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About Critias

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  • Birthday 21/09/1977

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  • Location
    Newport, KY
  • Interests
    I'm a big fan of character driven, detail-oriented, short-fiction-lookalike, role play. I also love tossing around dice. I'm the best of both worlds! <br><br>I dig the desperate style of Cyberpunk, the dazzling neon lights flashing off chromed arms and swallowed by gunblued weapons, the death lottery, the boostergangs, the cheap life and expensive death, the style over substance of it all.
  1. Cop. Which, I guess, makes sense (since I'm handling the paperwork to get into the Academy right now).
  2. Critias


    Knock the b*tch out, kill anyone else who opens their eyes at you. Easy enough. Jace's smartlink triggers his smg to release it's ammo as he listens to the instructions; an old habit to visually check his clip before anything hits a fan. The sharp snack[/i] of the clip sliding back home is timed neatly with the end of a sentence, keeping him from earning any glares. As pictures change and explanations and descriptions are completed, he repeats the process with the blocky Malorian at the small of his back -- his gargoyle eyes him as he squirms to reach the pistol, and he gets the feeling it likes watching people wriggle and contort themselves. He's as loaded as he can be. Two full 10mm clips, his 3516 has five in the clip and one in the tube, 14 millimeters each just waiting to introduce themselves to someone. His taser weapon seems to be ready to go, as well, but Jace knows it won't be the first thing he levels at an enemy. "Where are they in the building? Where's anyone else?" He shoots the lead-man in this truck a raised eyebrows glance, asking the first and almost the only question that comes to mind. "Do we have basic locations of targets, plan of attack, who's gonna go where?" His steel-eyed gaze flicks around the others in his van, still not sure exactly how he's going to fit in once the lead starts flying.
  3. Critias


    Jace lets himself get manhandled -- enough to show he wasn't a pussy, not enough to show he's not gonna stick up for himself -- throughout the loading and equipping process, well indoctrinated by that point in his life with the ability to take verbal sh*t if it means getting a gun in his hand. He's not too sure about the bulky toy gun riding in a nylon tac-holster across his front, but he knows he's willing to get snarled at in exchange for the reassuringly sturdy MPK11 he's carrying. It's not his flavor of choice -- a nice tactical shotgun would make his night -- but it's close enough. He got just as much range time with the compact assault weapons as anyone else, and the stint he served cross training for boarding actions made sure he got to use them a few times, too. He keeps his Malorian holstered at the small of his back, though, all the same. He trusts it for a backup gun far more than the taser point-and-click he'd been handed. Then, of course, come the dark vans. He files towards them with everyone else, unconsciously getting into step with the -- man? -- in front of him. In a matter of seconds, he's clambering up into the van, offering a hand to the shooter in line behind him, and strapping himself into a seat. He didn't know where they were going, but he didn't have to. He just had to know what to do when they got there. And the guns were a bit of a hint.
  4. Sorry for my unannounced absence. My gramps passed away and I spent five days or so out in Oregon with the family for the private services, etc, etc. I'll be able to post something later today, most likely -- I haven't checked the IC part yet, but I hope I wasn't slowing anything down too much.
