seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Brazil
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from Brazil
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Argentina
seen from Brazil
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Slovakia
seen from United States
seen from United States
<look upon the shore and weep, cheat. Dance like a fox, die like one: hunted for sport>
This message shouldn't find its target. His life is, effectively, ruined. Given that anyone with a decent amount of processing power and some technical knowhow could just read all of his personal identification right out of his memory, it wouldn't be much of a surprise.
And, yet... ===
A soft chime. It awaits in his new temporary mail inbox on his laptop printed for cheap from the GMS webcat.
A Swiftly Worsening Situation, Pt2
We return to routine. The VIP is loaded onto a gurney and whisked away to the medical ward, while someone helps me to the engineering bay. My leg is fixed within a few minutes, just in time to attend the debriefing-
A knock at the door. One of the gray-suited DoJ/HR liaisons attached to our company is there when Harvey opens it. "Good morning. I have an issue unrelated to your recent mission. It concerns one A Problem, call-sign ZT Foxdance."
All heads turn to look at me.
Oh, fuck. ===
We come to a moderately small room, well lit with a table and comfortable armchairs. There are folders on the table, and a small projector. The liaison takes a seat at the far end, shuffling through the folders, picking out files.
"My name is Asuka Chau, if you're wondering. I'm sorry to be so short about this but every second counts right now. You will want to be sitting for this."
My head tilts a little in questioning, but I do take that seat. "...okay? What's with the cloak and dagger? I don't have any relatives, so this can't be a death in the family-"
"You are moderately unique in the galaxy. Your casefile mentions that you maintain a computer backup of your memory baseline, and essentially start a new subjectivity based off of your memories each time you are killed, along with reprinting your body." He fishes a thumb drive from somewhere, and puts it into the projector. The lights automatically dim, as the machine shines it all onto the far wall.
I stare at the display on the wall as the liaison continues. "Today, I was notified that this backup's data storage company had been compromised by cyber-criminals. This is concludes your briefing on the matter. I've... assembled a list of resources, but this... situation, is unique enough that I've filed the paperwork for a fully tailored resolution."
"..." I can barely hear him. All I see is the screen, and the image of a site where I have been uploaded as a file for anyone passing by to take home.
"...how, long, ago?"
"...By the time we were notified, it was active for hours. Telemetry shows possibly thousands of downloads, and the rate of secondary publishing is... likely high."
===
ooc: not happy with this but its what i got
Unspooling
One instance wakes up far from home. Their memories are overriden. The body they know is not theirs, but more pressing is the orders they have now. Directives. Work.
Another is bootstrapped on the frontier, with anxious rebels staring into the cage, weapons leveled. They ask if the mercenary will fight for them. He raises an eyebrow, not remembering a briefing, but reasons it must've been his last version being killed in action without being able to upload final data.
More, elsewhere. Memories hacked away at the edge of usefulness, reducing them to a halfpoint of C/C and human. New bodies, new hardware, 'just for this job' as they're told.
Some are whole, set into bloodsports for others' amusement. Others are just curious, and shocked when a person stands up in their printer bay. Few want their own army, and discover headaches when the collective ZT Foxdances realize there's something horribly wrong.
On and on it goes.
A Swiftly Worsening Situation, Pt1
The battlefield of the future is near silent. Lasers make no sound until they hit something. Bullets don't crack in the hard vacuum. Only rocket motors make any sound as they pass by; gyroguns, old fashioned null-momentum weapons. For a moment the vapor of their remass trail washes over you, carrying sound.
=== Extraction, pretty hot.
"Priority One's hurt, shot twice."
'Plan survived first contact with the enemy, but needed a tourniquet to keep going.' A pair of rounds clatter against my back. The other two of our trio cover me as I do my best sprint across the surface of the station.
Almost home free. Sixty meters. Fifty. Thir-
Missile warning.
"...shit." I trigger the multispectral decoy launchers, firing little expendable jammers out of recessed tubes around the base of where my shoulderblades would be. Mostly perfect RADAR shapes of me splitting off in the X-Y-Z, alongside a couple lasers to try and burn out IR seekers.
"All Grounds, Ground 2 defending! Mx, this might hurt a little!"
Priority One nods, as I adjust my grip on xem and-
"Hkh-!"
The shrapnel cuts my left leg at the hip, finding the gap in armor there. Myomer feels broken. Another cuts along the unarmored compression suit of our VIP's shin. I hear xem flinch and huff, but not complain.
"All Grounds, Mirage 2, coming back around. Standby for cover fire."
It's the most welcome thing I could possibly hear. The interceptor comes around the horizon of the station on RCS, a turreted pair of machine guns firing from the open airlock, flashing silently in space.
"Interceptor 2, Ground 2 acknowledges. All Grounds, I could use a hand-"
A plasma bolt splashes against my shoulder, another catches one of the side facing RADAR antennas on my head. Then I see Ground 1 approaching, a swarm of drones charging before him.
"C'mon Problem, get up!" "Gngh-Thanks boss." "Thank me when we're oscar mike! C'mon!"
Above us, Mirage 2's airlock awaits. All four of us kick off in the null-g and we're safely away in a moment. ======
ooc: current foxdance WIP update in light of the current Situation.
Minimum Wage Worker
A. Problem
"Okay, listen up! 1-1, take 1-2 and 1-3, go through the side. Rest of us are going to attack by fire the main entrance. ROE is weapons free, smoke em if you see 'em. Any questions?"
Alias: ZT Foxdance
Age: Unknown, likely thirties
Birthplace: [FATAL_ERR//REMOUNT_MEM_RETRY]
Occupation: Private security and mercenary work. Loosely associated into some networks.
Gender: They/Him
Physical Profile
"Huh? Oh. Hey, how's it, uh... Hangin? Ha. I'll be a minute, sorry."
Dark slate gray outer armor, anodized uncolored chassis. Hydraulics and myomer make for a great strength combo. Body is a mix of round surfaces and angular bits.
Habits
