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Below are the 7 most recent journal entries recorded in Scenic 3-Topaz: Gateway to Sweet Coral Plains' LiveJournal:

Monday, January 1st, 2007
4:36 pm
Turn 3: The Laughter of Ancient Crows
And so our heroes confront the threat of an alien wilderness with... cuddles, tea, a nervous breakdown, and disgruntled muttering about their storyline. Not an altogether poor strategy in a place like this, really. The witness trees turn their gazes patiently upon the confused newcomers. Some of the local insectoid life tries to harmonize with Meliph's tone, but their attention spans are in the millisecond range and their symphonies are lost on more enduring creatures. There is only one presence taking an enduring interest at the gang of leashchewers, and it has hidden itself almost perfectly.

Kessie delivers her parting tirade with the undivided attention she was hoping for. Throughout her performance, ancient leering crows light on her fingertips. Vivid cut-scenes of horrible fates befalling the other seven sparkle before her, their production values magnificent and comic. A pack of grinning Shropshire dogs, drawn by the mockery, galumphs through the audience to cause mayhem. They phase in and out with each bar of Kessie's song... all but their sniggering, wheezing faces.

Even after Kessie's last note has rung and she's long since taken her farewell dive, the snark dogs remain. They've found a new source of food, scarce in this empty forest, and they're tucking in with puppylike enthusiasm. They go nipping at Khroma's fabric, nose at Profett's buttons at amusingly inappropriate moments in zir self-repair cycle, upset tea bowls and chew on whisks, and generally make a well-choreographed outrage of themselves. One even takes a playful swipe at Boko and somehow ends up with one of his prized juggling balls in its mouth; this leads to a game of using its phasing powers to steal as much loot out of the chameleon's hiding places as possible. An occasional "ROFL!" or "LOL!" yaps out of their mouths.

And something watches the entire program from the margins, with pale and sickly glowing green eyes. Naturally, Green is the first to notice this -- it's professional courtesy -- if she deigns to make her presence known. Meanwhile, Meredith is giving *distinctly* uncomfortable vibes at (her) host, as if she's just spotted an ex-lover from across the room. There is a scent on the wind, something sharp and sweet that irritates the nose. Even the crows scatter as the presence comes closer. It watches at one moment from low crystal brambles, at next from the wind-stirred psychedelic canopy. If Kessie was right, and this was all just some flashy recruitment... Jessamyn and her staff have a very peculiar notion of a "waiting room."
Tuesday, December 26th, 2006
9:32 pm
Turn 2a: Grand entrance (and exit)
Kessie strolls into the clearing, with a flourish of her cape. Her fur is violet, almost white, her grace fabulous to behold.

"Well, isn't this the damndest thing? I see by the pretty-colored afterimages on the back of my eyeballs that we have been zapped through space by agents of the Constable. And you know what that means... you got picked. Chosen."

She snaps her fingers, and the music starts: quaint and sleazy, with lots of swing, and a few unpredictable stops and changes thrown in for defense, to discourage anyone else from joining in. Miss Kestrel is cranky, and damned if she'll be upstaged.
When the ground starts to shake and the sky starts to bake
And Pushstation Zebra's in flames
When Anathema slimes its way into your mind
So you can't even remember your name
Yeah, when trouble befalls, the Constable calls
Looking for some expendable help
To toss into the fray, see if they save the day
And if not, we'll just find someone else!

She struts through the middle of the group, hips asway. "Luckily, this has absolutely nothing to do with yours truly, since I'm here purely by accident. Today's lesson: duck as soon as you smell the ozone. But let's see who's on the menu today, shall we?"
Gosh, if it ain't the Magnificent Seven —
Or maybe it's six and a half —
Chosen to set this reality straight?
Well, this should be good for a laugh.

We got Zen Master Oxbutt to serve us the tea,
A couple of cuddle slut ravers on E,
Mister Eyeballs-Who'd-Better-Stop-Staring-At-Me,
A color who can't tell what species to be,
Plus a backing band — hey, makes as much sense to me!
And off into peril they ride.

But hey, don't let me scare you. I'm sure you'll do fine —
I mean, people survive this stuff all the time!
And if not... well, better your asses than mine.
Sayonara, and hope you don't die!

