OVER_UNDER_SELECTED_RECORD_XANTHUS

A selection from everything I did  and said in character (and a few things from out of character) during Over/Under, as an intentionally fragmented glimpse into Prospero's Dream, as imagined by hundreds of people over a month of relentless discord conversation. Posted for Mothership Month.

There's so much this doesn't include. For one thing, everything I wrote while in the Stratemeyer Syndicate was locked after quitting. It was all under NDA anyway. Checks out. I'll dig up some screenshots of corporate emails later. And millions of words. Hundreds of people. There's a negative space here, where the other players are. Kind of like blackout poetry. Not intended to be coherent, though I think if you were on the Dream this month, you'll be able to sort out some of the layers.

I was a relatively quiet participant. Still, what follows is 7.2k words.

Selected, formatting removed, in chronological order.

It feels like there is so much to say. I have so little energy to say it. 

For now, signing off. 

OVER_UNDER_SELECTED_RECORD_XANTHUS 

Adtech here, looking to put my skills to work in a dynamic, high-intensity environment. I've got 10+ cycles of copy and graphics experience, and can produce persuasive materials on a rapid turnaround.

***

Another body willing and able to work for Tempest Co. if recruitment opens up. Limited security experience, but got no problem working my way up from the bottom. And I've got several cycles experience in adtech if the Company is hiring direct to a PR branch.

***

Nobody’s hiring this hour, but if you just got here, you’ve got at least a couple cycles before you get thrown in the choke, long as you hang on to your credits. Keep an eye on the threads for work. Something’s gotta open up eventually.

***

What’s the evidence? That feels like a lotta speculation, considering they were asking 50k for a string of numbers. Seems more like they hit their mark and bailed.

Y’all notice they dipped right at the O2 deadline? I don’t think this was an assassination, just the Laws of the Dream.

Glad we’ve got the conspiracy mill running full throttle, though.

***

Let me snag the message if it’s still up. Kit’s alleged figure a little while ago.

Here’s the coords. Obviously I’ve got my doubts if this joker actually snagged that much, ‘specially given they were advertising down in the Blocks. Gotta note, they went inactive right at the same time that O2 fees came due. As far as I can read from logs.

***

On board. Excited to begin my journey with the Syndicate.

***

Please remember, the Stratemeyer Syndicate is not merely a tap from which wealth flows. It is a privilege and commitment to a high-performance team, which holds the benefit of all as its highest priority. But the pay is pretty good, yeah.

***

I received prompt hiring with the Stratemeyer Syndicate, and have been extremely pleased with the culture of dilligence, responsibility, and compassion the Company fosters.

***

If we can confirm a Choke resident, then we can also probably confirm their debt. I'd say the tricky part would be picking a resident. If anyone's alive down there, they're sure not alone.

***

Now, everyone, I'm sure this could be settled with a nice crisp ... apology?

***

Pour one out for MAWCELO.

***

Something else that might be worth taking a look at. It seems like it's just been shuffled around. Parts of CHACHACA are scrambled in the center in a way that might provide a way of solving it ... for someone a little more cryptographically adept than myself.

***

Yeah, if there is a way out of the Choke, it's probably not easy. Ultimately that's what keeps the O2 taxes flowing.

***

Look, if there was a way out, certainly a simple one, it wouldn’t be much of a threat. At a station pop of 5.6 mil, that’s 56mcr in oxytax flowing up every day, and the choke is what keeps it flowing.

Dream’s a big place, yeah. Dizzying, sometimes. Tough to see the whole picture. I’m not saying it’s right. It’s not. It’s essentially industrialized fear and deprivation. But it pays to know how big the station is, and how small we are within it. In the rush of being here, it gets easy to forget.

***

Stepping in to the smell of smoke and gasoline, blinking.

***

Hope you're right.

***

Is it nonsense to believe in something down here?

***

Tagline, as your coworker, I am formally recommending that you put down the shovel and cease further excavation. I believe this message from one of our valued shareholders merely reinforces my point, Tagline.

***

Please send all damning indictments of our business acumen and intel ops to hello@stratemeyer.space. We value your feedback. Thanks!

The Stratemeyer Syndicate is committed to accepting customer and shareholder input through a broad spectrum of communication methods.

***

Official Stratemeyer policy is for sole, at-will employment. A special exception has been made for Fox Cantor's unique situation. My understanding is that the Union is using its protective firing policy to attempt to leverage Fox out of shares. Dismissal was voted on, but a significant majority declined, despite it being the employees' explicit request. I was not personally involved in the hiring process. I would have to submit an internal ER-023-A Request Form to determine whether such an error occurred. Please let me know if you'd like me to begin the inquiry process. We value transparency around hiring matters.

***

He certainly acts that way, but no. There was a time, not so long ago, when big_dog beefstink was just .beefstink

***

Nobody undercuts Grash Uppem's buisness like Grash Uppem.

***

High Seer, your concern is certainly founded, but the expedition is premised on the belief that the choke is not simply or automatically a death sentence. Are they … probably dying down there? Uh, maybe. But it’s not a sure thing!

***

Assuming human physiology can survive down there, we have one-way communication, at least. Which is 100% more communication than no-way. Establishing two-way communication is also a 100% increase compared to no-way, which means they're fundamentally indistinguishable. Numbers don't lie.

