Poll

What now?

Attempt to contact any other group members, and arrange a meeting
Go find your contacts and inquire about the Liberation Road

Author Topic: A Little Problem (Poll Game)  (Read 1602 times)

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Offline Little

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A Little Problem (Poll Game)
« on: March 17, 2009, 06:58:49 pm »
Your hands are steady as you draw the bead on the target, cupping your eye to the telescopic sight. A face fills your view, and you realize with horror that it's the President. You want to take your finger off the trigger, but you can't. The world seems to slow as you pull the trigger, simultaneously bracing against the powerful kick. The charming young face that had enraptured millions, the face that had held firm ground against the most powerful corporations, the face you yourself had voted for, explodes like a watermelon hit by a cannon shell. You withdraw from the scope, shaking. You see uniformed guards with a large insignia stamped on their shoulder, the insignia the flag of the United States. They look more like Getaspo Officers then bodyguards, and their hands are clutching assault rifles. They begin to wheel in your direction as the crowd panics as one, fleeing the podium where, only moments ago, their leader had been endorsing a war against the United Soviet States...

You wake up, drenched in sweat. Your eyes slam open, and you survey your small apartment. It's covered in layers of pizza boxes and dirty clothes, and the only things in the room that have a resemblance of order are the small computer desk sitting to your right and the bulletin board hanging on the far wall.  On the desk is a old computer and while the screen is dark,  you know it could light up at the tap of a single button and show you all your careful research. The bulletin board is covered in news paper clippings, various printouts with lines of erasing black across names and dates, and your own frantic scribbles that attempt to link one idea to another. You sigh, and swing out of bed. After sloughing on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, you tug on your only window's shade. It curls up on itself, and you gaze outside. A gentle snow is falling, and the vagrants, transients, and Cruise junkies that inhabit your crumbling slum are all thickly bundled in tattered clothing. After viewing outside, you throw on a thick coat and pull back down your shade, putting it in it's original concealing position.

You cast your eyes over to the computer desk, and scoop up your cellphone, which wakes from it's electronic slumber with a beep and the whisper of a brand name. You flick open the phone and drudge through the menus that lead you to your inbox. Technology has never been your strong point. Ignoring news updates from the government-controlled National News, you see the text you were looking for. Kurt wants to meet at his place, and the associated string of not quite random characters allow you to determine it's a one-on-one meeting at his house. You smile to yourself, a tired smile that looks out of place on a twenty-four year old. You take a few long steps across your apartment, and open the door. Stepping out, the door closes behind you and clicks four times, each click signifying another lock slamming into place. Locks weren't cheap these days, but better safe then sorry. Walking through the maze of corridors on your floor, you arrive at the elevator. A sign declares it to be broken. You curse, and begin the long walk of twenty flights of stairs.

As you walk through the decaying ghetto where you make your home, you make sure not to look at the Police Cameras directly. If you seem suspicious, they log your face down in a computer somewhere, and that is never good. You stuff your hands into your pockets, protecting them against  the bitter cold as your reflect on the times you and Kurt have had together. High school, collage, working together at the Mega-McDonalds, sharing a small flat. Marcus had been there for most of it too, but he was working with one of the North Side IT companies, and it was vicious competition. The infrequent phone calls to Marcus showed he was tired as hell and working hundred-thirty hours, but he still managed to send the group confidential information occasionally.

You weave through slippery streets, watching a white blanket cover the city. The occasional car comes by, but not very often. People with cars usually didn't live south of the Wall. After a half-hour walk, you arrive at a small home in a slightly better district of South Side. Small, battered houses lined the streets of this parts, and the problems which plagued most of the other districts. Kurt lived in one of the best districts, and was able to do so since he began the sport of what he called 'bar blackmail'. Your unsure what exactly this means, but it must bring Kurt a steady supply of income. You stroll up the driveway, and knock on the thin wooden door. No answer. You ring the doorbell three times and knock on the door three times, the group's code for saying, 'Hey, it's a friend.' Still no answer. You begin to get nervous. You know group protocol for this situation, but this seems different. You know Kurt has to be home, he does his job(whatever it is) at night. There are no signs of foul play or police involvement, and besides, he is your best friend. Couldn't hurt to go in and look around, but then again...
« Last Edit: March 19, 2009, 06:46:54 pm by Little »


The best person ever.  She should have won the Peace Prize.

What? No full control over children? You do realize that some of us have particular plans for those children.

Offline Flamester_

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Re: A Little Problem (Poll Game)
« Reply #1 on: March 17, 2009, 10:37:28 pm »
ALWAYS follow the protocol. Its there for a reason.
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Offline Digital Hellhound

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Re: A Little Problem (Poll Game)
« Reply #2 on: March 17, 2009, 11:13:05 pm »
Yes, always follow the protocol.
I am the very model of a scientist salarian...

Offline Xeno264

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Re: A Little Problem (Poll Game)
« Reply #3 on: March 18, 2009, 01:23:40 am »
You must follow the Protocol.

Offline darthvader52

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Re: A Little Problem (Poll Game)
« Reply #4 on: March 18, 2009, 09:25:07 am »
more protocol, less... no protocol...
Waging a war against a world thats given war up.

Offline Little

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Re: A Little Problem (Poll Game)
« Reply #5 on: March 18, 2009, 11:56:51 am »
You calmly step away from the door, looking calm. You walk away from the house, stepping back onto the street. You figure you better follow procedure, and the nearest contact point is a bookstore a mile away. As you begin to walk to your destination, you take out your cellphone and tap your way through the caller list. As you start to stroll out of the nice neighbourhood and into a bad one, you cup you ear to the cellphone and listen for the rings of your contact's phone as you tap the SEND button. The other phone rings four times, and the phone clicks. You grin as you walk past a Cruise junkie who had been begging you for change, and listen as a weary voice says, "Hello?"

