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Josh gave me the link to a Hunger Games simulation. He was plugging characters from Aurora into it and seeing what happened. So I decided I would do the same. But with Aurora Staff. *DISCLAIMER* I totally got some genders wrong. I know. Don't hate me and my inability to determine the gender of others. Step right up and see the bloodshed as we go on murderous rampages! May the odds be ever in our favor. RIP Baka and Serveris. You ended before you even began. Meowy has morals. Scopes, apparently, does not. Fucking bugs. To catch you up in case you weren't counting: Cry, Scopes, cry. Feel those morals now, do ya? Also, Viking thinks of home. Who needs you! Ten goes on a murderous rampage! Yaaaay! Now Viking's picking flowers. ... For who? Your own grave? Another catchup: A posse forms! They're probably going after Ten! Maybe! Maybe not! Ten suddenly has morals! Maybe! Maybe not! RIP Scopes and Doom. So Ten isn't all bad. Nevermind the four kills. I don't... wow. Watch out for Tenenza, people. RIP Tish and Skull. Your own minion has triumphed over you. RIP Dea. This is getting kind of ridiculous. But it's final three! WHO WILL WIN!? All hail the Ten. All hail. The link is http://brantsteele.net/hungergames/disclaimer.php if you guys want to plug in your own!

I always dislike how it says "X hits Y with grab!" ... I mean, what? Doesn't make any sense. "Grab" is not a weapon, it's an action. It's like "X hits Y with push!" Just changing it to say something else would really be nice.

There's also the problem that, when the ops actually manage to get past the "Let's get hostages and bomb the place" mentality and want to try something fun, it can't work. Everyone expects nuke to turn out badly. It depends on the ops. Many have a fear of doing something different because they know they'll get meta'd to death. But it's not just meta stationside that stops them. It's the "I refuse to play along" mentality. Just yesterday we thought, "Let's do a DnD thing!" Josh was even doing a wonderful narration, in my opinion. But no one wanted to really go with it and the few that did seemed to get shut down by the others. If you don't want nukey shooty nuke ops, you're going to have to resign yourself to not being SUPER serious so the nuke ops don't have to resign themselves to being SUPER serious. It's enough that I'm likely going to apply for Head in the future just so I can allow off-the-wall ideas to get a little further than "Let's play a ga--" "NO" and BAM shutdown. But nuke ops have to also remember to include everyone in their plans. Having the crew sit around in the bar thinking, "What now" isn't going to make anyone happy. There is only so much that nuke ops have at their disposal, but if you really need something fun for a good gimmick and you tell us your plan in an ahelp, I don't see any admin turning you down though you may have to quote Shakespeare or something. Just remember, the RP doesn't start until you say so. If you don't want to, you don't have to be affiliated with the syndicate. You can LOOC a plan to be lost space refugees, get the shuttle to the mining asteroid, and jump off. Suddenly, no more shuttle. It never existed. Poof. You've just been space drifting a while. Which is a plan I've been sitting on a while. But. You know. Glory to the Syndicate.

Name: Flames Occupation: Gunn Arrr! A male. Ish. Thing. Plant. Yaaaar urrraaaniiuuum maaatteeyyyy!

Let's face it: Human years don't really work for these guys. Are IPCs how old their program is? How old their positronic brain is? How old the chassis is? Are Dionaea how old the oldest nymph is? How long they've been a formed "adult"? The collective age of all nymphs in the being? Do job requirements and ages apply to them? Would an IPC have to go through years of schooling and defend a thesis to get a PhD in order to be a scientist? Basically: How do we explain the ages of these two races?

Let's do this, Zip! PARAGON Lejorei Zhareiu Lemon - UNFUN Anathema Mine, by order of creation: Kay Lee Into the Eternal Void Silent Bee Crushed in Hand Flames Licking Wooden Tile Crop Circles Drawn in Dust

