TEST DRIVE MEME #1

[space_aces]

WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD

Your journey only happened because of your benefactor, so it begets that it starts at your benefactor as well. SUPERBIA, which is as much of a location as it is an entity, is where everyone's search for Fortuna begins.

There's not much of a welcome party: shortly after their fateful encounter with SUPERBIA, in which they swore to join the quest to find Fortuna, the new Privateers will find themselves afflicted by a sudden change in perspective. See, teleportation is a tricky process, so from SUPERBIA's point of view, why not make the target destination none other than itself? One highly disconcerting moment later, and the Privateers find themselves inside the belly of the beast.

The vast mega-structure is shockingly lonely, void of anyone other than the Privateers. Those who look off the metal satellite and to The Network for intelligence (or take a skim at the Space Wikipedia article) will find out that the surrounding space is clear for lightyears; rumors have it that the place is cursed. It won't take long to understand why.

1

Overclocked

The innards of SUPERBIA are that of an impossibly scaled up computer, and the Privateers start right in the middle of it. You are the spider living in the dusty PS4. Literal rivers of coolant, transistors the size of mountains, landscapes made entirely of circuitry. The sky, bounded by a distant metal ceiling, is constantly alight with coursing electricity that cracks the sky with lightning storms. It can be assumed that the Privateers are the first living things to set foot here, because such a place is not ever meant to be traversed by delicate, organic, mortals that worry about things such as "temperature" or "voltage". SUPERBIA needs not lifeforms to continue its operations; why design for them? Traversal itself is difficult: unscalable walls and perilous drops are common to encounter. The only company the Privateers will find are oddly adorable maintenance robots, which sadly seem too occupied by their directives of maintaining the massive machine to offer any assistance (or even acknowledgement of their new guests).

It is immediately clear that the most urgent priority is to get the hell out of here. Before your adventure ends at the starting line.

2

Skeletons In The Closet

If one stays inside SUPERBIA, either by getting horribly lost or losing all common sense, one will notice a peculiar pattern emerge as one gets deeper into the bowels of the mega-structure. Passages shrink and become more level, and the incredible hostility and danger of the surroundings fade away, until one comes across areas which were definitely intended for humanoid organisms to use at one point.

The construction of these areas is cramped, unfurnished, and dreary; they are reminiscent of artificial environments meant to handle harsh external conditions like a submarine or bunker, but they are entirely livable. One can eventually find distinct rooms, but everything in them has crumbled to dust and their original purpose is nigh impossible to discern. Deeper investigation may reveal the few items that have stood the test of time. While it is more plausible for life to have existed here, that doesn't seem to be the case now. What happened here?

3

The Shipyard

In the opposite direction, when one finally reaches the outer edges of SUPERBIA, they will be rewarded with the place to pick up a spaceship and a stunningly beautiful view of outer space. The outside of SUPERBIA has no atmosphere to get between you and the stars, and they shine brightly, like a beacon calling one out into the first steps of adventure.

The shipyard is already filled with countless space ships of every size, form, and function, all autonomously constructed by SUPERBIA's factories over the countless years. What's the harm in taking one or twenty out for a spin? Even if one has no intentions of permanent ownership of the vehicle, it's not like SUPERBIA will miss it. For a Privateer with a more specific vision, however, there are kiosks around the yard which will allow one to design their very own space ship down to their exact specifications. When the process is done SUPERBIA's matter printers will have it out and space-ready right before your very eyes.

If a Privateer has a ship, vehicle, or large item that they intended to bring with them, they will also find them here, neatly parked in the Shipyard. Why didn't SUPERBIA extend this courtesy to the pilot's themselves? The answer is revealed as soon as the owner makes a closer inspection: the inner contents have been rearranged, like a whirlwind was unleashed inside and assorted loose items thrown around. Now aren't you glad your transportation was given special attention, and the same didn't happen to your innards?

4

Hot Crewmates in Your Area

But how will a single Privateer man an entire space ship? No worries: when one steps into a ship, the strangely endearing maintenance robots will suddenly take acute interest. The robots will follow inside and immediately start assuming the duties of a spacefarer, eliminating the need for extra hands on deck.

Even still, there's just no eliminating the want for a human touch, though. Thankfully even that dilemma has a contingency plotted by SUPERBIA.

Communication devices are easily available on every space ship. They come in all shapes and sizes, ranging from huge stationary consoles to portable smartphone-like screens. But whenever a Privateer attempts to access the Network, a pop-up will appear, obscuring the whole screen.

Tell me a little about yourself. Are you a LEADER or a FOLLOWER? What is your best feature?
The device will be rendered unusable until one relents to the pop-up's demands and provides answers to its questions. What will these be used for? The mystery will be solved when a social media app mysteriously installs itself on the same device, with profiles preemptively made for every Privateer. Each Privateer's profile consists of their given answers, paired with embarrassingly candid photographs. SUPERBIA has eyes in many places it seems.

