In-Depth Look: Apocalyptics
BAD CARDS
“Shit, look at the way she moves her ass.”
Dushkov’s eyes followed the dancer’s every step. Her dress seemed to consist only of buckles and belts. He slid deeper into his armchair.
“For ten Drafts, you get the whole thing. For friends of the Flock.” The Apocalyptic with the matted hair patted Dushkov’s shoulder and disappeared towards the bar through the brothel’s haze. Dushkov grinned.
The dancer had noticed him. She winked at him. He winked back. His grin broadened. Slowly, as if by chance, she came over and let him have a good look at her body. He breathed harder, adjusted his heavy leather skirt and smoothed down his coarse linen shirt. He was not the cleanest person. After weeks in the dust, there was dirt in his every pore: yesterday’s visit to the baths had not helped. Suddenly, the dancer was very close.
“You...” She leaned over and fumbled with his shirt buckles. He was breathless, sweating. Wow, they went fast in here. She gave him a short, shy look and straddled his lap. He could smell her perfume, her sweat, her hair smelled as enticing as a Pheromancer’s gland ichor.
“Why did you say ‘zigzag’ at the door?” Her mouth was close to his ear.
“Because...” An odd tingly sensation mixed with his arousal.
“Stay calm, darling,” she whispered and ran her long, manicured fingers through his greasy hair.
“It’s the password. For friends of the Flock, I got it from old Deisha.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Her pelvis pressed against his groin. Her voice sounded harder now, but that had to be her arousal. Dushkov found her simply divine.
“What did you mean?”
“Mhm...” She pressed close to him, touched his ear with her lips. He felt her warm breath. She nibbled his earlobe – and bit down.
Hard.
She jerked back her head without opening her mouth. Dushkov yelled, wanted to push her back, but her legs were wrapped around him like a vice. He grabbed his ear, felt the blood flowing, hit her. She leaned even closer, embracing him – she was strong! Then she let go, jumped up and spit something cloggy into his face. He winced, frantically tried to hit the slick thing, and fell backwards. He rolled to the side and got up again. His ear throbbed, blood ran down his collar and colored his shirt red. Wide eyed he looked around the room, pleading for help, saw only the faces of strangers. They all had blank expressions, stared at him from the inn’s gloom. With shaky fingers, he groped at his ear.
“Why?” he whimpered.
“Answer my questions, Dushkov.” Her mouth was like an open wound. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of her lips over her chin and down to her breasts.
“I got the password as a reward, damn you! From old Deisha!” His voice cracked.
She looked around, nodded to the onlookers with a grim smile.
“He doesn’t know.” There was scorn in her voice. The other Apocalyptics came closer. One of them laughed.
“This password,” she took a deep breath and stepped closer, “is no password at all.” She sounded amused now. “If you’d only stayed quiet, Siska at the entrance would have led you one door further. Right now, they’re partying heavy, right over there.” With a grin, she pointed to the wall behind her with her thumb.
“Zigzag is a stigma. We give it to traitors.” She looked around expectantly. “Now, let’s show this darling what ‘zigzag’ really means.”
MYSTICISM AND VIOLENCE
Apocalyptics are pure, unbridled life. Their urges open up a land of lust and satisfaction waiting to be explored and exploited. Yesterday and tomorrow are endlessly far away – foreign lands that only stinking old men rave about. What makes an Apocalyptic’s soul shiver is the caress of a perfumed woman or a strong man, cries of passion and of pain, cold power. Bookish knowledge makes them, and one very important part of the body, shrink back.
The Cult’s roots, though, seem forgotten. What good were they for the Apocalyptics anyway? Should they have learned from them?
Chroniclers are known for dealing with fun and sexuality like Spitalians do with Psychonauts. Beyond normal life, this gives them a lot of time to sniff around in other people’s affairs. The Cluster has evaluated hundreds of thousands of Stream extracts related to the Apocalyptics over the centuries and added findings of Streamers and Mediators to them. What’s interesting is that they found an inherent structure in this trove of data. Information clustered around blank spots, joining to form a giant puzzle that had to be expanded several times and finally was transferred into an n-dimensional data space. Click! Every day, new data comes in, sticking to the structures or strengthening existing links. The silhouettes of the black spots are higher in contrast than ever before, mocking the Chroniclers and keeping them going until, yes, until … Yes!
In the beginning, there was Gerome Getrell.
