Welcome To Gridiron (Closed, IC)

[The Capital Commonwealth]

OOC & Map

---

CAPT David Kingston – Love Company, 1st Knight’s Battalion
Day 1 – Firebase Phoenix

---

Kingston slapped away the opening flap to his tent, a splash of hot sand striking his body as he walked down the clay-like surface toward the command trench. Firebase Phoenix looked as though it had been set up overnight with barbed wire rigged with mines and a combustible gas line acting as its border, a ring of trenches as its primary defense and a center of tents and a Vertibirds pad acting as the organs of the base. There were five main tents that provided the fill for the trench outline: the headquarters and communications tent, the medical personnel tent, the garage, the armory, and the barracks. Phoenix was manned by the best of the Commonwealth Knight Battalion, about 300 strong. A battery of four 250mm howitzers, four 40mm anti-aircraft weapons, and several dozen 12.7mm heavy machine guns provided adequate protection and long range strike capabilities against hostiles, and hundreds of 8mm machine guns, rifles, and about ten 80mm mortars granted the camp a reasonable amount of security. Situated just 10 kilometers from Research Station Io, 20 from the nearest main road, and 30 from a Raider base, Phoenix was largely the only barrier standing between one of the worst groups of raiders in Gridiron and the Western settlements.

The howitzers shook the ground, stirring up dust all over. Like a liquid, the dust seeped into the trenches, making the air rather thick. Marines lined the trench, sorting out their desert variant of the Knight’s Combat Armor. The steel lance embedded into its emblem shinned in the sun. Kingston, holding his helmet under his right arm and his combat rifle in the other walked past the commotion, viewing as his brigade shuffled around equipment and weapons, preparing for the next operation. On his left breast plate, two white bars had been painted on, and the words “CAPT. David Kingston, Love Company” were inscribed. On his right shoulder pad, ”Blood Type AB” and ”Kingston’s Knights” were embedded into its titanium-carbon alloy, and on his left, ”No Compromise.”

Two Vertibirds from Checkpoint Gamma strafed the ground, turning up more dust and blowing someone’s cards into the trench. Kingston walked its length, entering a large chamber which overlooked the eastern flank of the camp. It was lined with two heavy machine guns, detonators, and ten Knight Marines. They were unique amongst the Knights, their armor tan versus the standard green, and their lens blue versus black. Kingston walked up to the group and stood in the middle, putting his helmet on and activating its blue polarized lens.

”Alright Knights,” Kingston said as he loaded his rifle. ”King Company has reported a Raider force incoming. They have the markings of all the tribes in the area. And some heavy artillery to say the least.”

As if on cue, an artillery shell struck the head the trench, detonating the mines and destroying the barbed wire. The three Marines that were manning the machine guns hopped up and dashed to the wire, attempting to repair it.

”They’re bypassing the route to Io and attacking us head on. We’ve requested reinforcements from Gamma and ordered our forces from The Citadel to withdraw, but its Love and George Company for the next 12 hours. If we don’t hold the line here, the Western Coast will fall.”

---

Dr. Ted Livingston – Commonwealth Research Team
Day 1 – Research Station Io

---

Livingston walked down the long corridor leading into the main research chamber. White and black panels and television displays lined its walls, and data terminals full of information were mounted under them. Dozens of researchers walked up and down the main corridor, carrying papers, experiments, and equipment. The fluorescent lights provided a full, bright ambiance in the facility, while the glows emitting from certain rooms, an interesting, almost scary atmosphere. Carts of thorium, weapons, and other samples regularly cycled Io. There were at least 10 Vertibirds active at the base’s pads at any given time.

Livingston submitted to the retina scanner, putting his eye put against the panel of glass next to the blast door separating the rest of the facility from the central test lab. A few beeps, and a swish, the doors open, revealing a mess of scientists and several stations. A table, surrounded by weapons engineers, was covered by experimental plasma weaponry, and another crate with similar weapons. On another, a filter which filtered salt water into fresh, drinkable water. But the central spectacle was a table with three battery sized objects. Each was hooked up to a monitor with climbing characters. These characters spelled, ”Thorium Fission Batteries Test – 90,000 mAh.”

[North Banrodesia]

'Hall, See if you can find a better place. Can't see shit from up here' Sofia Weston ordered Hall, A 6 foot burly giant she had come to know as her companion over the past three years of putting bullets in the heads of raiders. 'I'll see what I can do, But I'll have to go all the way round.' crouched behind the burnt out window frame of a once perhaps pleasant apartment building, He beckoned down the sheer drop of the side of the tower that had crumbled into a heap of steel and concrete on the dusty earth down below. 'Never mind. Don't have the time. Just spot for me, will you?' Sofia temporarily removed her eye from the scope of her M1903A4 before chucking a pair of binoculars scored by the dust of the wastes. Hall snatched up the tool and hoisted himself up to the next floor up the apartment with the assistance of a charred filing cabinet. Peering through the binoculars, He whispered down the locations of the contacts. 'Target should be 300 north east, accompanied by four raiders, Small arms.' Hall panned across the courtyard between apartment blocks, Noting more targets. 'Your 12 'o' clock, 3 raiders, 200 metres, Small arms.' resting the binoculars on the concrete again, He sighed and squinted, Before signalling to Sofia it was all clear to fire. 'I see.' she replied, Bolting a round into her rifle, Crimson, Before squeezing the trigger. 300 metres away, a notorious Raider took a bullet to the chest and bled to death in the sand. Before taking too many bullets in her direction from the alerted thugs, Sofia and Hall were already in their rusted jeep, Halfway to portside.

[Jormengand]

"Ignacio?"
"Full house."
"Damn you, you lucky man Ignacio. Another round?"
"No thanks. Try that girl over there."
"But she's really ugly."
"Were you planning to sleep with her? I hope you weren't planning to sleep with me."

