An Admission of Paranoia -- Session 2, Part 1 · 3:06am Jan 13th, 2016
Paranoia Session Writeup
Wow. So, uh, that Patreon number got... big.
Looks like I'm going to have to start doing these weekly, huh?
Well.
The next Paranoia session seems to be as good a place to start as any. I was going to post this in one part, but I forgot just how much had happened.
Hopefully, the rest will go up tomorrow.
Let's re-introduce our heroes? Shall we?
Team Leader: Professional Russian, Aggressive Meditator
The Communist: Knows way too much about Poli Sci
The Mad Scientist: Pyromaniac, Skill: Flush Big Things Down Small Drains 21. The player is prone to giggling fits. He's about as stereotypical as a mad scientist can get.
The Girlfriend: Questions why she is here. This time, it's going to be the Physicist's rather than mine, but the description and character played are identical.
I know for a fact they're probably going to find out I wrote this, whether I link it to them or not, so I'm just going to say: Whichever of you gets around to this first gets five perversity points straight out, but only if they can tell me without using the words; "Blog, Pony, Paranoia, Story, Writeup, Characters or Session"
So they all wake up in a dark concrete room. Just a cube of reinforced concrete. with a note pinned to the Team Leader's clone about something they don't care about because they want sleep. They're told to stay here for debriefing.
It's... still an empty concrete room.
They look for lights, find them flush with the ceiling, find nothing, and... the door just unlocks.
The party decides to wait another five minutes just in case.
OOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMM-
-Nope definitely fine, let's go to bed.
So they do. Not because they're tired: Their clones have been recanted fully rested. No, because it is sleep time, and so they must be asleep. Because that is what time it is. That's the rules.
They hit their barracks, close their eyes and—
CRASH BAM WHAM THUMP
—wake up in the debriefing room again, this time much more well-lit. The two-way mirror in one wall is much more obvious.
They're all strapped into chairs with voltage going into their spines. They can't move anything. It's not painful, just... awful. Really, really awful.
Team Leader: "We were just here, weren't we?"
Mad Scientist: "We totally were."
The Team Leader is the only one of the group not covered in bumps, bruises and various black marks. No one really questions this.
They're briefed against their will by someone from behind the glass. It's fairly typical stuff. Basically boils down to:
You will serve drinks every thirty minutes to any citizen of Red clearance or higher who has been waiting at a specified location.
You will go to this warehouse to get the equipment to do so, and you are responsible for that equipment. You have one hour.
Fairly simple, right? But this is Paranoia. So, the Team Leader looks up what the location checks out as and it's...
HAPPY HOMECOMING INVOLUNTARY EUTHANASIA SERVICE
Oh, yes. Yes it is. They've gotta serve drinks to death row inmates in Paranoia-verse. How? Why? Well...
So the PCs shuffle out to get to the warehouse. They all get pulled aside, then, to get introduced to Secret Society mechanics.
Told to the Team Leader from the confines of an abandoned sewer pipe, an Anti Mutant message: "One of our own is being framed. A Red girl. We know because we framed her. Terrible work, see if you can't pull her feet out of the fire, eh?"
Told to the Communist — actually PURGE — from inside a broom closet that he could barely fit into... Well he's just given a code signal. It'll come up.
The real gem, though, was given to our Illuminati Mad Scientist. You see... what he got was the truth.
"You may be wondering why you're serving drinks to death row?"
"Had crossed my mind, yeah."
"Well, here's the thing. A new ordnance got pushed through that long waiting times in private firms in the sector bring happiness down. And happiness is mandatory. So to help keep happiness up, CPU and HPD worked together to work out what was 'too long', and to serve complimentary drinks every thirty minutes to everyone who waited that long. Got me so far?"
"Yeah, seems simple enough. New bureaucracy, serve drinks, long wait times. Why an extermination center though?"
"Nobody thought to exempt them from the paperwork. So it's been pushed through to CPU to get it fixed..."
"... but?"
"But the reason the lines are so long is because most everybody in there was a CPU employee caught in some Secret Society bustup or another, not ours though, never ours, and now all the people who could fill out the forms so you wouldn't have to do this..."
"... are stuck waiting in line."
"Exactly. They all die? Their clones are pushed through, the forms are finished, and you can go home."
Cue the Mad Scientist falling over laughing for a long time.
We reconvene back at the table.
It's time to get outfitted.
Enter Eey-0-3. We'll call him E for short.
E: "Sigh. How can I help you today, officers?"
Team Leader: "We're here to be supplied for our mission."
