Playing God (AU, unconventional)

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Kostemetsia
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Playing God (AU, unconventional)

Post by Kostemetsia »

I stare at the screen. It's the deepest darkest night, and family members have all gone to bed. A Guinness World Records: Speed poster sits upon the opposite wall, slightly skewed, and I make a mental note to fix it, sometime. A vinyl armchair sits next to my bed, cluttered with rubbish and really not that much of an armchair; more of an object holder.

The Jolt forums flash up on the dim screen after a while, and I immerse myself in RP. No new posts... ah yes, a couple in the Unfriendly Contact out-of-character thread... Setulan's waiting for me to post, Xiscapia's waiting for Kewen to post, and Kewen's waiting for me. The usual. NSG is pretty dead, too - even Andaras' constant presence isn't there to shout Stalinist oaths, but that's probably because he was b& a few days ago.

Let's see, I think I need a drink. As I swing my legs off my bed, I trip awkwardly and fall onto the keyboard. The curse forming in my throat fades as the keyboard seems to drop below my arm, and the keyboard socket expands to accommodate me.

---

Some time later, I find myself standing on a nondescript, sloping concrete footpath, in the wide-ish fashion of Australian central business districts. It seems relatively deserted, but -- wait a minute. I could have sworn a capsule just shot past on the road below, which, now that I come to think of it, does not exactly look like bitumen to me. A flight of stone steps is set into the wall some way back from the road. I hurry up them, looking left and right, and turn to the pseudo-Victorian building ahead. Several more of these road-going flattened capsules are parked near it, and an instantly recognisable logo is set into one: the split black-and-gold shield on swords of the Commonwealth of Kostemetsia. I know damn well what it looks like, because I set the parameters. A man in a black suit walks by, frowns at the lone thirteen-year-old observing from outside the carpark, and walks on.

Realisation dawns. Judging from the technology ahead, this is the capital world of the Commonwealth, Kostemetsia Prime. By the look of it, it's not yet suffered the great ravages I had planned before this entire incident came out of nowhere... Wait a second. I invented this place and materialised all the cars within it. Logically, this means that I am, after a fashion, God. Now if I can just keep a coherent roleplay script running in my head, I should be able to acquire some transport. Raising a hand for effect, I imagine the rather snazzy government capsule flashing towards me. The man in the black suit jumps back with a profanity as the capsule hums down a line terminating somewhere in my area. A cream-brick and steel fence blocks its way, so I raise a hand and the capsule goes a few inches over the fence.

Given that this technology stems from the innermost depths of my own mind, I believe I should probably know how to operate it. Now, from experience, Kostemetsians seem to invariably attempt to merge art with technology - the capsule reflects it, a long seed-pod-like craft with one handle visible from where I stand. Gripping the handle, I pull upwards, revealing a comfortably appointed cabin behind the gull-wing door that the handle is obviously attached to. Sliding down with some difficulty, I have obviously keyed some hidden sensor, and the door subsides.

Taking stock of my surroundings. A blank pane of glass lies on the red cushion beside me, and a pen lies beside it. Given my knowledge of Kostemetsian technology, that should be a flashpad - futuristic PDA, long story - and a flashstylus, respectively. Controls incorporating at least a boat-style throttle and aircraft yoke sit ahead. I grin - now this is my idea of an aircar. With another control keyed, the blank divider in front of me fades to a computer display with three-dimensional HUD. The man with the suit is tagged as Joseph Keeper, Commonwealth Minister of Justice, and I probably should have realised this earlier.

Pushing a button that shows some sort of futuristic fighter jet, I grin as a jolt rocks the vehicle. The screen in front expands to incorporate a security cam view from the building behind me, tracking my vehicle as three fins spring from its rear and some sort of panel slides back to show two of... well, what I assume are engine nozzles. Wings follow. Another button lifts it into the air with a rumble and a roar, and pushing the throttle to the forward extreme of its range sends the aircar rocketing off in an extremely wide curve.

Gaining altitude and some knowledge of the controls, I shoot into the air. Two police aircars flash past in a blur, and I imagine they must be swiveling to follow me. Then they realise that this is - I check the designated registration plate - a State Intelligence Service car. I nabbed myself a good ride, by the look of it.