The man shook his head, and joined another game. Pedro stepped up and cashed in his winnings. It paid almost as well as fixing stuff up. Speaking of which, he needed to but some more power packs, and then check if anyone needed repairs. He did so, and found two tanks, a jeep and a civilian car waiting for him.

He sighed - did these people not have their own engineers? Practice made perfect, he supposed, and the pay was definitely good. He patched up the relevant parts, and managed to make a new gun for the tank. In his own words, "It'll be enough to clear bandits off, but don't expect it to take enemy tanks out." It had been cheap to make, and he'd got a lot for it. He'd have to try making himself some weapons sometime.

Once all was ready, he began to experiment. He would try to make some kind of ranged weapon that would fit on his bike, preferably with a decent rate of fire. It didn't really matter if it was heavy. Maybe a grenade launcher?

That would do nicely. He would have to see. He could probably even make the grenades himself. He was the best engineer more than a mile from Io, or so the legends said. The legends were probably right. He set to work on it.

[The Mizarian Empire]

Dragonian Arms Encampment, "Dragon's Rock"

Mikhail Solosov had been trying to clean the blood out of his duster coat for hours now. the gore had caked in after a particularly gruesome example he'd made from the survivor of a raiding party attacking the caravan of scavenged vehicles he was overseeing. Their last trip into Milpitas had been profitable enough to warrant their attention clearly, they'd sold a good dozen or more rifles and the shoddier zip-guns hit men and beggars alike seemed to favor for their cheap design and for being easy to dispose of after committing a crime. The attack had begun when a booby-trap of home made mines and other explosives strung across the road took out the lead vehicle. The typical attempt of trying to box the gun-runners in had failed when they realized (rather quickly and under a hail of gunfire) these weren't the average traders they were used to picking on. While employees of Dragonia arms had a history of being more known for their silver tongues, they weren't afraid to brandish their pieces either when the situation called for it. Mikhail tried one last time to scrub the leather long-coat free of the stain before giving up on it, considering the large red smear on the dragon's fangs to be a rather nice touch now that he thought about it.

He stepped out of his RV converted into a small castle on wheels to look over the circled vehicles alongside the road. In the middle of the more modernized wagon-circle were several dozen men and women trading stories and scars around campfires. A crowd of men had gathered at one side of the camp to start up a small boxing circle and like many of his employees, bets were already being placed. He made a note to himself to make sure to bring this up next time he had a meeting with some of the caravan leaders; there was nothing wrong with blowing off some steam but where there was one pack of shitbags like the raiders that had attacked earlier today, there were always more. He walked over to the mobile home where their barber/tattooist/body piercing professional had set up shop, always expecting business on nights like these when men get drunk and want to do stupid things with their money and dignity. He'd been about to go inside before he stopped to look himself in the floor mirror perched outside her front door. His eyes were still as light blue as ever as he ran his hands through his blonde hair which had grown far too wild for his liking. He looked over the brown leather duster-coat emblazoned with his company's logo and motto along the back, the sleeves had been trimmed up to show off his tattoos and prevent them from snagging on any gear he might be wearing at any time. The blue jeans he was wearing were starting to show wear, a shame really; he'd grown fond of this particular pair and even considered them a sort of good-luck charm from all the gunfights they'd gotten him through, but no matter. He made a note to pick up some new clothes before they set out again in town.

He looked over at the appropriately named town of "Dragon's Rock" the caravan was camped outside of. A large stone pillar rose high into the sky smack in the middle of town, becoming a sort of landmark for the locals and merchants alike as a way-point marker along their journey across the long hauls through the Gridiron. Several old western style wood houses were already erected and on the far side a giant collection of tents not unlike a flea-market of civilization thrived, pawning everything from food and water to hookers and drugs, protection (both from bullets and the hookers) and more. Just another day in paradise Mikhail joked to himself as he stepped into the barber's shop.

[Sulamalik]

Paul Donnelly pushed his shopping cart through the settlement of Portside. The scavenger had spent three months in the interior of the godforsaken land and was sullen and starved by it. The unforgiving waste had pushed him to the point of actually welcoming the sight of this sorry remnant of civilization.

He traveled up main street-- town's only street worth naming. His shopping cart was covered with a waterproof tarp but poking out were multitudes of various junk items. Paul carried in his cart everything from broken radios to jerry cans filled with siphoned oil. The real treasures however were tucked into his backpack slung around his shoulders. Tin cans of food and and water bottles of course, but also his prized harmonica. Hanging from his waist was his .38 nickle-plated revolver. 'For when his customers became to unruly' he joked, but the weapons itself was no joke. It had saved his life a dozen times over. He had used up the last round scaring off a crazed bandit two weeks ago.

"Anyone here looking to buy?! I've got everything you could ever need here! Playing cards, razor blades, condoms! I'm only looking for a fair price for these wonderful products! Nothing more and nothing less!"

[Guruda]

A sliver of light shone through the edge of the dirty curtains hanging from the hotel windows, bringing illumination into the room. The heat felt as if it carried weight, adding to the uncomfortable atmosphere. Passed out, Anthony laid completely sprawled across the bed on his back, wearing only boxers and a white t-shirt. The source of his deep sleep remained displayed on the night stand next to the bed, supporting a bottle of water, hydrochloride salt wrapped in a bag, and an empty syringe. Heroin was now his captor, trapping him in a way of life that was his own fault, but he found it impossible to admit. His vice became his new conscience, guiding his decisions in the endless search for the next fix before his body and mind broke down. Withdrawal with now his life’s biggest fear, driving him to decisions he was unable to explain, and he no longer felt like his own man. Within his own reality, free will was gone. His addiction became his god, his desire, his blood, motivation, as well as his self-hate, and abusiveness. He often searched for the meaning of life when he was younger, being very curious about the world around him. Within the past year he found a meaning for his own life, and what made him tick. It was acquiring heroin, and his meaning disgusted him.