He was a billionaire, visionary, brilliant orator, and televangelist. He preached the power of the archetypes and of the Tarot, free love and sadism, nationalism and anarchy, democracy and dictatorship, a life on the fast lane, subversion. His Streamcasts made the data paths glow, illuminating the deepest recesses of the Bygone soul. One feed alone generated thousands of interpretations, most of which were founded on Getrell’s paradoxes. Everyone felt he was onto something, a feeling of insight. Getrell’s wisdom promised freedom in an overregulated world to those who were able to decipher the feeds and see the truth between the contradictions.
Passion over mind was the simplest interpretation.
Their proponents set forth to shock. They formed gangs that at first were only known for ecstatic parties and orgies, drug abuse, mass brawls, and storming public buildings – a nuisance, but not a danger that couldn’t be handled with truncheons and shockers.
But the gangs grew, and so did their confidence and ruthlessness. With a fleet of captured drones, they cut a bloody swath through the ranks of established cartels to finally take over the drug market. They discovered prototype mobile factories and produced guns and metal blades for the masses in them. They avoided the security forces, but they didn’t hide. They were free as a bird, and when one of them was shot down, the Flock didn’t care. Wherever they appeared, they sprayed a stylized raven on the wall, the sign of Getrell’s Apocalyptics.
Getrell never took a stance on this. He never referred to current events. He was above the fray.
The tree of chaos he had planted continued to produce colorful blossoms, some of them poisonous, some of them wholesome. For there were peaceful offshoots as well: spiritual people who turned their backs on the established religions in disappointment and found inner strength in Getrell’s mystical Tarot.
He disappeared a few months before the Eshaton. His Stream feeds kept hammering into his disciples’ skulls, but there were no updates. He didn’t tell them what the future held. Journalists looking for him got lost in the thicket of his corporations. He had to be somewhere in there.
Here, the Chroniclers lose his track.
His followers stepped up, dominating the Stream almost until it collapsed. At that time, the Apocalyptics were an outlet for many people. Really live just one last time, feel every nuance of your own suffering and joy…
FALSE PROPHET
Streamfeed-Subject: Manipulation
From: Ammit@hiddenhost
To: *
Gerome Getrell did not address you, your wife, your kids, or your neighbors. He talked to the masses. He experimented on them. Pitch, choice of words, ideas. Do they change the recipients’ use of the Stream? Do the stock prices rise or fall after a Streamcast? He has everything covered, counts on the magic of the large numbers. He doesn’t care for the people on the street. They’ll be drifting through the urban canyons as ashes soon, anyway.
There’s only one reason to his feeds: he wants to statistically double check his theories on manipulation and on implanting ideas. Memetics. He’s up to something. You help him. Block his feeds. Boycott the Recombination Group.
YEARS BACK
The beast called Eshaton brought disaster to humanity. No one was prepared for it, not even the Apocalyptics. But their practiced fatalism helped them to see the shimmer of the present in the dark years. They quickly conquered the black markets, placing intermediaries with the UEO soldiers monitoring the reconstruction. Through them, the Apocalyptics got their hands on food, weapons, and filtration systems and stashed them in the ruins. Those who got in the way were bribed, blackmailed, or killed. Drugs, sex, and weapons: the Apocalyptics catered to every market.
With sticks, stones, and automatic weapons, they herded Europe into the era of the beast. When the wave of violence hit them they were surprised, but quickly recovered. Centuries later, the undertow subsided and left humanity washed up on the shores of a new Stone Age. Other groups had started sorting out the chaos and gaining influence. In Borca the First Judge strode through their ranks and carnage ensued, in the Balkhan the Voivodes joined the game for power. The Hellvetics sealed the passes and the ancient smuggler routes.
The Apocalyptics had to close ranks.
Now that they felt besieged on all sides, they remembered Getrell’s Tarot. A card sequence on a table could smooth down differences or give a hint to death. More and more, the archetypal symbols decided the Apocalyptics’ fate, which fostered fortune tellers and mystics amidst the Cult. The Tarot made the Apocalyptics thrive. Even those who laughed about the mystical forces of tuners or martyrs had to admit that the Cult had become unforeseeable.
LIFE, WHATEVER THE COST
Getrell’s ideology fell on fertile ground. Even more than 500 years after the Eshaton, his motto “Live as if there’s no tomorrow” is practiced daily by the Apocalyptics.
To the Apocalyptics, every emotion is as precious as a sea of diamonds. Whether it’s love, hate, violence, fever, Burn intoxication, or the wind in your hair, everything is taken in greedily and celebrated to the extreme. The will to go to physical extremes, to completely exhaust the body, makes the Apocalyptics reckless, fearless people.
