Hjorthorn

/ STONE / and / GOLD / EP 1 - MEETING WITH MASAHIRO IC events may be dramatized to provide a better narrative flow. PRESENT DAY Margaret Otomo perches on the office chair, the white room around her littered with unopened boxes, an overturned desk, a gold-hued safe. Her own executive office remained in a state of disarray - writer's block made physical. The whole building had been finished, each square foot impeccably supervised and dressed up by Otomo... except for her own office. The solution to its layout eluded her, and despite having spent hours sweating and barefoot, pushing the desk around the room, she'd been unable to find the same clarity with which she'd drafted the blueprints for the rest of Criminalli. "Maybe I should try feng shui," she muses quietly, pulling her high-heel on before standing. Today was a somewhat significant occasion for her; one she'd spent the past weekend preparing for. As she strolls past the cubicles lined up beyond her office, her gaze floats across Rockford aglow in the night from these third floor windows. It'd be more comfortable to have Hachimitsu here with her - she had lived much of her life overseas, after all, and could navigate the delicacies of a culture Otomo only vaguely understood. Despite having done her best to instill her with the culture of their homeland, Otomo's mother had done too little too late. The then-teenaged girl was thoroughly soaked in the values of American society, and cared more for her trips to the mall than tea ceremonies. But her co-owner is not here, and it was Otomo's own choice not to heed her mother's efforts. She'd have to navigate these strange waters alone. She reaches up, pressing the downwards arrow next to the elevator, and just as soon as it lights up the doors chime and slide open. 2004 She doesn't mind too much that Keiko insists they only speak Japanese in the house - her perceived fluency in it put stars in the eyes of the vapid clique that she'd mingled into. It made her interesting, distinct, and ethnic in a palatable way. Just different enough to be shown off to the rest of the school like a new purse, but not so much as to leave a bad taste in their chattering mouths. But Otomo still found it annoying from time to time, for she had a child's grasp of the language. Keiko couldn't help but laugh sometimes at her daughter's awkward phrasing and American accent, and to a fifteen year old going through the throes of puberty there was scant more infuriating than being laughed at by an adult, and especially a parent. But she still did her best to learn and speak it - even her father had encouraged this, citing all kinds of trade exchanges she couldn't yet fathom, and claimed that it'd be invaluable if she wanted to succeed in the world of finance. To this day, Margaret Otomo still hates that he was absolutely right about that. For all his faults, her father was still a shrewd businessman. Pin-pon! The elevator doors glide open before her, and she steps back out into the shop floor. She struts proudly as she wears her newly-tailored suit; it's a custom one from Ushero, she was ready to tell anyone who'd listen, and it was truly a sight to behold. Even Otomo could admit that it was borderline garish, but the gloss of those golden threads against the black of its cotton base certainly caught the eye. From head to toe it had been threaded with a floral pattern, and here and there the animated shapes of Chinese dragons surged between flowers and petals. But only Paige, a local from the Strip that'd tagged along here today, noticed - and her notice was a mere glance at Otomo before returning to the conversation she was having. Otomo didn't let it phase her. She wove through the sparse crowd towards today's guest of honor, who was engrossed in a conversation with the woman's best friend. "Oh, no no no, I'm not on the senate," said Erika, offering a split-second smile flashed towards Otomo as she joined them. "I'm not elected - I just work for one of the parties." Erika Tokugawa was the first friend Otomo had made in Los Santos - the two of them had met at a party and bonded over making fun of everyone else there together. It'd been years since then, and they'd both moved up in the world. Despite her newfound status in the state government, Erika still dressed like she was in high school. To Otomo's chagrin, she was wearing a cheap frilly blouse that showed off her belly and cleavage, and her skinny jeans were a clashing pale denim cut at regular intervals with rips in the fabric that'd have been trendy fifteen years ago. "They just make the joke because I'm usually up to my neck in fixing things on their behalf." She was talking to Masahiro Kobayashi, some sort of patriarch from Tokyo Strip that'd been eager to meet with Otomo. He'd arrived a short while ago while the business was open, accompanied by an entourage of local acquaintances who now mingled about the shop. Erika's presence was unplanned - she'd come by knowing her friend's shop was open, but not the meeting that'd been planned for after. She was a rogue variable that knew much about Otomo and in that way threatened the businesswoman's control over how Masahiro would perceive her. "Why not, mm? Why not climb higher?" asks Masahiro, quirking a finger towards Erika as his other hand scratches his stubble. Otomo stands with her gloved hands folded together, listening to the two speak. "A pretty young woman like yourself, an ethnic background... you'd make a killing." Margaret Otomo sees her chance to enter the conversation, chiming in, "I keep telling her precisely that - she ought to push for a senate seat." "Well, if I'm honest?" Erika replies to both of them. "I don't really enjoy my job. But as the saying goes, 'if you do not choose to rule, you are choosing to be ruled by others'." Nobody enjoys their job, thinks Otomo. I certainly don't enjoy mine. But it's fulfilling, and the rewards are tremendous. She hoped Erika could see the benefit that such a position could bring not only herself, but those close to her. "I have enough influence to feel accomplished. I may even be in the best spot I can be to mingle around, make a bit of change. It's not the title that motivates me, it's what I can do with it." Otomo nods her approval, pleased that Erika had a better sense for politics than fashion. "And when Tokugawa Ieyasu had the opportunity for power thrust before him, he did not hesitate to take it. I do not believe in destiny, miss Erika, but I do believe we do what we can until destiny is revealed to us," chimes in Masahiro, waxing poetic as he sympathizes with Erika's