GNN Central - Offices

 

         Here lie the various offices for the staff of the GNN. On this level one can find the main office from the CEO of the GNN to some of the more noteworthy reporters, cameramen, journalists, management, and other professionals who make this organization what it is today. Before you can enter; however, one needs get past the secretary in the small waiting room full of green leather couches, magazines, and that smooth mellow music that drives everyone mad.

 

snapshot book                          Reporto's Office                      

 

 

 Floor 1 <F1> leads to Broadcasting Rooms - GNN Central.

 Lobby <G> leads to San Angeles - GNN Central.

 

Javelin Whitetail arrives from the GNN Central.

Javelin Whitetail has arrived.

 

The hustle and bustle of GNN extends up here in the offices as well. In order to get past the labyrinth of cubicles, the Nazi secretaries of death, the clerks desperate for attention, and the endless chaotic noise of journalists and newsmen and women chatting about the latest scoop about Wily's life affair, or the eventual collaspe of the United Nations, or Repliforce's new role in today's world, or what exactly Rock's retirement meant in regards to his Reploid psychological profile, or even what sort of doom the latest shocking news from Japan spells for Earth... all this, a visitor must brave in order to seek the holy grail that is Chest's office on the other side of the maze.

        Unless of course, as Javelin no doubt has, you possess an appointment with the GNN owner.

 

Javelin Whitetail does indeed possess an appointment. Not that /not/ having one would stop her. She knows how to pull strings and play up the press--evidently, since she's neither dead nor completely defamed yet. A musician's gotta make a living somehow.

        And pulling strings is obviously what she intends on doing here. Not content to meet the powerholder of GNN in anything less than her best, she arrives in concert attire--stark white, expensive material, diamond accents, heavy embroidery--all the works. Even her javelin is the platinum-and-silver one she used in the fencing tournament, rather than her standard and more useful weapon. Every etching and groove on her adorned silver skin has been polished clean. She turns heads wherever she walks--even if she wasn't famous, that's the intent.

 

        She strolls on up to Chest's office without even looking around; like she's been there a dozen times before, and it looked better then, too. All part of the performer playing it up. Meanwhile, the entire time her green-and-brown optics are soaking up every detail in sight, so that the NEXT time she arrives, it will be an even better act.

            And so, the musician carves her way through the mess that is the GNN Central Offices. People back off at her approach for any number of reasons: The javelin, the polished silver adorning her frame, the expensive outfit... oh yes, and the lovely possibility of carrying the very contagious Sigma Virus. Human and Reploid journalists alike part for her like the Red Sea for Moses. The excessive chatter that was present before seems to be gone, and all eyes are on her.

 

        And so, we reach our destination: Chest's office. You know it is such due to the very simple, unassuming label 'CHEST' on a nameplate attached to the double doors. From within, one can hear the only other sounds aside from the odd ringing of a telephone or a buzzing of a computer. "/NO/?!" Chest can be heard roaring from within despite the good muffling job that the 'sound proof' doors provide. "You listen to me, bucko, and you listen up mighty good. JAPAN has fallen to Wily. BAM!!" There's the sound of Chest smashing his fist against his open palm. "Just like that! No war, no battle, no invasion, none of his idiot Masters! Just one old idiot who was probably senile before he wrote his damn will - and you can quote me on that! Now I want to make damn sure this thing is legit. You got me?! So I don't want to hear excuses about heavy security and guns being pointed at you... I want to know if it's the real deal or if Wily's pulling the strings from behind. Now get the hell out!" The door suddenly opens and a Reploid runs out, quickly followed by a thrown coffee mug, aimed for the newsperson's head as he runs off. "AND DON'T COME BACK UNTIL YOU HAVE SOMETHING!" Chest shouts.