  5. Critias


    QUOTE (malek77 @ Jan 21 2005, 04:42 AM) Jace : "There is another thing. Kiri's a strange place, strange alliances form here. The Yeng syndicate. An amalgam of Yakuza and Triad, marriage may be involved, but money mostly. It smells like a partnership born of dockyard desperation. As you can see..." he nods to Misha. "They're rather...Unpleasant. Payment is negotiable on skill. We're looking at $500 for a single night playing muscle? - unless you have a better idea, and Mr.Luomba seemed to think you might..." Rubber bullets. F*ck that. Jace would carry them, he'd even load them into whatever-would-be-his-primary tonight. He'd shoot them at the naughty boy, when they catch him. But he knows, just like every other hunter on this team's gotta know, it won't be all he's carrying with him. He shakes his head, slightly, at the assumption he'd have something else in mind. "To be honest, I'm fine with straight muscle work. Tonight." He knows he should negotiate. He knows it's expected. He also knows, however, that he's not going to oversell himself for a quick cash grab, and maybe f*ck this whole operation up. He doesn't know how long he'll be here, he doesn't know very many people, and he sees this as a chance to make a few friends for being honest, as much as anything else. He shrugs, metal shoulder smoother and a little quicker than his meat one. "I don't know the place, don't know the people, as well as I should to be a real hunter. I'll tag along, I'll help outgun whoever needs outgunning, and maybe I'll learn a thing or two about the area in the meantime. But I'm afraid straight up muscle's all I'll be much good for, this far from...my regular work environment." He glances at the girl again, looks away. The military-surplus-styled flak vest is worn more for looks than raw functionality; it was fine for his night on the town, but not what he'd want for an actual muscle job. "I'll either need some time to get to my hotel and grab some stuff, or I'll drop the price by fifty bucks if you lemme borrow some stuff. A decent jacket or maybe a longcoat, a shotgun that'll fit under it. Flash bang or two, if you've got 'em." "Otherwise, all I've got's my Malorian. And these Yeng Syndicate guys, they sound like they might want more than a pistol for me to earn my keep."
  6. Critias


    QUOTE (malek77 @ Jan 18 2005, 10:12 PM) Critias & Sophia : "Mr.Luomba has stateside contacts who mentioned you were on Kiri' and vouched for your authenticity. He's interested in negotiating your terms and adding you to a small hunting party he is assembling to redress the wrongs done tonight. We will assist in concealing your identity, but can provide an immediate exit if secrecy cannot be preserved. If you are not interested, he extends his apologies and offers you a bar tab for your time. What shall I tell him?" Casa' whispers in rapid fire negotiators terms, the comic piratical eloquence subsumed by urgency. Jace was, technically speaking on vacation. He'd "seen the world" during his six-year stint, allright, and certain parts of it had struck him simply as good places to take off to, lay low in, and use as hidey-hole vacation spots if he ever got into trouble. He hadn't been actively planning on becoming a professional criminal at the time, of course, but he hadn't exactly been surprised when a few job offers had showed up shortly after his discharge, and... That's all besides the point. Jace had been a willfull donor of his eyes. He'd gone to a Chiba-Oakley clinic, had new 'optics put in, and had his old ones donated -- supposedly -- to people who refused cybernetic implantation but still needed help seeing. He'd been put under, put under deep, before the surgery. He'd stayed under for a long time, and he'd then had professional therapy about the changes he was going through, about what he'd lost, about... ...but this girl? This girl'd had hers just plain torn up, torn out, by some sick f*ck in the middle of a dance floor. She might have done something to piss someone off, but she didn't deserve something like this. Jace knew some guys who might deserve something like this. Might. This girl, though, didn't have that look to her. He tears his gaze away, takes in the offer for what it is, and nods. He was supposed to be on vacation. Vacation was over. "How small's the hunting party, how big's the paycheck, and what are we supposed to do once we find him?" The tone is clipped, now. Devoid of the slur he'd been affecting earlier, wiped clean of the frat-boy tones, the partygoer slang. Professional. Crisp. Cold. Dangerous.
  7. I don't play on here (or anywhere else on-line) instead of playing table-top. I do both. I play on-line to get my fix during the week when my friends and I all have horribly confliction schedules, and then I'm all primed and ready and full of ideas for when it comes time to sit down and toss dice on the weekends. In addition, I like playing on-line because it's essentially less like a game, and more like cooperatively writing short fiction, which can be good stuff.