position. "Mhm, I do see your point... oh! And I even share a name with the guy you're quoting, ironically." Otomo tunes out, looking over to observe the quiet conversation between Sen and Paige nearby as the two beside her chuckle over that coincidence, then exchange phone numbers. She looks back as Erika clears her throat and returns to the topic. "But, genuinely, my mission is to make the most change possible. My current situation allows me influence across the entire board - once you step into a senate seat, it's all downhill." "It's not the title, it's the influence," parrots Otomo, emphasizing Erika's earlier point. "Let's join hands in partnership, then, and move mountains together miss Erika," states Masahiro with eloquence, his voice honeyed. "Hojo Tokumune was merely the regent, but still he brought greatness to the homeland. Power comes not from a title, but from those who wield it." "Yep, and I'd rather speak to the throne than from it. In a few days, I'll likely be promoted to Chief of Staff and from there, I'll be able to speak to many thrones from that position." Masahiro nods speechlessly, his eyebrows raised as he seemed to be impressed by her shrewdness. "Very wise, to know where real power lays. We'll be lucky the state is under such capable influence." "The difference between me and others," continues Erika in Japanese, "is that that I don't play with pretty words and weave my way around uncomfortable topics. I speak directly, and show my intent isn't to dance around their thoughts." Sen Tsujihara, a power player from the Strip and another person Otomo had known for a long time, shifts over to stand near the trio and join into their talk. She, too, has begun speaking in Japanese, and from here on the conversation continues exclusively in that tongue. "Chief of staff, hm? A good person to know. The only government contact I've dealt with before was miss Asano, who moved moutains for me in preparation for Rememberance Day." "Lie once," says Erika, "and you'll lose every bit of your reputation. Always tell the truth, and you'll have an easy time accomplishing the impossible." Masahiro nods his head, speaking up. "I am sure I can think of things to assist you as Chief of Staff. Anything you need, my friend - the JAA can organize it to make your job and personal comfort all the better." It was inevitable that the JAA would be brought up eventually. It was the reason that Sen and Otomo had become acquainted, and the reason that Masahiro had requested this meeting today. The Japanese-American Association... a sort of chamber of commerce organization that served as the beating heart of Tokyo Strip's businesses and festivals. Sen had assured Otomo that the JAA was the answer to her staffing and logistics issues, and Otomo in turn was interested in getting involved in the community. They seemed eager to get Erika on board with today's chance meeting, too, so Otomo continued to listen to their conversation for now. "I've been growing more interested in working closer to the government, since our success with Remembrance Day," says Sen. Otomo always got along well with her - she appreciated that the woman always spoke her mind directly, paying no heed to flowery language or flattery. It was much easier to talk with her for this reason. "It was the first time I managed to get the city council to recognize Tokyo Strip since its occupants were carted off to internment camps." Otomo speaks up, saying, "Yeah... and local involvement in Japanese-American cultural heritage is leagues behind the districts in Seattle and San Fierro." Sen and Otomo stand quietly beside each other as Erika and Masahiro shift the focus of the conversation, speaking briefly about Erika's credentials as a psychologist and her difficulties in controlling in-fighting amongst senators. Suddenly, Sen pulls her coat on and steps towards the door, putting a hand on Masahiro's shoulder. "Hiro-san... I need to have a word when you're free. For now I'll leave you to it." She passes him and lifts her hand as she departs, disappearing from view towards the front exit. "I'll call you when I'm done here," he raises his voice to say after her. There's a moment of silence, then he lifts a palm towards the nearby elevator. "Shall we?" The elevator carries them beneath the earth, into the shop's basement. The subterranean development of Rockford had left a significant amount of open space beneath Barcode and Ushero, and neither of those businesses had any interest in utilizing it. Otomo was able to take full advantage of it, and had turned the basement into a sizable photography studio. A few adjoining spaces held their stockroom, a bathroom that'd largely been converted into a second stockroom, and most importantly - a private lounge built specifically to host guests such as these. Otomo leads the pair past the large white panels of the empty set, alternatively illuminated by splashes of bold luminosity form the spotlights around the large space and shadowed by the dark spaces between their beams. She'd not planned for Erika to sit in on the meeting, but Masahiro seemed to expect her to. This threw her carefully rehearsed plans into jeopardy - on top of having to re-assess the formality of the meeting, Otomo would also have to watch what she chose to discuss. The business of selling unworked gold bars and cut stones to discerning clients would have to be put on hold. While naturally Otomo didn't endorse the practice of money laundering, she saw no reason why clients with money couldn't choose to store that money as an nontaxable, untraceable asset. And naturally, she felt it necessary to inform certain clients connected to large 'community families' of this possibility. Erika, however, knows Otomo well enough to see right through that honeyed talk - and she didn't want to fall under the scrutiny of a close friend. Otomo gestures about the colorfully-lit, dim interior of the lounge as she walks past the furnishings to the chilled liquor cabinet. She speaks in Japanese, inviting them to make themselves at home. Erika and Masahiro sit across from each other, leaving space for their host to sit in the middle and address both. Otomo makes herself busy with setting three crystal tumblers down, filling each with chilled rocks, and opening a bottle of Hakushu 12-Year single malt whiskey. She makes a show of pouring it for Masahiro, but is waved off by Erika - a teetotaler. She reminds Otomo that she doesn't drink while the businesswoman pours a glass for herself, then sets the bottle in the middle of the table before fetching a small plastic bottle of Sprite for the