RE: Journal of Sociology [S!6] - [Round One: The Pacific Spire]
08-03-2013, 09:04 AM
(This post was last modified: 08-03-2013, 09:18 AM by AgentBlue.)
Blink. Fields of blue potential swirling in the gedanken space found their ground state at the Journal. It lay open on a podium, from its pages jutting a miniature model: a spindly tower, frozen in time. A glowing, fiery limpet hugged the tower about halfway up, posing a puzzle to the eye, until one noticed the broken glass, twisted metal, shrapnel shards all hanging in space about it. So merely a catastrophic explosion, then. Nothing that would cause structural failure, but it certainly would do damage to, say, anyone caught in the blast.
Blink, blink. In fact, one of the smaller pieces of debris seemed to be trailing scraps of ash that might once have been an assortment clothes.
Blink, blink, blink-
“Hel-lo,” came a cheery, twangy voice, at the edge of her realm. “Can I come in? I’ll just let myself in.”
A jingling of metal accompanied the invasion. The Sociologist closed her eyes, sighed, and opened them again: a rather extended blink. The cyan lock on her head gave an impatient twitch. “Where have you been?”
“Out and about.” The back of a pair of overalls crept into her peripheral vision. “Went to some casino, mucked around.” Pause; the overalls straightened up, jangling the bandolier of tools slung from it.
“Ooh, Allison,” came the name in a sing-song ball of irritation, “That reminds me! Do you know what the Broadcaster’s gotten himself up to?”
In response, the Sociologist finally turned from her observation, and the newcomer swung into sight. Bandolier and overalls were in fact filled by a young, brown-haired college-age female, dressed in rough trousers, oilstained shirt with rolled-up sleeves - mechanic’s wear. She stood in a little reproduction of a 1980s-era kitchen, but was boiling water in some barbaric metal contraption of her own devising. Had she been a real stranger, the Sociologist would have ejected - or evaporated - her on the spot. As it was, however:
“Artificer,” she muttered finally, “I would appreciate it if you do not use that name. It is no longer appropriate.” Sigh. “And yes, I do know of the Broadcaster’s activities.” She waved a hand at the tower-model behind her.
The Artificer’s normally content face showed momentary displeasure at her companion’s request, but it vanished - or was perhaps buried - as her eyes fell on the Journal. “Ooh, brilliant! I haven’t had the chance to look at one of these up close, yet!” She scuttled over to the model, peering close at the frozen explosion.
“Feel free, Artificer. There are notes inside you may wish to peruse.”
“Shush, you. Don’t you have other experiments to look at?” Behind them, the barbarous machine spat out a steaming china teacup. “Have some tea.”
*
The giant hall again, the Journal at its center. The contestants, sans one, all arranged. All facing the book and the desk. All frozen in their various attitudes at the moment Oli had turned into a flying cinder.
Behind the desk was a chair that certainly hadn’t been there before; and it must be said - there has never been anything, nor will there ever be anything, like the construction of this chair. Whoever had built it believed in implementing ideas before forgetting them: its burnished metal carapace was bristling with half-finished gadgets and flashing lights, its mesh seating was, as a result, less than comfortable, and the less said about the armrests the better.
It was, in short, completely at odds with everything else in the room.
“‘Early observations in the experiment suggested a confusion and noncompliance among competitors due to the highly-variegated locale and lack of adequate navigation...’ How can she write this crap?” The Artificer turned the stack of pages over, peering at the bottom sheet. “Double-sided!”
She dropped into the chair, put her work boots on the desk, and appraised the contestants in front of her. There was a short pause - then she said to the air, “Allison’ll be mad at me...but ehhhhhhhhh.” The last syllable turned into an extended drawl as she rested her eyes on the motley crew before her.
“All right, gang; ‘The Sociologist’ is, right now, as we say, out to lunch.” The contestants’ unmoving eyes rested right back at her, and she giggled. “So she won’t not notice us. Why don’t we move this on a little?” A quick rummage of the desk drawer yielded the Journal’s fountain pen. “Any objections? No? Good!”
