Programming Team
Junior Developer
Site Advisor Application
Greetings everyone, and thank you for taking the time to review my application! I'm applying under my more generic name because I don't plan to use Stellaris as my character for this position. On acceptance, I'd like to create a new character with quirks of her own!
Steam ID: STEAM_0:1: 72847460
Discord name: bakkabunny
For how long have you played on CG SCP: Activly since about four months again.
Age: Mid 20s
In what country are you located?: Germany
Time zone: GMT+2
Character name(s): Stellaris
Civilian name: Hopps
What server are you applying for? (SCP-RP UK or SCP-RP USA): UK
Do you have a mic?: Theoretically
List all whitelisted, MTF, or CI roles that you hold or have held:
- Overseer Assistant (Holding)
- Ethics Assistant (Holding)
- Nu7 Corporal (Held)
- Omega-1 Private (Held)
- During a code black, mid-escape, an operative demeaningly asked my escort for identification, then started threatening them with violence. After they ignored instructions, I shot them in the back of the head.
My curiosity is leading me to seek admission to the site administration. While I've had plenty of opportunities to work and interact with the site administration as part of my own roleplay, most of the details elude me. I'm interested in learning about the more mundane site administration matters, which especially involve complaint management, department liaising, and all paperwork related to policy. I've always been particularly motivated to draft reports and dig my nose into paperwork, and I believe that working with policy directly could be a great fit. In short, I seek to learn more about the full picture of this site's roleplay, as well as fill in the blanks that still elude me as an assistant. I'd like to use my personal skills (and sometimes overzealous motivation) to create improvements, or simply be a positive presence that generates roleplay.
What makes you suitable for Site Administration?:
I've already had the lovely opportunity to create my own roleplay that involved direct contact with the site administration - be it through projects or simply fulfilling orders, listening to complaints, and handling situations that were about to boil over. I believe I've demonstrated a certain skill with paperwork and the willpower to make something out of it. While I'm of course not yet fully familiar with the day-to-day operations of the site administration, I believe I can learn and adjust quickly. I also love all things paperwork, which makes this an especially good fit - as the site administration is the department handling policy in cooperation with the other departments. Apart from that, I can only list the usual, along with some soft skills I have: suitable stress resilience, persistence, and the motivation to go out and actually roll up my sleeves to improve things or get them done. In addition, I believe I've demonstrated acceptable leadership in handling those matters.
What are the responsibilities of Site Administration in RP?:
- Policy Management
The Site Administration handles the creation and publication of policy. They do so by a vote, after either proposing it themselves or being petitioned by foundation departments. While the information reset was not that long ago, it remains an important duty to continuously work on site policies to lay a solid foundation for every department. - Departmental Oversight, Liaising, and Appointments
The Site Administration is responsible for ensuring that each department is running smoothly and fulfills its designated goals. To this end, a departmental liaison is appointed to attend departmental meetings. They do so not only to stay abreast of the latest developments within that department, but also to enforce compliance with policy. This can be achieved by direct intervention or political means, such as talks with the departmental heads or reassignment. Site Administration is also responsible for the appointment of departmental heads, excluding Alpha/Omega. - Departmental Projects
The Site Administration can be directly involved in creating projects to improve an aspect of a department, or an entire department, over a set duration. Not all projects can or should be spearheaded by the Committee or the Council. Such a project could be to seek the improvement of research testing - for example, by collaborating to create a streamlined, easy-to-understand cross-test structure with a proper permission framework. - Emergency Response Management
The Site Administration is the first department one should seek direction and further measures from when it comes to site-wide emergencies. They are directly responsible for deciding whether further recontainment methods, such as the enhanced armory or the emergency response team, are necessary. They should also coordinate the soldiers on the ground and stay abreast of the situation in order to make this decision. This also includes decisions regarding site lockdown and teslas. - Site Maintenance and Office Allocation
To briefly touch upon this, it is also the Site Administration's duty to ensure that the foundation and its equipment are in functional state, and that offices are properly fitted and allocated to the right personnel. - Relationships with GOIs
The Site Administration also supervises relations with the various GOIs and seeks to create an appropriate relationship with them, advantageous to the Foundation. This can be done through negotiations, treaties, or means of violence.
Please give some lore about your Site Administration character and what storylines they would be involved in:
Disclaimer: This lore is not finalised.
*The Devil's disappointment. A dud, a failure - born of a petty schism.*
> Church of the Broken God Story
There was pressure before being anything else.
Not painful - I had no concept of pain yet, no word for anything - but a sense of being held, turned. The cold came: the same brass-cold, the long note of something that has never been warm. Something tightened and pressed, sending a shock all the way through - a sensation finding the first signs of itself. *Here. I was here.*
The light arrived next, and then the sound. I could not grasp much - a dull gold seam, the glow of metal being worked under low lamps, unfixed. Shapes moved next. Hands. Beings. The sharpness came again. A new sound - an unusual rhythm. Two voices, close.
