Likely Lads (Neo-Noir, OOC/Signups) [Closed]

[Walabam]

I'll take it, Walabam, though let's not go off the deep end when it comes to Rebecca's sexuality, abduction, and photos. This is still a PG-13 forum, after all. When it comes to the IC, we need to be thoughtful about how we approach these issues, and respectful of how sensitive this kind of thing can be for people. Okay?

EDIT: added Alida to the dramatis personae.

Yes, of course, I understand. I just went deeper to try and link up her fears and agenda for joining the Police. I thought such agendas would have made sense as it isn't everyday that you see a woman with a huge fortune becoming a Police Officer, instead of being like a, you know, successor of the family business. And yes, I do realise it is a little too detailed. Will try to use implications instead. Cheers!

[Reverend Norv]

I'll take it, Walabam, though let's not go off the deep end when it comes to Rebecca's sexuality, abduction, and photos. This is still a PG-13 forum, after all. When it comes to the IC, we need to be thoughtful about how we approach these issues, and respectful of how sensitive this kind of thing can be for people. Okay?

EDIT: added Alida to the dramatis personae.

Yes, of course, I understand. I just went deeper to try and link up her fears and agenda for joining the Police. I thought such agendas would have made sense as it isn't everyday that you see a woman with a huge fortune becoming a Police Officer, instead of being like a, you know, successor of the family business. And yes, I do realise it is a little too detailed. Will try to use implications instead. Cheers!

Outstanding. That's all I needed to hear!

[Walabam]

Yes, of course, I understand. I just went deeper to try and link up her fears and agenda for joining the Police. I thought such agendas would have made sense as it isn't everyday that you see a woman with a huge fortune becoming a Police Officer, instead of being like a, you know, successor of the family business. And yes, I do realise it is a little too detailed. Will try to use implications instead. Cheers!

Outstanding. That's all I needed to hear!

Edited as per PG-13 standards. Is it ok?

[Reverend Norv]

Outstanding. That's all I needed to hear!

Edited as per PG-13 standards. Is it ok?

Fine for now, Walabam. Thank you.

[Cylarn]

I don't mind whom I am partnered up with.

Also, could you add Andrea to the roster?

[Reverend Norv]

I don't mind whom I am partnered up with.

Also, could you add Andrea to the roster?

Thanks for reminding me, and for being so flexible about Ronnie's partner. Andrea has been added to the dramatis personae!

[Rudaslavia]

It probably should be noted that the ruins of the Portocielan Passage Railroad Company's headquarters are located in New Leiden. Celestia secretly uses the facility as a base for her torturous interrogations. She has the buildings locked and chained to keep gang activity out.

Other warehouse ruins of the old company also dot the Portocielan countryside.

[Glasgia]

I'm away for a month come Tuesday, without internet, but would be very interested in joining this when I return - Having read through the OP, it is extremely well-written and a very good base for an RP, with some experienced faces hanging around by the looks of it. Although I understand it is invite only, I would hope someone here may be able to vouch for me and if not I would be willing to write an RP example to hopefully disprove any doubts about my ability.

So, with permission, I would like to begin to write an application - Which would be completed and posted mid-August, with any luck.

[Reverend Norv]

It probably should be noted that the ruins of the Portocielan Passage Railroad Company's headquarters are located in New Leiden. Celestia secretly uses the facility as a base for her torturous interrogations. She has the buildings locked and chained to keep gang activity out.

Other warehouse ruins of the old company also dot the Portocielan countryside.

Excellent. I'm not going to add any of this to the glossary, since it's not quite common knowledge, but it will definitely appear in the IC.

I'm away for a month come Tuesday, without internet, but would be very interested in joining this when I return - Having read through the OP, it is extremely well-written and a very good base for an RP, with some experienced faces hanging around by the looks of it. Although I understand it is invite only, I would hope someone here may be able to vouch for me and if not I would be willing to write an RP example to hopefully disprove any doubts about my ability.

So, with permission, I would like to begin to write an application - Which would be completed and posted mid-August, with any luck.

Arriving late to an RP like this would be a serious issue, since it's intricately-plotted and PCs are paired up: to arrive a month late would be to leave another player without a partner for their character. That said, if you can find someone to vouch for you, I will consider whether there is a way to include you when you return in mid-August. Does that sound fair?

[Glasgia]

I'm away for a month come Tuesday, without internet, but would be very interested in joining this when I return - Having read through the OP, it is extremely well-written and a very good base for an RP, with some experienced faces hanging around by the looks of it. Although I understand it is invite only, I would hope someone here may be able to vouch for me and if not I would be willing to write an RP example to hopefully disprove any doubts about my ability.