I kid. But I do think there may be some value in getting messages down there, if it's survivable. Whether that value is worth the immense personal sacrifice of being trapped in a deoxygenated debt prison ... I think will just have to be a matter of personal principle

***

Hey all,

Xanthus here. I feel that we at Stratemeyer Syndicate have a financially and socially responsible opportunity I would be remiss not to highlight.

From extensive market research, I have come to the conclusion that the puppygirl/puppyboy/puppyperson market on Prospero's Dream is terribly underserved in proportion to the demand and represents an unrealized market for significant cultural and fiscal prosperity. 

I am presently on triple-overtime to complete a multi-spectrum analysis of Consumer Desire in the Theta-193 Cluster in time for the launch of our upcoming line of open-market Hostile-Ara Reconnaissance Drones (HARDs), so do not currently have time to spearhead this effort, but wanted to get some buzz going. 

We're absolutely swimming in talent and intelligence here at Stratemeyer Syndicate, and I genuinely cannot think of a more qualified group of people to actualize this untapped market phenomenon. 

Sincerely,
Xanthus
Shareholder @ Stratemeyer Syndicate

***

Can't stay long. Got more market research to do, and I'm trying to get another product line up, but I wanted to drop in with my honest congratulations on the reopening. Making something real special here. Alright. Gotta run for my 1120 meet.

***

If there ain't much oxygen, I imagine that's one of the main things folks do. But I'm with you. Was Block-bound long enough to know that people are damn-near ineradicable. Gotta be some survivors at least.

At this point, it may be an effort requiring organizational leverage. I don't know what the referenda processes are for everyone's employers, but discussion might be best turned to how we develop the critical mass of support necessary to direct a high-volume of resources towards an objective. Whether that's communication or retrieval is I think a crucial question. My guess at this point would be that communication would be our most pitchable angle, and even then I would expect it to face significant institutional opposition, given that the O2 tax presents a significant financial inflow for many of our bosses.

Just where my head goes, as the corpo scumbag in attendence here. New habits die hard.

***

My resumé claimed I was detail-oriented, and by god I intend to deliver, on or off the clock.

***

Xanthus comes in, thin and precise, eyes flickering across the walls. Sits silently at the bar. Looks over. So, uh, what’s been going on in everyone’s Dream? Hey Angel.

Absolutely understand. We both know the kind of agreements I’m under. For what it’s worth, since I didn’t get the chance before, it was a genuine pleasure to have you as a coworker, and I hope you’re doing well with whatever you’re up to these days.

Slight grin. Still got a soul, far as I know. But I stay out of trouble, mostly.

Can’t comment about operations, obviously. In general, though, I think Dreamers often mistake what’s visible for the whole picture. Makes sense. We’re in the middle of big systems. But there’s a lot more than boardrooms and markets. Chaos at one scale forms into order at another. I dunno

***

Can’t say I’ve got much prizefighting experience, but if I know the Dream, everyone loves an underdog. Or, uh, you know, someone scrappy. Sorry about that. I, uh. Sorry.

Dreamers see themselves in someone that’s gotta fight harder to win, I think. And there’s nothing wrong with going down as the crowd favorite. Not that you’ve got no shot, either.

***

Xanthus’s comms unit beeps. They look down briefly. A flash of exhaustion, quietly: Fucking beefstink. Constantly.

Xanthus laughs. Laughing is not covered under Stratemeyer’s comprehensive NDA. Probably.

Xanthus straightens up, adjusts the collar of his standard corporate attire. Steps back from the bar. A brief nod to Angel and Tagline. Gonna hit the hab. Need to rest up for another beautiful day in the Syndicate. Breathe easy, and I hope you find what you’re looking for.

And they depart efficiently, shoes tapping on the bar tiles.

***

Hi Herb. 

Was wondering if I'd be hearing from you. Inquiry: May I speak candidly in this context?

I believe that the boardroom record will show an accurate chronology of events, verbatim.

Xanthus looks, plainly, exhausted. They slump to the table, hands over head.

Please advise, Herb. Do we, seriously, continue to let the cowboys and bratva do whatever the fuck they want while we have to remain absolutely buttoned up?

Heavy sigh, settles.

While I think the HR department is perceptive and fair in recognizing that my remarks were not made in good faith, as they ought to have been, I believe that I maintained an appearance of professionalism significantly disproportionate to the conduct displayed by our other shareholders.

I am not, for clarity, disputing this disciplinary action. It's in response to a legitimate breach of my written obligations as an employee, and I appreciate the prompt attention you've shown to this matter.

But, if only between us, I want to question the obligations we've agreed to if it means we just sit there while other shareholders are allowed to disregard basic humanity.

Honestly, I'm just fucking disappointed. I thought they stood for more than that. Guess not.

Xanthus raises their head. Pushes the chair back. Leans back, tipping up the front two legs. Breathes. Settles. Tips the chair forward again.

I think I would like to initiate the process for my formal resignation, please.

Quiet laugh. 

Thanks. I appreciate knowing that. Didn't think I was alone, just ... getting sick of pretending I am.

Understood and appreciated. Yeah. We can hold off on resignation for now. I may circle back shortly, though. Once I've got my shit together.

Thanks Herb.

Doing my best. Well. Mostly. Can't promise we won't be speaking again soon. But I'll stay clear of the boardroom for a while. Keep my head down. Stick with my friends instead. Thanks again.

Stands, moves to the door.

Herb, I just got paid four kilocredits for holding some imaginary fraction of a company. I've got drinking money to spare. But thanks. Really. I seriously fucking appreciate it.

Xanthus goes, shutting the door behind them.

