Anyone who would like to start their own group in The Underground, please IM a GM if you need suggestions/feedback or info. You can freely post your group's background in the Player Created Groups forum located here by clicking on "start a discussion."
(Intro by Perriwinkle Waves)
Before there was us, there was no one.
There haven't always been CEOs and security forces. There haven't always been syndicates and mafias. The skies, at one time, were not filled with shining cities, and the stars were not always within reach.
But there have always been people like us. There has always been an Underground.
If you shut up truth, and bury it underground, it will but grow.
"You only have to open your eyes," he said, "and you'll see it's been there all along: an electric road to salvation!"
The man in dark robes and ragged boots was preaching again. Finding God in the city's technology wasn't a new idea, nor was it ignored. A small hoarde of faithful had gathered around a toxic bonfire to hear him speak, reaching for a chance at something as rare as light in the depths of the city's Underground: hope.
For every prohibition you create you also create an underground.
When she's plugged in, she can believe it. When she walks the streets at night, her faith fades. The technoprophets and cybercultists make it all seem so wonderful, so simple. But life isn't simple, and her life isn't wonderful. Her life is fear, abuse, and if she's lucky, drugs. Because when she's plugged in, she can believe it, but when she's high, she doesn't have to care at all.
Power in defense of freedom is greater than power on behalf of tyranny and oppression.
Power. Programming. "Hello, Master."
Part of her initial makeup she could never manage to get rid of, the little bit in the first chunk of her BIOS she couldn't understand just yet. It drove her fucking crazy, but there it was, every time she booted up. "Hello, Master." A constant reminder of what she was, what she used to be.
Programming. With no power.
Assess the power of a will by how much resistance, pain, torture it endures and knows how to turn to its advantage.
"One of these days..."
A soot-coated young man in heavy makeshift armor focuses a white LED headlamp on the task before him. Hand tools, delicate wiring. Cursing, a little sweat.
"One of these days, man..."
He wipes the grime from his face, an attractive face for an unusually healthy member of the Underground. Good teeth, good breeding. He gently rests his masterpiece in a small shipping crate. Tiny metal clamps. A wireless reception device.
"One of these days, man... they're all gonna pay."
We are The Underground, and we have always been here. We are streetpunks and college dropouts, we are ex-cons and ex-corporates. We are hookers and junkies, hackers and anarchists, androids, cyborgs, humans. We are many, we are varied, and we are sick of this shit.
We are The Underground. And we'll be here long after you're gone.