As the light crept through the windows, it eventually reached one of his eyes, disturbing his sleep and waking him up. Letting out a light groan, Anthony groggily moved his legs over the side of the bed, allowing him to sit on the edge of the mattress. Slouching over, he rubbed his face with his hands, keeping his back to the windows. He hadn’t always been this way, as there was once a time where he was very proud of himself, and others took pride in knowing him. His parents were honored to call him their son, and always took pride in his achievements. They made him a popular topic of conversation to others when he was not around, always happy to speak highly of him. He was looked up to by his younger brother, and those he served with alike. After turning 18, he spent 8 years in the Army as a forward observer with dedicated service. While he never saw a combat deployment, his work ethic took him places and caused him to stand out in front of his commanding officers. He finally retired as a Corporal, after a long and difficult decision to leave the Army behind, which became his life’s biggest regret.

Civilian life was rough for Anthony, as he missed the companionship that he held with some of his fellow service members, as well as a lifestyle that allowed him to live fast and make the best of his abilities. This was a time when Private Military Contractors started to arise and become popular with governments across the world, and this provided Anthony with a chance to restart his career and finally make a good living. His employment began well, as he saw success and money reliably flowed into his pockets, providing him with a better standard of living than he ever saw throughout his life. The unexpected downturn however was the amount of stress on him that he never had before. Now real combat was a part of his job, taking a minor physical toll, but a larger mental one. Everyone had their own outlets to deal with stress, and he knew that his good friend and fellow contractor, Sean, had been experimenting with heroin. Anthony just blocked it out and pretended he didn’t know for some time. As Sean began to succumb to the drug, he tempted Anthony with its use, seeing if he would try. As time would tell, Anthony himself fell and gave it a shot, now establishing the downward spiral he would call life.

Three and a half years were spent with this employer, but he didn’t leave on his own terms this time. Sean and Anthony began consistently using heroin together for about two months before they were inevitably discovered by superiors, and promptly fired. Their careers were gone and destroyed, putting them back into the civilian world with nowhere to go. The two split ways, leaving Anthony too ashamed to go back home. He had made a lot of money in his time as a contractor, but his addiction quickly began to deplete his supply. Now he had no source of income, but a steady way to deplete himself of hard earned money. He had the military supplies gathered from his time as a contractor, and decided there was only one way to support this lifestyle in the only way he knew how. Go to hell, and fight for whatever got him the money and the fix.

Fast forward six months later, and here was the disappointed thirty year old Anthony hiding in his hotel room. He finally arrived in Gridiron, and the search for work was on. Standing up slowly, it was time to get dressed, and drop the civilian clothes to show the line of work he was ready for. He possessed a full DBDU camouflage colored uniform, appropriately nicknamed a ‘chocolate chip’ pattern. Keeping his tactical vest underneath, he holstered his Sig Sauer handgun on his left hip just above the KA-BAR combat knife held on his thigh. Throwing on his desert colored rucksack and slinging on his REC7 assault rifle over his back, he walked quickly down the stairs, ready to get outside.

Flashing a friendly smile to the clerk as he paid his boarding fee for the night, Anthony stepped outside into the hot sun, and placed his boonie hat over his head, shading his eyes for the night. Looking both ways down the street, he pondered his initial direction and thought things over briefly, as a new chapter in his life was about to be written.

[-The Desert Rangers]

Fredrick Jenkins walked down the ruined street of what had used to be a pre-war town. After arriving in Portside he had decided to start out into the wastes to see whatever there was. From what he had seen this god-damned waste was worse off than the Mojave,with little in the way of standing governments.

He continued up one of the unnamed side streets when he heard a voice in the distance. From what he could hear he assumed it was a trader of some sort. With that he started heading towards the trader at a quickened pace,cutting through rubble and the skeletons of destroyed buildings. Eventually he slowed down a pace and headed towards the main street. Once he had gotten to the main street he spotted a haggard looking man pushing a shopping cart full of assorted junk down the street. He had not noticed him yet,so he decided to try and determine if he had anything he needed.

"What else are you selling?"

[Camicon]

"Alright, hold still for just one more second. Hold... and...... done."

The blades of the surgical scissors slid together with a soft whisper, parting the stitch of bio-degradable thread that is holding closed a small puncture wound in the upper arm of my patient. The soldier had been hit in the upper arm, with a nine millimetre hollow-point I guessed. His body armour had caught most of the round, but a fragment had sheared off and slid through a joint where the plates didn't quite meet. Luckily the bit of lead had gone straight through, so it wasn't a serious wound, nothing incapacitating. If he'd only applied a dressing and bandage, and then exerted his shoulder, the wound could have torn open wider. That would be serious, and could pull him out of active duty for a week at least.

I apply small cotton dressings to the row of stitches at the entry and exit points, then wind a length of cotton bandage around them both to hold them in place. I give the soldier the usual spiel about making sure to keep his wound clean, finding a medic if it reopened, keeping the bandage on for at least two weeks to allow the skin time to re-knit, not trying to take the stitches out (as they'd come out on their own), warning him off of unnecessarily exerting his shoulder for at least a week and such. Of course, for such a minor wound, I didn't actually expect him to listen to me, but it never hurt to try. The soldier thanks me, grabs up his gear, and exits the medical tent. I pick up a clipboard and start filling out a five-page document for record keeping.

