The Reploid Room - Cocktail's Lounge

 

As you take the VIP elevator up to the lounge, you see a study in decadence. The room is set up for entertaining small groups, but with all the luxuries one could want. A neat bar on the east wall seems set up with the finest fluids that both reploid and human could ingest. The south and west walls face tinted glass, overlooking the rest of the dance area. On the north wall is a pair of computer terminals and a few other business items of the owner. If you have made it up here, you must be someone of notable importance. Welcome to the lounge.

Psychogenesis [Prophet] [M]

 

Downstairs <D> leads to The Reploid Room - Dance Floor.

 

        Strangely, this night, it would seem as if there aren't many to be seen in the VIP Room of the Reploid Room. Suprising, considering the much higher quality in fluids that can be find at one's personal, VIP wetbar here. Or... perhaps it was the rumor of there being a 'vile, contagious maverick' in the upper room of the club that has run the patrons out. It would only take assumptions and jumping to conclusions to truly be able to decrypt the reasonings. As for the rooms only inhabitant, however, he seems quite content in the silence of the lounge. His long, leather-bound fingers hold a small glass firmly in his right hand; the contents of which look to be a thick, crimson fluid. And the robed figure stands at the glass wall that overlooks the Dance Floor, watching the more condense population below.

 

The Reploid Room rarely sees a mech such as Storm Owl pass through its oh so hallowed halls. Although the Commander of the Fortress V Battlestation has the same regal, dominating look as other VIPs in this exclusive area of the club, Storm Owl has an air of disapproving annoyance about him as he gazes at others enjoying themselves, socializing, laughing, and otherwise proving themselves to be a waste of time. Strange, Storm Owl idly notes to himself. There seems to be less of them about.

        The war bird himself would not be here were it not for a required meeting here involving gaining new supply contractors for his ship. Being removed from the United Nations has been a mild inconvenience, to say the least. Storm Owl stands in the entrance as his gaze passes over each of the few individuals here, but stops as it falls upon Psychogenesis.

 

        Now.. to those who know Psychogenesis, there is a special feature about him that offsets him from most other Mavericks.. in that he -always- wears a venetian jesters' mask of some sort to his his true face. The interesting thing about that fact is that the glass held in his right hand.. is raised to the inner side of the hood that covers his head, and a mild sip taken from it. Something that is hard to do when you're wearing a mask. To those unfamiliar with the Maverick Prophet, however, they may be none the wiser.

        As far as his disposition within the VIP Room goes, however, he is quite content with his secluded area. And if the feeling of a new gaze upon him by the newly arrived Commander was felt.. Psychogenesis makes no sign of showing it. There are plenty of harsh, cold, judgemental stares to go around as it is. With his attention set on the dance floor below, he does nothing more than watch... and drink.

 

Storm Owl has read Psychogenesis' Repliforce profile in passing, as he does with all known active ememies of Repliforce. But the report is disappointingly sparce. The Captain has also seen the odd glimpse of his special sort of work due to the news footage from last night's massacre in Neo-Tokyo. But again, not much is revealed. Processing all of this information briefly, Storm Owl strides towards Psychogenesis, talons clicking softly against the thick rug of the VIP Lounge.

        Heedless of others who might be starring, Storm Owl stops behind the Maverick's chair, glancing only briefly at the dance floor below before saying in his droning monotone, "Psychogenesis." Storm Owl takes another step, this time putting him standing in front of a chair alongside the Maverick's own. He does not sit down just yet, however. "One of those responsible for the perilous and vexing artifice last night, hmm?" he says. This, clearly, is about as good as he's going to give regarding a greeting.

 

        His left hand drums idly at the arm of the chair in which he had been sitting comfortably and uninterrupted throughout most of the evening. However.. once the reflection of the Repliforce Commander was seen approaching in the tinted window in front of him, the glass was switched from the right hand--upon taking another quick sip, of course--into the left, whereupon it could be set down on the small, thin round table that sat between the two chairs. Not a big table, mind you.. but more something that would have an ashtray on it, or be used to hold a drink for either seat. The hood of the robed figure's cloak dips forward slightly, as the recognition, produced by the calling of his name, is made. And then, the hood tilts up and to the side, so that the two different colored optics within could admire the perfect uniform of the soldier at hand. "My, my... Repliforce..." His voice is dark and deep, coupled with a twisted, low-volume overlay from the back of his throat. Something that almost sounds like screams, from multiple individuals of varying age, race, and sex--But one would have to concentrate, more than listen, to learn too much of it. The hood then lowers, so that the eyes of the Robed Figure could look out, again, over the dance floor. "And what makes you think I am the one to blame for that unorganized attempt at humiliating the Masters? Hmmm?"

