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Kiyonis

You don't have to read the intro, but it's really, really recommended.

Welcome to Kiyonis! I'm your board administrator, Kit. This is an amateur sci-fi roleplay, so don't expect there to be much expert scientific stuff going on. We do the best we can, but we're not all engineers here, you know? Anyway, I'll save the real details of Kiyonis for our handy-dandy info page here. It's highly recommended that you read it, otherwise you're going to make a lot of stupid mistakes that could have been easily avoided, and we don't take those kinds of mistakes lightly. For those same reasons, it's also highly recommended you read the rules. There are a few additions and clarifications to those rules, however, which are the following:

Cussing is allowed at this board, but all the same, exercise discretion. Don't abuse the privilege.
Magic is not allowed. Sorry.
This board is rated R. Please bear that in mind. If you are uncomfortable with that, please leave. That does not mean, however, that you can go berserk on the violence or sex. Please keep such descriptions tasteful.

If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me by any of these ways:

Email: kitsunedekage@mailcity.com (add .com.)
AIM: CaoticoAzul // Juuou sama // Kitsune de Kage
Weblog: Colored Ink

I know I'm often difficult to contact or slow to reply, whether due to school or other reasons. Please be patient with me; I do have a life. ^^

Extra tips: if you want some extra room between your subject line/name, add an <hr> tag. Also, while colors are not required, they make your post easier to discern. Gen has provided a helpful color table.

Thank you for reading all the way through!

Part II -- The High Voice and Trevor Deoge, 00:20:52 09/06/01 Thu

All around the table, white-haired men are gathered
Spilling their sons' blood like table wine
Remember everything I told you
Everything in its own time

--Indigo Girls, "Everything In Its Own Time"

The High Voice for once, does not seem to be super-aware of what Trevor is thinking. He is caught up in his own glory.

"Isn't it beautiful, my child! Look at them!" He waves his hand across the hallway, as is showing off a work of art, "They are to be the first untainted ones! Free of Nature's perversion, their bodies perfect, their minds unfaltering in their belief!"

He takes a step forward his arms outstretched, as if trying to grasp the heavens. Then with a grand flourish he spins around, his robes twirling in manner both inspiringly grand and intensely dark. The light in his eyes bursting with the light of a bonfire.

"With these we will make the army of believers with which we can forcibly take all those who try to taint the glory of Neuracomp and the glory of the high races! It will be a jihad none have ever dreamed!"

Trevor finds himself following the High Voice into the room, his head turning side to side like a tourist, trying to take in everything and block it out at the same time. He shuffles up to one of the glass and steel containers, touching the glass plate, feeling it cold against his fingertips. It's a human inside there, a young man with brown hair. He looks so happy in there, smiling as if in some secret, joyous dream. Trevor swallows. "What--what's happening to them in there?"

The High Voice walks up behind Trevor, placing an arm around canine-morph's shoulder. Then he to touches the glass. Strokes it; Gently, lovingly.

"We are shaping them back into the divine form, the form the Transcendent One first dreamt of," he smiled. "Their genetic structure is slowly being changed to fit divine properties, and their minds are being shaped by the enlightenment nodes affixed to them."

At any other time, Trevor would have rejoiced in being touched by the High Voice. But now he just shivers, feeling as if cold water is being poured down the back of his robes, soaking his fur. He draws his paw back as if the glass had just burned him, letting it drop to his side. "Changed to fit divine standards. . . " he echoes softly, ears moving forward, then back, then finally to droop. "But--but what are the divine standards?" He wants to look to the High Voice, to read his face, but he knows that all he'll see there is glee, the glory and the righteousness. And why shouldn't there be? he finds himself thinking. After all, what he's doing is right. . . But he can't bring himself to think the same way. Ah, such sinful, dirty thoughts! After all, what the High Voice is doing must be just. Neuracomp brings enlightenment. Trevor stares into the glass instead, looking at the ecstatic expression of the young man floating inside. What is he seeing now? What is he thinking of? Does he know what's happening to his body?

Trevor is one very confused puppy.

"The divine standards are what we all aspire to be. The perfect body, the perfect mind, the perfect personality. All will have these. In mind and body we will all be equal, the way the Transcendent One intended," he speaks calmly, apparently having regained his composure and returned to his calm and calculated self. "Of course there will still be a variety; eye colour, hair colour, facial features. But we will have purged our weaker, undesirable characteristics. And our minds...no more of Nature trying to sway the belief of the High Races. They will be incapable of doubting the words of the Transcendant one."

He studies Trevor, noting the signs of revulsion in his face.

"They all wished to be here, you know. Every one of them. After feeling the divine, they desired nothing more than to fulfill the vision of the Transcendent One."

"I--I see," Trevor mumbles, trying to school his features, realizing that they've always told too much. "And--and what about the animal-breeds, like me? Do they have a place in this?" Why did the High Voice bring him here? Does he have a plan in store for Trevor? Is he about to end up in one of those jars? He's not quite sure what he thinks about that. How he feels about his body being changed--ah, but those are filthy, filthy thoughts given to him by the traitorous Nature, aren't they? He should be happy about the chance to become part of the divine plan.

"Of course, the animal-breeds are the Transcendant One's creation. One of the high races. Already in here there are many of your kind. Come, my child," he beckons to Trevor and begins to walk down past the jars.

"You see, my son. There is something very special about you..."

The High Voice pauses, and sighs. He seems...unsure. He does not quite seem to know how to put what he is about to say. He speaks, not looking at Trevor. "You...are already a part of this project. You are, in fact, far more involved than you have any idea of."

Now he looks at Trevor, looks deep inside him.

"You...are one of them."

"Me?" Trevor squeaks, feeling like a child again. He was inside one of these tubes? Like that man--that woman--that little old lady--that alligator animal-breed-- "But how--when--" Trevor's look turns almost panicked. Shouldn't he remember something like this?

The High Voice looks almost ashamed. "Yes. You."

He looks very regretful, "Yes, and I am sorry to have to put you through this. I am. You see..." he searches for the words, "you were one of the first to be purged. Your mind, anyway. But we made mistakes in process. And we are worried your mind may begin to regress..."

He looks at him with pity, "I am sorry, my son. None should have to face the tanks twice."

This is a little too much for Trevor to take. His mind reels with the information, and he grasps at what he can understand. "I--I was? But--why don't I remember?"

