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goneawayworld2020-12-30 10:52 pm
goneawaymod) wrote in goneawayworld2020-12-30 10:52 pm
Entry tags:
MOVING AND SHAKING
Who: The NPCs
What: Having a party.
Where: The Rig, Executive Area.
When: Not important.
Warnings/Notes: None.
The tree had once been millenia old. Nearly three thousand. It had been the largest living thing on the planet. Jorgmund CEO Humbert Pestle had ordered General Sherman the ancient sequoia cut down so that he could have a slab of it used as his table for meetings. Thirty-six feet and six inches in diameter at its widest, Pestle had no use for the rest of the wood and sold it off for lumber.
We tell you this to let you know what kind of man the CEO is.
Here he sits, this man of power, his round table surrounded by other high-powered executives, discussing profits, markets, and lesser things such as human lives and the fate of the world, through cigar smoke and fine brandy. Among their number are Drs. Fust, Boyle, Lillian, and Glotfelty.
"-they've had their adjustment period," he's saying. "And so far they've failed to adjust to our preferred culture. What're you thinking, Fust?"
Fust leans back in her chair, listening to the ice in her glass clink as she swirls the amber fluid around in it. "With all due respect, it's like I said from the start, sir. We've ended up with a group of rebels and individualists. Getting their cooperation so unwillingly from the start sabotages any effort we might make. Even the ones who are naturally inclined to lead or follow will resist us, with the exception of the gynoid. But she's, quite frankly, more intelligent than anyone in our organization except for perhaps the Brainiac alien or the android. Smart enough to mislead us if she wished."
"She won't," Pestle says.
"All due respect, sir-"
He interrupts her with a wave of his hand. "She understands that we're simply the best choice humanity has. Her programming won't allow her to betray us, not in any way that matters. The best she can do is try to circumvent us in little ways, things that make her comrades think she's doing something to improve their lives. The only danger where she's involved is Dox, and he respects artificial 'life' too much to change that. Put her out of your worries."
Fust hesitates, then nods. "To continue what I was saying, while they're loners, they're also stronger than most loners. This isn't a collection of Lubitsches, who could be broken if we leaned hard enough. Anything strong enough to do that for the majority of them would simply make them useless to us in the future. And make the staff... uncomfortable." She scoffs, joined by sensible chuckles around the table. "But a one-eighty would simply make people suspicious. I'd suggest, instead, starting to make life better for weak links and focus on turning single individuals to our side while maintaining the current, though ineffectual, treatment with the others."
Pestle glances to Dr. Lillian, who has no hint of her usual hippy-dippy manner. Not a trace of her usual ditziness remains in her reply. "I concur with Dr. Fust. The stick failed, it's time to work the carrot and create some fractures in their little community."
At the arching of an eyebrow, Dr. Glotfelty slips in effortlessly. "The ninja girl, the one that Dickwash and those under him have written off. I've seen her blood test results, she's reacting well to Fust's recommendations. We've made them subtle enough that she can't detect them being used on her in her therapy sessions."
"Who else?"
"Not the Brainiac or his teammate. Not the little red monster. Nor the Andalite," speaks one of the suits.
"Andalite?"
"The blue one. With the tail. He's had too much experience with being manipulated. And the pale boy is too rebellious, and smart enough to know when his strings are being pulled."
Pestle grunts.
Another suit speaks. "There's Washington, of course, but he's already our man. Perhaps McDonald. Price?"
Fust shakes her head. "It's a possibility, but I wouldn't recommend it. He puts the others ill at ease. I would think that we could turn the one they call South, at least. Possibly Tucker. But they'd need to be little things, not the ham-handed rewards that some of the junior staff have suggested. In Tucker's case, perhaps a seduction... But McDonald would sell the rest of them out for a corn chip. The papers I could write on that man..."
"It sounds like you're all working up to suggesting the old Team Captain idea again," Pestle starts, with a warning in his voice.
Lillian shrugs. "If it works, it works. Sir."
He stands, pacing for a moment. "I already denied it."
"You did, sir."
"I specifically said that it wouldn't work because they were too individualistic."
"As I recall, you said that you'd eat your tie if it worked," Boyle cuts in.