So, with permission, I would like to begin to write an application - Which would be completed and posted mid-August, with any luck.

Arriving late to an RP like this would be a serious issue, since it's intricately-plotted and PCs are paired up: to arrive a month late would be to leave another player without a partner for their character. That said, if you can find someone to vouch for you, I will consider whether there is a way to include you when you return in mid-August. Does that sound fair?

Thank you, that's more than I expected if I'm honest. If I create a character, I assume rookie would be the best role to base them around - Which would link nicely into my OOC status and allow some IC room for manoeuvre. Anyway, having recognised a few faces I'll go see if I know any enough to vouch for me. Once again, thank you for giving me a chance.

[Glasgia]

So, without luck on that front, I'll leave this here - probably my best work on this site, although it doesn't exactly go too greatly into depth of personality - and hope for the best. Sorry for any annoyance provided by myself, good luck with the RP.

Official Document
Of Excalibur Squadron, Number 319 Special Operations

These are to certify,


That Robert MacDaibidh, born in the burgh of Caltoun in the city of Glasgow, was transferred to the 
aforesaid Squadron at RAF Tempsford in the county of Bedfordshire on the 10th day of January 1941 at the age 
of twenty eight years from the 1st Battalion, 79th Infantry, the King's Own Cameron Highlanders  

That he has served in her majesty's armed forces for a total of two years and one hundred and sixty one days before this
transfer and after the age of eighteen

That his general conduct as a soldier has been generally acceptable. I must note that, as his commanding officer, the Sergeant has on 
occasion been noted to hold quite radical views and express them publicly amongst the men - It is only for this which I have not yet referred him for 
any honours, for in combat he is a most excellent soldier. It is with most displeasure that I accept this transferral, for he has fought valiantly 
in combat when called to do so and is an asset to my platoon.

That he has received all just demands of pay, clothing, etc. from his entry into his previous Regiment to the date 
of this transfer, as appears by his receipt beneath.

That, from his entry into her majesty's armed forces, he has received the following training:
- Basic Infantry Training, British Army
- Specialised Infantry Training (Commando), British Army
- Basic Flight Training, Royal Air Force
- Specialised Flight Training (Excalibur Squadron), Royal Air Force



I Robert MacDaibidh do hereby acknowledge that I have received all my clothing, pay and all just demands whatsoever, 
from the time of my entry into my previous Regiment to the date of this transfer .I do acknowledge that all above notes of my
training and conduct are entirely correct and I do acknowledge that I have been allowed to transfer from my previous Regiment 
to my new formation due to the recommendation of my commanding officers

Witnessed by
Lieutenant Colonel Douglas Wimberley
of the 1st Battalion, 79th Infantry Regiment, the King's Own Cameron Highlanders



The Quartermaster of his previous regiment does note,


That, upon transfer, he has been admitted to his new formation with the following weaponry: one Submachine Gun, Calibre .45, M1928A1 
Thompson; one Pistol, Revolver, Number 2, Mark 1

That he may be described physically as: tall and well muscled, with a distinctly Gallic look - Both hair and eyes a dark brown, with a broad 
jaw and an intelligent look. His general appearance is quite harsh in character, most often carrying stubble and the skin quite grizzled. He has one 
scar, at the base of the left side of the neck, of which I do not know the origin.



The soldier may be authorised to leave personal notes below, for the reading of his new commanding officers only



I was born in the heart of Glesga's east end, Barras to be precise, in 1912. Though my home's been a rare sight over recent 
years, that's something I'll never forget and that city stays with me in spirit. I grew up in a fairly poor neighbourhood, 
without much, but you learn to live by that and I won't begrudge what life gave me to start from. I didn't struggle at school 
particularly and I can be thankful that I scraped through, even though the effort I put in wouldn't have been enough to move a 
feather. Though some of my teachers tried to convince me to pursue mathematics, perhaps as a clerk or even an accountant, I 
didn't listen and instead followed the tried and tested path.

One of the steel forges in the city was looking for apprentices, so I went to Pairkheid at just eighteen. I should note that 
this was far from a simple change of address - I'm a proud Catholic and that wasn't something welcomed in the forge. 
Though most of the other lads were Catholic and there was a fair few Irish amongst us, the owners were Protestants and 
anyone with a promotion was too. Luckily, my master was an Englishman and far too preoccupied with his own beard to care 
for how I made my prayers, so I kept my head down with the rest and learnt to weld as if I were any other Pairkheid lad.

One of the few things that went around the forge, aside from beatings, was talk. It was here that I learnt about Red Clydeside, 
about Marx and about my people - The proletariat of Glesga. I was no stranger to the names Maclean and Maxton, but I'd 
never heard them uttered with such reverence before. With the other apprentices and when we were amongst the workers, 
these were the men that shaped every thought. They were legends above us, but most importantly they were Socialists of the 
truest cause. At fifteen, sixteen, I couldn't resist the call of that cause and I follow its every movement to this day.