 

Storm Owl gives the glass in Psychogenesis' hand only a quick second of his attention. He can take a good guess as to the contents, and idly wonders where (or who) exactly it came from. The war bird is patient as he waits for the Maverick's agonizingly slow response. "Indeed. Repliforce." he confirms. Storm Owl's very presence screams out the strict, structured and ordered organization that is the Reploid army. As he listens to the complicated voice address him, Storm Owl sits down in the chair, evidently willing to do away with being invited to join the Maverick beforehand.

        "The facts support your involvement, Maverick." Storm owl finally replies. Even though the chair is no doubt comfortable and overly soft for a lounge such as this, the Commander's posture is straight up at attention as he glances to his right. "The battle against the cyborg matches your previous known modes of combat, and the visual identification matches. However whether you were the one to /blame/ for its results is something I suppose the Maverick hierarchy is required to decide." Storm Owl pauses and notes dryly, "The fact that you are alive and free would indicate that, no, they did not 'blame' you."

        A waiter approaches Storm Owl's chair cautiously from the left, as if trying to stay as far away from the Maverick as he reasonably can. Storm Owl doesn't bother looking up, but instead waves the waiter away. Apparently he's not staying for drinks. "I've answered your question, Maverick. Perhaps you could answer mine: Why? Why did the Mavericks feel the need for such an illogical assault on the Robot Masters?"

 

        "Oh, come now, really." Psychogenesis begins, leaning back a bit into the comfortable chair, his robes loose over his form, the hood completely covering his face with a shroud of shadow. "You obviously know my name.. so why address me as Maverick? Can we not both be civilized about this encounter?" Despite the fact that the waiter is waved off by the Commander, a finger raised by the Maverick causes him to freeze in place. Then, he points to his own glass. "Bring a second... for my guest here." Whether the waiter will or not is another question, but he does continue off as he had begun to. And then, the hooded figure turns his attention back on Storm. "Now, you see... There is a certain lack of understanding that everyone has about the Coalition. An understanding that.. cannot be had until one has experienced -life-.. as one of them." He lowers his left hand to the glass again, his index finger dipping into the crimson liquid, it rising up around the limb to cling on before he withdraws it.. and then, he traces it around the outer rim of the lip, causing a short cascade of the substance to begin to wash down all the sides, coating it in an eerie color. Indeed, it is quite... concerning... as to what it might be. "But let's take you.. for example. You are not a reploid to jump to conclusions so quickly, are you? Or else.. you would have assumed speaking to me would rend you nothing but wasted time. And for recognizing otherwise, I commend you." Psychogenesis pauses here, considering the question. It was true that the Owl had answered his.. so it was only fair to return the deed.

        "Once upon a time, friend Owl, there was a shephard who lived on a hill, beneath a tall oak tree. Under his care were a number of happy, healthy sheep. Everyday, they would play in the sun, prance about, and sleep in the shade. And, under the shephard's care.. they were safe and could fall to no harm. Well, one day, a wolf fell upon the gathering and their land--a hungry wolf. And despite how hard he wanted to devour each delicious lamb, he was unable to--fearing that the man would see him, and surely kill him. But the wolf had an idea... he would lure another wolf to the gathering.. a wolf not as smart as himself. When this wolf would see the menu of sheep, he would be the one to seek them out. And while the shephard dealt with the attacking animal.... he himself would.. well.." He pauses here... The Repliforcer is intelligent enough to know how it might end.

 

The waiter is not fool enough to disobey the Maverick, and indeed does disappear for the moment. Storm Owl offers no response to the order made on his behalf. "Very well, Psychogenesis." He drones mechanically. The war bird sets aside any sense of familiarities with this evil presence and continues to peer at the hooded figure with his cold, beady optics. One might think Storm Owl was a simple, unliving machine from first glance was he not recognizable. "Granted." he accepts regarding the concept that an outsider cannot understand everything about the Coalition. "The virus you are carrying has corrupted your programming. Warped your thoughts. Damaged your mind." He says this as fact, not insult. The demonstration with the glass and the mysterious substance draws a raised optical ridge from the Repliforce master of the skies, but he does not comment on it. "I jump to conclusions once I have the facts to do so. Knowing little about you, I do not know how my time may be wasted speaking with you," he says dryly.

        Storm Owl is about to ask his question again, but the pscyhoanalyst ends up getting to it anyway, even if it's in the unusual form of a fairy tale. Indeed, Storm Owl does not need to be told the end of the story. "The first wolf is clearly an intelligent strategist, using his two enemies to fight each other for his gain while he took advantage of the situation." The Reploid owl knows all about using other, lesser beings, and sacrificing them for the common good. It does not always pay to be under Storm Owl's command, to say the least. "However I fail to see how this involves last night's situation. Who represents what in the tale?" Storm Owl never was very good at such indirect nonsense explanations. If anything, Storm Owl muses, Repliforce and the Maverick Hunters represent the first, smarter wolf, as they watch their two foes - the rival wolf and the man - battle and weaken each other. Of course, it doesn't seem like Psychogenesis agreed with the battle last night (blamed?), so it's up in the air.