To call Firebase Phoenix a military installation would be an overstatement. The perimeter defences are 'unorthodox', and the central buildings are without foundations. The place is little more than a fortified camp. Although, keeping in mind our main combatant, a fortified camp is all we need to keep them at bay. At least the field hospital is up to par, if a little bit smaller than is comfortable. We've got enough OR's for the surgeons (of which I am one) to be working paired-up and simultaneous, and fifty beds. We don't have an MRI, but we do have a few X-ray's (to be honest, the X-ray is more useful, because we can use it on patients that have been shot, which is almost every patient we get), and generators that are independent from the Phoenix's main grid. The one thing we don't have, that I wish we did, is air conditioning.

I grab the arm of a passing medical technician, handing him the clipboard with the completed forms. "Make sure you get this to Josie before the day is out." Josie keeps our medical records, and not giving her the correct documentation gets her riled like nothing else. Everyone has had a run-in with her at least once. Nobody has had a second. The man nods, and hurries on his way. I glance down through the tent, which is uncharacteristically quiet. Then the first shell hits.

Being stuck in a field hospital all day tends to keep you in the loop of camp rumours and recent happenings, thanks to all the people the circulate through, making small talk as we patch them up. I haven't heard any rumblings of a raider attack, so either they managed to sneak in close or they're blitzing us. Probably the latter, knowing the raiders. I never figured that they have the necessary discipline to sneak in close enough to surprise us. So the hospital, everyone moving quiet and slow, is now a flurry of anxious movements. Able-bodied people, medics and patients alike, pulling on their armour and grabbing up their rifles, falling in with their squads and waiting for instructions. If the raiders brought artillery, then we're going to have at least one amputee by the time night falls, so I grab up my gear and make a beeline for OR1, a converted parts container that's as close to a clean room as you'll ever get out here. All the surgeons assemble at roughly the same time, and we get our orders in quick succession. Half of us are going outside, half are staying in. I'm part of the former, so I strap on my armour and gun, and slid my helmet on as I walk into the whipping sand.

Outside is a cacophony of muffled voices, straining to be heard over the thump of artillery and whine of Vertibird rotors. I check my equipment, re-adjust the straps of my backpack, and re-position my rifle across my breastplate. For the time being I stay to the side of the hospital entrance, while the other medics move to different positions down the line. If (in reality, it's more like 'when') a friendly soldier goes down, then we'll move to assess him, but until then it's best to spread out where you can see everything happening. When one of us spots something we radio each other what's happening, and then respond accordingly. Already, I feel a sort of calm serenity flooding through me. Most people get really amped when they get a flood of adrenaline, they feel alive and anxious and ready. Me, I've always gotten this sense of hyper-awareness, and calm. Everything seems to slow down, while it feels like I'm moving at a regular speed. My hands get rock steady, and my mind just seems to click, like I can see how everything is going to turn out before it actually happens. It's how I became a surgeon, while so many others washed out.

And then the world snaps back into focus, as another shell lands somewhere nearby.

[Sulamalik]

Paul lifted his hood and looked the man over. His clothes were as ragged and smelled as bad is most of the residents here, which was to say considerably less than him. He grunted and removed the green plastic tarp from his cart and presented his wares. The top layer was composed of consumables: ancient vacuum sealed cans of tuna, and kids cough syrup with their lids cracked. Pushed to the side were magazines and books, the covers cracked and faded but still very much readable. The selection ranged from low-grade pornography to fishing and hunting accounts to medical journals. A few tools also were laid out; a shovel, a wrench, and various jugs holding foul smelling liquids.

"What are you looking for Mr...? I'm sorry, I don't believe I caught your name. Well my name is Donelly and I've spent a long time collecting what you've seen here. It's not much but its the best." He picked up a doll, the arm had been torn off and stuffing poured out of the opening. He pulled the cord and the cheap toy chirped out: 'I love you thissss much!'

Paul a cracked a smile from behind his beard. "I take food and water as payment. I'm also in need of .38 caliber rounds, you happen to have any?"

[North Banrodesia]

OOC: Sneakily switches to first person RP'ing cause it's easier to portray thoughts etc.

Sofia Weston
Wanderer
Just outside portside

Leaving the gunshots and ill words of the raiders in the desert to mourn or perhaps feast upon the corpse of their newly deceased leader, I apply more pressure onto the rusted pedal that keeps this fuelled lump of scrap moving, Causing it to go that little bit faster towards the minuscule village of Portside resting below the horizon, Obscured by the odd blur from the spectacular heat relentlessly beating down upon anyone foolish enough to wander the desert on such a day that it was so powerful.

Hall remains quiet for the rest of the journey excluding the odd whistle or hum, Cleaning his already polished rifle thourougly with a dust sodden cloth that only appears to be scratching the machine pistol out of it's mint condition. Well, When I say mint, There is no real perfect weapons in Gridiron. He seems distracted as we cruise beside the scummy waters of the Dover river, swimming in his thoughts like the tiny fish swim in the watery ribbon that snakes into the ocean. 'Something the matter?' I ask, cutting the throttle as we arrive outside the bar. He replies by shaking his head before clambering out of the jeep and trudging towards his squat house, Gun over shoulder. I sigh before shoving open the rickety bar door and ordering a drink from the bartender Ted, Who is always icy in conversation, However, He's one of the few I can bear talking to, Although he never says much. He slams down a glass of whisky on the table that has a gritty texture from all the dust which I down hurriedly before leaving the establisment behind, but not before seeing a thuggish man be a little over-affectionate with a hooker. She'll probably end up stabbing him anyway, So he can do whatever he pleases for all I care. It's still morning, So I enter my dingy shack and crack open a tin of beans which I pour into a cracked china bowl before taking a seat on my pillowless armchair and tuning in the pathetic ham radio that sits on my bedside table. When I say bed, I mean bug-ridden mattress.
The radio packs up again and all I get is static, So I reluctantly eat the cold beans before heading down to the weapon store to see if any people need dealing with. Along the way, I encounter a odd hermit man with a trolley full of odd wares so I ask if he has anything I coukd use. 'Morning friend.' I say, Nodding my head towards him. 'What are you selling on this fine day?' I ask, Looking into the cart full of 'Treasures' to see if he has ammunition, Spare parts or maybe the wrench I've been hunting down for a few days since I dropped mine in the river after being chased by some crazy coyote type creatures whilst trying to fix up an old generator for a wanderer who knew shit about electricity. Not that I know much myself, But I knew a large margin more than him.

