RPG Game Thread

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Siege
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RPG Game Thread

Post by Siege »

This is the game thread for the '12 edition of the O1 RPG. So, people, let's push some prose past these screens!
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Off naked Chatham show,
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Booted Vulture »

Lieutenant Thomas Raza, a Naval Aviator with the People’s Navy Of Beshaad (although they would deny it if asked), really loved his job. For one thing, everyone had to call him ‘Captain’ no matter what his rank was. And for second, he got the fly one of the most beautiful planes in existence. The FCV-23 “Marque” class Flying Corvette; The smallest in the navy’s fleet of flying boats, it was larger than any of the seaplane fighters, the Navy used but still small and manoeuvrable enough to be real pleasure to fly. A Shapely hull packed with goodies and two engines strapped over its tail to provide thrust, enough cabin space to stretch you legs and a six-pounder cannon up front to give it a nasty punch.

Flying Boats unlike their solely water borne counter parts were named not by their builders and the military to suggest high values or commemorate worthy individuals but by the people who flew them. Resulting in names that were widely varied from the gradiose ‘Maximus’ and ‘Steadfast’, to sillier ‘bouncing betsy’ or in the case of Raza’s boat ‘Big Midge’

But the third and most important reason Raza like his job was because it was about to make him very rich.

The container ship was plying through the Indian ocean; it was heading for the shattered islands of Cevucia but right now it was the closest its route took to Beshaadi territorial waters. Onboard, it was carrying a massive cargo of high-tech dodaads that went into their vaunted and over complicated flying robots. It was worth several million Beshaadi Akat and a good 15% of that value was going to go straight into Raza’s pockets.

Prize Money was a wonderful thing.

And on top of that the high tech wares would be of great value in the maintenance of his home’s many underwater habitats. Morals were always fun to have after you got a pile o’ cash.

“Alright then, let’s make this quick and clean. Drop the jarheads and get out of here asap. Mr Micheals –“He addressed his co-pilot and Midwingman Jonas Micheals- “If you would arm the cannon and open a radio channel if you please.”

“Channel open. Cannon checks out, weapons free to fire.” The midwingman rattled off professionally.”

“Attention attention Cevucian vessel. This is Captain Raza of the flying Corvette ‘Big Midge’. Haul to and prepare to be boarded.”

“Is this is a joke?” the radio crackled by way of response.

“They always say that.” Raza muttered and pushed his plane into a quick swoop, tightening his finger on his flightcontrol’s trigger as he did so.

Pom-pom-pomPOM! Went the six pounder firing a quartet of heavy shells that great a series a splashes in a line scant metres in front of the cargo ship’s bow or at least the first three did. The last shot instead clip the larboard edge of the vessel’s foredeck and chewed a neat semicircular bite out of it.

“Nice shooting Cap.” Micheals said and Raza couldn’t tell if the man was being sarcastic, brown nosing or just an idiot.

He clicked his microphone again.

“Cargo vessel, I think I’ve made my point. Unless you think you can stand a few more rounds I suggest you heave to and prepare to be board.”

“She’s slowing down.” Micheals reported, “Her radio’s active but she ain’t talking to us.”

Raza brought Big Midge in a slow banking circle and then aimed for drink, bringing his ship into a gentle splashdown alongside the cargo vessel. Her hull shaped fuselage and wing mount floats easily kept float and sea worthy as the pulled in close their prey.

“Prize crew ready? He heard one of the NCO’s shout in the rear compartment of the flying corvette.

“Ready!” The marine captain replied. Raza heard the rear captain door sliding open and knew the marines were throwing up lines to the vessel’s deck.

“Prize crew away!” The marine’s voice crackled.

“Copy that.” Raza replied over his radio. “Good luck prize crew.”

“Rear hatch secure sir.” A crew man shouted from behind them.

“Ships turning towards home, Sir.” Micheals reported

“And so should we, Mr Micheals.” Raza replied gunning his throttle once more.

Unbeknownst to him, Thomas Raza had been chosen by his superiors for this mission not because of any great skill in piloting or gunnery but because psychological profiles suggested, he was a man not over burdened by morals or good sense, the kind of man who would do almost anything while following orders so long his ass was covered and he’d get paycheck out of it.

But even he felt a slight twinge of guilt and suspense over the repercussions this act of privateering might bring for if nothing else Beshaad was now locked into its course.

For good or ill, the die was cast.
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Siege
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Siege »

Dragograd
Novimaestrazhia


Image

Underneath the triple-armored windows of the Presidium the blockhouse high-rise of Government Center rolled away like a frozen sea of gray concrete. Inside the bleak heart of Novimaestrazhian government the atmosphere was exactly as inviting. The high ceiling of the Generals' Hall was cast in concrete; the walls faced with bare natural stone. A Gray Sun mosaic was embedded in a floor entirely devoid of furniture. The same symbol featured on the ashen banners draped alongside the high, rectangular windows. Against the far wall an eternal flame burned in an iron bowl, the only source of natural light in the room. From a recessed alcove above it a portrait of Egon Drago himself looked down on the room's occupants. His face seemed to express a mixture of disappointment, scorn and suspicion.

"Comrades," said Field Marshal Grigori Gusarov. "There has been an unfortunate development. The Okhrana have obtained conclusive proof that Governor Sudeykin of the Special Southern Zone is a rebel and a traitor. He has sold weapons and services to the Pasha of Cabool."

"He sold Frontal Aviation aerodyne sorties to the Khedivate?" asked Colonel General Yvanna Rachkovsky. She was a tall and striking woman even in her desolate Guards uniform, and poured over the briefing that had been handed to her when she entered the room. "What was he smoking? What were his twisted thoughts of a plan when he came up with this?

"The Pasha is facing revolt," replied the soft voice of Marshal Tikhon Chkalov. "Governor Sudeykin probably figured aiding him would do wonders for the stability of the frontier."

"It would do wonders for his wallet more likely," sneered Gusarov. "Sudeykin is a traitorous sellout. He must be purified at once."

"He will be the third southlands governor we put against the wall in as many years," Rachkovsky murmured without taking her eyes out of the stack of paper.

"What does it matter?" the Field Marshal growled. "His Excellency has already signed the execution order. General Konstantinov and the Iron Brigade are to be dispatched to discipline the garrisons. Sudeykin and his staff will be publicly purged for the good of the spirit of the nation."

"And the Pasha?" asked Chkalov.

"What of him?"

"What if he's overthrown?"

Gusarov shrugged. "I imagine his enemies will put his head on a pike. As long as there's no statue of His Excellency in Cabool that's not our problem. But we are to ensure the public get the correct details."

Rachkovsky looked pensively at the fluttering of the eternal flame. What the Field Marshal meant was that the governor's fall could not publicly be known to be down to the man's simple greed -- that would imply a grievous error had been made in appointing him in the first place, and Egon Drago's faithful regime did not make mistakes. "I think we will all be shocked and outraged to see Governor Sudeykin exposed," she said calmly, "as a Hui-sponsored anarchist."

"A sad case of a good soul corrupted," Chkalov nodded. That would mean Sudeykin's downfall was caused by envious external enemies seeking to undermine the Novimaestrazhian greatness, a staple of Ministry of Truth propaganda. "Perhaps General Konstantinov ought to mount a punitive expedition to demonstrate what His Excellency thinks of the wanton seduction of his faithful officials."

Gusarov looked around the room, saw no disagreement, and smiled wintrily. "It shall be done," he said.


PUBLIC MORALE BROADCASTS TODAY:

Cabool burns in the absence of Egon Drago's guiding hand!
His Excellency bears solemn witness to the Khedivate's descent into chaos and self-destruction!

Governor Sudeykin sentenced and executed!
The Iron Brigade selflessly intervenes against the rising tide of foreign anarchism!
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

For, now De Ruyter's topsails
Off naked Chatham show,
We dare not meet him with our fleet -
And this the Dutchmen know!
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Mobius 1 »

Image

“You’ll have to stop drinking eventually, you know.”

He rolled the bottle around on its edges, watching the ale slosh back and forth in the glass. “I’ll keep going until I get past the filters and get properly drunk, then.”

The voice on the line gave an audible sigh. “At which time you’d probably die from catastrophic liver failure. Anyway, you have a job to do.”

Catching the barkeep’s eye with a single raised finger, Kalter watched as the stout man trundled his way towards him, face darkening as though every step ratcheted up the chances for a fight.

“Look, man,” – voice clearly nervous, pulse rather high, mostly likely because of physical condition, not looking for a fig- Kalter cut off the analysis script before it filled up his consciousness. He’d have to talk to Virgil later about the coding on the overflow buffer. “You’re way past the limit. I think it’s time for your keys and a nice cab ride.”

Momentarily toying his the idea of flashing his – fake – badge, Kalter instead sighed, fishing out a slim wallet and tossing a couple of credchips at the man as a way of apology before vanishing into thin air.

The thermoptic shit wasn’t exactly widespread – only BLACKTABLE assets had it, what with the material and microprocessing costing a small fortune for each overlay – but momma CTI provided nothing but the best for its best. It wasn’t hard to slip out of the open bar without being noticed – even easy shit like footprints in the sand.

Virgil was buzzing in his ear about how inappropriate it was, and Kalter debated briefing simply cutting the feed. That would only make things worse, so he cut the WHITEKNIGHT off with a terse – “We have a job to do, don’t we?”

The contact paused, as though collecting himself. “Yes, well. We have a lead on CHECKMATE.”

To his credit, Kalter didn’t break pace, but when he decloaked himself in an alleyway leading away from the beach resort, he looked down to see his hands shaking. “Hit me.” CHECKMATE was the term for whoever was priority number one for CTI at the time. It was usually a position that found a rapid turnover rate, despite all the morons that struggled to put themselves on it.

General Alexei Santiago had been on the list for seven months, a whole six and a half months longer than the next longest record. Kalter clenched his fists. He was also the person responsible for lighting Jake Kalter on fire and forcing him to be rebuilt as BLACKNIGHT.

ROOK squad was all hammer and spark, the best TS Carnage pilots on the planet, only put down when wars needed to be averted. The Black Bishop maneuvered the corridors of power within the Ascendancy, searching for traitors and turncloaks. They had immense support apparatuses. KNIGHTS, on the other hand, were free to go as the pleased, taking operations as they saw fit across the world – and Jake Kalter full knew that he was one of the most dangerous men on the planet.

Santiago was worse. Virgil – the WHITEKNIGHT, the ghost in the machine of the Union networks – had always suspected Santiago of having a support base inside the High Circuit, someone with enough power and a vested interest in making Santiago as cut above your standard run of the mill warlord.

Kalter fingered the hilt of the extendable vibroblade he had belted to his hip. He had promised one day he was going to plant it to the hilt in Santiago’s chest. Here was his chance.

“What’s the lead, Virgil?”

“We have news of a possible meeting between Santiago and a Nanyang extremist faction.”

Forcing himself steady, Kalter frowned. “And why not send in one of the ROOK teams to bust heads?”

“Because,” Virgil said, “We believe Santiago has gotten his hands on a dozen nuclear warheads.”

Interlacing his fingers behind his head, Jake Kalter took a deep breath and stared out over the island paradise he had spent the last three days trying to lay low on. One last look.

“-that the Beshaadi might be-“

“I’m sorry, Virgil, could you repeat that?” Kalter took his eyes off the vista for the last time.

“I’m saying, Jake, that Santiago used twelve different ships to smuggle his nukes out of Concordis. And a team of Beshaadi Privateers just captured one of the vessels.”

“And let me guess. They don’t know that they earned themselves the full attention of a quarter of the planet. Because if we don’t get to them first, Santiago certainly will.”

RingPros Amalgamated Headlines

RingTrade to open contracts for year's first batch of Vanas Production
With the Vanas Shipyards re-entering production after the Bloody Monday Attacks of last year, the valued first fleet is currently being construction for the highest bidder.

High Circuit floats idea of Global Olympics
Alton Nureno quoted as saying "There is no reason for us not to come together under the auspices of fostering international harmony and friendly competition."
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Invictus »

Image
Customs Station 0375B, Gulf of Tonkin

The ceiling fan whirled lazily, blades of extruded polymer stirring the musky air.

Lieutenant Colonel Percival Tso covered his eyes as he tried to get some rest.

The smell of the sea didn't reach into the airtight room, only the steambath of a ZONA standard atmosphere being slowly piped in to re-acclimatize his body after a year in Hainan, Nanyang territory.

Tso's body felt bloated and his gut gassy. Aches and itches raced up and down his greenscars as the latest strains of bacteria and nanomachines from the mainland fought for equilibrium under his skin. Yet under all that was a familiar hotness - an energy that seemed to quicken inside him. His body recognized its home, and he did as well.