***

The Unofficial Smoking Area (ooc chatter)

Commentator voice; Alright, folks, we’re watching a major play here, Angel is going for an invitation, but OH! Denied! Tagline sweeps in to ask about OTHER ATTENDEES, but there’s Angel with the quick save, diving in to emphasize the appeal of an intimate venue, and it looks like Taglines there with it. No! He’s pulled out the friend maneuver, but wait. Could it be? Friend meant something deeper? Tagline’s moving into scheduling, the ball’s in Angel’s court, and Angel with the WINK! Looks like Tagline doesn’t know what to do with that, but we’re still rolling, and Angel is open for a message whenever Tagline gets the chance! Will he take it?

WITH THE STEEL CHAIR, who could have SEEN THIS COMING.

But wait seems like Beefstink is … breaking up with Tagline? Were they an item? Well, I know what is an item! This mysterious box! The angst thickens! You could cut the tension with a scalpel (1d5 DMG, adjacent, bleeding), and now the box is in the middle, we’ve got a shootout here.

The emotional intensity on display here in this conversation about whether or not a human being is a dog as a joke, really a masterful display and — 

OH MY FUCK a display of kindness and contrition from Beefstink! What the FUCK is happening? 

The crowd is on its feet. You cannot hear a thing over the screams. We’ve got Angel on the defensive gesture, he’s protective! It’s tense! Will there be an issue? Looks like no, and yes, we’ve got cross-chatter, new players on the scene, what a mess.

And WHAT’S this in the instant replay? Tagline was holding onto Angel’s sleeve the entire time!!!

***

Quick work. 

Thanks. Really. Tell everyone whatever. I'm gonna go back to the Blocks, lay low on Corpo money, watch the war roll in.

Seeing more departures already?

We were already seeing resignations. Hard to say where this goes from here. I just ... don't think I could watch from the middle of it.

And with Jenny gone. I fear for the heart of the Syndicate.

Anyway, stay safe. And watch your back. Thanks again for the help. If you need a friend in lower places, you know who to call.

Xanthus closes out the message, grabs their jacket, empties their pockets of Syndicate-related materials, and slips out through the nearest exit, and into the condensation-slick halls of the Dream.

***

Xanthus comes in. Collar on a scuffed thermal coat pulled up around their neck. Fresh-surplus spacer's carryall slung over one shoulder. They are leaned lower than usual. And much less tension. They find a seat in a quiet corner.

***

Look, I, uh. Don't want to stick my head where it doesn't belong, but what's behind the curtain, Angel?

***

In the kitchen: tearful, doomed romances
In the bar: solarian doing a kegstand

***

Xanthus slips out of the bar, glancing over their shoulder at the unfolding spectacle. Xanthus freezes, at the door. Unsure who the cardinal was addressing.

***

Xanthus steps out, thermal jacket half-zipped, face lowered and impassive.

Not for a minute, but it's been a ... special day.

Takes the cigarette. Lights it off a new multitool.

I expect you heard about Jenny?

Immediately, honestly. Ditched shares and tokens, too.

Herb helped me out. Processed in minutes.

imagine I won't be the only one.

Aye. Here's to that. Tag, too.

Smoke curls around Xanthus' arm, hanging low. Don't see this going well for the Syndicate.

Any of it. Eaten from the inside. Dead at the top.

And some good folks caught in the middle.

Thanks again.

Best feeling in this whole fucking existence.

Recommend it.

Gearing up. Trashing my corpo shit. Waiting this out. Not sure where I'll end up at this point, but I'm sitting on enough credits to coast for ... longer than I'd ever have imagined, so. Could be worse.

Moira. Howdy.

"The Stratemeyer Syndicate offers a diverse and expansive product catalog to satiate the insensate desires of consuming masses everywhere..."

Take a long drag. Coughs.

It's been hours, Herb.

Murmuring. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Aye.

The clatter of the Dream carries on, unabated. Low hum of ventilation. The thick magenta soak of Ad-Boards. Thin foot traffic drifting past between fractals of cable and scaffold.

Gone, yeah. That's- Yeah. I knew it would get bad. Didn't think this fast. Or close. 

From around the corner, ⁠Just Outside Sem's, raised voices carry, distorted by the gnarls of station architecture, disembodied in the dark.

***

Hi, what the fuck is going on with Tempest?

***

((Welcome to what John Line-Go-Up has dubbed, "Prospero's Shittiest Secret Society."))

***

Look, I was in the boardroom yesterday. I'm out here today. I'm with you that I don't love the tone, but at this point it's a just a warning.

***

Xanthus comes in the door, sits quietly at the back.

***

Xanthus glances over at the terminal. Anyone know who the fuck Caliban is?

***

A shroud of smoke begins to settle in the narrow streets, acrid with the scent of burned plastic, polyfoam, and flesh. Bodies hang limp and misshapen on barren plazas and concrete barriers. 

***

Waiting I can do. Xanthus unslings their carryall, tosses it in the corner, upsetting some dust and scattered plastic. Goes to lie down, head on the carryall. Pulls up a hood.

Scream if it all goes wrong.

Xanthus raises a thumbs up. Then drops their arm back onto their chest. Breathing slows.

***

The low hum of computer fans and buzz of tube lights. A poster on the wall reads, "DREAM BIG," with a wireframe rendering of the station. Offering corporate recruitment. A hundred years out of date.

***

Xanthus raises their head. 'Scuse me, the fucking what points?

Fully sitting up now. Alright. Five. Five of what?