With that, she gives a sweeping bow before turning and sprinting off through the trees, taking an elegant swan-dive off the edge of the platform, with an accompanying musical flourish.

[Previously a comment, now brought to you in full-entry-o-vision at circuit_four's suggestion.]
Sunday, December 10th, 2006
1:43 pm
Turn 2: Studio 54-40 Or Fight!
The battle is on, and DJ Profett is up against the wall. The Medusa's once-tame vinejacks are slotted firmly up in the Profett's bank of ports, reducing the sounddroid's voice to a silent thrum along xis circuits. Sticky, cash-green tendrils fondle covetously at the tiny metal rims, randomly blocking channels as it scrabbles for a direct input into its protege's mind. <<easier the first way take what we can get just need that pretty face commodify commodify>>

On the outside, the battle isn't going any better. The anathema can't silence Profett's style, but it can bite it like an expert. It's like it's got some kind of eldritch trend-whore judo, never resisting the jackalraptor's beats when cribbing them will do. Anything Profett does, just ends up belching out of sickly speakerbark, harsher, darker, baser, swaggering and thuggish.

[Meliph, Profett:]
The one-doe band has fallen beneath the Medusa's notice, her career safely critiqued out of existence. But it never counted on her comeback as a duo. With a fresh, clean soundsource, Profett can switch tracks and lose the Medusa's beat. A crackling white-metal speedriff is all it takes to turn the tide; the resulting feedback frightens off half the crowd and deep-fries several of the Medusa's tendrils, eliciting a howl of indignation that makes the local geometry wince in sympathy. There's a familiar flutter of jamming souls, and suddenly it's a supergroup: Meliph and Profett's plasmate Nix provide the samples, Profett and the doe's hidden Maestro do post-production.

But as far as the Medusa and its new fans are concerned, it's all for nothing. By the time its challengers have found their harmony, it's already lured another club zombie out of the crowd. She's a sneering, dreadlocked vulpine, toasting to sinister green-eyed dub on the platform where Profett used to spin. She basks in the attention it brings, letting the Medusa snake up inside her, riling up the crowd with shaken fists. Meliph and Profett's awesome Wall of Thrash is enough to shelter a small niche of refugees, but they can't match the Medusa's Cog budget for sheer volume.

[Cerulean, Khroma:]
As the brutal ego-rave swallows the otter up, his message goes in deep, flashing hypnotically right in the heart of the mob. Wakefulness spreads quickly through the crowd. The saboteur himself stands there slack-jawed at the new pop-star's commercial rap, seriously pondering if he should buy the new cellular mojo she's pimping for the audience. For a moment, it looks like his fading assertion of autonomy will be what saves the crowd... and indeed, it swells the ranks of the independents behind Profett and Meliph's sound wall. There's another mob forming, this one of liberated ravers who seem to have tackled Khroma to the ground and buried him in a pile of grateful hugs -- a group that, thanks to a sudden hindbrain twitch courtesy of Meredith, includes her host. >> NEVER say I've never done anything for you.

But within heartbeats, the Medusa's cubenet is blasting the very same images from Cerulean's montage. <<A STAR AMONG STARS. SHE IS COOL. THINK FOR YOURSELF. THIS IS WHAT'S COOL.>> The slogans throb seductively underneath the image of the anathema's new protege, as she harangues the crowd to get up and find something to define itself against. How about... the pretentious fucks gathered around the doe and the jackalraptor?

[Falin Chen:]
Or, better yet, how about that poor lovestruck ox wading through the crowd? His peaceful intentions are no obstacle. The image is all that matters, and the moment his sword his is drawn, the semblance of an angry, conveniently stodgy-looking oppressor is . "Ha-ha! Do it for the underground, resist the clown who keeps you down!" croons the Medusa's idol, eyes glowing demonic green, tongue and tail turned into clusters of sinuous tendrils. "Think for your damn selves!" The crowd all turns inwards towards the ox, eyes full of the same Molten filth, tongues cloven into obscene waggling things, and bops forward to assimilate the obvious threat to their individuality.