Talks of exploitation and wage slavery hit home hardest a few of years into my work. At twenty four, I'd passed my 
apprenticeship long ago and now found myself with a steady income. I'd procured a small house which I rented with two other 
lads from the forge, which was a decent arrangement. However, things weren't so good elsewhere. One of the shipyards had been 
closed and our forge was barely making any profit for our personal bourgeoisie - The out-of-reach, yet imposing, figure of 
William Beardmore. As such, our foremen saw fit to suggest their own wages be preserved and ours, the welders and the other 
workers, cut severely. I can't remember how I found out, but I did and so did the rest. We opted to strike, myself persuading a 
number of colleagues to join in. This apparently singled me out as a ringleader, though I couldn't admit to any kind of 
organisation. Nonetheless, the management wanted heads to roll and I appeared an easy target. The strike failed quickly, our 
fairly miserable wages not enough to save for any period of time, and I returned to work a week after I walked out - Only to be 
told to leave once again.

This left me in a miserable position, though no more miserable than my initial position and from that perspective I could at 
least say that the glass only remained half-full when once it may have been a quarter empty. I returned to a friend in Barras, 
who had neither the space for me nor the means to feed me but I made myself useful and I lived off what I could while he 
worked. In this time, I managed to make my way through a number of jobs from sweeping floors to helping in the local garage - 
Though,  often as no more than cover for other staff I held none done. My friend, himself with bad luck at the time, kicked me 
out after a disagreement with his landlord about my residency and left me practically homeless.

It was due to these circumstances that I sympathised so easily with the workingmen of the world. I was, in my own view, the 
very oppressed that I had previously talked so passionately about over the harsh grinding that forms background to any forge. 
I was the abandoned slave, no longer useful to my master and therefore left to starve. I now subsisted on the state's handouts, 
a mere fifteen shillings a week and bare enough for a child let alone a grown man.

It was, however, in this dark moment that opportunity would present itself. If not for my dire situation, I see no reason why 
the conditions into which I flung myself would've been acceptable - Yet, that filth was barely less than what I already 
wallowed in and therefore I felt no shame in diving into it. I heard of the British Battalion through word of mouth, but I 
could only seize that chance when I was encouraged to come to the local ILP headquarters. It seemed that other volunteers 
had been rejected by Labour itself, the the ILP was more than willing to provide for us. I had known of the situation in Spain 
for a while, but it had seemed distant - Almost untouchable. No longer.

I found myself in a foreign country for the first time and a soldier too, though we had no rifles to hand. This was of course 
no problem for the Spaniards, who enjoyed their time in the barracks immensely - We had wine, we had cigarettes and that 
was enough. Despite the general apathy of the Spanish or any kind of war, even amongst those who had decided themselves 
passionate enough to volunteer into the fight for the workers, I can thank these few weeks for turning me into a soldier. Drill 
become a major part of my life, and I learnt how to service a rifle without ever seeing such a weapon.

We eventually arrived in Madrid front about a month after my initial arrival, and here the boredom set in. In Barcelona, in the 
city's revolutionary fervour and in our barrack's military discipline, I had discovered a passion for both. That passion become 
slowly sapped as life in the trenches set in, sucking through my body as I awaited death - An occasion far more likely to be 
induced by my own rifle rather than those of the enemy.

One of the men, a Belgian I believe though I couldn't confirm that, procured both pencil and paper through means I didn't 
question. Of course, these were soon wasted but it did provide me with enough for one thought. At the time, the most 
excitement was not from the front line but above it. Once in a while, a majestic beast would fly overhead and the drill was 
the same - Take a few pot shots and dive for cover. Scarce on our own side, planes seemed untouchable to our ragged militia 
and a barely natural force. Though only the stray shot found its mark over hundreds of yards of mountains, I'd seen a direct 
hit from a bomb blow apart an entire platoon - A mixture of disgust, fear and awe tangling in my amazement. Our Belgian lad 
managed to piece together a sketch of these bastards and I kept in right in my chest pocket. Though I never thought I was 
within reach of the planes, I knew that they were an aspiration from then on.

My first taste of proper action came in July. For months, we'd been to entrenched for the Nationalists to drive us out of our 
position and the same for us. Though I often volunteered for patrols, they soon became hurried gathering for supplies or 
quick peeks at the enemy and both sides preferred to avoid any actual conflict even in those valleys. However, word slipped 
through that our forces were once again under pressure in Madrid itself and the front began to change. Slowly but surely, 
supplies began to increase. For the first time in the war, my platoon found itself fully equipped and there were even grenades 
to go around.