Can they survive the winter if they focus on the Burn trade? How will the Swords of Jehammed react to the abduction of a Hagari? Always the same principle, an action and its consequences, and always the same answer: I don’t give a fuck! Apocalyptics live in the present: they only look to the future via their Tarot – and it doesn’t tell them if they’ll be dead on the eve of tomorrow.
FLOCK OF BIRDS
Apocalyptics are migrants. They appear in large Flocks, pick their fill, and fly away again to restart somewhere else. They name their Flocks according to their provenance or way of life. Whether they call themselves Dust Riders, East Wind, Splinter Hawks, or Carrion Birds, the Apocalyptics carry their Flock’s name as proudly in their hearts as if they had been born with it.
Individually, they earn the name of a bird reflecting their nature. A cunning knife fighter becomes a Battle Crow, a whore and thief a Magpie, an innkeeper a Woodpecker. Those who flinch from every blow get their daily dose of humiliation as Finches, while those who guide the Flock through hardship as a wise fortune teller may walk the paths of his world as a Raven.
RAVEN GAME
While the Battle Crows sometimes embrace violence like a dear friend, Magpies satisfy both their and their customers’ desires, and Woodpeckers give the Cult a home, the Apocalyptics’ Ravens rise above the everyday hubbub into a realm of knowledge and manipulation. With a clever eye, they watch the sequence of cards on the table, judging their Flock’s nature and what has happened in the last few days and months in order to counsel the people around them, who listen to them full of awe. Usually, they answer a specific question: when is the best time to carry the Burn across the Alps? Which pass do I use? Who shall be the Flock’s champion in the pits? What do we do about the information on the pedophilic Judge? The fortune teller’s word carries weight.
He’s a strategist, a manipulator, and a punishing father figure all wrapped into one. He leads his Flock through future’s night and keeps its members from getting lost in the dark.
THICKER THAN BLOOD
Blood relations always lead to dynastic pageantry. The strong ones don’t lead, but the old ones. Fresh blood curdles at the fringes, hoping for recognition. The Apocalyptics are different. They buy or sell children, have them fight the dogs for their food. Everyone gets a chance to prove himself and rise every day. Brawls and knife fights spoil the daily routine, and there is only one rule: fighting fairly means not taking your opponent seriously.
If a Flock leader shows weakness, he may be attacked. Usually a duel in the dust in front of the tents ensues, consisting of lightning-quick blows and kicks. The Flock roots for the combatants, cheering as they form a circle around them. It’s a great spectacle that has only one winner. The loser will leave the Flock to lick his wounds in the wasteland. His days are numbered.
The pecking order is subject to continuous change. Usually a broken nose or rib is enough to knock a pretender down a peg. A knife in the throat is not a welcome sight but instead proof that the attacker has lost control and all respect. Get rid of him!
For Apocalyptics, physical fights are a way to strengthen the Flock and end useless debates.
Hotheaded like puppies they have been fighting from an early age: now they have learned to love the law of the jungle. For an Apocalyptic, loyalty towards the Flock grows from respect, dependency, violence, and submission. To betray it breaks his wings.
TAROT
The Apocalyptics’ Tarot is an ever-changing game, its cards continually adapting to specific mundane and spiritual conditions. The cards of the battered UEO troops and governments disappeared centuries ago, to be replaced by the 13 Cults, the Primer, the Stream, the Psychonauts, and their plagues. After the attack of the Clans, the Corpse Eaters found their way into the deck as a dark omen and the Exalters as usurpers. Some Ravens use the original Getrell Tarot. Here, the Creator is the top card, flanked by the Adventurer and the Mentor. Others drift through the ether and extract new symbols from these experiences, which they add to their deck. Every Tarot is as unique as its owner.
NESTING
Even migrants need nests to recover from their journeys and raise their young. That’s the Woodpeckers’ job. They open up brothels, meeting points for smugglers and secret lairs where Burn cusps will soon amass. They bribe Judges and court Scrappers and Clanners.
Most nests are established on forbidden ground, in the heart of settlements or in forgotten tunnel sections – smack in the middle of life. They are starting points for raids, as well as retreats and attractions. Here, the Flock’s Raven will read the future from the cards and gather his Battle Crows. A nest can be a bane for its surroundings, but also offer great opportunities. Gambling, the selling of distillate, and baths with ‘extended’ services promote physical and spiritual hygiene. When Judges raid such a nest, they risk a Scrapper rebellion.