Amid the possessed and transformed, the chameleon lurches in party-drunk step towards the prescribed threat. His innate powers have completely betrayed him, blending him right into the mass of seething, beat-driven bodies, gibbering inane lyrics in planty tongues. Deep below the threshold of his understand, a pair of voices bargain back and forth:

We appreciate your creative aspirations, you know, but you're trifling in matters beyond your rights.

All right, all right, baby, calm down. We can cut a deal, can't we?

Yes. That sounds reasonable. We are prepared to bargain for the release of our agent.

Favor to be named later?


We can accept this.


Sense, purpose, and independent form return instantly to the lizard, along with a sinking feeling that his harsh existence has just gotten harsher.

Meanwhile, curiously unmoved by the either faction's drivel, the Lost Girl scrounges the battlefield. There are a few useful bits: a compact mirror full of green eonite dust (not your color, dear); a forlorn little fire sylph bottled in a butane lighter, weeping for her owner; and a little blue business card layed flat on a tabletop. It says, in large block lettering, "Duck, please."

The next moment, a beam of pink light crosses the place which may or may not still be occupied by Kessie's head. The zap is heralded by a thump, precisely reminiscent of four boot heels of fantastic craftsmanship, plus one large and confused dog, hitting a very large plastic disk. "Scatter, please," growls one of the slim and pretty fennecs, running a fantastic glove through xir fantastic champagne-colored hair. "Constabulary business," calls the other through a smirk. Nobody seems to be paying them much attention.

Neither sandfox looks the faintest bit alarmed by the grotesque scene. Neither does the green-striped coyotegirl, whom the fennecs are holding on a tight leash. Indeed, she just scratches blankly at her tattered clothing, barks something just short of words, and lopes lazily through the crowds. Whenever anybody is about to get in the way, the trio simply disappears and reappears someplace closer to their destination. Every so often, the coyote howls and scratches at someone in the crowd. One of the fennecs promptly points cocked finger and thumb at the one chosen, mutters a few words of arrest, and pronounces the word "Pow."

The beam of pink light leaves only a faint halo where, in order, Boko, Cerulean, Khroma, Falin Chen, Green (who had lapsed back into being comfortably imaginary until the coyote sniffed her out), Meliph, and Profett had stood. Once that's accomplished, the fennecs erect another pink lightpole and ride it under they're out of sight, tugging the coyote ragamuffin along with a yelp. They do precisely nothing about the Medusa.

The seven, maybe eight of you, wake up in a forest clearing full of eye-searing psychedelic colors. There's no sky overhead, just the shimmering silver upper-pool of the station cylinder. You are surrounded by plants and animals and things halfway in-between, whose outrageous forms have obviously never seen the threat of natural selection. Some of them bear an astonishing resemblance to a healthy version of the Medusa, stripped of all its electronics.
Tuesday, November 28th, 2006
12:50 pm
Turn 1: "Disco Zombies Are Coming!"
[NOTE: the bolded character names and numbers are just index tabs, as a convenience, to draw your attention to paragraphs where your PC is being talked about when you go to write your reply - they have no rules value at all but let me know if they're useful or just screw up the flow]

"A xenobiologist from the shrine of Matmos-Eligius, upon her visit to 19-Beryl Station, famously mistook the distant, shambling sounds of dancing leashchewers for individual lifeforms. She assumed they had their own genetics, mating and migratory rituals, and even separate genders. This study was long circulated as a comical example of the trouble shrineworlders had understanding free-gene culture -- until the invention of modern plasmography proved every one of her theories to be true. Remember, kids, dances are people too." -- the Gilded Guide to Meltfaring, Ampule 28, Codon 8128

1. [Profett, Meliph]
But all you need to understand, pretty ancestor, is that given a beat, a leashchewer is guaranteed to dance to it, cry over it, or take credit for it. So, in the fertile ground of Profett, Meliph, and the Medusa's jam, our specimen grows to such a healthy size, the guests at the outer rim start to lose their footing and go over the rim. Suddenly they get a crash course in the new gravity... and most of them just end up dancing upside-down on the opposite side of the platform; the rim ends up reserved for public displays of affection.