Experiment Two: Adaptation
The world was grey, and moving slowly up past the still-frozen semicircle. A moment’s cognitive dissonance, then the surroundings resolved themselves: they were descending through a dark, smoggy cloud, almost too thick to see the Artificer flicking through pages in front of them.
“Okay, what’s this... ‘It’s the Age of Industry. An age of discovery, of bright sciences, and conversely, dark magic. The nobles,’ ha, ‘the nobles of this city have something of a haute couture in the practice and research of science...’ mm-hm. Mmm-hm.”
The shuffling of paper marked their descent as they broke through the bottom of a dense smog, built from the twin carcinogens of coal exhaust and wood ash. Below them lay an urban sprawl splayed on rolling plains, sporting factory chimneys spewing smoke and strange stone towers spitting sparks.
“‘Under us, you’ll see the bustling city of Ryburg Ritz,’” the Artificer paused, and amended, “‘Except thanks to the Vague Plague, it is no longer so.’”
They floated intangibly down a wide street, lined with empty workshops, cold forges, and corpses with both qualities. Here and there strange clockwork cars lay abandoned and dilapidated, scorch marks delineating burst or leaking boilers; corpses lying half-out of open doors or skewered to their seats by brass and steel shrapnel.
“‘Most people left the city after the Emperor succumbed.’” The strange company paused briefly over a burst-open satchel, clothes trampled and strewn over the cobblestones. “‘Left, in the sense of fled, or escaping.’ Fuck, she’s so obtuse. Look, who wants to make this a little more interesting?”
No objections. Under them, the burned-out skeleton of a Victorian house coughed out a disappointed looter.
“Good.” In one motion, the Artificer clutched the sheaf of notes to her chest and jumped, shooting back up into the smoky clouds. A few seconds later, it began to rain pages.
“I’ll fill you in on the bare details,” her voice came to them, “Most people abandoned their shit. And that’s not just carriages and suitcases. Houses, workshops, artisans’ studios.”
The contestants began to drift apart now, the semicircle growing wider, each one losing sight of the others in the fog. “The Plague has pretty much run its course, but people still haven’t gotten back to trusting the city yet.” Then they were descending further, onto the streets, rooftops, into houses, up trees... “If there’s anything else you wanna know - well, Allison was very comprehensive, as she’d say.” Finally, with a flourish, the bonds immobilizing them were freed.
“So...have fun! Go and get results or something.”
*
“Oh, hell.”
Blink, blink. In fact, one of the smaller pieces of debris seemed to be trailing scraps of ash that might once have been an assortment clothes.
Blink, blink, blink-
“Hel-lo,” came a cheery, twangy voice, at the edge of her realm. “Can I come in? I’ll just let myself in.”
A jingling of metal accompanied the invasion. The Sociologist closed her eyes, sighed, and opened them again: a rather extended blink. The cyan lock on her head gave an impatient twitch. “Where have you been?”
“Out and about.” The back of a pair of overalls crept into her peripheral vision. “Went to some casino, mucked around.” Pause; the overalls straightened up, jangling the bandolier of tools slung from it.
“Ooh, Allison,” came the name in a sing-song ball of irritation, “That reminds me! Do you know what the Broadcaster’s gotten himself up to?”
In response, the Sociologist finally turned from her observation, and the newcomer swung into sight. Bandolier and overalls were in fact filled by a young, brown-haired college-age female, dressed in rough trousers, oilstained shirt with rolled-up sleeves - mechanic’s wear. She stood in a little reproduction of a 1980s-era kitchen, but was boiling water in some barbaric metal contraption of her own devising. Had she been a real stranger, the Sociologist would have ejected - or evaporated - her on the spot. As it was, however:
“Artificer,” she muttered finally, “I would appreciate it if you do not use that name. It is no longer appropriate.” Sigh. “And yes, I do know of the Broadcaster’s activities.” She waved a hand at the tower-model behind her.
The Artificer’s normally content face showed momentary displeasure at her companion’s request, but it vanished - or was perhaps buried - as her eyes fell on the Journal. “Ooh, brilliant! I haven’t had the chance to look at one of these up close, yet!” She scuttled over to the model, peering close at the frozen explosion.
“Feel free, Artificer. There are notes inside you may wish to peruse.”
