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goneawayworld2020-08-30 12:08 am
piper90npcs) wrote in goneawayworld2020-08-30 12:08 am
Entry tags:
Building A Community
Who: Everyone
What: Enforced Fun
Where: The Rig
When: Eh.
Warnings/Notes: War is grim.
Well, this promises to be a good time. Everyone's given electronically locked boxes, just set there outside the entrances to their rooms. Not unpickable, but even for the Lockpicking Lawyer it'd take more time than it's worth. There's a timer on each one. Oh, and when we say 'everyone'? That's everyone. Even the regular Rig staff can be seen carrying them around and questioning each other about it. For the New Hires, an unusual sign is that training's been cancelled. Everything's been cancelled.
At 8 o'clock, their comms let out the catchy little Jorgmund jingle and soon every monitor in the building is filled with the smiling faces of Dickwash, Dr. Fust, Celeste, Boyle, Lubitsch, and Dr. Glotfelty. Lubitsch's smile is a little forced, he's trying to edge his way out of the shot, but Planker plonks a paw on his shoulder and sets it firm. Planker isn't even trying to smile.
"Good morning, everyone," chirps Celeste, the Rig's Relaxation Officer. She wiggles her fingers at the camera and blows a kiss, somehow managing to ignore the increasingly forced smiles of everyone around her. Whatever's going on, it doesn't seem like the usual yoga or tantric knitting lessons. "We understand you've been under, oh, so much stress lately and we want you to know that we share your concerns. It's a hard world out there, and growing harder every day, but you know that we're all in this together, working towards the common goal of restoring sanity and normalcy to our world." She smiles, then pats Washburn on the shoulder with two middle fingers, stepping back just a little.
He blinks, surprised, the grins and adjusts his tie with one hand.
They're all acting with one hand. Every single one of them is keeping the other hand offscreen.
"So, well. We had a round table deep dive where we all rolled up our sleeves and drilled down, working on the best way to enhance Piper 90's overall synergistic flow and allow for a bigger, more positive impact for everyone on board. We've identified multiple pain points and have come up with a hyperlocal, but holistic, solution for many of them. And this is a lot to unpack, I know, but we're looking at problems that negatively impact the whole of Jorgmund. And by fixing problems here, we can send ripples across the entire corporation." He smiles, then moves his other hand from behind his back. In it, he's got... A gun. No, not an ordinary gun. A paintball gun. "And so we decided that all of you would benefit from a bit of pressure release and team building. Everyone's received boxes and, in thirty minutes, they'll unlock, giving each of you a personal Stress Release Facilitator that you can use to really-"
Whatever he's about to say, no one will ever know. Planker raises his gun and shoots him in the back of the head. There's a slight pause and then, as if on a pre-agreed symbol, all of the executives present level their guns and open fire, keeping it up until long after Washburn's collapsed underneath the camera.
Lubitsch stands to the side, looking like a man who knows that Christmas has come early, but also knows that a wrong twitch will end poorly for his career.
Finally, after long moments, they stop. For a moment, the only sound is Dickwash making miserable noises. Everyone around him is splattered with tiny speckles of paint. No wonder they hadn't been wearing their best.
Finally, Planker steps up. "Okay. Let's skip the horse crap. See these guns? They shoot balls of paint when you pull the trigger. Squeeze squeeze, splat splat. They're tied to your ID's RFID field. Won't fire unless you have one. If you get hit, it disrupts the field and your gun won't work for you anymore." He drops his gun, then lifts Washburn's hand, forcing the poor man to pull the trigger. The only noise is a clicking as it refuses to fire. "But if you run out of ammo..." He takes the gun and, without looking, fires behind him, nailing Lubitsch in the crotch.
The other man hunches over, clutching at himself. "You cock, I don't-" He's cut off by another splat, right between the eyes. Cursing, Lubistch wanders offscreen.
Planker continues. "You got... Twenty-eight minutes to plan and prepare. I'd get started. And before you get any funny ideas..." He gestures at the paint on himself and the others. "We're obviously out of the game." Washburn moans and Planker fires once more, the corner of his mouth quirking at the answering yelp. "We got trackers in each ball. Anyone who shoots a 'dead' opponent, we know who it'll be. It's not fair, so penalties will apply." The way he smiles after that, it's clear he already has something in mind. "And don't be that prick who things he can soak it for his team. We catch you pulling that, you'll be under penalty as well. Your devices will divert you to the nearest loser's sanctuary if you get hit. Get there. Or else."