  8. Cast of Characters: Kalinsky, Alexander, "Sasha." Straight-up Solo, for the moment, though I'm going to work on integrating and/or updating to get into the official "covert ops" or "assassin" archetypes, by training for Combat Sneak, etc. Russian born, in his mid/late twenties, trained by ex-KGB and Spetznaz who'd found work as the training cadre for a German covert/anti-covert "security firm." I'm having a blast with him, mostly trying to find a balancing act between spook and commando (with the other players relying on me to fill both roles well). Good with pistols and rifles, above-competent in Sanbo (knives, garrottes, and all), and rounded out decently (3-4 points each) with stealth, awareness/notice, and a handfull of social oriented skills. I started the game wearing a rumpled suit and carrying a one-shot heavy pistol in my pocket, with a suitcase and matching briefcase full of Gibson Battlegear, an assault rifle, and two kilos of C-6. Desperate to put space between himself and his former employes, he'd hitched from Boston (the location of his sold-out and betrayed last operation) to Night City...where he met... "Logan," real name unknown (to me). She's a crazy little half-Thai half-Canadian chick with a Body higher than my Russian commando. Solo, with emphasis on close combat. Muscle aug out the wazoo, wolvers, skinweave, and a martial art (one my character didn't recognize) at 8 or so. For the moment she works as a bouncer at a strip joint, above which lives... "Gadget," real name unknown (to me). A grease-covered tomboy in a wifebeater and denim coveralls, sporting a heavy pistol or two tucked into her toolbelt alongside who-knows-what doohickeys and tools. I know she's a techie, though I'm admittedly unsure yet as to whether she's a medtechie or straight-up techmonkey. She's good at patching people up, good at patching tech up, but hasn't had a chance to really shine yet in the game. She's also fairly skilled (6 or a 7, I think) in Cybertech and design. I know she's got no skill at demolitions (leaving it to me to have to fumble with, with a good skill but an average Tech score -- I'm waiting for that to blow up in our faces, literally). And, last, "Goto." Our crazy-ass Netrunner. On a whim, the GM decreed that he'd done 'Net overwatch for one or two of Sasha's old ops, as a freelancer doing local support for Sasha's old company. The two of us started off vaguely knowing each other (though never face to face before), which has built into a fairly solid working relationship and budding friendship/respect, despite our amazing differences. Goto routes money for Sasha, back to his parents in Moscow. Sasha threw away Goto's shitty purple plastic handgun, and replaced it with a Sternmeyer P-35 and a few lessons in it's use (once the opportunity presented itself). Our GM has been...heavily modifying the Netrunning rules, since he's a comp-wiz in real life, and is bothered by the amount of time some stuff takes, etc, etc. As a result, we all (even Goto's player) agree that it's been overdone a bit, as the Netrunner has largely dominated a few sessions with his boosted abilities and lowered difficulties. We're trying to find a balance. In the meantime? Well, we killed about eight Inquisitors in an act of random street violence (directed at us, deflected by a flash-bang and Sasha emptying his two-shot handgun at them, then taking the pistol of the dead Inquisitor and dropping most of them while they still couldn't see -- Logan cleaned up the other two). We got a few jobs from the infamous Bag Lady (one of which paid a whole one-hundred Eurobucks, to smash up a punk who'd disrespected her, but not quite kill him). That involved assaulting his pawn shop and taking down three bodyguards, any one of which was on par with the best we had (all three were Solos), wherein we got very lucky and headshots saved our ass. Fun stuff, and all done for just a hundred bucks, thanks to Gadget smarting off about what sounded like a fair price. We got to grab "1d6 times 100" in random electronics or jewelry on our way out, after Logan smashed open the display case with the punk's face, on our way out. Ahh, good times. Our last job was a bit more impressive, though. It takes a bit more detail than I can get into in a short paragraph, but the short of it is we got hired to defend K-RAB (a local underground radio station) for one month as extra security. I asked who he thought was after him during the negotations, we found out which gang a minor corp was paying to take them out... and then, the four days we had before it was time to show up for "work" (thirty days of paid room and board was very important to our mostly-homeless group), we scouted around, found out more about the Boostergang in question, spent three days planning, scouting, and interrogating a few Boosters we snatched -- and the night before we were to report for guard duty, we wiped out the gang to the last man, torched all their cars and bikes and boats (except for one, which our Techie swiped and drove to meet our boss on his houseboat). That