E: "S-I-G-H. What's your mission assignment number?"
Team Leader: "Ahh... you know who we are right? You expected us?"
E: "Yes. I did. But I need your assignment number to fill out your paperwork. Again."
Team Leader: "Oh. Ah. PEC-V-9A-65992B, I guess?" — A good player always writes these things down. And holds up the rest of the group for a long time because he's a slow-as-fuck handwriter, just the way I like it.
E: "Oh-kay then. I need to, sigh, hand these JHB-001432-JA-C forms to your Equipment Guy to fill out while I sort out your equipment. Euuugh."
Eey-0-3 waddles as slowly as he can up to the Equipment Guy with a pile of paperwork.
"Sign here." Scribble. "Initial here." Scribble. "Date of decantation" Scribble "Date of death" Scribble "Sigh. Thank you very much, sir."
He waddles back over to a shelf.
"One designated Push Kart hand trolley, red."
Waddles it over to the equipment guy.
"Sign here." Scribble. "Initial here." Scribble. Slowly turns the page over. "And here, please?" Scribble. "Thank you very much."
Waddles over to the shelf.
"Two designated Push Kart hand trolleys, red."
Waddles over to the equipment guy.
"Sign here." Scribble. "And here." Scribble. "And here." Scribble. "Thank you, sir."
This is repeated, as excruciatingly as possible, for 3 (Three) 5 (Five) kilogram jars of CoffeeLike — Good for 75-100 servings each.
Signing off on each jar, individually.
Then it's repeated for 3 (Three) 5 (Five) kilogram cannisters of TeaSir! tea. — Good for 75-100 servings each, as well.
Signing off on each cannister, individually.
He waddles back over to the shelves, then looks dreadfully concerned, then waddles back to the equipment guy.
"Oh dear. I'm very sorry. It appears you have been assigned a Service Service. I've been having you fill out forms JHB-001432-JA-C. What you needed to fill out was, eugh, the updated forms JHB-001432-JA-D through E. I'm dreadfully sorry for the inconvenience."
He takes the previously filled-out forms from the Equipment guy, wanders over to a paper shredder, and liquifies them and recycles them, slowly printing the recycled forms back into the new ones required.
"I'm afraid I'm going to need you to sign everything over again. Initial here. Thank you. Sign here. Thank you, sir. Date of decantation. Thank you. Blood sample — " Here he hands over an ornate, self-autoclaving letter opener for the Equipment Guy to stab his finger with and press to a particularly fancy bit of the page — "Thank you. Sign here. Thank you. Yes. And now, please, repeat for all assigned equipment so far."
They fill the first trolley, adding in 600 sheets of forms for the people they serve drinks to, each need to fill out with their drink to prove they have been served and served satisfactorily.
Two red picnic sets.
6 “Proudly Serving my Fellow Citizens” black pens with black ink.
1 case pseudolactate fungul residue – milk, essentially.
216 cans of Bouncy Bubble Beverage
500 foam cups
500 plastic stirrers
6 red Happy Service! Aprons
6 red How May I Help You? Apron pins.
1 red “Pleasant Experience Team Leader” chef's hat. – For this I provided a top hat I'd brought from home and gave it reverentially to the Team Leader. He wore it with a pride bordering on maniacal. Everybody loves an authorative hat.
Two PerkyLaters percolators – To brew the tea and coffee in. And—
”WAIT”
“Equipment Guy, you can't handle that by yourself! You need someone else to assist your trolley pushing! But these forms only grant you permission and full responsibility!”
Mad Scientist: “Well, then, sign up our valiant Team Leader to help. I take it this means he needs to fill out a bunch of paperwork?”
“Of course!”
Mad Scientist: “Right. Fair enough.”
Eey-0-3: “So, sign here, initial here—”
Team Leader: “ARRGHHH?!”
SOME TIME LATER
E: “And, this last one we need from you, to acknowledge the transfer...” here he unrolls a tube of red lipgloss. “We need your kiss print.”
Equipment Guy: “My what?”
E: Extremely depressed voice: “Well, HPD have established that the kiss print is as unique an identifier as any fingerprint. However, by adding a minty breath strip to the identifying form, we can improve the all-important oral hygiene as well as promote security and safety.”
Equipment Guy: “So I put the lipstick on and kiss it?”
E: “Best slip a little tongue, too, yes. Just to be sure.”
He's left with lasting minty freshness, and gets to keep the identifying tube.
This will be plot critical soon enough.
On top of this they get their Service Service kit
200 orange-scented air-freshners.