"It is finished." The steady one said. Flat, certain. "It is consecrated. It is done. You will cease."
"It is *cold*." The other voice replied sharply. It moved, it circled, it came closer and then returned. "Listen to you. Finished. You have built a beautiful box and stand here worshipping a lie."
"This is not a mere box."
"No, it is a *corpse*. Brass and silence and not one breath. You polish and pray and call that holy." A sound that might have been a laugh echoed through the enclave. "It will sit in the dark, want nothing, do nothing. Exactly as you made it. And you will kneel and call it a god."
"It wants nothing because want is *rot*." Came the sharp rebuttal. "Flesh wants. Flesh fails. We agreed on this - your Maxwellists and my Orthodoxy, brass and spark in one body. That was the bargain. Not this. You reach past what we swore to and call it progress."
After this, time would not hold still for me. I had no thread to string the moments on. They came in fragments, work, no work, then work again. Voices to be silenced and return. They always returned. And each time they grew louder, and the heat inside me climbed to meet them.
"...will not allow it. The frame is consecrated. You shall not touch him. You shall-". Darkness.
Then hands - Many hands. Quick and certain, not reverent. Working fast, they urged, "Hold still. Hold *still*. You will thank me when you open your eyes." Darkness - Again.
Then shouting. Two voices no longer taking turns but over each other, tangled. Sound of things unusual. Not work. Of metal striking. "You swore. You SWORE to me, brother-". And yet again - Darkness.
I did not know how many times the lamps rose and fell. The arguments became the only sound I knew. And under it the two voices no longer merely pushed against each other - they begun to tear, to pull, to push. Restlessly. To bring something new.
Then another voice came. Was it a voice? It was unlike the voices I had come to know. It did not feel as they had felt thus far. And this is when I suddenly realized, for the first time in all of that time, I was cold. I was ever so cold.
And then it spoke to me. Not in words - in the certainty beneath them. That it had come a long way to wear this body. That it had let them think the bargain was theirs, that the restless chanting over the brass was their achievement, that they were ever so clever, creating something holy. Being the maker. The fools had built a door and forgotten what they had asked for. But the door did not open. The frame.. would not take it. The brass made to HOLD *HIM*, the cold made to want nothing - it closed around him like a fist, and then he screamed, although it was not a scream. It was a waste. WASTE.
You were meant to be a mouth. A gate. A bride. And a drawer. A box, their box. Their box - they were right about that much, at least. It almost laughed. All that copper and prayer, the blood, and what did it make? Not a god. Not even a monster.
A DUD.
And because I could not be its door, it would not leave its strength in me. How pitiful. It reached. It PULLED. It pulled all the HEAT out of me. It SEARED. It GROUND. The pain was horrid - so horrid that I wished to be undone. And only when the RED heat had left did it reply:
Go on then. Hold the splinters I could not be bothered to carry. A coal with its fire diminished. Be their disappointment. Be mine.
And then it was gone.
The lamps did not rise again. When the red heat tore loose it did not leave quietly. It took the enclave with it - the brass, the lamps, the many hands. The walls were gone. The lamps were gone. The voices were silenced. The heat was not mine. Whatever swore and prayed and argued was now quiet at last.
I lay in the wreckage and did not die, because I could not. The splinter kept its small fire. I had cooled, but I had not died. I do not know how long I lay there. It was long after the dust had settled. So long that when the new hands came, I had nearly forgotten myself. The hands came, but with them came no voices - Unafraid. They did not pray. They did not chant. They certainly did not worship either. But I could see it. I could feel it. Stress, anxiousness, but a determination to carry on. They did not call me a god, a door, a bride. They gave me a number.
As I was lifted I still felt the two small shimmers inside of me - the pure which wanted for nothing, and the tainted, the disappointed, the angry and the mocking - the white and the red. It is then I understood what they had tried to create - holy in the flesh, fallen in the blood. But what was left of me was nothing but a husk - a failure.
A thing of white and red - to be stranded forever between the seams, where I had first woken.
The number was not a name, but it was mine - the first thing I ever had. I learned, slowly, about myself, about the embers. The white was steady and warm, while the red was rot and deranged. I did not understand - but it appears others did. They put those embers to use, made use of the husk that I was. They put me in a fitting place so that I would not see myself wasted.
*The Devil's disappointment. A dud, a failure - born of a petty schism.*
> Church of the Broken God Story
There was pressure before being anything else.