one? That one I'm proud of. Mostly because we were (all told) tackling a twenty-strong Boostergang (all of which were created as starting-level characters, same as us at that point)... and we did it in just two sessions, missing one player (the techie first session, the other Solo wasn't there for the actual assault!) each time. And we wrapped up the last session by my character putting out some feelers to local Corps, looking to hire on as a semi-long term freelancer. He craves the stability and access to gear he had fairly recently, and (most of all) needs to have a steady income so he can feed money back to his folks in Moscow. The resume was sweetened up with some hacked satellite feed of our three-man assault on a Boostergang's safehouse (once Goto made sure the picture was too fuzzy to make out faces or anything)... and the GM? That bastard. That bastard GM ended the session by grinning at me, and letting me know Zetatech had responded with a full-time job offer. They were trying to expand, they were impressed with my knowledge of Europe and my activities there, they liked that I was already multilingual and largely equipped for reasonable covert activities (no big blocky 'ware on my character at all), and they were interested in further interviews before, perhaps, offering me a position and some additional training. They mentioned they were wanting to speak to the other individuals involved in the operation I'd shown them, and that they may have work for any and all of us. The GM even assured me it wouldn't derail or ruin the game for one (or all) of us to "make it big," and find pretty steady work. So, right -- it's great for the whole group, right? A company specializing in headware (Gadget can get work) and hardware/software design (Goto can get work), who's very interested in security consultants and combat trainers (Logan could hire on as a part-time martial arts instructor)... a company with (according to the book) 12 covert ops. A company that wants to expand into Europe, letting us use some sourcebooks we haven't used before, letting my character excel at his multi-lingual covert ops stuff, making my character a fairly valued and important part of their covert operations task force... Oh. Zetatech. Right. And he mentioned, in passing, that I got an offer from Arasaka, too. Before I could say anything, he just grinned and slapped his book shut, forcing me to sweat over it for two weeks before I can ask him anything else. Bastard.
  9. Critias


    QUOTE (malek77 @ Jan 18 2005, 09:49 AM) Sophia & Jace : Mr.Castor - aka Casa' - looks comically mollified by Sophia's comments and flutters his lacey collars as he shoos her into the small office just past the end of the bar, near the corner of the whole floor. "Please ignore my 'employee's' comments, it gives the devil pleasure to have her tease us and so we must submit. In, now." he shoves Sophia through the black curtain over the door and hooks it aside on an iron clasp. Lyssa stifles a moment of hysteria, and is soon making herself comfortable on the corner of a filing cabinet in Danté's office. It was a cubical concrete room, wallpapered with band posters of angry young men with greasy hair and alcohol adverts showing a dominatrice in an ecstatic coma of black bubbles promised by the beverage's manufacturer. The desk over in the corner is vanishing under mounds of paperwork and a quaint computer system blowing tendrils of dust from a wire air vent on the back and beaming its images into the rectangular lenses of a gaunt youth who hammers at the keys with great urgency. He doesn't look up. Jace is just inside when a fwuhmp clack scratches the concrete just behind him. A Gargoyle had just landed outside the door - a leathery wingtip and a corsetted flank are all you can see past the chiselled concrete jamb, leading down to a copper heeled pair of boots. "My apologies, Mr.Jace, for our overly cautious manner but you have unfortunately caught us at a very bad moment." Casa' pulls out a mobile/pda, and picks through files with a badly painted black nail. "We alone of all the establishments on this island do not intrusively surveil all our customers, merely those who abuse the privelige of such a freedom and we'd like to ask if you recognise this man?" Casa' turns the elaborately shelled pda/mobile to face you, revealing an image on the unfolded 3"x5" inch screen of the rough hewn male features with a thick black ponytail, a few hours of stubble and a grim expression, devoid of background. fyi : Player choice time! The image is of Pete our grenade wielding messenger. Since Jace is an Edger, he may have come across Pete before. Pete is a relatively new operator on Kiri', Jace is most likely from State-side (the US). It's your choice - do you know him and want to make a background between him and you or not? Either way, I smell business opportunity... Jace figures the best answer to all the sassy chick's taunting is to let it slide. It doesn't do to get all bent outta shape 'cause some mouth tease -- "She's prob'ly a dyke