Roleplay Online with RolePlayGateway

by **Circ** on Mon Jul 21, 2008 7:11 pm

~ A Vindictive Sunset

Weary knuckles interlink like an old range of sloping mountains while at rest above a brown paper laying affrontingly on a gneiss desktop, the smudged linotype reminiscent of days when words were exclusively conveyed with ink and paper. Even more contemptuous is the man reclining - no, wallowing - in the chocolate leather chair opposite him. It reminds Lionel Duperie of an ungainly beast struggling in a tar pit, finally resigning itself to fate and sinking slowly downward. One with drooping jowls awkwardly swaying in preparation for the impending argument.

“This is absurd,” sighs Lionel, gently pushing the letter in the fat man’s direction and, more importantly, away from himself.

The comment elicits a swine-like grunt from the man, who puffs out his brown pinstripe, barking, “Nevertheless, you will do it. If you had any idea who is pushing this, you-”

“-still wouldn’t care,” finishes Lionel indifferently.

Their respective gazes lock for several seconds, during which Lionel has ample time to scrutinize his guest. Sweat is gathering in a line above fatso’s hairy ridge of a brow, glistening along his potted flesh, and melting into his stranglehold shirt collar. There is also fear in his otherwise dumb eyes. He finally breaks eye contact with Lionel, a vigorous geyser of spittle accompanying his pleading words.

“You’ll do it.”

“Is any of it true?” contemplates Lionel, partly to himself, before flicking the paper even further away with the tip of a manicured finger. It teeters awkwardly at the edge of his desk, a centimeter or two away from falling atop a pair of rather spatially-taxed dress shoes. Heaving another sigh, he relents, “I suppose it hardly matters. Although, I do not appreciate one forcing me to play the part of the pawn, but, should I make it to the other side of the board, well … who knows what the future holds? I accept this treachery.”

While speaking, Lionel stands, walking around his desk and to the door, which he opens, indicating that their meeting is over. After a failed effort, his guest manages to escape the tar pit and make his waddling way out of the office. Before retreating to his thoughts, Lionel casts some advice at the heels of his friend: “Richard, start taking care of yourself. Replacement hearts are rather cold.”

Alone, the first place his eyes turn is to the full-length mirror between two adjunct bookcases, where he observes a thin, wan figure in a long slate jacket that descends to just above the knees. A matching suite, plain white shirt, and gold-flecked navy blue tie nearly complete the image, which finds its finishing touch in heavily-tinted designer spectacles.

**Want to sponsor RolePlayGateway?**

by **Ryand-Smith** on Wed Jul 23, 2008 8:13 pm

"Well this is a waste, eh Sarah" the tall man said, as his parter awoke, the woman looking around. "Turns out we get some com signal, but still, being captured, by that old asshole? Well, at least he'll get what's comming to him, since I won't be back in time for the money to drop." He took a breath, and simply waited for a Trantor Cruiser, the fleet hopefully finding his location, and killing these fools."

It was a waste of time giving me a rigged trial, by some half baked power, instead of a proper Armarx trea... I bet those fucks are in this... entire Galaxy is out against me today. Well at least I can always Ascend, worst case..." the man thought of his plan, angrily pacing the cell. It seem though, in Trantor Space, a 'small' money order went out.

by **Circ** on Wed Jul 30, 2008 6:31 pm

“Rigged trial?” questions Lionel of his present traveling companions as he strides up to the prisoner’s cell and leans forward on his cane. A oscillary barrier shimmers before him, its waves of translucent light forming occasional inconsistencies in the view, but effectively preventing the Trantorian and his synthetic she-thing from manufacturing an escape. The two appear unharmed, although there is no furniture to speak of within the area of their confinement. Otherwise, the room is quite cozy and well-decorated. Paintings, no doubt originals, are on the walls in heavy, gilt frames and a grand piano is majestically situated in a corner.

However, his parroting does not go unnoticed by the captive or the others, as their gazes drift in his direction, yet all fail to supply an answer to the unasked question hanging in the air. That being what is really going on? Instead of pressing the matter, he settles himself on a lush chaise lounge wrapped in snowy velvet, as is indicated by a hand gesture from one of the company. To make it a more epicurean affair, a butler arrives to take drinking orders. Lionel declines, his sharp eyes leering at those around him, his growing contempt masked by tint of his spectacles.

What a bunch of flakes, he notes, waving off a dish of scones, perhaps committing some sacrilege in a strata where not engaging in worthless debauch is tantamount to urinating in public. The prisoner, however, is watching them all rather curiously.