He looked around the bed he was laying on. It was your standard quarantine chamber, designed to be lived in while Navy Customs slowly purged your body of Green Death vectors. It was impossible for a lifelong resident of ZONA not to be thoroughly infected with parasites and such that were never to cross the border under international agreement. Most of it wasn't even remotely harmful to natives like him - but you try telling that to foreign health officials.

And for returning Annamnu, a stay in quarantine meant having your body re-infected with all the offending stuff that it wasn't politic for a tourist to have, but was only useful in the insidious bio-environment of ZONA proper. People who had been away as long as him essentially needed their immune systems updated to be able to withstand whatever latest brews the witch Evolution churned out of her cauldron.

The furnishings were bare. There were no windows, only an old viewscreen. Such Spartan quarantine rooms were what there were for everyone, from the most wretched Indentured Immigrant to senior diplomatic officers like him, who represented the military-government of ZONA to foreign nations worth building ties with.

ZONA didn't have diplomats. It only had military attaches.

The viewscreen, which Tso had turned off, flicked into life. It was an override transmission that went over the privileges of even his rank, so it had to be important. And when something important came to him, it had to be a National Affair.

Tso sprang painfully into a sitting position and put on his beret.

He returned the salute of the some apologetic-looking stationmaster whom he outranked by a considerable margin. "Lieutenant Colonel Tso." She said. "Our station has just received a hard courier for you. Accompanying message says it's from the Echelon. Please stand by."

"Acknowledged." He said. Not his Echelon-command. The Echelon. This was most definitely a National Affair.

He lowered himself off the bed and tried to exercise his aching limbs. After a few minutes of fretful pacing around the room, there was a knock on the steel door, and it swung opened ponderously.

A swarthy Greenjack stepped into the room and saluted mutely, its flat, smooth face devoid of expression. Tso sighed and saluted back. It took a large metal box from under its hairless armpit and presented it to him with both hands.

"Just put it on the floor."

The Greenjack paused for a second while it processed the command and did so. Then it saluted again and left. The door sealed shut behind it.

Tso examined the box. It was warm to the touch, and closed datajack ports studded it on every side except the top, which had a hazy viewscreen. The thing was definitely a hotbrain. Inside the box would be life support systems for a chunk of cultured brain-gristle, force-grown, flash-shaped and fed with prodigious amounts of data, designed to cook itself into an explanatory intellect even as it was being ferried to its destination. So what kind of National Affair briefing needed this combination of security and information density? Tso's brain began to throw up dark possibilities.

He activated the viewscreen. Its surface stirred into patterns of static that resembled vaguely a human face. "Lieutenant Colonel Percival Tso of 3rd Battalion Headquarters, Composite Working Group on Nanyang Federation Relations, Army Administrative Region DaiViet, acknowledge message." A voice that was also human to the same vague degree issued.

"Acknowledged."

"The communique bears all relevant authorizations from General Nortier of the Direct Action Command of the Joint Echelon and the External Affairs Commission of Central Command." The static briefly resolved into a face and codes that Tso recognized. "Acknowledge authorization."

"Acknowledged." Tso couldn't help but swallow.

"Our maritime intelligence is indicating a developing crisis in the Bay of Bengal. It is believed that Beshaadi privateers have captured a Cervaucian ship transporting important strategic cargo. The nature of the cargo is so far unconfirmed, but likely unlawful."

"What does this have to do with me?" Tso wondered aloud. "Beshaad's not my field. I'm no flying pirate-catcher either."

"It is believed that the Cervaucian vessel was transporting one of many high-strategic priority shipments between rogue elements of the Nanyang Federation and the Cervaucian Ascendency. Intelligence from the Cervaucian front has confirmed the latter's involvement. Intelligence of the former may not have reached you due to your present condition of quarantine."

"Or it reached my replacement instead. Why did the briefing go to me and not him?"

"It was judged that you possess expertise vital to the resolution of this affair. All direct action will be, of course, undertaken by other elements." The inhuman synthesized voice continued. "Acknowledge your expertise on the Heaven's Blades Society."

Tso froze. His greenscars itched.
"This explanation posits that external observation leads to the collapse of the quantum wave function. This is another expression of reactionary idealism, and it's indeed the most brazen expression."
-
REBUILD OF COMIX STAGE 1 - Rey Quirino Versus the Dark Heart of the Philippines
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Red Commissar »

Image

The man in the watchtower looked straight at him. For what seemed for an eternity those red eyes were transfixed on the man in the distance, then the guard turned away and looked at what ever lay beyond the Wall.

Mazuze stood behind the fence for another minute. The bare expanse between the Wall and the fence was maybe a kilometer long, and was relatively barren save for the occasional shrub which had managed to grow in the desolation. The separation barrier wasn't meant to be pretty to look at, but many people like Mazuze would stand behind the old fence and looked at the Wall, wondering what was behind it. All he could see was the top of some buildings which were in much more better condition than he was used to. Was it a paradise? Could people like us truly reach it if we worked hard like the Haven citizens?

Patrolling the wall was the occasional soldier, from some PMC that had been awarded the contract to maintain and secure the barrier. They all dressed alike, but the most notable feature being their helmets with their bright red eyes- was it to help them see better? Mazuze was not sure, but he never wanted to test that out for himself. He had already seen a few people, with all hope gone, run straight to the Wall before being killed by the guards. Their bodies would be left there in that no man's land, and somehow the next day when he came back, the bodies would be gone.

He turned back around and headed back to the city, taking the network of old roads back to his home. He was aiming to reach the main road, one of the few maintained by construction firms that were hired by the corporations to ensure the fast flow of commerce. The other roads were not seen as profitable, and would slowly decay into the condition he saw now.

People trudged on past him. Some were returning from work like he was, others were just heading out. Many simply milled about with nothing to do, unable to find work to feed themselves. Mazuze knew the feeling, he had gone for almost a year with out any work and had to get by on scraps and living in the old dilapidated buildings when he was a teenager. There was a palpable sense of resignation in the air, the people simply did not know what to do. The hope of getting that pie in the sky, or more precisely that pie in the east, had long since left their minds, and with it any hope they had in their lives.

As he neared the main road, he saw a crowd of people gathered around a an on the corner. Another street preacher. Almost as common as the criminals who ran amock in the city were the self-styled men and women of God to show them a meaning to their lives. Some merely parroted what they had been told for all their lives- work hard and good things will come to you. Others were hustlers trying to start up some new religion and get money from those who had all but lost hope in anything in life.

This particular man was different however. His fiery sermon seemed to have genuinely come from his heart, and after hearing it for a bit, Mazuze realized why. The preacher was part of some new cult he had heard of, they had come from far away- the wastes even beyond the Directorate someone had told him- that was telling them that their mutations was in fact a gift of God.

"They kick you while you are on the ground, and they keep on kicking you over and over again! And I ask, my brothers and sisters, why do you let them do this to you? You should not be ashamed of what you have, and yet I see you are trying to emulate these hedonists. You are beautiful, you are as God intended, you are what God sees in the future! These people behind the walls, on the Island, they are only afraid of what you symbolize! The coming future of mankind, the Kingdom of Heaven, where they will finally be washed away in holy fire, and with it the corrupt old world they vainly try to preserve! Father Bumba from the Kingdom calls on the good children to resist and band together, to join him in the Holy Community!

Mazuze continued on his way. He was not much of an ideal member of any religion, and his parents had not raised him in any such thing beyond the occasional reference to God. Personally, he thought they had avoided the main immediate issues facing the people- no amount of praying would get him a better job, avoid the gangs, or one day pass beyond the Wall. This new religion was different though, but he still felt it was for the benefit of this "Father Bumba", a name which seemed alien to him here.

He got back to the main road where he saw a handful of old cars and motorcycles going back and forth. He waited to cross the street as a large cargo truck with its escorts made its way down the road to one of the gates in the Wall. He remembered that as a child he used to stay at that gate, hoping to see what lay beyond the wall as the gates opened. He learned that there were in fact two gates within the wall, and the exterior one would open to show a bay and another gate within. The truck would go in with its escorts, and the gate would close- he never did see what was on the otherside. This was in a way everyone's first experience with the fact that there were somethings they would probably never see in their lives.

Once the street cleared, he made his way across the street to his favorite restaurant. He did not usually eat out- rarely had the money to do so- but he felt he needed something to cheer him up. Above the old door was a faded sign, which read "MAPU CAFE". He was pretty sure that the sign was missing something, but the owner, Pereira, stood by the name as the original one.

He recognized a few others from his work and acknowledged them as he sat down on a stool at the bar. He could hear the chatter of his fellow workers about the day at the junk yard, specifically how one of them was allowed by the overseer to keep an old TV and take it home.

He ordered his favorite dish, a chicken breast with some local greens and alcohol. "Local", as Mazuze well knew, meant that the restaurant had a plot on its roof or in a plot of land somewhere to handle its produce. The alcohol, he wagered, was probably brewed in an old room somewhere.

He cut into the food as the TV began blasting the national news segment of the Falcon News Channel, one of several in the Directorate. The anchorwoman, a resident of the Island, calmly read out the news stories. Mazuze, like other patrons in the restaurant, could not help but be envious of the woman- she had skin that was free of blemishes and growths, only uniformly brown. Her eyes were clear and her lips even. Mazuze knew that there was editing on the broadcasts from the Island, but it was obvious the anchorwoman was not burdened with their... peculiarities.

One may accuse them of gawking at the anchorwoman. Mazuze at least had an excuse- he could not read and only looked at the screen for some stimulation.

"... and today, the Haven City of New Hope welcomed political refugees from the People's Republic of Azania, who later discussed with our very own Armado Machel their escape from the totalitarian dictatorship"

"What was living in Azania like?"

"It is terrible. We starve while the Party elite enrich themselves off our work. We see the people here live in nice houses and access to all sorts of luxuries we do not have in Azania..."

"Do you not have anything else on TV, Pereira?", said a patron near Mazuze, "I can't watch this bullshit."

"Afraid not", said Pereira, not looking up from cleaning glasses at the bar, "I can't afford the other channels, and there are no games on unfortunately. Just be happy I'm not charging you an "entertainment fee" like some others do here"

Mazuze knew what the man was feeling. There had indeed been people who had fled Azania in the past, but they had come less and less now. The news had attributed that to the large wall that separated the Directorate from Azania in its sole direct border, but most people knew that it was the Directorate who put up the border fortifications in order to prevent "terrorists" from crossing over.

Mazuze knew of people who had come from Azania, and he also knew for a fact that most of them would end up outside the Haven cities with the rest of the rejects. They weren't even acknowledged by the Directorate except for the few professionals and other notables of Azania who had slowly left over the years.

He did not know what to think about Azania. All he ever heard about the place was bad, and the media would often talk about how there was no freedom or opportunity for people there like the Directorate had. He once had work driving small caravans for a food company that supplied Military Solutions, PMC that was contracted to watch the wall, and that was as close he ever came to seeing that place.

He had met some of those who had fled Azania, but they did not like to talk. The most he got out of one was that he felt it was a waste to go to the Directorate in the first place, that the thought everything would look like what it was on the Capital... the Island.

"And now we turn to the ongoing terror in the west. The Director of the Rhodesian Mining Corporation has re-iterated his position that the workers are receiving fair pay and housing, and that the demands raised by the workers newly formed Union were extortion. Mr. Beers?"

"I will not bow to big labor! These fools do not realize what it is the Corporation brings them- jobs, work, homes! And when they don't get what they want, they cause destruction and..."

The feed abruptly cut.

"Ah shit", said Pereira, "something must have messed up the dish. Could you go outside and see what's going on, Mazuze?"

Mazuze nodded and went out the door. He looked above the old sign and saw that the dish was slightly tilted. Must have been some kids screwing around

A loud roar started coming from down the main road. Mazuze saw it was a convoy of vehicles... though not escorting anything. As it approached, he recognized that it was a military convoy and stepped back into the door way- the PMCs were notorious for shooting at people who got too close to their vehicles.

As they rolled by, he saw the familiar logo of Military Solutions, the round logo with some sort of shape in the middle. He could not recognize what it was, nor did he really care. Undoubtedly they were going to take the west highway and go off to the mines... Mr. Beers was not bluffing about his intent with the strikers. For most of them though, it meant some jobs would be opening up soon.
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Fingolfin
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Fingolfin »

Note, this was during the past.

The Battle of Fukui Fortress
War of Retribution

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During the War of Retribution, multiple fortresses in rebel territory were targeted for destruction and subjugation. However, none of them faced a greater wrath of the Empress Sadako than the Fukui fortress that guarded the ways into the Shimane Prefecture then led onwards to Hiroshima, the capital city of the Chūgoku region. It was the largest fortress in the entire region, and it was placed in a rather strategic position to prevent overt land and aerial assault. Protected by thick layers of armour, and huge rail guns and defensive missile systems, it was also well stocked to weather out a long siege.