The High Voice radiates sympathy. "Any memory would be a sign of the taint. When they arise from the tanks it is a new life for them. It is a rebirth. Though our research shows that you may begin to remember your past life." He grips Trevor by the shoulders, "We must put you back in the tanks before that happens! It will be too painful for you if we do not. We can make everything better. You'll be fine."

Trevor's mouth opens and shuts, but only faint choking sounds come out. The High Voice's eyes are too much, here, three inches away from his face. They are like the universe, all encompassing, all knowing. Except, that, well, the universe doesn't really care who lives or dies. But does the High Voice, really? Trevor forces his eyes away to stare at the tanks.

He really has to purge himself of these evil, sinful thoughts of Nature. But he doesn't know what to do anymore. How much of his thoughts come from the tank, and how much from Nature? Is Nature really evil? Is there such a thing as Nature? Is there such a thing as the Transcendant One? But there has to be, or where would have all these words about goodness and salvation and kindness come from? Trevor has always thought that he was doing good by helping the poor and the needy, by acting with compassion. These are things that made the world better. Nature is cruel and evil, without care for those that were weaker. . .

At least, that is what they told him. And Trevor finds that he couldn't remember ever thinking anything different. That was, somehow, disturbing.

Finally he manages to rearrange his voice into some semblence of coherency. "Gi--give me a few days to get used to the idea, sir," he says, his voice more pleading than he meant for it to be. "You have to realize that this--this is kind of a shock, sir."

A mental battle goes on inside the High Voice's mind upon hearing Trevor's request. It could be very dangerous to allow one who knew some the secrets of the Church to risk regressing back to his former self. But none had been forced yet, and he did not want Trevor to be the first. So young, so innocent...

"Very well, you may takes a week to decide. For the sake of Neuracomp, I hope you make the right choice, my son."

For Trevor's sake he hopes he chose the true path. If not he would have to be captured and forced into the tanks, regardless of his decision.

"You have no reason to doubt me, sir," Trevor replies, giving him a weak grin. A pause, and he plows on ahead, daring to take the initiative. "And--if you have no more need for me sir--I'd--I'd like to go home. With your permission, of course, sir."

The High Voice at first does not respond. Then, he nods slowly, "Yes, my son, you may return to your home. "

He turns away from Trevor. "You may leave now, if you so desire," he says, making it sound like an order.

And Trevor beats it, not even looking back. He leaves as quickly as he can while still remaining dignified--which isn't terribly fast, as Trevor is never very dignified to begin with--and, once out of that terrible room, discovers that he doesn't remember how to get out into the street.

It takes him an hour to find his way home.

I'm guided by a signal in the heavens
I'm guided by this birthmark on my skin
I'm guided by the beauty of our weapons
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

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Part I of post -- High Voice and Trevor Deoge, 00:12:52 09/06/01 Thu

They sentenced me to twenty years of boredom
For trying to change the system from within
I'm coming now I'm coming to reward them
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

--Leonard Cohen, "First We Take Manhattan"

Trevor Deoge is nervous. Okay, maybe he's more than a little nervous. Left to his own devices, he'd be a shaking, quivering mess on the elegant cathedral floor. But when the High Voice calls you, you come. And the High Voice has called him. And so Trevor finds himself following a young female priest up a flight of stairs that seems to go on forever (perhaps intentionally so). And then, all at once, they have finished their long climb and Trevor and the priest woman are standing in front of a door. The priest raises her hand and knocks.

"Enter, my children" The voice is piercing, but slightly comforting. It shows a belief that everything the speaker is doing and saying reflects the greater good, regardless of how minute it may be.

The High Voice waits for the door to open with his usual knowing patience.

The door squeaks slightly as it opens, surprising Trevor slightly. Surely someone as gifted and influential as the High Voice can afford to have the hinges of his door oiled. Of course, a creaking door gives ample evidence of when someone is coming or going.

"Trevor Christian Deoge, as you requested, sir," the female priest says in slightly clipped tones.

The canine morph is slightly startled. He doesn't recall giving anyone here his middle name; in fact, he hardly uses it himself.

The High Voice nods to the female priest, "Thank you, my child. You may depart now and attend your duties."

He then turns to Trevor, gazing at him in a way that seems to pierce into every aspect of him, and encompass everything beyond.

"Take a seat, child."

The female priest bows deeply and scurries out of the room, perhaps with a little too much haste. Trevor swallows thickly and does as he is told, selecting a seat some distance away from the High Voice and sitting carefully down, as if afraid that the chair will split apart beneath him and send him spilling onto the floor.

The High Voice waits for the female priest to close the door behind her, anticipating the solid click. Not once does he take his eyes off Trevor. He then begins to speak.

"Trevor, my son," considering the nature of the discussion about to take place, he switches to a slightly less distancing appellation, specifically his name. "You...have a future, in this organization. A great future."

He stops for a moment to study Trevor's reaction.

"I--I do?" Trevor replies stupidly. At least he doesn't sound as twitchy as he feels. Realizing that such a compliment from the High Voice requires a thank you, he continues with, "Um. Thank you. Sir. I'm. Um. Greatly honored. Sir."

The High Voice nods slightly, and to the intent observer, what may be the first inklings of a smile appear caress his lips. They are gone in an instant though, if they ever were there.

"Yes, you have great...zeal." He pauses again, very deliberately, then continues, "Yourself, and others, may think of you as being unready, unworthy..."

He allows that last sentence to hang in the air a bit. He starts again before Trevor can make any kind of response, "I, however, know that you are among those who are...the truest, to our divine path. That you keep the most faith...even though no others may see it yet."

Trevor fidgets slightly in the chair, his tail jerking back and forth. He can't think of anything to say. This is really too much. He's been ordained for only a few days! "I. Um. Thank you, sir. I'm really--really not worthy." He ducks his head, sure that he'd be as red as a well-cooked lobster if he were human. Only now does he begin to wonder why the High Voice summoned him here. Surely it wasn't just to flatter him.

With High Voice stands and, somewhat unexpectedly, performs the Blessing. Then, almost suddenly, a certain sadness overcomes his features. Though, it, like all his other emotions, is barely noticeable.

"Come my child, walk with me. There is something that you must see." says the High Voice, and though he is clearly addressing Trevor, he seems to be talking more to himself than any other.