He leans forward again, his coattails slipping from the smooth cushion to dangle around his shins, and tilts his head up to look the man in the eyes.

“Have you been made aware of the charges being levied against you in the Terran Court of Social Affairs, whose jurisdiction regarding international crimes is upheld by various galactic treaties?”

by **Ryand-Smith** on Wed Jul 30, 2008 7:13 pm

"Treaties that Trantor is not a Signatory to? Hah, you can't try us, that would give us grounds to turn Terra into a colony of Tran... No wait, with economic means, its already done," Ryand laughed at the man, before turning away. "So, gonna try to try me with laws I am not a part of, or Treaties that don't mean anything to me, or are we gonna wait until Trantor Space Force blows a hole in this shitty station, and saves me?"

by **Circ** on Sun Aug 03, 2008 4:18 pm

How very ridiculous this man is, to assert that a nation, such as Trantor, is engaging in trade and, if history serves me, joint military ventures with various nations with whom it is not a member of any treaty or organization, reflects Lionel, who by this point has seen and heard enough to realize that no useful information will be gleaned at this place and time. Instead of arguing the matter, the temptation of which may befall lesser men, he stands up and says: “I advise you to acquire council. If you choose not to, the court to have you examined by a psychiatrist to determine whether you are capable of proceeding pro se. If not, a defense will be elected for you by the court.”

Standing up, he steadies himself on his cane, and eyes his silent spectators warily through the gloomy lenses of his spectacles. With a minor bow, he remarks, “Until we meet again.” A guard escorts him from the lavish facility, and with inevitability, he returns a day later to his office to prepare for the trial.

…two weeks later…

It is not without animosity that Lionel sits aboard a Selekusion vessel, transporting him, other court officiates, members of the jury, representatives of various reporting agencies, et al., to a secure location presumably within their borders. It is not for reasons of trying to hide anything, or so had been adamantly proposed by the media and those backing the case, but to avoid the nuances of the political strife presently unfolding amongst nations. Trantor, in particular. In base terminology, certain people in possession of enough acuity to see that this trial was inflammatory decided that, for it to proceed without interruption, it will have to be physically sequestered.

Upon disembarking, Lionel again has the opportunity to make this observation as a lift takes him, along with approximately eighty others, downward to their new residences. Amongst his company are, of course, reporters and soldiers and a heavily-sedated Ryand-Smith, no longer accentuated by the presence of his artificial female companion who had been released into temporary custody. Instead, hovering around Ryand is the recently ubiquitous attorney for the defense, managing to at the very least hedge his charge from not only Lionel but also the propagandists.

The lift stops, and those around him scatter like fleas, leaving him standing quite serenely with a cane in one hand and a briefcase in the other. It is not much shock that there is someone from quite a different type of organization there to greet him. Hopefully they have some useful information, his cynical mind churns.

by **valkern** on Sun Aug 10, 2008 10:16 am

Standing behind him on the lift was a very thin man with green eyes and his skin was snow, he looked to be at least 19 his complexion young. His blond hair was brushed back and use looked very well groomed and his hand was a microphone around his neck was a chain which held a card that said nets sevenths press. His suit however looked very old as if he could not afford a better one the same with his black shoes that matched the suit. His white skin showed even brighter being surrounded by the whiteness of his outfit.
This was his first day and his first story for net seven he had just gotten out of college and was given a job by one of the biggest reporting stations the galaxy. He was nervous but he was sure he could get a good story out of what was happening, if only he knew what was going on. You could tell he was nervous by his eyes looked like the eyes of the lost animal. Gripping the microphone a bit tighter in his hands he taped the shoulder of the man in front of him nervously.
“Excuse me but which you happen to be Lionel?” the small voice asked from behind him.

by **Circ** on Sun Aug 10, 2008 3:23 pm

Steam from the lift’s exhaust drifts up in front of Lionel, adding a smokiness to the tint of his already dark glasses. He taps his cane, preparing to step off and toward his company, all the while watching as the accused is led off toward a place of confinement. Then, he feels a shaky hand rest upon his shoulder.

“Excuse me, but which of you happen to be Lionel?” emanates a squeaky voice.