It was for this reason that the Dai Nippon Teikoku military assembled a huge force to deal with the fortress alone. Drawn largely from the 2nd Pacification Fleet, Shinano class Battleships and Sejong the Great class Fast Battleships formed the core of the heavy assault force, backed by multiple squadrons of Ulsan and Sepuku class frigates and destroyers. A couple of squadrons of Hōshō class carriers accompanied the force carrying vanship squadrons to the battlefield. However, the Dai Nippon Teikoku also added a small squadron of Guild Battleships which were to be deployed for the first time. Representing the cream of Guild technology, these cross shaped vessels cast an ominous presence on the battlefield.

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The enemy was however prepared for the fleet’s approach. Mechs of various varieties guarded the approach to the fortress and opened fire on the enemy fleet as they approached the fortress. Provided with ranging information from reconnaissance units, the 2nd Pacification fleet’s warships opened ranging fire and deployed the vanship squadrons, taking out a few mechs, but some of the smaller ships in the fleet took multiple hits and went down. The battleships largely shrugged off the fire and emerged largely unscathed.

Image

The fortress however, proved to be a different matter. Ironically, the fortress was built with older Guild technology and thus was quite potent. Huge railguns fired huge kinetic rounds and brought down a few battleships, and heavy anti air fire and air support made it difficult for vanship squadrons to approach and deploy their missiles. Nevertheless, the battleships’ cannonade was fearsome and many a time a kinetic round from a battleship’s Claudia railguns. penetrated the armor and exploded deep in the fortress, shaking it.

But the fortress stood its ground against the mighty Dai Nippon Teikoku 2nd Pacification fleet, and short of emptying their entire ammunition pile, the fortress will stand. At this, the commander of the fleet, Admiral Sades Koryo signaled the Guild Battleships, and the fleet made way for the Quartet of ships to pass. The defenders of the fortress watched with a mix of curiosity and fear as the four ships took position. Deciding that they should not wait for the enemy ships to open fire, the Fukui Fortress commander ordered the railguns to fire. All guns fired upon the ships and soon they were shrouded in smoke. There was a silent sigh of relief as the ships appeared not to return fire. But soon the smoke cleared and to the amazement of the defenders, the ships were completely unscathed. Protected by energized armor plating, the ships were completely impervious to almost all but the most powerful of attacks, and the fortress possessed none of the firepower qualities required to take down a Guild battleship.

Image

It was then did the Guild commander order his ships to fire. Lances of light struck the fortress with force unimagined, and to the defenders, the Guild weapons penetrated the fortress as if its armor did not exist. Within a few short moments the fortress reactor was struck and the fortress became a huge ball of fire which was seen from all around. The nearby city of Matsue’s inhabitants watched with horror as the fortress was pulverised utterly and dreaded what the Dai Nippon Teikoku would do next. Admiral Koryo signaled his thanks to the Guild commander, and ordered his ships forward to Matsue.

Loading their guns with Claudia warheads, the first time in the warl they opened fire in what was the single largest atrocity in the War of Retribution. Over a million died as the battleships rained megatonnes of firepower that obliterated the city outright in a complete firestorm. Nothing was left; not even a single human being and not even a single house stood standing. The entire battle was filmed from the start to the end and the choice bits were broadcasted throughout rebel territory. The Empress Sadako’s image was emblazoned towards the end of the broadcast, warning that this was the fate of all cities that continued to defy her will. The broadcast was enough. The remaining cities in the prefecture surrendered the next day, as did the rest of the cities on the Honshu island. All that remained was the island of Kyushu that continued to rebel against Imperial authority even till this day.
There is only war.
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Siege »

Cabool
Khedivate of Charikar


Image

Cabool was burning. Not all of it, not yet, but enough of it was on fire that from a distance you could certainly be forgiven for thinking it was. Unfortunately Viktorya wasn't at a distance yet, and from her point of view what little of the city wasn't burning yet looked certain to go up in flame in the very near future. The whole Chār Qala hab-zone was a warzone; the broken remnants of the Pasha's guards were fleeing through it in a desperate attempt to escape the advancing Mahdist Army. But the Khedivatis were slowed down by masses of refugees clogging up the narrow streets, and the Mahdists had already advanced far enough for their mobile field artillery to open indiscriminate fire into the neighborhood. High explosive shells tore through the ramshackle houses, and shockwaves of broken glass and bits of brick and wood splinters shredded anyone closeby like tissue paper. Intermittently the dull blasts of the artillery fire were punctuated by titanic flashes and boiling globes of fire where Hui-supplied thermobaric smart weapons vaporized columns of retreating Khedivatis.

To make a long story short, it was high time for the sole remaining Okhrana agent in Cabool to hightail it out of town. But that was easier said than done. The Mahdists weren't taking prisoners. They were an army of quasi-religious zealots that had boiled up out of the Hindu Kush, convinced they were the answer to what they called 'the twin tyrannies of scourge and science'. With depressing predictability that answer had turned out to involve indiscriminate killing, burning and pillaging. Or cleansing, as they preferred to call it. Either way Viktorya Stetchkov shared the opinion of the Pasha's troops insofar as that she didn't want to hang around to see what the Mahdists had in store for her. That left her, like them, only the option of a hasty retreat through the Old City and its warren of narrow roads and curving alleyways, chock-full of army trucks and hordes of panicked civilians rightfully fleeing and scared out of their wits.

Better to take the high road then.

Viktorya's feet pounded the corrugated metal roofs of the slum houses in time with the flashing of distant artillery. She could hear the shells whistling overhead. The point defence lasers of the Pasha's palatial fortress leapt hissing into action, etching momentary lines of blinding white on her retinas. Her night vision lenses flared dark for a moment; she sensed more than saw the yawning gap of an alley and instinctively pushed off. For an endless second Viktorya hung in mid-air, then she landed hard on a stone roof, slipped, rolled and slammed to a halt against the stone parapet. The impact knocked the wind out of her lungs and for a breathless half minute she could only lay curdled gasping curses.

Which turned out to be a good thing when her world exploded and everything turned sideways. The thermobaric missile struck close enough to singe hair and collapse walls, blasting away the building in an orgy of sound and dust and flame. The parapet afforded the bare minimum shelter necessary not to have her lungs collapsed but even so Viktorya momentarily lost track of what was happening as the world spun, there was a sound of collapsing stone and then she was falling, briefly, until she hit something and came to a sudden stop - again. Stars swam before her eyes, she drew a ragged breath and found herself staring up through the collapsed ruin of the building's roof. The moon and the stars were blotted out from the night sky by columns of sooty black smoke.

Why me? she thought as shivers of pain and fatigue pulsed through her body. With a barely suppressed moan Viktorya pushed herself up. The midnight black Okhrana hardvest had stopped her breaking any bones, but it didn't save her from bruising and battering. She coughed in the dust and the smoke, steadying herself against the remaining wall with one hand. Why is it always me who gets picked for these stupid missions?

Viktorya kicked open the sole remaining door and staggered into the street. There were figures moving to her right, haggard men in the uniforms of the Pasha's military, rifles slung over their backs, their arms full of valuables. A light Horch truck idled twenty meters down the alley, spoils of war piled high in the back. Looters. Maybe worse. The Szyca autopistol cleared its holster before the closest man could even drop his plunder. He managed a brief yell of surprise before she snapped off a shot. He went down without screaming. Because Voloshyn hates you, Viktorya answered her own question even as she dived and forced herself not to wince as her bruised body slammed into the ground for the third time in as many minutes. The autopistol kicked as she squeezed off another round by instinct and took another Khedivati in the heart. A third one turned and ran for the truck. He nearly made it, but then two of her bullets blew his brains out over its rear fender. He hates you because you saw him when his nerve broke on Phu Long, when he turned and ran from those Cevaucian mechs like a scared rabbit, leaving you and your team to cover his sorry ass.

She hauled herself to her feet again and stealthed over to the idling Horch. It was a big solid 4x4 that could pass for either a small truck or an enormous jeep, with a huge engine and massive balloon tires. It looked like it could knock down a house, the sort of tank-like quality preferred by the Novimaestrazhian army for which, not coincidentally, it had been designed -- at the time of the revolution, more than half a century ago. Only Drago knew what it had gone through since then. Still, any transport was bound to be better than none. Viktorya pulled herself up behind the wheel.

Huge explosions ripped through the Old City. On its big hill at the heart of Cabool the Pasha's fortress disappeared in a giant fireball that boiled away in a mushroom cloud so bright it briefly turned night into day. In the fiery glare Viktorya could see Mahdist infantry advancing up the street behind her. Obvious disadvantage was that they'd seen her too. When darkness descended back over the city it was punctuated by stuttering muzzle flashes in her rearview mirror. Viktorya floored the accelerator. The Horch pulled away at entirely too sedate a pace. She gritted her teeth and and tried to ignore the bullets whizzing through the air all around her.

Artillery fire was flattening the city ahead, a sea of Mahdist fanatics was coming up right behind her, and she was driving a stolen car of dubious reliability. Didn't look good. Oh well, at least she wasn't dead yet.

If I live through this, Voloshyn, you're going to pay.
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Mobius 1 »

Image

The Archangel Custom wasn’t as imposing as anything you’d find on the Rook Squad rosters – it had been stripped down and refitted with comparatively large wing boosters that gave the Carnage suit its moniker. And like pretty much everything else Kalter could lay claim to, it had been stolen.

KNIGHTS never received physical support beyond what they had inside their own bodies. The Archangel had been lifted from an A-Sec shipment without as much as a broken bone. Hefting the duffel full of credchips into the cockpit, Kalter grimaced as he noted how light he bad had become.

“Hey, Virgil, do me a favor. We need some capital to fund the expedition.”

The line buzzed as the AI accessed the records that were currently hidden in a couple dozen servers spread across the globe. “Do you want to liquidate the floatspice cartel’s excesses or do you want to lean on the Free Companies?”

Clambering into the pilot’s chair, Kalter pulled a neural linkage out and threaded it into the base of his neck. Ice flowed along his spine as he booted up the variable suit. “I don’t think the mercs known they’re working for the guy that killed Asagi, but if we start asking for some of their reserves they might start asking questions. Dump the drugs on the Phoenix markets and launder the cash back into my African account. It should tide me over for a couple weeks.”

The Archangel began to hum as the AetherDrive powered up, dumping power into the thrusters.

“So,” Kalter said as he hit button to seal the suit’s cockpit. “These nukes. Do we have any leads on the other eleven or is this Beshaadi privateer it?”

“The Black Bishop is tracking down how exactly A-Sec managed to misplace a dozen dial-a-nukes, but as of right now he thinks it was an inside job.”

“Well, not shit, Virg.” The Archangel have a shudder before it stood. Kalter ran through one final preflight checklist before tossing the suit thirty feet into the air and hitting the variance lever before gravity could even embrace the Archangel. The suit shifted in midair, and just as it began to fall again, it went from zero to a couple hundred miles an hour, shooting off from the port and sending a small battalion of gulls shrieking into the air. Locking in a course of the north, Kalter asked, “Someone high placed, no doubt?”

“The number of people who could organize this I could count on two hands, if I still had hands. But I pity whomever Renault fingers as the traitor.”

So did Kalter. There was BLACKROOK which was always on full readiness, rearing for any chance to be deployed internationally. WHITEROOK’s suits were always away on some mission against the warlords in the core, and BLACK sometimes helped out. Kalter and Virgil worked hand in hand.

But the WHITEBISHOP had been found to be plotting a coup that had been stopped mere hours before the Union High Circuit would have been decapitated.

And no one had filled the post ever since Nicolas Renault had assassinated the second most powerful Councilor on the High Circuit. Nobody ever fucked with Renault. It was one of those ironclad laws, like death, taxes, and little kids crying at the theater.

But Jake was on his own here, plausible deniability and everything. If command wanted to, they could just cut him loose and burn his organization to the ground – he was, to the outside world, a separate entity from the Union. Renault, however, was the Union.

“And since we have no idea where Santiago or the other nukes are, my only lead is the crew the Beshaadi moron currently has stewing in his hold, if he didn’t already murder them outright. If nothing else, it’d be worth it to spend an afternoon earning myself a nuke.”

Kalter angled to the Archangel so to get a better look at the sun setting over the pristine waters of his temporary sanctuary. It had been so incredibly peaceful on the island, and peace was a rarity in Kalter’s life.

“Do you want the Black Eclipse backing out up? I can put a call out to them and they can be suited up within an hour.”