anyways," -- wants to flash some cleavage then get all sarcastic. He's about to be offered some business, most likely, of the sort that a cyberarm and a 3516 attract. He's not going to lose his cool right before someone plans on offering him a...job... Yup. There's the pitch. His steel-grey eyes take in the picture, not in a jock-casual glance, but with the hard eyed memorization of someone who knows a thing or two about piercing the veil that chemicals drape over you. He'd had to fight doped up a time or two before, and he'd certainly learned a long time ago when to take himself out of first gear and get his sh*t together. His gaze slides up and down the picture, then left to right, taking in the cheekbones rather than the facial hair, the hairline rather than the hair length or color, the spacing and shape of the eyes rather than their shade. He jumps backwards in time -- in his head, it's how he best focuses his memory -- and takes in the features he's seen over dimly lit tables and past hazes of smoke, the faces he's recognize from the other end of smg's or the eyes he's seen lining up handgun shots. Nothing. Back farther, quickly, almost half-heartedly, doing his best to remember men he'd locked up during his time as a Naval Master-at-Arms, grudges people might hold, maybe even resemblences to indicate it was a family matter. Nothing. It's accidental, really, as he blinks twice and flips himself back to the present -- dancing, the drinking, the gargoyles (like the one just behind him), the bouncers and their flash-intimidating eyes, the Gothgirls and Vampboys in the club, the... ...he glances up at the picture again, suddenly certain. "He was in here tonight, wasn't he?" Jace knew that much, remembered that much in a flash of razor-sharp memory and detail. It was the eyes. He'd seen those eyes, not really paying attention, brushing past someone as he'd muscled his way onto the dance floor an hour ago. Jace knew that much, but it was time for an educated guess, and impress-the-new-boss-and-the-hot-girls leap of logic and faith. "Maybe has somethin' to do with all that hubbub a couple minutes ago?" Mentally, Jace crosses the fingers of his lucky hand. His plastic and kevlar hand. His killing hand, his strong one, his cold and hard and professional one. His meat hand wouldn't help him in a back room like this, looking at pictures like this. The Smash and Diesel had to be pushed aside, the clubgoing mindset had to be squashed like a bug. He had to find he focus he'd had three nights ago, killing men like they were profile targets at the range. "But, no. I don't recognize him, not really. Not before tonight. Saw him on the floor, before the...disruption." His eyes flash metal as they flip from the picture to the man presenting it to him. "Why?"
  10. Can the explanation happen somewhere else? I'd really hate for the whole thing going on here to degenerate into name-calling or flame wars or whatever, and it sounds like it's a touchy subject.
  11. Critias


    QUOTE (malek77 @ Jan 15 2005, 11:54 PM) Jace : QUOTE "I dig Diesel allright. 'Less you want it?" Lyssa looks down at him, then jumps off the shelf and smiles, still a little nervous. The crowd near you is beginning to chatter, tension easing. Lots of amazed swearing and 'remarks', boots and heels squeaking on the floor as they dissipate inwards to dance again on an unprecedented adrenalin high... "He's going now...mm? Oh...no, it's alright. I'll get my own -" she bends beneath the faux-granite counter and reappears with a champagne glass and a bottle with a chrome pressure spout - "I'm not supposed to drink on the job but Casanova can't sack me else he'd never hear about Sophie's parties...what kind of music do you like Mr...?" "Jace. Name's Jace, no 'mister,' though." He finishes his half-forgotten bottle of Smash, sliding the empty glass a little across the bar towards her, making it easier for her to toss it out. "And I dig just about anything, really. Rock, mostly. Can't beat an electric guitar and a set of quad-synthamps, y'know?" He reaches out and claims the stray Diesel glass as his own, edging it towards him atop the bar but not taking a drink just yet. [Edit to add: Crap, sorry! You must'a posted while I was typing. Adding this next bit, to respond to the summons.] Then she comes back. The one who'd run off at the start of whatever-sort-of-crisis-t-was, like Superman, to only then come back as soon as stuff had started to mellow out again. And, apparently, he was..being... Two hundred bucks, to follow both of 'em into some secret back room? Sounds good to him! He scoops up the Diesel, slams it down, and nods. "Lead the way, sugar," and swaggers off with the pair of them. The night was looking up. He lets pleasant mental images roll through his mind during the walk towards the back, enjoys the warm glow spreading throughout his body -- almost enough to trigger his synthair again -- from his drinks and whatever extra goodies were mixed in, and generally feels that tonight was gonna be allright, after all. "Oh. And the name's Jace."