Of course, there was reason for this. We soon found ourselves advancing behind heavy bombardment, the front creeping forward 
before us. In Cañada, as the Spaniards later told me the village was called, the enemy were often simply in the next house and 
the fighting was fierce. Though I fancied one or two of my potshots across the mountain as being successful, this was the first 
time I knew I'd killed a man - Three that day and I wouldn't forget it. The whites of a man's eyes are a terrible thing to see 
when your purpose should be to kill him and often you can only freeze for a second before frantically scrambling to pull upon 
your trigger - The only hope being that the enemy freezes for longer than you do. Sometimes, the bullet won't appear to harm 
him or you - I found myself with a wound in my shoulder, though the bullet neither sunk deep nor caused much damage. If killing 
is hard, it's even harder to do it with the enemy's breath on your shoulder, his blood seeping into your clothes and his 
writhing body attempting to escape the point of your bayonet.

Again, I found myself in awe of the men above who seemingly facilitated every advance we made. However, as the skies turned 
against us this effect did so too and we found ourselves unable to press on. The order came to dig in and we did so under heavy 
fire. My platoon alone lost four men purely from the Nationalist planes, before their attack even began. While in some places 
we saw our men forced back and rumours came of various breakthroughs, we held through the first day. However, as the 
bombardment increased, we could not do so for much longer. Our position became unbearable, my own foxhole being no respite 
as the attack appeared to come from all directions, and soon we retreated back to the river which we had crossed only a week 
ago. Here the fighting was once again bitter, the heat no aid to us foreigners and bad enough even for the Spanish, and we 
found ourselves falling back time and time again. The river itself fell beyond our northern horizon and I could almost feel our 
grip losing. We briefly turned around our retreat, losing many men as we once again crossed the river, but those gains fell as 
quickly as they were made. Finally, we withdrew with a sour sense of failure throughout the brigade. It was therefore to my 
surprise that I learnt we'd held many of the initial incursions and this fact was proudly presented by the party newspapers. 
However, they declined mention of the terrible losses we'd taken and the humiliation that went with it.

We transferred to Barcelona after that, though the city seemed strangely quiet. For all my relief, I couldn't help but notice 
the loss of the revolution in the streets - Clear of the once abundant workers and their songs, the bourgeois beginning to 
reclaim their restaurants and their motor cars. I had heard no mention of the so-called "May Days" through any official source 
and that much is unsurprising when considering their potential ramifications. Nonetheless, in comparison to Madrid, the city 
did seem to teem with supplies and almost some excitement - Something scarce elsewhere unless accompanied with the 
possibility of death. I spent what pay I had been given quickly on the relative luxuries of Catalonia, even finding myself a 
cask of supposedly Scotch on the black market - Though, when opened I quickly decided that it was some cheap Spanish 
replica. Once again, our platoon was properly supplied with wine and cigarettes - The latter much missed during days spent 
in trenches.

Deployed to Aragon, I fought again in August - Our objective Zaragoza, and myself headed to Belchite. Unlike our previous 
attack, our commanders thought surprise was essential and the guns remained silent before the attack. They must surely 
have regretted this, as Belchite resisted us to the core. Even as our tanks and airforce came to the battle, they did so too 
late and we only broke through after two weeks despite entirely surrounding the town. We then found ourselves under immediate 
bombardment, though we held and I realised that - after many months - this was my first success. As the Nationalist attacks 
petered out, the feeling spread throughout our ranks. We had done it. We had beaten the Nationalists back.

This soon broke with news that we had lost the north, though no doubt we had done so long before any word reached us. Our 
commanders were not too keen to tell us and for that we didn't favour them. In fact, I could not spread much favour throughout 
the ranks as our positions constantly fell back over the months. Only in January did we fight again, in Teruel.

I entered the city after it had already fallen, just after New Year. Strong pockets of resistance apparently held out in many 
places and the Nationalists kept pouring in troops in an attempt of relief. We moved house to house, slowly advancing 
through the remnants of the city and clearing out what we could. However, it became clear that the main assault was long 
over - We were now the besieged. As the Nationalists countered, we fell back steadily with every last effort to retain some 
form of organisation. Houses which we had just cleared were lost as we edged back, then we broke.

I had never fought against cavalry before, not in my life, and I must admit that terror consumed every inch of me. We had 
drifted north during the retreat, as the Spanish concentrated themselves to take the bulk of the attack. However, the 
Nationalists outnumbered us and continued to advance with men free. They unleashed these on us in February, with much 
of Teruel already fallen. I heard the sounds of hooves in the distance before, but dismissed them as muffled gunshots or some 
over kind of cracks. Then, without warning, we found ourselves facing down our own number yet twice our size. Many men 
around me fled and I wanted to do so to, yet I stood paralysed until I had no choice but to fight. I shot at the beasts, not 
for any reason but out of fear - It was them who scared me. Vaguely, I remember parrying a slash of sabre and then, somehow, 
I emerged behind the Nationalist line.