Scratching at the hairs on his chin, Kalter shook his head. “No, update my stealth software instead and patch that goddamn optical leak on my camo. I’m taking a sneaking mission instead. But put a call in to Sam. I want help if this goes bad.”

Virgil didn’t answer, and Sam picked up on the first ring. “Jake! You know you never paid me back for the Lambo you crashed.”

“Nice to talk to you, Sam.”

She chuckled, the sound rolling easily over the line. “And I doubt you’re ever going to pay for that dinner you owed m-”

“Sam!” Kalter cut in, unable to suppress a grin. “Look, how much has Virgil told you?”

“That we misplaced a dozen eggs?”

“Something like that. Listen, if you can put BLACKROOK on high standby and ready to go five minutes before I call, you might get that dinner you were asking about.”

“Well, if I’m not there to save your ass like normal, there wouldn’t be a dinner at all, would there?”

Image

RingPros Ammalgamated Headlines

Nureno tentatively places Olympics for Summer, to be held in Concordis
With only a month to prepare, the Cevaucian capital shifts into high gear to host international delegations at the newly constructed Olympic Village.
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Heretic »

"Sadami-sama." The white-overall young man with a scar on his cheeks and intricate red-blue-green tattoos solemnly whispered as he held forth his hands that grasped a small white ceramic pitcher. The older man, who wore a hakama, nodded as he held out a small ceramic saucer. White Sake poured out and as quickly as the pitcher tilted up, the older man drank and gave out a sigh as he put the saucer down. He looked at the similarly-dressed men around him, who crowed around him and started in anxious patience.

"So, a Cervaucian shipment of some importance is being targeted by quite a few organizations. Well, good for them." He simply stated, but when he looked at the confused faces of some of his brothers and sons of his Yakuza family, Yoshiri Sadami, Oyaban of the Sadami House of the Yamaguchi Family cleared his throat to clarify.

"If we try to intervene and go on this wild duck chase, the Dai Nippon Teikoku will know about it and follow suit, and it may be more trouble than it's worth. Besides we have much more important things to worry about."

The group of men nodded. The Oyaban rubbed his shaven chin as he continued, his eyes looking down and reflecting.

"Trade between the Kyushu-Kuni and ZONA is very good, but with this damned Cervaucian/piracy business we are not sure our clan merchant fleet is save from being attacked by black op elements. While I suggest taking alternate routes, that would take longer and be very displeasing to the ZONA government, and our rivals might take advantage of risking it to make speedier deliveries. Therefore, I propose executing Project Alpha now. It would be best to show the ZONA that the Sadami Freights is the best and most secure freighter business in all of Kyushu-Kuni; and we won't let any Basheedi privateer or mercenary stop our shipments! Anyone have any questions? Good. Suchika!"

"Yes!" One of the younger men stood up in attention. Yoshiro Sadami motioned him closer.

"Prepare the fleet and send ZONA an extra 10 percent discount!"

"Yessir!" The man named as Suchika bowed and went out of the paper screen door, closing it behind him.


Near the Indian Sea
Image

The grey and squarish super-freighters formed a single line, 20 in total. The communications systems on top of the bridge of each one conveyed the same message across the seas.

Property of the Sadami Freights Company. Any who tries to interfere with our legitimate business show be considered hostile and dealt with accordingly!

Underneath the hull, buried snugly below the armored plating of the fast and futuristic freighters were the automated rail-defense guns that will pop out and fire endlessly at any who tries to hijack the ship.
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Siege »

Dragograd
Novimaestrazhia


Viktorya Stetchkov was tired. Unbelievably tired. Exhaustion soaked into her muscles, into the deepest bedrock of her bones. So deep was the torpor that moving her head seemed a feat comparable to navigating the densest ZONA jungle. Even closing her eyes was too daunting a prospect, so she had no recourse but to stare into the dimness of the small room and at the steel security door set into its bare concrete wall. Her hands were cuffed to the cast iron table, which was funny somehow because she was too fatigued to even consider lifting them. The room was cold enough for her breath to come out in little clouds, and silent except for the electrical buzz of the P.H.E. generator.

P.H.E. Deep down inside her mind, a part of the lizard brain that cared less about fatigue than it did survival told her that was important, but she really couldn't remember why. So tired. Too tired to sleep. Too tired to think straight.

Seconds ticked away. Or maybe minutes, or hours. It was impossible to tell. The only thing Viktorya knew was that the fatigue didn't go away. The lizard brain murmured that was important, that it wasn't normal, but it was hard to care when you couldn't move a muscle for want of energy. Not that she was uncomfortable. She didn't really feel anything other than lethargy.

An indeterminate period of time passed. Then a hiss-click sound rang through the silent room and the steel door swung slowly open. A man came in, dressed in an austere black suit. He was visibly ageing, and his gray hair had been slicked back in the no-nonsense style preferred by those steeled in the revolutionary years. He wore black gloves and carried a leather briefcase. Viktorya noticed he wore steel-toed boots under his suit. The upper half of his ascetic, flinty face was deeply scarred, as if it had once been badly cut and burned. He put the briefcase on the table and sat down on the steel chair opposite her. From their disfigured sockets two icy blue eyes regarded her for a moment.

The lizard brain whispered that she ought to recognize this man. But that seemed odd. Viktorya knew she'd never met him before. She definitely would have remembered seeing this face. It wasn't the sort of face you forgot easily.

The man let out what wasn't quite a sigh but definitely a breath. Viktorya could tell from the little cloud of vapor that escaped his thin lips. He unclipped the briefcase and reached a gloved hand inside, producing what looked like a remote control device. He pressed a button. There was a clicking sound, and the electrical buzz cut off abruptly.

The weariness vanished in an instant, and Viktorya immediately regretted that it did. What had been a black hole of dull fatigue inside her just a moment ago was suddenly filled with the aches and pains of a myriad cuts and bruises, the bone-chilling cold and the screaming muscle cramps caused by being forced to sit on an uncomfortable chair for hours on end.

But that was nothing compared to the sudden rush of fear. She remembered now, the arrest at the exfil by men in the brown uniforms of the Iron Brigade. The manacles placed around her wrists. The rendition to the Okhrana. Being pithed and taken by the brainstem like a willess puppet. The black hood over her head. The devastating effect bubble of a P.H.E. field. And this place, that could only be a cell in the basement of Sharashkanovsk, the infamous Okhrana prison on the outskirts of Government Center.

Viktorya knew what happened to people in these cells. She'd brought plenty prisoners here to be interrogated. Very few of them ever saw the light of day again. This wasn't good. This was very ungood, in fact. Something had gone terribly wrong in her world, and she didn't even know what it was. Part of her wanted to rage at the injustice of it. She accomplished the mission. She'd made it out of Cabool in one piece. She deserved more than this! But she ruthlessly suppressed the witless fury. Stay cool, Vik, she told herself. Figure this out. Stay alive.

The man regarded her with a face devoid of all emotion. "I," he calmly began, "am Overdepartmentsecretary Polyakov."

You're dead, the lizard brain yelled at her. Dead dead dead!

Now she knew where she recognized him from: whispers. Rumors of Polyakov, the elusive Director of the Okhrana. One of the Troika, the three shadowy councilors that answered to the President-for-Life himself. One of the deadliest men in the nation. His word alone could sentence thousands to death - and had. A block of ice settled in the pit of her stomach. Viktorya had no idea what terrible thing she'd done to attract the attention of the nation's ruthless spymaster, but she had a sudden inkling what the future had in store for her. There'd be talk. And then there'd be water, or electricity, and finally a shallow grave.

But perhaps even worse than that was that he saw exactly what effect the simple utterance of his name had on her. The ruined scars that had once been his brow knitted themselves an almost imperceptibly small distance closer together. He pursed his lips. "You know who I am."

Viktorya swallowed. "Yes." Her mouth had gone very dry.

He nodded. "Then you should know that you have..." He reached in his coat and produced a steel plated pocket watch. He glimpsed at it. "... five minutes to convince me not to have you immediately executed."

She went very still. "I see."

"Do you?" There was a hint of amusement in his voice. It disappeared as fast as it had come. "What can you tell me about Taskleader Voloshyn."

That he's a weasely bastard! thought Viktorya, but she bit back the reply. What did he say about me that would get this man involved? She spent ten seconds furiously thinking. Polyakov simply looked at her with at best mild disinterest, as if he was watching a particularly clever circus animal try a trick.

"He has been Taskleader of my detachment in the south for five years," she began. "We... didn't see eye to eye. But he had the support of Governor Sudeykin and of Departmentleader Milyutin." Her pace quickened. "They questioned my ideological purity. But if that's what this is about then in my defense-"

That wasn't what Polyakov wanted to hear. He cut her off with a single gloved gesture. "Why were you in Cabool?"

"I was dispatched to gather intelligence on the Mahdist army formations and dispositions so they could be-"

Again the cutting gesture. To Viktorya's imagination it looked eerily like a falling guillotine blade. She swallowed. "Who signed for this mission?"

"Voloshyn did."

"When did you last see him?"

"Uh, on the third. This was a day before-"

"I know when the third was." The reproof in his voice was enough to send cold shivers down her spine. But at the same time she realized something. Polyakov wasn't asking about her. He was asking about Voloshyn. If he was asking about her superior, there was a chance this wasn't about her. Maybe it was about him. "Did you notice anything unusual about him that day?"

"I-" Viktorya frowned and looked at her shackled wrists. "No. I suppose not. He was his usual nasty confident self."

"And he ordered you to depart for Cabool."

"That is correct."

"Simply yes or no will do. He sent you alone?"

"Th- Yes."

"This didn't strike you as strange or unwise?"

"Unwise? Yes. Strange... No. Our relationship is... strained. He has a habit of sending me alone on missions that should be carried out by a team. I have suspected many times he wished to be rid of me. I have complained about this in fact, to Departmentleader Milyutin. You can ask him if you-"

"Milyutin has been purified." Polyakov said it in a conversational tone, which made the impact all the worse.

Viktor Milyutin was - had been - the senior Okhrana operative in the southern zone. He was connected. Protected. Or he was supposed to be, anyway. For him to be interrogated and executed - because that was what 'purification' meant - indicated... Well, what the hell did it indicate? What was going on? And how did it reflect on her? Viktorya gulped. She was way out of her depth here. Swimming in shark-infested waters, the Beshaadi would say. "Well... You have his files, I take it."

Polyakov simply steepled his gloved fingers. He didn't speak. He simply looked at her with those icy blue eyes. But the simple act of his looking carried a weight that grew as his silence dragged on. She could feel it on her shoulders, pushing her down into the seat. She didn't dare speak, or move. She barely dared to breathe. A minute passed. Then another. The silence became very nearly unbearable. Viktorya knew she was about to break when finally Polyakov asked a final question. "Do you hate Felix Voloshyn?"

"I-" She knew she had absolutely no idea what the right answer to that question was supposed to be. She looked at the manacles again, and resignedly answered, "yes."

"Interesting." The spymaster gave her a wintry smile that didn't reach his eyes. "And as much as we expected. It was a black mark against you in your records. But now we have obtained evidence that Taskleader Voloshyn was part of a conspiracy involving several ranking members of the regime's administration. They have been arrested, but unfortunately Voloshyn has... disappeared, I suppose is the word. And disappeared quite entirely, which given our resources is no small feat. You are the only member of his cell to resurface, and now the black mark counts somewhat in your favor." A minute shrug. "I would have you shot anyway but I was... persuaded that it would be a waste of an agent." He smoothed his featureless suit and narrowed his eyes at her. "So I am conscripting you. Personally. You will do as I say, when I say, and not hesitate. Or else my leniency is revoked. Is this clear?"

So now I'm not dead? Viktorya nodded without fully comprehending. "I- yes."

"Excellent. Your first job is be hunt down Felix Voloshyn and show him Drago's justice." Polyakov looked at his watch and stood up. "The five minutes are up, Taskleader Stetchkov. Congratulations on your promotion."
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

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Off naked Chatham show,
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Red Commissar »

Daily Supplications


Praise be to the Emperor and his divine realm!

We would be lost without Him, it is only in His mercy we receive protection.

He surrounds us and keeps us safe from the heathens who wish us harm

Or the profligates and heretics within our ranks.

His infinite wisdom grants us luxuries and comfort

Like the mighty Andes, He stands over us and reminds us of our purpose.

We are His soldiers, ready to do has He wills to show the world the true way.

We praise Him for his generosity, and hope many more years of his glory.

May He look upon us with approval and continue to grant us success and prosperity

May He forgive our past transgressions and sins

May He continue to protect and guide us

Praise be to the Emperor and his divine realm!
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Booted Vulture »

Bay of Bengal
Two days from port…

Marine Captain Abdus Jones was on top of the world. An entire container ship was in his possession. A Hundred containers full of computerware; basically silicon gold. His share wouldn’t be as large as that tosspot Raza’s but still large enough for quite a bit of debauchery when they reached shore.