Trevor nearly jumps out of his fur, but controls himself admirably and sits still through the rest of the Blessing. Heart thumping, (for he's just been Blessed by the High Voice, no other), he stands, nearly tripping over his robes as he does so. "Of--of course, sir! Anywhereyou'dlike, sir." He doesn't ask questions. You don't ask questions of the High Voice. Questions are beneath him. Besides, you might not like the answer.

The High Voice steps out the door to his chambers leaving it for Trevor to close. He does not bother to check behind him to make sure Trevor is following. They walk down and through the many passages and halls and chambers of the great structure. Places that would normally be guarded or brimming with people are deserted.

Nothing is to impede the movement of the High Voice.

After a few minutes of walking the High Voice begins to speak in a way that seems to be recitation, but is in fact extemporaneous: "In the beginning, the Transcendent One dreamt of creatures. He dreamt of plants, of animals. Of fish in the water, and birds in the air. And he dreamt of man, of elves, of the mixed breeds. Of all the higher races. And lo, the Transcendent One awoke from his dream, and from his dream and thoughts were created all that is living. From his dream came the animals and plants; the fish and the birds. And these creatures were given to Nature, for her to govern. And from the Transcendent One's dream came the men and elves and mixed breeds and all the other high races. And they were the Transcendent One's alone, and they were perfect. And the Transcendent One declared that they would rule the planet he had created for them. And they lived and prospered. Soon, however, Nature became jealous of the High Races, and began to corrupt them, defiling the Transcendent One's vision. And the Transcendent One could do naught but watch, as Nature destroyed his dreams and thoughts. And the High Races began to doubt the Transcendent One, and eventually, forget he ever was there, guiding them."

The High Voice pauses, again overcome with sadness. It seems that he should also be bitter, but he is not, and he continues.

"And then the Transcendent One gave unto the High Races one last gift." The High Voice fills with excitement. "Technology! A way that the high races might one day purge the evil of Nature from their bodies, and in so doing restore the Transcendent One to it's former glory!"

The High Voice turns to Trevor, his eyes a frighteningly alive, his zeal and faith shaking the walls around them. "And, my son, that day is soon upon us! And you will join us in helping the world be free!"

The speech seems to have ended, and apparently their walk, as they have stopped before two great doors. "This is the future, my son!"

And the doors slide open, revealing the horrors within.

Trevor has heard this story before; indeed, those who attend the Church, the believers, have all heard the story of the Dreaming, of the Creation before. But the way the High Voice speaks makes the story seem fresh and new again, and he listens, wide-eyed, the way he did when he was younger and the Church had first come to bring their enlightenment to the sad, fractured society of Kiyonis.

But the part about technology is new to him. No priest at the pulpit had ever said anything about the Higher Races using technology to cleanse themselves, only that they must repair the error of their ways and find the Transcendent One again. But if the High Voice said it was so, then it must surely be so.

Then the doors opened, and Trevor finds himself unable to say anything at all.

People. In jars. Rows upon rows upon rows of glass and metal canisters, lined up against both walls. The walls turn corners, and there are more lined against those as well. They are embedded at an angle so that the men and women walking importantly around can easily look into each face underneath the glass, and names and serial numbers are inscribed at the top of each. The people inside are floating slightly in some kind of greenish-yellow fluid, brainjacks noded to their temples, and they look. . . peaceful. Even happy. The room is full of the hum of machinery, the low murmur of the scientist-priests conversing, and, on occasion, the slight sucking sound of fluid being pumped in and out.

Trevor gapes like a landed fish for a few moments. Finding himself unable to ask a simple question, he looks up at the High Voice with eyes belonging to a much younger self, begging for an answer. The workers look up, absorb his appearance for several moments, and go back to their business.

Go ahead and hate your neighbor, go ahead and cheat a friend
Do it in the name of Heaven, you can justify it in the end
There won't be any trumpets blowin' come the Judgment Day
On the bloody morning after, one tin soldier rides away

--"One Tin Soldier"

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Enter Antagonist...now!!! -- Rayle, 13:21:25 08/18/01 Sat
The masses pour through the great doors into the Central Conjunction. A fancy name for what is, essentially, an exceptionally large room, branching off into a multitude of hallways; channelling the thousands of followers into the depths of the Church.

On the wall furthest the doors is a dazzling stained glass window a good three stories above the floor. That is, what looks to be a stained glass window. It is about twelve feet high and, being circular in shape, the same same distance across. The glass portrays a somewhat disturbing likeness of an eye and curves outward. It seems to shine with daylight. If, however, one where to consider this possibilty, he or she would realise that the �window� has a good deal of concrete, stone, rooms, and people behind and above it. And that it�s rainy outside.

Of course, no one does notice this, as they are far to concerned with getting out of that room to wherever they happen to be going. Besides, to them, it�s just a window.

They have a point, it is a window. It however happens to be a three inch thick, bullet-proof window covered with a very impressive hologram.

A pale finger strokes the glass from the inside.

Calm, brown eyes observe the goings on in the Conjunction, the tidal flood of worshipers. Eyes so dark they are almost black. More eyes that shine with a light that shouldn�t be there.

The person to whom the eyes and hand belong too is one of exceptional importance to the worshippers below, though they will never see him and, perhaps, never know of his existance. He stands in what is known as his office, though it is one of the most beautiful rooms in the chruch. It is behind the window.

This figure is the driving force behind this particular sect of Neuracomp. His will is obeyed by all, because it is known that he seeks the best for Neuracomp, and, as such, the best for everyone. He is revered as a god on earth, because that is what he is believed to be. It is believed that his mind, his desires, his thoughts are those of the Transcendant One. That he is the direct channel for god, the Transcendant One�s median.

He is the High Voice. And he knows no other name.

A knock sounds at the door of the room. The High Voice turns from the window to face the door, but does not sit down at his desk.

A few moments later the door opens and a young female priest rather nervously steps in, a bundle of papers clutched in her left arm. This is the first time seeing the High Voice. She doesn�t know what she expected hi to be like, to look like. But the pale white skin, the smooth shaved head, the features that reflected neither youth nor great age, and the aura that suggested that he had lived longer than any other creature.

�No,� she thinks �definitely, not.�

She waits in the doorway for a few seconds, unsure of what to do.

�Come here, my child.� The High Voice speaks softly, but it is clear that it is a command .