Thanks for that, Team Lead. From what?

Something sinks in for Xanthus. Uh, huh. I’m in one of those.

To confirm, you’re saying get out of these?

Yeah, I don’t quite have the cash to make a move right now.

Roger, thanks SL.

I’m good. MO2hawk got me. I owe you anything for that, ‘Hawk?

Got a new spot cleared. Fuckin appreciate it.

Will do.

I’ll have to pick up work for a few days, but I can get it back in full pretty quick.

***

Dook's right, boss.

***

Xanthus takes one. Sips between bites of a nutribar. Get comfortable. Fill up. Check your gear. Call your friends. It's exciting, but this is gonna be hurry-up-and-wait, sounds like.

***

Me: No way is my address affected 
My Address: Affected

***

Thanks, chief. Good luck out there.

Xanthus leans in to the terminal on the table to read up. Alright, we're lookin' at three to fourteen days of Ox, assuming standard consumption rate, depending on how much cash the bosses put up.

***

Xanthus unfurls a reflective blanket from their carryall, and sleeps in a corner, as long as they can.

***

External access isn't a bad thought. Would take a chunk of research and planning. Looking at a long EVA, out across the spokes, then down the core. And we'd need coords on a utility-lock, and some way of breaching. That means vaccsuits, full zero-g rated crew, cargo bags for expedition gear.

Xanthus has been sleeping in their clothes in the HQ since the night of the crisis. Looks disheveled. Drinking out of an insulated mug, leaning against the table.

Nah, I'm good. M02hawk hooked me up with the creds for a new space. Just haven't gotten the move done yet. Lot going on. Lemme know if you need me out, though.

What's your history with the cutter?

Gotcha. Yeah, that'd be what we'd be looking for. What's the feasibility of punching in safely, you think?

Schematics put the spoke radius at 6.5 klicks, too. Long walk for a vaccsuit, even before descending the core. Agree we scratch it.

Station's a warren. Maybe we can get access to schematics, see if we can zero in on utility passages or access tunnels to cut into.

Ah, shit. Yeah, they would be the ones to get that.

Sounds good. My interactions with CHC have been a little ... antagonistic. Don't know if there's any hard feelings on their end. But I'm not on friendly terms.

***

On board, thanks QM. Looking forward to service in the Company.

***

Xanthus comes into the bunk-room, bag slung over one shoulder. Eyes scan the room. Stands for a moment. 

Hey all, good to be here. Longtime Dreamer, briefly a corpo scumbag. Looking forward to getting to know you all, and getting out in the Dream.

***

hey there berwick, appreciate the update. just signed with tempest. will have my eye out.

***

My experience is primarily in adtech and analysis, up to this point, but I'll be fucking honest, I'm sick of riding a desk, so I wouldn't mind getting hooked up into a a boots-on-desk position, if possible.

Good to be a corpo, better to be an ex-corpo.

Lotta familiar faces here.

I dipped after Jenny got whacked off, so I missed the takeover.

How's everyone holding up? I heard some crazy shit.

Xanthus, by contrast, hasn't made it into uniform quite yet. But is no longer in corp-standard attire. Instead, battered secondhand spacers clothes. Thermal jacket, bleach-white cargoes. Dressed to blend right back into the Dream.

Looking forward to getting into training, SL.

***

Xanthus ducks their head out of a doorway. Hey, Herb!

Am now. Only signed this morning. Good to see you here. I've gotta keep up with onboarding, but we should grab a drink in the mess hall sometime.

No kidding.

***

HOOAH

***

Interesting. Main reason I ended up at strat is they pulled the trigger on uptake faster than Tempest.

Xanthus is wearing a fresh Tempest uniform. Looks calmer, more relaxed.

Yeah. I was less creeped than most, I think. Appreciated the fuck out of her efficiency and capability. And at least internally, she brought the team together on everything. But, still. I won’t lie about the undercurrent.

Xanthus grins. Not without hurt.

I do. Yeah. Don’t blame folks for being scared of her, but. I dunno. Good leader. There’s a reason I quit the moment I heard she got whacked off.

Hey, uh, Tag? Forgive me for being out of the loop, but, is something going on with you and Angel?

Xanthus shrugs and gets themselves a drink.

Oh, no reason. Just wasn’t sure if you were friends or not. Didn’t get very close to anyone while I was still in the Company. Xanthus comes back with a tall glass. Sits down, smiling.

Seems a fair number of us wound up in Tempest, so I’ll be getting to know folks that way, I think.

Haven’t spoke with Moira much. I just got in this morning. Seems fine. It’s been good on my end. At the mention of Beefstink’s name, Xanthus takes a drink. A long drink.

Oh, yeah, you get any takers for your Deathmatch, John?

***

incredible. profound, even. captures something which lies, perhaps not at the heart of every human being, but certainly within the troubled minds of many over/under players. a momentary encapsulation of what it is like to have mondo terminal leaping across your neural pathways, unbidden, unbound, and professionally apologetic. in short: a gift to all Dreamers

***

Xanthus finishes his drink. Says a quiet goodbye to the assembled Dreamers, and slips out the door.

***

0T101TRIHARD_0201.68SIMexec.exe

Xanthus pushes for the door, shotgun raised and head on a swivel. 

If nothing stops them, Xanthus rushes to the wall beside the door, and readies to breach it by shooting off the hinges. 

Xanthus looks to Blitz, waiting for an explicit breach command. 

