Shift — criminal's contact.
Everywhere you go, there's no-go zones. Barbarians used to say that G-Kings couldn't move out from under the Loop or go north or east of Promenade. Zombie led the charge across the borderline, and proved them wrong. Javez started going on dawn raid tagging missions into Barbarian turf and put up G-King markers all over enemy territory. The rest of the Gs had the choice between following him and defending the markers or staying on home turf and letting the Barbarians deface the Gresty colours.
The Barbarians are gone now - Zombie and some of the others pretty much saw to that - and there's expensive art books full of photographs of some of the tags Javez put up all along Promenade. You don't see Zombie and Javez around Gresty so much these days, but someone still got to be there to push out into the no-go zones and fly the G-King colours in the places where they're not supposed to be seen. In the absence of anyone else, Shift's decided that the task now falls to her.
SPPD said the Gs can have the New Cross Skatepark but from now on they have to confine their shit to the designated areas. Shift said fuck you, and held a flashmob party in the then recently-vacated SPPD sub-precinct house in South Havalynd, handing out spray cans to everyone as they came in the doors, reclaiming the place and turning cop shop into a graffiti art gallery.
The Mayor's Office declares a big 'war on graffiti' initiative, telling everyone it's time to make San Paro beautiful again. Shift and some of her crew sneak into the Kunst Museum the night before the campaign launch, and make some design changes to the poster image that's going to be unveiled to the San Paro press corps the next morning. Images from the press conference, featuring Mayor Derren standing in front of an artfully-rendered giant spraypaint image of herself performing a graphic sex act on a well-known cartoon character, are still doing the rounds on the internet.
Corporate hire-cops lay down the new rules, telling the Gs that, from now on, Silver Street, Shianxi and Empire Boulevards, along with the whole of the Needles, are now completely out of bounds. Only way anyone from Gresty is going in there is if they've got a job as streetcleaners or janitor staff. Shift hits back, tagging a bunch of Praetorian prowl cars with heat-sensitive paint that only becomes visible as it dries out in the heat of the day. Praetorian units spend all day on patrol, wondering why pedestrians are all laughing at them. It's only when they get back to the depot that they see what's written across their vehicles' fronts and rears. At the same time, someone cyber-bombs the Praetorians' website, and, for most of the day, visitors are redirected to a mirror site showing an artfully-rendered animation of Justin Teng performing a graphic sex act on a well-known cartoon character.
Mayor Derren and Justin Teng aren't amused. So far, though, neither of them have been able to alter SPPD and Praetorian shoot-to-kill policies to include crimes of public humiliation. Shift stays on the move, travelling light, keeping to the shadows. Everyone knows the name - she always signs all his work - but not so many people know the face. Not many people even know Shift is a chick, and even fewer know what she looks like, or realise just how young she really is.
She thinks she's the first of a new breed. Guerrilla graffiti. Art terrorism. Cyber-strikes. Anarchist tactics. Bullets and guns aren't the only weapons you can use to fight a war.
|Like Lightning||You wanna do something cool? Blitzkrieg 2 Enforcers for me. 2 kills in five seconds. Get in there and hit them like a bolt of lightning!||Earn 1 Blitzkrieg medals.||10 JT|
|ORDERS FROM ON HIGH||4||TerritoryControl|
|SPRAY ME UP, BUTTERCUP||4||Bombing|
|THE ARTISTRY OF THE SPRAYCAN||3||Graffiti|
|CASH FOR CLUNKERS||4||TerritoryControl|
|NO UNACCOMPANIED G-KINGS||3||Graffiti|
|THE MAN KNOWS HIS JEWELRY||5||TerritoryControl|
|ONE NIGHT IN SOFIA||5||MovingTarget|
|EVERYBODY COMES TO RICK'S||4||TerritoryControl|
|IT'S A STEAL!||5||Deathmatch|
|DELIVER THE LIVER||5||MovingTarget|
|BURN TO EARN||4||TakeOverDeathmatch|
|AN EXPLOSIVE TRIAL||6||Deathmatch|
|IN, OUT, SPRAY IT ALL ABOUT||4||TakeOverDeathmatch|
|CLEANING UP CONTROVERSY||5||MovingTarget|
|POP3 A CAP||5||TakeOverDeathmatch|
|BADGE OF DISHONOR||5||TerritoryControl|
|ROUTERS AND SHOOTERS||4||MovingTarget|
|THERE'S NO EYE IN TEAM||5||Delivery|
|TAGGED AND BAGGED||3||TerritoryControl|
At the end of the completed mission, the contact can give you one of the following rewards:
|Resupply Box (Large)||2|
As the level of relations with the contact grows, you will receive emails from him describing the game lore.
