9559/The Gotham Affair: Unexpected Cargo

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The Gotham Affair: Unexpected Cargo
Date of Scene: 13 October 2019
Location: Oyster Bay, Nassau County
Synopsis: The General and Blurr have a discussion aboard General's captured vessel, among friends.
Cast of Characters: General (Armstrong), Blurr

General (Armstrong) has posed:
Ulysses Armstrong's faction of Gotham City youth, all of them connected to the networks of thieving guilds throughout the city - the oldest form of underground in any civilized municipality - have coalesced into a singular movement. Using their mutual dislike of the plutocracy that runs a city of industry of wealth, placing upon them rules created by the dead, Ulysses has convened them here, on the former Ameritek transport that he's taken to the edge of city waters.

Ulysses Armstrong sits on the deck above holds, while Bludhaven police, under the supervision of Blockbuster's gangsters, unload their share of their plunder, police munitions meant for paramilitary work in the Antilles.

Armstrong's core council, recruited from teenagers in mobster, police, and socialite circles, all of them knowing each other through nightclubs, fence warehouses, and skateparks, are arranged around him, while they sit on a circle of lawnchairs.

"Well, we've got a base of operations. Now, that we've had our first successful operation, we're going to need to lay down some rules for success."

In the hold, where Blurr has been requisitioned and forgotten by Ameritek, the dirty cops begin to lumber inwards, deactivating the magnetic levers holding him in place, to offload crates full of ammunition rounds.

Blurr has posed:
    Blurr had sort of watched the whole battle pan out, and apparently the group of young humans managed to capture the boat and set it sailing into the ocean. They were talented, for what they were, he'll give them that.

    But, hey--they finally turn off that Primus-forsaken magnetic field. The ocean swells, causing the ship to tilt, and the mysterious vehicle begins to slide across the floor toward a stack of munitions crates.

    Meanwhile, up on the top deck, another teen with blond hair wearing sweats and jeans seems to just walk in on Ulysses' meeting like he's supposed to be there and sits down in a vacant lawn chair. And no, no one recognizes him at all.

General (Armstrong) has posed:
The General looks up at the mysterious teenager that arrives, as do the other youths in his little neo-communist anarchist circle. The General slaps his hands in his lap and kicks up his boot-laden leg, on his right knee, bouncing the left a moment as he furrows his eyebrows.

"I don't remember you here," the General says, in an honest state of perplexity. He looks around to the others, as they all exchange glances, not recognizing the kid. "What's this, some kind of magic game? Did some sort of wizard send you here?"

Blurr has posed:
    The holoform teen smirks at their perplexed glances. "Nope, I've been here since the attack." he says, quite truthfully. "Maybe you just didn't notice. There -was- a lot of chaos and shooting, and stuff."

    Although the more one looks at him the more one might think magic was involved because he almost looks..too perfect to be an actual person. "Shouldn't you people be like, in school or something?" Of course, there's the fact that he himself looks to be not much older than they are.

General (Armstrong) has posed:
"This is school." The General grins quixotically, gesturing at one of the lawnchairs. "Take a seat."

"We're your standard juvenile delinquents, dissatisfied with the educational opportunities available in this country. Do you know the monolithic cultures of the world? Each was shaped by a root issue that caused rejection by the masses of the whole body of a region, creating individual tribes and eventually villages and cities and states." The General spreads his hands, open, across his open front, as the others nod and murmur, looking to Blurr's holographic representation. "My particular group, is displeased by the impossible nature of attaining lasting effect on society, in Gotham City, unless you are beholden to a set of rules and traditions established by long dead parties."

The General raises a hand, two fingers up. "To make a rule, you have to follow the other rules. But. Who is to say these rules are correct?"

There is a group of, "Here heres," out of his supporters.

Blurr has posed:
    The holoform sits there on that lawn chair, arms crossed, staring boredly at the General as he starts monologuing about monoliths and cultures and rules and other Earth politics. Of course, he wouldn't know any better as to what Earth schools are like, so maybe he's right. Maybe this -is- actually a school.