[-The Desert Rangers]

Fredrick looked at the foul-smelling trader,Donelly and looked through his wares. Nothing caught his interest,besides a razor that he would need to replace the one he lost yesterday and a book on firearms. He didn't spot what he really needed -duct tape,so he decided to ask.

"My names Fredrick. Do you have duct tape and parts for an M1911,by any chance?

He then paused,and then continued.

"I do have a handful of .38 rounds on me that I found west of here,and since I don't have any use for them...."

He reached into one of his pouches and removed a handful of bullets,handing them to the man.

[Sulamalik]

Paul held a round up to the sun, inspecting it. They were of decent quality, he had to admit. He looked back at Fredrick and nodded,"I'll right, I don't have any gun parts or guns. Period. However if its duck tape you need..." He sifted through the cart," Uh... here we are." He held up the roll of duct tape and handed it to the man.

He then directed his focus to the woman-- a rarity in the wastes. "What you see is what I've got to offer. The real question is, what do you have to offer me?"

[Ceannairceach]

Portside, Gridiron

A small figure appeared, as a sentry would see it, coming north along the south-bound road. The figure was just a few inches shorter than average and bulky, but not harshly so, indicating that the figure was human. As the figure approached, it became more and more apparent that it was a woman, carrying a satchel and armaments along with her bulky clothing.

The woman, as she zeroed in on the town of Portside, was Jezebel Dumia, known more commonly among the locals of the major trade routes as "Machete Jean". Somewhat of a local celebrity, her life had been exaggerated by children and storytellers to the point that some saw her as a hero, wandering the wastes setting right what has gone wrong, or at least as a thing of curiosity. She couldn't even hide from her fame; Being one of some dozen people to own a kukri knife and perhaps the only one who was mute, she was very notable after a few hours in town. Even quicker in towns that she was familiar with.

Portside was one such town. Kukri on a sheath tied to her leg and Ruger Mark III at her hip, she was an obvious survivor and scavenger; Her aura alone spread her self confidence in her ability to protect herself. Over her shoulder such that it did not cover her gun, Jezebel wore a satchetl, filled to the flap with various necessities, from partially-filled batteries to a spare pair of jeans to a roll of duct tape, it literally carried her life, such that its loss would mean days of rough water for her.

Jezebel was accosted by four small children, the same children who had greeted her the last time she entered Portside. They clung to the idea that Jezebel was a heroine of the deserts come to save the day, or coming back from just saving the day, or some such foolery. Being unable to yell at them to leave her be--her Bronca's area damaged to the point of muteness--she merely smiled forcibly and waved them off, scattering them in giggles and laughter.

As she walked casually down the main street of Portside, Jezebel took in the sights; A bar, probably the most active place in the city--certainly the most interesting. A man with a shopping cart selling his salvage, gathering some attention despite the existence of a general store nearby. Jezebel wouldn't be visiting him. No good ever came of strange men with shopping carts and a revolver.

Rather she chose the more reputable general store, stepping in with ease and grace through the swinging doors and knocking on the bar table to get the venders attention. When he approached, seemingly from a catnap on a rocking chair if his yawning and the end to a constant creaking sound were any hint, he eyed her up and down in a minute long recognition. "Mo' Jean. What can I get you?"

Offering an exaggerated gaze around his store, she finally pointed at an item on a low shelf; A small wax candle. It was short and rough, but it would add ambiance to any meal, a valuable commodity to the knife-wielding mute.

"Oh, 'pologies Jean, that's not for sale. Mrs. Haven ordered a whole set, and that's just the first of three. Can I get you anything else?"

Disappointed and showing it with a frown on her face, she shook her head abruptly and turned to leave, waving goodbye as she walked out. Robbed of her one desire, she reluctantly crossed the road to the cart merchant. It was unlikely that he had anything worth purchasing, but it was worth a check. She did keep a hand on her kukri, though; Could never trust a bearded man who is also a salesman, her "uncle" had once said.

Standing before his cart, she inspected the contents carefully; A few toys (useless), a roll of duct tape (she had one already), some nick knacks, and the occasional interesting or even useful item, even if she had no need of them. It was several moments before she reached in with her free hand to grab a pack of dated cigarettes. She didn't smoke, but they were good for convincing people to stop aggravating you. A cigarette for peace of mind is a fair deal.

So, she held up the small pack and shook them, pointing with a single finger as to ask what he would accept in exchange. She reached into her pack and pulled out a pair of double A batteries; They were only barely half charged, but that was still pretty useful in Gridiron.

[-The Desert Rangers]

Paul held a round up to the sun, inspecting it. They were of decent quality, he had to admit. He looked back at Fredrick and nodded,"I'll right, I don't have any gun parts or guns. Period. However if its duck tape you need..." He sifted through the cart," Uh... here we are." He held up the roll of duct tape and handed it to the man.

He then directed his focus to the woman-- a rarity in the wastes. "What you see is what I've got to offer. The real question is, what do you have to offer me?"

"Well,that's Ok,I don't use my .45 much anyways,and thanks for the duct tape"

He then glanced through the cart again,spotting the bottles containing the various horrible smelling liquids of dubious origin.

"If you don't mind me asking,what are those foul smelling liquids?"