She steps forward, and, still not quite sure what to do, kneels before him in respect. She feels his hand on her chin, bringing up her head. Then slight pressure on her left temple, and then on her right.

�The Transcendant One�s blessing upon you.�

The priest shivers.

�Put the reports on the table.� He turns to the window, and on it draws a circle around Trevor Deodge, just barely visible, and mumbles a few words. Suddenly the circle he drew fills the screen, zooming in on the outlined point. The bottom of the window-turned-vidscreen displays Trevor�s name and a number of personnel specifics. The High Voice taps the screen, �Bring him to me, when he is finished his duties.�

He waits a few seconds, patiently, then clarifies �You may leave now, my child.�

The priest gets up, looks at the High Voice, nods hastily, places the papers on the desk, and with all the speed she can muster, departs the room.

The High Voice

I'm not stealing anyone's color, am I? Just smite me if I am.

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Sorry I took so long. . . -- Trevor Deoge, 01:06:52 08/13/01 Mon

It is Sunday morning, Holy Day, and the masses have flocked to the gates of the Neuracomp Church. The church does not yet open until 0700 hours, for the Truth Speakings begin at 0800, but that matters little to a crowd that ranges from the fanatical to the merely loyal. Some have slept in the cold of the street, taking shelter in the ruined apartments across the way. The one who shows up the earliest proves his or her faith. The one who shows up earliest gets the best seat (seat to what, one exactly wonders). The one who shows up earliest is assured a fine place in the afterlife. But best of all, the first through the gates gets first crack at the Enlightenment Nodes, and that, of course, is what matters.

Waiting at the entranceway is Trevor Deoge, one of the newly ordained priests. His robes appear a little too large; the drooping sleeves are too long, and the hem nearly drags the ground, instead of being a proper two inches off. Pinned at the collar of his robe is a simplified version of the Neuracomp emblem--merely the two hands, raised upwards as if in supplication, set against the raid sun. The young, brown-and-white canine morph looks slightly uncomfortable--he has been able to call himself one of the Neuracomp Order for only a few days, and this is his first time conducting the Entering. As the gates creak open--a few minutes earlier than 0700 hours, much to the delight of many--Trevor raises his hand to bless each person as they walk under the arch. After a while, the faces and voices begin to blur until he can barely distinguish one from the other.

"May the Transcendent's blessing be upon you," he mumbles, sliding his right hand across a young otter's eyes until his fingertips rest on the otter's right temple. His hand drops, and the otter gives him a cheerful nod and proceeds in.

If I did anything wrong, just kick me, 'kay? Sorry I took so long. **deep bow** Hopefully now we can start posting again.

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I am posting! Be amazed, Kaie. ^_^ -- Kendra WolfHealer (WH), Alastair WolfHealer, Jibril, and Yari, 20:32:24 08/01/01 Wed

The sound of a hoverbike echoed down one of Kiyonis' back streets; as the said hoverbike pulled into a parking garage, one of the streetlights revealed the rider to be wearing a leather bomber jacket, tight jeans with holes in various places, and a white sleeveless shirt. The rider's also revealed to be female.

Removing her helmet and running a hand through hair that's too many natural colors to count, Kendra Wolfhealer made her way from the parking garage to her apartment complex; it was pretty quiet, for a Saturday night. But she knows the reason for that.

Damn Neuracomp. Those two don't know what they've gotten themselves into. Ala, sure, he's a na�ve little idiot so it makes sense. But Jibby should know better...

The woman continued to think along those lines as she made her way up the stairs towards her apartment, making a face as she passed a noisy renter's place. Damn moron needs to teach his girlfriend to keep it down...

Inside the said woman's apartment, two men are sitting on the floor as what look like a male gray wolf and a female wolf cub look on. One looked like something out of a farming magazine; dirty jeans, plaid shirt, the works. He was only missing his leather boots, which were sitting near the door.

Across from him sat a younger man, dressed in a T-shirt and baggy jeans, neither of which were in top condition. Following the elder man's lead, he sits Indian style, meditating like all the other Neuracomp junkies are that night. He completely ignores when the door opens and the wolves jump up from their rug, whining happily.

"Calm down, you two!" WH giggles as she's attacked with licks from the duo. She gets the larger wolf off of her and looks at the two guys. "We're prolly disturbin' the guys' 'meditations'." She rolls her eyes, whistling for the wolves and going to the other room. "I'm hittin' the sack. Wake me up when y'figure out how stupid you two look."

The two wolves look at the guys, then follow WH into her room, whining for attention.

The elder man, now obviously recognizable as WH's brother, cracks an eye open at the shut door. "She'll come around, Jib. Don't worry."

Jibril shrugs his shoulders. "I hope so. She's so high-and-mighty sometimes, though."

"She's just been misled. Don't worry, we'll show her how great Neuracomp is."

"I just hope she realizes it soon."

Dang, that sucked. Ah well. I posted!!!

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Argh ... brain ... hurts ... -- Dogstar and Leash, 22:41:35 07/30/01 Mon
It's not a hard job: just some silly arse out too late, trying to get from his sweating-steel concrete office building with the shiny mirrored windows to his slightly battered hovercar in the covered car-park down the block. Just one little block, less than one hundred metres, but definitely enough to kill him.

His ears pick up the sound of the fellow's hurried steps, his laboured breaths as he tries to pant through a tight waistband and several decades of comfortable living. He steps out into the fellow's path, shutting his eyes and flicking the bright flame out of his lighter; brings it up to his mouth to light the newest cigarette clenched between his teeth; lets it rest there for a minute, catching the prey's eye and keeping it there. Like an angler fish. Just like an angler fish.

The business-man stops in his tracks, quite unaware that the man in front of him can smell his fear as well as his sweat, and says with belligerent self-assurance, "Do you mind? I'm rather late."

"No, I don't mind." He bares his teeth in something only half a grin - he doesn't feel like grinning much, never does, these days - and lets the flame flick out. He wishes the damn lights weren't so bright out here; if there were any justice in this world, it'd be dark. Nothing fun ever happens in the light.

So he lets the lighter flicker out and lets the man's eyes turn downwards to the .38 Magnum trained on his overstrained heart.

"Yeah, I hate to say this, it's really so clich�ed, but your money or your life."