You quickly respond, "Peter, it's me.  Curtis wasn't home, and he left no contact signs. What's up?"
The tired voice sighs, then says, "Your near a contact point, right? Go to a TV bank."

The connection clicks off, and as you pocket your cellphone, you glance around nervously. Although you had not walked too far into a bad neighbourhood, there was a lot of transients around. You recognize the junkie who had begged you for change earlier. He's staring at you, eyes no longer the glazed hollows of a Cruise addict. You begin to walk quicker, resisting the urge to glance behind you. Nothing looks more guilty then glancing over your shoulder. You arrive at your nearest TV display, this one mounted into a wall and covered with a film of resistance-glass. A small mob is watching the TVs, and they occasionally cheer. You grimace, and edge your way through the crowd. The shining TVs show a long stage, five shaking figures standing upon it. Off screen, someone is reading out a long list of charges. As the group is accused of running a group of spies and treason, you realize with horror that you recognize the small group. It's the people you meet with every two weeks on Wednesday in the basement of a bookstore or library, and scheme with to make the world a better place.

The small crowd of poverty-stricken men and women cheers as the voice declares them to be executed. You see Kurt struggling against his bonds, the massive crowd on the TV chanting, "Kill the spies! Kill the spies!" Marcus looks resigned, the business suit he was wearing covered with crusted blood. His nose had taken a turn for the worse when he was captured, it seems. You pale, and realize that your tail probably knows exactly who you are, and you spin
around and uneasily look at the small crowd. Nobody pays you any mind, and they burst into another round of cheers as the first shot rings out from the TV's speakers. You walk away from the crowd, attempting to casually glance around. Your tail is no where in sight, and you continue towards the small bookstore that is the closest contact point. You arrive at the old store, looking through the pane of glass. You only see the cashier, so you walk in. Walking down the fiction section, you look to your left, and realize with horror that the man who had been following you was staring at you through the shelf. You start to run, but you hear the undercover agent unclipping a gun, and you grind to a halt, you hands up. A monstrous bang echos through the store, and you throw yourself into a roll. Seems like your new best friend wasn't interested in making an arrest after all. The bullet flies into the ancient wooden door of the store, and you hear the cashier shout a startled curse. You leap to the side, shoving over a shelf of books as a second bullet explodes from the barrel of the handgun and rockets past you. A boom that seems fit to end the world emits from in front of you, and your ears ring. You stand up in a daze, hands over your head, eyes clamped shut as you wait for the final shot. You can hear someone swearing, and you open your eyes. The cashier is standing in front of you, clenching a shotgun. He looks at you nervously, and says, "You never saw the gun. They have everyone else."

You grin, nod, and dash out of the store. The cashier darts out after you, having discarded the gun in the store, and runs down the streets. The small crowd has grown from when you saw it by the TV, and multiple people are casted worried glances around. Nobody wants to go uptown as a witness. Your phone beeps in your pocket, and you take it out, reading the text message you just received from another member of your little group.

The message is: 'Their coming. Run.' You frantically turn over your limited options in your mind. The group is compromised, somehow. The cops know vaguely that your a member of a small revolutionary group, and they are looking for you. You decide to flee, but how? The perfect idea strikes you, and you begin to run, thinking rapidly. You only know about the basics of the Liberation Road, but it was rumoured to be a series of people who could get you out of the country if the price was right and the government was hunting you. Your little group had discussed what little they had known about the Liberation Road and the people who ran it, the Liberation Army. The Liberation Army was a underground organization dedicated to fighting and overthrowing the oppressive government, and they were fairly successful. Every so often, a government official would be shot on the street, or a government building would explode, and everyone knew it was the Liberation Army behind the attacks. The middle class and upper class despised them, but you know the lower class sees them as  kind of heroes, a group everyone admires. Nobody you know had any idea of how to contact them, but if you could figure it out, you could try to help.

You do know some shady figures, however, and you figure that now is the best time to find them. First thing, you need a new identity, but that should be fairly simple. After that you need to decide what your going to do. You begin to jog towards where you know Rachel works, and try to remember if your group had set up an account.

An hour later, you arrive at a pawnshop. Stepping inside the small, two story, worn building, you smile at Rachel. She's reading a thick paperback as she sits in a chair, and she casts it down when you walk in. She says, smiling sadly, "Well, I figured you'd show up. I saw the executions, and reviewed your account. You have five grand available. Want an ID, the full works?" You nod, and she turns to a old computer sitting on the other side of the counter. After a few key presses, the printer in the corner of the shop whirs to life, and a ID Card, Social Security Card, and Med-Care Card slide out. All three have your picture on them. You scoop them up, and Rachel says, "That used up your account. What are you going to do now?"

What now?
The best person ever.  She should have won the Peace Prize.

What? No full control over children? You do realize that some of us have particular plans for those children.

Offline /lurk

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Re: A Little Problem (Poll Game)
« Reply #6 on: March 18, 2009, 12:44:36 pm »
Give up. If your group's emergency protocol didn't involve telling you how to lose a tail, you were obviously a really rubbish group of domestic terrorists.

Why not just be a regular criminal like everyone else in your ghetto? Why you gotta have all these big ideas about high profile crime?
Not a winner anymore.