"We can have democracy, or we can have great wealth concentrated in the hands of a few, but we can't have both." - Ambrose Bierce
CSA's got the media sewn up. Rich guys who run it all say they're impartial, but who you think they're going to support - us, or the other rich guys we're fighting?
We got our own thing - Radio Free G. All truth, all Gresty, all day 24/7.
Praetorian e-warfare jams us out, I'm taking it to lie-Net. They close us down there, I'm climbing up top the Seindorf Tower with a loudhailer until they have to send the SWAT choppers to bring me down.
Can't stop us, not when truth begins with a G.
"A police state is a state run by criminals." - anon
You look like you got the idea. Turn things around, turn them upside down. Mess with their heads.
CSA mind-control drones everywhere, wanting to turn everything into their world. We flip that round on them - get inside their system, mess with it. Turn it into our system, use it against them.
Mind-control drones can't handle that. Makes their programming break down. System error. System crash.
Need to make things crazy before anyone's going to be able to be sane again.
"If I can't dance, it's not my revolution." - Emma Goldman
Different ways of messing with the mind-control drones. Me, I got my own style. Remember when we changed the Praetorians' website entry page to that animation of 4 Wheeled Doggi pitching it to Justin Teng?
Or that time when we snuck into the 'Torian vehicle yard and wrote stuff all over their prowl cars in heat-sensitive paint? By midday they were riding around getting mad as hell, cause everyone was laughing at them and they didn't know why.
Bullets and guns aren't the only weapons you can use to fight a war.
"What you call crime, I merely call necessary social evolution." - Terence Piper
Everywhere you go, always someone saying you can't. Barbarians used to tell us the NCS was no-go for Gs.
Corporate hire cops say Silver, Shianxi, Empire and the Needles is no-go to anyone from Gresty. Yeah? Soon see about that.
Got Red Rain in Midtown and Blood Rose Waterfront freaks telling us to stay off their turf. Soon show them how that works.
Got politicians talking about G-Town being a "no-go area". Tell that to the people who've got no choice but to live there already.
Change is coming, though. Believe it.
"The damage runs too deep. To save San Paro, its most corrupt institutions - police, government, traditional criminal and business oligarchies - must be seen as our enemies." - Luke Waskawi
Saw one of them job application forms recently. Asked me where I see myself being in five years time.
Not working in Tastyburger or working a tollbooth on the Trasket turnpike like the application wanted me to. That's for sure.
Five years time, we're going to be everywhere. Gs are taking over. 4real.
Got ideas behind us. Got G-truth behind us. Got money behind us - our own rich guy who fell out with the other rich guys over rich guy stuff.
I've seen the future, and it's brought to you by the letter G.
Bishada is a Japanese sports car manufacturer based in Osaka. Founded by Shoji Bishada in 1932 the company began by manufacturing track racing cars for Japan's first national racing team. Determined to revolutionise the sport of motor racing, Shoji re-engineered his cars on an almost daily basis and soon made great advances. Within three years his innovative engine designs, along with an elegant design aesthetic derived from his aerodynamics research, had created what many later saw as the future of Formula One. Bishada's exceptional drivers and revolutionary automobiles went on to win most of the major racing championships for years to come. In 1948, Bishada started creating street legal vehicles - fast, beautiful cars with a reputation for excellence. Their magnificent styling paired with exceptional engineering soon created the ultimate status symbol for the rich and wealthy - a must-have car to both own and drive. Bishada is now one of the top 10 most valuable brands worldwide, with a merchandise line that includes exclusive clothing, perfume, eye-wear, cell phones, and even firearms. The company has offices in most major countries. In San Paro, Bishada maintains a national headquarters and show-rooms in Havalynd, along with import offices and a car freight yard on Waterfront.