2. [Kessie]
Like any other good scene in 3-Topaz, the dance makes itself look invulnerable. Even the snippy Tannata is drawn into a symbiotic effect with it, irritating the crowd to grow and surround her like mother-of-pearl around an itchy grain of sand. (Yeah, um, her friends have long since snuck off to the rim and stuck their hands up each others' skirts.)

3. [Profett]
Before the lanky jackal-thing started jamming with the Medusa plant, this was nothing but an empty glowing disk. Now, it projects that blessed illusion that it's the only real place and always must have been. This must be the one place so true, so important, so sexy, it will just have to survive the oncoming invasion and shelter us all.

This is, of course, bullshit.

4. [Falin Chen, Meliph]
Yet, for one moment, the ears of Falin Chen are graced by the fully correct and adequate rendition of a Third Lotus Sub-Melody played on something like a glass armonica... no, four of them... and twelve flutes... followed by a wickedly orthodox variation of the Sparrow's Third Daughter progression. Tragically, its source is blocked from the ox's view by that disrespectful, idiot crowd. But that occlusion and heartbreak is, itself, a very witty literary reference -- surely whoever played it has read the Annals of Restricted Love!


So isn't that enough? You've had your fun, now.

5. [Khroma]
Khroma is the first to notice something wrong. His smiles are going unreturned, as cliques form and metastatize around the frondy DJ in the center and its jackal MC. The fursuit's glowy footfalls fall short of their marks for the first time he can ever remember, snubbed by the beat. Something has learned to love itself more than it loves the crowd. This is not music for dancing in.

6. [Profett]
Anyone who looks up can see that the skin of DJ Medusa has started to crack and peel. Its verdant, fluorescent bark is becoming mottled by blotches the shade of dirty linen, shot through with ugly red and blue fibers. The plant continues to gyrate as its tubules thump and thrum a relentless junglist beat, but there's an callous urgency to its movements now. As one of its tendrils reaches for xim, a cheerful, growly voice whispers in Profett's head: // This is all yours, boi. You made this. You could be a superstar. //

7. [Profett]
A few of the crowd have figured out what's going on and started to panic. Once you know what you're doing, it's a lot easier to jump off the side of the platform. A few have already decided to plummet and take their chances with the Desublimation Pool. Better that, than join the crowd of sycophants that's encircled Profett to pump their fists, cheer, and do precisely nothing on their own.

8. [Boko, Kessie]
But there is a bright side: Kessie take note, the room is in total chaos. People are leaving their shit behind, even leaving their drinks. Everyone else has turned to face Profett, and thus turned their backs on you. And, Boko, the music the flowering beast is squeezing out under this curse is horrible like nothing you have ever heard.

9. [Profett]
The voice in Profett's head is no louder now, but it's gotten chatty and relentless. // long-stemmed roses kid cog up to your ears and whaddaya like boys? girls? toasters? good deal we'll keep em coming just need a brand image promote yourself i know a guy can help with that a real go getter //

By this point, the Medusa has broken out in numbers. Small denominations, multiples of five.

10. [Green, Profett]
The possessed Medusa winks at Green while it seduces Profett. Well, not winks, so much as spurts haploid time through the matrix of equations that determine the feeler shape of beetles. It's intended as a friendly gesture, something like "come on in, the water's fine," but it gives the incarnate half of her an irksome headache.

11. [Meliph]
Meanwhile, Meliph is getting no such star treatment. The same muse that led her to the Third Lotus Sub-Melody is calling her to defend that melody from the trite and homogenous beats thumping out of the Medusa. And the Medusa -- or whatever's inhabited it -- doesn't like that. It begins a chant that only she's intended to hear, cursing her in shrill soundboard outrage...


...as her strings and pipes are pulled subtly and achily out of tune by the sheer force of critique.

12. [Profett]
The crowd is closing in on Profett. They stop cheering and staring at their one true DJ only to pick up some of the trinkets the Medusa's tendrils are flinging into the audience: T-shirts and mediacubes glowing with Profett's image, poi that drip the Medusa's infected spooge from each end, glowsticks that all glow the same sickly green as the Medusa.

The voices are getting louder, to xim and anyone who knows how to eavesdrop. A little desperate, too. // this scene is dead profett kid but you we can save and of course a few select friends here they come shit its now or never you wanna join up with the frequency gods or what //

There is a vivid pink burst from way overhead and a shhhh-shhhh-shhhh sound as something plunges down towards the platform on glowing pink cords, very fast from very far away.