Xanthus covers Horvath, coming alongside, and watching, ready to fire on anyone coming out of Room A.

***

FOR THE DREAM

***

Hey, SL, when you say weapons-light means no explosives or heavy, are we still talking SMGs?

Understood, SL. Thanks for the clarity.

***

Xanthus sits at the back of the booth, watching the cascade of bodies in and out of the ring. The mere secondhand smoke from that shit is like standing near the edge of a black hole, gazing into a great cataclysm as light and matter are pulled inseparably, inexorably together. They scream. They are silent. They are standing. Hand rises in a passionate salute of the beauty before them.

VIOLENCE IS BEAUTIFUL

It is pandemonium. Hieronymus Bosch type of shit. The stink of sweat and flesh in a cage. Cables droop overhead. Lights blare around the ring, glass shining. The lone overhead fan struggles to haul station-fresh air down into the chamber.

Music thuds in the bones. The crowd is a great co-joined lung, bellowing as one. Its blood is liquid. All is liquid. Tidal motion of flesh, metal, and electricity surges through the chamber.

Stratospheric, even.

GOOOOOOOOOO

Through shuttle glass, bodies near to bursting, pinned and hurled. In the booth, a choir of Dreamers is losing their fucking minds. Telescopic visit to oblivion. Entwined in each others’ lives. Systems upon systems upon systems upon

ANNIHILATION

Xanthus sees the gun. Sees his coworkers? friends? acquaintances? holding a fucking gun. But this is the Dream and having a gun is super normal here, so they turn their attention back to the fight.

DO NOT DROWN

Xanthus makes a call on Tempest Comms for MEDEVAC support for post-drowning care.

***

Xanthus wires credits for a round of drinks to the Ember, then heads on back to the barracks, head swimming.

***

0T101TRIHARD_0201.68SIMexec.exe

Xanthus rushes up the stairs, and as the others break for Room C, they go to secure Room D. When they see the unconscious person in the tub, they move to check their vitals, keeping an eye over their shoulder, and calling out what they’ve found.

***

Xanthus is sitting off to one side, learning the anatomy of an F20 "Arbiter" Pulse Rifle, looking up now. Watching cautiously. Not surprised this is where the wind has turned. But surprised it's happening already. Now. Here.

HOOAH

***

Thanks for the heads up, T0.

***

((tl;dr no war))

***

FOR THE DREAM

***

Xanthus comes in, off-duty but in a loose, unmarked surplus field jacket.  Looks tired. Really tired. Comes to sit at the bar.

Hey all. Absolutely. Old love’s good. Thanks. Cheers. To the Dream.

Xanthus drinks slowly. Shoulders hunched a little. Face lowered in quiet apprehension.

Didn’t take you for a man of the sun, Angel. How long’ve you been solarian?

Through the cross-chatter, Xanthus is watching Radiane cautiously, drink held loose in one hand.

Xanthus is still nursing their first glass. Eyes scanning constantly. Consequently; doesn’t seem to be having much fun.

Xanthus stands. Thanks for the drink, Millie. And everything you built here. Have a good cycle, y’all. Don’t get in too much trouble.

That’s the plan!

A rare grin. Xanthus salutes casually and departs.

***

0T101TRIHARD_0201.68SIMexec.exe

“Get me a medic over here! One noncombatant, unconscious!”

***

Standing quiet beside T11: Herb Sullivan. Getting really sick of having our supervisors get whacked off. It's a joke, but that doesn't reach their tone, which betrays genuine sorrow and frustration.

Good to know the novos haven't fucking changed. Not really. 

Great weeks to smoke, though.

Xanthus offers one from a fatigue pocket.

***

Prospero's Dream: Shakespeare reference 
Tempest Company: Shakespeare reference 
Dookie getting cucked: Somehow, also a Shakespeare reference

***

Xanthus comes through the door in Tempest Fatigues beneath a heavy Company-issued overcoat. A pocket heavy with the bulge of credits. They've been saving. They've never had this much fucking money before. They're exhausted and sad and kind of scared and slightly drunk. It's been a long week, and they're here to do something irresponsible.

They wait beside the counter, and ring a small digital bell for Vox Valentine.

A pleasant, hesitant smile. 

I'm, uh, not entirely sure, to be honest. A colleague of mine recently made an exceptional purchase through your service, and it's been a bit of a ... well, you know how the last few weeks have been. I think. I'm looking for something that makes everything make sense. I know that's a tall ask.

And then, because that really is a big ask: maybe a hat?

Xanthus heads into the booth. Sits.

***

It's too LATE mr moneybags! I fear thy son already has found himself untimely CUCKED.


***

This is T10 Xanthus, comms check. How copy?

Uh, identity? A way to connect? A balm against a sense of restless alienation I've always felt? Maybe as much surplus cyberware as you have on hand?

Yeah, so I was kind of hoping buying something would fix all that. I don't know.

I've spent a long time just trying to survive. Got a steady paycheck now. Well, if by steady you count two jobs in a month. I'm comfortable now. And I don't know what to do with myself.

Obviously, I'm neither expecting nor asking you to fix these things. If they even can be fixed. I just ... I've seen Lucas Marlowe in his exosuit. And Lucas seems so happy.

10kcr, give or take a couple kilocredits.

You mean therapy? Or talking to d0c to get fixed up?

Roger. Yeah. Might be worth it.

I, uh, well. I think let’s maybe just go with the hat for now. When you say “replacing,” well. I feel like I should probably think about that a little more. I already don’t feel like myself. Stands to reason having parts of me literally not be me while also being new parts of me would just compound that particular issue.

Is there a utility hat? Like it’s a hat but it’s also a tool? Or several tools. Maybe radar. Headlamp. Speaker system. Night vision? Blunt-force instrument.

Yeah, that might be more accurate.

Durable. Stable. Maybe a little blocky. 

Xanthus pours over the screen. They do. They make it theirs. It’s … monstrous. Like a wearable toolbox, at once beautiful and terrible to behold.

Excellent. Done. Half up front, correct?

I look forward to taking receipt of the finished product, and I sincerely appreciate your services here. Thanks. Really.

***

Mr Moneybags, 

I am writing to express my profound joy that this initiative has been fruitful, and would like to offer my sincere congratulations on your success. Your prosperity as a Dreamer lies beyond absurd fiscal solvency. It is through your campaigning spirit that a diverse coalition has come together to realize a vision which will enrich the lives of generations to come. 

Best, 
Xanthus 
Operator @ Tempest Company

***

Hello! Excellent. I’m excited. Xanthus does, really, look excited, but it’s buried somewhere beneath years of caution. Do I complete the other 50% of payment to you, or Vox? 

Alright, I’ll see that transaction completed shortly. Xanthus takes the hatbox. It’s heavy. Almost frighteningly heavy.

Thanks again!

A smile, now. Positively beaming, the hatbox nearly overwhelming Xanthus’ slim frame. They depart, hatbox with them.

***

Xanthus comes by briefly, arms full of a frankly massive package girthed in cargo straps. Sets it on the ground and scribbles out a note on a paper tablet, which they slip through the door. Hi Vox Valentine. Successfully received delivery. You should see remaining payment shortly. Thanks again.

X

***

Xanthus stops by and sketches the tempest insignia and a bubbly “X” on one of the shoulders. They have a large, padded package with them. Unmarked.

***

Xanthus comes into the barracks, carrying a large box. It is padded outside. Unmarked. Bound in cargo straps. They look ... excited? An unusual expression breaks concealment. They pass through the barracks and into the mess hall.

***

Xanthus comes through the flapping panel-doors of the mess hall, back first, sets a large package on a table. Breathes an exhausted sigh. Steps back to look at the imposing cube before them.

Then they begin to excavate, layer by layer, the package comes apart, first straps, then padding, then a matte olive case, stenciled with specifications, and large condensed letters reading: BCKT. Xanthus pops the latches, lifts the lid, uncovers the object inside.

What emerges is bulky, utilitarian. Knobs and rivets scatter across a blocky surface. A woven cable hanging like a dying vine. Xanthus lifts this thing, examines it closely. They set it on the table for a moment, pull a manual from the depths of the case, and begin to read hungrily.

Eventually, finally, they lift the object from the table, and place it on their head. The weight is comforting. Whelming, even.

Xanthus leaves the mess hall, wearing their new hat (???), carrying the packing material and storage case with them.

***

They pass briefly back through the barracks, arms full of packing material and a large olive case, head fully engulfed in some kind of technological monstrosity. They drop off the case in their gear locker, then head out onto the Dream.

***

Xanthus steps into the Ember. They have to duck. Something about their silhouette has changed. Around their head, like some industrial fruiting body, is a monument to overengineering.

They go sit at the bar.

Has who handled? Xanthus is sitting up straight, eyes sharpening.

Friend. Fuck. Okay. Xanthus stands up, hand double-checks the still-unfamiliar bulk of an Individual First Aid Kit slung from their belt.

Maybe. You know anyone? I can pull Tempest, but someone independent would probably be better. I know a little. If we need it. Xanthus watches the kitchen door. Millie knows how to take care of things.

***

Hey, SLT8: Lucas Marlowe, T11: Herb Sullivan. It's T10 Xanthus. got a situation developing at the Ember. Could use some assistance on standby. May need to evac someone.

***

Yeah, Herb's the best. He fired me so fast when I asked.

Xanthus leaves, quickly, too.

***

Received. I'm following. Millie should have it squared. Just. Want to make sure there's backup available.

***

Xanthus comes in, moving urgently, head swiveling, their hat is massive.

Thanks for getting here.

I've got some basic training. Nothing much, but I'm a good set of hands.

Xanthus waits. A little restless. Their helmet buzzes quietly.

Appreciate your presence here, Thoss. I think the oversight's good.

I'm Angel's friend, but I'm no medic. Maybe not even a friend. Ex-coworker.

There was an altercation at the Ember, I think. But I don't know if that's where the injuries came from. He looked bad.

Wilco.

***

Xanthus comes around a corner in the hall. Sees the bulk of Marlowe's unpleasantly yellow exosuit. Crisp salute to Millie against the brutalism brim of an expansive helmet.

***

Hey Millie. John.

How bad is it?

fuck

Xanthus says this quietly. The speech to text feature on his visor has no such restraint, a matrix of tiny lights reading out:

FUCK

Hey, Marlowe. Wait up. Xanthus follows him.

***

Look. Lucas. I know it fucking sucks to sit here and do nothing, but it does help. Really appreciate you both being here, by the way. Calm in the storm. 

Thanks, Mr Moneybags.

what a fucking relief.

I think the Clinic's got this under control. Moneybags is right. Better grab some rest while we've got the chance.

Xanthus follows. The hazard tape catches on their helmet and trails behind them.


***

Xanthus goes into the mess hall, carrying his helmet by one leg, looking considerably more tired. Puts on a pot of coffee. Heats a MEALPAC in boiling water. Sits, half-hoping Herb and Lucas will stay up a moment. The evening lurches through their head. They eat calmly. Head lowered. Pack up the packaging, and hoist their helmet on. Trudge off to sleep.

***

I come into the Ember hoping to use my Big Silly Hat for Hat-Based Silliness but nooooo, one of my coworkers is having an excellent dramatic emergency scene, so then we're rushing around, and we're outside the clinic being all serious because someone could die and the surgeon comes out, and the surgeon is MR FUCKING MONEYBAGS and it's like, oh good, we're glad you took care of the hematoma, MR MONEYBAGS, this is really good news, and then Mr Moneybags is all "you should rest," and he's so fucking right, what the fuck is this game.

***

Throwing my vocal support behind Melody Station. I didn't have the opportunity to serve with McGinn, but she was a sterling example of what a Tempest Officer should be, and a real fixture of the Dream. I think having Dreamers get railed in her memory is exactly the memorial Melody earned.

***

Reports said dessicated, so probably a while. Maybe as long as the bakery's been operational. Sounds like it yeah. Sounds like really dead, even. And replaced by some kind of superintelligence.

***

Xanthus comes in, looking uncertain, at least what little of their face is visible beneath a monstrosity of PPE made manifest, a hideous compact between hat and helmet, squatting on their head like an over engineered gargoyle.

Evening all.

To the ocean. Xanthus toasts with an empty hand, and goes to sit at the bar.

Howdy, Wylte. Thanks Millie.

Xanthus picks up the sunrise by the stem, slips away from the bar for a smoke.

***

Xanthus steps out, beneath the brutalist edifice of a BCKT utility helm, holding a delicate glass in one hand. Their other hand fishes in a pocket for some smokes, then a safety lighter. A snap and flicker precedes a cloud of smoke.

Hey Angel. Glad you’re still with us. Had me worried the other night.

I don’t know. I have a hat now. I thought that was going to fix things. But it didn’t.

They sigh, lean against the wall, slide down into a squat. Their head leans back and their helmet clunks against the habitat plaster. They imagine the stars they cannot see.

Sounds like Millie’s leaving? Soon? Look, anyone who doesn’t feel out of their depth in this place just doesn’t know it well enough yet. Good set of hands, if you ask me. Getting out, huh. Not bad. 

Good hand, then, I guess. Their grin emerges from the shadow of the helmet’s slablike forehead and the wiry protrusion of a microphone boom.

Xanthus returns the fistbump.

I could get out. Never thought about it before. Didn’t really think it was possible. But I’ve got the credits…

Better. Yeah. I don’t know. Seems tough enough to keep it from coming apart at the fucking seams.

Worth the fight, I think. But … I’ve lived my whole life expecting the Dream to eat me someday. Swallow me up. Digest.

Hard to forget. Thanks. That sounds … good. They push up the helmet with the heel of their hand, stub out a cigarette against the wall. Breathe. Think the hope is what fucking matters. No use fighting otherwise. And I think it’s the fight in folks like you and Millie and all that make it possible to live in here at all. Hope you know that.

Always more to be done. Aye. Breathe easy. Thanks, Angel.

They look at the hatchway into the Ember, glow of interior lamps and soft thrum of conversation. Stand alone for a while.

***

Xanthus comes back to the bar a little later, sets an empty glass on the counter along with 20cr, their hat sitting like a primordial monolith, audio cable and coolant hoses flowing down into their collar. Eyes scan their surroundings.

They punch a quick message onto a pocket keyboard. A thermal printer inside the utility helmet purrs and disgorges a curled slip of plastic with a note, reading: 

Heard you might be headed out. We’ll miss Prospero’s best Bartender. Won’t be the same without you. Best of luck out there.

They tear off the slip, press it to the counter, and leave quietly, taking the long way back to their hab, alone, to place an order for their own jumpliner passage.

***

Hey, fuckers! 

A broad grin. Xanthus has clearly been pre-drinking. Huge utility helmet hangs at an odd angle over their head, an alcohol nozzle dangling down. In one upper pocket of a stylish industrial jumpsuit is a crumpled plastic Transit Packet. Tickets off the dream. 

They let Beef host?

***

WIN ‘EM ALL, HERB
YEAH HERB, GET IN THE TUB
THAT'S THE WAY YOU DO HR

***

HERB HERB HERB

A vote for Herb is a vote for kindness and efficiency. Ten thousand votes for Herb is a fucking rainstorm of human decency. A shot across the bow of nihilism. An anchor amidst the storm. A shining beacon of hope when all hope seems lost!

BEEF SUX

MANY ARE SAYING THIS

Xanthus shuts up and sits down. Looking slightly embarrassed. Uncertain. And flushed with alcohol.

HERB LOVES LOVE

Kruger! He said your name, Kruger! Love is fucking REAL.

Xanthus cannot quite remember how many beers they have aboard by now. Is Xanthus ... crying? Yes. Xanthus is crying. The visor of their BCKT utility helmet descends over their eyes. 

 All of us are prisoners to the system of credit. a ...  what? no? I'm just. drunk and sad. but also happy. I'm leaving and herb made it so far.

BEEFSTINK OWNED

Xanthus begins to sob silently with confusion, exhaustion, and joy. Drunk, disoriented, and about 10kcr lighter.

love is real. it's so real.