 

        Unfortunately for the reploid, Javelin is short, which means that she doesn't provide a +4 AC bonus for cover. Chest is angry, hmm? She hasn't met him--but, well, understandable. The Robot Masters are the one group Javelin has NEVER gotten along with; she'd skewer them all quite happily if she thought it would do anything more than dent their armour. And the thought of some insane emperor handing over a land so chock-full of people...if Javelin lived there, she'd get the /hell/ out of there right now. As it stands, behind-the-scenes efforts to collect music and musicians are underway, in case Wily and his goons do the worst...

        But for now, Chest. Anger might be bad for the Deer's efforts; right now her project will seem like small stuff compared to the upheaval in Japan. So--she doesn't even acknowledge the reploid as she enters; instead tsking as she shuts the door behind her. "T'was a waste of some good coffee."

 

As the Reploid enters Chest's office, outside one can hear things returning to normal. Of course, it is the strange arrival of the musician that has them all on edge, not the outburst of Chest's - care to guess which is far, far more common. The GNN Owner is standing up behind his desk, still glarring at where the offending newsperson vanished to. The door shuts behind Javelin and Chest throws his hands up into the air in exasperation. "It's impossible to find good help anymore!" he exclaims, shaking his head.

        The android sighs and peers down at one of the very few people actually shorter than he is. "Ah, but where are my manners?" he says, trying to shove the previous business out for later. "Come on in, Javelin. Have a seat." Chest gestures to an adjustable chair in front of his desk. Now that the whitetail is in the office, you can see what a cluttered mess it is. Papers litter the floors, papers are attached to the walls, there's one and a half functional computers on his desk hiding amongst the old reports. But still, it is the organized clutter of a busy person, and Chest could find anything he needs within just a few seconds. Somewhere underneath the mountain of papers on his desk, one can barely hear, but not see, a telephone ring, heavily muffled. Chest tilts his head and slams a book down on the clutter a few times (WHAM, WHAM, WHAM!) until the telephone, wherever it is, stops. Chest reaches into a desk drawer and pulls out a box. "Cigar?" he offers, drawing one out for himself regardless of Javelin's answer. He lights his, and Javelin's should she accept with a lighter.

 

Javelin Whitetail shakes her head in negation; she occasionally smokes in disguise--but she hasn't got the hang of it yet, and it winds up coming out her ears and looking pretty ridiculous. A good image for disguise--but not one to give away here. Still, the Deer has manners (or at least think she does), and with a fiendish grin, offers him a nip from a clear bottle stowed somewhere on her person. Granted, should he take /her/ offer, he'll wind up with a caustic throat. She seems to have no problem with it, however--she must have a nerpium-coated stomach containment unit or something.

        The mess is nothing unfamiliar--her own home in Ireland, a one-room shack she rarely visits anymore, is stacked floor-to-ceiling with sheets of old compositions, many not her own. No phone, however; no electricity. No problem, either, judging by the glare she gives the little pile of papers that Chest smacks at. She settles back, then; calm before the storm, perhaps. "Good ever t'meet ye again, sir."

 

Chest puts the box away. More for him, right? Chest takes a puff on his cigar and leans back in his chair, putting his foot-hoverpad up onto his desk. He's amazing at looking both relaxed and busy at the same time. He waves his hand 'no' on her little offer. "If these things are as poisonous to robotic life as they say," he says, waving and gesturing to his cigar, "Then I don't see why I should double the speed that it works."

        Still in his relaxed pose, he says, "Good to meet you too, Ms. Whitetail. You'll have to forgive me if I don't shake your hand. My insurance boys get all scared every time I'm in the same city as someone who might have possibly one day maybe seen a Maverick before." Chest shrugs, giving no indication of whether he agrees with that hyperbole or not. "But somehow I doubt that's why you've come here. What can I do for you, Ms. Whitetail?" he asks.

 

Javelin Whitetail leans forward then, elbows on her knees, hands curved around her drink--the typical carefully-explaining-an-outlandish-idea-to-a-bigwig position (#4 in the music performance manual). However, she does hesitate; this requires /real/ thought; and typically, the Deer has made all her own efforts to forward her music--this is the first time she will (willingly) work with such a company as GNN. While she doesn't /need/ their efforts...it will make hers that much easier. One way or another, she WILL be heard.