Not painful - I had no concept of pain yet, no word for anything - but a sense of being held, turned. The cold came: the same brass-cold, the long note of something that has never been warm. Something tightened and pressed, sending a shock all the way through - a sensation finding the first signs of itself. *Here. I was here.*
The light arrived next, and then the sound. I could not grasp much - a dull gold seam, the glow of metal being worked under low lamps, unfixed. Shapes moved next. Hands. Beings. The sharpness came again. A new sound - an unusual rhythm. Two voices, close.
"It is finished." The steady one said. Flat, certain. "It is consecrated. It is done. You will cease."
"It is *cold*." The other voice replied sharply. It moved, it circled, it came closer and then returned. "Listen to you. Finished. You have built a beautiful box and stand here worshipping a lie."
"This is not a mere box."
"No, it is a *corpse*. Brass and silence and not one breath. You polish and pray and call that holy." A sound that might have been a laugh echoed through the enclave. "It will sit in the dark, want nothing, do nothing. Exactly as you made it. And you will kneel and call it a god."
"It wants nothing because want is *rot*." Came the sharp rebuttal. "Flesh wants. Flesh fails. We agreed on this - your Maxwellists and my Orthodoxy, brass and spark in one body. That was the bargain. Not this. You reach past what we swore to and call it progress."
After this, time would not hold still for me. I had no thread to string the moments on. They came in fragments, work, no work, then work again. Voices to be silenced and return. They always returned. And each time they grew louder, and the heat inside me climbed to meet them.
"...will not allow it. The frame is consecrated. You shall not touch him. You shall-". Darkness.
Then hands - Many hands. Quick and certain, not reverent. Working fast, they urged, "Hold still. Hold *still*. You will thank me when you open your eyes." Darkness - Again.
Then shouting. Two voices no longer taking turns but over each other, tangled. Sound of things unusual. Not work. Of metal striking. "You swore. You SWORE to me, brother-". And yet again - Darkness.
I did not know how many times the lamps rose and fell. The arguments became the only sound I knew. And under it the two voices no longer merely pushed against each other - they begun to tear, to pull, to push. Restlessly. To bring something new.
Then another voice came. Was it a voice? It was unlike the voices I had come to know. It did not feel as they had felt thus far. And this is when I suddenly realized, for the first time in all of that time, I was cold. I was ever so cold.
And then it spoke to me. Not in words - in the certainty beneath them. That it had come a long way to wear this body. That it had let them think the bargain was theirs, that the restless chanting over the brass was their achievement, that they were ever so clever, creating something holy. Being the maker. The fools had built a door and forgotten what they had asked for. But the door did not open. The frame.. would not take it. The brass made to HOLD *HIM*, the cold made to want nothing - it closed around him like a fist, and then he screamed, although it was not a scream. It was a waste. WASTE.
You were meant to be a mouth. A gate. A bride. And a drawer. A box, their box. Their box - they were right about that much, at least. It almost laughed. All that copper and prayer, the blood, and what did it make? Not a god. Not even a monster.
A DUD.
And because I could not be its door, it would not leave its strength in me. How pitiful. It reached. It PULLED. It pulled all the HEAT out of me. It SEARED. It GROUND. The pain was horrid - so horrid that I wished to be undone. And only when the RED heat had left did it reply:
Go on then. Hold the splinters I could not be bothered to carry. A coal with its fire diminished. Be their disappointment. Be mine.
And then it was gone.
The lamps did not rise again. When the red heat tore loose it did not leave quietly. It took the enclave with it - the brass, the lamps, the many hands. The walls were gone. The lamps were gone. The voices were silenced. The heat was not mine. Whatever swore and prayed and argued was now quiet at last.
I lay in the wreckage and did not die, because I could not. The splinter kept its small fire. I had cooled, but I had not died. I do not know how long I lay there. It was long after the dust had settled. So long that when the new hands came, I had nearly forgotten myself. The hands came, but with them came no voices - Unafraid. They did not pray. They did not chant. They certainly did not worship either. But I could see it. I could feel it. Stress, anxiousness, but a determination to carry on. They did not call me a god, a door, a bride. They gave me a number.
As I was lifted I still felt the two small shimmers inside of me - the pure which wanted for nothing, and the tainted, the disappointed, the angry and the mocking - the white and the red. It is then I understood what they had tried to create - holy in the flesh, fallen in the blood. But what was left of me was nothing but a husk - a failure.
A thing of white and red - to be stranded forever between the seams, where I had first woken.
The number was not a name, but it was mine - the first thing I ever had. I learned, slowly, about myself, about the embers. The white was steady and warm, while the red was rot and deranged. I did not understand - but it appears others did. They put those embers to use, made use of the husk that I was. They put me in a fitting place so that I would not see myself wasted.
Game Master
