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 Forum index » Archive » Archive: Deus City » DC: Deus City
Chapter 1: Deus Ex Machina [solved]
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TGI Fridays
Veteran


Joined: 12 Jun 2007
Posts: 123

 		Chapter 1: Deus Ex Machina [solved]
Sam's Cafe in Grey District
10 credits

I've already solved this one so I lost the text. If someone else (if anyone else is still around) could put up the text (which is very long, but interesting) that would be just keen.

Looks like we'll have at least a few more tasks before we're done. It's hard to tell if this will be the last hurrah or just another segway, but either way we're on again. New newsfeed too.

Hope people are still scanning unforum...

PostPosted: Mon Nov 12, 2007 5:30 pm
Last edited by TGI Fridays on Mon Nov 12, 2007 8:30 pm; edited 1 time in total
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Silent|away
Guest


 		Seem despite the whole "ignore karma" aspect, I can't actually access the thing.

I think it's just a last hurrah. It had to be done, though I wish it was done earlier.

PostPosted: Mon Nov 12, 2007 7:53 pm
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Silent|Away
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 		No, let me explain. It should be done earlier, and with player involvement. Not due to a literal "deus ex machina" plot-twist that literally ended all the ethical delimmas and quandries this game had. It could have been a fun backstabbing game, and instead, it seems we were just on rails, just waiting for the mysterious hacker with the gmail that is from the future [I forgot his name, but yeah, I know who he is] (likely not even Future Hook) to come in and save the day by crashing.

NOTHING was done by the players. At all. You can see I'm a bit upset about it. It had potential.

PostPosted: Mon Nov 12, 2007 7:56 pm
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WolfHawk
Entrenched


Joined: 15 Nov 2006
Posts: 1247
Location: St. Louis

 		Here's the text:

Quote:
Chapter 1: Deus Ex Machina

It's late afternoon, but inside 'Sam's Café' it's a dark brownish-gray that matches the pouring rain outside. It has been drenching rain for weeks and the weather feeds have promised only more to come. I am hiding from the waterlogged world at my regular table, sipping coffee from my steaming blue mug of black liquid and reflecting peacefully on my surroundings. It is dark except for the series of dim hanging cones mixed with the ambient glow of the computer monitors. Sam's is one of those retro early 20th century style places that are so fashionable nowadays. If you took everything from the 1939 "Futurama" exhibit and slapped a modern corporate logo on it, you'd pretty much have the civilized world summed up.

In here, every table sports its own tiny wireless keyboard and sugar caddy crammed with little white packets stamped "surplus". The sugar is for the coffee, but I never use it. The keyboards are for the flat screens embedded in the dark yellow wall above it like little windows into the virtual world. Unfortunately I do use that. Sam keeps the default setting at rotating art. Right now they are showing selections from early Surrealism. De Chirico I think. Most places it's a trick to avoid screaming newscasters, brainwashing commercials, or something equally disturbing. My keyboard is shoved out of the way as usual, to make room for my things, namely the steaming mug and a half-crushed open pack of stale cigarettes.

That's usually about when Bishop explodes into the place with all the grace and courtesy of a dam bursting. Today is no exception. "Sawyer!" he screeches, waving his arms at me from across the room and splattering water everywhere. "This is totally insane! You are not going to believe this one my man!" I stare into my coffee mug so as not to encourage him. It never works, but I do it anyway.

I don't remember the exact circumstances when I met Bishop. Nearly a third my age, he is a skinny twenty-something nerd with dark rimmed glasses and a contagious nervous smile. His dark brown hair is always slicked back over his sharp nose and big ears whether it's raining or not, and commendably I suppose, he is consistently clean-shaven and washed. Today of course, his skintight pullover shirt and slim-fit black jeans are soaked clean through, pushing him past 'washed' into something closer to 'drowned rat'. His black sneakers squeak on the linoleum as he stumbles towards me. He is overloaded as usual with all manner of gadgets and computer junk, but somehow he juggles well enough to prevent his thin black leather briefcase, PDA, and whatever else he has from slipping away and flying in a wet streak across the room.

I look up slowly from my cup and cast him my usual bored gaze. I haven't seen him in days but I am still sitting in the same chair and wearing the same white shirt under my gray trench coat as I had been the last time I saw him. I haven't shaved in even longer than that, and calling my defiant stubble a beard would probably be more accurate.