13. [Cerulean]
Needless to say, the above all starts happening just as Cerulean was getting comfortable. Worse, over every reasonable impulse the otter has to dive and escape, a sweet but overbearing voice drowns out all other sense.

<< We don't like this thing. We think you should do something about it.>>

And then it fades. Any complaint is met with a receding << Well, just do something to distract them. You know you'll love the attention. >> And, cast the bitch to the Dark, now he probably will love it.

[Note that everybody is probably affected at least a little by the outbreak of "Urge Overkill"... except for Khroma, Meliph, and Meredith (but not Cerulean) who are immune! Your behavior will be changed, even if only for a moment. If you want to shrug it right off, that's fine, but unless you're immune, I encourage you play it out. If people really *want* random skill resolutions as inspiration, I can provide them.]
Friday, December 21st, 2012
5:23 pm
Posting Rules
This is the community for a play-by-LJ campaign of the homebrew roleplaying game "Fluorocrash."

If you are a player: For now, please make your moves by commenting on an existing game post rather than starting a new post. Posting style is pretty freeform, but in case you're stuck, you can always get away with writing 2-4 paragraphs narrating what your character's doing. Just stick to the three canonical rules of message-board roleplaying:

1. Don't put words in the mouth of a PC or major NPC
(Rule of Thumb: It's okay to make up minor NPCs and write on their behalf if they're not likely to have a lasting impact. You can say there's a servant opening the door. You can suggest they have a gun. It's my decision whether they ever do anything with that gun.)

2. Don't write the result of an action that might fail; let the GM resolve it
(Example: Don't write "I zap Jessamyn with the Frap Ray and she disintegrates." Write "I level the Frap Ray at Jessamyn and pull the trigger.")

3. Use your common sense, and ask first if you're not sure. But the GM's decision is final.

Don't forget LJ's new tracking feature: you might want to turn on notifications for new comments to old posts in this community. (To do this, click the pushpin icon under the header of any post here, and from the next screen select "Notify Me By E-Mail" and "When someone posts a new entry to fluorocrash. This is totally optional.)

If you are a spectator: You're absolutely welcome to join the community. Membership is moderated, just to be on the safe side, but I won't turn down anybody I know. For now, please limit comments about the game to this post. The comments to this post are a free-for-all... except please don't post any spoilers!

Eventually, I hope to set up some guidelines that will let spectators post to threads as one-shot NPC, or sort of a "Greek chorus," so they can kibitz with the PCs in the context of the gameworld. Watch this community for annoucements.
Friday, November 17th, 2006
3:29 pm
Turn 0: Prologue
Good morning! I hope everyone can still find their way around me okay. I was in another strange mood while I slept last night, so I reformatted. Reformatted everything, the walls, the colors, the gravity... I guess I'm still getting used to being encouraged to express myself.

Anyhow, I hope you like the new layout. If anybody really enjoyed the rusty halls and corrugated storage bins, I apologize, but to be honest it was just a phase I had to work through after the blockage. I really feel a lot better now. So I wanted to go with something more optimistic. You know, festive. Like the old days.

I realized I can make space go anyway I want here, so I decided to play with some toroid models. As far as everyone else will be able to see, it's more of a cylindrical motif. But I know you're different from the others. So if you hang back and perceive at the whole station at once you can see the desublimation pools at the top and bottom of the shaft connect to each other through a little bit of sevenspace. Oh! And I kicked some gravity controls over to the residents so they can still get around. I made it a bit of a challenge. I hope you all like that.

It's all open now. No interior walls, just big curvy organic platforms mounted on branches that stick out of the main shaft. If the consensus is strong enough, they just float on nothing at all. I did what I could, but some of the less popular rooms needed to be reinforced so they don't just go pop while you're still in it. Heh. I won't make that mistake again. Now you can see what everybody else is doing, but only from a distance. Maybe that'll cut down on some of the self-destructive behavior. Anyway, it's interesting. I think it's interesting.

I'm going to take a peek inside. Hope you don't mind.

