OCEANDOWN CHRONICLES MASTER PLAN NOT FOR PUBLIC RELEASE * TO DO* -Cape Name Scheme numbers? positive adjectives? -Figure out reason for tech breakdown - " " tech breakdown aftermath *CHARACTERS* -*MITCH* is a lowlife thug with aspirationns of Cowldom. -*KELLY* is much the same, loves crime for the sake of it, and is philosophically opposed to tech. -*SOLOMON GRUMBLES* is a hardboiled, trenchcoat-clad housecat detective. He smokes heavily and is addicted to Nyquil. He is in possession of an Unstamped set of spider legs of unknown properties [need to figure out what they do] -*VENUS DeMASSACRE* is the local Cowl boss. She has gigantic metal robot arms, and dresses in a toga. She knows more or less exactly what's going on at a given moment, and has extensive resources at her disposal. -*LUMBER JACKED* is, well, a lumberjack, who is, well, jacked. Please kill me. *TECH* To be able to use any tech, a person first has to have an AI interface implanted into his brain. *-TIER 1* Low powered shit with few side effects if not maintained. Minor muscular enhancement, limited ballistic protection *-TIER 2* More powerful, more dangerous. Metamorphic abilities, flight, intelligence enhancement *TIER 3* Strength to shot put a full cement mixer, mind control, invulnerability, teleportation -It's common practice for a Tink to leave his mark on a piece of tech he's opened up. A particularly venerable pair of grav boots might have eight unique Tink stamps on it. The more stamps a piece of gear has on it, the more desirable it is, because it's felt that a Tech that messed-with is either proven reliable or has been modified to the point where it's a lot more powerful than a normal specimen. -Very, very rarely, one might come across a piece of tech that's unstamped. Tinks will refuse to mess with them. These augs are a lot more potent than their stamped versions at whatever they do, and have AIs that don't need regular maintenance. A Tink is considered extremely lucky if he ever sees an Unstamped. *-NEW TECH* In general, the higher-up the tech tree you go, the older and more elegant the gear. The techniques for production of the good stuff have mostly been forgotten over the years [why is this? important plot point.], but some Tinks dabble in R&D on new tech, designing their own gear. In general, a Tink worth his salt will know who made a given piece of kit based on common design elements and general style. New gear, by and large, is clumsy and steampunkish. Where a four-stamp powerfist might be a small subdermal implant, a new one would be a huge metal hulk-fist with ana articulated arm brace attached to a backpack powersupply. -Most people who use tech don't advertise the fact. Publicly operating capes and cowls will try and make it seem like their powers are supernatural. Anyone in the community will know better, but a Cape with a pair of grav boots might still flap his wings when Norms are around. *CLASSES OF ENHANCED INDIVIDUAL* -*CAPES* are good guys, people who use their tech to fight for the common good. Some are organized into teams to more efficiently root out evil, and compensate for each other's weaknesses. Most Capes have an arch-nemesis, a Cowl that they've chosen to go after especially. These rivalries can vary in intensity from let-the-air-out-of-his-tires to elaborate-death-scheme-with-little-chance-of-success. -*COWLS* are bad guys. Most are just out to get rich and stay that way, but others may be ideologues, or just plain insane. They're generally much better organized than Capes. -*WEEKENDERS* are casual techies. Generally they are well-off businessmen who play at being Superman after board meetings. No one really takes them seriously. -*THE PANTHEON* is a collection of Capes and Cloaks who take their identities from mythological figures. Everyone else calls them the God Squad, and are looked on as basically an amusement. Their main goal seems to be to entertain the Norms, as when they fight (and they only fight amongst themselves), they favor flashy displays of power. They're generally left alone, because besides a collapsed apartment building here and a razed puppy orphanage there, they don't do much damage. -*IMPS* are people who've used too much enhancement in too little time, without the connections you need for maintenance. They're looked down on by capes and cowls alike, both because they've let the tech get the better of them, and because using a large amount of cheap tech in a short timespan is seen as cheating. The accepted way of Caping or Cowling is to find some cheap gear and use it to get noticed by someone with connections, who can get you better stuff. This way the body has time to adjust to implants, and bad effects on the body can be avoided. Overtly offensive tech (metal claws, acid spit, body spikes) mark someone as an imp; the rest of the community values sublety. -*NORMS* are everyone else. *ORGANIZATIONS* -*TINKS* are rarely, if ever, enhanced. Kind of an elite tech-priest organization, they tend to keep in contact with one another, trading stories of interesting merchandise, goings-on and excellent recipes for cake. Tinks are the only people who know how to maintain tech AI, staving off the insanity that comes with decaying gear. This puts them in high demand, and they command a lot of respect from the rest of the community, with the exception of Imps, who either regard their frothing insanity as a strength or are too far gone to notice the difference. A Tink's workshop is neutral ground; fighting is not tolerated there. It's possible to see a Cape sitting in the waiting room, right next to his archnemesis. If someone starts shit on a Tink's turf, he's very likely to get blacklisted, making it difficult to find someone to maintain his gear. This is basically a fast track to Impsville. -*TECHNOVIKINGS*, also known as Norsemen, are a loosely-afilliated group of raiders who get around by way of huge jet-powered airships. They're more-or-less boogeymen in Oceandown, as they generally don't go into the city proper, preferring to stick to the suburbs. The only thing you hear when the Norsemen come is the thumping of kick drums in the distance... *LOCATIONS* *OCEANDOWN* is a strange place. It's a large city in New Jersey (representin') that seems to be more-or-less self-contained. It's Blade Runnerish in appearance, with huge skyscrapers and a lot of cavernous buildings underground. News from outside the city is very rare. *THE NORTHERN WASTES* comprise New York City (because fuck those guys), and is the home of the Technovikings. No one in Oceandown has been there, come back and is willing to talk about it. *VENUS DeMASSACRE* *PANEL 1* Close-up of a beautiful, Grecian-style face. Flowing black hair. she is sneering. She's got a slight gap between her teeth. *PANEL 2* Slight zoom-out. We see that she is wearing a toga, and that there is some machinery obscuring each of her shoulders *PANEL 3* Zoom out further. The machinery covering her shoulders, as it turns out, *are* her shoulders. *PANEL 4* Full-body zoom-out. Her arms are massive robotic affairs. She stands about eight feet tall. In each of her hulking steel hands, she is palming the head of a black-armor-clad dude, who is squirming. *SOLOMON GRUMBLES* *PANEL 1* Nighttime. Wide shot of an apparent crime scene. A section of street is taped off. Everything in the vicinity is crushed, smashed, or otherwise destroyed. There's a crater in the pavement, with a pair of yellow-booted, spandex-clad legs sticking out. Numerous flatfoots are in the shot, taking pictures, writing on clipboards, drinking coffee, generally milling around. *V/O* This is a shit town. *PANEL 2* Close-up of the crater. There is a significant amount of blood. Lonely streaks of steam rise up around the legs. The police caution tape reads POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS, and has radiation hazard, biohazard, and several other, more esoteric, hazard warnings on it. *V/O* I've been on the force for twenty years, and it hasn't gotten any better or worse since I was a rookie. *PANEL 3* A cop car pulls up right behind the police tape. *V/O* I think that's what I hate most about it. *PANEL 4* A close-up of the side of the car. The lights are on, casting red and blue shadows on everything. The sillhouette of a trenchoat'd, fedora'd form appears on the opposite side of the car, getting out of the driver's seat. There are weird, thin protrusions coming from the top of the coat, four on each side. *V/O* Nothing ever fucking changes in Oceandown. *PANEL 5* A full shot of the sillhouette, from behind: walking on metallic spider legs, the trenchcoat flows onto the ground. The figure is smoking; a thin wisp of smoke rises out of the hat. *SILLHOUETTE* Alright, boys. Whaddaya got for me tonight? *FLATFOOT* Downed Cape, Detective. Dead when we got here. Hazmat team just got done, so it should be safe to take a look. *PANEL 6* A shot of Grumbles, low-angle, through the cape's legs. He's a cat with a permanent scowl on his face, and a deathwish smoking habit. He's wearing a brown fedora and a beige trenchcoat over a white shirt and loosened tie. The spider-leg mechanism is holding him up by the scruff of his neck. FLATFOOT is standing behind him, to his left. *GRUMBLES* Thanks, Lenny. You guys can go home when Forensics is done *FLATFOOT* Sounds good, Detective Grumbles. Say hi to the wife for me. *GRUMBLES* Fuck you, Lenny. *V/O* Lenny knows I don't have a wife. He's an asshole. *PANEL 7* Grumbles' spiderlegs sit him at a low crouch. His trenchcoat is bundled up on the ground under him; his feet almost touch the ground. He's poking at the Cape's boots. *GRUMBLES* Tier-2 flightboots. This guy was well-connected. We have an ID yet? *FLATFOOT* Not yet. MacArthur and Jones went to the Tink enclave on 115th and Mencken to sniff around. *GRUMBLES* Good. Keep me posted. *PANEL 8* Sideshot of the same scene. Grumbles is looking intently at the Cape's boots. *GRUMBLES* Hmm... *V/O* I'm good at my job. I notice things. *PANEL 9* Close-up of the boots. a faded Tink's mark is barely visible on the heel of the scorched left boot. *GRUMBLES* Call off your boys. I know where this guy got his tech. *PANEL 10* Grumbles is now pulling off the Cape's boot. *FLATFOOT* Hey! Forensics ain't done yet! *GRUMBLES* They are now. Get this place cleaned up. *V/O* I know what you're thinking. "But Solomon! You're a hardboiled detective who plays by his own rules! A loose cannon!" But it wasn't always like that. *PANEL 11* Flashback to Grumbles' precinct house. A mildly rotund balding man, white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, suspender-holster with a snub-nosed .38. He and Grumbles are yelling at each other. *CAPTION* ONE WEEK AGO *GRUMBLES* If I hadn't roughed up those hookers, MERLIN WOULD'VE ESCAPED! *COMMISSONER* You're a loose-cannon, Grumbles! You may be a hard-boiled detective, but you're playing by MY rules now! *V/O* Ok, maybe it was. *PANEL 12* Grumbles walks back to his car, clutching the homoerotic levitation footwear. *FLATFOOT* The Comissoner ain't gonna be happy when he hears you took evidence from a live crime scene. *GRUMBLES* That's my problem, not yours. By the way, say hi to the hubby for me. *V/O* Lenny's gay, but he doesn't think anyone knows. But I know a lot of things that no one else does. *PANEL 13* High-angle, zoomed-out shot of Grumbles peeling out of the crime scene. *V/O* I'm SOlomon Grumbles, Detective for the Oceandown Police Department, 53rd Precinct. *CAPTION* SOLOMON GRUMBLES: HARDBOILED DETECTIVE