This left me in enemy territory, with a small group of others I had found. Cautiously, we escaped the occupation of Teruel 
before the Nationalists could enforce their victory in the city's streets. Despite this initial success, we still found 
ourselves stranded and spent the next few days heading roughly east. I cannot be more thankful people of Aragon for their 
great hospitality to my group - Two Catalans, a Frenchman and me. On only one occasion were we ever under threat of capture, 
blindly wandering into a town occupied by the Nationalists for use as a kind of military headquarters, but food was scarce. 

By the time we reached the French border, we were starving and more than grateful to be found by a border patrol. Having handed 
over our rifles, only two of which were in working order, and given our explanation, the French agreed to send me on a train to 
Toulouse. There, I explained my situation to the British Consulate who explained to me that there was an aid embargo. However, 
they promised to send me back to Britain.

Almost a year after I took my first steps in Spain, I returned to Britain. It was to my frustration when the aid embargo was 
lifted, just a month after I had been denied my return to the front, yet I had no means to re-join now. My train had abandoned 
me in London without anything more than my wages, a bayonet which I had hidden from my French allies and Spanish clothes - 
The first item of those being the sole useful appliance.

After many weeks of sleeping rough, I was lucky to find work a train journey away - This time amongst the lads of Sheffield. It 
felt strange, no longer a worker like them but a warrior in the eyes of some. I was, to many, a war hero and a champion. Those 
are two epithets which I never thought I would bare yet I did and I bore them with pride. However, young lads hearts can only 
be filled with so many stories of course and I did my best not to boast nor play the character; I came to Sheffield to work and 
that's what I did. 

My time in England passed quickly, being made redundant under year since I had arrived in the forge - I knew the foreman 
neither liked my talk or approved of the undeserved status it achieved me, leaving me no doubt that his hand was not without 
action in my redundancy. I returned to Glesga in September, with hunger for proper work and talk of war in the air.

I have long opposed the imperialism, the repulsive oppression, laid out by the British Army. Their pretentious ranks serve only 
to fulfil a class structure which I so object to and my time in Spain only served to enforce this interpretation of my 
people's "protectors". However, I must maintain fully that this oppression is nothing against that of the Fascists. I knew that 
I did not like the army, but I knew that Fascism was worse. It seemed Hitler and Mussolini, with Czechslovakia annexed within 
a month of my arrival in Glesga, would soon bring war to Europe and I would fight them. I already despaired for the crushing 
defeats I heard inflicted upon my Spanish comrades - Any conflict being reported to me in snippets and rumours. It seemed if 
I was to fight Fascism again, the army would serve my purpose if I was willing to serve it. I was.

To this purpose, I joined the Cameron Highlanders in October - Having achieved only minor employment in my short while before 
that time. It was almost patronising to undergo basic training but, without any official record of service, I obliged and 
picked up a rifle once again with the enemy now beyond foreign borders.

[Reverend Norv]

So, without luck on that front, I'll leave this here - probably my best work on this site, although it doesn't exactly go too greatly into depth of personality - and hope for the best. Sorry for any annoyance provided by myself, good luck with the RP.

Official Document
Of Excalibur Squadron, Number 319 Special Operations

These are to certify,


That Robert MacDaibidh, born in the burgh of Caltoun in the city of Glasgow, was transferred to the 
aforesaid Squadron at RAF Tempsford in the county of Bedfordshire on the 10th day of January 1941 at the age 
of twenty eight years from the 1st Battalion, 79th Infantry, the King's Own Cameron Highlanders  

That he has served in her majesty's armed forces for a total of two years and one hundred and sixty one days before this
transfer and after the age of eighteen

That his general conduct as a soldier has been generally acceptable. I must note that, as his commanding officer, the Sergeant has on 
occasion been noted to hold quite radical views and express them publicly amongst the men - It is only for this which I have not yet referred him for 
any honours, for in combat he is a most excellent soldier. It is with most displeasure that I accept this transferral, for he has fought valiantly 
in combat when called to do so and is an asset to my platoon.

That he has received all just demands of pay, clothing, etc. from his entry into his previous Regiment to the date 
of this transfer, as appears by his receipt beneath.