  12. Critias


    "I, uh..." Jace has crashed and burned before. I mean, everyone has. Even a pretty boy like him, enhanced musculature, style-chromed eyes, and all. He's been let down pretty hard. But, the almost-casual dismissal, the assurance he wasn't gonna score, and the turned back and brisk walk away? In the middle of some security emergency or not, that one didn't leave a fella with much to say. "I'll...see ya." The words were only half out of his lips when the latex-clad super-security started swinging from rafters and hissing at people, flashing their own chill-chrome cyberoptics and generally looking just plain freakin' creepy. Jace dug this place 'cause Goth chicks were easy, tight clothes were tight clothes, and the UV lights made flashes of synth-pale skin easy as hell to spot. He liked girls, (most) girls liked him, and girls dug joints like Dantes. He wasn't a Goth, he didn't pretend to be, and...and...that crap's just weird. He'd killed -- he was pretty sure -- about eight people, in the few "special jobs" he'd been on. He'd grown up in the twenty-teens just like most other folks in the club, and he didn't consider himself squeamish, or easily shocked. But the special super-ninja security things here were just, plain, messed, up. So he doesn't do anything stupid, for a bit. He ignores the bartender -- for a few seconds, once she starts leaning in he can't help but dip his cyber-Oakleys a bit -- and ignores the proferred drink and does what he can to listen in to the crazy announcements. He doesn't hoot, holler, and roar like everyone else, though. He scans the crowd for people who don't fit in. I mean, Goths are all a little nutso, but they're more likely to write a poem and cut out their own eyes than to go bonkers and slice out someone else's. The description given over the speakers doesn't fit a Goth, Jace's general description doesn't fit a Goth, and outsiders make easy prey. He keeps his back to the bar, and his good hand -- his plastic and titanium one -- slips to the small of his back, making sure no one near him was only half-listening and decides that 'tall, muscular' is enough of a description and decides to gank him. Then all sorts of crazy sh*t sounds like it's going down, but he can't tell, he can't see, he can't hear, and he can't quite bring himself to care. He's still having trouble processing -- a lot had happened in the last forty five seconds, Smash hit your frontal lobe like a freight train, and...and...had Lyssa been flirting with him, leaning down like that on purpose? Climbing onto that shelf and stretching onto her tip-toes showed off more midriff than normal, and she had to know it put her cleavage right at face level, and... "Oh. Yeah." He turns fully from the wackiness that's erupting, or, rather, simmering, behind him. His chromed hand reaches for the glass settled in front of him, and the UV lights flash on his white smile as he actually manages to look casual. "I dig Diesel allright. 'Less you want it?" Hey. When in doubt, be cool. And Jace was in all kinds of doubt. His night on the town to celebrate a big job had gone all sideways-crazy.
  13. Just sneaking on from work (and trying not to get fired for it) -- I'm having some issues with my internet connection at home at the moment, I should be able to post again soon. EDIT -- And there ya go. A post, as promised. Sorry for it being so long, but I had lots of stuff to react/respond to. Hope it wasn't too bad a read for anyone who took the time.
  14. Anyone tried the new Deus Ex game? PS2 or X-Box, that seems to be fairly recent?
  15. One of my friends -- or, rather, a wife of a friend -- is horrible about her walkthrough habit. What gets me the most, is that she uses them for RPGs, and then insists she's some really cool "gamer chick." I mean, what the hell? Any fool can buy the walkthrough for Suikoden or Final Fantasy (insert number here), and then feel all clever for beating the game. But when you're literally playing through the entire disc with the guidebook in your lap, obediently doing whatever it says to do on each page, equipping what it says to equip, etc... why bother? Why not just read through the book, save the $50 on the game, and call it a job well done? Truth be told, that chick's half the reason I don't use walkthroughs. It's like having a friend that dies of a drug OD, being your constant reminder not to shoot up, or something. You see what you might be like, and it steers you away from even dabbling.
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