[North Banrodesia]

Sofia Weston
Portside

I notice the scruffy old fella's look of mild surprise as he notices a female voice, Before his offer. 'What, Surprised to see a woman that hasn't sold her body yet?' I chuckle, Before clearing my throat and focusing on the matter at hand. 'Well, I should pick up a few rounds, And.....' I trail off and try to bring what I was seeking to memory. 'A wrench' I finally say after the pause, A little unsure if I had humiliated myself in the extended silence. Probably not, You could run down the street naked with a bear trap on your bollocks in the wastes without losing an ounce of dignity. 'So, What can I offer you in return?' I ponder, Not wanting to waste valuable currency on such a minor deal. 'And do you even think about saying sex.' I quickly add, Hoping that was wiped off the list of options of payment. Quickly recovering from the warning, I open up the pouch on my webbing for odds and ends and produce a misused eyepiece that when worn, Everything showed up green, Allowing night-time assassinations for myself. 'I already have another one. Take this' I hand the lens to the man before looking up at another customer, A very familiar face. 'Jean! Good to see you alive. Where've you been wandering?' I question before remembering her speech impediment. 'Oh, sorry, never mind.' I dismiss the subject knowing it would come to no good use before turning back to the hermit to see if he had my sale.

[Escalan Corps-Star Island]

Lt. Decuiralis waited impatiently in Firebase Phoenix. He and the Observers couldn't move from their support materials, which would be dropped later that evening by a transport from the Escalan aircraft carrier SFS Alan M. Inika stationed nearby. He had requested that an ARP-41 light machine gun, extra ammunition, replacement armor panels, and food be included. This would enable the team to depart the following day.

When the shelling began, Decuiralis immediately took up a position on the roof of one of the compound. He couldn't reveal his presence with the Knight Battalion if he was to pass amongst the raider factions and remain unknown. Of course, that would be immaterial if he were to be killed defending Phoenix. . .

[The Capital Commonwealth]

-snip-

With a little elbow grease and semi-foamy spit, Pedro managed to craft something very entertaining, mounting it on his bike. What with the near worthless value of gasoline as there were no cars to run it (most that had survived or were trucked in from the capital were nuclear), as well as the seemingly endless piles of destroyed cars on the highways, he had been able to salvage a car's gasoline tank, put it on a carriage, and fasten it to a nozzle which had an igniter. Within half a day, he had fixed a full blown flamethrower to his valiant stead.

[The Capital Commonwealth]

-snip-

An armed Knight Marine stood outside Portside's gun store, Ralphie's Arsenal, which through some hard work and the raiding of a couple armories in a nuclear power plant, had achieved a quite decent catalog of weapons and ammunition. The man's armor was pretty worn, several graze marks covering his chest plate, and the insignia of a Staff Sergeant shinning on its left side. He was a tall man at about 6'2", with dirty red hair and hazel eyes. He held fliers in one hand, shouting his call.

"Attention all Portside residence! If you have a military background, or are a gun for hire, the Desert Knights Marines are offering payment for assistance in the Central Gridiron Campaign! You will be rewarded handsomely for your services, and will be given military transport to whatever part of province you wish after the operation is complete!"

[The Capital Commonwealth]

-snip-

-snip-

CAPT David Kingston – Love Company, 1st Knight’s Battalion
Day 1 – Firebase Phoenix

---

A firing line of rounds impacted in front of the trench, hitting Private DeLang in the collar bone. He shrieked out in pain, dropping his machine gun. Kingston looked over to the man and pulled him away from the weapon. Corporal Jones took his place, pulling back the charging handle and opening fire on the horizon, where raiders could be seen preparing for an attack. Suddenly, mortar shells began to fall. One impacted in the trench, only about five meters from Kingston as he shielded the Private. It thrust him forward, peppering him with shrapnel. While his armor had protected him from injury, his rifle had been destroyed. He scrambled up and climbed to the top of the trench facing his camp and grabbed the radio which that OP had been allotted.

"King! We need you at OP Charlie now! We have a man down. Rifle round through his collar down and out the back. We've treated him with sulfa powder and no morphine." He quickly rotated the nob on the giant box of a radio, more mortar shells striking the line. "Battery Whiskey, we need immediate suppression of Grid 669903. Soft targets. Air burst. Send the mail!"

He threw the receiver to the ground and grabbed a rifle off of the wall of the trench, jumping back down and assessing the situation. "Alright. Love Company's going to punch into their assault and break its back. 1st Platoon with lay laser designators for our Vertibirds while Weapons and 2nd Platoon provide suppressing fire on the ridgeline. Weapons Platoon of George Company will provide a smoke screen. All medical personnel will be with my platoon right behind 1st Platoon to evacuate the wounded. Understood?"

[Camicon]

"King! We need you are OP Charlie now! We have a man down. Rifle round through his collar down and out the back. We've treated him with sulfa powder and no morphine." He quickly rotated the nob on the giant box of a radio, more mortar shells striking the line. "Battery Whiskey, we need immediate suppression of Grid 669903. Soft targets. Air burst. Send the mail!"

I recognized Kingston's voice shouting orders over the radio. I was surprised when I heard him use my name. I'd never met the man personally, face to face. Of course, he'd come through the field hospital on the rare occasion, but I wasn't of high enough rank to warrant any special attention. Sure, I may be a commissioned officer, a surgeon, but I'm certainly not the best. I'm good, I won't deny that, but even here at Phoenix there are better surgeons. "Copy that," I said into my radio. "King, en route." I went through my training in my head. Assess, report, stabilize, transport. Let the field hospital worry about saving lives. Right now, my job was to make sure my patients lasted long enough to be saved.

I took off running. Not full out sprinting mind you, because I had a sinking feeling that the battle was going to last for a long while (and a tired medic is a useless medic), but there was a soldier's life on the line. I wasn't that far off, and I reached OP Charlie in short order. I jumped down into the trench and spotted the soldier lying on the ground, his back arched and one leg stomping the ground in pain. I slid to the ground beside him, pulling off my medical kit as I did so. The left shoulder of his uniform was slowly turning a dark red. Straddling his hips in order to restrain his movements, I flicked over to the radio channel that we used for medical staff. When the guns started chattering, and our artillery started booming, it helped us hear each other.