    Blurr chuckles at the question. "Well, the people who made them, of course." he says with a shrug. "That being, the people with the power."

    "So what kind of school is this, a military school? Lot of weapons, and stuff, I've noticed."

General (Armstrong) has posed:
"A military school?" General scoffs. "I've long since quit that part of my life."

Armstrong presses his hands down on his knees and rises. "No, this is a revolutionary committee, to establish rules."

The General turns and points across the bay, towards the city in the distance. "Do you see that? That's the target. Those tall towers, those bustling suburbs, those lines of coast and those rivers into the heart of the beast. From this humble group, I plan on engaging the symbol of oppression in Gotham City, and the surrounding burgers and tenancies."

The General slams his fist in his hand, turning to face Blurr from the side.

"The Batman."

Blurr has posed:
    "..." There is a bit of an eyeroll expression from the avatar at Armstrong's further monologuing. He can't be serious, can he? "Thought you didn't like rules. Oh, wait--that's only rules not made by -you-," he scoffs. "And I take it you think you're the only one capable of making rules that are 'correct'?"

    A brow goes up at the mention of Batman. "The 'Batman'?" he repeats, seeming to not quite make proper sense of the name. "What's that supposed to even mean? Please don't tell me it has anything to do with those small flying mammalians because I'm not sure I want to know crazy you'd have to be to somehow be convinced they're oppressing humans."

General (Armstrong) has posed:
"Rules are created as codes for success, within a culture," the General explains, "As protections against neighboring tribes with traditions that meet other tribes in a perpendicular fashion, so different cultures will have their own rules for success, bound together by mutual reasoning for becoming insular. We see this in the early civilizations of the proto-pagan world, after the monolithic societies gave way to organized religion and the farm civilizations of the world."

"Batman," Ulysses Armstrong explains, "Is what is called a 'hero', in the cultures of the early empires. A hero, is a concept based on several forms of logic exemplified by propaganda, and passed down in legend within the state and those conquered by it, for individuals to poise themselves as, as a form of psychological warfare."

The General explains, "In other words, an idol. To successfully counter an idol, we must salute it, on equal terms, and arrange ourselves as a counter-force."

Blurr has posed:
    "So, you want to fight this 'Batman', or salute him?" Because this guy seriously isn't making any sense at all. The avatar shrugs. "Oh whatever, carry on with your rule-establishing or whatever it was you needed to get done at your school."

General (Armstrong) has posed:
"The rule of war within, and between, an imperial state, is to salute the idol with an image of him as your own feared opponent, respecting the idol's abilities, and arranging each of your operatives, as a counter to a particular aspect the potential enactor of the legend has. Each one of these tactics, is held by a unit, based on a dilemma, in your codes for success, from the stage of early kingdoms and expansions where territorial rivalries developed, between the stage of tribal expansion and the imperial periods."

"In short," the General explains, hands behind his back. "The Book of Genesis, the Book of Exodus, the Book of Leviticus, and the Book of Maccabees, with the four lessons of each book to basic resistance culture, taught by the finest masters of the arts of history, fashioned into the key of all of Europe, by the work of a superb partisan named Jesus Christ. A basic set of cultural rules, held within the Hebrew Holy Books, allowing one to navigate the entire tradition of Western civilization."

Blurr has posed:
    Blah blah blah...Blurr defintely tunes the rest of this out. Especially after he starts talking about Earth literature and stuff. He never was one to be particularly interested in extraterrestrial culture and history.

    Instead, he starts scanning the container ship, trying to identify where its fuel tanks are.

General (Armstrong) has posed:
"So, introductions."

The General, diminuitive as he is for his age, straightens his shoulders, beneath his olive jacket.

"My name, is Ulysses Hadrian Armstrong, but my reputation in Gotham City is as The General."