"Well, I'm not planning on learning the flavor," Pestle fairly snaps. The room's quiet as he paces some more, then pauses near a window. His chosen view, surprisingly, isn't of the Wilds. Nor is it of the Livable Zone. He's watching the Rig, the machines move, the workers walk through catwalks and decks, carrying out the smooth operation of his machine. The Rig lived. It breathed. And those cells made it happen. "Remind me again why arranging them into teams is a good idea when we're going to work to split them apart?"
"It's because we're going to split them apart. If Rose Tattoo showed us anything, it's that they're headstrong and disorganized. Forcing them to try to organize each other will do more to drive wedges between them than anything we could do at this point," says Boyle.
He hums. Considers, then nods. "Have K look into the cook books in his library to see if there's a section on silk ties."
There's a brief, uncertain chuckle, while Fust and Lillian lock eyes with one another and nod. Boyle coughs. "Ah. Speaking of Rose Tattoo...what are we doing on that front? She's not a danger anymore, but she was working for someone."
"Harold Fredrickson, Financial Division. Formerly of Human Resources before a computer glitch transferred him." Pestle says it like it should have been obvious, turning and staring incredulously at the crowd of stunned faces. "You couldn't tell? I knew from the third murder. I was just waiting to see if they would be a reliable tool for us. But Fredrickson was too weak to control her, and she was too uncontrollable. So I waited to see if anyone else would manage to- you all really didn't figure it out?"
There's an awkward silence before someone coughs. He shakes his head, sitting heavily. "Ah. Well. The clues were there. I'll have to assign you all some remedial reading on logical deductions. Maybe some essays." He smiles to himself, just for a heartbeat, then leans forward, steepling his fingers. "Fredrickson's expendable. He can't do us any harm now, but he's... inefficient. And unsuited toward his current position. Fust, I want a psych profile on my desk by the end of the week, who it'd be most beneficial to leak his name to. I'm thinking Catra, she seems to be a natural leader and this would cement her place. But if you think she's unreliable, I'll look through your other options."
Fust nods, stands, and leaves. Catra? No, she doesn't think so. Too much genuine potential. Everyone else starts to stand, but he holds his hand out and gestures for them to sit. "This party isn't over yet. Now, Harris, you were telling me about the time you..."
What: Having a party.
Where: The Rig, Executive Area.
When: Not important.
Warnings/Notes: None.
The tree had once been millenia old. Nearly three thousand. It had been the largest living thing on the planet. Jorgmund CEO Humbert Pestle had ordered General Sherman the ancient sequoia cut down so that he could have a slab of it used as his table for meetings. Thirty-six feet and six inches in diameter at its widest, Pestle had no use for the rest of the wood and sold it off for lumber.
We tell you this to let you know what kind of man the CEO is.
Here he sits, this man of power, his round table surrounded by other high-powered executives, discussing profits, markets, and lesser things such as human lives and the fate of the world, through cigar smoke and fine brandy. Among their number are Drs. Fust, Boyle, Lillian, and Glotfelty.
"-they've had their adjustment period," he's saying. "And so far they've failed to adjust to our preferred culture. What're you thinking, Fust?"
Fust leans back in her chair, listening to the ice in her glass clink as she swirls the amber fluid around in it. "With all due respect, it's like I said from the start, sir. We've ended up with a group of rebels and individualists. Getting their cooperation so unwillingly from the start sabotages any effort we might make. Even the ones who are naturally inclined to lead or follow will resist us, with the exception of the gynoid. But she's, quite frankly, more intelligent than anyone in our organization except for perhaps the Brainiac alien or the android. Smart enough to mislead us if she wished."
"She won't," Pestle says.
"All due respect, sir-"
He interrupts her with a wave of his hand. "She understands that we're simply the best choice humanity has. Her programming won't allow her to betray us, not in any way that matters. The best she can do is try to circumvent us in little ways, things that make her comrades think she's doing something to improve their lives. The only danger where she's involved is Dox, and he respects artificial 'life' too much to change that. Put her out of your worries."