resident sobriety advocate. Finally, with the formality of refreshments done, Otomo grabs a small box off the top of the fridge and moves to seat herself. Making eye contact with Masahiro, she leans forward to set it on the table and turn its opening side towards him. His eyes glimmer as he watches it with curiosity. He reaches for it, then hesitates. "May I?" Otomo answers in Japanese, reciting a line she'd practiced in the mirror. "The people of the Strip look up to you greatly, and speak reverently of you as if you are a patriarch and father who watches over and looks after them. I felt it prudent to prepare a sample of our services suitable for somebody with such status." She nods towards the box. "Please do." Masahiro laughs bemusedly from his nose as he hears how the people of his neighborhood describe him - or, perhaps, he simply thought her talk to be flattery. He purses his lips, staring intensely at the box, before setting his glass down and taking it. Without any suspense, he opens the box immediately. [02:32:24] You took Criminalli 24kt Gold Chrysanthemum Cufflinks | .035ct Burmese Ruby & 18kt Rose-Gold Inlay (1) from the property. Within sits a pair of cuff-links, shaped after the Imperial Chrysanthemum. Each is made from a solid piece of pure gold, and the grooves between the petals are filled with an inlay of rose-gold of relative purity, eighteen karat to be exact. The center of each flower is set with a cut stone - a richly colorful 0.035 carat Burmese ruby that glints in the light of the lounge. Masahiro's face draws taut in shock as he sees the gift, his free hand reaching to pull one from its foam seat and inspect it closer. His features soften into a look of admiration, and Otomo relaxes as her gamble that such traditionalist iconography would appeal to him paid off. "Miss Otomo..." he begins in English, before pausing to continue in Japanese. "I am humbled by such a gift." Erika, who had leaned forward in her seat to spy at the boxes contents, speaks only slightly louder than a whisper. "Wow - that's beautiful." Otomo's chest swells with pride. She'd hardly made the piece herself - she was an architect, and so she paid jewelers to do the work for her - but its design and materials were carefully selected by her. She'd been feeling like Erika did not truly appreciate the work they performed in her store lately, too, and hoped her friend would wake up to the fact that accessories were more than a simple manifestation of one's wealth. "Your formality and what I've heard of your strong code of ethics reminds me of the ones held by my mother. I felt you would appreciate something that'd remind you of home," narrates Otomo, speaking in the expository style of a museum curator. "She certainly must have held great convictions, to produce so charming a young woman," answers Masahiro, taking his eyes off the cuff-link to set it back into its foam rest and close the box. He bows his head a few times, a reverent gesture like an exaggerated nod, and lifts the expensive whiskey to his lips to take a sip. Otomo mirrors him shortly after, having not tried the liquor she selected herself. "With that - how can the Tokyo Strip help you?" he asks, lowering the glass but holding it in his hand. "We are a community that respects those who show us the same respect in return - the respect we've fought so hard for, from Manzanar to the '92 riots." 1992 A black man named Rodney King is brutally beaten in Los Santos, and the officers responsible are acquitted. At the same time, a Korean shopkeeper shoots a 15-year-old black girl named Latasha Harlins, alleging that she tried to shoplift a bottle of orange juice. He is let off with probation and a $500 fine. The consequence of these events are days of brutal rioting across Los Santos, many of which are targeted in Little Seoul. For the people of the Tokyo Strip, a harsh reality is made clear - the rest of the nation does not care to make differences between Asian-Americans. The Chinese, Koreans, Vietnamese, and Japanese are all the same in their eyes. Their businesses are destroyed. Their homes threatened. Buildings burn and people die. The LSPD is no less corrupt after the fact than it was before. One thousand miles north in Seattle, three-year-old Margaret Foster sits on the edge of her couch. She bounces excitedly, pointing and calling out to her mother as the opening sequence of Sailor Moon splashes onto the screen, hurled at the speed of light down a cathode ray tube. Keiko doesn't answer, staring grimly at the radio set quietly playing in the kitchen. "I wish to offer my assistance in strengthening our cultural ties and community in this city," answers Otomo. "Providing help in setting up for festivals, community events, and of course even smaller events exclusively held for locals. Sen also encouraged me to apply to join the JAA as a partner business, so I assumed that's why you wanted to meet today." "Of course," Masahiro replies after looking between Otomo and Erika. "I'd be happy to have such a beautiful and fanciful establishment in our cooperative. With the assitance of our charming Chief of Staff here, I am sure we can work wonders for the Japanese community." "I can't speak for Erika's motivations, or if she'd like to join, but I've known her for a long time and can vouch for her integrity as somebody who respects the law and rights of the people," answers Otomo. Erika blushes a bit at Margaret's praise, cleaing her throat quietly. "I do my best," she says, "and it's certainly a pleasure to be invited. I'll wait, however, until things are 'confirmed'. I'm not officially the Chief of Staff yet due to some bureaucratic delays - for now, I'm simply a PR office rat." "I would never ask for more than a lady's best, sakura," replies Masahiro. Otomo lifts an eyebrow at the term of endearment, but quickly puts her poker face back on. He nods his head once to each of them. "Your sentiments are returned in both cases." Otomo reaches forward, finally taking a sip of the cold whiskey. She savors it, not having had luxury liquor in some time, and lets the heat of its alcohol steep her mouth in smokey apple and honey flavors before swallowing. The conversation wanders lazily - the prospect of Erika getting a good deal on real estate in Little Tokyo, the benefits of membership from promotion to protection, the waiving of the topic of membership fees until some future date, a short conversation on the senate's plan to bring the death penalty back to San Andreas... "A samurai is both a poet and a warrior... he respects life, and knows that death is a part of that," finishes