That, from his entry into her majesty's armed forces, he has received the following training:
- Basic Infantry Training, British Army
- Specialised Infantry Training (Commando), British Army
- Basic Flight Training, Royal Air Force
- Specialised Flight Training (Excalibur Squadron), Royal Air Force



I Robert MacDaibidh do hereby acknowledge that I have received all my clothing, pay and all just demands whatsoever, 
from the time of my entry into my previous Regiment to the date of this transfer .I do acknowledge that all above notes of my
training and conduct are entirely correct and I do acknowledge that I have been allowed to transfer from my previous Regiment 
to my new formation due to the recommendation of my commanding officers

Witnessed by
Lieutenant Colonel Douglas Wimberley
of the 1st Battalion, 79th Infantry Regiment, the King's Own Cameron Highlanders



The Quartermaster of his previous regiment does note,


That, upon transfer, he has been admitted to his new formation with the following weaponry: one Submachine Gun, Calibre .45, M1928A1 
Thompson; one Pistol, Revolver, Number 2, Mark 1

That he may be described physically as: tall and well muscled, with a distinctly Gallic look - Both hair and eyes a dark brown, with a broad 
jaw and an intelligent look. His general appearance is quite harsh in character, most often carrying stubble and the skin quite grizzled. He has one 
scar, at the base of the left side of the neck, of which I do not know the origin.



The soldier may be authorised to leave personal notes below, for the reading of his new commanding officers only



I was born in the heart of Glesga's east end, Barras to be precise, in 1912. Though my home's been a rare sight over recent 
years, that's something I'll never forget and that city stays with me in spirit. I grew up in a fairly poor neighbourhood, 
without much, but you learn to live by that and I won't begrudge what life gave me to start from. I didn't struggle at school 
particularly and I can be thankful that I scraped through, even though the effort I put in wouldn't have been enough to move a 
feather. Though some of my teachers tried to convince me to pursue mathematics, perhaps as a clerk or even an accountant, I 
didn't listen and instead followed the tried and tested path.

One of the steel forges in the city was looking for apprentices, so I went to Pairkheid at just eighteen. I should note that 
this was far from a simple change of address - I'm a proud Catholic and that wasn't something welcomed in the forge. 
Though most of the other lads were Catholic and there was a fair few Irish amongst us, the owners were Protestants and 
anyone with a promotion was too. Luckily, my master was an Englishman and far too preoccupied with his own beard to care 
for how I made my prayers, so I kept my head down with the rest and learnt to weld as if I were any other Pairkheid lad.

One of the few things that went around the forge, aside from beatings, was talk. It was here that I learnt about Red Clydeside, 
about Marx and about my people - The proletariat of Glesga. I was no stranger to the names Maclean and Maxton, but I'd 
never heard them uttered with such reverence before. With the other apprentices and when we were amongst the workers, 
these were the men that shaped every thought. They were legends above us, but most importantly they were Socialists of the 
truest cause. At fifteen, sixteen, I couldn't resist the call of that cause and I follow its every movement to this day.

Talks of exploitation and wage slavery hit home hardest a few of years into my work. At twenty four, I'd passed my 
apprenticeship long ago and now found myself with a steady income. I'd procured a small house which I rented with two other 
lads from the forge, which was a decent arrangement. However, things weren't so good elsewhere. One of the shipyards had been 
closed and our forge was barely making any profit for our personal bourgeoisie - The out-of-reach, yet imposing, figure of 
William Beardmore. As such, our foremen saw fit to suggest their own wages be preserved and ours, the welders and the other 
workers, cut severely. I can't remember how I found out, but I did and so did the rest. We opted to strike, myself persuading a 
number of colleagues to join in. This apparently singled me out as a ringleader, though I couldn't admit to any kind of 
organisation. Nonetheless, the management wanted heads to roll and I appeared an easy target. The strike failed quickly, our 
fairly miserable wages not enough to save for any period of time, and I returned to work a week after I walked out - Only to be 
told to leave once again.

This left me in a miserable position, though no more miserable than my initial position and from that perspective I could at 
least say that the glass only remained half-full when once it may have been a quarter empty. I returned to a friend in Barras, 
who had neither the space for me nor the means to feed me but I made myself useful and I lived off what I could while he 
worked. In this time, I managed to make my way through a number of jobs from sweeping floors to helping in the local garage - 
Though,  often as no more than cover for other staff I held none done. My friend, himself with bad luck at the time, kicked me 
out after a disagreement with his landlord about my residency and left me practically homeless.

It was due to these circumstances that I sympathised so easily with the workingmen of the world. I was, in my own view, the 
very oppressed that I had previously talked so passionately about over the harsh grinding that forms background to any forge. 
I was the abandoned slave, no longer useful to my master and therefore left to starve. I now subsisted on the state's handouts, 
a mere fifteen shillings a week and bare enough for a child let alone a grown man.

It was, however, in this dark moment that opportunity would present itself. If not for my dire situation, I see no reason why 
the conditions into which I flung myself would've been acceptable - Yet, that filth was barely less than what I already 
wallowed in and therefore I felt no shame in diving into it. I heard of the British Battalion through word of mouth, but I 
could only seize that chance when I was encouraged to come to the local ILP headquarters. It seemed that other volunteers 
had been rejected by Labour itself, the the ILP was more than willing to provide for us. I had known of the situation in Spain 
for a while, but it had seemed distant - Almost untouchable. No longer.

I found myself in a foreign country for the first time and a soldier too, though we had no rifles to hand. This was of course 
no problem for the Spaniards, who enjoyed their time in the barracks immensely - We had wine, we had cigarettes and that 
was enough. Despite the general apathy of the Spanish or any kind of war, even amongst those who had decided themselves 
passionate enough to volunteer into the fight for the workers, I can thank these few weeks for turning me into a soldier. Drill 
become a major part of my life, and I learnt how to service a rifle without ever seeing such a weapon.

We eventually arrived in Madrid front about a month after my initial arrival, and here the boredom set in. In Barcelona, in the 
city's revolutionary fervour and in our barrack's military discipline, I had discovered a passion for both. That passion become 
slowly sapped as life in the trenches set in, sucking through my body as I awaited death - An occasion far more likely to be 
induced by my own rifle rather than those of the enemy.

One of the men, a Belgian I believe though I couldn't confirm that, procured both pencil and paper through means I didn't 
question. Of course, these were soon wasted but it did provide me with enough for one thought. At the time, the most 
excitement was not from the front line but above it. Once in a while, a majestic beast would fly overhead and the drill was 
the same - Take a few pot shots and dive for cover. Scarce on our own side, planes seemed untouchable to our ragged militia 
and a barely natural force. Though only the stray shot found its mark over hundreds of yards of mountains, I'd seen a direct 
hit from a bomb blow apart an entire platoon - A mixture of disgust, fear and awe tangling in my amazement. Our Belgian lad 
managed to piece together a sketch of these bastards and I kept in right in my chest pocket. Though I never thought I was 
within reach of the planes, I knew that they were an aspiration from then on.

My first taste of proper action came in July. For months, we'd been to entrenched for the Nationalists to drive us out of our 
position and the same for us. Though I often volunteered for patrols, they soon became hurried gathering for supplies or 
quick peeks at the enemy and both sides preferred to avoid any actual conflict even in those valleys. However, word slipped 
through that our forces were once again under pressure in Madrid itself and the front began to change. Slowly but surely, 
supplies began to increase. For the first time in the war, my platoon found itself fully equipped and there were even grenades 
to go around.

Of course, there was reason for this. We soon found ourselves advancing behind heavy bombardment, the front creeping forward 
before us. In Cañada, as the Spaniards later told me the village was called, the enemy were often simply in the next house and 
the fighting was fierce. Though I fancied one or two of my potshots across the mountain as being successful, this was the first 
time I knew I'd killed a man - Three that day and I wouldn't forget it. The whites of a man's eyes are a terrible thing to see 
when your purpose should be to kill him and often you can only freeze for a second before frantically scrambling to pull upon 
your trigger - The only hope being that the enemy freezes for longer than you do. Sometimes, the bullet won't appear to harm 
him or you - I found myself with a wound in my shoulder, though the bullet neither sunk deep nor caused much damage. If killing 
is hard, it's even harder to do it with the enemy's breath on your shoulder, his blood seeping into your clothes and his 
writhing body attempting to escape the point of your bayonet.

Again, I found myself in awe of the men above who seemingly facilitated every advance we made. However, as the skies turned 
against us this effect did so too and we found ourselves unable to press on. The order came to dig in and we did so under heavy 
fire. My platoon alone lost four men purely from the Nationalist planes, before their attack even began. While in some places 
we saw our men forced back and rumours came of various breakthroughs, we held through the first day. However, as the 
bombardment increased, we could not do so for much longer. Our position became unbearable, my own foxhole being no respite 
as the attack appeared to come from all directions, and soon we retreated back to the river which we had crossed only a week 
ago. Here the fighting was once again bitter, the heat no aid to us foreigners and bad enough even for the Spanish, and we 
found ourselves falling back time and time again. The river itself fell beyond our northern horizon and I could almost feel our 
grip losing. We briefly turned around our retreat, losing many men as we once again crossed the river, but those gains fell as 
quickly as they were made. Finally, we withdrew with a sour sense of failure throughout the brigade. It was therefore to my 
surprise that I learnt we'd held many of the initial incursions and this fact was proudly presented by the party newspapers. 
However, they declined mention of the terrible losses we'd taken and the humiliation that went with it.