1 box of 20 electro-stun-prod rubber handles.
Riiight?
So they trundle off down the corridors, until a new problem arises.
To get to Happy Homecoming, they first have to go through the IntSec block. Right through their main offices.
So they… do.
They just walk right through
They make it to the first elevator. The first, you hear? Well, I just tell them the security elevator. If I wanted to tell my players the truth, I’d be playing DnD. Anyway.
Green Goon: “Hand over all weapons and defensive and offensive equipment, please.”
TEAM SPEAK:
Team Leader: “I have a cattle prod, and terrible hiding skills. I want to keep it.”
The Communist: “I have excellent hiding skills. And I’ve got to hide these explosives, anyway.”
Team Leader: “Explosives?”
The Communist: “Disguised as Bouncy Bubble Beverage.”
Team Leader: “GENIUS.”
Mad Scientist: “Envy.”
The Communist: “So, we cool to shove it down my shirt and call it a day, then?”
Team Leader: “Let’s do this!”
Green Goon: “Thank you for complying. Also, hand over all PDCs, please.”
Suddenly, the PCs feel a bit naked. They needed that for documented evidence.
The “WASN’T US” incident comes to mind immediately.
So they’re shoved along to the elevator proper, whose bot-brain demands identification.
Team Leader: “Oh, sure, we’re Troubleshooters. Got our badges and everything.”
Girlfriend: “Weren’t they with out PDC back there?”
Team Leader: “Oh. Uh. Ah. Shit.”
Mad Scientist: “Well, what else do we have?”
The Communist: “Oh, you’re fucking kidding me.”
Team Leader: “What? What?”
The Communist: “Equipment Guy, I think you uh, need to make out with the lens of the security camera. And slip it the tongue for good measure.”
Mad Scientist: “RIGHT. BRILLIANT. THIS IS A FANTASTIC IDEA.” — There is no sarcasm here. He’s just that kind of guy. On goes the red ‘lipstick’ and—
Bot-Brain: “Identification confirmed. Have a wonderful and productive day!”
The elevator goes up to the second floor. There’s... another elevator at the end of the corridor. Manning the center of the corridor is two heavy machine gun emplacements in guard kiosks and a sort of gate system. Fairly standard checkpoint. What isn’t standard is—
Green VULTURE guard: “Present all cans of Bouncy Bubble Beverage for X-Ray.”
Oh, dear.
Yeah, see, I’d rolled this up in the same vein as Eey-0-R, just some tedious but dangerous beaurocracy. I did not expect or remember one player had filled some of his cans with high explosives.
This would be...
Hrrm.
They start scanning all 216 cans individually, as bored as the players, while they talk to their resident smuggler. How are we going to do this?
“I’ll make another concealment check.” The Communist says. “I got this.”
They get through all 216 cans before the patdown begins. All other players, being legit, get through fine. The Communist rolls...
Oh, dear. He just fails by a little bit.
I tell him he can conceal either the cans, or the team leader’s shock baton, but not both, stressing to him privately he can pin the latter on his team leader. He defies Paranoia spirit and tells me;
The Communist: “Don’t worry guys. I got this.”
He chooses to keep the baton concealed. They discover the cans of beverage.
He adds: “But I’ve been concealing about sixteen others as well, to be fair. My character tic is Bouncy Bubble Beverage addiction.”
I check his character sheet. It’s legit.
So the guards get very annoyed when the cans come rolling out of the pat down. He blanches and has the decency to look embarassed. “Sorry. I have a problem. This is from my private collection.”
“Ah. Well, we’ll just scan these and...”
The guards grow significantly less bored when the cans are scanned.
“... the rest of you, go on ahead. You’re late. We need to talk to this gentleman here a little longer.”
He waves after them as they leave up the second-last elevator. “Good luck, guys.”
They go on without him. I send The Communist out to the other room to chill, eat some food, drink and be merry. Generally, ponder his fate away from everyone else, and everyone else away from him.
The rest pass one more security guard on the level above. A Blue, asleep in his cubicle. The Team Leader pokes him awake. He grunts, and waves them through.
Well. Alright then.
They’re in.
Meanwhile, downstairs...
Green VULTURE: “You are aware that these cans contain a potent explosive, yes?”
The Communist: “I had explosives on me?! I could have been killed!”
Green VULTURE: “Then you were not aware of the nature of these cans?”
The Communist: “Of course not! That’d be insane! And to carry them so far into IntSec headquarters?!”
Green VULTURE: “This is an important matter of security, then. Tell us how these cans came to be in your possession.”