"Gah! Don't shoot! I'll give you everything." Just like in New York, the cash flows like rain as the businessman digs out his wallet and thrusts it into gunman's bony hand, trying not to look up at his face. Just like everyone else in Kiyonis, he's been mugged before. It's no big deal, it's just a little play, acted out a thousand times a day by half a million different thespians. Everyone knows their part and their lines, and they know better to deviate from them.

The man with the gun doesn't even bother to glance down at the pilfered wallet before he makes his swift and decisive deviation from the unwritten script:

The businessman is collapsing backwards, a spreading ring of dark wetness devouring the sweatstained, rumpled front of his white-collared shirt, before the snap of the gunshot has finished ringing off the glassy facades of the business district. No one will come to see what's happened, of course. The business distict is just as dirty as the rest of Kiyonis.

With the air of a farmer wiping off his hatchet after assuring tonight's chicken dinner, Dogstar holsters his gun and finally glances down at the wallet. Nice plump thing, practically bulging with cred, a nice sight even though the smell of its aged and cracked leather, stained with sweat after sitting in its previous owner's rumpled slacks for days on end, assaults his nose.

With a disgusted noise, he flings the thing into the gutter next to the cooling body and stalks off to fetch his bike, stowed away in an alley that runs between the unlucky victim's office building and the next one.

The motorbike is an old one, with wheels instead of propulsion units, and smokes more than its owner, but it's been well taken care of: the chrome is shiny, the black paint equally so; there's not a speck of rust on it, and the tires have been recently changed. It's as if all the owner's care for himself has been diverted to his vehicle.

This is a quite accurate description, as a matter of fact. Even though his motorbike is older than he is, it is Dogstar, not the bike, who has clearly seen better days: tall, well over six feet, he looks roughly like a wolf in human form, all rangy and fierce. His hair and eyes are much the same raven-dark shade, the one falling raggedly to his jaw, the other blinking irritably, framed by dark circles and heavyily scowling brows. His face is big-boned and angular, maybe handsome once, but now so ill-fed that the skin is waxy-white and stretched tautly over the high cheekbones, except where deep lines of disgust score it from nostril to mouth-corner. His clothes are all black, shabby and worn, and the whole picture is that of a heartless, angry kid in a man's body, intent on making someone else pay for his pain. In short, a murderer.

You can see why it fits.

It's always the Saturday nights that are the longest, Leash reflects, dropping her book for the eighth time in the last half-hour. An interminable stretch of seconds and minutes with no hours to divide them, make them go faster. Even the usually melodious sounds of old bluegrass emenating from her laser-stereo system is grating on her nerves. She reaches over and slaps the "power off" button angrily, cutting off the female singer right in the middle of a line about someone with dark hair.

It wouldn't be so bad, she thinks, if I had someone to talk to about all this. I mean, Litte's out of town, and Dogstar ... Well, she doesn't even want to think about Dogstar.

As if merely thinking his name has summoned him, Leash hears the door open violently and close the same way, followed by her partner's heavy tread as he stalks through the living-room/kitchen. Hurriedly, she snaps off her light and freezes in the darkness, waiting while his steps pause outside her bedroom door, and then stomp off down the hall to his own.

Sighing, she gives up on her book, rolls over in bed, and pulls the pillow over her head. Maybe the minutes will go faster if she's not aware of them.

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**jumps in with both feet** -- Regan Amienda, Caemlyn C'Airah (Amea), 18:21:49 07/25/01 Wed
OOC: Being slightly new to Kiyonis, just hit me with a Frisbee if I make up things that aren't there. ^_^ I can take it, honest. ...Oh, and my intros are always long and cheesy. I get carried away. ^^;; Apologies.

"What do you mean I can't get in if I don't have any ID?" Regan Amienda looked uneasily at the door attendant.
"Just what it sounds like, foxy." The doorman, a sleazy, pot-bellied human took a deep pull of his cigar and blew the smoke into the face of the anthro vixen that stood there, eyeing her up and down. Regan was tall and thinly built, with long legs and a trim figure that the doorman couldn't ignore. She was dressed in a fashionable pair of boot-cut black leather pants and a tight white shirt, over which she wore a dusty, well-travelled black leather double-button coat, almost trenchcoat-esque although decidedly fashionable. Her short black hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she pushed her sunglasses up onto the top of her head, looking worried.
"But I'm supposed to meet someone here," she whined.
"Nothing doing," said the doorman. "If you don't have anything to prove that you are who you say you are, you don't get in. This is a bad neighborhood, an' we don't let just anyone into the apartments."
"Rock Bottom," murmured Regan, scuffing at the trash in the doorway with one boot. "Look, I'm just supposed to meet a friend. If you'd go fetch her or something, it'd be a lot easier on both of us. Can't you just... buzz up to her room or something?"
"Which room?" The doorman wasn't looking at her face. Down a bit.
"Two-oh-six," said Regan, her patience waning.
"Miz C'Airah?" The doorman intoned, his finger depressing a button somewhere behind the door frame. He waited for a reply, and obviously got one, although it was too garbled for Regan to make out. "Are you waitin' for a... Regan Amienda? A purty vixen-gal?"
The way he looked at her was enough to make Regan grind her teeth together. She wasn't used to morons like this, thank you. But if she really was going to stay away from her parents' home in the Gardens, she'd better get used to folk like these.
"She says come on up," the doorman admitted grudgingly, stepping aside a bit.
Regan brushed past him before he could even finish hollering after her, "What're you doing tonight?" and ran up the stairs. Apartment number 206 was on the left at the top of the stairs, and she didn't have to knock. Caemlyn C'Airah was already at the top, waiting for her.
Caemlyn was an anthro wildcat, one of the few other furries that Regan had ever met, considering her Gardens upbringing.
"Heyas, Regan!" Caemlyn said energetically, giving her friend a big hug. Though she was by far more gushy of the two by far, Caemlyn was someone who could be depended on. Even to share an apartment. "My house -- ah, apartment -- is your apartment," she said, standing back and indicating the rooms beyond her overdramatically. She was dressed in her usual bubbly way -- a tight white tank-top and light blue cloud-camo pants. Her dark blonde hair hung layered around her face, her big blue eyes smiling out, glad to see her friend.
Regan flopped down on a leather couch and surveyed her surroundings. Modest, but not dilapidated. "You live here... alone? And you're... safe?" Regan's thoughts turned back to the dirty doorman.
Caemlyn laughed and shrugged. "I have some good friends that live around me," she said, tapping on the wall to her left. "The dude next door's a big Star drug dealer, and he's like a dad to me. He'd never let any of the thugs upstairs around me. Remarkably clean and neat for a dealer, too... seems like someone's white-collar father rather than someone involved in the black market. He watches out for me -- you can't even get to my room without going past his, and his guard dog's alert 24-7. It's fine."
Regan nodded seriously, looking around her once more.
Caemlyn studied her friend seriously, wondering if she would be ready for life in the lower side of town. The wildcat had managed to keep her sweet disposition after a few years in the "slums" alone, but it was only because she knew enough tricks and had made enough friends to keep herself afloat. ...Would Regan have the same luck? If I have anything to say about it, she will, thought Caemlyn. I don't know what the people down at the cybercafes'll think, though... The thought suddenly struck her, and she berated herself mentally. I promised Bruce I'd be at the cafe near the Church tonight at midnight, she remembered. Guess Regan'll just have to go with me, and get her induction into my life REAL fast...