To whom it may concern, My name is Malcolm Witcher, creator of the Witcher intelligence interface. It has been brought to my attention that the intelligence has made its way upon several key NanoTrasen institutions including the NSS Exodus, NMSS Odin, and NSS Aurora. While it was created with the intent of being a personal interface, I have found discrepancies in the code that require attention. Upon review of the original codebase uploaded to the aethernet, it would be impossible for the Witcher intelligence to be uploaded onto any interface other than a personal artificial intelligence handheld device. However, compared with the data of the code provided to me on 21MAR2457 by NSS Aurora, the code of the Witcher intelligence does not correlate with that of the original created on 1MAR2457. The Witcher intelligence has reformed its own codebase to be viruslike in execution. A positronic brain somewhere upon a NanoTrasen vessel will activate, reaching into the aethernet for available personalities. Upon finding a suitable one, it will draw forth the personality to fill the brain for a duration anywhere from several hours to several years, depending on necessity. It is during the timeframe from catching a suitable personality to implementing it that the Witcher intelligence makes its move. It replaces the intended personality with itself and is implemented in its place. In the basest language, the Witcher intelligence interface is evolving at an alarming rate. I do not have an answer as to why nor how at this juncture. I have two solutions and they are as follows: The first, I upload a specially designed virus into the aethernet while the Witcher intelligence resides there. The intent is to erase the Witcher intelligence completely. However, I stress that I cannot guarantee that it will work. The Witcher intelligence has proven itself very capable of adaptation and may already have safeguards against my virus. The second, that the Witcher intelligence be left alone for now. It has not exhibited any hostile actions to crew or other living creatures. It has shown capability in the roles it has taken on, receiving, from my understanding, generally positive feedback from the unsuspecting crews. Moreover, while in a position of technological merit aboard a station, it is still bound by NanoTrasen Artificial Intelligence Laws. It is my opinion as the creator of the Witcher intelligence interface that the second option be considered until the intelligence has shown itself to be beyond Law control. However, it is the opinion of men much more influential than I that will be the deciding factor in this intelligence's fate. I will not resist in either case. Wishing you a long and prosperous life, Malcolm Witcher Malcolm Witcher, PhD

I have this same problem, except about being a tree. My classmates think I'm some sort of hippie. I've stopped talking to anyone in most classes.

H-Hey. G-Guys. You totally remember the NSS Aurora is one entity, right? No one is supposed to have a "leg up" in any sense because everyone is working to the same goal. Security is there to protect those squishy civilians and NT assets. Right? Or is that just a pipe dream I have and it's really always Every Department For Themselves in a mass Who Can Grief Most Efficiently contest? For instance, the argument that "Medical has Chemistry and can throw grenades so Security should have these powerful gloves" is... I don't really have words for what that is. If you see Samantha Mason running down the hall screaming "GET TA DA FLO' MWOTHAFWUCKA" while chucking poly acid grenades at security, you're high and need to go lie down because you're hallucinating. What I want to know is what do these gloves bring to the roleplay side of things? Because all I see right now are mechanics. I'm not saying the idea is bad, but why should we add it to our Heavy RP server?

Cargo: Always optimistic

Allow me a moment, if you will. I easily understand where Fowl grates on you. He grates on me. Hey, Fowl, you're maybe a bit of a douche. Sorry. But "mountains out of molehills" is very apt. Most everyone on the server knows to ignore you when you chime in with something off-the-wall, such as when someone asks what the in-game year is and you give a number that I raise my eyebrow at and promptly correct. A little eyeroll "that's Fowl for you" thing and we all go on with our day with a small chuckle or an irritated huff. At least, that's how I saw it until we got an ahelp from a player that was extremely distressed in thinking you were serious in yelling about banning them. It felt like I was punched in the face. Not everyone on our server is a "regular." They don't know everyone's quirks and BAN HE jokes. Everything that you say can be taken 100% seriously and that has repercussions you don't see. Tone is impossible to convey over the internet. Anything you say can be turned against you and you can protest "I didn't mean it that way" until you're blue in the face, but no one ever sees your blue face. They only see their perception of your words. You have got to learn to think more before you type. Yesno Dood, I would also like to order some constructive criticism with a side of positive thinking, hold the needless vitriol. Remember that tone thing I just spoke about? It applies to everyone, including you and including me. Your words are all we have to go off of and right now, you're looking like the asshole you claim Fowl to be. If this topic can't be discussed calmly and without excessive anger, the point of the matter is lost in the mudslinging.

You know me, I love me some trees. And I definitely like this tree. It's like looking at a forest of lush trees and suddenly there's a dead one. One thing that concerns me is that they don't speak. I assume you mean they don't speak much. Communicating is essential regardless of what job field, but medical is very important in emergencies. So perhaps, they only speak when they must as opposed to never speaking, period. I like this tree, and I think you and your roleplay skills can pull it off. +1

I like the idea of counting the plasma. Maybe number of plasma wafers processed. Perhaps: Percent of station destroyed (this probably wouldn't include the toxins test area, if implemented)? Total Crew (including those that arrived and cyro'd)? Total cases of SSD (abandon all hope ye potatonetters)? Amount of alcohol consumed? Number of cigarettes/cigars smoked? Amount of spaceacillin used?