        So after a moment of earflipping and hoof-scuffling, she concentrates on her bottle, while saying in her quiet simple accent: "Mr. Chest, sir, I have an idea that will change the world. Not just the music world. The /entire/ world. And I be wishing GNN to cover it--not just here, but everywhere it can. Money is no object--but it /will/ be everything, everywhere, if for no longer than th'span of a few minutes. That will be all I need."

 

Chest leans forward then, elbows on his cluttered desk, hands curved around either his chin or his cigar--the typical carefully-listening-to-an-outlandish-idea-from-a-musician position (#4 in the bigwig performance manual). Chest gives the whitetail the time she needs to formulate her thoughts. He doesn't really have the time to spare, but his nose knows news, and his nose has a scent. There's complete silence while Javelin thinks about what to say. Even the muffled sounds of hard work beyond the double doors seems to quiet just for the occasion. "Well, Ms. Whitetail," he says once she's done. "I'm naturally interested in an idea that will change the entire world - not just the music world. So go on... don't keep me in suspense, young lady. What is this idea?" he asks, obviously curious.

 

Javelin Whitetail doesn't really know how the idea is going to happen. It will require many minds--both willing and duped--for her to pull this off. Funds she doesn't really /have/ right now, and might not until will after her next work comes out. A little bit of insanity, too. Of course, Chest doesn't need to know this--and he probably won't find out how it will be done, ever. But that's not what he needs to know. What Javelin will give him is what, and a little bit of why, all carefully calculated.

        She pauses for another drink. Lord knows she'll need it before this conversation is over. "Sir. What I say t'ye now will be in confidence." A statement of fact; not a question or request. "An' if it please ye t'help me, ye'll be the only one what *really* knows is happenin'--not even those under ye runnin' it should know 'til the day it's done." She looks deadly in earnest about it, too. The remark is not a light one. "I will be makin' my final project on the fourteenth of November, 2217. An' it will be a work that will last forever.

 

        "Literally."

 

Chest continues to wait for Javelin to think things through. He knows this sort of thing can be tough - not everyone can be as skilled at blurting out whatever the hell he happens to be thinking of instantly like Chest is. Every so often a puff of smoke flutters into the air, quick assimilated by the air ventilation systems and recycled so it can be turned into smoke once more. Ah, progress.

        And as Javelin drops her bombshell, Chest very nearly drops his cigar, but thankfully he recovers. "Last project?" he says quietly, clearly shocked. He thinks about this for a few moments. "You aren't planning anything demonstrative for this day, are you?" he asks carefully. You never know what these nuts might have planned.

 

Javelin Whitetail shakes her head--secretly relieved that Chest thought the worst that could go wrong. This will be FAR more insane than that. "Nay, sir, nothing so dramatic as all that. But t'will be a project of--of meself, sir." She does look embarrassed, slightly shy as well. It's a tenuous thing she has ahold of. Her hoofs scuff across the floor again, ears alternately pricking and flipping.

        But she calms down again after a moment, though, and with a returning air of confidence--quite a different flavour from the false bravado she strutted in here with. "I will be makin' me final work, m'lord, and it will be meself. 'tis a hard thing to explain...but I hope ye can understand."

        A series of sketches, prints, graphs, and various other materials are produced from the same mysterious place on her person she kept her drink. Written in her own sloppy handwriting, they're not as adept as those of someone who actually truly understands the neural net--but the Deer has always been a quick study. These plans, written simply as they are, resemble nothing more than an attempt to actively extract the contents of a living reploid's mind--and broadcast them.

 

Chest tilts his head, trying to read this bizarre femme. Thankfully, the GNN head honcho would not be where he is today if he wasn't a fine judge of character. He knows there's something else there, but he can't put his finger on it. "Uh huh..." he says slowly. Chest shrugs and leans back in his chair, putting out the now burned stub of his cigar out on an ashtray that, unsurprisingly, is at the top of the clutter, ready for use. Chest taps his finger on his desk a few times, clearly thinking about this.