(moar to come, mixing of OOC and IC experiment)
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God hasn't played dice with the universe since that fateful drunken night when he lost classical mechanics to the devil at craps.[/center]
Kostemetsia
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Re: Playing God (AU, unconventional)

Post by Kostemetsia »

Now, if I remember correctly, the Inner Complex is deep in the inner city. Literally deep. Seven floors above ground and fourteen below. I tilt the yoke and come around in a slightly less generous curve, rocketing in towards the central business district at one thousand kilometres per hour and several degrees off the horizontal.

Suddenly, I find myself the target of two of the defence drones I placed in a circular route above the Inner Complex's outer wall. Yellow flame flashes up past me, and the aircar's processor comes online with a new, much more confusing display. Local security tells me two plasma cannons have just slid from beneath the curved nose of the aircar, and the HUD tells me they're ready for my command. I squeeze a trigger and by sheer luck two trails of fire appear on the shaking-with-acceleration screen.

Unfortunately, this means I've just alerted the security to my presence - but I designed a hole in the defences as a convenient plot device. _Must make a note to get that removed, if I get back._

With the tap of a few keys, the system is down, because I just redirected all its coordination data to /dev/null. Simple enough if there's a SHEET OF ALL THE DAMN SYSTEM PASSWORDS SITTING NEXT TO YOU! I shake my head and wonder if the SIS will ever learn security - they're an intelligence agency, ferchrissakes.

Now to meet me.

---

The aircar touches down without incident atop the mini-cobbled roof pad of the Inner Complex. The security drones have returned placidly to their patrols, and I hurry down the flight of steps hugging the building's exterior to get to the locked pad door. A code flashes into my mind, and I key it into the system, which opens the door with a quiet hiss.

As soon as I pass through, I feel something prodded into my back, and freeze. A firm voice with somewhat of an American accent speaks from behind me.

"Stop right there, kid. No idea how you got here, but--"

He's cut off. Time stops and I turn to examine him... odd, I don't remember writing heavily-armed honour guards into the story. Judging by his rank insignia, he's a private in the MDF. Lucky guy to be assigned to the Inner Complex.

Time continues to flow.

"... The fuck."

While he's caught trying to figure out how I turned 180 degrees in an objective second, I tug at the gun with which he is armed and, entirely through luck, take it from his hand. Noticing the built-in controls, I subtly touch the stun setting and raise the gun to his forehead.

"Stay right there, mate. Seriously. Just..."

I back away, maintaining my aim, until I get to what appears to be a lift. Keying the control, I wait for it to arrive, then dash into the wood-panelled interior. Simultaneously, the young guard makes a rush at me, but the doors close before he can get here. Recognising this, he attempts to halt, but can't control his momentum and slams into the door with a loud clang in an almost stupidly funny fashion. I chuckle from the relative safety of the lift's interior.

The controls look pretty familiar - basic up-down system. I key DOWN and wait, leaning against the wall and whistling the bass line to the Covenant Dance from Halo. It strikes me that nobody would recognise that in latter-day Kostemetsia, a thousand years from my temporal comfort zone.

Entirely unexpectedly, the walls fade to transparency. I'm shooting down at an uncomfortably fast rate through what seems to be some sort of gigantic office complex. People turn to look, and I realise that's not a good thing. I'm wearing clothes a thousand years out of date - I must be almost instantly recognisable. Oh well. As long as I get to the General Secretary I'm not that worried. I wrote a healthy amount of common sense into his character.
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God hasn't played dice with the universe since that fateful drunken night when he lost classical mechanics to the devil at craps.[/center]
Kostemetsia
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Re: Playing God (AU, unconventional)

Post by Kostemetsia »

The lift slows with a hum, and the computer voice from Star Trek tells me I'm on the lowest floor, inner cylinder - Executive Office. I had it envisioned as being on the highest floor, but I suppose I never explicitly designated that. The doors hiss open and I turn to contemplate the corridor

Battle music hums through the cyberpunk-themed corridors. It seems the President and General Secretary share a common reading taste. Speaking of which.

Stepping from the capsule, I stroll down the circular corridor. A few minutes later, I come to a single door with a big red light in the middle, which I recognise after a while as a security lock and biodata scanner in one. I know it will accept me, since the General Secretary is, in a twist of my ego, my distant descendant.

Before unlocking it, I pause to consider the implications. I'm about to meet a far older and wiser version of myself, and I distinctly don't want him manipulating me into doing something stupid. After all, that's what I'd do if I were in that situation. Frack it.

I put a hand to the door before I can reconsider. It glows a deep gold, and the lift voice asks me for my name and purpose of visit.

"James Bovill, here to see, well... James Bovill."

A few seconds later, after a period of what almost seems shock, the door light glows green and spins, retracting into the door, then disappearing as the doors open. I step into the antechamber and repeat the ident process, then wait a minute. Again, the door opens.

---

I stare at the semi-young man inside the room. What I'm doing would, back home, be called ensuring my character is accurate.

Not quite, I suppose. The James Bovill sitting in front of me is an idealised version. Let's drop away from this account for a minute and describe him.

He's about six feet, six inches tall, I would suppose. Face is an older version of me. He's slim and of a medium build, and is, at the time, wearing a two-piece suit. Looks to be just out of his teens, but I would say he's about a century and a half old by now -- oh, the wonders of rejuvenation technology. Seems to be tech-obsessed, judging by the number of slim terminals built into his black, almost-100%-reflective desk; I feel almost at home here.

He speaks first, with a touch of a British accent.

"All right. I'm really not sure how you got here, but please, make yourself at home."

I decide to torture him a little, in a joking manner. See how he reacts, if I made him correctly-- I correct myself. James Bovill is not a flat character, stuck to my constraints. If he were, he would quite likely never have made the General Secretaryship, or even taken his local Middle Council seat.

"Mr Bovill. It's a pleasure to meet you at last." And it is. "I must say, I've read a lot about you. One might almost say I'm your biggest fan," with as close to a shark's grin as I can manage. "Born to Sarah and Alex. Straight-A student in your school years. Musical whiz-kid - nice Yamaha, there, Earth import?" with a pointing finger. "Naval lieutenant commander, role model by all accounts. Middle councillor for the Northeast Amarisk City electorate. Won against Rick Loekon in the 2929 elections. Been here in New Brisbane ever since."

His polite smile fades a little. "I'm flattered that you know so much about me, but I really must ask how you got in. Especially using my name."

I pull up one of the chairs that sits along the wall and flop into it. "Mr Bovill. That's a hard question, I'd say, and I was never any good at short-preparation debates. For the latter statement, I suppose it's partly true that I used your name, because we happen to share a name. Right down to the last letter. For the former, well, I'd like to call it luck."

"You're telling me nothing."

"James, I suppose that in very, very blunt terms, I'm the closest thing to God around these parts." I smile again. This is actually rather fun; whatever fate stuck a casual roleplay writer into a universe of his own creation must have a sense of humour.

The version of me sitting across from me, typically deist as ever, cocks an eyebrow. I'd bet he considers me deranged. Wordlessly, I summon a peanut butter sandwich out of thin air and chew on it.

"Impressive, but we've come across powerful species before. Tell me something only I'd know."

"Okay. Hmm, well - there's not really that much the media hasn't ravaged into daylight, is there. Um... oh, I know. You liked ABBA hits as a kid, right? Constantly listening to SOS and Mamma Mia over and over again?"

"Yes. Look, I'll accept your claim that you're... not what you appear... for now, but-- Hello, Christine."

A door swishes open much closer to me than I expected. Another gun is pressed to the back of my head, and I groan.

"Please. Can't we drop the guns bullcrap, Mr Bovill, Ms van Ooijsten?"

A slight movement of the gun. "Impressive. You actually got my name right."

"Damn right. Now, can't we sit and negotiate here without you pressing what I happen to know is a forty-five-caliber pistol into the back of my neck?"
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God hasn't played dice with the universe since that fateful drunken night when he lost classical mechanics to the devil at craps.[/center]
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