BEAUTY OVER AGE
The Apocalyptics are a Cult of youth and life. When the bones ache, the skin gets wrinkled, and the eyes water in the harsh wind, an Apocalyptic’s time has come. A withered leaf has no place in a clearing full of gaudy flowers. But there is no acceptance for this. The old ones cling to life, gritting their rotten teeth and using powders and perfumes to hide the stench of decay. However, every gaze upon their rotting face by their younger siblings screams: GO! GO AWAY ALREADY! Yet the old ones don’t see that others avoid them at the campfires, they laugh with the others when they kick away their crutches and act jovial.
No one needs parents. All an Apocalyptic needs is siblings to whirl out into the world or live out his need for intoxication with. The old ones only sit at home or hinder the Flock’s ventures. Oh, and all their wise-ass talk. The young ones lose their patience: they hate the ugly faces. They tell them one last time that they are unwanted. If the old ones don’t leave on their own accord, they are pushed from the nest. The fall is deep and deadly.
Those who stay anyway and can win through this negative attitude must be cunning and dangerous. Such elders have made use of their years and now are lords over life and death, they are quick with the blade and are subtle schemers. To deny them respect is foolish.
Usually, they act from behind the scenes and control an impressive syndicate. They trust nothing and no one – especially not their siblings. They would rather be accompanied by Hellvetics than by Battle Crows.
CARRION BIRDS
Right after the Judges had founded the Protectorate, they came fluttering: the Carrion Birds. Some say they’d always been around. No one dares to doubt this. The Carrion Birds have their fingers deep in Justitian’s economy. They own the hottest bordellos, their champions are amongst the best pit fighters. Their Storks buy the children of poor Scrappers or farmers at dawn, teach them to pick pockets and to perform evasive maneuvers. Smuggling, slavery, assassinations – the Carrion Birds are in. They have always been led by a Raven, or more accurately: the Mother of Ravens. Since the era of the beast, a person of that name was the talk of the town. With her claws, she tore enemies’ throats out, full of anger. She was there when Exalt fell, took part in the City Wars and in Cultrin’s march. Generations of lovers became caught in her web and died after making love to her. She birthed whole tribes in the East: Ravens in the Balkhan, in Pollen, and in Borca have her blood in their veins. The incapable ones amongst her children she killed in their sleep, cooking and eating them so they returned to her womb – food for the next spawn already making her belly swell. But that was centuries ago. The Mother of Ravens nesting amidst her Flock like a haggard demon nowadays simply has to be someone else. Yet the legends claim otherwise.
FOUL BUSINESS
Whether it’s human trafficking with girls from the Balkhan, Burn smuggling past the Spitalians to Borca, pit fights in Purgare, prostitution and gambling in every major settlement, or blackmail, theft, and pick pocketing, the migrants cannot resist. Hard work is for those dumb Anabaptists who sacrifice today for tomorrow.
The Apocalyptics’ reputation in the towns is thus divided. For Scrappers, the temples of lust and the inns are the only places to call home during their stay in the civilization. For a fair price, the migrants soften up a hard life with distillate, Burn, and love for sale.
Jehammedans usually are somewhat stricter. The migrants seduce people and thus drive a thorn into the Cult’s side that festers and leads to gangrene. Many a family was cast out and had its Icons smashed because their venerable Abramis or Saraelis succumbed to a Magpie’s charms.
The Anabaptists can deal with passion and excess as long as they come from a pure soul, but the Apocalyptics carry decay in their lungs and Burn buds in their pockets. Wherever they go, white flakes soon well up, sinking into stone and earth and calling out to the Demiurge’s spawn. That cannot be tolerated.
The East Wind Flock got to feel the anger of the Cults. The Flock was deeply immersed in the Burn business: no bud reached the markets in the Protectorate that had not gone through their hands. Finally, the Spitalians sussed out the East Wind.
Led by Dr. Heilkamp and the Office of Hygienics, they compiled dossiers on all Flock members. Heilkamp always knew where the Ravens were and what was stored in their warehouses. Then, the Great Cleanse followed. In a concerted action of Judges, Anabaptists, and Spitalians, all Flock members were herded together and killed.
The other Flocks got the message. Or did they?
Sacks of cusps still reach the Protectorate cities, where they are sold to chosen customers at staggering prices. Only now, no one openly claims to be behind this.
FLOTSAM
Justitian’s old harbor. The colossus’ bulk is wedged deeply in the petrified silt. The Carrion Birds took over the ship decades ago, turned it into a casino and bordello, called it the “Flotsam,” and promptly lost it to the Dust Riders Flock, a humiliation that the Mother of Ravens has not yet forgotten. Bridges upon which punters, gamblers, or the simply curious mill about at sundown span the gap of more than 20 feet between quay wall and upper deck. The chains of lights come alive with a flicker and make the superstructure blink colorfully. Apocalyptics open up the gates, and the people enter the ship’s belly.