Masahiro. Otomo had not expected him to be so strongly in favor of the death penalty, but she supposed it made sense. The Strip - his home territory - had been continuously stricken by violent crime lately. If he was as much a father figure as people made him out to be, of course he'd be for stricted punishments for those that threatened his community. "It's what separated Yamato from the barbarians. We respect honor, and have no tolerance for evil. Evil... deserves nothing more than death." Otomo thought he sounded a bit silly, with this old-fashioned affectation and the poetic lens through which he chose to view the subject. Otomo was always at heart, corporate - she saw the world through checks and balances. Would it be an effective deterrent? Would it simply lead to more meaningless loss of life if failed to be implemented properly? For Masahiro, things were more of a moral battle, it seemed. The war between good and evil, the heroes who strike down the villains in defense of the people. She made a mental note that it seemed to be a major pillar of his values and personality. The sentiment was shared with her, though - as she'd told both Fyodor and Detective Mercier, the only things that have true weight in this city are blood and money.

2001 The Y2K phenomenon has faded into distant memory, and technological growth continues to accelerate exponentially. On September 11th, planes hijacked by terrorists collide with the Pentagon and the New York World Trade Center. The roots of this national tragedy are overlooked by frenzied media outlets and frightened populations, and the National Security State is born. Early successful anti-corporate movements dissolve as the public's interests shift elsewhere, and fierce nationalism becomes a matter of public policy. Margaret Otomo is twelve years old and in seventh-grade. She's risen to the top of the pecking order as far as popularity is concerned, with all the cruelty and overblown drama that middle school social politics have. The Nisqually Earthquake cracks roads and buckles girders in Seattle, and the Mardi Gras riots occur in that rainy city. 2004 Fifteen-year-old Margaret Otomo attends the inaugural bout of the Rat City Roller Girls, and realizes why she's never had a crush on a boy. Y2K aesthetics are going out of style - aspects of their clean appearance persist in the new wave of corporate minimalism, but its fantastical architecture and futurist ideals are set aside for geometric simplicity. The European Union expands tremendously in size, the Red Sox win the world series, and catastrophic earthquakes strike all across Japan causing major costs in life and property. 2007 Margaret Otomo graduates high school and takes a gap year to live with her aunt and grandparents in Kyoto, Japan. The persistence of Y2K culture and design in Tokyo leaves a lasting impact on her, dredging up old memories of her wild fashion as a child and the alien appearance of restaurants and hair salons that have long since faded from Seattle. Meanwhile in the United States, the announcement of the first iPhone heralds the final nail in the coffin for millennial aesthetics - as it enters the mainstream, sleek and simple becomes increasingly the trend for material and architectural design. 2012 The Living Computer Museum opens in Seattle, breathing a bit of life into Y2K nostalgia alongside the rapidly growing 'hipster' phenomenon of the American west coast. Margaret Otomo graduates from the University of Washington with a Bachelor of Arts in Architectural Studies with a minor in fashion design. The city bans plastic shopping bags in light of a decade-long pandemic of Seattle's streets being coated in their drifting carcasses. Hurricane Sandy devastates the east coast, Obama is reelected for a second term, and the Sandy Hook shooting marks a wild swing in the atmosphere of American partisan politics. 2015 After 3 years of working for a real estate firm in Seattle, Margaret fiercely competes and receives a promotion and transfer to their property development team in Los Santos, San Andreas. Like countless others before her, she's starstruck with dreams of making it big in the beating heart of media and culture in the American west. She settles into the city of stars, being assured by a shady real estate broker that Vespucci is a beautiful seaside neighborhood with a 'colorful local culture' - and so begins Otomo's life of terror as a refined woman in a troubled neighborhood. She drives her trusty Hakumei and spends her workdays overseeing renovations on properties she can't dream of affording. She slowly climbs the corporate ladder, refining her customs and attitude to best survive in the corporate shark tank. 2021 - THE BLUE LION CLIQUE Margaret Otomo quits her job in order to go independent as an architect. To celebrate this new chapter, she visits the Blue Lion for the first time, having avoided it previously due to its reputation for frequent violent crimes. She finds it's often packed with people who readily socialize with strangers, making it the ideal place to meet clients and find work. The gamble pays off - not only does she meet a few early clients there, but she befriends some of the staff who begin to recommend her to customers. She keeps herself busy remodeling bathrooms and renovating old houses - her first big job being the modernization of the Sandy Shores Used Autos office and garage. She begins experimenting with MDMA as her Blue Lion friends have plenty of it, and frequently goes dancing with them at clubs. 2021 - THE LOCATELLI SAGA After receiving a phone call from her long-time friend Erika to help her with an unusual situation, Margaret meets a man named Tony Locatelli. He had invited Erika to a job interview, but bewilderingly needed a ride to his own office. Otomo picks up Erika and they drive to meet the man, somehow winding up herself hired by him as well as a side gig. He is impressed by her business sense and begins running various investment schemes and shady business practices by her for analysis. Erika warns Otomo that Locatelli is trouble and to cut ties with him - but greedy for investment opportunities and a chance to seize Locatelli's own properties from him should he get killed or arrested in his foolishness, she agrees to take the position of CTO at Locatelli's newly-founded corporation: Platinum Acquisitions. She sells her Hakumei and buys an FQ2 to appear more professional and have a vehicle more suited to architectural work. Locatelli tasks her with writing a complex and heavily entrapping contract, which Platinum offers to businesses in exchange for support in running their business and guaranteeing they receive stock priority. He also encourages Margaret to take a gamble and pursue her life's dream of starting a fashion company, offering to help arrange investors in exchange for a managerial position in her store. However, Locatelli's drug use is becoming more intense, and he becomes more prone to public outbursts and fits of manic energy. Accompanying him as his advisor for many of these, Margaret finds her own reputation being tarnished - the final nails in the coffin are Locatelli's refusal to pay her adequately for her work, and his insistence that she sign the very same contract she designed in exchange for investment in her business. She cuts ties with Locatelli, realizing that all along he simply was using her to expand his own profits, and returns to the world of freelancing... but with a pending permit application to start her business, she has a ticking clock to acquire funds in order to start the company. 