Blurr has posed:
    Blurr notes the name in the back of his processors, but really, his mind is elsewhere. The scans bring back all the data he needs, like the fact that the tanks he's looking for are in the rear hold near the engines. But also the fact that there's a lot of munitions, aka explosive stuff, between him and the fuel he's after, which means that if he tries using any of his weaponry that might mean this entire boat goes up in flames. Which wouldn't be good for -anyone-.

    As Armonstrong is talking, the blond teen who had shown up seemingly out of the blue earlier seems to suddenly just -disappear- without a trace. This is immediately followed by a great commotion coming from one of the lower decks.

General (Armstrong) has posed:
The General looks to his small circle of neo-communists.

"Well, gentlemen, it looks like we have a wolf to hunt." Ulysses extends his hand to one of the circle, and receives a Colt .45, a standard American military model, and withdraws a clip from his pocket as he strides towards the deckhands loading the munitions crates into the waiting tugboats down the side of the boat docked alongside it, rolling with the ocean and bound with cargo nets.

Beneath the ship, the Bludhaven dirties pull out their Beretta sidearms, as the enforcers peer around at the sound, carrying shotgun carbines (automated fire shotguns with short barrels). They hear the cacaphony from the deep holds, and they hold their position, the eldest cop - a sergeant - looking at the others.

"We wait, until it gets close," the sergeant says, before they all bear down on the sound from the direction it came from, in the berth.

Blurr has posed:
    The noise is coming from the big warehouse deck where Ameritek seemed to have stashed some futuristic-looking vehicle. Except when they get there, the car is gone. Instead, there is a 14-15ft tall mechanical thing of the same color scheme and general style of that vehicle standing in front of the stern-facing wall and cutting it open with a wrist-mounted blade.

    The closest thing the typical person may have seen to this is a Sentinel. But it doesn't quite look like that, even if similar in stature.

General (Armstrong) has posed:


The thugs and cops turn around and go running from Blurr, towards the ramp back to mid-deck where they can get to the elevator leading to the top deck of the ship, in the air.

The General, meanwhile, is going down on the elevator, Colt .45 in hand, inspecting his pistol for safety and efficiency. After completing his check to his satisfaction, he flips the safety off, and pulls back on the stock, before it clicks back into position, loading the first round into the chamber.

Blurr has posed:
    Blurr glances behind, seeing the thugs and cops make a run for it. Oh, good. They did the smart thing instead of the stupid thing, like those other thugs did that other time. That being try to shoot him. He finishes cutting through the wall and then pulls at it, trying to peel it away, though it is a bit tougher than he expected. Even if he is stronger than a normal human could ever hope to be, in terms of his own kind, brute strength isn't exactly something he excels at.

General (Armstrong) has posed:
"Report, sirs," the General says, as the elevator reaches the base of the shaft and he steps out, seeing the cops and enforcers come up the ramp.

"It's a Cybertronian, General," the sergeant says, looking back over his shoulder to see if he's been tailed. "Big one."

The General peers in the direction that he hears the sound of whining metal and crunching reinforcement.

"He's breaching something." The General makes a tactical assessment, pointing to the rear of the ship.

"Defend the engine room, that is his only logical goal." The entity topdeck thought simplistically in terms of agency and actors of various singularities and groups, and did not see various levels of function. A direct thinker, however one with an intuition into his character. Capable of a simple, but potent, tactical appraisal.

Disabling the ship.

General leads the cops and enforcers down the dark alleys of the rear of the ship, towards the engine room, all of them moving shiftly and lugging their weapons.

Blurr has posed:
    Blurr grows increasingly impatient with these fragging walls. Normally, he'd just blast his way through, but with all these explosives around, can't risk blowing everything into the next star system.

    Eventually, though, he makes his way into the rear hold where the tanks are. Only, the humans somehow made it there before him. Well of course if he -could- just smash through everything without blowing things up that wouldn't have been the case!

