of fine work." She said, as though to excuse her reliance on him. "I'm more familiar with engines, oxygen cyclers, transmitters...Careful. They've probably tried to set safeguards." "Problems at home, huh." Dysnomia snorted at the sheer scale of the understatement. "...I guess you could say that. I'm in no hurry to go back. I guess I'd hope that they don't want me back either, but...Well." Even this amount of vulnerability grated against her so much, but clenched her fists. Forged onward. What other choice did she have...? Not suprisingly, the collar isn't easy to pop open. Like a thousand thousand devices before it, it's made for propretiary tools, deliberately finicky and obtuse. It sent a message to anyone intent of pulling out the guts of the device and understanding them, or rearranging them, of suiting them to their own purposes. It said, in that language of planned obsolencence; 'don't. You don't know what you're doing. You don't belong here. She needs only me.' But his expertise wins the day. It pops open, revealing the psychic reciever, connected to the circuitry of the suit itself. More than that, he found what could only be a...Tracking beacon? Luckily, not with multiversal range, at least, but still clearly going. A chime sounded from the suit's wrist-screen, which chirped out an alarm, then chirped. A cheerful woman's voice in a transatlantic accent began to play. "Mark VI 'Holocephali' Exploration Suit function core compromised; WARNING: The punishment for willful modification to Nine Moons property is: [DISHONORABLE DISCHARGE] and [EXECUTION]. Please report to your maintence crew [IMMEDIATELY] for repairs and reprimand." "I guess I was a heavy hitter, sort of." The honesty grated. But if she was using him, she couldn't afford to put him off. "I did a lot of work that was too dangerous, for most people...That they just couldn't do at all." "You'd think they'd appreciate that."
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	I'm more familiar with engines, oxygen cyclers, transmitters...Careful. They've probably tried to set safeguards. "Oh, they would have," he says, probably speaking from experience. "Anything that's got something like this," he says, pausing in his work, gesturing with an index to the logo and clicking his tongue, "Something that means shit, besides 'buy our shit,' yeah." Sometimes, even the logos that just mean 'buy our shit' have countermeasures. "Perfect example," he says, pointing to a port that's clearly meant to take a specialized tool, which he subverts with a practiced flicking of a locksmith's probe, instead. "This is for some dickweed at a ~workstation,~ who's gotta bring his ~tools~ back to the ~quartermaster.~ It's not all alarm bells and inkbombs." With a grunt, he pops the collar open. Please report to your maintence crew IMMEDIATELY for repairs and immediate reprimand. "And here they say opifex don't have good psychic potential," he says, looking disdainfully down at the wrist screen as it pops out, before muttering a few 'yeah yeah yeahs' and reaching for that handheld computer. The two parts are a user interface console, and some sort of contact meant to facilitate communications between the computer and the other device. A conductive nanopaste glistens in sunlight filtered through the windows of the break room, before the contact is stuck to the innards of the collar. Diagnostic text scrolls rapidly past the computer screen, his golden eyes well accustomed to racing across it. Grey thumbs race across a tiny keyboard. The beacon can wait--especially now that he knows what it is. A splash screen briefly appears for some sort of software, detailing a grinning cartoon prisoner flying off in a fanciful depiction of one of the flying transports that occasionally pass overhead outside. Looks like he's connecting to the suit's OS and trying to suss out its security software by running comparisons against a fairly substantial database of cracked programs, sourced from several planets. It's tedious, but necessary. ..I guess you could say that. I'm in no hurry to go back. I guess I'd hope that they don't want me back either, but...Well. "They don't," he says. Again, sounds like he's speaking from experience. "What they want is to make an example out of the one with a brain. To punish you, or 'forgive' you. So they can say 'this is what happens when you fuck with us,' or 'look how much we care.' Either way, it's not about you at all, and everything to do with answering the question in people's heads, that forms just by you bein' around again." While his software does its thing, he listens, nodding along. I did a lot of work that was too dangerous, for most people...That they just couldn't do at all. You'd think they'd appreciate that. "EHH." He makes a wrong-buzzer noise, then chuckles bitterly. "Wrongo. That's how they get you. But you probably knew that already. I used to do this, you know, for some people that are big shit on this planet. B&E. Computer-touchin'. Pickups, deliveries, 'rerouting packages.' Blackmail. And my share of 'dangerous work.' Let me guess what yours got you--a pat on the back and more work."