2021 - THE ROCKFORD CONNECTION Otomo is offered a job by one of Locatelli's friends, named Matteo Russo, and after he's impressed with her remodel of his kitchen speaks highly of her work to all of his business acquaintances. As a result, she finds herself now busy with higher-end jobs, including designing a few houses from scratch and being contacted by a few of the city's minor fashion companies. She juggles her architectural practice with a new business of fashion photography - taking pictures of independent models for their portfolios, as well as organizing promotional shoots for small jewelry and clothing stores. One day she's cold-called by a man named Fyodor Zharkov, the owner of Beluga - a restaurant that Otomo happened to meet with clients at - and close friend and associate of Matteo Russo. He offers her the gig of a lifetime - designing the blueprints and overseeing the construction of his new fashion boutique Ushero in Rockford Hills. It's an intense and demanding project, but she accepts - Ushero is next door to the building she'd applied for permits for, and it'd help her foster a good relationship with her neighbor as well as remind her what she's working towards each day. At first skeptic of Fyodor due to her experience with Locatelli, she finds the man to be agreeable and experienced in business with many values in common with the younger architect. When Ushero is finally done, Fyodor is more than impressed, and pays her generously. Unfortunately, it's still just short of what's required to obtain the property of her dreams and the permits to develop it. With a day to spare, Otomo finally sells a 50% share of the company to an old friend and business contact - Junko Hachimitsu, a Japanese citizen who she'd met back in university and kept in touch with as an acquaintance. Hachimitsu opens a sister location in Japan while Otomo opens one in Rockford, the two selling each other's stock in mutual ownership. 2022 - PRESENT DAY It takes two months of continuous work and early openings to finish the construction on Couture Criminalli - a large building with three stories and a basement. Now in possession of her precious life's dream, Otomo finds herself busier than ever - the business of managing employees, keeping her product secure, and facing pressure from extortioners and rival companies occupy nearly every moment of her life. Having come to build personal rapport with Fyodor, she finds assistance from his staff in exchange for discretion about some matters of their personal lives - and her old friend Sen Fujihara promises a bright future and support from other businesses in an organization called the JAA.

1822 A man named Charles Babbage creates the schematics for the 'arithmetic engine', a mechanical device which can do complex math to degrees of accuracy never before achieved by a machine using a series of progressing algorithms. It was never built - Babbage spending his entire life perfecting its designs - but its conception fundamentally altered the course of human existence for the rest of time. 1835 The American scientist Joseph Henry invents a device called the 'relay', which soon found international use in the telegraph system. On the sidelines, however, the United States Census Bureau began using a machine which utilized relay-based logic gates to compile data manually entered from a punch card by an operator. The people operating these machines came to be called 'computers'. 1904 John Fleming invents the 'Fleming Tube', known to history as the 'vacuum tube', which significantly miniaturizes the relay and, more importantly, automates its operation by being programmed with primitive circuits and electrical modulation. It allowed for the construction of large, power-hungry machines requiring no human computer to operate - while it took weeks at minimum to program one for a single function, their potential was limitless as they grew increasingly large and sophisticated. After the realization of the Turing machine in the Second World War, international interest in computers exploded - and with increased funding and motivation, an era of progressively complex and compact punch-card machines began. 1961 Two men named Jack Kilby and Robert Noyce discover that you can build a computer out of arsenic and sand - and building on earlier experiments with semiconducting 'whiskers', they create the world's first silicon chip. In combination with the transistor, which had already revolutionized the field of electronics, it became possible to make computers simultaneously smaller and more intelligent with each passing year. Removing mechanical components in favor of purely digital operation made them much more durable, portable, and modular - greatly expanding the tasks they were able to do, and introducing an important factor into the history of their development: the ability for a computer to tell the time. 1986 Johnathan Foster, an American salesman for International Business Machines Corporation's interests in Japan, begins dating a Japanese secretary named Otomo Keiko whom he often sees on his frequent business trips overseas. Two years later, Keiko becomes pregnant and the two get married and move to Seattle, Washington to start a family. They name their child Margaret. Meanwhile, nearly every computer being built makes use of a chip called the RTC - Real Time Clock - which measures the flow of time based on pulses in the electrical grid. Unbeknownst to the majority of the population, this chip caused almost every computer being built to measure based on time elapsed since 1900 - with its range for the current year spanning from 1 to 99. 