"This is King, at OP Charlie. Support not needed."

I pulled off the soldier's helmet to check his pupils (which were dilated with pain, though not extremely so, and still able to focus, which was a good sign), and noted sadly that he was little more than a kid. Fresh into adulthood, or so it seemed. I traded my armoured gloves for a pair of disposable latex from my kit. The first thing I did was check the area immediately surrounding the wound for a rash, wiping away blood as I did so. Some people had allergic reactions to sulfonamides, or 'sulfa powder' as some people called it, but it appeared as though Private DeLang was not one of them. I wasted no time in injecting a syringe of morphine into the kid's shoulder. His movements slowed a little as the opiate began dulling the pain, which let me cut away part of his uniform to properly examine the extent of his injury. The bullet appeared to have passed through his upper torso, primarily the trapezial muscle, deflecting upwards off of his collar bone. All in all, he was very lucky. The wound was primarily superficial in nature, with no fragments have punctured his lungs. It looked as though the subclavian vein had been nicked by the bullet, which would explain all the blood.

"Patient is Private DeLang. Ballistic wound to the left shoulder, deflecting upwards off of the clavicle. No visible shrapnel. Structural integrity of the subclavian vein has been breached. Grade 2 blood loss. Stitches recommended. Blood type is A, Rh negative. Transfusion not needed at this time." I said all this to the medical staff back in the field hospital. It would allow them to prep an OR for DeLang, and assign the appropriate personnel ahead of time. "Patient has received sulfonamides, unknown dose, and morphine, 20cc's." My hands kept moving, cleaning the wound of dirt and applying a gauze dressing to keep the damaged shoulder clean. I paid careful attention to the damaged vein, keeping my thumb pressed over the small lacerations in it's surface to stem the bleeding a little. I finished by wrapping a cotton bandage over the shoulder, and down to his ribs. I pulled it around his arm, which kept pressure across the wound and helped reduce any potentially harmful movements of the shoulder. I had done what I could, so grabbing the kid underneath his good arm I pulled him up to my own shoulder, and half-led half-dragged him to the field hospital. I was met by a pair of soldiers, the technicians/nurses/orderlies of Firebase Phoenix. The surgery itself would take no more than ten minutes of steady work, though his recuperation period would probably be several months. He might never regain full movement in that shoulder.

Turning back around, I jogged up to the front lines to rejoin Love Company, getting reports from my fellow medics on their own patients. There weren't any major injuries so far, which was good. I knew it wouldn't last though.

[The Capital Commonwealth]

-snip-

CAPT David Kingston – Love Company, 1st Knight’s Battalion
Day 1 – Firebase Phoenix

---

Kingston and LT Hobby sprinted up the crater filled battlefield, chunks of mud and shrapnel flying towards them and embedding in their armor as mortar and artillery shells struck the ground. Their rifles were drawn, quickly picking targets and firing in two round bursts towards the figures manning weapons on the ridgeline angled about ten meters above the camp. Raider machine gun rounds stirred up the ground around them as they advanced, their armor giving them a slight increase in speed through the use of motorized joints and a non-restrictive glute/thigh/calve construction. Kingston quickly tapped the button on the right ear of his helmet, activating his universal transmitter. As he shouted into it, he continued to open fire on the enemy positions.

"Whiskey Battery, we need immediate HE air burst on ridgeline Foxtrot. Mortar teams! We need smoke at Grid 669913 to cover our advance!."

Hobby crouched to reload his rifle. As he finished and Kingston beckoned for him to rise, an artillery shell struck behind him, sending mud, dust, dirt, and shrapnel flying. Kingston was propelled into a ditch; his lens was clogged up with dirt and his helmet's audio amplification device was screeching. He didn't feel like he had been hit, but he was dazed and did not want to move. He could hear the faint cries of men, gunshots, and explosions in the background, accompanied by pebbles hitting his helmet. He attempted to get up, but collapsed. He unlatched his helmet from the rest of his armor and threw it across the ditch. He could see the men of 1st Platoon charging up the ridge, vanishing in the smoke. Kingston, a little sense regained, used his rifle, whose firing chamber was torn apart, to prop himself up. Behind the ditch he had landed in: the bodies of Hobby, SGT McNamara, and CPL Lau.

Without hesitating, Kingston leaped down to Hobby, inspected him. The dirt around them was clumped up, soaked with blood. Kingston tapped the secondary radio mounted on his shoulder and put out an all call. "This is Love 1 Actual, we need field medics up front immediately. I got three heavily wounded casualties. Jason Hobby, his leg below the knee has been blown off by artillery. Shrapnel wounds on his neck but no artery penetration. Applying sulfa powder and a tourniquet to his left leg. Thomas McNamara and James Lau, minor shrapnel wounds to the abdomen. The force of the artillery hit has knocked them out. Unknown bone damage. Possible spinal fracture. Over."

By that time, weapons platoon was now moving up. Three men, carrying the components to a mortar leaped in the ditch which Kingston had landed in, setting it up and sighting out for the launching of more smoke. Four for men carrying a heavy machine gun did the same, providing suppressing fire on First Platoon's left flank. Vertibirds flew overhead, firing rockets from their wings past the ridgeline. Kingston did not know what was beyond it, but he could only presume it was a massive force.