Celeste leans in, blocking the camera's view of Planker. "Oh! And don't worry. If you're in the top ten final people remaining, we have fabulous prizes in store! The big winner will receive an extra bonus! And the biggest score wins, too! So fight hard! Fight with honor! And have fun!"
"Oh, one more thing," Planker announces from behind her. "Each one of you is one point. Each New Hire you drop is five points."
With that, the screens cut off, replaced by a clock counting down the minutes.
[[Exactly as stated, if you don't have your ID, your gun won't fire. If you scavenge someone else's gun, you can fire that at will. They won't count hits on something like shields or, say, a clear, easily peeled off wrapping, as a hit, but they will count hits on clothes or armor. There is the option of forming alliances and teams, linking your comm devices. Jorgmund hasn't revealed this, at least not to the New Hires, but friendly fire is impossible if you're on a team.
It's not just paintballs. Tucked throughout the facility, where they've never been around before, are spray cans, buckets of paint, brushes, and other supplies. All of these will count as a kill as well.]]>
What: Enforced Fun
Where: The Rig
When: Eh.
Warnings/Notes: War is grim.
Well, this promises to be a good time. Everyone's given electronically locked boxes, just set there outside the entrances to their rooms. Not unpickable, but even for the Lockpicking Lawyer it'd take more time than it's worth. There's a timer on each one. Oh, and when we say 'everyone'? That's everyone. Even the regular Rig staff can be seen carrying them around and questioning each other about it. For the New Hires, an unusual sign is that training's been cancelled. Everything's been cancelled.
At 8 o'clock, their comms let out the catchy little Jorgmund jingle and soon every monitor in the building is filled with the smiling faces of Dickwash, Dr. Fust, Celeste, Boyle, Lubitsch, and Dr. Glotfelty. Lubitsch's smile is a little forced, he's trying to edge his way out of the shot, but Planker plonks a paw on his shoulder and sets it firm. Planker isn't even trying to smile.
"Good morning, everyone," chirps Celeste, the Rig's Relaxation Officer. She wiggles her fingers at the camera and blows a kiss, somehow managing to ignore the increasingly forced smiles of everyone around her. Whatever's going on, it doesn't seem like the usual yoga or tantric knitting lessons. "We understand you've been under, oh, so much stress lately and we want you to know that we share your concerns. It's a hard world out there, and growing harder every day, but you know that we're all in this together, working towards the common goal of restoring sanity and normalcy to our world." She smiles, then pats Washburn on the shoulder with two middle fingers, stepping back just a little.
He blinks, surprised, the grins and adjusts his tie with one hand.
They're all acting with one hand. Every single one of them is keeping the other hand offscreen.
"So, well. We had a round table deep dive where we all rolled up our sleeves and drilled down, working on the best way to enhance Piper 90's overall synergistic flow and allow for a bigger, more positive impact for everyone on board. We've identified multiple pain points and have come up with a hyperlocal, but holistic, solution for many of them. And this is a lot to unpack, I know, but we're looking at problems that negatively impact the whole of Jorgmund. And by fixing problems here, we can send ripples across the entire corporation." He smiles, then moves his other hand from behind his back. In it, he's got... A gun. No, not an ordinary gun. A paintball gun. "And so we decided that all of you would benefit from a bit of pressure release and team building. Everyone's received boxes and, in thirty minutes, they'll unlock, giving each of you a personal Stress Release Facilitator that you can use to really-"
Whatever he's about to say, no one will ever know. Planker raises his gun and shoots him in the back of the head. There's a slight pause and then, as if on a pre-agreed symbol, all of the executives present level their guns and open fire, keeping it up until long after Washburn's collapsed underneath the camera.
Lubitsch stands to the side, looking like a man who knows that Christmas has come early, but also knows that a wrong twitch will end poorly for his career.
Finally, after long moments, they stop. For a moment, the only sound is Dickwash making miserable noises. Everyone around him is splattered with tiny speckles of paint. No wonder they hadn't been wearing their best.
Finally, Planker steps up. "Okay. Let's skip the horse crap. See these guns? They shoot balls of paint when you pull the trigger. Squeeze squeeze, splat splat. They're tied to your ID's RFID field. Won't fire unless you have one. If you get hit, it disrupts the field and your gun won't work for you anymore." He drops his gun, then lifts Washburn's hand, forcing the poor man to pull the trigger. The only noise is a clicking as it refuses to fire. "But if you run out of ammo..." He takes the gun and, without looking, fires behind him, nailing Lubitsch in the crotch.