Dysnomia	"They'd rather burn it to the ground, rather than let someone else have something. Anything." She scowled. "If it's not theirs, it doesn't deserve to exist." It seems the Nine Moons really was isolated from the multiverse. It becomes clear as the diagnostic continues that the OS really is a entirely closed system; the the similarities Phreak finds are convergent. It almost seems like a lost cause...Until his scans come across the computer's own memory, and how it has inteprets other tech it's connected with in the multiverse. The process is slow and haphazard, like trying to learn a language using a translator only meant to work the other way 'round. But now that it'd found ground, it was making up for lost time fast. But was that fast enough? The collar was growing warm on the table...Then hot? Very hot. Not enough to do harm to Phreak or Dysnomia, but quite possibly hot enough to burn out the suit's processors in short order and turn its central system into a very expensive brick. Another countermeasure? To break the system's safeguards and break it upon itself? Regardless, there wasn't much time to act. The coolent systems could be reactived, the circuit could be cut manually, or the suit's computer shut down altogether...But, it had to be dealt with somehow, before it was too late. "They don't...So they can say 'this is what happens when you fuck with us,' or 'look how much we care.' Either way, it's not about you at all..." "I KNOW!" Dysnomia snapped, then, looking at her hands, unclenched her fists, taking a deep breath. "I know, okay? They don't care about me. They care about what I represent. What I can DO for them. What they can learn from me." The words came slowly, painfully, like each one was a gouge ripped into her back. "Only an idiot would think they cared."
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	If it's not theirs it doesn't deserve to exist. Phreak nods. "Same shit, different day." He pushes a breath through his lips as he watches that very ideology displayed before him, playing out in the obstinate way the suit's OS was built. He sniffs the air, briefly, a familiar and grave smell coming to him--hot circuitry. "Fuck me running, you kidding?" Phreak is actually pretty damn fast. His grey hand is a blur, moving quickly enough to hear the air audibly whip as he reaches for a pair of wirecutters. A simple solution is often the best--especially since this means less irons in the fire. A pair of insulated gloves materialize around his hands, as he carefully isolates the offending circuit, using the strange cylinder of his in one hand to search for the source of the current. With the other, he snips the wire, quickly and cleanly. "Goddamn giamokes." He utters a sigh of relief, looking up from his work. Only an idiot would think they cared. "It ain't wrong to want them to. But you're out now," he says. "Easier to find something real when you're not surrounded by bullshit." He checks the handheld computer for signs of its progress cracking the OS and uninstalling the security programs--then, if and only if it's finished, he works on removing the tracking beacon with gentle leverage, using a pair of pliers and the wirecutters from before in tandem.
Dysnomia	"...I guess Hibiki was right." Dysnomia admitted, her body relaxing as she watched the problem start and stop within a couple breathes, as the smell of hot metal gradually receded.. "You really know what you're doing." "L-L-Lieutenant Ectorius requests your presence on the...Good Mor-r-r-rning!" Self-destruction thwarted, the computer's voice distorted and warped. The beacon pinged repeatedly, the suit using its systems to try to make a distress call...To no avail. Crying alone into the dark. "Easier to find something real..." "Who knows what's 'real,' anyway." Dysnomia spat. "I'll settle for being free. I'm sick of trying to be their good little girl, playing by all their rules, going along with everything...when...It was never going to work. It wasn't even an option. They all say, if you just play along for long enough, if you just do everything right, you'll get your chance. They'll look at you. But no." "H-H-Happy Birthday off-f-f-f-fffff--Remember; the Nine Moons are nothing without you, and you are nothing without th--You have [Zero] messages waiting! Urgent! Urgent--" "I'm done being 'good.' For anyone. Playing their games. All just to hope someone will acknowledge me." There was a dejected chime from the suit's viewscreen, as the OS finally began to fold completely under the pressure. It feebly protested with a garbled threat as Phyreak pulled the beacon from its circuitry. "...How's it going."