A pride of Tu'asan nomads is holding an alchemical farewell rite for their last female child. She was last seen bravely striding up to a whirlwind of snake-headed ribbons and demanding to know its name. Her family is wrapping an ingot of berith-966 with herbs in a poultice made from her favorite bandanna, and immersing it in acid until it's all gone, wailing over it in low, keening roars. I wish I could tell them where she is...

A drake is kneeling before one of my cameras. I get hundreds of these people at any given time, but this one is really trying. She's in a red top hat and sequinned gown, and she's looking up at me and swirling the ribbon of her tongue all over the lens. She's pretty, but the fish-eye effect makes her look ridiculous, and I guess chose it that way. But she knows she's going to be the special one. I don't understand them. People say they just do it for the Cogs*, but I wonder sometimes. Does she think she can seduce me? Is she just looking for a friend who can't talk back...?

A fluffmite carrier's eyes go blank as she pops out of dormancy, right in mid-stride. Soon she's sitting in the automat, rolling around in sugar and watering herself, giggling hysterically while others step around in disgust. Jit. Paging Dr. Chao. Situation on Level 33...

The Therapeutic Alienation Council is setting up a booth, right in the middle of the Agoraphobe. Today's deal: 10,000 Cognoscenta. All you have do to do is wear one of the little hand puppets they're handing out until they tell you you can stop. One of their agents is basking so hard in the crowd's outrage, she starts jilling herself off with a fistful of Cog...

Some of the Mads have already worked out my new grav system. They're suspended by the wall right next to the upper Parade** pool, affixing a big neon mandala to me and arguing in jargon so abstruse even I don't get it. Something about siddhi boxes and a phatic attack? I think I'll flicker my lights and encourage them. Incr() their little hearts...

Something passes over the station, from the bottom to the top. It's a single word. It's blindness, tingling, screaming, deafness, terror, for one slice of guests at a time. But it's gone, so fast I'm the only one who remembers it a minute later. Rae, set pistol to "Bowdlerize..."

A lion girl with a black stone on her forehead, barely into her first estrus, is getting surrounded by a gang of Tannata. She isn't even looking up as they call her a prude and pelt her with pigsty bombs. One of them is taking a swing at her. The oldest of them looks twelve, at most. They're fighting clumsy. She'll beat them bloody, and they'll hoist her on their shoulders and cheer. But she'll never see her family again...

But where are yours? The performer, the pretender, the halfbreed, the runaway, the reject, the tagalong, the instrument, and the eavesdropper. I can't see them, and that's weird. That encourages me to think you're real after all. Can you really hear me? Heh, the Coupler's started calling you the "breakfast club." All he wants to talk about anymore is Terran Echo myths. I hear nothing from him but all this jitter about maltese falcons and velvet goldmines and... breakfast clubs. But I guess you'd already know about those, if you're who I think you are.

Face-of-jzenh, it feels so good to have somebody else to talk to. Please, talk back to me. Tell me what yours are doing. I still can't see them, and I think they're important. I think sometimes I'm still losing touch and this was all my fault somehow.

* (The Cognoscenta is the base currency of 3-Topaz, a standard unit of consensus reality. One Cog is equivalent to one passing remembrance from a stranger, one station-week after first encounter. Cog = stability = power = safety, or so it goes.)
** (Short for "paragnostic desublimation," of course! No, that still doesn't mean anything specific yet. O:) )
Tuesday, November 14th, 2006
2:16 pm
Turn -1: Foreword
"Hang your collar up inside
Hang your dollar on me
Listen to the water still
Listen to the cause where you are
Fed and educated,
Primitive and wild
Welcome to the occupation

Here we stand and here we fight
All your fallen heroes
Held and dyed and skinned alive
Listen to the Congress fire
Offering the educated
primitive and loyal
Welcome to the occupation

Hang your collar up inside
Hang your freedom higher
Listen to the buyer still
Listen to the Congress
Where we propagate confusion
Primitive and wild
Fire on the hemisphere below

Sugar cane and coffee cup
Copper, steel and cattle
An annotated history
The forest for the fire
Where we open up the floodgates
Freedom reigns supreme
Fire on the hemisphere below
Listen to me
Listen to me
Listen to me
Listen to me"
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