1990 Margaret Foster's early childhood corresponds to the early childhood of the new information age. The internet allows for the dissemination of news, culture, and information from around the planet at breakneck speed. A new age of globalism is upon the world, and the 'millenial' generation that will live to be influenced by it are highly affected by the dramatic social and cultural changes it brings about. Margaret enjoys Pokemon and playing Kirby on her Super Nintendo, but hates that her classmates make fun of her name. In third grade, she writes a paper about how she's mad that her dad is always at work, and that he sometimes makes her mom cry - after her and her parents are called in to see the principal, the school receives a generous donation from Johnathan Foster and as they drive home none of the three speak a single word. Elsewhere, the world's financial institutions and manufacturers have adopted new digital computers as punch-card machines become outmoded. Engineers in finance and banking, whose systems are closely tied to the ability of computers to measure time, realize with horror an impending disaster as projections for the future decade show data indicating the years 1900-1910 which will throw stocks, credit, debit, and ATM systems into complete disarray. Massively expensive projects to replace the RTC chip and update firmware begin in finance and soon spread to other fields of business. 1999 Despite many attempts, Keiko Foster fails to conceive another child. Johnathan is bitter that he was not given a son - he's conflicted between his desire to have a child who will succeed him in business and his rigid beliefs about a woman's place in society. Margaret is subjected to bipolar swings between his mentoring her in math and economics and belittling her for trying to compete with classmates and win the science fair. On her first day in 6th grade, Margaret wears a pleated skirt, Sanrio backpack, and introduces herself to the class as Otomo - her mother's maiden name. Refusing to answer to 'Margaret', her teachers are forced to soon adopt the moniker as well. Pandemonium and paranoia spread among first-world nations about the phenomenon of 'Y2K'. Banks will collapse, nuclear missiles will detonate in their silos, satellites will fall from the sky, communications will fail, money will lose all value, and the world will be brought back to the stone age. In reality, much of the world's critical network infrastructure has already fixed the RTC problem. Doomday prophets cry in the streets, the American culture of 'preppers' is born, and people clutch at their pearls as the clock ticks towards midnight. THE NEW MILLENNIUM But on January 1st, 2000, life continues on as normal. Credit cards and ATMs still work. The TV still turns on. Sure, a few home computers read the date as 1/1/19100, but the world had not ended. Within weeks, the panic of Y2K is forgotten. People insist they figured this would be the outcome all along. Technology is embraced to a greater degree than ever before, and 'Y2K' becomes a term for an era of futurism and hope instead of apocalyptic disaster. Bold fashion statements, wild architectural concepts, and philosophy about the future of digitization and the internet are all the buzz. Amidst it all, living in the birthplace of Microsoft and Apple, Y2K culture shapes Margaret in her years as an impressionable teenager with access to money and a distant father. She wears her hair like Lain Iwakura. She develops a crush on Rei Ayanami. She's the envy of her social clique for wearing transparent neon plastic coats and huge sneakers with flashing lights. Long after the heat death of Y2K and its replacement by the permanence of the corporate minimalist aesthetic, it remains a key defining factor in her personality. Johnathan all but abandons his home life in favor of speculative investment in the dotcom boom, sacrificing family for immense fortune. Keiko divorces him and moves out with her Margaret, both taking Keiko's maiden name - Otomo.

/ STONE / and / GOLD / PILOT Architecture, haute-couture, high heels, corporate politics, finance, and a nostalgia for the New Millennium. A woman's dedication to a strange fashion store and her life embroiled in the financial worlds of Rockford Hills and Little Tokyo.

I've moved to primarily play in low-pop hours because if I don't, my civilian char frequently gets harassed or robbed while doing things like window shopping in Rockford Hills or jogging near ULSA. I've legitimately had a 13 year old character park their bright red Prius on the sidewalk in front of me in Rockford, get out, and immediately ask my character (who is 32) out on a date. Upon declining they instantly began to ask for money and threaten to shoot me, only leaving when I pulled a knife. What part of that sounds like realistic portrayal or even minimal effort roleplay?

The divider has a strongly British design - it resembles motorway dividers I saw surrounding London or highways under long-term repaving in large cities but does not resemble rural American highway dividers in the slightest. The median, or "two-way left turn lane" lane in American road law is an important roadway feature for emergency vehicles, complex turns into and out of unmarked roads and driveways, and in rare cases for vehicles who have suffered from collision or engine trouble that are unable to make it to the shoulder. American highways, if they have a divider, typically have a single jersey barrier like the highways in central LS. Barriers like this are almost never put onto roadways on two-three lane rural highways and especially within the limits of rural communities, as they interfere with traffic flow. If highway engineers feel that median access is dangerous or undesired, it often has a single barrier line put in place to still provide shoulders OR is built with an unpaved median with metal-rail barriers. Barriers of any type in America tend to be reserved to areas with substantial amounts of traffic, so as to not waste taxpayer money. Paleto Bay is certainly not a high traffic place, and racers are prevalent in many other areas of the map such as Route 68 or Sandy which have received no such changes. I think, in order to better represent the accuracy of American roadways, the median barrier be removed entirely or at least substantially reduced. Autodrive also has a habit of steering vehicles into collision with the existing barriers. Many left-hand turns are completely cut off along its length, requiring detours - in some cases ones of great length all the way to Grapeseed - or illegal U-turns in order to achieve.