The original crew of the vessel, which had been disappointingly nameless ( Abdus Jones, Captain of CX8909232 did not have ring to it) were locked securely in their mess on the lower decks. Which was all to the good, Abdus certainly didn’t want to have his prize taken away from him.

Just two days more baby sitting this big automated hulk and he’d been free and clear. What could be easier?

Jones’ radio crackled.

“Boss. I think you better come down to the cargo hold. We have a big problem.”

Jones’ bristled.

“You know what I really hate? When they call people in movies and say ‘there’s something you have to see’. Just spit it out private.”

“I- I think there’s a nuke onboard.”

Those were the kind of word’s that would ruin anyone’s day. Forgetting any kind of officer’s dignity, Abdus ran through the ship’s corridors and forgetting any kind of sanity he ran towards the potential atomic weapon.

He reached the relevant container quite quickly. The private looked liked Abdus felt, shakey and pale. They’d been searching the container just for kicks, to tally up how much it was worth.

No-one had expect the container Diatronics Incorporated to be mostly empty with another container inside it. A heavy lead lined container, covered in radiation warning and atomic symbols.

Appropriately enough, it looked like a coffin.

“So…” Abdus said after a length pause, “Didn’t the thing covered in warnings could be dangerous till after you cracked it open right?”

The device looked a very large, very modern suit case. All chromed metal and silvery plastic. There was no visible controls though some may have been locked behind panels. Nevertheless it managed to seem indimidating just sitting there.

“Tech Com?” Abdus spoke unto his radio, “You got the longwave transmitter up and running? How much encryption can you stick on that thing?”

This was way beyond his paygrade.

***

Admiralty House,
Beshaddi


Rear Admiral Hanza Fazur really hated his office. It was too big, too opulent considering he spent all his time stuck behing the same metre of desk 9 hours a day.

The plus was the mirror, a great arc of three inch thick clear plexisteel. Fazur was closer to a century old than not and as a boy he just remembered what life had been like when there had still be some solid in Beshaad. People like the claim the seascape was beautiful but they were just trying to be modern and make the best of an absolutely appalling situation.

His aide, a flag lieutenant at least three decades his junior hurried into his room.

“sir, sir I’ve got the latest report from the privateer squadron.”

Fazur glared at him.

“Hussien, I am well aware you think I’m going senile, but I still remember you giving me those an hour ago.”

“No, Sir an emergency communication came in from one of the prizes sir. The container ship.”

Grudgingly, he took the piece of paper and read it. Then he read it again, very carefully. He didn’t bother to ask whether it was accurate. He had a sinking feeling in his gut that it was.

“That… that is rather more success than we had hoped for Lieutenant.”

“Sir.”

Not yes sir or no sir. Just Sir. Hussien didn’t want to have any hand this decision one way or the other. Neither did Fazur but he could not dodge it so easily.

“And So much for plausible deniability. People might let us string things out saying it was regular pirates when you seize an ordinary freighter or two. But when you walked off with someone’s pocket deterrent they tend to be less concerned about civility.”

“Sir.”

“Well Damn and blast it. The die is cast and we must see this through to the end. What forces to we have in the area?”

“The privateers have a full wing sir; 18 flying corverttes. We can scramble two wings of Darts, 60 fighter sir.”

Fazur hammered his fist on the table.

“Think you jillock! We can’t swarm the place with seaplanes without every man jack in the Indian ocean knowing about it. Submarines, Mr Hussien, what ships to the special ops have in the area?

“Just the Dilligent and Deliverance sir. Cruisers on detached service.”

Fazur steepled his fingers for a second.

“Send the Dilligent then, it still has our... specialist on board. Get him to take possession of the cargo and return to base with it asap. Tell the Dilligent's CO to leave some marines behind to make a show of it. Hopefully people won’t notice when the damn thing switches hands.”

“Very good sir. The Dilligent is six hours from intercept.”

“Then you best go make arrangements.”

The Lieutenant saluted and left. Leaving Fazer alone in his office again.

Really this shit should be above his pay grade, he thought.




(OoC: Heretic , I thought It best to move along with the nuke plot asap. I have a response in mind for the convoy but I might not manage to write it for a couple of days. Though i don't mind if you continue without a response. PM if you want to talk bout it)
Ah Brother! It's been too long!
Mobius 1
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Mobius 1 »

(B-b-b-boss fight go)


The Archangel engaged cloak well out of radar range of the privateers, shifting into a high speed, low profile final approach. If executed correctly, Jake could do a flyby of the lead corvette and not even rattle the windows – the problem was that the tactic didn’t really provision for stopping and dropping off a passenger. Things were never that easy. Not here, not back in Burma, or during that mission in Old Europe.

Kalter snapped closed the seal on his right gauntlet, watching the material vacuum-sealed to his skin with a satisfying hiss. The chemstims were just now kicking in, along with the usual combat cocktail – Equalize to mask body temperature, Refresh to counteract the effects of the hours-long flight, and RX-reSmooth to help his body gel with the workout his cybernetics were going to be giving it. The software Virgil had sent him and also finally finished unpacking and installing – the latest decryption gear, with specific codec focus on Beshaadi materials; some experimental high-yield ICEbreakers Virgil wanted field-tested but couldn’t get A-Sec to approve of; and an incredibly illegal system smoker. Backtrack was code regulated by international law, but Kalter wasn’t about to let some fucker mindhack him when nukes and Santiago were involved. If they were stupid enough to try, the Flatline would electrocute their brain. Hell, it wasn’t even the most illegal time Jake had on his person at the moment.

Kalter got a simple enjoyment out of mission prep – not only was it calming before the blood started pouring, but Jake had been a tech junkie since he had been old enough to steal his dad’s PopSci discs to peruse on his Junior E-Reader. All the state-of-the-art bleeding edge stuff in his hands – pure gold, a dream come true. Too bad it had required near every bone in his body to be broken for him to even be considered for the position.

The stars were out at this point, blanketing the sky. The hex screens that comprised the inner walls of the cockpit were always good at catching the serial number on a speeding bullet from a mile away, but Kalter still preferred seeing the real thing with his own eyes. If nothing else, having an open window or hatch or something would let him light up and enjoy one final smoke before the mission, Virgil be damned.

His physical gear was realitively sparse in comparison – the extendable nanoedge shockblade he’d picked off a private contractor corpse during his years in Africa – simple, sturdy, dependable. The pair of needle pistols had been a ‘gift’ from a Central Asian cowgirl who herself had stolen it from a Novimaestrazhian commando whom Kalter was sure wasn’t the original owner either. The commissar had used poison rounds, Kalter had been told, while the lass had preferred literal hot lead.

Kalter was a man of simple tastes and went straight for the knockout rounds stolen from a NiteyNite prototyper out of Falvacion. The last thing Kalter needed was to further a diplomatic incident by murdering some Beshaadi nationals, privateers or not. He could appreciate men who made their livings off of thievery – he just had a higher pay grade.

The HUD chirped at him, letting him know he had reached the two minute mark. The jump was going to be hellish, so the timing had to be more than precise – it needed to be perfection personified. To that end, Kalter keyed Virgil. “Look, do me a favor and don’t take this thing to get vacuumed and waxed while I’m out. Keep it on station in case of trouble.”

“Your sense of humor, if it can be called that, remains much intact, Jake,” Virgil replied smoothly. “I feel I should inform you that Bateau wishes me to pass on the fact that Beshaadi contacts have indicated-“

“Mother of god, you guddamn construct, spit it out,” Kalter growled as he braced himself in the front of the cockpit, getting his legs underneath him and micromanaging the energy production needed to make sure he didn’t end up a BLACKNIGHT-shaped splatter on the corvette’s windshield. He remembered his neural link, and yanked the cord out of his neck with a grunt of metal discomfort.

“You’ve got Beshaadi backup incoming. ETA two hours.”

“Now you tell me, christ,” Jake shot back, before sending the Archangel into a flat spin and kicking open the hatch.

The night air instantly started screaming in his ears, but just as soon as it began Kalter zeroed it out and, with one final hundred or so test-runs of the physics and mechanics of it all, he leapt out of his mech a mile above the ocean.

The BullitTyme formula released into his bloodstream a nanosecond later, and time slowed long enough for him to contort to face the corvette’s flank, see he was too low by twenty feet, and let out a microburst on his jumppack to propel him higher. The pack would stop him from falling to his death, but it would slow him down long enough for the chute to deploy. Jake hoped it wouldn’t come to that – it would, quite frankly, ruin his night – and got his legs and hands between him and the hull as he hit it. The slipstream instantly took him, and he triggered the electrostatic gloves as quickly as he could, which still left him sliding down twenty feet towards the aft before he caught on smooth metal.

He didn’t take a moment to breath – the chemicals would take care of that – but he did managed to fish out the omniscanner from his belt and – at this point holding onto the ship with one hand – slapped the circular gadget onto the hull. A second passed – a virtual lifetime for Jake, BullitTyme or no – and then the Scanner gave him a simple layout of the ship, with the information that ten feet back and eight down there was a service corridor he could cut into without anyone on the other side to see or hear.

The calculations already drawn up, Jake let go of his glove’s adhesion for the slimmest of instants before reengaging it at the exact time as to find himself at the spot he wanted to make his entrance at. The disposable omniscanner’s magnet decayed and fell off the boat to be swallowed by the night as Kalter drew out a spray tube of dissolving agent commonly used to get past vault doors in industrial espionage. Kalter had used it on a Phoenix ship once and found it work just fine on hulls, if you could stand the smell or had the blessed cybernetic ability to selectively cut out sensory input.

The spray went on ice-cold and turned the alloy instantly brittle, enough that when Kalter replaced his the applicator on his belt and thumped his gloved fist of the section of hull, the metal crumbled away like freshly fallen snow. Hauling himself forward, Kalter flipped onto the catwalk, a pistol out and making a survey of his surroundings. Engineering tube, no cameras for him to loop yet, just red guidelights every ten feet or so. No obvious alarm saying that a dude had just melted his way into the ship.

Jake took an indulgent two seconds to collect himself from the everyday happenstance of throwing oneself out of a perfectly good vessel for the hostility of another before turning back to the gaping hole that was pulling at any loose articles attached his stealth harness. Pulling his applicator back out of the modest holster, he swiftly replaced the corrosive agent with an expanding temporary solution that the A-Sec navy used to seal breaches. Two quick passes was all it took to seal the hole with a thin yet nearly indestructible film that would serve as a patch for maybe a couple hours before decaying.

Drawing himself up and nearly staggering as the BullitTyme wore off and a wave of nausea hit him, Kalter took a twenty-count for his fuel cell’s capacitors to recharge before triggering his camo and fading against a wall. Virgil was now circling the small group of corvettes, ready to intervene if things got bad, but between the thermoptic layer and the ability to simply climb walls, Jake didn’t have much trouble reaching the cargo hold. He didn’t even encounter a living soul – the ship was on third watch and most of the crew was in their bunks.

The cargo hold was home to a menagerie of stolen articles, from statues to tanks to what Jake knew to be the real prize, several thousand crates of Cevaucian cybernetics. Jake didn’t even have to boot up his Geiger counter, which was a shame considering he had bought one from a kids craft store for fun as soon as he had heard the news of an empty quiver. The guards stood under floodlights, four of them, all holding positively ancient Kalashnikovs – maybe AK-121s , if he was any judge – and trying to look like they wanted to be anywhere else the moment. Taking a moment to loop the four cameras his second omniscanner had identified in the bay – including the one inside the nuke’s shipping container, Kalter looked over the setup. Diatronics Incoporated – probably a false lead thrown in by Santiago to waste CTI’s time, but who knew?

He had a couple of options – he could dick around and use misdirections and fake sounds to draw the men off one by one and ambush them, he could go after them with his shockblade and play whack-a-pirate, but with the reinforcements knocking on their airspace he just didn’t have the time. He pulled out the second needler and trained each barrel on a different neck. Three, two – he pulled the triggers, and two men caught a half-inch long sliver in their necks. True to its name, the formula kicked instantly. The men were already unconscious, but gravity hadn’t been informed of the fact by the time Kalter had adjusted his aim and fired twice more.

He let the pistols drop freely, swinging away on their lanyards as he drew out the noise cancellers from his belt and flicked them at the falling bodies. The inch-wide spheres could roll around on their own and provide noisy distractions, but Kalter preferred to simply drop them in an area where he wanted complete silence – in this case, where four unconscious bodies just hit the floor.

Kalter gave a little wag of his finger and the spheres rolled back towards him, where he knelt to retrieve them before gingerly stepping over the bodies and into the container.

