i wanna hold ‘em like they do in texas, please

[headandhand]

WHO: Open to all Dualizens
WHAT: Your regularly scheduled NAPs event for the month
WHERE: The brand-new Theronia Casino
WHEN: Dec. 7-10
WARNINGS: Please use these if applicable!


Look at all of these bright, shining new faces! There’s even a few less bright, less shining faces - maybe even a few folks without faces - but hey, this city welcomes all types. Chances are, if you’ve just arrived, you're seeing some pretty crazy things, unless you're used to an eye-blinding amount of neon, robots, weird-ass technology, magic, and an omnipresent police force...and hey, if you are, congrats, you're gonna settle in just fine! But for the rest of you, the Head knows this is gonna be pretty overwhelming, right?

Well, since your quaint individual processing units are probably having a hard time, why not link up with another one? By which the Head means...

Hello, new citizens of Dualis,
and welcome to your monthly Network Adjacency Protocol~!

NAPs are a monthly community networking event similar to the Earth concept of speed dating. Two citizens (new arrivals and old hands alike) are placed at a table together with a handy cue card of queries to help break the proverbial ice. Ask (possibly invasive) personal questions and receive results - or ignore the card and yeet yourself straight into a brand new friendship, whatever works! But don't be too shy - you've only got ten minutes together, and if you just sit in silence for the whole ten, the Network Admins are likely to come supervise and try to repair the uplink through a mild shock to the ol' central nervous system. You might find yourself saying all sorts of unintended facts about yourself if that happens...probably better to just make friends, right? Who doesn’t like friends?!

The weather outside is … not frightful, but this month’s event is still being held in a cozy indoor environment. Welcome to the newly-opened Theronia Casino, a 12-story building that boasts amazing buffets and dozens of different types of gambling on each floor. Enjoy a rousing game of blackjack, poker, or tall card with your friends! Try your luck at roulette, get a group together for dice games, or maybe meet some new faces over a round of mahjong. If there’s another type of gambling game local to your home world, chances are good it’ll have a table on one of the casino floors. Types of cuisine vary from floor to floor, but kosher, vegan, and allergen-free offerings are always available no matter where you choose to dine.

As a special bonus, all NAPs attendees receive free entry into the weekly Go Fish Tournament. Daily finalists win a prize of 1000 duos and advance to the championship game next month. Play your heart out, and remember - anything’s competitive if you try hard enough!

Comments

GO FISH TOURNAMENT.

[headandhand]

Wanna be a Go Fish champ? Comment here if you're participating and we'll RNG four finalists.

[fuzzbeat]

Oh my god please put Harriet in the RNG pool, this sounds amazing!

Re: GO FISH TOURNAMENT.

[notarambler]

Throw Sam in the pool for this it sounds awesome.

[hobocop]

1000 duos though? CHA-CHING.

[mrsarcastic003]

Yes. Yes, I do want to be the very best.

Like no one ever was.

Re: GO FISH TOURNAMENT.

[whosthemonsternow]

Yeee

[exceptionalcrook]

Duke will be all over this but probably hasn't played Go Fish since he was nine

Harry Du Bois | OTA | CW for alcoholism

[hobocop]

Harry smells like a crime scene.

Which isn't to say he smells like a corpse. No, that particular stench has at long last been scoured off his tortured skin. Rather, he's like the result of an overly fastidious clean up job — there's an unmistakable note of bleach in the air.

The source of that little nostril burning number is currently clinging to Harry's torso: a wide-collared, disco-ass shirt, no doubt looking whiter than it has been for a good year or two. He keeps fussing with it, either by rolling the sleeves up every time the silk decides to fall past his elbows, or by tugging at the absolute car crash of a tie he's knotted somewhere far below his collarbone.

He absolutely, positively doesn't look like he wants to be here.

A. Politics and partying

RHETORIC — Ok, stop spending your suzerainty money for half a second and think. Something about this whole evening doesn't sit right with you. Here you are, ripped up and thrown into some neon future world, and first thing they do is stick you in a money pit like this? Unfettered capitalism is the phrase of the day. Go find someone to talk to; I got a whole litany brewing here. Hurry up.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Yeah, man. Goldmouth's actually on the money, for once. Enough spinny-spinny, more imbibing. Look at that wall of mystery behind the bar right there! That's your kind of roulette. Point at something fancy, take a sip, and go spout some shit about the common man. You'll feel way better, I promise.

But Kim—

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Isn't here. See how miserable that makes you? Fuck off and drink, brother.

It's on that sunny thought that Harry finds himself sat at the bar, head lowered like a guilty schoolboy as he waits on the double he ordered. When he notices he isn't alone, he turns his head just far enough to fix his new buddy with a forced grin. Oh, no, sorry— a grin and a wink, because of course!