Comments

john constantine | dc comics / vertigo.

[strewth]

a. OVERCLOCKED.

You might here a wheezing cough-- the sound of over forty years of chain smoking, now running full tilt. A man, six foot nothing, trench coated, is trying to avoid some lava-like substance spilling over a fuselage wayport riverbath fuck if he knows. John is running, speed owing more to long legs than general health.

"Bugger off!" may sound more like burgov or any assembled oath, John essentially pushing whoever is in the way, out of the way. It's a team building exercise in narcissism; catch yourself.

b. SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET.

Looks a bit like fuckall good's happened here. You know the feeling you get when a room's had murder done in it? Not quite like that, but a cousin of a cousin. Something happened here.

John'd scry for it, if he could be arsed.

He's got a lit cigarette between his lips, and is speaking through it to study a series of smudges on the wall. "Modern art, ey?" Hehh, heh heh, his laugh is the an atrocious wheeze of a lifetime smoker

Then, to no one, or you, or maybe just himself, "reminds me of Crete."

c. THE SHIPYARD.

John ignores the stunning view, straight off. That's not what he's here for. Now-- spaceships. That's something.

Up until very fucking recently, John has lived a largely analog life. This whole hi-tech future suits his general refusal to die, but he hasn't exactly put in the hours to gain a base understanding, much less something more complex. Luckily, he's conversant in wealth and style. The ships can, at least, be organized this way.

Too large, too flashy? Ostentatious, making yourself a target. Too small, too dull? Suspicious in their lack of flash.

"Now," he says, to no one in particular, "you'll be wanting something that says the right things, innit."

John, a trenchcoat-wearing scarecrow, coughing out his lungs between huffs of a cigarette, points to a ship that looks like a soda can, crunched in some places, with fading colors. "Classic, that is."

d. NETWORK.

He's used to having a phone that does what he tells it, which gave him the sense he knew phones. 'Kinell.

Tell me a little about yourself.
shant. you lot hired me i reckon me cv is up to snuff

Are you a LEADER or a FOLLOWER?
careful now i burned a copy of how to make friends and influence people for starting that line of talk

What is your best feature?
me winning personality

e. WILDCARD.

[do whatever man im down.]

c.

[jumpedship]

There is just... so much to take in...

The view, the lights, the sights, the sounds, the smell of unfamiliar smoke in the air, the lilt of an accent from a place farther than the Riverlands. In an ideal world, Laenor would have the good sense not to simply stare, but there's a lot to work out. Is he common-born, with his flat coat and lifeless sense of fashion? Is he foreign, smoking something from a tiny tube rather than a pipe?

"You're certain? That steel beast in particular is best for sailing the skies?"

As if Laenor has anything to compare it to. If this guy says so, who is Laenor to say he's wrong?

[strewth]

One can be common and foreign, though considering recent developments in John's siren city being nailed the fuck home, he's only the former according to some undead cunts with a fetish for letter writing like its 1933. On the other hand, John's finely tuned sensory apparatus, pinpointed to tell him the sort of people that surround him, reports back: This other bloke is posh.

"No expert on steel, me," he says, a bit of sarcasm winding between drags on his cig, "but I reckon it ain't about best."

[jumpedship]

"What, then, will it take to succeed?"

It's always been about the best. The best garments, the finest wines, the fastest horses, the strongest Velaryon steel... why shouldn't that apply here?

[strewth]

"C'mon, now," John says, letting his cigarette linger an entire four inches from his face. He makes a gesture with his hands, expansive, vague, generally useless. "I ain't here as an instructor. Only one twat gets the prize; think, lad."

John, in a rare moment of following his own advice, thinks.

"How'd you go about it?"

[jumpedship]

Gods, this man is vulgar. Laenor thinks he appreciates it.

"If you're asking my true opinion, I can't say I believe there's a prize at all." He pauses, considering. This man seems the cynical sort. "One 'Ultimate Treasure' that promises to make all one's dreams come true? If such a thing existed, no Lord in their right mind would sire teams where he could send his own men instead."

[strewth]

People have some of the worst taste imaginable. Look at all the poor bastards who find John charming. He's a skinny, haggard thing, but his smile is sharp enough to cut right into a man's heart... or wallet, depending on the day.

John lets out a low hum, just underneath a laugh in tone. Hehhh. "Then why're you here?"

[jumpedship]

That's Laenor. Laenor is 'poor bastards'.

"Adventure, I'd imagine." Which is to say he's not entirely certain, even if he is. "A break from the monotony of live in King's Landing. A search for a land where I'm able to be free. I cannot, in truth, say I'd ever come to believe I might find such freedom upon a star some odd billions of leagues away... And you? You search for wealth alone?"

[strewth]

John takes a long drag of his cigarette, which stands guard before watery blue eyes giving this bloke the once-over. Something, some snatch of memory or intuition, is biting at the back of his memory. What is it, what is it- oh.