So much trouble for a little suitcase. Well, the first of twelve, it seemed.

The tacnuke sat nestled in a case that looked too much like a coffin to be entirely unintentional to Jake’s eyes, but when he lifted it out and strapped it to his back the case lost much off its connotative terror. The nuke itself was heavy and unwieldy – no getting around that – plus he didn’t have access to the aerosol version of the camo Virgil had told him about last week, so the nuke would look like it had decided to float off on its own to anyone who caught a glimpse of it. It would be old school stealth from here on out.

Now came the hard part – finding the crew of the merchant ship that had been transporting the nuke. If the Beshaadi captain was smart, he’d keep them alive for simple information as well as a tidy random when he reached port. But Jake only needed a minute to speak with them.

The mess the captives were being held in was three decks up and past several crewmen Jake had to use the spheres on to get to move, but he made it there without incident. There were two guards leaning on the bulkhead next to the hatch, but Jake could pick up the cybernetics of the captured crew from a good thirty feet away. Stowing himself in a nearby room, Jake booted up the most illegal piece of software he had ever encountered – the Brainhacking platform. Such code could cause the fall of a smaller nation if it was tied to use of the software, not to mention the ethics of its usage. Jake simply didn’t give a shit – he wasn’t here to rescue potential traitors, but to get back a nuke and any answers he happened to run across.

The really disturbing factor of the brainhack was not so much that Jake could access memories decades deep or take over someone’s body or feed them false information, but that a fucking backdoor had been built into nearly all Cevaucian cybernetics for it to be possible. That was what really ground Jake’s gears. Someone had noticed a couple decades ago that common cyberbrain code made remote intrusion possible, and instead of throwing a righteous fit about it, had gone to CTI and helped develop the first generation brainhack code. It was mind-boggling.

It wasn’t much different from slipping a key into a lock – no matter how good your firewalls, how good your ICE was – Jake could just step in through the back. To counter a mindhack, you have to be part of the select international elite who know the backdoor even existed. And what worried Jake was not that such a person was complicit in the support of mindhacking, but would be competent enough to be a serious threat to even Jake’s person. The only person Jake had known to be able to counter a mindhack with one of his own had been Alexei Santiago – who had hacked the entire Shadow Company when they had been sent to apprehend him. At once. In a matter of seconds.

Jake had a recorder out and taking down all the information he was copying form the crew’s cyberbrains – he sure as fuck didn’t want someone else’s life in his head, let alone twelve of them – and he intended to delete the information as soon as Virgil had a go at it – he drew the line at using mindhacks at anything beyond, you know, simple shit like stopping a nuke from falling into the wrong hands.

And like that, it was done, and all the men would notice would be a brief headache at best. Twelve minds now riding copied on his hip, Jake worked his way up toward the top of the corvette, hoping to reach a hangar deck or something he could make an exit from, hopefully before anyone stumbled upon the bodies or did a radio check.

The hangar wasn’t particularly large compared to what he was used to – after all, the ship belonged to a privateer, who we all knew weren’t real sailors. But what really troubled him was the Delta Dart that landed in the bay right in front him, painted in a menacing black gloss that spelt nothing good. Jake tried to cut out the screaming of the Dart’s engines, but… he couldn’t. Someone was very, very wrong. Wing from the fighter blasted him in the face, hot and full of smoke.

Even as the hangar doors grind closed, the pilot was climbing out of the Dart’s cockpit – and staring straight at Kalter.

Kalter froze, like a deer in headlights, throwing out power and processes towards his cybernetics.

The man responded by drawing a pistol roughly the size of Jake’s head and firing it square at Jake’s chest.

It was only through dumb luck and billions of credits worth of cybernetics that Kalter managed to twist aside and dodge the shot, which still managed to graze his shoulder gear. The thermoptic camo chose that moment to cut out, leaving Jake standing stupidly in the middle of the hangar with a gun now trained on his head.

The man threw his hands wide, and smile splitting his strong features. “Mister Kalter! Your reputation precedes you!”

Jake nearly responded by raising his pistols, but went for the safer option. He sent his cybernetics into full readiness and threw a mindhack at what were undoubtedly the man’s very distinctive cybernetics.

It was akin to running face first into a brick wall at very considerable speed. Kalter flinched backward at the mental spike of pain, and realized that the operative had just countered his brainhack.

“No sell?” the man asked, his grin turning genuine. He made a tiny violin gesture by rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. “Or are you not used to playing in your own league?”

The counterattack came swiftly and painfully. Jake was forced to one knee by the pain of it – it was only the Flatline that prevented him from being a gibbering mess on the deck.

The operative looked like he had been bit by a slightly annoying fly, and as such simply reached out to snatch it out of the air with a couple of fingers – only instead of an insect, it was the very concept of Jake’s system smoker. His eyes glowed a bright metallic red for a second, which was about ten seconds too long for Jake to know he was kinda screwed.

The operative took up a fighting stance and beckoned with his free hand. “If you will, Mister Kalter, I’ll be taking that briefcase. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you. You’re doing a fine enough job of it on your own with that nuclear bomb on your back like a student’s knapsack.”

With all of his strength, Kalter forced himself up and shifted the weight of the mental onslaught to the side, sloughing it off as he got both legs underneath him. His needlers were on the ground in front of him, and he hadn’t remembered dropping them, but he did manage to drop out the shockblade from over his shoulder. The sword flipped out to a modest two foot length, sizzling with coursing blue electricity. “If you want if,” he snarled through the pain. “Come and get it.”

The man flipped his arm, and it transformed, folding the hand inward to replace it was a triplicate of nanosteel blades. “I was hoping you say that. Show me what you’ve got, BLACKNIGHT!”
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Arkitek »

Eden, the City Amongst the Clouds
Sanctum airspace

Image

A single phrase overrode the million others on Jihl Nabaat's mind as she stared blankly at the Patriarch. Galenth Dysley--are you insane?

"So Orphan wills it, so shall it be done--and with a minimum of fuss," he intoned from his veritable throne at the head of the table. By a trick of acoustics, his voice resonated powerfully throughout the chamber while her's sounded feeble, impotent.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat at his right hand. "Are you certain you didn't misunderstand somehow?" she asked, hesitantly.

The Fabricator-General from the Brotherhood of Engineers interjected from his seat to her left; "Doubtful, as the Order of Social Engineers has concluded previously that it is a sensible solution. Should the heretics we imprison not see the error of their ways by conventional methods, we will employ these new devices on them to simply reprogram them. They then may convince others of their mistakes. I feel it necessary to mention that the studies did not conclude that this would deal with the rebels entirely, of course..."

"They rebel because they have no say," Jihl muttered.

"Nonsense. They rebel because they believe they can get away with it. Were it that we could offer a stronger military, Patriarch," the General of the Overwatch decided to add, "that the heretics and degenerates the world across would cower in awe at the glory of the Gods."

"Orphan is satisfied that the Overwatch shall remain as it is for the time being. You will make do with what you are granted by Its sublime grace," Dysley retorted.

"As the Gods will, Patriarch."

"Good. Now," he resumed control of the meeting. "Let it also be written; 'Let no man, woman, or child without sin be subjected to the L.F.E. technology, nor any who have fallen from grace, but are judged before the Gods to have atoned for their sins against Them and Their holy Sanctum.'"

"Well, then, Patriarch," Nihl inquired, "whom shall I dispatch to Novimaestrazhia?"

There was a slight commotion at the main entrance. "You called, Patriarch?" A tall, lithe woman in a vibrant blue sari stood in the open doorway, her voice carrying uncannily far. Jihl recognized her by the accent.

"Thank you, Fang," the Patriarch turned to Jihl. "See to it that she is briefed."
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Mobius 1 »

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Summon the Heroes
International Delegations Pour Into Concordis in Preparation for the First Olympic Games in Thirty-Eight Years


The capital of the Cevaucian Union bustled with energy late Saturday night as the first delegations began to arrive for their date with destiny. Several thousand athletes are expected to compete over the next month in dozens of events, marking the first time the Olympic committee has sponsored an event since the disastrous Green Death outbreak in Old Paris close to four decades ago.

“Naturally, security is going to be top-notch,” RingPros Chairman Alton Nureno was quoted early Saturday morning. “A-Sec will be in the spotlight, and I have utmost confidence that they will be up to the task,” he added, in what many see as a thinly veiled reference to his long running friction with SupCom Trejo, who argued for a more international effort in securing the capital for the expected ten million people who are projected to be pouring in over the next week.

When asked about the potential risk, star Cevaucian basketball player Obadiah Thunder shrugged it off with one his famous smiles. “I don’t doubt Trejo will personally punch out any doofus who tries to interfere with my game. The real danger is for anyone who tries to get between me and the net. Now that’ll be something to watch.”

Similarly, the Novimaestazhian delegation was cautiously optimistic. “Yes, have very high hopes,” towering boxing champ Ivan Ragovich said as he barreled his way through reporters to his loft in the Olympic Village. “No man stand up to Ivan’s gloves, and no man dare to threaten Ivan’s ring.”
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Red Commissar »

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Socialist Republic of Azania
Council of Ministers


"... and that is the situation in the north so far"

"Thank you Comrade Slovo, you may be seated"

Karl Slovo returned to his seat, acknowledging Chairman Leballo. It was a fairly routine presentation- the Rhodesian Mining Corporation had yet another strike, but yet again it failed to spread. The company had kept it a local event, and that made it all the more manageable for them as they awaited reinforcements from the Directorate to "resolve" the dispute. The main deviation was his exploration of events outside of Africa, in particular Asia, where he felt tensions were increasingly everywhere that could have a potential negative effect on the Directorate's own stability if trade in the Indian Ocean was disrupted.

It was imperative that they begin looking beyond their borders to the distant lands that lay outside of Africa. The struggle for mutant rights was imperative, but it could not be an isolated one. Despite their common bonds with the Federation of Platinean Communes, it was only until 10 years ago formal relations was established. Shameful.

The Director-General for the Defense of the Revolution addressed the Council, highlighting recent problems with "reactionaries" in former parts of the Rhodesian Mining Corporation that had seceded from Directorate control. Much of this overlapped with his own presentation, so he began to think of other matters.

Mutant. It was probably only in Azania where the term did not carry a negative annotation. It was only in Azania where mutants in Africa could achieve equal standing with the rest of the populace, and it was one of the few in the world to provide such a reform in the first place. Azania's brutal past in a way enabled it to achieve equality rather than in spite of it.

The past- it was uncomfortable for him to think of the events that led up to Azania's formation. One of the reasons he had abandoned his former family name in favor of another, a famous figure in the Party's predecessor when Azania was called South Africa. His family's roots ran right back to that state, and even further back to the shores of Europe in somewhere called many names, among them the "United Provinces", an entity which no longer existed.

The past of Azania saw essentially a rule by a well-armed and "advanced" minority over the natives. In time an institution would develop that separated people on their origins, though it often meant their physical appearance. He could see a parallel between the current mutant situation and that of Azania's past.

The state had maintained this oppressive system right to the revolution. His family had, despite their background, been on the side of the mutants. His ancestors had been affected by the spread of the mutations- it was one of the few things that their system could not protect themselves from. During that time some generations ago, his distant ancestor was a member of one of the most prestigious families in the country. He had been a mine operator, a form of "training" he was expected to pass if he desired to succeed his own father in the business.

His exposure to the workers and the conditions in the mines made him more susceptible to the mutagens after the collapse. He was cast out by his own father, ashamed of what he had become and fearing for his family's reputation. He had gone so far as to say his son had died in a mine collapse, and all associated records, bank accounts, and property was confiscated by the family. And so for the first time his ancestor felt how it was to be rejected, to be separated from his fellow man.

The trials of being a mutant was what finally led to a closer understanding between the populations of the land. It was only then that they understood the common bonds of mankind, and it was then that the oppressive system could be torn down. His ancestor was among the great huddled masses of mutants, the poor, coloreds, and everyone else on the margins of society, that saw the overthrow of the government and the violent years that followed.

The thought occurred to him many times that he might have distant relatives who resided in the Directorate, those kin of his predecessor who fled the nation during the revolution. When he had been appointed to the Foreign Ministry, the first non-ruling party individual to hold such a high seat, it was one of the smears that was spread by the media that was opposed to his candidacy. " Karl "Slovo" Kruger, Directorate sleeper agent?'.

In another time, it may have been odd that someone like him could have been seating with such a diverse collection of people. The Council had people drawn from different backgrounds- African, European, South Asian, and East Asian. Yet this was not really what an Azanian would first notice looking at the Council- it was their party affiliations. The Pan-African Party for Socialism and Liberation had for the first time in Azania's history begun working with the other parties, including Slovo's own Communist Party.

