[Other] Cyberpunk: Neon Dreamers

[MrD]

@Ermine - In fast paced games I've played before on here it doesn't necessarily mean everyone is posting two or three times a week. I've usually found it's banter between the players until the GM makes a post and then the story moves on then there's banter between the players again etc etc. The GM can move the story along slowly or in leaps and bounds or even cut scenes. A player posting at a slower rate just needs to look at where the story is right at the point they need to post and not try to make a mega post that is reacting to everything that has been said and done since they last posted. The stories are always more fun looking forward rather than back...

P.S - We can't not have a Net Runner...

Errm - I say "We" not knowing if that includes me - Lol - digging hole...digging hole... hole dug!

Climbing in

[Ermine]

I'll stay, then. Give it a chance.

[Salvation]

I just started writing this up tonight but it got late so will try and finish it tomorrow. I have had the book for this for a while but have never played a game. Will be refreshing up on it quite a bit as I flesh out the background.

Kota Name: Dakota "Kota" Longshadow Role: Medtech Ethnicity: North American (Navajo descent) Personality: Dakota likes to think of himself as a calm, unshakeable presence in a world teetering on the edge of chaos. He has a measured approach to most situations regardless of pressure but makes decisions quickly when needed. His calm demeanor and methodical approach is of high value in his line of work. The quiet resilience he displays at times may seem emotionless, even detached - but this isn't the case. It's a deliberate choice and a honed skill that's taken him years to build up. He knows that calmness can often be as contagious as excitability and it's better that those around him catch the first one when he needs to focus. The emotions are there however, pushed as far down as he can manage. He'll deal with them in his own way when they catch up with him. Dakota also has a sharp mind and a quick wit when he lets it slip. A dry sense of humor makes him sometimes almost engaging, often delivering biting remarks with a deadpan that makes one question if he's joking or not. A small smile sometimes betrays the answer to that. This sort of subtle humor is sometimes used to catch those he treats off guard or offer a moment of levity in otherwise grim circumstances. One also could not call him very optimistic. His comments are often cynical, even nihilistic in a philosophical way. He doesn't really see things as black and white, good and bad. it's all just varying shades of gray leading to death in some horrible way or another. This doesn't mean he is all doom and gloom. There is a freedom to accepting the absurdity of everything in his view and saving a life here and there on his way to his own end is all he needs to keep going. Appearance: In his mid-twenties Dakota carries himself with the weight of someone who has lived through more than his share of burdens. His motions are calm and deliberate like someone who thinks carefully about what he is doing. Of mixed descent, his Native American heritage is the most prominent feature in his appearance with a strong jawline, high cheekbones and striking jet black hair which he keeps pulled back into a long, tight braid. His skin is a consistent bronze and marked by a few faint scars left over from a rough youth. His wardrobe is far more practical than flashy. The go to piece is a weathered, dark leather jacket that has clearly seen better days but still holds up against the elements. Fit for function, multiple deep pockets line the front and sides capable of holding a variety of tools or supplies as needed for most situations. The cloth trim along the edges is woven patterns of reddish orange, a range of colors that have been important to him and his heritage since he was a child. Underneath the jacket he wears simple, durable clothing. Dark shirts and pants made of materials both breathable and resistant to wear and tear. His boots are heavy, meant for rough terrain completing an understated look overall.