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	You really know what you're doing. Phreak swells with pride, ever so slightly. A little too much to say 'thanks,' but he appreciated it, clearly. I'm done being 'good.' For anyone. Playing their games. All just to hope someone will look at me. "Good for you--and I don't mean that in the dickhead way people usually say that. Free is a goddamn good start. But I wish you the best, paisan. I really do." He smashes the beacon, as a matter of course, with his fist. 'Barking up the wrong tree.' "Almost done," he says, returning his attention to the handheld computer. "Just stripping out all the nagware shit. 'Do this, do that, talk to General Jabroni,' you know. Nobody needs that crap from a suit of armor." Filenames disappear, deleted one by one as his thumbs navigate the buttons on the computer. When the last one is gone, he pops the collar back on and solders it properly closed, for lack of the proper, proprietary tool. "And there you go," he says. "Watch rate, or a round of drinks sometime. Your choice."
Dysnomia	"This place reminds me more of home than Earth does, you know. Though, I guess the breathable atmosphere is a pretty marked improvement..."What Phreak finds in Dysnomia's suit is a disgusting trespass of human privacy. Months of detailed biometric data collected by the suit, ready and waiting to be downloaded back into the mainframe once she wandered back into range. A plan ultimately rendered null, now, as they filtered down the digital drain along with all of the other mandated malware. "They scheduled everything, you know." Dysnomia said, feeling a little more talkative now, with that weight off her shoulders."When you wake up in the morning, curfew, recreational hours, meals, training, surgery...All on the clock. Whatever the Admirality said." "Watch rate, or a round of drinks sometime. Your choice." "I guess some drinks wouldn't be awful," she probably had enough for that, right? She wasn't really sure. But whatever the Watch rate was, she probably couldn't afford that. Phreak's junkyard was certainly more profitable than hers...And anyway... "...You're not too bad."
Rubi-Kan Vagrants	This place reminds me more of home than Earth does, you know. Though, I guess the breathable atmosphere is a pretty marked improvement... Phreak rolls his shoulders in a shrug, lips pulled into a tight frown equal parts concentration and disgust for the invasive software on the suit. "Eight hundred years of terrarforming'll do that. There's good and bad," he says. "Newland's probably one of the better places to live. That's what happens when the people in charge treat it like a job, and not..." He deletes another biometric tracker. "I dunno. Heaven. The finish line. The gravy train. There's no fuck-you-got-mine here and no means testing. It's lasted," he says, finishing up and closing the computer. "So far, anyway." They scheduled everything, you know. When you wake up in the morning, curfew, recreational hours, meals, training, surgery...All on the clock. Whatever the Admirality said. "Christ," he says, shaking his head as he puts the last of his tools into the little matching foam cutout in the carrying case. "In that case, you really wanna stay away from Omni-Tek cities. Omni-1. Galway. 'Rome.'" He rolls his golden eyes with obvious contempt for the attempt to hearken back to an impossibly long-dead and famously militaristic empire, as the toolbox is disassembled and stored away by the swarm of nanites around him. "Everybody in those cities that's not a Neut is one of their 'employees,' and they eat that asking-for-permission-to-die shit up. Mapsofts show their shit as blue on the Whom-Pahs--public teleport routes. Anything else but OT, I think you won't hate too too much." I guess some drinks wouldn't be too bad. He nods, index curled and pressed to his thumb in the classic 'sounds great' gesture, clicking his tongue approvingly. You're not too bad. Phreak stands up from the breakroom table, making a pair of fingerguns at Dysnomia and giving her a small smile. "Back at you, chief," he says. "Looking forward to those drinks--and working with you." His fingers race across an AR keyboard, invisible in the air but reflected fainly in tiny reverse on his golden irises. Illegible command lines race up the surface of his eyes, before--"Catch ya later." His body is digitized, in the blink of an eye, replaced by a blue, polygonal wireframe silhouette. This, too, vanishes, as if a graphical asset were deleted to save memory, heralded only by the a low, artificial 'growl' that steadily rises in pitch from a bass to a tenor, before cutting out entirely.