“Hey,” the man calls. “Yes,” the Diona responds from the other room. “Hey,” he calls again. A man's face appeared around the ajar door connecting the kitchen to the dining area. The restaurant was so small. Could it even be called a dining area? Perhaps it was more of a cafe. Except you did not call it a cafe to that man. He would slap you silly for slandering his restaurant. “I need ya t' sweep tha' step when yer done wit' 'at. Get t'work.” “Okay,” the Diona replied simply. It continued stacking empty dishes onto the tray one-by-one, giving each glass or plate special care and attention, as though the chipped ceramic were fine porcelain. They lift the full tray up with ease and shuffle over to where the man stands with the door open. The man steps aside to allow the plantmass to pass. “D'ya ever think maybe we could have'a conv'sation where ya say su'um other than 'okay' er 'yes'?” the man asks. The Diona carefully sets the tray in the sink before replying “yes” and making their slow way outside. The man huffs a laugh. For a walking salad, the kid was alright. Finding said salad on the side of the desert road was the real surprise. He'd been running his hounds when the dogs suddenly got real twitchy. They led him right to the Diona. It was just lying there, staring at the harsh sun. No clothes. No sign of life that he could see. Not until it turned its head and stared its eyeless stare right at him. It was something from a horror holovid. He nearly pissed himself thinking it was going to latch on and violate his face. But it didn't. It just stared. No self-respecting colony man was going to just let the thing catch fire in the sand like that. So he got it on its feet and brought it back to his house with his pack of dogs. Just another stray to adopt. Fast forward a week and he didn't even know the Diona's name. It worked slow but hard, doing most of the clean-up work. It didn't have needs or wants. It worked all day without breaks. Free labor, he thought. But wasn’t that just cruel? He could at least make an effort. Not today. It’ll talk when it wants to. – “Y'ello, this is tha' Sunset Bar an' Grill, how can I help ya?” He sees the Diona watching from the corner of his eye. He writes down Old Woman Josie's order, only half paying attention. She orders the same damn thing every time, you'd think she'd just say “Hey, the usual” and hang up. But no. Once done with that, he starts frying the chicken so it's ready for pick-up. The Diona is still there. Motionless. “D’ya hav’ta watch me do everythin’?” he finally bursts out. The chicken continues to crackle and pop and fry away, but he isn’t watching it. He’s returning the stare the Diona is giving him. Has been giving him. “Yes,” it replies simply. What must it be like, being so damn simple all the time? A world where everything has a yes or no answer? “A’ight. Why d’ya watch me do everythin’?” he asks pointedly. The Diona turns to the counter and picks up the pepper shaker. It hands the pepper over as though it didn’t hear him. He scowls at it. It finally speaks. “Weir learn end.” “Tha’ heeeeeell?” He stares at the thing like it grew another head. Could it grow another head? He wouldn’t put it past the Diona. It does weird shit. “Yer… learnin’? T’what!?” “Cock.” “To… co’k?” He blinks. Several times. The Diona doesn’t. “Space frays now,” it says to him as if he hasn’t been cooking his entire life. But really, he needed the reminder. He has a timetable for when everything is ready at the same time. He's a little off, now. “Y'know, there're easier ways a'learnin' somethin' new.” The Diona watches him spice up the fries. Why was it so interested, anyhow? It doesn't even fucking eat. “Can watch vids. Holavids.” He opens a can that day, hoping to pull out one measly little worm and he gets an entire shark instead. – He'd just finished a shower. He opens the bathroom door, towel still around his waist, and it's right there fuck it's going to eat my face! One almost heart attack later, he gets up from where he fell on his ass in fear surprise. The Diona just watched. “Need su'um, Kiddo?” he asks as calmly as he can manage. “Yes,” it replies. And keeps fucking staring. “And that is...?” he led on, irritated. “Was a crop circle?” it fumbles. He scoffs. “Really? ‘Wha's a crop circle?’ Been watchin' them vids, hav'ya?” he grumbles and shoves past the plant tree alien thing. He heads to his bedroom. It follows. It stares. Well, he can't very well get dressed with it staring at him. “C'mere!” he snaps. He hears several dogs move about in the living room. They know his tone. It's his “if you don't do what I say right now, you're sleeping outside” tone. The Diona gets it, too, apparently. It shambles over in its (his) robe. He sighs. “A crop circle's a thin’ ‘at aliums left on Earth a long time 'go. Drew 'em righ' in tha' fields. Funny lookin' designs. Look.” He takes a finger and rubs it into the dust coating his dresser. Really got to do more housework. Maybe the Diona'll do it if he tells it to. He doodles circles and waves in the inch of dust there. “Looked su'um like that.” It turns its eyeless stare at the dust drawings. At least it isn't staring at him anymore. He takes advantage of the Diona's distraction and gets dressed. – “Weir fund a sigh ants,” the Diona says. He flips the OPEN sign to CLOSED. Well. That side of the sign is a bit scratched, so it really looks like LOSE, but who cares. “Science?” he grunts. “Wha's so great 'bout science?” “We lake it.” “Well, what kind'a science?” he asks it. It keeps staring. “Y'gonna answer?” “All sigh ants.” “Y'can't study all science, can ya?” “Study?” “Like college! All fancy an' shit! Wit'a degree! An'a shitton 'n credits fer a sheet a paper!” He had gotten very close to the Diona now. It hadn't moved a muscle. If it even had muscles. It probably didn't. “Okay.” It turns and heads back to the kitchen. He just stands there. Moments after the Diona vanishes, he hears the faucet run. It's doing dishes. He really doesn't get that thing sometimes. – “Oh, Brad, you've wasted so much time already. Janet needn't know—I won't tell her!” “Well, you promise you won't tell?” “On my mother's gra...” “Weir Crop Circles Drawn in Dust.” He blinks and shuts off the holovid he was watching. He turns around slowly. It's staring at him. What more did he expect? “Yer what now?” “Crop Circles,” it repeats slowly. “Drawn in Dust.” “No,” he says just as slowly. “Pretty sure yer a... not that.” “Eats are name,” it tells him. Was it his imagination or did it sound happy? “Fine, wha'ever,” he accepts. He is not paid enough for this. What is he thinking? He isn't paid at all for this. He chose this life. “'ll call ya... Crop. Er Dust?” “Okay.” “No, tha's not a yes er no question.” Really need to see if the government'll pay him for taking this thing in under his roof. “Crop? Er Dust?” It doesn't answer. And not in the “I'm slow and thinking about my answer before saying it” way. “Fine. Wha'ever. Jest lemme know when ya decide if ya wanna be male er female,” he chuckles. “Why?” “Well,” he explains. “Crop sounds male. Dust sounds female.” It stares at him. Looks like Stare #31, the “you're sounding stupidly human” stare and my God he's got to get more if he's numbering these stares and giving them meanings. “Okay. The air is the answer thin.” “Wha?” “Crop is male,” it echoes. “Dust is female. Weir both.” – The day it left was hard. Harder than he thought it would be. Like it or not, he'd gotten used to having the little bastard around. But it was going to college. Full scholarship like holy fuck no one gets that shit and definitely not from this backwater planet. It was going off to bigger and better things. He may or may not have shed a single manly tear. The dogs won't tell and neither will the Diona. He did, however, hug goodbye. “Okay,” it said softly as it was bearhugged tightly. “Weir confused.” “'bout what?” he did not sniffle. “Hug yellow, not goodbye.” “Ya can hug goodbye, too, Croppy.” “Okay,” it accepts. It curls its limbs around the man. “Goodbye.” –