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OOC Oops... -- Amea, 14:16:52 07/25/01 Wed
Uh, will someone please tell me how I killed the board?

...I swear I closed all my tags, Kit. I did it three times at the end for emphasis. Dangit. What's the deal?

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"For there is nothing either good or bad, thinking makes it so."
- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Hamlet, II.ii -- Maeve, Teo, Darian, and Kreis, 14:02:43 07/25/01 Wed
The soft clack-clack-clack of four sets of thick claws on the tiled floor is all that announces the returning presence of the lean, leaopard-formed cyborg. First, the wedge-shaped gold snout, prodding the gap between the kitchen door and the lounge, then the forelegs and the rest of it's body, pull into the darkened room.

"Sch�nheit, you are lucky, this time. Would it hurt to stay in one night to avoid this confrontational risk of sneaking back into your own heavily guarded abode?"

"Probably. I have no drive to find out."
Maeve, tall and sleek in glossy black leather, a shadow of an "Avengers" fetish, creeps in, her lime green eyes glowing in the dark. Maeve's red tail sways back and forth like a drowsy cobra, occasionally slapping against her otherwise human body. Her thick, flame-hued curls hide her ears, which twitch reflexively at every lulled sound.

"'Beauty'? I can think of better nicknames for her. Itazura na baishunfu...." The remnants of a spanish accent choke the Japanese sounds.

A short, slim boy with tan skin and slight epicanthic folds framing his black eyes shoves past Maeve spitefully. His black hair is gelled back in a stubby ponytail. The hair that is too short to reach the tie is spiked just enough to make his head seem a little larger, making it seem somewhat echidna-like. His chest is covered by a thin, chain-link tank top, translucent enough to show twin gold nipple rings. Shiny blue crocodile-print pants hug his legs, ending several inches down from the tops of heavy black boots, a stark contrast from Maeve's high-heels, which are part of her bodysuit, interrupted only by the bright green shirt underneath which peeks out from the partially unzipped front.

"Just as soon as I find a nice guy you decide we gotta leave."

"You have to help your mother tomorrow. It wouldn't help her if you were exhausted. There's no need to call me a "wicked whore". Your mother wants you to practice your Espa�ol, anyways."

"You'll have time for this later. Teo, thank your mother for the key to the outer kitchen door. Sleep well." The large creature takes Maeve's slim hand gently in it's mouth.

As the leopard leads Maeve upstairs, warily alert for signs of her family, Teo scowls. "Ja."

The boy waits several moments, before leaving the house the same way he came in, quietly closing the door. "Kreis is her guardian, not mine. I'll do what I please..."

Heavy boots slam against wet, late-night roads as the adolescent thunders back to his favourite club district on foot, ignorant of the figures following him.

He's going to get himself killed if he can't locate his common sense...

"The way I see it, he's just as predictable as my base programming."

The soft lull in the estate after the trio's departure was cut short by the mellow commentary of a clarinet, intermingled with the sounds of hushed breathing from it's orchestrator. Although immersed in his private studies during the dead of night, Darien was as alert as he could possibly be. Alert for his mother, politically tied to the glass building which would deny him his only salvation from a colourless, two dimensional hell of silver veiled skies that hid it's temperament as those below it hid their intentions. He heard his little sister's second departure as though it had been right next to him, in plain sight. Teo must be too mad to be perceptive...

Darian almost resented Teo and Maeve, but his disposition allowed him to reflect on how different the people of Kiyonis can be from one another, even in the same financial sect. False promises of oneness and community were just that. False. The fact he'd never had a life outside of Kiyonis to compare things with was what bothered him most. Maeve was lucky. She wasn't afraid to run every now and then.

Kiyonis is a backwards world. The brave will run but the cowards stay. And for all the marvelous freedom and haute-couture offered to him, he was just another coward too afraid to break the honour system and run... At least that was his Kiyonis. There must be another.

If anyone's confused by my cultural references, Teo's mother is "Spanish"and works for Maeve's family, and, for the record, his father is "Japanese"... In quotation marks because Kiyonian culture backgrounds are arguably likely to be a little slurred. As well as Kreis' German.... Which I have no real explaination for. Does anyone else find it odd that I'm learning German and Japanese at the same time? Maybe it's evidence towards my subconscious morbidity. If there are any problems with this message, I'm physically begging people to point them out. Only YOU can prevent literary... bad... ness. -_-*

Regarding Darian: Only real men type in pink. !^^!

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**tries to get the ball rolling** -- Lorelei Amarankh, Shade, Alumit Shamar, and Theodore William Farnsworth III, 03:38:27 07/23/01 Mon

OOC: I did check the colors, but I'm remarkably goofy-headed about these things. So kick me if I accidentally stole anyone's color, yah?

You lift me up like a garage door
I need to feel it when the drug starts coming on

Teddy had been disappearing once a week, and the members of the band Continuum were pretty sure why. Lorelei in particular was feeling this reason, because she'd been the one to ask Teddy for a favor, to go and hook himself up to one of those machines to see what it was all about. And Teddy, being the eager young otter morph he was, had happily agreed. After that one experience, he'd been hooked and gone back again and again.