“You may want to step off before that returns to the surface,” indicates Lionel, turning around to appraise the whitewashed lad without any visible change of expression. As if to drive home his point, he taps the edge of the lift with his cane. “I am Lionel Duperie. How may I be of service?”

by **valkern** on Sun Aug 10, 2008 10:07 pm

“Hello I am with net seven and I was wondering if I can interview you and ask questions about what is going on here.” He said with a small smile his light green eyes one would say it was the abyss even though you’re looking at him it seemed he was looking more than just you and it looked as if he was looking into your soul. Valkern held up the microphone and was ready for a reply so you could switch it on, he was very eager and was excited and hoped for the best.
I hope this guy says a lot because I don’t know what the hell’s going on myself why did they have to put this as my first assignment. He thought to himself as the fingers on his free hand wiggled waiting for his reply.

by **DJAtomika** on Mon Aug 11, 2008 1:12 am

'Excuse me, coming through, sorry, 'scuse me...' A tall thin man threads his way through the crowd separating him and Ryand-Smith, the plaintiff in this out-of-the-ordinary trial. Camera in hand, light auburn hair swept around in the breeze created by rapid movement, Jason, journalist for the W.N.O Online Newspaper, drew closer to his very first story.

He stopped as the entourage drew past, the sedated Ryand-Smith being hauled across the cold metal floor, legs limp as a ragdoll's own limbs. Quickly swinging his camera up to his eye, Jason snapped a few pictures of the sleeping prisoner and Lionel Duperie, camera flashes making up for the almost superficial presence of light in the corridor.

Jason lowered his camera and took out a notepad and pen from the pocket of his jacket. He began to make notes as he listened to the dialogue between another reporter in front of him and Lionel Duperie, a court official. He felt slightly anxious to finish up this story ahead of the other reporters in the crowd and get the story up online, so the whole galaxy could know about the court case. He would get all the credit of course, as he'd make it up so he was actually the first reporter on the scene.

by **Ryand-Smith** on Tue Aug 12, 2008 5:36 am

With his internal subsystems active, the chemicals burnt up, the man severely annoyed at this. "Well, I see you assholes already have no care for the law, he muttered, as he checked his body, sitting up and sighing. "and now you take away my partner. Very Classy." he then sighed, as he simply turned to the reporter, and said, "Asshole, if that picture hits the press, I will make sure to have my estate turn you, your family, and everyone who you ever worked into into bums. I swear, first with these Terran punks, claiming to be so free will and draging me out. Where the hell is Sarah, and where the hell is my Lawyer! I demand to be let out, or so help me Trade I will make sure that this planet is blockaded by the Great Galactic Treaty

"Sir," one man siginaled, the mental communication not noticed by others, the apparent reporter near the new man, "Should we.." "No, we wait here. Trantor Ops Demands it. Apparently, this trial is illegal, and with the location of Ryand Secure, we should just start SRT." The collective ended, and so, he simply started the subtle EMP wave, damaging the camera of the other, journalistic rag of a paper. "Internet media" the man muttered. "Shitty compared to TNN, or even the bleeding hear liberals at GNN..."

The GNN Reporter was haughty, and he knocked down the news seven reporter, the new news net a waste, he thought, comp a modified war machine, in the HK series, . They were superior to these meatbag based news teams, their bases across all of Known Space, their news streamed via Hyperwave to every Television in the Galaxy, since Channel 69 had fallen apart due to internal issues.

"Excuse me, I am ARX-10, of the Machine Hive World P3X-342. I am here with GNN's Machine Division, and I demand to know why you have arrested one of our brethren. The Super Idol Class Robot "SARAH" is a robot, and as such, she is part of our people. We want to know, why you do not have here here. Is this another example of organics claiming superiority over us machines? Also, why do you have that meatbag here, as a parade item. Is this the Organic meatbag behavior that I keep on seeing on the local wave net?

by **Circ** on Tue Aug 12, 2008 8:14 pm

Dimming lights, a sudden numbness in his left index finger, and the brief silence of the ventilation system are suggestive of something to Lionel, who immediately breaks off his conversation with the reporter to scan the vicinity. An electromagnetic surge of some sort, he wonders, turning his eyes to the accused. Ryand is being escorted to his holding cell, and for a moment Lionel noticed a bit of a spring to the prisoner’s step, a rush of energy followed by a sudden collapse, as if several core systems had failed. The guards are practically carrying him now. Tapping his finger, the synthetic nerves replacing the ones he lost in a minor cooking accident with his deceased wife, Lionel feels nothing, and thus confirms his suspicions.

‘Whatever shorted out my tactile sensors also shorted out most of the circuit boards in his body,’ he mutters an appraisal of the situation. Indeed, beings more electronic than organic stand around as still as mannequins, their systems sputtering from the localized electromagnetic pulse. Such complex arrays of circuitry and logic would be far more susceptible than a simple device, such as a camera. If it was a surge. With that thought, Lionel strides to a guard.

Yet even through that, Ryand hasn’t lost his voice, and begins spouting his false allegations of mistreatment. He still hadn’t found a lawyer? Who was that person guarding him like a mother hen on the elevator? Shame, as Lionel had suggested Ryand should acquire one two weeks ago. Surely he is aware of the dangers in refusing council.

Before Lionel reaches a guard, a few strides away, the internal bios of the machines around him have rebooted, and they’ve resumed their normal functionality. Even his finger has reacquired sensation and Ryand, disappearing around a corner, seems to be back on his own two feet. Nevertheless, a small suspicion merit’s a bit of precaution.

“Please make sure that all those in attendance are screened and authenticated. We don’t want some massacre on our hands here, now do we?”--and then, as the guard hurries off to ensure proper protocol is being followed on the weapon locator arrays, the anomaly detector, and so forth, returns to his prior conversation--“Yes, I am Lionel Duperie, as I am sure you know, a prosecutor hired on behalf of the free people of Terra to prosecute one, Ryand-Smith, for crimes committed during a time of war. If you recall, several years back, …”

Yet, even as he talks, his mind isn’t on the conversation, but on the security bustling about in the subterranean compound. Pale bronze lights flicker back on, illuminating the interior of alloy-coated granite. According to his sources, the metal shell was meters thick, and a mile below the surface. The only way in or out would be via the elevators, as the ventilation shafts are too small and well-maintained for even a rodent to eek its way through without being vaporized.

Suddenly a very misinformed machine interrupts him, shouting loudly over the rest of the crowd. With a sigh, Lionel turns to address the robot.

“ARX-10, your sources are quite inaccurate. The Sarah-model android is not in any type of custody, but free to do as she chooses, wherever that may be. If her presence is needed during the trial, she will be subpoenaed. Please make a note of that so GNN doesn’t become the laughing stock of the galactic media for misrepresenting the facts in this landmark trial.”

by **valkern** on Wed Aug 13, 2008 1:33 am

The Net 7 reported stood up and picking up the microphone and recorded what Lionel was saying and as he finished talking to ARX-10, switching off the microphone he clinched his fist and hit ARX in the back of the head knocking out whatever it was robot or human.
“Don’t fuck with the master son.” He said his arm going back to lax the gasp of the other reporters he didn’t care. Being from all the way from the other end of the galaxy and being a reporter for a almost dominate station that had their own army and was more like a corporation that manufactured bio genetics and engines to ships if you wanted the best they be more than likely to profit from it.
“Sorry about my rudeness sir.” He said walking forward stepping on ARX chest and walking off it
“May I ask you for a privet interview?” He said with a gleam in his snakefish like green eyes he knew Lionel would like to impress some of the big wigs at net 7 they were fairly new race’s and group to this galaxy and had embargo’s on a lot of their better equipment there technology superior to most.

by **Ryand-Smith** on Wed Aug 13, 2008 5:31 am

The bot wold not be knocked down by a simple punch from a meatbag, its military technology an offshoot to Trantor War Droids, and it now had the punch recorded, the remote cameras broadcasting this to the galaxy. These News 7 people were barbarians, and as such, the Order of HAL would deal with their hash later appearance, it was clear. Humans were aggressive, and insane. "This action is immoral, meatbag, and is an example of why we do not tolerate your kind very well on the outer rim.

"Next question. On your so called landmark trial. You do acknowledge that Trantor and Terra, even at the conference of 0072 never signed a treaty with Terra on this. In fact, Trantor on the records, is not a signatory to any treaties besides Universal Bounty Laws, and the common Anti-Slaver Acts of 2010. The ethics of Terra's action seem to be more of vengeance than justice. You would let 10 years pass, when even old Earth, ruled by nation-states, caught someone called a.... Radislav Krstic, of the old state of Bosnia, in less than 3? Your case seems to be based on false evidence, and the existence of atomic arms, which according to independent records, did not exist. It seems as if, one could arguee, it has been wiped completely from existence.

I
OOC: Disregarded for power playing. Instakill = no go

by **valkern** on Wed Aug 13, 2008 1:46 pm

(Sorry forgot to put in post but cybernetic his punch would probley destory the inside of this robot easy it isnt a real arm)

by **Circ** on Mon Aug 18, 2008 4:54 pm

“If that is the case, it will come out in due course, I assure you,” returns Lionel, somewhat distracted from his conversation with the evidently ignorant machine. However, debating treaty law is not something he has scheduled for that moment. It will be brought up during the trial. “Now if you excuse me, I have a case to prepare.”

He exits the disembarking chamber, and heads toward the visitors’ quarters. Evidently the individuals who promised to meet him and provide further information regarding Mister Smith’s offenses are unwilling to attend or lend their aid. As such, this case will prove difficult to frame. Were it not forced upon him, he doubts he would have taken it at all.

by **Circ** on Sat Aug 30, 2008 1:26 pm

After the electromagnetic incident, security tightened, and it was decided that the trial be a closeted affair, with information relayed to the press and other interested parties by way of video stream. Edited, of course. Within the burgundy-veiled walls and exotic trappings, a hand-picked jury sat and listened to the dramatic tale of attempted genocide, accentuated by a handful of select witnesses on the prosecution’s side of the aisle to substantiate its claims. Nobody appeared to speak in defense of the accused, save the accused himself. He had refused a court-appointed attorney, and foolishly chose to enter the ordeal pro se.

In the end, after all the semantics, the screaming, the cries of outrage and injustice, the jury was sequestered and, several hours later, emerged with their decision. It came down to two facts, the where and the what. The why was hardly important. Ryand-Smith was overseeing a genocidal act within space under Terra’s legal jurisdiction. Though it was true that Trantor had signed very few treaties in general, despite its known trade relationships with surrounding sovereignties, it was found that Terra still held the right of proximal extradition through implicit treaty law and the right of domain - which means, if Ryand-Smith appeared in Terran space, under any circumstances, they had the right to confine and press charges against him.

He was sentenced to death for attempted genocide during a time of regional crisis within Terran space.

However, after post-sentence processing - including psychological evaluation, cycling through a laboratory to remove any unnecessary cybernetic implants, enhancements not permitted to criminals, blood tests, etceteras - his escort was contacted by a rather shady figure named Monsieur Gravois, who very directly informed the guards that there had been a change of plans, and the prisoner was to be conducted to a prison colony under Armarx control. So it was, although that point never made it to the media, and for all Ryand-Smith knew, that was his new death row.

Ryand-Smith arrived on the asteroid without fanfare, with paperwork indicating his name was Renold Debuc and he had been found guilty of attempted assassination of a government official after becoming involved with a group of conspiracy theorists. His paperwork also suggested he was prone to grand ideas and a touch crazy, but at least he was alive.

by **Kronos** on Sat Aug 30, 2008 6:01 pm

"This is Tango-Delta, weapons are free, over"

"Tango Delta, this Beta-Foxtrot-Seven, beginning attack run, over."

The Squadron of "Minsk-Class" Heavy Attack Craft soared through space, rapidly approaching the Armarx Prison Colony.

In the persecution of Ryand-Smith, Terra had forgotten about the smaller radical factions would come to his rescue in just this event, and the Capitalitz were no exception to this rule.

Their bright orange exhaust flares lit up the darkness as they banked toward the Prison Colony. The ships were using rather new Plasma drives, that provided enough thrust, but seemed to have a quite massive heat signature. They even melting the tarmac on rare occasions, providing the basis for a few "interesting" attack plans centered on them.

They were unmarked, unsigned with electronic signatures, and most of all, their crew had strict take-none-alive-nor-be-taken-alive orders. These not Red Technocracy, but a faction split off from them, who embraced free-market economics and rampant corporatism, along with the classic theory of "Reaganomics". They had revered the emblem of the free markets that was Trantor and Ryand-Smith, and due to the strange situations surrounding his execution, along with the lack of a body, the imprisonment of a Political Prisoner with strange ideas soon after his supposed execution was strange enough to warrant a raid to rescue the savior of the free market.

For their first stage of the offensive, clusters of Anti-Matter rockets were launched at the station's Command Tower and defenses, followed by Railgun fire to the heavier defensive guns and the shield generators before they could be raised. These would be to ensure that the boarding and retrieval operations would go on without a hitch, and that the Prison Colony couldn't possible call for help.

Ryand-Smith was going to be liberated, yo.

Roleplay Online with RolePlayGateway

A Vindictive Sunset

HTML, for websites and MySpace:

BBcode, for forum posts and signatures:

A Vindictive Sunset ( )

A word from our sponsors...

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )

Re: A Vindictive Sunset ( )