alex_greene
Guest
Anyone gone through a Traveller setting where the TL progessions are a little ... skewed to the norm?
A prime example is briefly glimpsed in one of the Animatrix episodes. Set in a late 1940s / early 1950s LA, no grav vehicles - only ground cars; almost everything in monochrome with some bizarre exceptions (a computer screen's neon green glow, a lighter flame, spilled blood, a crazed maniac's scrawl on the walls of his padded cell in bright carmine red); very old rotary phones ... but reliable PCs and green screen monitors, even if their keyboards resembled old - fashioned antique typewriters.
Welcome to the world of Dick Mallet, Private Eye.
Fedoras, demob suits, whiskey sours, dames with gams up to the neck and an unholy look that should never be behind the eyes of an eighteen year old, dialogue sharp as tacks, morals straight from the gutter.
And in the dead of night, while you're doing a go-to on a missing child for your client with the steam-driven government computer in Washington, the boilermaker's fighting with the white diet pills for attention in your gut, and there's not a soul outside - plenty of people, but not one soul - the screen goes blank for a moment, then starts raining a curtain of green katakana and for a moment you think Damn, son of a bitch must've got me with a Trojen before that, too, clears and the next words you see rock you to the core.
Good evening, Mister Mallet.
The Matrix has you.
Wake up.
A prime example is briefly glimpsed in one of the Animatrix episodes. Set in a late 1940s / early 1950s LA, no grav vehicles - only ground cars; almost everything in monochrome with some bizarre exceptions (a computer screen's neon green glow, a lighter flame, spilled blood, a crazed maniac's scrawl on the walls of his padded cell in bright carmine red); very old rotary phones ... but reliable PCs and green screen monitors, even if their keyboards resembled old - fashioned antique typewriters.
Welcome to the world of Dick Mallet, Private Eye.
Fedoras, demob suits, whiskey sours, dames with gams up to the neck and an unholy look that should never be behind the eyes of an eighteen year old, dialogue sharp as tacks, morals straight from the gutter.
And in the dead of night, while you're doing a go-to on a missing child for your client with the steam-driven government computer in Washington, the boilermaker's fighting with the white diet pills for attention in your gut, and there's not a soul outside - plenty of people, but not one soul - the screen goes blank for a moment, then starts raining a curtain of green katakana and for a moment you think Damn, son of a bitch must've got me with a Trojen before that, too, clears and the next words you see rock you to the core.
Good evening, Mister Mallet.
The Matrix has you.
Wake up.