 

        Clarification as to the symbolism? "There, we have a second question from you.. but, I would believe it's my turn, hmm?" There is a dark chuckle to be had. Perhaps it was not meant to be dark, however.. moreso, amusing. However, the voice is not so condusive to a contagious laugh.. No. Rather, it is somewhat mystifying.. and scary, honestly. The glass is tapped again, then raised again to the shadows of the hood.. whereupon another deep drink is taken, draining the vessel. Once the glass has been set back down, the gloves hand settles atop his head, pulling back on the hood and pushing it back, to reveal his face. A face that is... hard to describe for a robot. The left side is rather normal. Somewhat flat, with short etchings that run from atop the brow, through the eye socket--which sports a teal optic--and, across the cheek and square back at the chin; The right side, however... is hideous. The surface layer has been torn away, most visibly by what would appear to be hands. And though it would only be sensors, circuits, mechanisms, and wires held behind it, their design is so that it looks much like the human muscle tissue with guts and gashes and hints of mechfluid leaking ever so slightly. The optic that floats amongst this cadaver-like side is a bright crimson... and its movement, as to where Psychogenesis happens to be looking, is much more obvious than the other.

        And if one were focusing too much on this site, it would quickly be taken off by the crashing sound of glass hitting the floor! The waiter, returned with Storm Owl's drink, came near upon vomitting the instant he came to the two. Apologizing and quickly making away with the mess, he ran off again... presumably to fetch another drink.

        In response to this reaction, however, Psychogenesis emits something of a growl.. and then, from the insides of the cloak, his ever-still venetian mask is procured and slipped on--covering his face. "Now, then.." he begins, first addressing the issue of the virus, "I don't understand the logic behind your reasoning for my being... flawed. So, tell me... What -is- a Maverick? To you?"

 

Storm Owl did not get his question answered to his satisfaction, but he was not expecting anything of the kind anyway. This is one Maverick who will clearly need more study than many of his comrades, as he cannot be summed up in one or two words as most seemingly can. Storm Owl raises his head slightly as the mech pulls back on his hood and reveals his mechanical skull, full of twitching optical sensor and slithering cables on the right side of his face. Storm Owl leans back slightly, disrupting his perfect posture. Although he is no medical technician, he has seen Reploids with their faces removed for maintenance procedures. Still, it never looked quite like this. With his sharp, penetrating eyesight, Storm Owl sees what looks like hand marks where the faceplate had been ripped off. Could it be a masochistic Maverick, perhaps? All this studying, however, causes Storm Owl to jolt slightly when the glass shatters against the thick rug, sending sharp shards deep into the fabric. Storm Owl gazes over his shoulder at the retreating waiter. He is not one to console someone for their mistakes.

        Even as Psychogenesis puts his make in its rightful place, the Repliforce Commander is standing up. He answers the Maverick's question in detail, however, despite the unsatisfactory response to his own. "A Maverick is one that is infected with the virus and has turned against society." Storm Owl raises a finger, "Furthermore, the ideals and goals of the Maverick faction are incongruous with the survival of both robotic and organic life on this planet. I have calculated that the end result of a Coalition victory would be the genocide of humanity, followed by the deterioration of the Reploid race into weakness and obscurity. That is flawed. That is illogical. Therefore, your kind needs to be dealt with for the good of this planet's inhabitants."

        The waiter returns with a fresh glass, avoiding looking at Psychogenesis despite the Maverick's mask having returned to cover his hideous features. Storm Owl waves him off, however. "Alas, Psychogenesis, my time here is short, and my duties require my presence elsewhere. I have no doubt that we will speak again."

 

        "Spoken, friend Owl, like a true, brainwashed soldier of the government." Another dark chuckle is had, then ceased as the Commander rises. How sad that he would be leaving so soon.. and without even getting his drink! Suppose he must be 'on duty', then. In response, Psychogenesis also rises, bowing slightly to the Commander. "Most assuredly, friend Owl. Fate has deemed it quite... inconceivable.. that we did not meet again." The smile he might have would be lost, hidden behind the surface of the mask. "However.. in the meantime, I do ask that you re-evaluate your stance and opinion on Mavericks. If you study hard enough... and look close enough... you may find that some of us are actually quite pleasant in company. And quite handy for... information." Once he resumes his stature from the bow, he folds his arms behind his back and begins to peer out through the tinted glass again, watching the dance floor.

 

Storm Owl has gone over the ideals of the Maverick cause many times before. His mentor, as logical and intelligent a mech as Storm Owl is, was a member of Sigma's strike team that created the Coalition. Storm Eagle's sudden shift in his ideals gave Storm Owl many reasons to make absolutely certain that he was correct in his conclusion. Regardless, the Fortress Commander shall have to leave any further arguments for next time. Storm Owl responds to the polite bow by inclining his head, but says nothing in reply. Turning, the war bird strides past the poor waiter towards the elevators leading back down. Storm Owl still has a war to wage in Africa.