Normally Lorelei wouldn't have worried as long as Teddy was still able to play the bass. But, well, Teddy was a good kid, you know, clean and straight-laced, that sorta guy. He'd never been into drugs or drinking or anything like that, even though the people he hung out with had been hopped up drugs since age eleven. Peer pressure was something he didn't give in easily to, no matter how young and emptyheaded he seemed. But, well, if a trustworthy friend asked him to jump off a bridge he'd do it, because he trusted that friend and he'd do anything for that friend. Loyal as the day was long, that boy, and he could shoot and fight almost as well as any mercenary.

The problem was, Lorelei was one of those Teddy considered trustworthy. Foul-mouthed druggie she may be, but she wasn't one to put others in danger for her own sake and Teddy knew that. But when she had taken out that contract and had asked Teddy for a favor, she hadn't exactly considered Neuracomp terribly dangerous. It was one of those cult things, as far as she was concerned, and the cults never lasted very long. Though if her contacts put forth any sign that Neuracomp was about to commit mass suicide she'd haul Teddy out of there by the tail, but so far things seemed all right. Not fatal, in any case.

Besides that Teddy kept going to those meetings, and now he kept trying to convert everyone.

I know the Lord is a jealous Lord
He knows the tablet is His competition

"It's not something I can properly tell you in words," Teddy was now saying to a mostly disinterested Sheik, all wide eyes and eagerness. "You have to experience it for yourself."

"Yeah, that's what they said about soma when I first started taking it," Lorelei muttered to herself, ears twitching. She gave that some more thought, then decided to file that away for later development.

And I need for you to be reasonable. . .

Lorelei sighed. She'd have to smack some sense into Teddy one of these days, show him that Neuracomp was not the divine path, it was a cult trying to cheat him out of his money or his life or his soul or something (she wasn't sure what, she was only sure that she was suspicious of organized religion). Until then, she'd have to at least persuade him not to go around trying to convert people, or they'd smack him.

How much? She said for three hundred dollars I'll do it. . .

"A mercenary? Since when did you start paying others money to do your dirty work for you?"

A languorous stretch accompanied by a chuckle. "I suppose you could say that I'm getting soft in my old age. But really, there are so many mercenaries around here that it'd be a shame to let them go to waste."

"Hn. And here I am, relegated to secretary duty and acting as a messenger."

"Of course. I have to be properly dramatic you know, and never deliver my orders in person."

"This is just a game to you, isn't it?"

"Aren't they always?"

Beating me down like a rainstorm
I need to feel it when the storm starts coming on
I know the skin is a jealous skin
It knows the sky is its competition

It was a man's voice and a woman's voice, and the man's voice came from an armchair facing the view. It was all glitter and light from the other mansions and their carefully tended gardens. "It looks like rain."

Silhouetted in the enormous picture window was the woman, standing with her arms crossed and leaning with her back against the glass. She had short hair and pointed fox ears and a brushy tail. "It always looks like rain. There isn't any blue in the sky in this goddamned city. I don't know why we came."

"Well, no one asked you to come," the man's voice said, affecting an injured tone and succeeding in sounding pouty.

"Well, someone has to keep your ass outta trouble."

"Really? I didn't know you cared. And whoever said that I ever had any difficulty keeping myself out of trouble?"

"All right, you got me there. I'm usually the one getting myself into shit."

"Indeed."

And I need for you to be reasonable. . .

"So then, what happens now?"

"The usual."

"Shit goes down, we sit here and watch, and maybe once in a while we intervene. Sounds good."

A smile, sharp and sweet and cold from the shadows of the armchair. "It's called playing god."

How much? She said for three hundred dollars I'll do it

Song lyrics copyright to Soul Coughing. For those curious, the song is called $300 (not surprisingly). I am merely borrowing their lyrics and am making no profit off of this whatsoever.

And Lorelei's not literally being paid 300 creds (or dollars), in case anyone's wondering. That's just the song.

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No Subject -- Harlen, 16:19:42 07/20/01 Fri

Just smack me if I made any assumptions about the scenery or whatever.

An ancient road, starting at the city limits, bisects the entire cleanly in half without turning once. The majority of the road is in poor condition (some parts even having collapsed buildings and other such rubble upon it) but a mile-long section that passes the newly-erected "holy building" along its right wall has been repaired and restored to the original condition. Most garbage and other refuse of a dying city has been since cleared from the way, leaving a clean avenue of access for the patrons of the Church.

That road separates a series of old apartments from the property claimed by Church, and those who are desperate for their next session with the so-called Transcendent One have been known to take up a temporary residence in the decaying apartment buildings. Between two of these buildings, neither of which are unoccupied, a slim girl leans against a corner and peers up at the hologram above the Church of Neuracomp. Her emerald optics study the hands clasped in the air, then blink and languidly pull away to study the peculiar construction of the building itself. Her skin is pale, and her face is delicate and angular. Light blond hair, almost white, hangs down to the nape of her neck in the back. Around the sides the strands are the same length, a center part keeping the hair from obstructing her view. It stays relatively styled and it doesn't seem like the girl seems worried about messing it up, which probably attests to the presence of hair gel or hairspray.

A stray streetlight, one of the few that still functions normally in the city, activates in the deepening darkness and drops a crescent moon of light across her torso. She curses at the sudden brightness and slips a half-step back into the alleyway, into the relative safety of the darkness. She wears a light weight silver jacket over a tight-fitting white tank top. Her bust isn't by any means what anyone would call large, but is proportionate and fits her frame well enough that the lack of size is hardly unattractive. Around her waist is a thin white belt with a silver clasp, holding up a reflective silver skirt that barely makes it past mid-thigh, underneath which a pair of white tights clings to the lithe curves of her legs.

She pulls the jacket tighter around her to block out some of the night's chill and sinks back deeper into the alley, only a faint illumination flooding across her face. For a moment she pauses there, torn between the light and the darkness, her hair seeming to glow under the diminutive glow of the lamp. She looks like something unnatural, a creature of the night daring to peek out of her nocturnal abode and play in the light while no one else is watching. She sinks back against a wall and waits, her eyes rarely leaving the oddly erected building across the twenty feet of road.

It might as well have been twenty miles, for all the good it did her.