The Communist: “Well, I bought them from a vending machine yesterday. Death Leopard must have sabotaged it, those bastards!”
VULTURE: “That does seem to be in their MO. We’re just going to check your financial records, see if your story checks out...”
The Communist: “The odds are high I bought three cans yesterday, right?”
Me: “Roll for luck.”
He does. It comes out... poorly.
VULTURE: “We have reports that you bought one can from the vending machine specified. Explain.”
The Communist: “I... okay, I admit it, officers, you caught me. I paid for one, and three came out of the machine. Oh, I should have reported it at the time, officers, truly, but I was so scared I would have been deemed treasonous to Friend Computer. What I had done was tantamount to stealing, officers, and there was nothing I could do about it! I was so ashamed! That’s why I wasn’t entirely honest about the nature of the purchase...”
VULTURE: “Story checks out. I’m afraid we’re going to have to confiscate these for evidence and fine you for misappropriation of property. Go join the rest of your team. I’m sorry you were the victim of such a malicious act of treason. This will be vital in our efforts against Death Leopard...”
The Communist: “Oh, thank you, officers! Thank you for your compassion!”
As he scurries off, to me; “I still have the detonator, right?” “Yep.” “Brilliant.”
The reason the Pandemonium game fell apart, I cannot help but stress, was that the game required honesty and pacifism in judicious amounts.
Yep.
So we join the rest of the group back together in Happy Homecoming facility proper.
Oh, dear but this one is a doozy.
So you have... hrrm. You have a little anteroom, like a dentist’s office with a magazine rack filled with useful things for your next clone to know. Since you’re about to die. The players wait here reading the provided material while they wait for The Communist to catch up and regale them with his exploits. Oh, also to be briefed.
Let’s call this woman The Colonel. She has a name, but I think a title sums up her personality a lot better. She wears it well enough. She’s a Green, the assistant director — as she informs the players brusquely — and she wants to know what the hell the Troubleshooters are doing here.
“You, uh, didn’t get a memo or...?”
“I did. I just require formal identification.”
The Mad Scientist pulls out the lipstick. The Team Leader shoots him an annoyed look.
The Team Leader, devoid of his PDC, has to recite his mission codes from memory. Fortunately, as you recall, that’s his special skill. The Colonel is mollified -- still annoyed, but there’s not much she can do about it.
“Fine. Go on through and set up your concessions stand. The guards will clear a space for you.”
Team Leader: “Do you know anything about the rubber handles or the air fresheners at all?”
“... I can guess, but I’ll need formal requisition to supply you the required information. Let me go get that. Just... get to work, please? You’re already late.”
The players rush off to set up their drink stand in the middle of... let’s describe Happy Homecoming a bit, shall we?
The place is huge. Thirty meters up, you can’t even see the roof, it’s so obscured with darkness. The heavily reinforced concrete walls are scratched and scarred and charred and scorched and partially melted by heavy ordnance. A lot of it. There’s a huge hole to the North-East corner that reeks of corpses and open sewage.
There are four walkways lines with plastic cells on either side, overflowing with people. At the end of each is a sort of metal cylindrical tube. Every few minutes, a green light switches to red, there’s a horrific whirring sound like a particularly meaty blender, a whooshing like a large toilet flushing, and the tube opens up again, empty and spotless-clean. The euthanasia booths proper.
The room they’re in, at the other end of the corridors, is just wide open expanse. Probably for milling people about, sorting them through, having the giant heavy security gunbots loiter about on patrol, you know, aesthetics. It’s here, watching down the rows of the damned, our “heroes” find themselves setting up a drinks cart.
All they have to do is serve drinks.
What could possibly go wrong?
I think it says something that that ending "What could possibly go wrong?" doesn't actually seem to make matters worse.
Patreon
I'm not stable or smart enough for patreon
Oh I can not wait to find out what possibly went wrong!
Anything from wheels too squeaky, requiring lubrication, requiring more forms, to the drinks actually causing a clogging issue with the involuntary euthanasia tubes.
Oh god. I don't think crooked enough for Paranoia.
I regret not getting to edit these earlier, it's so worth it.
Oh god, the paper work. I was cracking up so hard but I had to be quiet about it and my co-worker thought I was crying. She wasn't totally wrong.
Good sweet Luna's Glorious Teats, this is amazing. I do NOT have the brainpower or knowhow to survive a Paranoia game for longer than two minutes, but it's fun as all blazes to read these!
It's times like these when I really wish I knew a local gaming group that did Paranoia Fridays.