Pulsing bass frequencies blast from speakers, merging with violin and synth notes to a song of love and passion, possession and release, from a time when the Bygones were still at their heyday. Magpies sneak, hookahs smolder, the crowd dances, sweats and stomps. African seeds are chewed. At gambling tables, gamblers lean over Kalaha or slap cards onto the tabletops, others wager sheaves of Chronicler Drafts on the wheel of fortune. Those who dare agree to an exhibition bout against a Battle Crow – 20 Drafts in cash if they can just stay on their feet for three rounds. The crowd cheers, bets against the upstart, and usually wins.
In the Flotsam, life is gaudy, loud, and unruly. For many, it’s a haven to forget the daily grind. The Judges exercise restraint. People who know how to blow off their steam do not rebel.
A PLAGUE OF SEAGULLS
The Seagulls and Albatrosses are the Battle Crows’ equivalent on the Mediterranean. For decades, the Neolibyans have been fighting pirates who come rushing in nimble torpedo boats, board the African transport ships, get everything valuable off board, and disappear again within 30 minutes. Other pirates are less interested in the cargo: they block the ships with wire or attach explosives to the hull. Here’s one in the eye for attacking a pirates’ nest, with kindest regards. Others throw garments infected with the pox or the plague at the crew – and then sell them the remedy. Or at least something that looks like a remedy.
Among those pirates are some who have changed sides: Africans who wanted to get away from the Neolibyans’ and Scourgers’ paternalism. In the Flocks, they have the same rights as everyone else, they repay every humiliation with fist and cutlass. They are said to attack their enemies like hungry hyenas when boarding a ship, tearing them apart mercilessly. Of course, the African Apocalyptics know what would happen if they ever were caught by Scourgers: they would skin the traitors or nail them to the ship’s side. That’s motivation. After a capturing mission, the sea birds return to Europe’s Mediterranean coast. They enter estuaries, pass underwater chain barriers, and navigate to their hideouts where they unload and celebrate their success. Supposedly, some Albatrosses have dared to do the impossible: in the bellies of cannibalized boats, they built small ports and dry-docks on Bedain’s coast – right under the Neolibyans’ noses!
The steel island of Corpse is another legend. Close to the Reaper’s Blow, it remains hidden behind yellow-brown billows for weeks. Only when the wind turns does its iron wall gleam in the sunlight. For centuries, pirates have been capturing ships and sailing them to Corpse. Today, a wall of hulls lashed and partially welded together forms a barrier around the island that no Scourger squad can penetrate. If you’re looking for a ship of extraordinary quality, you should get on board. But the boat blocking the opening in the rusty wall doesn’t move for just any Albatross.
Those who want to enter need to have made a name for themselves – and be armed well enough to step into the known world’s most depraved location.
LION'S BLOOD
In Tripol, there is a market for gambling, prostitution, and services beyond the Bank of Commerce’s tenders. Here, too, the Apocalyptics have seized it, but unlike their European brethren, they are part of the society.
They are led by the venerable Buzzards who stand out due to their cleverness and sharp wits, not their quick blade and brutality. Only in the lower echelons are conflicts resolved by combat. As soon as an African Apocalyptic has earned his Flock’s respect, no one will raise a hand against him anymore.
In their establishments, many still indulge in carnal desires, play Kahala, and squander their Dinars. However, these are not dark holes. The bordellos resemble palaces, and in the casinos, every guest is surrounded by children bringing him drinks and regaling him with little artistic acts and laughter.
THUNDER ACROSS THE PLAINS
Apocalyptics are mobile. They avoid Spitalian patrols and look for unguarded Alpine passes. They are always moving, lurking, deceiving, taking advantage of any opportunity.
Some Flocks bring the principle of mobility to a boil: with the help of the Scrappers, they repair looted Koms or motorcycles and roar through the wasteland on them. Fuel is expensive, and the roaring engines call forth from their holes all of the surrounding area’s scum. The Hellvetics at the crossings have time to raise barriers from the ground, Spitalians can load incendiary dust into their Fungicide Rifles, Judges can form a squad column.
Now, the only things that count are raw speed, penetration, and the element of surprise.
When a Flock starts relying on vehicles, everything changes. It becomes more aggressive. Cunning is still the measure of all things, but the Flock devolves to raw violence all too quickly: fast vehicles just encourage their drivers to seek fast solutions. Additionally, the motorization is considered a power factor, and great influence challenges strong enemies. The Hellvetics wouldn’t tolerate an Apocalyptic motorcycle gang in their mainland.
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