Help... A cramped, dimly lit back alley clinic, barely more than a hole in the wall tucked between crumbling buildings in the slums of Night City. This one not much different than any other from Kota's point of view. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant but it couldn't mask the visuals of the grime on the walls. The place had seen more blood and oil than any proper amount of cleaning supplies. Neon lights flickered through a cracked window from the street outside causing shifting patterns of pink and green across the cluttered space. The single fluorescent light fixture above buzzed like an insect and cast it's own yellowish hues over the center of the room where Kota sat on a wheeled stool. Across from him, a man sat on an examining table. Kota was part of a rotating group of medtechs, hired by local fixers to keep the residents healthy and functional. It wasn't glamorous, but it paid. Most nights were routine checkups, quick fixes and patch-ups but there was occasional excitement. Not today though, the man across from him was a regular but for some reason Kota could not recall his name. It was gnawing at the tip of his tongue but he just couldn't roll it out. The man dangled his feet off the table listlessly, rubbing at the pink tissue around his cyberarm with a look of discomfort. The buzzing above cut out briefly as the fluorescent light flickered off and back on. Kota's eyes glanced up at it distractedly before returning his attention to the patient. "I told you last time, if you keep pushing that arm past its limits you're going to end up in here every week," his tone light but matter of fact. The man gave a low chuckle and shook his head slightly, "Yeah yeah I hear ya doc but I got no choice. This thing keeps me workin and I gotta pick up every shift I can get." The man's words sounded distant somehow, almost muffled and echoing in Kota's ears in a way that made him blink rapidly. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose and rub his eyes. He must be tired he thought... and why couldn't he remember the man's name? The ambient buzzing stopped and the fluorescent light flicked off and back on again. Again Kota looks up at it distractedly, agitation creeping into his mood. He took a breath to calm himself and looked back at the man just to realize he had been talking to him the whole time. "...and that's why I say ya crank this thing up for me. Listen, one of the guys at the shop was tellin me you can get these new nanoflexors or something or other pretty cheap and... smdkeoos fffff..." the man's words began trailing off into gibberish. Kota narrowed his eyes and tensed slightly. The man's mouth was moving normally as if he was talking just fine but none of it made any sense to him now. The light flickered off and on again. Something was wrong. Kota was standing now, face twisting in concerned confusion as he watched the patient still prattling on nonsensically. Only now, his skin was peeling off slowly. The layers were falling away in curled strips to reveal a dull metallic sheen underneath. The garbled words were now disrupted by occasional whirs, clicks and screeches. The skin on his face began to crack violently as plates of metal pushed through and his entire form became almost a complete transformation from man to machine in a matter of minutes. Kota tried to back away and put his hands up defensively but his body wasn't responding. He glanced down, biting back the wave of panic rising through him. His fingers, once flesh and bone, were now fused with medical instruments. The skin morphing into polished chrome and melding into clamps and scalpels. Whirring gears and intertwining cables began to reveal themselves where his arms used to be. He could still feel his breath coming out in short hypertensive beats matching the hammering in his chest but his body was foreign to him. He could only wait and watch helplessly as the transformation continued. The patient stared back at him with red eyes glowing like ominous stars and the metallic maw that once was a mouth rasped out a grating plea to him. "Help..." Kota wanted to scream a response even if all he could mutter was an echo of the same plea but his face was now a smooth, unfeeling mask of metal. He was no longer human, no longer himself. The whispers started then, from deep within where his biomonitor still functioned. They layered over each other like static growing louder and louder until it dominated his entire conscious mind. He strained to make out the words caught like tiny droplets of water in the rush of hurricane like winds. Everything suddenly went black. The next image he saw as the light slowly trickled in from the fringes of his mind's eye was a face. Wrinkled leather stretched too thin over strong, stern features. White hair streaked with gray was pulled back from a high brow and a single reddish orange feather was tucked behind his ear. The face looked familiar - like kin. He felt his body again but it was different like that of a child. He felt small and new to the world, vulnerable. The elder man had a twinkle in his eye as he looked down at him and he uttered a single phrase. "Come, we have to leave this place yázhí"