Gordo Beach Unpleasantries As some of you I've met in my gallivanting around northern San Andreas already know, I've moved out of the motel for creeper reasons and into an absolutely miserable and slow as hell blue RV which I have converted into a goth hideout. This significant downgrade in my lifestyle allows me to change camping spots on a daily basis and keep weird people I meet from being able to break into my motel room to rob or rape me or whatever. That's the idea, at least, and only time will tell how well it works in practice. I have repeatedly been asked in my travels if I am aware of the 'Mt Gordo Ghost' The answer is yes, I am aware of it, and so are so many people in this state and beyond that it's not even worth doing an article on. However, reader MJWx1996 posed the question in such an atypical and specific way that I perhaps wondered if it was bait to get me to be in a certain place at a certain time, by certain individuals involved in a certain longer-term investigation I'm doing. So after my usual nightly bar-haunting in the county, trying to trawl for what scarce clues I can regarding that lead, I figured I'd go to the place I'd been deliberately avoiding and see if I could scrounge up some trouble. As it turns out, not only could I, but it would be more than I bargained for. The Mt Gordo Lighthouse is a well-known landmark, and is somewhat eerie at night. Maybe I have some kind of synesthesia but my mind seems to expect such a tremendous and bright light to make some kind of audible sound, but it just silently revolves as it towers above the rough coast, heedless of weather or visitors. Its harsh bright lights sweeps rhythmically across the landscape, briefly illuminating everything in its gaze in a harsh and ghostly white before turning its baleful eye towards sea. I spent a few minutes here trying to discern which stretch of sand near Mt Gordo would be classified as Gordo Beach (the answer is all of it, but I didn't know that at the time). The night is already dark in the county, but here in particular it seemed as black as pitch. My RV's worn headlights seemed to struggle to pierce the darkness, as if it were submerged in the benthic murk of the sea. A short drive away from that luminous beacon brought us into the thin forest at the eastern flank of Mt Gordo, where a small and scarcely-used campground lays. Here I floundered in the dark for a few minutes trying to find a flat spot to park, before shutting off the rig and stepping out into the unknown with my trusty flashlight. Here's a tip, hunters - the place is lousy with rabbits! They all went scampering away as I exited the RV, and during my whole ordeal here they'd continue to dart into the path of my flashlight and give me an increasingly small fright. I proceeded into the tall weeds and wildflowers to again attempt to locate a cliff overlooking a beach, as described in the comment, and observed remarkably little of interest. A cliffside shine operation, an empty campsite (related to the shine, perhaps?), and finally a particularly conspicuous cliff overlooking the coast below. I looked over that conspicuous cliff, flashlight aimed at the churning surf below, and I did see a face! An RV was submerged at the bottom of the cliff, and floating in the water there was a bloated corpse with a bullet hole in his head. Thank god it didn't smell or I probably would have blew chunks and contaminated the crime scene. I decided I did not want to fuck with this place any longer and promptly absconded, stumbling around in the dark and waving my light around like an idiot as I tried to make my way back to the car. That's when I started to hear footsteps all around me, as if somebody was running from tree to bush around and beside me, but as I waved my light around I shit you not there wasn't a soul around except rabbits. I started jogging, almost tripping into one of the tents, and as I got to the van a voice whispered 'hello' right in my ear. I am not joking when I say I spun around and, again, nobody there. So I guess all the rumors I passed off as being just unjustified occult tourism aren't so inflated after all. Ladies and gentlemen, I do know and have heard the so-called Mount Gordo Ghost as well as his dumped body friend. You may spot the author's humble office here and there throughout Blaine County and beyond. In my week living alone in the woods and backroads of Blaine County, I have come to see how eerily lonely the stretch of country is. Even in the towns, it can seem terribly empty - only the occasional passing car, shadowy figures walking in the pools of black between streetlights, coyotes darting across the street outside of closed liquor stores. It's a dreadfully quiet, mournful place at night between the wind and the sand and decaying buildings. I continue to diligently chisel away at the 'big one', dear readers, and promise that a feature-length post will come as soon as I have something substantial in my grasp. For now, however, I have very little to go on. I'm excited to announce that tomorrow, however, I'll be following up on the biggest lead I've had so far; though there's always the risk it'll be a dead end.

Username: Mercy Comment: Spazzmophobia I've been trying to find even an ounce of solid proof this shit has really been happening but people in Paleto are saying only two sightings have occurred in the past month and nobody will tell me anything about it. I can't post my findings until I get at least a photo of one of these scarecrows and it's like they're avoiding me or went to ground as soon as I showed up. Still going to keep hiking around every day and looking though.