        Chest accepts the sketches and other sources of information and skims them, only getting a brief idea of what this is supposed to be from the notes. Chest reads *journalist* notes - thus, he can read /any/ handwriten notes. Chest scowls and mutters something to himself, adjusting his green tinted glasses slightly. "Now I have to admit, Ms. Whitetail, that I have a hell of a time programming my VCR - I swear, I think the tech guy we have hired is about to kill himself from all my idiot questions - so you'll have to explain a bit about this to me... this... this doohicky thing," he rests one of the notes on the desk and gestures to them. "This thing is going to... do /what/ to you now? I'm unfamilar with Reploid neurology... Is this thing going to harm while it... broadcasts... whatever...?" he asks.

 

Javelin Whitetail's ears flip down, and shifts just a little, leaning forward again. A very un-deerlike posture--and a look in her optics that no prey animal should have. "It may well, sir. I'm not one t'be squeamish about it. It shan't be something that kills--but it may hurt something awful. But not enough f'r me to abandon this idea."

        Another hesitation, another continuing. This part, only Sigma and Xiang know--and now Chest, as well. Every time, the Deer loses a little more patience over this project; a little of her well-maintained control. But it has to be done /soon/. "There be in me...a seperate part of me mind, sir. Always there, always writin' music, that only I kin hear. And now--there be a way to connect it." Maybe. If she's lucky. "Once 'tis done--it will be writing, playing, f'r as long as I should live."

        It goes without saying that reploids, properly taken care of, may live for a very long time.

 

Chest raises his hands slightly, "So why do all this? For musical expression?" he says, arching a metallic brow. Chest tilts his head and forward to lean his elbows on the desk, but then leans backwards again, apparently unable to get comfortable right now. "Geez, if this kills or harms you in such a way that you can't be returned to your normal self... I don't think I'd want to be a part of that. Can you promise to me that whatever happens, you'll be repairable?" he says. He stares straight at her, trying to make eye-contact with the whitetail in order to get the absolute truth. Chest also has one other tiny question, but is saving that for after.

 

Javelin Whitetail obliges Chest, by looking right into his black eyes with her own optics, green-and-brown. "I shan't be asking GNN t'take part in anythin' that would harm me, Mr. Chest. None of ye will have t'do anythin' other than broadcast. Th'radio station is me own--well, it will be by end of th'week. Th'equipment will be there as well. All I ask is that ye give me a few minutes of your time, and of th'world's time, to show what a /real/ musician can do."

        Well, it was the absolute truth--and an excellent way of dodging the question.

 

Chest continues to stare at Javelin and finally sighs, "Didn't ask if we'd be the ones who do the hurting," he says, finally averting his eyes. Chest shrugs and says, "Fine fine, you'll get your air time - better we show it on GNN rather than some hack station like POX where they'll just screw the whole thing up..." he mutters. "But I'll have you know, young lady," he says, pointing a finger at her, "That I'm not terribly pleased with the whole idea!" Still, he's has accepted. "Give me the where and the specific when once you have them and I'll make sure we have a crew on hand." Chest, if he's available, will no doubt try to make it there to see this in person as well.

 

Javelin Whitetail leans back again. The hard part is over--she's more than willing to trust Chest on his word; after all, GNN plays the faction-pleasing game at /least/ as much as Javelin, if more subtle about it. If he says they'll be there--then the contract is as good as signed, come hell or high water. She relaxes back into her chair then, taking another sip from the jar of whiskey she carries. "Aye, then. T'will be on the fourteenth of November, or near as I k'n make it." It's her fourth birthday, after all--a rather nice time for a production. "I'll make sure there's enough fair warnin', an' that there's more than fair pay. Th'price is yours for th'askin."