***

Xanthus comes stumbling into the barracks, drunk from ⁠dreamy-dates-tv, in plainclothes. Freezes when they sense the atmosphere in the room. They slowly remove their massive utility helmet.

Something ... did something happen? Everyone alright?

roger, T2. Fuck.

***

Xanthus collapses onto a cargo crate. Stomach churning.
Another fucking funeral.

***

HOOAH

***

Xanthus steps in, briefly. They are slim, angular, coordinated, and wearing an enormous BCKT utility helmet, which rises from their head like the fruiting body of some brutalist delusion, flat-fronted and knobbed with dials and sensor nodes. They are carrying a small plastic envelope, containing a formal application on linen stationary. They set it carefully on an inbox before departing into a shower of station condensation outside.

Hi Eustace,

Writing to submit my sincere and formal application for a crew position aboard the GALETEA-1 J1C-III Adeppo & Fischer(tm) Salavage Cutter.

I was born on the Dream, and I really don’t want to die here. I’ve got years of experience as an advertising technician, a good head for language and Business Communications, and over the last two weeks, I’ve become exceptionally familiar with the F20 “Arbiter” Pulse-Operated Rifle.

I am, and always have been, a hard worker. I strive to excel in cooperative environments and high-stress situations. In the last month, I’ve done everything from advertising tech to customer meta-analysis to shareholder leadership to security operations. I learn fast.

Herb Sullivan, a former coworker at the Stratemeyer Syndicate taught me the value of kindness and stability in rough waters. Tempest Company has taught me the value of discipline and violence of action.

I believe I can offer the GALETEA-1 my unwavering loyalty, commitment, and enthusiasm across many years of solvent operation. 

Thank you very much for your consideration. I look forward to your reply.

Sincerely,
Xanthus

***

Hi, CDR Kuznetsova. Xanthus, T10 here. Have just received a briefing from SLT10 Hawkins regarding the re-tasking of T10, and would like to formally and immediately withdraw my request for transfer or dismissal to remain with T10 as it undergoes specialization for disaster response. And I want to be a part of that. Thank you again.

***

Xanthus pokes their head out of a doorway, clutching a steaming mug of caffenol, head clad in an enormous helmet. The forehead flips open to reveal the maw of a loudhailer, which belches:

THAT'S MY FUCKIN' MAYOR

Xanthus comes out onto the street, BCKT utility helmet rising from their skull like a primordial boulder, helmet lamps strobing, air-horns blaring, onboard fire-suppression system spewing aqueous film-forming foam high into the corridor, arms raised in celebration. What a day.

***

Hello, Cardinal! You'll have to excuse the ... chaos. 
Something, helmet-like and industrious on Xanthus' head is spraying light, sound, and firefighting chemicals in the air as some expression of mayoral joy, while a projector spits: MONDO TERMINAL FOR MAYOR onto a nearby wall.

***

Small round objects come clattering out of Xanthus's BCKT Multi-Function High-Endurance Utility Headgear (MH-UH), printed straight from a synaptic burst of design, their brain puzzling out the shapes, the helmet spooling out print filaments into bright magenta campaign buttons.

***

Posters flutter out of the printing slot at the back of the massive, brutalist masterpiece Xanthus is wearing on their head. Maybe a little too much personal opinion has leaked in here. Maybe just a little.

everybody_hates_beefstink.png

***

A monitor ignites in glorious color, announcing the beginning of a New Dream. 
A Dream for Everybody. Sooner or later ... Everybody votes. And Everybody should vote for Mondo Terminal for Mayor of Prospero's Dream.

***

Xanthus unfolds a spindly microphone from within their helmet, speaks briskly into the mouthpiece. Credits are exchanged on the wider 'net, and all throughout the blocks, in plazas, above bars and warehouses, on little ad-displays buried in lonely allies, displays crackle to life.

FUCKS_MY_WIFE.png

***

Xanthus comes into the Ember, grinning. Fully just grinning. Also, absolutely dappled with fluorescent magenta paint, the carryall slung at their shoulder stuffed with posters and videodisks. They sit at the bar.

***

Anyway, good to see y'all. Have a round on me. Breathe easy.
Xanthus drops a credstick on the bar, and heads out with a nod an a small, even playful, wave.

***

Smoke, acrid and chem-laced, pours through the Blocks. The haze is all-consuming. Cables sink away into nightmarish vines, shudder and coil. The deck is spongy with suppression foam. Blotchy figures lurch and tumble, as the raw alien heat comes low and hungry.

Full-face respirator grips tight. Lungs heave with supplied air-mix. The familiar weight of breaching irons gripped in gloved hands. Bodies ache as they move low and steady, inward.

As the Blocks tighten, it becomes a struggle to move, even sometimes breathe, against jutting bars of metal, corrugated slabs, heaps of pulverized concrete. Decks give way, opening their mouths to warehouses, factories, and tenements beneath. Shoving, pulling, prying, they move.

At the center, something writhes. Cries for annihilation. It. It is. It. A broken shape. Wires and tendons entangle in the gesture of a nervous system, splayed across the gaping entrance of a deck-collapse, huge and beached. Fingers scrabble at porous panels, tear chunks of floor away. And it slips. Gives way. Where it falls is dark and full of smoke.

And they follow.

***

A billboard above the corridor comes to life, bathing the whole hall in Dream Pink. Lights buzzing along.

NEVER APOLOGIZE FOR BELIEVING IN ALL OF US. 

MONDO TERMINAL FOR MAYOR.

***