Mercy and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day fig. 1: piece of shit asbo Today began with the intent to follow up on the tip from reader SantaMuerte664, as I set out from my motel in Paleto Bay to drive south to Sandy before investigating this [allegedly] haunted O'Neill Ranch in Grapeseed. However, truth is often stranger than fiction, and most of today's excitement comes not from the investigation of that site but rather the events leading up to it. I began by stepping into Sandy's 24/7 to pick up some shit food for dinner before heading the short distance to the house. This was about 08:30 - the sky was still red from the setting sun. Upon returning to where I parked my car, however, I found it gone - the piece of shit rental Asbo was missing. I reported it and called a taxi, figuring I'd go get a drink and hope it got found soon. It did not. In a cosmic event of foreshadowing, the friendly taxi driver warned me of other taxis that would try to fleece passengers for fares as high as ten grand for crosstown or out of town trips - that fare was four hundred, a detail which will be important later. After going through a total of nine fingers of vodka I figured if they hadn't found my car yet, they wouldn't for a while. The bar I was at was worse than a dive as well - I was able to tolerate it for the cheap booze, but hit my limit when somebody walked in and let their dog shit on the floor (an act which was mostly ignored by other patrons). Figured I'd get some fresh air and hike to Mirror Park to rent a car, hoping I'd be sober by the time I arrived there. The hike there was largely uneventful, people of the city largely ignoring my drunken self (thankfully) save for a couple tourist kids in the park and a bicycle-mounted cop. My piece of shit asbo traded for a piece of shit rental station wagon, I hit the trail around 10:00 and started driving (mostly sober) towards Sandy once again. This would prove to be a near fatal mistake, and not even because of my drunk driving. In the pass near the prison, a blacked-out car with its lights off came up behind me going almost twice as fast as me and slowed instead of passing. They suddenly slammed into my rear and pit-maneuvered me, sending me spinning out of control towards the barrier as they sped off. The rental was totalled, but the bullshit didn't stop there, oh no. Whiplashed and punched in the nose by an airbag, I called 911 and before long a big cop SUV showed up to see if I was still alive. He'd hardly blocked the lane and gotten out of his taxmoney truck when around the curve came a muscle car chased by a shitload of speeding cops. The muscle car clipped the SUV and sent it spinning into the cop and my car, fucking up his leg and pinning me between an SUV and the cement barrier. More cops came, pried us out, and I got tossed in an ambulance and driven - - - back into Los Santos! It was like God himself was determined to keep me from leaving the city. I tried calling a cab at Pillbox Hill but the asshole who showed up told me it'd be TEN FUCKING GRAND to drive to Sandy Shores. Only trust eastern European taxi drivers, readers, or you'll get shafted by these grifting American assholes. Even after I told him to stick his ten grand up his ass and fuck off, he kept following me to try and cajole me into paying up and getting a ride until the cop on a bicycle I saw earlier came riding up. I don't condone developing personal relationships with cops, but she was nice enough to offer to drive me up to Sandy Shores. As I hung out in her house for a few, drinking water and helping myself to her ibuprofen, I got a call that they found my car abandoned roadside between Sandy and Grapeseed. I hopped in the cop's (expensive, tasteless) black sports car and endured the awkward silence back up north to my car, only to find it (fig. 1) totalled. It wasn't going anywhere, and no way in hell was I gonna call a mechanic at this point. The cop was still parked nearby so I came back and hitched a ride to the nearest dealership and just picked up an RV I'd been meaning to buy anyway. Finally, I was able to drive unmolested to... The O'Neill Ranch ...which is a shithole that gave the dogshit bar I'd visited earlier a run for its money. Absolute let-down. Hardly even spooky. there's more hole than door now I crept up to the window and peered in just to see a door absolutely shredded by buckshot. Figured it was quiet enough to be unoccupied, and there were no cars around, so I let myself in. Dead silent, smelled like mold and rotting food and unwashed human filth. The house was practically falling apart and showed more signs of being haunted by ghouls and gremlins such as myself than by any spirits or poltergeists. I got a few goosebumps from a radio playing in the nearby barn that was a bit distorted by reverb, and every now and then I swore I heard an infant crying in another room. However, there seems to be a 'mad scientist's lab' in the basement, so maybe Frankenstein's monster is about. Keep the submissions coming - I'll sneak into any fucked-up crackhouse you freaks send me to if it means I might run into some weird shit to write about. the bathroom is surprisingly clean [SUBMISSIONS ARE ENABLED!] Username: Comment:

UNNERVING ODDITIES OF THE GOLD COAST Hello ghosts and ghouls of San Andreas! I'm Mercy, a recent transplant to this horrible place from a different horrible place called Portland. My hometown of Portland is a really weird place with an undercity of old unmapped tunnels and fenced-off suburban parks with weird freemason obelisks. I used to love going around and committing minor breaches of the law (such as trespassing - honestly private property just makes life so much less fun) in order to find and photograph weird shit so I figure, what the hell. New state means new adventures. Not having grown up here though I don't know about any of this weird shit there most definitely is around this drought-stricken wasteland SO naturally I made a blog and here's how it works: STEP ONE: Comment with weird shit you've seen or heard about or things going on this page. STEP TWO: I will use my own time and money to go check this weird shit out and write a blog post about what I find there, any mysteries I solve, interviews with weirdos I meet. Now I'm not going into this with no content either - I heard a juicy rumor about a strange coyote mutilation up north so I'm gonna be chasing that lead alongside any that come in from you commenters. Blog updates will be posted on this thread and linked here as they come out. Stay spooky! [SUBMISSIONS ARE ENABLED!] Username: Comment: