Triiodine

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    Triiodine

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  1. Even kings can't face that level of burn out. Rest well sweet prince. I'll ping you some other time. There's not a person who's played that hasn't come to know one of your pieces of content, be they aware or not. You have been, truly, a great credit to this place.
  2. Addendum: Since Cardiac Failure requires Shock as a pre-requisite, you can prevent new-crit for the entire round by just smoking cigarettes injected with Saline-Glucose solution, bypassing the new system entirely.
  3. Generally speaking, as I understood it, digital valves exist in atmos to allow the AI to prevent rogue atmos techs from plasma flooding, and vice-versa. A double check and balance. Regardless digital valves break on the pipenet about 9 times out of 10, so you're pretty insane to _not_ replace them at least on distro by round end, which should be straight pumped if you have any amount of sense in you. There's no reason for a non-antag to ever touch the plasma loop unless they're repiping for a TEG or SM, as the Turbine can be run off the base-setup just fine. There's no need to even remove the digital valves in the first place regardless.
  4. A Better Guide to New-Crit. As penned by Triiodine. New-Crit is difficult to work around. It makes chemistry gray their hair faster than an atmospheric technician that forgot to screw down a plasma window while running a TEG burn chamber. Why? You need primarily two chemicals according to your medical scanner. This is correct, but you can greatly increase your chances of keeping someone alive by spicing up your mix with more chemicals than there are spices in the Dutch East Indies. First, we'll need to break down critical condition. You fall into critical condition at 0 health (At full health, you have 200 total points shared across your entire body). At -100, you die. Very simple, this is unchanged. Past a cumulative 100 damage of any type, you begin to roll for catching critical disease. Why it wasn't refactored into it's own system is beyond me, regardless, it means we'll need to bust out our robust virology knowledge to safely bring your favorite security officer or mindslave back from the brink. New-Crit can be broken down into two different diseases: Shock. Cardiac Failure. Let's break down on how to prevent and cure shock. Shock is a three stage disease that begins to give you really annoying messages about feeling weak, as if falling over and passing out faster than a college freshmen drinking for the first time wasn't enough to remind you that something maybe, just might, be wrong. Switching to MD. Robusto's perspective, our shock patient has rolled into medical (somehow) still alive. In our hypothetical, let's say our patient is at -170 damage, cumulative in equally distributed burns across the body. Plasma fire or something stupid, the usual. Regardless, its up to you (MD. Robusto) to save them. If you're not a chemist you're chances of saving this poor fellow are so exceptionally low, you might be tempted to do what all the cool kids are doing these days: Cloning, its hip, its new, its an all new you. Saline-Glucose is the only chemical that can be used to cure shock, remind yourself that its handled by disease code, and acts like one in lockstep with others. Curing isn't instant, and curing requires a specific chemical. You can get a bottle of Saline-Glucose pills from the table right next to the sleepers at round start. Be quick though, a nibble assistant might nick them before you even open your locker for your precious nitrile gloves. While you're busy stuffing your patient's face with Saline-Glucose, make sure to either A. Slap them into a well stocked sleeper, a well stocked cryo-cell (Both unlikely), or slap them with whatever trauma patch is most applicable to their condition. If you can get them above 0 damage and into a non-flashing health-meter, then you can prevent their chance to roll for Cardiac Failure. Are they cured yet? Great! Good job MD. Robusto, you've saved a life in New-Crit. Pat yourself on the back and splint their legs up before sending them off to surgery or whatever post triage care they might need. If they're not cured and the situation is worsening, they might roll into Cardiac Failure. A double whammy, two diseases. They'll also start to accumulate oxygen damage (and brain-damage) the longer they lapse into shock. Don't let that happen! Stuff them with Salbutamol, yes that's right, the chemical you can find in every maintenance closet and O2 kit. Yes it does stuff, yes it works, its a wonder chemical now! None of that is true. While the Salbutamol will offset the stacking oxygen damage, their brain is still going to give up on you in the near future. You're racing a clock here now MD. Robusto. So to review, Shock can be prevented and cured with ONLY Saline-Glucose solution. It can either be gotten round-start from a table next to the sleepers (Only on Cyberiad), or made in Chemistry out of Salt, Water, & Sugar. It is advised you beg the HOP for chemistry access, and or set your chemist preference to high so you might have a never ending supply. Let's break down on how to prevent and cure Cardiac Failure. Alas MD. Robusto, it appears your valiant and well educated efforts have failed to save your patient from the rough tool-boxing they've received, and their heart has gone on strike, despite not being part of any union you've heard of. So how do you convince it to go back to being a wage-slave pumping blood for someone who dreams of antag rounds but can never connect fast enough to make the three minute lobby window due to dreamdaemeon being gobshite at routing connections through the rented hub servers. Well, you'll need either EPINEPHRINE, and or ATROPINE. Both complex chemicals to make. Atropine used to be a late shift chem used for emergencies only. Now its in every single vendor this side of the Centauri Sector. Use it wisely. Remind yourself that diseases (and thus New-Crit) can be cured with up to just 1u of the cure chemical. However, this is a race against brain-death, and the more chem the better. During Cardiac Failure, your patient might experience Cardiac Arrest (a heart-attack). This can be prevented by either A. slapping them with the codersprite handheld defib, or B. slapping them with a proper defib. I would recommend the handheld, as it has no wind-up time, and thus resets their heart-beat immediately. So they've got both shock and cardiac failure? Well, unless you happen to have the entirety of chemistry in your back pocket like the greedy Warden has the entire armory up his, you probably are going to lose the patient. Sorry man, that's just how the game works! You'll need to continuously repeat the following steps until your patient is recovered from new-crit, while also trying to heal them past the critical threshold of 0, and also hold back the tide of oxygen-damage and eventual brain-death. Scan that fucker with your handy dandy upgraded medical scanner. (Seriously make sure its upgraded) If they're in Cardiac Arrest, mini-defib them. Make sure to avoid applying the patches to your forehead, as tempting as it might be to escape this realm of suffering via self inflicted brain-electrocution. If still in SHOCK, apply more Saline-Glucose to face-hole and or via injection site of preference. If still in Cardiac-Failure, apply more atropine and or epinephrine to face-hole and or via injection site of preference. If experiencing oxygen damage or minor-brain damage, apply salbutamol to patient and cross your fingers. Remember that all other previous medical damages such as a collapsed lung, internal bleeding, infection and rotting might also be at play and need to be addressed. Repeat until patient recovers from new-crit or dies. Admit that cloning is probably faster. Cry. “It just works” - Todd Howard. Lost them? Well, you can hang your coat at the genetics door you poor sap. Another body for the hungry cloner gods. Such is life. But what if, there was another way... Something more effective than just three chemicals? Well your Papa Triio (me) and Randomguy spent about 3 hours trying to build a TEG before re-discovering the secrets panel and powering up the SMES's to chem, and we've concocted a mix that'll get your patients out of most situations if you're fast on the hotkeys and keen with the chemicals. Its time to set your chemistry or CMO preference to high, because buddy, you're about to become the hero new-crit needs. You'll want to concoct a mixture of the following chemicals: Salbutamol, Atropine, Saline-Glucose Solution, Ephedrine, Epinephrine, Mannitol, How you mix and match them is up to you, but we recommend your primary ingredients are that of Saline-Glucose, Salbutamol, and Atropine. You'll want to apply these chemicals in 10u doses from one mixed beaker with a syringe. So two 5u injections. Avoid using medical-hyposprays or the CMO's hypospray, while they might work great for other chemicals, they only inject one set of chems at a time, as opposed to giving an equal distro of all the chems pulled via syringe. Aka, if your spray is loaded with two chems, 15u Water and 15u Sugar, and injection is set to 20u, the first injection will be 15u Water, 5u Sugar. Not very handy for our purposes! Your process now becomes the following: Scan the fucker, and be quick about it, if you can see they have a disease on the Medi-HUD prep your syringe. Inject them with 10u of the solution if you haven't already. Continue to scan them and shock/defib as required by cardiac-arrest. Once Atropine concentration is less than 1u in their system, re-inject. Treat bodily damage as you normally would. Attempt to get patient above crit threshold. Repeat until you succeed, or run out of chemicals. If you run out of the mix, revert to previous instruction. It is recommended that you skip to step 9. (Cry) But what does each chemical do? Salbutamol is great at healing oxygen damage and preventing brain-death. Atropine is, atropine, considered a cardiac stimulant, also great for general damage handling. This is where the moderate healing for the mix comes from. Saline-Glucose also heals brute + burn and prevents/cures shock. Ephedrine has a small chance of addiction (prevented by 1 minute in a sleeper, literally an inconvenience, don't sweat it), but also helps cap out oxygen-loss and unlike Salbutamol, also caps out Breath-Lose, which is a special type of oxygen-damage that's tied into the whole brain-death part. Ephedrine will also reduce stuns and while it won't stop shock, it'll lesson it's affects on the patient. Epinephrine is like the weaker cousin of Atropine with less brute & burn healing. When combo-ed together you effectively double your chance of curing cardiac-failure. Mannitol heals brain-damage and prevents brain-death of the patient. Best of luck out there MD. Robusto. Whoever might be watching you, do them proud. P.S. There's a standing PR that changes brain-death from 200 damage to a hard 120 damage, the clock is ticking MD. Robusto. P.S.S. Should Lavaland get merged, there's a chemical related to the flora of the landscape that can be used to combat new-crit, but I'll leave that to you to discover. P.S.S.S. this has only ever been experimented on within a test environment, results may vary, everything could be wrong. Everything could be right. I genuinely can't check.
  5. Cut the safety wire on EVA closets, stuff a body in, run the decontamination cycle. Congratulations, you just dusted a body.
  6. You can interact with just about anything with Telekinetics actually. If you open a cabinet with paper in it telekinetically, a random paper will fly out across the room. You can take extinguishers out of fire-cabinets, use botany trays, etc. It's pretty similar to AI object usage actually (it uses the same code block to initialize with in_use!)
  7. Howdy folks, this one took me awhile, and it's very non-standard, being an actual story and not a 'biography'. However I hope this story tells you a little more about Chadwick B. Dunlop, the broest of bros. Note: that while the following story is completely SFW, there are some exceptionally minor suggestive themes. But they are present non-the-less, so fair warning. If it's deemed inappropriate I'll happily omit details or take this post down. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it. Feedback always welcome! --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The smell of asphalt combined with the cool draft from the bottom of the door. The lighting was a depressed sparkling yellow. A bulb popped audibly with each surge of the amplifiers from the front, the wires straining to match the venue's requirement. A trail of wet, squeaky, bootprints marked out the common ground between the exterior and interior world. Various posters lined the walls, haphazardly placed, once detailing past concerts and performances, but now the long faded scraps only told a story of decay. Dunsmuir grabbed the shaky handle of the maintenance door, and thumbed out a key from his belt, pressing it into the gap. With a heave and a turned handle he popped the lock open, stumbling into the alleyway and down the stairs. The white noise of the city flooding his music deafened ears. The smell was immense, horrid, lingering in the air. A long stale haze of garbage, discarded booze, and dead rodents. He wrinkled his nose and propped the door, stepping to the side. The red glare of passing taillights lit up the rain washed walls with reflections of luminescent blood. He glided to the edge of the alley, the soles of his boots shuddering otherwise still puddles of a storm that had just passed. He turned his shaded view away onto the busy streets, fingers fumbling a cigarette into his mouth. The streetlight was harsh in the cold. Maybe it was the taste of his cigarette, maybe it was the passing cars and vehicles, maybe it was the ringing in his right ear as his VAE implant tried to reboot. The gentle mechanical clicks whirring in his neck, over and over and over. It never failed for this long. It had him on edge, the world without diagnostics and instructions from the Advisor system was a very very different place. His numb fingers pulled back on the flint of the lighter. It was mostly trivial things, excluding his implant, that were bothering him. He'd been four hours without instruction now, a damned long time to be in the dark from the Advisor, but he was managing, if barely. Odinet Limited ran the Advisor program, operating barely in the realm of legality. The merging of sapient thought and artificial intelligence wasn't illegal. No, anyone could order a Man-Machine interface only. It was the shared space that was illegal. Organics only ever became synthetic, by choice or by punishment. Synthetics never ever became organic. But Odinet was the exception in the field of “Shared reality”, you got input, occasional sudden muscle memory that the Advisor gave you. It was like having a Big Brother that worked for you, not against you. Sure he got advertising that was targeted at his subconscious desires, but that was just one of the trade offs. He needed the system for his job anyway. It's how dispatch kept tabs on all their officers. The sunglass wearing corporate officer watched the slow decline of the after-show steadily streaming out the building's front, disgruntled taxi cab drivers yelling from car to car. Something about new engine regulators and red tape. He couldn't understand the gutter speak, grunts and bellows that flew between the cabs of the lower and upper traffic. Red taillights combined with the gentle blue and thrum of hovering cars above. Rubber, asphalt, garbage, cigarettes, and ozone. That was the city as he knew it, and it never seemed to change. The night was old, it had begun old and decrepit like the building he leaned against. A reflection of the city. But tonight it was different, something was poisoning the area, his eyes scanning, searching to answer his uneasiness. Dunsmuir took a drag from his cigarette, detached from the controlled chaos but also a part. A way for the city to see itself for a moment in reflection. New San Jose, or Aguille-4, as it was legally called, didn't seem to ever change, yet if you blinked for a second it'd be a different place. Someone somewhere sold the city to someone somewhere back somewhere in a different system. Why anyone would want a place where a breath mask is required every summer season was beyond him. He wasn't one to question these things. Space politic was a different language. It was beyond most people. For people with the money to filter their air everyday, who could pay for a rice cooker that wasn't made out of spare parts. He tapped the edge of his cigarette and took another drag, the synaptizine infused nicotine rolling through his system, offering a lick of comfort via a cheap high. He felt it crackle through his mind, vision sharpened. It was an enhancement drug, made you focus down on things. All the kids back in school took it for the pre-tests, people applying for out of system positions. Pretty much anyone doing anything complicated. It was a brain stimulant, kept you on the edge of the edge if only for a minute or two. Legally a class 6 stimulant, but even the big corps like Donk Co. had subsidiaries that distribute infused products. He felt the kick tingle down his spine, head state sharpened for a moment. He pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose reseating them. Eyes narrowed as they scanned the street again through the filtered lamplight, the haze of the rain and smog. There it was, that's what was putting the whole night off. The same rubber had been sitting across the street since the start of the gig. Long, sleek, black. Nice tires too. A little too nice. Dunsmuir blinked, taking a drag, mostly ash this time, eyes narrowing. It was the hubcap, plasteel, not regular steel. Sure, the rubber was a bit of a beater, he couldn't discount that, but no one buys plasteel caps. That's not even an option in New San Jose. Too expensive to import from the fringe manufacturers. You can tell by the way light plays off of the metal. It absorbs it a bit, something about the way plasma works in the alloy. Science he couldn't grasp. The VAE clicked in his neck, he felt his skin roll as it moved from its dormant position, snaking within its synthetic tube up around his spinal column and seating with his brain. He took another pull from the cigarette, the burnt end getting dangerously close to his fingertips, to distract himself from the internal intruder. With a comforting wet click he felt the second mind saddle in with his own. Advisor chirped softly, biometrics rastering into his periphery. He could feel the synthetic plumbing his mind for the past four hours, rereading, re-calibrating with the database. Like someone was flipping through his mind as a filing cabinet, making six calls to the lower division, covering some bases, connecting the dots, faxing some reports, all ending with an award winning customer service smile. By the time the consensual parasite gave a happy blip of activity, the motors rolling up through his neck just below the surface, the vehicle he was so fascinated by had gone. In the haze of synaptic smoke he turned his thoughts inward, eyes unfocused lenses. Satisfied that the disturbance to his nightlife was gone, Dunsmuir turned heel. Work was to be done if he wanted to make up for those lost hours. Advisor gently prodded his thoughts with something about consumer loyalty, and fulfilling departmental goals. It was all drowned out by the rubber sitting at the end of the alley. Same plasteel caps. There was a man, 6 button coat, shoes polished, barely wet. He's just gotten out of the car. He's too casual. Dunsmuir's eyes flicked up to his face. Award winning customer service smile. This isn't right. The LeMat Type-22 grew heavier on his hip with each passing moment, corporate security badge burning in his wallet. Wrong territory. This wasn't his precinct. “Charleston B. Dunsmuir!” They knew his full name. That was never good. “You forgot to de-activate your tracker!” That's what happens when your Advisor fails to reset for four hours. He ran over his options. They were armed, bump in the coat, left side, probably some sort of sown in pocket. So was he, LeMat Type-22, buckshot on the second trigger. No way he'd hit at this range. Running would be difficult, they'd send more than one vehicle. His department wouldn't help. A needle pressed into the base of his neck. The word stimulants flickered across his vision, a pressure forming at the back of his eyes. Advisor picked his drug infused brain in the frozen moment, planting the name of the employer of the man down the alley. Kapila Functionary, roaming, no active block usage, private security, unknown permit class. He had never heard of them, this was supposed to be Paragon turf, corporate security, Class 2 operating permit, overlap permitted, stationary 36 blocks controlled. This was supposed to be an off night. He was deactivated. They weren't corporate. Private. Advisor escalated it's subconscious warnings accordingly. Anything they wanted couldn't be good. “You're on the wrong side of things today Dunsmuir.” The man stopped leaning against the hood of the car and began to walk towards him, hands in his pockets. “Sorry kid, but I outrank your badge.” The man spoke again, he was a bit, too, to the point, his voice was off, measured practiced Tradeband. The spacing of his words were all wrong. Dunsmuir's heart pounded in his head, he was frozen. This is how people died in his line of work. Wrong place, wrong department, wrong badge. You didn't fuck with the privates, and even the corporates like him weren't a laughing matter. Advisor reminded him that he could still run away. His feet remained planted. “I'm sure we can talk about this.” Dunsmuir spoke through grit teeth, whatever Advisor had dosed him with was tensing his neck and jaw up. His limbs felt like they were on fire. He needed to move lest he burn alive. His jacket was too hot, LeMat too heavy, boots too planted. He needed to run. Run or shoot. It was a struggle to think. A bead of hot sweat gently traveled down his forehead like a rain drop, his glasses foggy. “Now I'm really sorry Charles, you seem like a nice kid!” The voice was still far off, 30 meters and closing. “You don't have to be sorry!” He called back, his arm twitched, a jitter pushed through his chest. The cough never came. Run. “But I'm here to help you, really I am.” 20 meters. “Bullshit.” His voice was a strangled squeak. Shoot. “Your VAE is off, you're being told the wrong things.” Run. Advisor remained silent, he felt his brain being rifled again, robotic limbs trawling through his neck in waves. The man was at 10 meters now, hands still in his pockets, a smug look on his face. “Let's make this easy.” Shoot. Dunsmuir recalled a muscle memory that wasn't his own, eyes deadlocked. His fingers wrapped around the heavy steel butt. The double action revolver aimed with foreign hands. Second trigger. Buckshot, ten meters. There was a flash-less burst of smoke, fire spitting forward. The Kapila coat billowed. That smile didn't waver. A pellet tore through the mans neck, synthetic flesh peeling off and shuddering with violent kinetic force. The machine's smile faded. “Sorry Mr. Dunsmuir.” Pocket, left side, device, three tubes, blue lining. Run. He didn't have time to pull the trigger again. The device clicked. Advisor screamed. Dunsmuir whimpered. His biometrics scrambled, his entire body burning from the stimulants. He stumbled back losing the support of the alleyway, his feet not listening to him, mind falling into a tide pool of noise. Advisor let out a hollow rattle. A sharp pain in the neck moving up into the back of his head. He was on the ground, how did he get on the ground? Vomit forced its way through his throat, limbs spasming, his conscious mind struggling to fight back control of his body. There was a pressure behind his ears and eyes, he felt like his head would explode. The machine stepped closer. He heard the button click against fake fingers. The noise was too much. The noise hurt. The pain. Shoot. Noise. Run. Think. Noise. Pain. Live. Pain. Dunsmuir passed out, twitching on the ground. With a spark, his conscious mind was dredged back into function, bones shaking with the thrum of the pounding music. The world danced back into view through a heavy sludge of unconsciousness. Lights throbbed overhead as various bodies swayed and gyrated about him. Dunsmuir forced his way through the crowd, eyes open, wide awake, moving between sweat soaked forms, his hand outstretched in front of him, parting the crowd. It was dark, he could barely see between the flashes of light from above. His headset crackled to life, the words simple: “Be careful, subject last seen closest to you officer Dunsmuir.” He nodded to no-one, his sunglasses glinting under teal strobes. The beat of the song seemed to slow down, each strike against the synthetic drum mirroring his steps. He got to the edge of the crowd, the moving forms of dancers and party goers fading into a blurred mess of lost visual noise. A ringing passed through his ears. He stepped off the dance floor, lace up shoes clacking against the rim. The music dulled out entirely. The lights stopped, sounds a slow out of pitch drone. He froze. The artificial overhead holding the room in an incandescent haze. Industrial lights flashed into existence, causing him to wince even through his sunglasses, the poorly rendered security display blasted away in the glow, his body limned against the edge of the floor. A spotlight on his departure from a drugged nirvana. He turned slowly, the crowd never reforming from his periphery. A faceless collection of bodies staring back at to him as he stood under the spotlight. Panic laced his heart. A swivel door slammed open, his headset crackled back to life as he blinked, the music resuming, the light gone completely, spots left in his vision. The floor had already forgotten him. His passport into the action was handed to him with the bark of one word in heavy Tradeband. Go! It was a hit, in the classic sense, at least that's what he remembered the briefing as. Despite having just got here, he couldn't remember why exactly he was here, or how he got onto the floor in the first place. However, he knew he was here to shoot someone. They were always told to try non lethal rounds, or smaller calibers first. But everyone knows a .22 is just as lethal as a .45 at 10 meters. It still tears through a perp as he tore through the revolving doors, still spinning on their hinges as he burst into the side room, feet flying over tiles. This wasn't right. Instead of pole-dancers and more incandescent decadence he was in an upperclass kitchen, the lull and slow drone of the music faded like waves behind him. He couldn't stop running. This had all happened before. Something in his head was screaming for him to stop, but he couldn't prevent his legs from repeating their motions. Shoes hit tile, he hit another door, rushing past faceless kitchen staff. Panic set in as his world entered automation, his headset speaking a foreign language. It was Tradeband, he knew Tradeband, why couldn't he understand? The door at the end of the kitchen opened as he crashed into it shoulder first, his revolver drawn. He fell out into the alley from before, the faded posters telling a story of decay. He looked back to the door, his body responding with drunken speeds, vision flickering on an unsteady update rate. There was no kitchen, just a slippery doorframe and a sparking lightbulb. Dread filled his body and his mind, a tingle rolling through him as the sense of free-fall forced its way up through his feet as if the ground were poisoned. Sweat dripped down his forehead. He turned towards the end of the alley where the rubber should be. Heart in his throat he saw a man. His target was there running, dress shirt billowing. Advisor was silent. He lowered the revolver through the puttied air. Wincing he pulled the trigger, hoping to end the nightmare of this twisted reality. It didn't kick, the crack rippled over him, the air in front of him shattering into glass. A crescendo of the world shattering about him as he shot apart the visual facade. Orders are orders. With a strange sense of ease he reached and pressed two fingers against his headset, shaded eyes staring into the crack spreading over the air in front of him. “Target out of reach, reques-” He paused, his fingers trembling, mind surfacing, scrambling and clambering back from the tide of the dream and back into control. He had to escape, he couldn't accept this as a proper reality. The air shattered again, the break in reality consuming his vision. He turned to look away towards the sounds of the street behind him only to meet the same darkness as the ripple he had shot open. Silence. He reached for his headset again but found nothing. Rolling his hand over his neck he found no reassuring lump that would usually be Advisor idling. Alone. He stepped forward, the sense of free-fall gone, coolness wrapping over him. A draft seeming to come from every direction. It cut into the bone, the darkness having replaced the alleyway, as if he had never been there. His skin shivering as he took another step forward. It was so cold. He struggled another step forward, his fingertips losing feeling, needles and jabs rolling through his palm from the hilt of the revolver. He tried to raise another step, but stumbled instead, finding the pain of freezing too intense. Dunsmuir fell forward, sunscanners smashing against the dance floor, his eyes struggling up to the view of moving feet and platform heels. A random hand grabbed at him, pulling him off balance from behind. He was hoisted to his feet, bewildered, dreadlocks staring at him. “Hey man you doing okay? Took a bit of a tumble there yeah, haha shit bro.” Charleston stared at the man, teal strobes flashing over the other's face. He would answer, but his walkie-talkie spoke again, his gaze bewildered. “Be careful, subject last seen closest to your location Dunsmuir.” He mumbled something incoherent in thanks and pushed the other man to the side. He'd do it right this time. Following recorded footsteps to the edge of the floor, he reached into his shoulder holster and drew his revolver. He stepped off the dance floor tentatively this time, kicking the edge of it with his foot. Finding no reaction he stepped off proper. On queue the swivel door slammed open, and the blur of his target went running. He ran after, pushing the door open, confidence surging as he pushed through the doors. It crumbled around him as he stumbled out the doors and back into the alley. He was towards the end of it, facing the street. He turned his head and saw the lowered revolver, his own finger on the trigger. He glanced to his side, shoulder holster empty. Breaking into a run down the alley to escape, he heard the crack, no glass shattering the air. Instead his glasses shattered out in front of his vision as a flush of warmth pushed through his head, sunscanners smashing into a thousand pieces in slow motion as he fell, held alive in stasis. The bullet hole leaking an incandescent red, awash with streetlights into the air, like smoke trapped in water. The force of the shot and his bad angle turned him as he fell, a slow motion spin into the nights' alley on repeat. A broken VHS of self murder. His shades collapsed over him with the force of a shattering plate, eyes staring unfiltered back at his self assailant. Through the glass he saw himself, and beyond the glasses, he saw the man-machine in the Kapila coat. Dunsmuir hit the ground, bullet hole boring through his mind as he slipped into a sea of half-consciousness, fighting for life in his fake reality. His mouth lay sprawled open blood pooling out of it, the moment of the drop trapped in his skin. “Sorry Mr. Dunsmuir.” He lay there trapped in a rolling stillness, left to decay. Voices echoed in the shallow tide. He felt his mechanical companion once more. VAE crawled through his mind, cauterizing parts of his personality. He could feel his very being slipping, moments of his past flickered before fading away entirely with sepia tints. Snippets of information planted about his head like gifts. It wasn't painful, it was peaceful. Almost, lovely. He forgot his name as he lay there, vision shuttering. The dream shattered, the nightmare rattling to a close with a whimper. He blinked, auto-responding to blinding light. Surgical tools rattled. Deft hands made deep cuts that couldn't be felt. He sunk back into his head again, this time the dreamscape empty. No dance floor, no previous operation. Lost in the depths of an empty content-ness, the very semblance of his identity filed away somewhere to be forgotten. No memories to re-live and lose again. Numbed, the man that was once Charleston Dunsmuir smiled, the last of his personality shuffled away as he dropped brain-dead on the operating table. The next time he woke up, it would be with a different name. “So I mean, that's what I've been thinkin' man, like, bro just THINK about it for a hot minute, aight like bro you just ain't THINKIN' hard enough, shit man just, like focus real hard, yeeeah real hard.” Chadwick leaned into his shoddily constructed chair. It was made out of some spare parts he had found in the back of the cargo warehouse. Warehouse wasn't really the right word for it, since it was more of an enlarged hole in the maintenance tunnels, ancient industrial lamps dangling from the ceiling. He took another pull on his cigarette and focused, the other cargo technician, Texas Bellum, looking across at him with red eyes. He scratched at the scar on the back of his neck. Texas took a drag from his joint, blowing out a cloud of smoke before speaking. “Man you're not making any sense. Really ju-” Chadwick cut Texas off, waving his cigarette dismissively. “No that's exactly it,” he lowered his hand and slapped his shoes onto the floor leaning forward aggressively, “That is exactly it.” He pointed at Texas with his other hand, stroking his goatee with the other. “What I mean to say bro, and like listen to this broslice, that is exactly the BIZ that I have been trying to drop hotter than a fuckin' reverse-tychon plasma reactor leak like Centauri 6 bro-slice. No one is thinkin' hard enough, not you, not me, not NT. Bro shit man,” he flipped his shades down looking Texas in the eyes. “I tell you what home-slice. We're all just a bunch of brain-dead re-programmed corporate nobodies from other systems, and we're like, slaves to the machine or something man. Haha shit, that'd be rad as fuck. It's like the twenty second Matrix, but this time it's like, real.” “Didn't they cancel the twenty third? I heard it reviewed bad for test audiences.” Texas Bellum slowly replied, taking the theory in. Chadwick nodded solemnly, leaning back again. “Shame they killed the franchise man, it was the last hold out of old-Hollywood before Luna-wood took over. Artificial gravity lets you get away with a lot in cinema.” “Yeah damn shame. Most stuff is CG anyway these days, or just IPC's in skin suits, pre-programmed actors y'know?” Texas paused, flicking his left wrist up checking the time. “Listen man, order comes in… in uuh, like two minutes. We should wrap up.” he stood and paused at the shutter, hand over the button, “Are my eyes red?” Chadwick shook his head, “Bro you know the QM broski doesn't care. No one here is paid enough to care.” With that, he stood up and followed Texas back to work.
  8. Ya can't keep a good thread down. Bay chem can be gotten out of plants from botany. Most of these chemicals are stronger or more effective than their contemporary goon counterparts, especially with the new plans for the critical rework. Bicardine 4 lyfe
  9. All simple bots (buzzsky, medibot, floortilebot, etc) can switch languages in the IC tab. They can speak binary, trinary, common, and if I'm not mistaken tradeband in some cases. The AI I know for sure can speak Tradeband and gutter.
  10. The idea to move away from the more common TG medical of “Fuck they died, cloning time” was and is a noble move. Except everything done has done the complete opposite. I am genuinely impressed at the absolute ineptitude displayed in understanding of the game systems and how they interact with one another in regards to player culture. If I'm not mistaken part of these updates have also been echoed to move the codebase further towards MRP. While yes, one can use mechanics to inform roleplay, roleplay is always secondary to mechanical systems. One falls into the fallacy of Dungeons and Dragons, wherein you have persons that play the game to smash and kill things with big dice rolls, while the few others at the table wish to roleplay and speak to the NPCs primarily. When the game systems are built around mechanical interaction (The game doesn't prompt you a moral question before you slam a toolbox into your co-worker, it just encourages you with screaming), roleplay becomes secondary to the moment to moment systems. This is further exacerbated by the fact that this is a video game. A video game that inherits most of it's tonal themes in regards to gamemodes from social games like Mafia, Werewolf, Town of Salem, Trouble in Terrorist Town, and others. The list goes on, but primarily, when players understand this mindset that x is not with y, and it's their job (specifically as a medical player) to prevent x from eliminating y through their practice alone, you'll see a trend towards the stereotypical silent super doctor who will wordless slam you onto the operating table and cut your septic spleen out not expecting thanks. And you, non the wiser will wake up from surgery, and impatiently wait for them to open the door to the operating room so you can continue with your round. Exceptional roleplay, 10/10 very robust everyone. Even the Head of Security stood up and clapped. You cannot enforce roleplay through heavy handed mechanics. Full stop. Please stop trying. Roleplay is suggested and informed via mechanics, not controlled by it. Seriously. In regards to the actual mechanical changes themselves? Well personally I'm a fan of Goon crit, and more specifically I'm a big fan of CM pain mechanics, however those systems specific to their codebases and style of gameplay work very well. They fit because they were designed with their player culture and other systems in mind. Here? Well first, you can't discount the other medical changes that have happened in respect to the critical state changes; and everyone has already said it. Medical was fine the way it was. Sure a little tedious at times, and yeah no one wants to make morphine but someone's gotta do it. But it was fine for what it was. It worked, it had interplay with other systems. It was fine. However this reminds me more of attempts to port Lavaland, which inherently is flawed for Paradise player culture do to the culture and codebase it was designed towards (TG). To make an analogy, you can't put a Prius Electric Engine into your 1990 Honda Civic and expect it to work. Goon is a Prius and we're a 1990 Honda Civic made out of spare parts that TG and Bay left behind. What's happened here boils down to: “Cloning bad, but other revival method bad, roleplay good... cannot roleplay if dead. Fuck” By obfuscating the systems instead of actually creating complexity off of what was already present, these updates have done the exact opposite of what was intended, and instead have exacerbated the outlying issues already present and brought in a whole slew of new ones. I guess we can all get participation medals though, this has been quite fun to talk about. I am very interested in how the player concerns are eventually addressed if at all, as right now if I'm not mistaken, no one wants this that regularly plays medical. Take what I say with a grain of salt, as we all should do with everyone, as it is just an atmospherics simulator with too many layers to count. Sorry if I've stepped on any toes, be they big or small.
  11. You can set-up multi verb macros by writing new verbs in the macro starting with /nverbhere. IE: `say "Bob Ross did nothing wrong!/nrest/n say "And I will lay here in protest til he is released!"` This can be used to pick-up items, eat food, basically anything. If you can do the action by typing it in the textbox, you can macro it. This goes for movement and facing directions as well actually. So if you have DVORAK or AZERTY you can re-map your keyboard. It'd just take ages and lots of verb look up. You can also use this to be a cheeky cunt and cycle through all security gear pickups. But that's pretty borderline power-game. So watch yourself out there. You can use the holster with the H hotkey, but I bet you already knew that. What you probably didn't know is that more often not jumpsuits are smaller than guns in your inventory, and guns can be extracted from holsters with the hotkey while in your backpack (Take that bluespace!). So, if you're that sorta Warden, stuff the guns into some suits for maximum space efficiency. Earmuffs prevent flashbang stun, but not blindness. Combine with regular shades and a normal headset for a ghetto bowman headset. Expanding off of what @Benjaminfallout said. Any item without a defined force value defaults to 5 brute damage. And fist stuns only apply when targeting the mouth (unless someone changed it) Boxing gloves deal stamina damage. Stamina damage is almost impossible to counter even with adrenals due to the way it stacks & handles codewise. Admins, if they've foolishly left combat logs on, can see everytime you hug someone. Hug the admins chatbox to death. The maxcap limit can be escaped using assembly code and ideal gas law with certain holding tank types. TTVs are the only piece of bombcode that properly adheres to maxcap rules. However to achieve more than maxcap you not only need a lot of math, but need a tank that can hold more than 70 liters of gas. It's possible, but I'll never tell you how. Happy experimenting. Prisoner jumpsuits and regular orange jumpsuits are, well the same damn thing. Roleplay as an escapee I guess? You can matrix bullets by resting. Results may vary.
  12. Given the population levels of Paradise and the length of the common round, I fully agree with @Slith-Skaar on this one. Though I personally think X-Ray should be straight removed from Genetics (I also think we should adopt the new TG Genetics, which are, if I'm not mistaken Goon Genetics, could be wrong). That entire section needs a rework. X-Ray is just anti fun for antags with zero downsides. It's great to have it as security, but it's never fun to be on the other end of it. It's like random crits in TF2.
  13. Actually, the wallet hides you from security HUD entirely! You won't even have a question mark, there will be nothing at all. Feature of bug, doesn't matter, it's silly broken! However if you're mindshielded that icon will still appear.
  14. Weapon permits are assigned to your ID card by the Head of Personnel. All of security and all Heads start with one. Functionally, it doesn't do a lot. However the magistrate can get your ID card checked to see if you have one.
  15. Pageking is actually something from Facepunch Forums. First poster is always 'page king' and usually has to post something decent. Just a little sub-culture thing I picked up. Anyway, here's some more stupid tips that you'll never use but can impress your friends with. You can change your scaling settings from various filter settings in the drop down menus. Toy around with them and see what's best for your monitor's resolution! Speaking of scaling, you can zoom in your game for easier robusting, or for better screencaps in the same menu! IPC's can choose 'prosthetics' for their heads & other limbs, and can sometimes take regular human hair as well depending on their choices. It's like a shitty build-a-bear workshop, except it's intelligent robots from the future in a game running on an engine from 1999. Yeah! Did you know revenants aren't actually damaged by salt? Yeah the only way to kill them is to manually robust them. And no, the Chaplain doesn't do extra damage to them. The Chaplain however does do extra damage to shadowlings if they take the whip variant of the nullrod. They also get some neat and silly flavor text! (Please don't valid the thralls) You can crash the server with instruments if you try hard enough. Seriously they're terribly coded. You escape item & grab delay with hotkeys & macros. As a stealth op, you can change your appearance at the mirror in the nukie shuttle. With the brand new surgical duffel the area spawns with, you can also effectively change your appearance properly. Just make sure to delete everyone's security records for maximum confusion on the station. Sometimes, poor communication is better than no communication. Have someone steal security comms and call false nukie positions while the rest of the team gets the job done. Spears, when thrown, have a very very high change to impale in the victim and cause internal bleeding. If you have a weapon permit, holding that there green chainsaw is technically legal. It's not contraband! The red variant, aka the syndicate variant is. Books that haven't been updated to just link the poorly maintained wiki page via bad HTML are likely outdated. However you can argue old bad space law IC because no one updated it, and that's technically an IC issue. Take that wiki-nerds. (Please update the books) If you flip a table southward and rest on the same tile, you're practically invisible! You can't even be seen by people with thermals due to the way overlays work. More of a CM survivor trick, but hey, you can use it to hide from ascended shadowlings! (Or Terror-Spiders, etc) Food with proper nutriment can actually heal you! So if you're down to your last limbs, munch on the chefs food. Meat items are a good call for this. That's all I've got for now. I've got benos to shoot.