History and getting to Graveyard Dakota Longshadow was born into a life on the move, part of a displaced Navajo tribe that had traced it's origins to a reservation in the west before the Red. His earliest memories, though very distant and hazy, are of dusty roads and ever-changing landscapes. Though he was too young then to understand much, he remembers his father as a medicine man for the convoy they travelled with. There are flashes of violence in those memories that he remembers less well. It's all a scattered mess until his formative years running with a group of scavengers on the fringes of Night City. He got roughed up pretty bad in a turf conflict and found himself in a long stint of recovery at a ripper clinic in the care of a Dr Reyes. The doctor installed a biomonitor and kept a close watch on him for several weeks. When Kota finally regained his strength he became acutely aware of the debt he owed. The only way he could pay it was through labor and so he started doing odd jobs at the clinic. Dr. Reyes became impressed with his sharp wit and curiosity and began training him as an assistant which he took to immediately. The rough edges of his nomad and scavenger life began to fade, replaced by the precision and routine of the clinic. As a young adult, he started taking more lucrative work in the city as a practicing medtech. He found a small, affordable apartment in the slums and found an easy routine of picking up shifts at various low profile facilities. His reputation as a reliable street doctor who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut started getting him more attention from some underworld types. There were some questionable decisions made then but he wanted the experience, especially on the trauma side. For a while he was part of a group of responders who only got the call when the official response was out of the question. He kept his head down and his interactions strictly professional. He knew his place in the city's shadows and was comfortable with it. He helped people survive, that was it. The existential and moral implications were never something he delved into too deeply. Then the dreams started. At first it was just a mild discomfort he attributed to long hours and light sleep. They started to become more vivid, more confusing and he started waking up abruptly in a cold sweat. Then it was the whispers, like subtle sounds scrambled in static, that started to stay with his conscious mind long after waking. They were faint and unintelligible but persistent. He'd hear them when tending to patients sometimes and have to settle himself to regain focus. He thought he might be losing his mind. He never told anyone about them. The only real reason for that is he felt like they would eventually just go away as long as he didn't acknowledge them. If he could just push through and keep his head clear it would be fine. What made that more difficult was when patients started telling him about their dreams. All very similar to his own in the scope of their vividness and visceral sensation. Some even mentioned hearing whispers also. He would let them divulge as much or as little as they wanted but he always stopped just short of mentioning his own experiences. It wasn't until those same patients started disappearing that he started to get actually worried. He started asking questions, using his contacts in the underworld to find answers. He always assumed he would avoid ever being a target for anything but it became clear to him that whatever was happening to him was happening to others. He had no choice now, he had to get out... to get to this Graveyard of all places. He used those same contacts to help him get out though he doesn't know how they did it. It took most of his savings paid up front and he had to be unconscious. It was quite the leap of faith but it was better than waiting for the corpos to pick him up.

Friends Having survived a month since his arrival in the Graveyard, Kota would very easily fall into a similar routine as he had in his old life. A steady, reliable medical professional. His reputation is something he builds off competence as opposed to charm and though he isn't the most socially outgoing person he has a natural manner of getting along with people. He doesn't often engage in long conversations unless it's practical or meaningful which has done much to establish great rapport with other techs like Cazual, Ash and doctors like borrowing the NPC from Ritz's writeupPenelope but doesn't serve as well for actual "friendships". He does have social moods at times and often seeks out people he can match wits with. His dry and often subtle dead pan humor doesn't hit everyone in the best way. I could see him probably having good encounters sharing a drink with any of the other characters. Aside from that he's grown fond of Marcus, an older man who used to be a convoy medic with a group of nomads before his body started failing. The old man has a considerable shake in his right hand and isn't much use with it anymore. He's a good soundboard and offers advice from a long life of experience from time to time which Koda appreciates.

[Salvation]

I think Kota should be complete. Please let me know if I missed anything.

[Ermine]

Dakota was the name of a little girl I babysat once. She said her name as Kota. It was adorable.

As for this one, I like him.

[Salvation]

Originally Posted by Ermine

Dakota was the name of a little girl I babysat once. She said her name as Kota. It was adorable.

As for this one, I like him.

That's a fun coincidence lol. It's such a great name, a lot of history behind it.

[TheSoftWord]

Woah, this looks so cool! Did you get your fill of players, Drinkslosta?

[Drinkslotsa]

There's still room, I'm gonna keep it open until the 15th, I'm happy to see more people submit

[WallmartGnome]

If you still have space, I'm working on an idea for a Media.

Because if the Corps are making innocent people vanish, someone's gotta stand up and ask the question : Where the hell are the Corps finding Innocent People in Night City?

[Drinkslotsa]

Damn, you found the flaw in my game plot

[ratchett]

Originally Posted by Ermine

I'll stay, then. Give it a chance.

Yay!

[WallmartGnome]

Originally Posted by WallmartGnome

If you still have space, I'm working on an idea for a Media.

I'm going to have to tap out on this one.

My concept for a Media character fell to bits halfway through trying to fit them into the game premise and I'm flat zero on any other ideas.

[Drinkslotsa]

That's a shame, but if you feel that way I get it. See you on the other side choom

[Effete]

Application Name: Ash Role: Tech Ethnicity: North American, mixed Personality: Having grown up in an environment where quick decisions often meant the difference between living to see the next downpour or being disected by scavvers, Ash tends to have little patience for idleness. He is a man of action, more than comfortable leaving the thinking to others. He's not particularly burdened by ethics, nor does he champion any causes beyond whatever allows him survive for the day. While Ash lacks the temperment needed in a leader, he is by no means a follower either; he's just astutely aware that working as a team is a mutually beneficial arrangement. Appearance: Grungy wisps of hair protrude from a knotted rat's nest like some kind of punkrock floor mop as a lean face peers out with calculating eyes. Clothing-wise, nothing remarkable distinguishes Ash from any other leatherclad hoodlum. Backstory: Ash had always been street scum. He was street scum as a child and he's street scum now. His parents were street scum of the worst kind: activists. Not Edgerunners. They were the ineffective type of activist. You know, those idealistic dreamers that stand outside of corpo buildings shouting, thinking that would generate some kind of change? Well, it don't matter anymore cos they're dead now. Blown to atoms by the nuke that took out the old Arasaka towers. Ash watched it happen from a distance, feeling nothing for the parents who had long since abandoned him for their lofty causes. The juvie gang he ran with was his family now, more so than ever before. One gang led to another, and then to another. Things moved fast in the aftermath of the 4th Corpo War, and if you didn't swim with the tide, you got dashed upon the rocks. With supply chains failing and markets collapsing, Ash developed a knack for salvaging old tech and rigging it up to work. Over the years he's made a small name for himself, at least amongst the gutter slime of Night City. Then things got weird. Rumors began drifting through the Net, or whispered in shady corners of bars. A lot of it was nonsense. It had all the trappings of another corpo psyop... until Ash started having dreams. The First Dream: Night City glittered and gleamed far below. Like so many things in dreams, it was Night City, but yet it wasn't. It was different. Ash could see the whole of the city; the ring of megatowers at the center, the sodium glow of the beavervilles & the neon haze of downtown, contrasted sharply by the empty darkness of the combat zones. Suddenly, Ash realized he was falling. Faster and faster the city rushed toward him. He tried to look away but couldn't. Then he recognized where he falling toward. The twin spires of the old Arasaka building were directly below him, approaching fast! Ash whizzed past the lip of the roof, missing it by a yard. Down on the street a crowd had gathered, shouting and waving placards. All but two. Their faces were turned up, smiling, watching Ash plummet to the ground helplessly. He saw his parents silently mouth in unison, "welcome home," just before a blinding flash and a burst of cacophonic static jolted him awake. Friends: Doctor Stu had been the patchman Ash ran to whenever he needed a slug pulled out of his shoulder or a piece of chrome tuned up. Incidentally, once the corpos started gunning for Ash, Doctor Stu was the guy who retrofitted his chrome with expensive third-party upgrades... upgrades that Ash couldn't afford, so he worked out a deal with the good ripperdoc to pay him back later. Before he ghosted Night City and shambled his way into The Graveyard, Ash was a member of the Brickbats, a small streetgang mostly known for petty theft and hooliganism. Ash is unsure how his abrupt disapparance would be met if he ever shows up again, especially since the leader, a dorph-fiend by the name of Gnasher, isn't known for being very level headed. Still, a few of the other members may be willing to help Ash out in a pinch.

[Drinkslotsa]

Alright, I think we have enough apps, I'll close it here and start looking through more thoroughly and sending invites with hooks and stuff, thank you everyone!