[The Mizarian Empire]

Dragonia Arms Caravan
Afternoon

---

Mikhail stared out at the City limits in front of him as the rag-tag collection of vehicles headed north , working it's way towards The Citadel. There had been talk over the radio up around Portside that suggested they should make their next stop there. After that maybe they'd do the full circle again if business seemed prosperous enough, the small-fry raiding parties didn't know any better but Mikhail had, over years of peace-talks, become a bit of a neutral party with the bigger groups of raiders. He offered them fair (at least compared to some of the other stops he made) prices in return for safe passage and information. For now the caravan was reaching the outskirts of The Citadel, where Mikhail's dealers had long since established an understanding with the police and local security forces. His men would curb their sales of their "less than legal" arms in return for turning their attention away at the occasional mishap his men may have. Most of the Merchant's employees had long since been made aware that he didn't tolerate behavior that put the company at risk of being fined or worse. Any such violations of the law that couldn't be turned away by bribes or his own negotiations usually meant they were on their own.

For now Mikhail had settled on business in and around the Citadel, the caravan once again circled up and tents and other collapsible structures were quickly going up before the merchants of death retired for the night, preparing their wares for sale tomorrow and rest as sentries set up shop tommorrow. A flagpole was quickly constructed to symbolize their hours of business during which times the flag would be raised.

[The Western Reaches]

Red
Citadel - Portside

Red was a rather unsavoury character at first glance. Covered in scarred body armour standard to Desert Lance marines of The Western Reaches, Red was obviously a defector from the oppressive "Trade Union" that had a death grip on the Reach's resources and population.

There was an air of tension about the citadel. Red has heard the rumours of advancing raiders. Red needed to find the raiders, but not the ones that had formed some kind of coalition against the Commonwealth. He was looking for a tribe that he had learned came from the North during his time training Citadel guards. Now as he passed through one of the gatehouses he could feel the edginess of the uniformed men who worked the customs booths.

It was definitely time to go. Hefting his gear into the back of the rusted buggy, Red climbed in and started the motor. The vehicle was the most generous thing he could have received, transport was hard to come by when everything with a motor is apprehended by the military or stolen by raiders, and fuel even more so.

The guard waved Red out the gate, shutting it at an almost panicked speed. It was a bad idea to hang around such itchy trigger fingers, and Red was glad to be away.

The journey gave Red time to think about what could lay ahead. The dust that covered the beaten roads of Gridiron was a unique texture and colour caused by the long-passed nuclear strike. It was uncanny how similar the landscape was to The Western Reaches. Pale, lifeless, and dotted with evidence of violence and death, bones of unknown monstrosities and burnt out wrecks of raider and Commonwealth fighting vehicles alike.

What Red was after was a man, a raider, probably. The abandoned car park and surrounding raider colonies were his best bet, judging from what he had heard at the Citadel it was where all the "smart" raiders went. Apparently they weren't the aggressive bordering on psychotic type from the South, but they were far more fearsome in combat.

Red passed only one other vehicle on the road on his way to Portside, a Commonwealth truck of troops, probably bound for the Citadel or front lines that lay beyond. It was late in the day when he actually reached the outskirts of Portside. One of the town guards, curious of his mode of transport, stopped him and waved to the group of men with guns behind him.

Red cut the engine and clambered out to greet the man, but no handshake or hello was extended his way. Instead the guard examined the badges on his breastplate. "Lance huh? Ain't that from the Reaches?"

Red glanced sideways, "Yeah."

"I didn't know people over there were still born with two legs." The guard shared the joke with the men who backed him up, it didn't seem to actually involve Red. "I see your name tag is ripped off, afraid of something friend?"

Red looked down at the ground, "My name is Red."

"Oooooh how mysterious, the man known only as Red, huh? I bet you think you're pretty bad ass with a name like that." The men seemed to be closing in slightly on him, as if he were being bullied in the locker room at school. "Well let me tell you something, I heard that the only Lance around here wearing that fancy armour of yours were defectors. Around here we have another name for defectors: Cowards. Are you a coward, Red?"

Was this guy serious? He had started on a light-hearted note but now the guard's tone was more sinister. "Cowards don't last long around here..." He continued. It seemed none of the men realized what his badges stood for, or maybe the conversation would have started differently.

Red looked around and tried to catch the eye of anyone down the road behind the guards. He reckoned he could back down and find a way around Portside without causing too much trouble, although he wasn't sure how much fuel he had, it could be vital that he was able to restock here.

[The Capital Commonwealth]

-snip-

As Red approached Portside, signs pointing in different directions within the city became visible. Ralphie's Arsenal, Portside General Store, Portside Port, Jackson's Bar, Nurse Jeremiah, and the invaluable Hunter Gas Stop. Because only few people used cars in the wasteland and because of its overabundance in a former oil province, a full tank of gas was relatively cheap, equivalent to about two bottles of water or $30 pre-Commonwealth currency if you were at a government establishment. However, the greatest asset someone could get their hands on in a stable city like Portside: firearms, ammunition, and combat training.

[The Capital Commonwealth]

-snip-

A group of five Knight Marines approached the several tents which had just been set up. By the looks of its occupants and the cachés of firearms, this was a arms dealer. Assigned to the Citadel but soon to be reassigned to Firebase Phoenix to the east, Alpha Company of the 1st Knight Battalion was grabbing all the equipment they could muster, using whatever they could get from the officials at Checkpoint Gamma and the traders at Portside and Milpitas. And a couple pieces of gold from an old bank that a Raider tribe turned into their little hideout. The lead soldier, clad in olive green combat armor with the exception of his helmet, waved down the man that looked like had the most sense of the bunch, and beckoned him for a whisper.

"Sir, I am Sergeant Will Supinger of the 1st Knights Marine Battalion. We're moving out to Firebase Phoenix tomorrow afternoon, and we need weapons now. I don't care how illegal they are, but we need twenty of the best projectile rifle you got and 300 rounds of ammunition. We also need 50 grenades and a rocket launcher if you have them. We will send out the rest of the platoon at about 7PM to pick up the weapons and make the payments if you chose to accept."