Bishop flops into the chair opposite me, his usual spot. His lips never stop flapping. His words are always a constant stream when he talks – a sort of throwback to the ADHD generation, but he strikes me as particularly fidgety and nervous right now. More so than usual, I suppose I should say. Honestly, though, abnormal psychology never was my area. While waiting for him to get to the point, I grab a cigarette from the table with my dominant left hand and stick it in my mouth. Jamming my fist into my coat pocket I root around for a pack of matches, but come up empty. I knew there was something I needed to pick up. I let the cigarette dangle limply and reluctantly give in to the knowledge that a conversation with Bishop is inevitable.

Sam shoots me a gaze from behind the bar. She's a handsome woman if you get down to it, always standing behind the bar, washing out multicolored mugs or cooking something up. I'd guess that her name is probably Samantha or Samara but I never bothered to ask since I'm about a quarter century too old for her anyway. She has these watchful and piercing blue eyes as if she's always standing guard for something, and I'd swear she never misses a tick. Her short platinum blonde hair and no-nonsense expression compliment her waitress' dress and light yellow apron. Right now it is painted with annoyance. I get the impression that she hates everything about Bishop, sees him as an annoying punk kid. I get the impression that she hates him more when he gets into a panicky rant.

She's a wise woman.

"What are we going to do?" he barks. "This is the third independent security registry revision this month! I mean how many times are they going to pull this crap on us? If they don't ease up on the corp pressure we may have to apply for a 725-b clearance code if we don't want to forfeit our cases to one of the mid-city security contracts before registering any more freelance!" I try not to look too interested. It isn't hard. "You have any idea what kind of licensing fines that would rack up?" He asks as though I care. "And our finances aren't exactly on the high end if you know what I mean! I mean look at this!" He wiggles in his chair as though trying to get comfortable and points at his data pad display with his skinny pale index finger. I cross my arms and make no effort to even look at it. "How many times are they going to change corporate policy before they decide... hey is that decaf?"

I take advantage of the pause while Bishop turns and motions with his thumb to Sam like a freeway hitchhiker to bring him the coffee.

"Who cares?" I say. "We don't have any cases."

"What!" Bishop snaps back to attention, his head bobbing like a carny bobble-head doll. "Well not at this exact moment, no, but you never know when we might get some, uh..."

"Overflow?" I suggest.

"Uh, yea, overflow! Exactly!" Bishop says, flashing me his skeleton smile. "Take that thing with Transcorp for example!" I stare blankly across my coffee at him. "You have to be kidding me! Sheesh Sawyer, don't you watch the news?"

"Nope." I reply "Too many synth-beer commercials."

"Oh for god's sake! Here, check this out then." The twerp touches his digital pad twice with a finger. "It just came down from the filter a few minutes ago. I caught it watching the Red District feed on the rail in." The screen on the wall flicks from a flowery garden scene to a flashy Culturecorp news article unabashedly titled 'Can Transcorp Train Cops?' The vid is of various men in their iconic grey Transcorp Security uniforms prancing around in formations looking confused and stupid as usual.

"See!" He says triumphantly, "Transcorp's flooded, can't handle the strain. Got this new problem with some fraudulent insurance claim scam or something, it's our opportunity! What I'm talking about! Get some real clients and a corp-endorsed license protocol override! Avoid the usual non-corp fines for being freelance completely. You know, the usual bull-"

Just then Sam throws down an empty orange coffee mug with complete disregard for whatever bishop is saying. In one smooth motion with her other hand, she tips a steaming river of coffee from the glass pot into it, causing him to snatch his data pad from the table and jump back in surprise. "Decaf this time?" she asks me. Her steely eyes pierce me hard. She's about had it with my little counterpart. I look back to him. He's still dripping water, wringing out his shirt onto the floor next to him as he slops back into his chair.

"No way." I say.

"You still having trouble sleeping?" she says.

"No." I lie.

Lightning flashes outside. In my head it lights up the image of a fiery-red-haired effeminate dead Priest in purple robes. His body lies sprawled on an elaborately inlaid marble floor. The man looks surprised. Possibly because an alarming amount of blood is pooling near his head. I blink away the memory of the dream.

"That's what I thought." She tells me, nodding to the pot of decaf in her hand. "This is what you need."

"You got what I need Sam." Bishop says bringing the steaming orange mug to his lips. His timing needs a little work. So does his delivery for that matter. "Give it to me baby!" He says, before taking a long draw from the cup.