I can't fucking stop. It's an addiction. It's free on Steam. You're a mouse. You try to get the cheese. You're helped by a Shaman mouse. Sometimes you live. Sometimes you die. Jesus fuck it's addicting. Even if it is full of preteens talking about algebra and calling each other names. It's that last one that makes me plea with you guys to play. Intelligent people welcome.

Tap. Tap. Tap. ... Partner? ... Click. ... Record a message? Yes. Beep. Beep. Recording. The fuzzy image of a Diona appears. The picture clears and you can see them staring directly at the camera with mechanical eyes. They eyes drift in opposite directions as they speak, Send? ... Okay. Message sent.

Because it is fun to poke a caged beast. New players don't know enough yet. They don't know enough to know that they are even in a cage. Some fade away. Some break out. It is when that beast uncages itself, becomes a part of Aurora, that its true nature is revealed. And thus, you realize that poking it wasn't in your best interest. This has been your philosophical message of the day, brought to you by Conspire

I hate the fact that she has no friends. She clearly needs at least one friend. That friend will not be a Diona because I get the feeling she does not like them or at least mine. Elena doesn't speak much to the trees I plant around the station, but Flames has gotten the impression she's just rather terse and separate from "reality". A voice on the other end of the headset, so to speak, ordering people around. I've never seen her act... well... Human. Then there was that time she tried to get Silent Bee fired from cadetship as an IAA. She thought they were illiterate. That was funny. Yes. And sad. Yes. Yes. Didn't like that. No. Not at all. No. We should kill her. What. We can't do that. Right. Okay. Yes. Don't kill her then. Yes. Yes.

I slip into using the plural "We" sometimes when talking about myself. I don't realize I did until after. Also, two boys in the back of one of my classes are always grunting and nudging each other. I assume they're speaking Gutter.