    On their end, they'd see the wall getting carved by a plasma blade from the other side, until a circular section pops out and clangs to the floor. Blurr squeezes himself through the opening, just barely fitting, then waits for these fleshies to run away too.

General (Armstrong) has posed:
"Well, we see the real shape of the affair," comes General's voice, looking up at Blurr, in the center of his colleagues, as they stand in the engine room on either side of him, pointing their weapons up at Blurr.

General's gun pointed upwards, his finger sliding behind the trigger guard, he raises his chin, his moussed hair hanging besides his eye.

"What do you intend to do here, Cybertronian? Disable the ship?"

He doesn't dare aim at Blurr.

"I suppose there is no talking you out of the affair, besides me seeing you with my own eyes." There's a psychotic look to his glassy, dead-eyed stare, as he grins widely, showing his white teeth, brushed compulsively since childhood.

Blurr has posed:
    Wait, what? They don't run away like the others? Aw, slag. Blurr doesn't appear intimidated by the weapons aimed at him at all. However, they don't seem to be shooting at him just yet, so maybe they aren't actually stupid. "Just so you know, those weapons you're holding won't do you any good against me." Well he isn't actually -that- certain of that fact, but he's just going to say it anyway because he's at least reasonably certain.

    He scoffs at the General's question. "Pff, why would I care whether your puny ship is disabled or not or whether you go after this 'Batman' character or whatever? Let's just say, I'm in the mood for a snack, to put it in your waterbag terms."

    There is a strange noise and he appears to fold down on top of himself, panels shifting and sliding until it isn't a biped standing there any more but that car they'd found earlier. The gas cap opens but instead of the opening to a tank as one might expect, a long cable extends out of it and attaches itself to one of the ship's fuel conduits.

General (Armstrong) has posed:
"A reasonable gentleman," General admits, looking to his associates.

"I believe we can oblige the fellow, can't we?"

There are murmurs, as the cops pull their guns up to the ceiling, and the enforcers lower their weapons. The sergeant, the oldest cop, still looks suspicious, watching very closely.

The General, meanwhile, looks quite relaxed, feeling completely safe and victorious.

Blurr has posed:
    Blurr is...actually surprised at this reaction. "I--really?" he asks, as the fuel flows into his own reservoirs.

General (Armstrong) has posed:
"Efficiency of force, demands diplomacy," the General explains.

The cop, meanwhile, points at the tank.

"Hey, you realize that's diesel, right?"

Blurr has posed:
    "I -guess-." Blurr concedes. "It's just that most people who know what I am wouldn't come anywhere near me, much less try -talking- to me. With good reason, too." he adds.

    "Diesel...? Oh, yeah sure. But it doesn't really matter."

General (Armstrong) has posed:
"I'm an open minded individual," the General shares. "I find racism to be deplorable. Anyone can serve in a fine military unit, given the proper professional assessment by a recruitment clerk."

The cop nods, squinting.

"So you got one of them, eh, carbohydrated, engines."

Blurr has posed:
    "Not exactly, your 'fossil fuels' as you Terrans call them aren't the greatest but it's at least something." Blurr answers, finally pulling the cable out and retracting it once he's had his fill. "I guess it is kind of racism, but it's also mostly fear. There's a good reason most civilized races don't want anything to do with us."

    There is that sound again, and he stands back up and glances at the hole in the wall. "Erm. Sorry about--that."

General (Armstrong) has posed:
"Racism is a fear of obseletion. Humans are an invasive species at their root fundament, if the tool is poorly refined. A foolish human always kills a more advanced ally, whether it be a subject of academics, a species, or a simple idea they cannot understand."

The General gestures for his associates to leave.

"Rules, Cybertronian. They are made by the dead, and they reward those that follow them. We all need them, but that does not mean that they are successful forever."

He smiles benevolently, for once.

"All it takes is for a single good idea to sneak into someone's life, beneath the blade of a window wiper."

He turns about, marching out.