Sam pours hot coffee into my mug, her expression unchanged. "I do know what you need Bishop," she says. "Here." She turns, smiles, and pours all but a little of the rest of the hot black liquid directly into Bish's lap. For the second time in a minute, he jumps up, this time sending his chair flying backwards. Hot coffee sprays from him like a wet dog. He dances around swearing and screaming like a teenage girl. I turn my head away so he won't see me smile to myself, hiding my amusement in my fresh coffee cup. Bishop is trying to wipe himself off but keeps burning his hands every time. "I've got some valuable property down there!" he whines. "Oh Damn! My Data pad!" Bishop scrambles to wipe the coffee off of his palm pilot. Sam refills Bishop's cup a quarter of the way with what little is left in the pot.

"Oops." Sam says. "Looks like I need more." She turns on her heel and walks away smiling.

"What's her problem tonight?" bishop asks me.

I look up from my mug and size up the skinny pervert before me. "The usual, I think."

"That's not funny." He says. I smile to myself all over again, but I'm unable to hide in my mug this time. Bishop doesn't notice though, he's reaching down for his briefcase. He snaps it open on the table, tapping the palm pilot twice with his finger and tossing it into the open case. The table monitor pops briefly to the Grey District's I-corp corporate logo then back to Sam's default rotating art. It's French impressionist. I forget which one. "I'm getting out of here before I get all dry or anything; let me know what you want to do about the seven-two-five and the Transcorp situation. I have to run to Spanner's anyway to see if he's got our sniffer ready, maybe say hello to the fine ladies up in Northpoint while I'm at it!"

Bishop talks himself out the door. Sam looks up at the departing Bishop with disgust. I'm wondering if she's going to throw something at him to help him along when he stops cold. "Oh yea!" he says. "Spanner told me to tell you not to put it that close to a mag-coil next time or he's double charging you an inconvenience fee. I swear I'm going to stop loaning you my toys Sawyer if you don't learn to use them properly... By the way, you have a message." Bishop points back towards the screen then leaves, clutching his briefcase to his chest. I can see him through the big window where the 'open' sign flickers. He pulls his shirt over his head, and runs out into the stormy street, nearly in the direct path of a trashy auto-cab going too fast. I turn back to the monitor. The art is gone again. I guess Big Brother has found me. My digital mailbox is up and flashing text at me. The prompt "1 new message" is displayed on the screen. I sigh, reach up and tap the screen. I know that the embedded scanner in the screen has just read the subcue chip stuck in my wrist, confirmed my identity, and told database to charge me for the four cups of black and one decaf I've drunk tonight. There goes my life savings.

The message pops onto the screen. I take a long swig of the coffee, finishing it off. The decaf tastes like socks and dirt, but I don't really even care. Finally I reach up and touch the little grey icon on the screen that causes a small printout of the message to spit out from a hidden slot under the monitor, which I snatch and stare at for a long moment. It says simply:

Deus Ex Machina,

5 p.m.

Red Line


Who am I?

_________________
Having abandoned my search for the truth I am now looking for a good fantasy.

The light at the end of the tunnel may be the headlight of an oncoming train.

PostPosted: Mon Nov 12, 2007 7:59 pm
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WolfHawk
Entrenched


Joined: 15 Nov 2006
Posts: 1247
Location: St. Louis

 		Wanna spoiler the solve for those who can't do this puzzle?
_________________
Having abandoned my search for the truth I am now looking for a good fantasy.

The light at the end of the tunnel may be the headlight of an oncoming train.

PostPosted: Mon Nov 12, 2007 8:37 pm
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TGI Fridays
Veteran


Joined: 12 Jun 2007
Posts: 123
WolfHawk wrote:
Wanna spoiler the solve for those who can't do this puzzle?


Sure,
Spoiler (Rollover to View):
Brother Theo


PostPosted: Mon Nov 12, 2007 8:51 pm
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taureanfreak
Decorated


Joined: 25 Dec 2006
Posts: 188

 		hmmm i received positive karma for my answer which was different.
Spoiler (Rollover to View):
Adam Brackin


PostPosted: Mon Nov 12, 2007 9:56 pm
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Silent
Boot

Joined: 05 Aug 2007
Posts: 56

 		Hm...

Spoiler (Rollover to View):
Adam Brackin=Brother Theo?


EDIT: Wait. Duh. My bad.

PostPosted: Mon Nov 12, 2007 9:56 pm
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