The Sisterhood of Dreams - Encrypted Archives

[Enkidu]

Freakin’ arsenic in a cinnamon bun, I don’t even know where to begin with this Machiavellian trash.

Pictures are worth a thousand words, so when you’ve got a thousand incriminating pictures, ya’ kinda’ have to get selective or nobody’s gonna’ read your reports anymore – nobody wants suffocate themselves swallowing a million word dissertation on the subject of the unknown. We’re not philosophers here, people – Plato can platonically stick his perfectly formed marble head up his multi-millennial ass. We deal in facts, and when facts are missing that means somebody, somewhere, made a bargain not worth the price of laminating the discount sticker with. So, that’s when you start getting selective with the gun camera – flip the finger off the trigger guard and start eyeballing. Get yer’ neurones conferencing; take all straw and Eartha Kitt the cosmos throws at you and building a bloody house out of it. Short answer; we’ve run eyeballs first into a Contingency with an upper case Cee. But I’ll stop blabbering and let the showreel do my work for me, before I hit the billion word mark and we’re all in our hundred-and-nineties.

Shazam.



I ripped this slice of prime, rump steak outta’ Kirishiki’s black box, consensually, of course. Bless her sainted heart, she’s a nifty lil’ photojournalist when you give her a chase drone. What you are seeing here is a pretty conclusive example of that fabulously retro invention of heterosexual pulp fiction – the Mexican standoff, complete with Latinesque speakers just impart that extra je ne sais quoi of authenticity. So, you’ve got yours beautifully clogging up the centre-left backdrop just skirting the periphery of visual range, just to get ya’ squinting. You’ve got a vitriolic bastard of a Bloodrose on the foreground right, and the rest of the contacts were flying those unearthly conical pyramids that gave off as much of a radar ping as a micrometeorite might.

Okay, strange times, strange guys- yeah yeah, I hear ya’ – It’s Nagano, it’s Samura’s drinks cabinet; there’s going to be some funky goyles creeping around that neck of the woods… except cooperate security don’t fly around space superiority fighters flaring out power signatures like a Valor with a core overload, coated in alloys that’d give a materials scientist a heart attack but damn, would he die fulfilled. Upon interrogation the pilots remained professionally incommunicado about both who they were, what they were doing in Kusari and why they happened to be skulking right next to the jump connection to a certain inconspicuous chunk of stellar nothingness in the Crow Nebula that the Blood Dragon’s wouldn’t want to become common drinking news. Yeah.

The men didn’t cooperate – they weren’t in the mood for communication on even the basest levels, such as, uh, I dunno’ – Identifying who the hell they were and speaking when spoken to, other than some particularly barbed diatribes aimed signora Bloodrose over there. Their professionalism was unsettling – they carried the suave grace and firepower of agent provocateurs – real straight laced, water-drinking, nose-breathing black jackbooted black-ops types. Compare with the Kempetai, and slice the racism out. They carried Libertonian accents and their ships contained passable resemblances to some of the more tactically inclined Libertonian navy designs, but with the amount of fuel that combusted when we shot away their cores out from under their assplates, we’re looking at ships designed for combat at excesses of range, maybe entire systems away from their carrier or depot. It was only predictable when they opened fire on us – the ultimate testament to their none-cooperation. When the fight, which was furious, went against the interests of the aggressors, Bogey One played the martyrdom game and tried to cover the escape of his comrade – much appreciated, dead guy, but that’s a job for the Goddess to judge. Neither clung onto this mortal coil enough for the reinforcements we’d requested from Ainu to assist – the whole scrape lasted under five minutes and still we are none the wiser.
These guys, the Order. Whoever they are and whatever agenda they are pursuing, they can be regarded as a credible threat to the Revolution – no hesitation about it at all. Publicly available neuralnet data alone is fairly sufficient to make that assessment golden, barring all the junk on for-profit and publically funded news agencies. The short synopsis of this three penny opera is that they’re in the government toppling business, but suffer from a dangerous lack of focus alloyed to an ample quantity of material wealth and finance.

As with any party who likes to play with gunship diplomacy, the apt response is to respond in kind until further notice.

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THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's outlawed trade unions, determined to take the underworld for themselves.)

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