        She smiles again, that mischevious little sideways grin. "An' somethin' else of yours, too. If ye ever need inf'rmation--and not th'kind your reporters could normally get, if ye take me meanin'--then I might ever be willin' t'lend ye a hand."

        The Deer's not-so-subtle offer of her faction-hopping services, to GNN's 'truth-telling' benefit. After all, Javelin Whitetail is not the only tiny musician out there--Chopshop Kangaroo has her hand in on the underworld, as does Sawed-Off Shotgun Squirrel. And any other of half a dozen new aliases the Deer is using to avoid being hunted in the streets.

 

Well, don't count on the hell part. But high water? No problem. Chest nods and says, "A few small questions - you said this would be your last performance? But then you said something along the lines of 'once it's done, it - I dunno, I assume you mean the part of you always writing music - will be writing and playing so long as you're around'." Chest looks around, hoping a new cigar will present itself via magic. Alas, it does not, and Chest doesn't bother going through his desk for a new one. "So which is it - not that this affects the deal any, but I need to have my facts straight here. Is this your last performance or will you be writing and playing forever?" he asks. "Also, just how secret is secret? I'm willing to pay for the advertising space here on GNN, but... well..." Chest smirks slightly, "Nobody goes to a concert if it's a perfect secret. What are you planning to reveal? Concerning said 'fair pay', I'm sure we'll rake in plenty of advertising zenny to make it worth our while. And finally, I'll keep you in mind as a contact for information."

 

        Ah, the intricacies of dealing with performing artists. Javelin Whitetail flips her ears, trying to explain what she considers minor semantics of such a deal--things she never really has to bother with on her own time. "Once it's finished--well. I'll still be able t'record...an' t'make small things. But this will be th'last big work, y'see. It will broadcast over th'station for as long as I may live--an' I won't need t'do a thing t'make it go. It will be living music, sir, an' that's never been done and as likely never will be again." After all, upon seeing the results of this, few people will probably be insane enough to do it willingly.

        As for the second.... "'tis not a concert in th'normal sense, exactly." Sheepish look again; the lowering of ears and shuddering of her hair like a horse's skin. "'tis like--the news bulletins on the telly, or somewhat. There cannae be an audience, they'd never fit in me tiny home with all that equipment. Th'dramatic effect--t'will be more, much more, if people be not expecting it." Now THAT'S an understatement. "But--'tis why I offer whatever ye ask. This be not for money, Mr. Chest--'tis for the musicianship, the soul of it all, an' the creation of a style of art that passes--everything ever made. T'will be marked in history forever."

 

Chest needs to make absolutely certain none of these semantics are anything big. He nods at the first explanation even if most of it goes over his head. Crazy musicians. "Ahhh, the soul of it all." Chest chuckles. He's clearly not 'with it' in terms of all that new fangled music you punk young kids are into these days. "Alright, Ms. Whitetail, I'll have a camera crew for your little experiment. But remember your promise - I don't want you seriously harmed. I know, I know, you say we wouldn't be responsible for it, but I didn't go into this business in order to cover my ears, mouth, and eyes when bad things are afoot. If we just watch as you mess something up, we're guilty as far as I'm concerned. You know what I'm saying?" he asks. It's a rhetorical question, and it doesn't have to be answered.

 

Javelin Whitetail nods absently.

        In the back of her mind, a little deer sits at a giant desk, cackling evilly. "Eeeeexcellent." *FINGERSTEEPLE*

        The REAL Javelin Whitetail smiles, and stands, then, giving a quick little curtsey. "I be ever thankin' ye, Mr. Chest, 'tis a wonderful thing you're doing. T'will save me a lot of trouble." Because she would have done it anyways, a LOT more illegally than it is already. She backs away then, heading for the door; pauses at it, and gives a wink over her shoulder and a wave of one white-gloved hand.

        "I'll ever be seein' ya later."

        The reploid from earlier enters, then; the Deer darts out, still grinning, and the reploid arcs a suspicious eyebrow at Chest.