Midtown is where it all gets messy. A slop-tray of immigrant cultures mixing and swirling in the crowded streets. This is where rich and poor collide, an access point for the upwardly mobile, and a rainbow diversion for the street bourgeoisie. The money here is wild; it plays dirty and it plays 'til dawn.
On the surface the whole district is a chaos of factions and fire fights, but underpinning this is a feudal map of courts and courtiers which can surprise with its sophistication. Diplomacy is the last thing you'd expect to find in these violent streets, but it's here, born from a patchwork history of co-habitation and co-dependence between different communities united in nothing else but the need to survive.
Up until the mid-nineteenth century, San Paro was still relatively compact, a colourful trading hub with a strong maritime tradition. It was only with the arrival of the machine age that the city started to distend and mutate and take on a darker shade. Factories rose on the banks of the Makoda, breathing in the rural populations from the agricultural heartlands, and exhaling gouts of foul smoke and ash. San Paro increased in size, fed by a burgeoning rail network and a constant supply of steamers and schooners bringing folks of all points and persuasions. The population spilled out across the plain. The new people had no money; they brought their strength and their hope, crammed into the cheap housing spreading like a stain south of the city centre.
By the early twentieth century, Midtown was soaking up some of the new middle-class overspill, families who could afford to live comparatively well, but for whom the Concession was a stretch too far. It was then that the old brownstones were built, the smart terrace apartments north of Derrick. The new money had a civilizing effect; there were restaurants and delicatessens, a cinema and the grandiose Vincenzi Opera House. The northern quarter is still a decent place to live, but it's duller now; the shine has worn off. Some of the community businesses remain, but many have folded or moved away, tired of paying protection, or victim to a death by slow bleeding.
South of Derrick, the atmosphere changes. There are conspicuous glints of gun-metal. No-one's smiling. The blocks south past Westin and Green are traditional gang turf. This is where the Rain started out all those years previous, hustling in the filthy backstreets, where the poor folks are crowded into battery blocks, piled on top of each other 'til they're ready to kill just for the quiet of it.
At the heart of the district lies the electronics enclave of Denkiba. By day it looks like any other ramshackle pitch of huckster alleys and emporia. Traders cast their nets, cheap parts spill out onto the street. Come sundown the place lights up like a fairground ride. Where there were rusted old shutters, there are suddenly arcades, and the streets emerge from afternoon grey in a kaleidoscope of bleeping colours.
Running south-east from there is what many consider Midtown proper. Green Street is a melting pot of hipsters, scumbags, anarchists, a weft to the warp of the law-abiding masses. Ostensibly controlled by Red Rain, but there's too much human flotsam running through here for them to police, so they content themselves with skimming the trade. A man can get anything he wants on these streets, if he knows the right people.
Continue east and you hit Bankside, site of the old hospital, but more famous for its shopping and for San Paro's largest concentration of nightclubs. Satori Strip is just another place to get shot, a grey stretch of cheap retail, fraying at the edges. But like Denkiba, it comes to life as the light drains from the evening sky. Its edges are scratched out in neon; the peacocks strut and the street hums with the sprung tension of a thousand cocked and loaded firearms.
There's still money in Midtown. The blocks overlooking Rotunda still carry some of the boho chic they did when the rich university kids were getting political back in '68. Outposts of suburban comfort lurk unexpectedly, away from the main drag, such as the Birches out by the campus or Letsby Court in Pocket. But even on the good streets, where the weapons are mostly concealed, there are protocols, and if you want to live, you'll learn to respect them.