It was time for Azania to wake up. The Directorate had assumed much of the momentum on the international stage, and if they didn't act soon, Azania might risk becoming a Pariah state. They must be outmaneuvered at every field- from military down to entertainment.

Once the Council meeting had finished, Slovo headed on back to his office. He saw that he had new mail in his account, but the one that caught his attention was the preparations for a new Olympic game. Azania had yet to attend any sort of international competition, and a game of physical prowess could be just what Azania needs to show the role of Mutants in the new world (or at least those that didn't have a mutation that gave them an unfair advantage...), especially if the Directorate was to get involved in the games.
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Siege »

The Novimaestrzhian involvement in the Olympics was unexpected to say the least. Usually the highly insular nation remained conspicuous in its absence from international affairs, and many pundits worldwide had expected it to be no different now. They had been wrong. But why?

Part of it was simply goodwill. Even from the perspective of the notoriously paranoid President it couldn't really hurt to send a handful of people off to compete in a global games competition, could it? Worst case scenario was they lost, in which case the state-controlled media would simply ignore the whole thing. Best case was they won a few competitions, which would be a boon for the regime. Either way it wouldn't damage the credibility of Egon Drago, which was really all that mattered.

But another, equally important, part of it was to see how Novimaestrazhians reacted when confronted with other cultures. Very few people had left the nation over the last couple of decades, and the world outside its borders was something the regime really only knew through its foreign intelligence networks. The Okhrana's spies were good, but they were also hardened against ideological corruption by years of training and propaganda -- hardly your average citizens, then. How would nominally common people react faced with the potential extravagance of the outside world? Would they want to go back to the drab cities that were their homes?

To monitor this particular aspect of the effect the Olympics might have on Novimaestrazhian athletes its delegation was escorted by several dozen 'cultural attaches' whose sole job it was to keep a close eye on the athletes and their experiences. Their task was to be unobtrusive but ever-present, and to record every aspect of the interactions between the athletes and any foreigner they might come across.

Their time in Cevaucia was bound to be an interesting one.

PUBLIC MORALE BROADCASTS TODAY:

Olympic contenders arrive in Falvacion!
Cevaucians awed by sight of Novimaestrazhian citizens!

The Games on public telecast!
All competition brought semi-live into your home with only 30 seconds delay!
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Fingolfin »

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Guild Palace above Tokyo

"A physical competition between unmodified humans? How quaint," Empress Sadako chuckled.

Image

"Yes, Kōgō Heika, a competition. Something... ah... reminiscent of the old Olympics," replied Todaiyashi, Minister for Foreign Affairs.

"I am amused by this silly event. I suppose it will provide the peasants with something to be excited about. Those poor humans who live their wretched lives everyday." She gazed at the ceiling fish tank above her, and watched as one of the predatory fish ate another. "Little people who forever resent the mastery of their superiors."

She turned towards the Minister and said, "Very well, let them have their fun. We have some kind of Sports program do we not? Let the best go forth and win glory for the Dai Nippon Teikoku. Be sure to work with Toga with regard to security matters, lest those mongrels from Kyushu have delusions of grandeur. The usual protocol." She looked backwards at Toga who was hiding in the shadows as usual. Mere eye contact was enough. If the rabble so much as cause trouble, retaliate disproportionately.

"Yes, Kōgō Heika. It will done. I will inform the Sports Minister as well."

"Yes, please do."

======

New Tokyo Times

Dai Nippon Teikoku shall send athletes to compete in Olympic games!

The Empress Sadoko, long live her reign, has granted permission to the`athletes to participate in the Olympic games. May they win glory for the Empire and demonstrate the superiority of the Japanese people.
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Heretic »

(ooc: a bit confused about the whole privateer/basheedi plotline so moving to a different one for now.)

"Is the rocket ready?" Boss Dango said as he looked at the large metallic scaffolding that held the large yellow rocket. Men in white coats hurried around, flinging paper and smashing keyboards frantically as the final preparations. Only Boss Dango and his silent sunglasses-and-suit bodyguards stood still, the Boss watching his rocket and his guards watching the scurrying scientists.

"The rocket is ready, Dango-sama." One elderly scientist inched up to him and gave a deep bow. Boss Dango nodded and waved his hand.

"Launch when ready." The boss muttered as the scientist gave another bow as he stepped back and left.

The Kyushu Aerospace Exploration Agency was formed when the rebelling ministers and businessmen seized control of the space centers and facilities of the Nippon Aerospace Exploration Agency. The Diet considered scrapping the agencies of their resources and precious metals for use of the Civil War, but Boss Dango managed to save one space center and a research facility nearby after he persuaded the Diet of its usefulness. This project was a test to their newest rocket, the H-IIx, but also served another purpose.

The rocket lit up as the engines burst into life. Boss Dango grinned as the countdown started.

Go...

It has been said, Boss Dango thought, that a few eggs had to be broken to make an omelet. Sure, there would be outrage and ambassadors would have a nightmare of a time, but Boss Dango was known for his recklessness and gutsy actions.

Yon...

Boss Dango smiled again. Hopefully this would give Empress Sadako a scare. But, then again Empress Sadako was rumored to not fully be human.

San..

Those damn Dai Nippon punks. Boss Dango remembered the smug little punk they sent as a "harbinger of doom" during the Civil War when the other provinces and warlords collapsed to the might of the Guild-sponsored Air Battleships. Not only was the ambassador a smug and melodramatic bastard, he was Chinese to boot. Zao Lee Tong was his name. Boss Dango could vividly remember the Chinese ambassador smugly complaining about the rice he was offered, and that "the primitive hicks in Kyushu should learn from the superior agricultural technologies from the Empire." Dango-san also remembered vividly pulling out his 9mm and popping the smug smile out the man's face as blood gushed from his forehead.

Ni...

"I wonder what Empress Sadako thought when I sent that castrated guard back to tell her where she could go." Boss Dango silently whispered and chuckled. He felt his hip where one of the bullets from the guards protecting the dead ambassador hit him.

Ichi...

"Well, Dai Nippon Teikoku. Boss Dango is still alive and kicking. Not even your Air Battleships could scare of us "Kyushu hicks."

Liftoff!

Image

The rocket slowly rose up and lifted into the sky.

"Sir, our computers are tracking its trajectory and it's heading course. It'll hit orbit in a few minutes and will re-enter in around an hour."

"Good, good." As Boss Dango turned around to leave, his bodyguards followed suit.

"I would love to send you a present, Sadako-chan." Boss Dango leered as he looked back at the rising rocket that was slowly getting smaller and smaller. "But priorities first."

"Hope you burst a nerve, Egon Drago."
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Siege »

Dragograd
Novimaestrazhia


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Sirens wailed their warning over Dragograd. This itself was not unusual, so not all citizens paid it heed -- until they realized that this was not the sonorous howl that announced the bi-weekly Civil Defense drills, or the keening blare that announced one of Egon Drago's infamous telecasts was about to go live over the nationwide Informnet. No, this was the ululating call of the air raid sirens, a sound not heard since the terror of the revolutions, followed within seconds by the harsh digitized commissars' voices ordering all citizens on the streets to report to one of the deep defense bunkers the regime mandated be built on every block. Drilled by years of propaganda the alarmed citizens complied by reflex, emptying the streets of the capital city within minutes.

Meanwhile around the city the Novimaestrazhian space defense grid leaped into action. Sensors, mechanical and otherwise, had caught the missile in their gaze as it came over the horizon, powering at high mach speed toward the heart of the nation.

But seeing it wasn't the problem. Stopping it was. In their bunker-citadel at the edge of Dragograd the sorceresses of the warkasting corps had mere minutes to react to the missile's sudden appearance, but their Choir was fast. P.H.E. capacitors dumped their charge, carefully siphoned off the very souls of the Novimaestrazhian citizenry over weeks, sending raw power thrumming into vast banks of psychomantic isolators. The air over the fasthold came alive with blue werelight as kasting protocol components came together at the speed of thought. For a brief moment a second shun shone over Dragograd, for once bathing its gray uniformity in warmth and light. Durandal -- a mental laser. It didn't so much strike the primitive rocket as burn it from the skies.

Unfortunately, the laws of physics could only be bent so far. Ruins of the destroyed missile rained down over the outskirts of the city, and though the sorceress-engineers attempted to enact shield protocols over the worst of the damage flaming debris still set entire neighborhoods of the capital city alight. Soon the wail of the air raid siren was joined by the sirens of fire and rescue services racing toward the worst hit areas. Columns of fire and smoke rose over the capital. It would take hours to gain control over the flames and evacuate everyone trapped in the affected areas; it would taken even longer to fully assess the damage done, but the Labor Ministry almost immediately noticed a current drop in the P.H.E. net equivalent to six hundred and seventy eight souls extinguished. Several dozen more would follow in the next hours, leading the regime to surmise a total death toll of well over 700.

It wasn't long after that extreme long wave radios worldwide began to chatter on frequencies normally reserved for diplomatic communiques. The message was simple. The Overcommand of the Novimaestrazhian Armed Forces had gone to Full Combat Readiness. The nation was preparing for war.
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Booted Vulture »

Bay of Bengal
Sixty seconds to intercept

Image

Commander Ando Sohn of the Beshaadi 21st Submarine Strike Regiment flew his Sea Dart just scant centimetres from the sea’s surface, spewing up a long trail of spray up behind the tiny seaplane’s power jet engines.

He did it because he liked the effect and in his line of work he had precious little time to appreciate beauty.

Given the admiral’s order had explicitly included the words ‘with all possible haste’ the Dilligent had briefly surface the launch Sohn’s seaplane to allow him to rocket to the container vessel much faster than the submarine vessel could hope to.

Sohn followed orders and followed them well that was why he was a trusted operative of the parliament. But he was not stupid he knew full well; the way said vessel and said nuke had been obtained and the opinion of international law on privateering. Luckily he also remembered the old proverb that went ‘when the president does it, it’s not illegal’

With consummate skill he guided his plane down in the cargo ship’s makeshift hangar bay. As he made to open his canopy, he spun up his cybernetics, kicking his senses into high gear, allowing him to see into every crook of the hanger bay and perceiving everything in ultra-slow-motion.

The man in the sneaking suit was easy to spot. He had a giant chrome rucksack on. The nuke. Someone had beaten him to it. This called for decisive action.

Sohn’s handcannon was a homegrown beshaadi weapon and like all beshaadi weaponry was designed to work in water and on land. This particular weapon had been designed for use by divers to defend against large marine predators. Needless to say it packed a whallop.

He drew and fired with all the speed his mechanical limbs could give. Impossibly the man jerked aside in time to almost completely avoid the shot.

Inside his head, Sohn smirked. If there was one thing you rarely met in his line of work it was an equal. As a rule people never again special operatives again other operatives, just hapless ordinary soldiers who went down by the dozen.

Perhaps it was that feeling of comradeship, of unspoken nobility and kindredness that allowed to joke with the man when his system’s presenting him with his name; Jake Kalter.

Of course Kalter went and ruined the mood by trying to fry out his brains. Which was just rude, Ando thought as he returned the favour.

He much preferred to settle things, the old fashioned way he thought as he struck a fighting stance.

Kalter went for his sword, snarling defiance.

Sohn’s weapon was closer to hand. A trio of knives replaced his entire mechanical right hand.

“I was hoping you say that.” He shouted in reply, “Show me what you’ve got, BLACKNIGHT!”

As Kalter rapidly closed ground with him, Sohn though, now why did I go say a damn foolish thing like that? Well done just antagonise the man with the likely legitimate grievance why don’t you?

Oh well, as ever it was Sohn’s job to make the best of a bad situation, he concluded as he lept to meet Kalter’s charge.
Last edited by Booted Vulture on Sat Aug 11, 2012 4:53 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Heretic »

"Kuso!" Boss Dango hissed as he saw the rocket's camera disappear and shut off as the rocket turned into many pieces. He paced back and forth in the control room.

"Sr, do you think they will find out?" One of the scientists said in a worried tone. Boss Dango shrugged.

"Hell if I know. I hope they disintegrated the supply crates inside, but those boxes and duffels are made to withstand intense drops and environments. Well, doesn't matter. Even if we managed to get the supplies to the rebels in the South Zone Special Action area our names are written all over it. But at least then the rebels would be supplied and helped Boss Dango weaken Drago's grip on the land. Now the supplies of food, medicines, and weapons are scattered all over Novimaestrazhia, tagged with boisterous greetings from the Kyushu-Kuni and pot cards with anime pictures of chibi-Khedivates shooting at a dead Ergo Drago.

"Well, time to get ready for the fallout. At least Drago's nerves started popping." Boss Dango sighed as he pulled out his cellphone.
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Mobius 1 »

The Core, two years ago

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The mortar explosion brought him back to reality. Geysers of dirt and flame shooting into the sky, turning trees in lethal knives of wood, turning his hearing into one constant high-pitched whine.