B. Did someone say buffet?

Barring a slice of salami, and Gaston Martin's frankly incredible ham sandwich, Harry can't... actually remember when he last ate. The power couple of amphetamines and cigarettes have a little something to do with that, sure, but Harry isn't completely stupid. He knows he doesn't need to add yet another potential cause to his future death certificate.

And so there he is, plate in one hand, a pair of tongs in the other. On said plate? Art. He is a master, and that is his canvas.

...A canvas that's in danger of remaining unfinished, apparently.

"Big fan of bread, huh?" he croaks, with a slow, deliberate eye flick down to the now empty bread bowl.

C. Wildcard

[Harry will happily strike up a conversation with anyone during the evening. Beyond making a slow descent into becoming a pitiful drunk, he'll join in with any games that need an extra player, explore (in search of answers and balconies he can smoke on) and join in for about an hour's worth of actual NAPs. Go say hey!]

A. Politics and partying

[sociallychallenged]

Too much knowledge ruins a good time, and Hank's certainly had so much of it dumped over his head in the past few months that these things have become practically intolerable. Not that he was very good at social butterfly, anyway.

A casino isn't too bad for a man that actually bets from time to time, but he's distracted enough that when he sidles along the guy at the stool he's not really paying attention. The smell has a sort of subconscious effect that makes him feel like he should be at work. The two he hasn't linked.

The guy next to him speaks and Hank looks over, mid-accepting his whiskey.

"Nice to meet you." A beat. "Like the shirt."

This is obviously painfully unironic. Hank's current shirt has that same eyefeel one would have watching a John Travolta movie. Not necessarily 70s fashion, but colored in the spirit of a being who is Too Much and Too Little.

[hobocop]

See? It was totally worth practically burning his fingerprints off rescuing the damn thing. It's a statement piece. You don't get nice shirt with something that makes you look like you're good with numbers!

His grin softens into something a little more natural, brows losing that sad little uptick he usually struggles to get rid of. "Great meeting you, too." His right hand has already swung over for a customary shake. It's a big, gorilla looking thing, with a spiderweb of scarring threaded beneath the knuckle hair.

"Harry Du Bois," he adds, before nodding back at Hank's shirt appreciatively. "I should take notes."

[sociallychallenged]

He's not wrong there. "Hank Anderson," Hank introduces curtly, giving his hand a firm shake and smiling tightly. The stress from his own expression eases up because, well, at least he can still meet some new people at these damn things.

He returns to his whiskey.

"So I take it you're one of the Head's most recent fucking inductees, huh? So where are you from?"

Your average sort of introductory conversation that doesn't come with token flash cards and bland introduction by fire. Who would have thought?

[hobocop]

Harry holds off from replying just long enough to pick up his own glass, giving a quick nod of thanks to the bartender before his eyes move back to Hank. "Revachol," he says, really leaning into the odd French twist in his accent. "It's a city in La Caillou, on the Insulinde isola." A beat, as he studies Hank's expression, seemingly looking for a flash of recognition. "A world called Elysium," he adds, apparently not finding it. "Nobody I've spoken to so far has heard of it, so..."

Don't worry about it? No, it's more of a sad acknowledgement, really.

"Apparently they ran out of twenty-year old sambo experts to abduct and decided to move onto moribund detectives." He clicks his tongue, firing a single finger gun into the air.

[sociallychallenged]

"That might change." He doesn't know if Harry would want it too, though. Most people in their right mind wouldn't; even though he greatly appreciated Connor being around.

He folds his arms on the bar.

"Hey, I've been around longer than most people in our building, and I'm a detective. The fuckin' Head decided to go back to standard in our case. I'm from Detroit, on a world called 'Earth.' Save a few fuckin' planetary and state divisions between." This shit is always weird to explain.

"All that sounds Quebecer as fuck though."

[hobocop]

The revelation that the man in front of him is a detective... doesn't remotely surprise Harry, now that he thinks about it. There's something in Hank's weary, coiled energy that brings Jean Vicquemare to mind. Like Hank's this close to calling him Shitkid.

ESPIRT DE CORPS — It's more than that. This guy may as well have RCM tattooed to his forehead.

He gives a little huff of air through his nose rather than actually laughing, but the corners of his eyes have crinkled all the same.

"Glad I've got a prototype to fail to live up to." Dry. So dry in fact, that he chases that with the Pale-Aged vodka he's been putting off until now. The exquisite burn of it sliding down his throat is almost enough to melt the shame taking root in the pit of his stomach.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — It's enough, brother. Seven days in the desert, and you're finally home.

"How long is long?" he asks, voice sounding tight as he sets the glass back down. A small gesture and a tap-tap on the rim, and suddenly he's waiting for round two. "You nearing that magic year point yet?"

some kind of a/wildcard hybrid I guess?

[notalive]

The only reason Connor is here at all is that he always comes to these things and it will annoy him if he doesn't this time. It'll annoy him if he lets a little thing like being jumped in a back alley and shot through the kneecap ruin his routines.

And it turns out to be a casino, which means learning how to play blackjack, go fish, poker and mahjong all in quick succession, and quickly realising that in all of these games, it makes sense to remember which cards and tiles have already been shown, and use that when planning his next move.

In mahjong, that's called basic strategy. In poker, it's called card counting and the casino doesn't like it very much.

"So it seems like if I try to play any card games here ever again, I'm banned," he says as he approaches Hank at the bar on his crutch. "How's your evening going, Ha--" and the end of his sentence goes up in a confused sort of way, because the man sitting at the bar who faintly smells like work and spirits and is wearing the garish shirt that Connor immediately beelined for...is not Hank, and for a moment there, Connor just stares like an idiot, LED chugging away in bright yellow, head tilted to one side like the change in angle is going to help somehow.

What are the odds.

...In a manner of speaking.

[hobocop]

Harry's head swings around, drink suddenly forgotten, and he finds himself staring straight back. Check it out: Two idiots. Staring.

No really, he was about to say Harry, right? Who the fuck is this guy?

ESPIRT DE CORPS — You don't know why, but you've got a feeling like he's your half-brother.

Oh, so what, he's some other forgotten member of the 41st? Or, no, even better: some lookie-loo asshole from the 57th ready to watch Tequila Sunset drown himself like clockwork? Harry's knee starts bouncing.

PERCEPTION — No, no, no. Look there, on the side of his head. His temple is blinking.

The knee stills again. He clears his throat a couple of times like he's trying to restart an engine.

"Hey?"

[notalive]

"Uh." Connor shakes himself, a literal little twitch of the head, and recovers enough to say, "I'm sorry, I thought you were my partner."

But now that he's actually looking and not focusing on hobbling, this is very much not Hank. In the face, the hair (including facial), they're nothing alike. But sitting down, back to Connor when he's already not paying the fullest attention, there's a general air that's uncanny. And a very bright shirt.

"I'm a little distracted," he says by way of explanation, and part of it's in the crutch he already propped up against the bar to prepare to sit down. But part of it is about, "Like I said, my night isn't exactly going as I pictured it."

[hobocop]

Harry's eyes flick to the crutch, then back over to Connor himself, resulting in an oddly sluggish once over. Mr Deer-In-The-Headlights-With-His-Own-Head-Light is tall (taller than Harry, possibly), clean-cut (ridiculously so, by Revocholian standards), freckled (yeah, fuck you, too, buddy), and... evidently injured. That's about the sum-total of this particular Super-Cop's powers of deduction right now.

Harry scrubs his palm over his numb face, then gives a loose gesture to the stool Connor was probably already planning on sitting on.

"Don't worry, pal. You can't win too much at drinking," he replies helpfully. "What's your poison?"

[notalive]

The man - he's a detective, Connor's sure of it, and not just because he can now identify the smell that hangs around him as a form of cleaning solution good for cleaning up blood - looks Connor over, crutch and all. He's not sure what the assessment is, but the guy's clearly drunk or getting there, so maybe there is no assessment.

"I think I can," says Connor thoughtfully as he takes a seat. "I don't get hungover. I'll take a Baileys," as the bartender walks by.

Then he adds thoughtfully, "But I can't get drunk, so maybe I just can't win at all at drinking."

Drifter | Destiny

[be_notorious]

Double Down - OTA

Drifter's settled in at a poker table, playing his usual part. He's wearing a western-styled suit, but green and brocade, and a black cowboy hat to set it off. He's got his usual snake medallion done up like a bolo tie with a red string to it and if there's anyone that could be playing up their ham more at the moment? Well, no one would want to be in the room with both of them because their energy would create a tacky supernova. At least it's a nice cut to suit his build.

He kicks his foot lightly, the toe of his possibly-crocodile-but-maybe-some-other-reptile leather boot shining as he waits for his opponents to show their hands.

Two pair. Nice. Three of a kind. But oh, what's this? Drifter, somehow, with a full house. He smiles a smile so sharp and hard he could nibble diamond.

"Looks like I take it! Brother, it's a pleasure doin' business with you-" he reaches for the chips. The man at the other side of the table stands quickly, though. A burly guy roughly the size of safari quarry, and he knocks the chair back.

"You're cheating! You gotta be."

"Maybe you oughta learn a lesson on mindin' your face! You got tells a mile-"

The guy reaches for something in his belt, and Drifter raises his hands and god, he hopes those bouncers get here soon. This isn't the nice fun day he wanted.

"Now, easy there big fella. You might just wanna take a moment and think about what you're doin'. I would suspect they don't take too kindly to this kinda behavior in this establishment." But boy, if this isn't a swell taste of home!

The mousey creature that had been playing with them is frozen in terror, ears flat down and wiggling its nose in a rabbitlike fashion. Oh, it doesn't want to be a part of this, okay? Thanks. Please. It'd like to be done.

Cashed Out - OTA

Now that Drifter's cashed out and just ready to enjoy the rest of his evening, he's collected three plates of buffet food like the biggest heathen and makes his way to a table and situates himself.

"Alright, alright. So let's start with this question, huh?" He's already pressing a vegetarian pizza and a meat lovers pizza together to create a monstrous sandwich of everything. "Let's say some evil overlord's comin' to your world. You can't stop 'em, but you're in a position where you have to name a city for 'em attack. They intend to take every single person there and cart 'em off and use 'em for slave labor. There's no other choice but pick the city. What city do you choose and why?"

He's asked bizarre questions like this from the beginning, but they're helpful. They let him feel out someone's ambition, their logic, their morality. And he finds them better conversation than the cards recommend.

Cashed Out

[whosthemonsternow]

South isn't...fairing so great. She did catch a few breaks and had some winnings, but she also decided to see how far it'd go and is now actually down money. Whoops. So like any rational adult, she's stuffing the disappointment of losing with mountains of food.

She's about half way through what might be her third burger when the guy drops to the seat, eyeing him curiously as he asks his weird fucking question, taking a second to recall where she knows his face from. The murderbots. Right. Did he give a name? She can't remember a name, but, whatever, she'll wing it.

She at least waits until her mouth isn't stuffed before she responds, but she hasn't really given it a lot of thought, she knows her answer.

"Well, if you mean the specific planet I was raised on and not, like, earth- then one of the Insurrectionists' cities. We've already relocated anyone innocent there, families and kids and shit, anyone who asked to get out has been put up somewhere safer. Just Innies left in a few of cities around and those bastards can rot, overlord's doing us a favor." She doesn't get why they can't just wipe out those cities entirely, honestly, but maybe in time...

[be_notorious]

"So you'd take the 'throw those assholes under the bus' method. Gotcha." Matter of factly, really. Not even judgementally, because hey! It's a valid tactic. Tossing enemies to the wolves like a sacrafice. He's done it.

He chomps down a few bites. "Counter question. You find out someone just sent an overloard spaceship to pick up you and your particularly squadron or family. They're plannin' on using you as manual labor. But when you get there, it's actually pretty nice. Not just gilded cage, but you're leadin' a pretty risk free life feedin' grapes to the hottest damn king or queen you can dream up while dressed in nice clean shit. But you live there forever. You ain't free.

"How do you feel about somethin' like that?"

He listens again, scarfing down more of his food.

[whosthemonsternow]

Whether he'd judge it or not, she's going to stick by it. Those bastards kill anyone anywhere of any age or occupation. They deserve the worst the universe can give.

She likewise munches on her food, narrowing her eyes slightly with the next question. These are some weird ass fucking questions, but at least it's nothing she'd have to consider for long.

"If they actually managed to capture my squad, there'd be nothing left of them long before the grapes were fed to any royal bastard." She shrugs, to her it's a simple answer.

If alpha squad was caught by some overlord, they'd be getting out of the situation before anyone got them in a gilded cage or fancy clothes. Overconfident? Cocky? Yep, but she's not a Freelancer for nothing, and they're not top of the program for shits and gigs.

"What's with all the funky questions? Don't people usually ask favorite colors and shit?"

[be_notorious]

"Because I don't care what anyone's favorite food is. What their favorite color is. So why ask? It ain't gonna make me give any more of a shit than seein' someone else's perspective. Or seein' how much thought they're willin' to put into an answer."

He finishes off his pizza, and now it's time for the carrots and dip. Yup. He can eat vegetables sometimes!

"Escalatin' that. The someone that chose you is incapable of fightin'. It came down to them sayin', 'yeah, I knew they'd get killed, so I pointed them in your direction because I couldn't think of what else to do'. They own up to it immediately. But still, they did throw you and yours under a bus.

"How do you treat 'em when they spill their guts."

[whosthemonsternow]

She shrugs at his answer, makes sense but still not what she's expected, even if they were pretty easy to answer questions. But she does consider the answer this time over the last bite of her burger. Her immediate thought is they should pay, probably with their lives, for ever putting her squad in any danger. But she takes half a minute to look at it from every angle, but ultimately she has a bitter scowl as she finally answers.

"Cant say I care for their reasons or shit, excuses. Unless it was the only way to keep kids from being killed- they'd have to pay some way. At least a decent stint in a brig." Better than dying, but she's factoring in civilians, innocent lives, and dumb mistakes. Besides, the brig is hardly that bad of a punishment.