No, he never did give it a half-second's reconsideration, whether there'd be posh twats in space.

A grin, nicotine-stained. "So you're on holiday?"

(Was John asked a question? Pardon him; must've missed it.)

[jumpedship]

"Something like it."

They way he'd planned it, he'd sail the world for as long as he feels the need to, maybe a year or less, and then he'd return to his home, to Rhaenyra, to his family. Between now and then, he'd do as he liked. If he finds treasure, he'd be glad to share it. If he finds nothing, well, at least he had fun along the way.

How is that any different from a holiday?

"If you'll pardon me for asking, what are you smoking? It's no scent of poppy I'm familiar with."

[strewth]

"Right, right. Friends you made along the way." There is something like a spring tensed in John's heart against the rich; he may have lived too many lyrics from a Pulp single in his wild youth. Or maybe he's just an arse.

"Tobacco, mate. I'd give you a try, but I'm not so sure where I'll get me next pack out in the wild black yonder."

God forbid space only has Marlboros.

[jumpedship]

"Can't your maesters grow it on your behalf?"

Laenor probably isn't doing much to help that impression with his ignorance of anything that isn't pertinent to the politics of the Seven Kingdoms.

[strewth]

John spreads his hands. "I look like I got meisters?"

Whatever the fuck that is, John would like to find out in the delicate game of not asking, or letting on that he doesn't know. This is how normal, functional people comport themselves while sober.

[jumpedship]

"But for course."

Does John needs a drink? Is that what this is about?

"Friends, then. Surely you have friends."

Friends who grow tobacco together stay together.

b

[thefifthchild]

[The fifth Robin was hunched over, scanning the empty room for the slightest trace of evidence when he's very suddenly interrupted. He startles, but only so much that he himself would notice it. He'd like to think he's harder to sneak up on than that, especially by someone who reeks of an ashtray, dark magic and stale liquor.

Damian... glances back at the voice, his eyes narrowing. It's not one he knows well, they've had very little dealings, though it's one he can recognize all the same as one of his father's very occasional colleagues. He's not entirely sure how to feel about that, so he settles for suspicion.]

Constantine.

[strewth]

[It takes John longer to recognize the little bastard. One of them American child soldiers-- superheroes, sidekicks, whatever.]

You're one of them birds. [He points like an old man, older than the skin he wears.] You lot all look like a swarm of poofs in that getup, but I shan't judge, now.

[thefifthchild]

[Somehow, his eyes narrow even further. He's a little offended at the fact that he isn't remembered any more specifically than that, but he chalks it up to the fact that he's more diligent in his work than this so-called detective.

More than that, he scowls at the word poof being used disparagingly. Time to be an ally!!]

Homophobia doesn't suit you, old man.

[His best friend is gay or bi or... something, they don't talk as much anymore, and his least favorite brother too. He won't have it. Apparently he missed that Constantine is also famously very queer. Somehow it didn't come up while he was reading the Justice League's extremely secret files and listening in on his father's phone calls.]

I don't suppose you have any plans to be useful? I don't exactly have the tools necessary to carry out a paranormal investigation myself.

[strewth]

[John invariably contains multitudes, and at the moment, most of those multitudes are directed at insulting children.]

What're you, seven? I couldn't pronounce homophobia at seven, which was all well and good, since it wasn't a word, then. Just called it being a cunt.

[He smokes his cigarette, fails to make eye contact with the child, and scans the area. Most of his attention is focused on his own rambling commentary, unheeded by whether or not anyone is listening.] Never saw the point of this ally business, anyroad; all it does is bicker and bicker and get folk into the wrong discos. If you ain't storming parliament, I haven't the time for dialog. Which brings me to use, lad, I'm plenty useful, just not to you.

[thefifthchild]

I'm fourteen. And I happen to have the good fortune that even at seven I wasn't a drooling simpleton. Shame about you, then. Must be all the nicotine. [He does follow the wizard's gaze, much more invested in what Constantine can do than he is in the stupid bickering half baked argument they're having.

He rolls his eyes at the accusation. If you can call it that.]

Good. Neither do I. Dialogue is a waste of time, I've always been more partial to action. Exactly why I'm a vigilante. [He puts a plastic bag of dust in the pouch on his belt.]

...Are you not at all interested in what happened here?

[strewth]

Crete. Weren't you listenin'? [To the torrent of bullshit that John has been spouting.] You remember what happened there, with your public school education?

[The lad doesn't have the accent, no, but he has the posh attitude.]

c.

[wresting]

In this case, a member of 'no one' is one (1) McGillis Fareed, outfitted like an uncool Evel Kneviel, sitting leg over leg, consulting a kiosk datapad. He knows better than to think Constantine is speaking to him, but he nonetheless responds: "you'll enlighten the crowd, I assume." The man clearly enjoys hearing himself.