Sunlight peeked through the fingers shielding his face, until it was blocked out by an eclipse – a face yelling, screaming at him. He couldn’t hear the words, but he knew the meaning: get up or you will die.

He struggled to get up, but his the pain in his legs suddenly overtook everything and we nearly retched over himself. His partner looked down at the wounds, paled, looked a little sick himself, and got an arm under his friend’s shoulder.

Light streaming in now. A forest, currently being leveled by mortars and machine gun fire. Fires, burning in the branches, on the shrubbery, everywhere. Hell.

The blackbox. Still in his hands. Still held tight. All that he had sacrificed to acquire one little box. One little box. They were moving, and the sound began to return to him – just as another mortar exploded to their right and his ally was forced to drop him in order to shoulder his rifle and gun down a pair of masked pursuers.

He was one his back now, the blackbox shoved into the webbing of his vest, and Sarah’s Kalashnikov in his hands. A couple figures shadowed them from tree to tree and he fired a burst at them. The muzzle flashed, the rifle threatened to kick out his hands, and a man went down on a burning log, blood flying from his shoulder. Almost immediately he began to scream as the fire engulfed him.

“-re almost there, Jake!” he could hear Sarah shouting to him, as if from a far-off distance. They were in a clearing now, just tall grass and flowers. A killing field. Anyone would have an open shot.

He began to fire in earnest now, picking targets as soon as they presented themselves, and it didn’t take long for the rifle to click as he pulled the trigger again and again to little avail. His CO was shouting at him to get his head down.

More men pouring into the field, led by a bushy-bearded commander waving his pistol. The guerillas were lining up, raising their rifles-

A shadow passed overhead, and casings began to fall all around him like rain, bouncing in the grass, still smoking. Men jerked every which way, some dissolving under the gatling railgun’s fire, and he looked up to see a pair of gunships floating overhead, beams of fire and light smiting everyone at the treeline.

He was being pulled forward again, and this time he managed to find his feet, barely limping along as Sarah supporting him under one shoulder. Her red hair was wild, part of it scorched by a mortar detonation, but her eyes were dead-ahead, determined. There was a third gunship rotating to land ahead of them, presenting its aft bay.

“It was an ambush, sir!” Sarah shouted to the man disembarking the craft, a well-built man whose thick, swept-back black hair already had a single streak of white through it. Three starts glittered on his shoulders, and a massive handcannon rode in his shoulder holster. The guards flanking him were an afterthought. The men dying in the woods in front of him were ancient history. General Alexei Santiago owned the battlefield.

He was holding his hand over head, instinctively ducking the rotors as he moved forward, clothes flapping under the exhaust of the gunship. He was shouting something, but the wounded man couldn’t hear it. He only clutched the blackbox tightly to his chest.

“-I said, do you have the blackbox?” The words were clearer this time, overriding Sarah’s own.

“W-we’ve got it, sir,” Jake rasped, with the tone of man addressing someone infinitely his senior, a man whom he trusted more than his own father. He offered the box to Santiago, who put one hand on Kalter’s shoulder, supporting him.

“Good,” Santiago replied, his eyes dead, “that’s one less loose end.” He brought his other hand up, and there was a loud bang, and suddenly Jake was falling backwards. The revolver was in Santiago’s hands, smoking.

No!” Sarah screamed, lunging forward for the gun. Without even taking his eyes off Kalter, Santiago turned the pistol towards her and shot her point-blank in the forehead. Sarah’s head snapped back, and time was momentarily frozen as she crouched, body arched, her eyes wide with shock, her mouth open, and half her brains haloing the scene.

Then they both fell backwards, and Jake saw the blood rapidly spreading from the gunshot wound in his belly. He touched it, and his gloves came away dark red.

Santiago was now bent over Jake, trying to take the blackbox. Jake clutched it with all the strength his body could manage, and Santiago’s eyes zeroed out. In a flash, he had Jake by the neck, lifting him into the air. Jake’s limbs were liquid and Santiago spun, and spiked Jake facefirst back into the grass and dirt muddy with blood.

He could hear his bones snapping with the impact.

Satisfied, Santiago knelt to retrieve the discarded blackbox, and straightened, circling a finger in the air, motioning for the troops he had already put on the ground to reconvene.

Jake blacked out for who knew how long, but he still hung onto life and woke to find a pair of Santiago’s prized full-cyberized REDKING commandos swinging him by his arms and his legs – back, forth, and then he was weightless before tumbling into a ditch. Everything had surpassed pain by now, he was on some new plane of agony, and he still saw them swinging Sarah’s lifeless body back and forth as Santiago stood off to the side, quietly puffing on a cigar.

Sarah’s body took to the air, and then she hit dirt, rolling, one arm tossed haphazardly across Jake’s chest at an angle no living body could replicate, her dead, burned eyes staring directly into his.

Even Jake could still make out the odor of gas when the cans came out. Gallons were poured onto him and Sarah, the fumes nearly obscuring the sky and adding a new agony.

The REDKING operatives moved back as Santiago took center stage, holding his cigar between his fingers. He took one final puff and Jake’s sluggish mind realized what was happening the second Santiago flicked the lit stub at the two bodies in the ditch.

They lit up instantly, but he couldn’t even scream, only lay, burn, and watch as Santiago turned on one heel and began the slow walk back to his gunship, circling a finger to let his team know it was time to leave. A gunship flew over the clearing, darkening everything, at which point Kalter finally began to scream, but only as long as it took for the fire to burn out his lungs.


Six Months Later, CTI Headquarters at Concordis

Image

He woke up, on his hands and knees, to the sight of his vomit on the floor. He looked up, to see a pair of brown leather boots. He followed the boots up, past a grey trenchcoat, to match gazes with the director of the Cadre for Tactical Intelligence. The Director squatted down to level with Kalter, and removed his mirrored shades to reveal green eyes that sparkled with constantly revolving cybernetic machinery. The effect was disconcerting enough, but the accompanying mental pressure that the scrutiny brought was many times worse. “Do you know why I saw that?”

Kalter’s throat was raw, but he managed to speak. “I failed to defend myself, sir.”

The Director shook his head. “That’s not what I asked. I knew you failed to defend yourself, and I knew you wouldn’t be ready for it. To be able to plunder someone’s mind, you should have an idea of what it truly means to have someone rooting around in there yourself. First-hand experience.” He replaced his shades and stood. “The men and women who you face that can counter a mindhack won’t stop when you’re on the floor. They’ll walk up to you and place a bullet in your head.”

He twitched a single finger, and suddenly Kalter was jerked to his feet, posture ramrod straight.

“Or worse. Don’t give them an inch, or it’s all over. Meet them with a brick wall, or it’s all over. That memory? It certainly defines you now, or it wouldn’t be the first thing I saw. Use it was your armor. Let them see only that, and when they’re reliving the feeling over being burned alive, take that moment to stand and fight. Show them what it means and what it takes to be a BLACKNIGHT.”


Aboard the Beshaadi Container Ship, Now

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The first blow hit with enough force to send the operative six inches deeper into the deck, the metal plating denting under his feet. The shockblade, backed by nano-mesh muscles and pure rage, exploded in a storm of azure lightning as the sword was caught on the Beshaadi cyborg’s triblades. It was at the same time that Jake brought the needler up and emptied about sixty slivers into the man’s belly in a quarter of a second. Only a third of the needles managed to slip back the subdermal armor of the operative, and whatever serum was delivered to the man’s bloodstream was instantly neutralized by scrubber cells heartbeats later.

They met eyes, and the Beshaadi operative smirked, glancing down at the gun, as if to say, what a waste of a clip. It was at that point Kalter flipped a knob on the needler’s grip and the gun instantly loaded the much more lethal ammunition Jake had been saving in case of a potential party.

The operative recognized the move and brought his own cannon up, simultaneously pushing forward with his blade arm. The pair began to spin in a deadly concert, slapping aside shots from their sidearms with free hands and catching blades with the rails of their pistols. The walls of the hangar were soon pockmarked his fist-sized bullet holes and imbedded with dozens of red-hot slivers.

Their guns finally exhausted, they backed away from each other. Kalter glanced down at his needler – it was ruined and would require a week on the bench to repair. He reluctantly shoved it back in his holster as the operative discarded his shattered handcannon.

“Haven’t had this much fun since the Dai Nippon upstart,” the operative said, fishing out a cigarette and lightning it with a puff of flame from one of his thumbs. “Ando Sohn, pleased to meet you. It’s so rare to meet a consummate professional in this line of work. We’d be saved the trouble of cleaning you off the floor with a mop if you would be so kind as to relinquish the nuclear weapon.”

Kalter laughed. “Or we could ignore the attempted nukejacking and we can all still walk home with your lives.”

And, as if anything else could go wrong, the nuclear bomb on Kalter’s back began to beep.

Sohn held his sword hand up in a calming gesture, noticed it was festooned in swords, and shook it so fast that Jake didn’t see it become a hand again. “Now, mate. While I understand you have the nuke, there’s no need to go all ‘all of you with me’ on us now, is there?”

The bomb couldn’t be armed. It was. Oh, hell.

“Believe me, Ando, when I say that if I wanted to kill us both, I’d have my variable mech open up on the hangar bay from where it’s cloaked a mile out. A single missile, you know? Not an entire nuclear bomb. I respect you guys enough not to try something like that.”

“And yet,” Sohn said drying, taking another puff on his cigarette, “here we are.”

“Jake!” Virgil’s voice in his mind nearly made him jump, which would have looked considerably unprofessional. “About time I got through the jamming, christ. Listen, I just detected an arming signal. I assume the nuke is currently beeping?”

“Yes,” Kalter said quietly, answering them both at once. “Here we are.”

“Well, that’s because the nuke’s been set to go off in two minutes,” Virgil put in. “And no, I can’t defuse it.”

Jake cut off with the line at that remark, looking Sohn square in the eye. Sohn looked down at the cigarette in his right hand, and managed to look abashed. “Sorry. Probably a sore subject for you.”

Ignoring the jibe, Jake continued, “I’m doing you a huge favor here in telling you that the man who originally stole this nuke doesn’t really like me. And when he realizes that I’m in spitting distance of his nuclear bomb, and accompanied by an operative of my caliber – of enough skill to be a threat to him – it’s not unreasonable to speculate that he may try to kill two birds with one nuke?”

Sohn scratched his jaw. “Assuming this isn’t the worst lie I’ve heard, what do you want me to do about it?”

“Well, considering the nuke has about forty seconds on its counter, you can open the hangar and let me chuck it into the ocean while we fly away at top speed, or we can see what the other side looks like together. Your choice, I guess.”
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Re: RPG Game Thread

Post by Fingolfin »

High Earth Orbit, Guild Satellite
Image

The Guild operator aboard the orbital satellite noted the rocket launching from the island of Kysuhu and sounded off the Guild Captain. "Taicho, the Kyushu mongrels launched a rocket. The trajectory is ballistic. It appears to be flying for Dragograd in Novimaestrazhia.

The Guild Captain looked at the radar hologram and nodded. "Perform the necessary deep scans on the rocket and send the data to the Guild Military High Command. Kōgō Heika must be informed."

"Aye Taicho."

"Inform the Guild Starfish pilots of possible sortie."

"Aye Taicho."

=================

Guild Palace

"So what does that mongrel Dango want to send a rocket full of.. supplies head for the capital of Novimaestrazhia?" asked Empress Sadako.

"We do not know, Kōgō Heika but we will find out why," answered Premier Hashimoto Lukia.

Image

Sadako gave this thought. It might be worth sending a communique to the leaders of Novimaestrazhia to see if they wanted intelligence on that rocket and where it came from. Granted Novimaestrazhia is too far away to be of any use to her with regards to crushing the primitive rabble on the dingy island but it might be useful to access the Novimaestrazhians' "magic". Chuckling, she intructed, "Tell the Minister for Foreign Affairs to send a communique to the Novimaestrazhians. Instruct him to extend an offer of friendship and offer our intelligence on the rocket. Perhaps the silly mongrel Dango might try his luck again, and this time we will be ready."

"It will be done, Kōgō Heika."

===============

Message to His Excellency, President-for-Life, Field Marshal Egon Drago

Dear Sir,

The Empress Sadako, Empress of the Dai Nippon Teikoku, Maestro of the Guild, extends her hand of friendship to your nation. As an act of good faith, we are prepared to offer intelligence on the rocket that flew from the island of Kyushu, the home of the rebels who continue to defy the Empress. We are are prepared to offer further assistance if so desired.

Yours sincerely,
Premier Hashimoto Lukia

<<Relevant intelligence>>
There is only war.
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