The other man hunches over, clutching at himself. "You cock, I don't-" He's cut off by another splat, right between the eyes. Cursing, Lubistch wanders offscreen.
Planker continues. "You got... Twenty-eight minutes to plan and prepare. I'd get started. And before you get any funny ideas..." He gestures at the paint on himself and the others. "We're obviously out of the game." Washburn moans and Planker fires once more, the corner of his mouth quirking at the answering yelp. "We got trackers in each ball. Anyone who shoots a 'dead' opponent, we know who it'll be. It's not fair, so penalties will apply." The way he smiles after that, it's clear he already has something in mind. "And don't be that prick who things he can soak it for his team. We catch you pulling that, you'll be under penalty as well. Your devices will divert you to the nearest loser's sanctuary if you get hit. Get there. Or else."
Celeste leans in, blocking the camera's view of Planker. "Oh! And don't worry. If you're in the top ten final people remaining, we have fabulous prizes in store! The big winner will receive an extra bonus! And the biggest score wins, too! So fight hard! Fight with honor! And have fun!"
"Oh, one more thing," Planker announces from behind her. "Each one of you is one point. Each New Hire you drop is five points."
With that, the screens cut off, replaced by a clock counting down the minutes.
[[Exactly as stated, if you don't have your ID, your gun won't fire. If you scavenge someone else's gun, you can fire that at will. They won't count hits on something like shields or, say, a clear, easily peeled off wrapping, as a hit, but they will count hits on clothes or armor. There is the option of forming alliances and teams, linking your comm devices. Jorgmund hasn't revealed this, at least not to the New Hires, but friendly fire is impossible if you're on a team.
It's not just paintballs. Tucked throughout the facility, where they've never been around before, are spray cans, buckets of paint, brushes, and other supplies. All of these will count as a kill as well.]]>
Mission Start!
Stay on your toes. You can't even turn a corner without someone unleashing a hail of nonsense at you, but this early on it won't be hard to talk people into a temporary truce.
Re: Mission Start!
He's not amused, and he has no intention whatsoever of participating in this wretched team-building exercise or whatever the hell it is. Which is why he rounds on you, snapping, as soon you come into view.
"Well, get on with it." He gestures to his exposed chest region. "The sooner, the better."
no subject
"That," he says, "was going to be my line. I propose we shoot each other in tandem and finish the exercise as quickly as possible."
no subject
A paintball zings by. Beckett's dodge is pure instinct. He whirls and returns fire without thinking. One of the mortal employees drops, gasping; her partner shoots, but Beckett is already sidestepping, firing again. She get three in the chest.
"Bloody hell," he mutters, when he realizes. And doesn't see the three coming up behind Alloran.
no subject
Ronan promptly forgot his rant as soon as he had the paintball gun in hand.
Some people called Ronan immature. Charging down the hall, paintball gun raised and ready to fire, anyone would agree with them.
Ronan had something else up his sleeve. If anyone tried to attack... well, he hadn't tried out his new light powers on anyone yet. And it was probably time they found out what he could do.
Weeding out the weak.
Someone howls a bestial victory cry in the distance.
no subject
Besides, everything's pretty liberally paint-splattered already. This shit's just another drop in the bucket.
Speaking of paint splatters: his dubious artwork is rudely peppered with paintball shots, like people keep turning the corner and immediately trying to take out the dumbass playing around for some easy points. An observant person will notice that said dumbass is still clean, though. Evidently, he hasn't actually been all that easy a target so far.
no subject
"Uh. Dave? What are you doing?"
She really ought to just shoot him, right?
no subject
"Redecorating," he says flatly with a grand gesture at the while expanse of wall. "The feng shui up in here was way off. Someone had to do something about it before all that bad juju caused the Rig to hit an iceberg or something. I'm just doing my part to save lives, really."
With an unchanging expression and not even looking back at the wall, he adds another sweep of life-saving paint to his masterpiece. It's horrendous.
no subject
"...what's it supposed to be?"
What Few Remain
Whoever Wins, You Lose
Hope you didn't do anything to piss them off, because they're the ones who decide what cleaning supplies are available to you.
Re: Whoever Wins, You Lose
She starts humming a tune from one of Trinity's concerts under her breath, matching the rhythm with each swirl of the mop.