“Shush, you. Don’t you have other experiments to look at?” Behind them, the barbarous machine spat out a steaming china teacup. “Have some tea.”
*
The giant hall again, the Journal at its center. The contestants, sans one, all arranged. All facing the book and the desk. All frozen in their various attitudes at the moment Oli had turned into a flying cinder.
Behind the desk was a chair that certainly hadn’t been there before; and it must be said - there has never been anything, nor will there ever be anything, like the construction of this chair. Whoever had built it believed in implementing ideas before forgetting them: its burnished metal carapace was bristling with half-finished gadgets and flashing lights, its mesh seating was, as a result, less than comfortable, and the less said about the armrests the better.
It was, in short, completely at odds with everything else in the room.
“‘Early observations in the experiment suggested a confusion and noncompliance among competitors due to the highly-variegated locale and lack of adequate navigation...’ How can she write this crap?” The Artificer turned the stack of pages over, peering at the bottom sheet. “Double-sided!”
She dropped into the chair, put her work boots on the desk, and appraised the contestants in front of her. There was a short pause - then she said to the air, “Allison’ll be mad at me...but ehhhhhhhhh.” The last syllable turned into an extended drawl as she rested her eyes on the motley crew before her.
“All right, gang; ‘The Sociologist’ is, right now, as we say, out to lunch.” The contestants’ unmoving eyes rested right back at her, and she giggled. “So she won’t not notice us. Why don’t we move this on a little?” A quick rummage of the desk drawer yielded the Journal’s fountain pen. “Any objections? No? Good!”
Experiment Two: Adaptation
The world was grey, and moving slowly up past the still-frozen semicircle. A moment’s cognitive dissonance, then the surroundings resolved themselves: they were descending through a dark, smoggy cloud, almost too thick to see the Artificer flicking through pages in front of them.
“Okay, what’s this... ‘It’s the Age of Industry. An age of discovery, of bright sciences, and conversely, dark magic. The nobles,’ ha, ‘the nobles of this city have something of a haute couture in the practice and research of science...’ mm-hm. Mmm-hm.”
The shuffling of paper marked their descent as they broke through the bottom of a dense smog, built from the twin carcinogens of coal exhaust and wood ash. Below them lay an urban sprawl splayed on rolling plains, sporting factory chimneys spewing smoke and strange stone towers spitting sparks.
“‘Under us, you’ll see the bustling city of Ryburg Ritz,’” the Artificer paused, and amended, “‘Except thanks to the Vague Plague, it is no longer so.’”
They floated intangibly down a wide street, lined with empty workshops, cold forges, and corpses with both qualities. Here and there strange clockwork cars lay abandoned and dilapidated, scorch marks delineating burst or leaking boilers; corpses lying half-out of open doors or skewered to their seats by brass and steel shrapnel.
“‘Most people left the city after the Emperor succumbed.’” The strange company paused briefly over a burst-open satchel, clothes trampled and strewn over the cobblestones. “‘Left, in the sense of fled, or escaping.’ Fuck, she’s so obtuse. Look, who wants to make this a little more interesting?”
No objections. Under them, the burned-out skeleton of a Victorian house coughed out a disappointed looter.
“Good.” In one motion, the Artificer clutched the sheaf of notes to her chest and jumped, shooting back up into the smoky clouds. A few seconds later, it began to rain pages.
“I’ll fill you in on the bare details,” her voice came to them, “Most people abandoned their shit. And that’s not just carriages and suitcases. Houses, workshops, artisans’ studios.”
The contestants began to drift apart now, the semicircle growing wider, each one losing sight of the others in the fog. “The Plague has pretty much run its course, but people still haven’t gotten back to trusting the city yet.” Then they were descending further, onto the streets, rooftops, into houses, up trees... “If there’s anything else you wanna know - well, Allison was very comprehensive, as she’d say.” Finally, with a flourish, the bonds immobilizing them were freed.
“So...have fun! Go and get results or something.”
*
“Oh, hell.”
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So very British / But then again | People are machines Machines are people | Oh hai there | There's no time
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Superhero 1920s noir | Multigenre Half-Life | Changing the future | Command line interface
Tu ventire felix? | Clockwork for eternity | Explosions in spacetime