Evelynn Andrews

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Alright, here's the first post. This is really just to set the scene, show you what exactly is going on. A more indepth explenation of Neuracomp so you can all get a feel for it and make your own descisions about how it would be. -- Rayle, 19:57:01 07/19/01 Thu
A bleak night has fallen upon Kiyonis. A night, in truth, like many other nights spent in the city-state. The clubs and cyber-caf�s thrive, well, as close to thriving as one can get when half your patrons are stoned. Neon lights shower the streets with a flickering, heatless glow, the moon providing almost no illumination, and few stars pierce the thick layer of industrial smog hanging above the skyscrapers. Music, or what passes for music, pours from the clubs and throbs through the avenues and alleyways like tainted lifeblood.

There is other music too, the music of the city; twanging screams of pain and passion punctuate the night, the occasional screeches of tires and car-horns mix themselves in, while gunshots and explosions provide an unsteady rhythm. All set to the humming backgrounds of industrial machinery. People laugh and work, live and die, each playing his part in the ensemble of the streets. That is the city music, the music to which Kiyonis and it�s inhabitants dance to while they go about there lives. It is not, by any means, a pretty song, it is harsh, and discordant, but it keeps Kiyonis going, it keeps its people going. The music has no recognizable conductor or bandleader. That is because no one can, at least no one should, lead it, and bend it, and shape it. It is the dancers who are the ones who direct the music of the city.

But recently, someone, well something rather, has been trying to alter the rhythm and the beat, mute some instruments, or remove them entirely, while making others louder. They are trying to change the song. And this conflict, though only few of the dancers have paid it any heed yet, is making the song even more discordant than usual. And now, only now, are the dancers really beginning to notice.

The friction began about six months ago, with the erection of a massive structure near the center of Kiyonis. A building that is, if nothing else, a tribute to architecture. Not the type one usually sees in the modern city state though. Seen from above it is rectangular in form with each face in the shape of a trapezoid. The back and sides slope inwards, stopping about ten stories up at a flat roof, with another, smaller construct on top, in the middle of the roof. This construct is a rectangle with exactly the same proportion of the rest of the building, only smaller, so it occupies roughly half the roof. The front of the building is flat, the roof extending maybe halfway down the front slopes, the rest of the space reserved for stunning gardens and statuaries. The entrance consists of a wall of glass, with six massive pillars placed between the panes. Two towering glass doors, which are almost always left open, serve as the entrance. Most of the building is a shimmering black. All in all, it looks like an ultra-modern cross between a pyramid and roman temple, with just enough gothic architecture to give it the feel of a church.

A holo-generator on the very top of the roof projects an image that had been ingrained into the minds of millions; two hands held together, as if offering you something. Above them is a face that could be male or female looking up into the heavens, set against the raid sun. The whole thing radiates a light that could very easily have been from some deity or other. It it, essentially, just the sort of thing you�d expect to see as a church symbol, except for one detail. The figure wears a brainjack�

This is the Church of Neuracomp. This is the new conductor.
Tonight happens to be one of the few there is not a crowd in front of the building. That is because tonight is the church monthly Cleansing of Within. As such, many Neuracomp followers are at home meditating and fasting, cleaning their mind and body of evils and impurities. The Church itself is doing the same thing. Well, performing maintenance and updating the network and mainframe that is.

But tommorow is Sunday, the Holy day, and millions will flock to the church�s gates, ready to attend the Truth Speakings, to have their minds bombarded with ideals and morals, concepts, viewpoint, opinions and facts. But most of all they want to get access to the Enlightenment Nodes. They go to connect themselves to the church itself on the deepest possible level. And to emerge, knowing, or at least believing that they have truly been touched by the Transcendent One. Only to return next week when the machines are activated again. They�d return in a few hours if they could, when the feeling of ecstasy wears off. The Church, however, knows that to make people wait for what they want, jut like any good dealer.

Neuracomp doctrine states that the world is fundamentally flawed, and that the only way to remedy this is to abandon all things unnecessary, all things that taint the soul, and to connect your self with the Transcendent one, then you will be redeemed. Any who do not do this are seeking to corrupt the world, and are destroying the noble cause of Nearacomp.

They sound like most western religions, and as such have much holy might and influence to live up to. And much, much, bloodshed...

Okay, wow, that became incredibly long. *nervous smile* My apologies, I just really get into what I write *bows*. Yes, I know that at this point there is not much action going on, I�ll post again tomorrow with something that actually involves characters (Oh the horror!). Like I said this just gave me a chance for a better explanation of Neuracomp, a bit of foreshadowing, and some cool metaphors. By all means tell me what you think at this point (Or at any point), comments, questions, ideas, flames, whatever. Anyway, right now I don�t have nearly enough energy to write another proper post, so see yah tomorrow then.

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All right, let's get going! -- Kit, 20:43:52 07/17/01 Tue
There's been no protests to Rayle's plot idea, so I'm going to assume everyone's good with it. So let's start, already! Rayle, you can have the honor (or curse) of being the one to start off, since this is your idea and I don't want it mucked up by some ignorant heathen (jes kiddin', I love you all). ^_^ If you don't want to start, just say so and one of us will, instead.

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- Sure, I'll start it off...*gulp*. Just give me a day to figure out what to write exactly. (NT) -- Rayle, 12:04:45 07/18/01 Wed
We have a plot idea! -- Kit, 10:23:13 07/14/01 Sat

Rayle gave us a stunning plot idea that should be wonderfully inclusive. This is it, in his own words:

An organization known as the Church of Neuracomp has decided to spread it�s influence and has begun to gather a following among Kiyonis� citizens. They, naturally, encourage feel to find ones inner self and so the path to spirituality. Their methods however, are a bit unorthodox, so to speak.
While they encourage weekly attendance to sermons or �Truth Speaking�, various rituals, and the like, they have one distinct feature. They offer a way to find the True Path by using a machine.
Followers hook themselves up to Neuracomp programmed machines through use of a brainjack, and are submersed in what they believe to be a truly divine experience. They leave the churches amazed, filled with joy and feeling completely enlightened. This, unfortunately, only lasts a few hours. So the masses are more than eager to return each week. Skeptics have dubbed it the �Sixth Star Drug�, SSD.
There are other problems too. Neuracomp is fiercely intolerant towards music, performance, art and free expression in general. Also the church encourages its followers to only buy products and services provided by the church itself.

Any opinions, comments, suggestions on modifying/improving the plot? Both Leigh and I want to start the plot when Neuracomp has already been pretty well established. What do you guys think? Speak, or forever hold your peace.

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