Fust hesitates, then nods. "To continue what I was saying, while they're loners, they're also stronger than most loners. This isn't a collection of Lubitsches, who could be broken if we leaned hard enough. Anything strong enough to do that for the majority of them would simply make them useless to us in the future. And make the staff... uncomfortable." She scoffs, joined by sensible chuckles around the table. "But a one-eighty would simply make people suspicious. I'd suggest, instead, starting to make life better for weak links and focus on turning single individuals to our side while maintaining the current, though ineffectual, treatment with the others."
Pestle glances to Dr. Lillian, who has no hint of her usual hippy-dippy manner. Not a trace of her usual ditziness remains in her reply. "I concur with Dr. Fust. The stick failed, it's time to work the carrot and create some fractures in their little community."
At the arching of an eyebrow, Dr. Glotfelty slips in effortlessly. "The ninja girl, the one that Dickwash and those under him have written off. I've seen her blood test results, she's reacting well to Fust's recommendations. We've made them subtle enough that she can't detect them being used on her in her therapy sessions."
"Who else?"
"Not the Brainiac or his teammate. Not the little red monster. Nor the Andalite," speaks one of the suits.
"Andalite?"
"The blue one. With the tail. He's had too much experience with being manipulated. And the pale boy is too rebellious, and smart enough to know when his strings are being pulled."
Pestle grunts.
Another suit speaks. "There's Washington, of course, but he's already our man. Perhaps McDonald. Price?"
Fust shakes her head. "It's a possibility, but I wouldn't recommend it. He puts the others ill at ease. I would think that we could turn the one they call South, at least. Possibly Tucker. But they'd need to be little things, not the ham-handed rewards that some of the junior staff have suggested. In Tucker's case, perhaps a seduction... But McDonald would sell the rest of them out for a corn chip. The papers I could write on that man..."
"It sounds like you're all working up to suggesting the old Team Captain idea again," Pestle starts, with a warning in his voice.
Lillian shrugs. "If it works, it works. Sir."
He stands, pacing for a moment. "I already denied it."
"You did, sir."
"I specifically said that it wouldn't work because they were too individualistic."
"As I recall, you said that you'd eat your tie if it worked," Boyle cuts in.
"Well, I'm not planning on learning the flavor," Pestle fairly snaps. The room's quiet as he paces some more, then pauses near a window. His chosen view, surprisingly, isn't of the Wilds. Nor is it of the Livable Zone. He's watching the Rig, the machines move, the workers walk through catwalks and decks, carrying out the smooth operation of his machine. The Rig lived. It breathed. And those cells made it happen. "Remind me again why arranging them into teams is a good idea when we're going to work to split them apart?"
"It's because we're going to split them apart. If Rose Tattoo showed us anything, it's that they're headstrong and disorganized. Forcing them to try to organize each other will do more to drive wedges between them than anything we could do at this point," says Boyle.
He hums. Considers, then nods. "Have K look into the cook books in his library to see if there's a section on silk ties."
There's a brief, uncertain chuckle, while Fust and Lillian lock eyes with one another and nod. Boyle coughs. "Ah. Speaking of Rose Tattoo...what are we doing on that front? She's not a danger anymore, but she was working for someone."
"Harold Fredrickson, Financial Division. Formerly of Human Resources before a computer glitch transferred him." Pestle says it like it should have been obvious, turning and staring incredulously at the crowd of stunned faces. "You couldn't tell? I knew from the third murder. I was just waiting to see if they would be a reliable tool for us. But Fredrickson was too weak to control her, and she was too uncontrollable. So I waited to see if anyone else would manage to- you all really didn't figure it out?"
There's an awkward silence before someone coughs. He shakes his head, sitting heavily. "Ah. Well. The clues were there. I'll have to assign you all some remedial reading on logical deductions. Maybe some essays." He smiles to himself, just for a heartbeat, then leans forward, steepling his fingers. "Fredrickson's expendable. He can't do us any harm now, but he's... inefficient. And unsuited toward his current position. Fust, I want a psych profile on my desk by the end of the week, who it'd be most beneficial to leak his name to. I'm thinking Catra, she seems to be a natural leader and this would cement her place. But if you think she's unreliable, I'll look through your other options."
Fust nods, stands, and leaves. Catra? No, she doesn't think so. Too much genuine potential. Everyone else starts to stand, but he holds his hand out and gestures for them to sit. "This party isn't over yet. Now, Harris, you were telling me about the time you..."