We transferred to Barcelona after that, though the city seemed strangely quiet. For all my relief, I couldn't help but notice 
the loss of the revolution in the streets - Clear of the once abundant workers and their songs, the bourgeois beginning to 
reclaim their restaurants and their motor cars. I had heard no mention of the so-called "May Days" through any official source 
and that much is unsurprising when considering their potential ramifications. Nonetheless, in comparison to Madrid, the city 
did seem to teem with supplies and almost some excitement - Something scarce elsewhere unless accompanied with the 
possibility of death. I spent what pay I had been given quickly on the relative luxuries of Catalonia, even finding myself a 
cask of supposedly Scotch on the black market - Though, when opened I quickly decided that it was some cheap Spanish 
replica. Once again, our platoon was properly supplied with wine and cigarettes - The latter much missed during days spent 
in trenches.

Deployed to Aragon, I fought again in August - Our objective Zaragoza, and myself headed to Belchite. Unlike our previous 
attack, our commanders thought surprise was essential and the guns remained silent before the attack. They must surely 
have regretted this, as Belchite resisted us to the core. Even as our tanks and airforce came to the battle, they did so too 
late and we only broke through after two weeks despite entirely surrounding the town. We then found ourselves under immediate 
bombardment, though we held and I realised that - after many months - this was my first success. As the Nationalist attacks 
petered out, the feeling spread throughout our ranks. We had done it. We had beaten the Nationalists back.

This soon broke with news that we had lost the north, though no doubt we had done so long before any word reached us. Our 
commanders were not too keen to tell us and for that we didn't favour them. In fact, I could not spread much favour throughout 
the ranks as our positions constantly fell back over the months. Only in January did we fight again, in Teruel.

I entered the city after it had already fallen, just after New Year. Strong pockets of resistance apparently held out in many 
places and the Nationalists kept pouring in troops in an attempt of relief. We moved house to house, slowly advancing 
through the remnants of the city and clearing out what we could. However, it became clear that the main assault was long 
over - We were now the besieged. As the Nationalists countered, we fell back steadily with every last effort to retain some 
form of organisation. Houses which we had just cleared were lost as we edged back, then we broke.

I had never fought against cavalry before, not in my life, and I must admit that terror consumed every inch of me. We had 
drifted north during the retreat, as the Spanish concentrated themselves to take the bulk of the attack. However, the 
Nationalists outnumbered us and continued to advance with men free. They unleashed these on us in February, with much 
of Teruel already fallen. I heard the sounds of hooves in the distance before, but dismissed them as muffled gunshots or some 
over kind of cracks. Then, without warning, we found ourselves facing down our own number yet twice our size. Many men 
around me fled and I wanted to do so to, yet I stood paralysed until I had no choice but to fight. I shot at the beasts, not 
for any reason but out of fear - It was them who scared me. Vaguely, I remember parrying a slash of sabre and then, somehow, 
I emerged behind the Nationalist line.

This left me in enemy territory, with a small group of others I had found. Cautiously, we escaped the occupation of Teruel 
before the Nationalists could enforce their victory in the city's streets. Despite this initial success, we still found 
ourselves stranded and spent the next few days heading roughly east. I cannot be more thankful people of Aragon for their 
great hospitality to my group - Two Catalans, a Frenchman and me. On only one occasion were we ever under threat of capture, 
blindly wandering into a town occupied by the Nationalists for use as a kind of military headquarters, but food was scarce. 

By the time we reached the French border, we were starving and more than grateful to be found by a border patrol. Having handed 
over our rifles, only two of which were in working order, and given our explanation, the French agreed to send me on a train to 
Toulouse. There, I explained my situation to the British Consulate who explained to me that there was an aid embargo. However, 
they promised to send me back to Britain.

Almost a year after I took my first steps in Spain, I returned to Britain. It was to my frustration when the aid embargo was 
lifted, just a month after I had been denied my return to the front, yet I had no means to re-join now. My train had abandoned 
me in London without anything more than my wages, a bayonet which I had hidden from my French allies and Spanish clothes - 
The first item of those being the sole useful appliance.

After many weeks of sleeping rough, I was lucky to find work a train journey away - This time amongst the lads of Sheffield. It 
felt strange, no longer a worker like them but a warrior in the eyes of some. I was, to many, a war hero and a champion. Those 
are two epithets which I never thought I would bare yet I did and I bore them with pride. However, young lads hearts can only 
be filled with so many stories of course and I did my best not to boast nor play the character; I came to Sheffield to work and 
that's what I did. 

My time in England passed quickly, being made redundant under year since I had arrived in the forge - I knew the foreman 
neither liked my talk or approved of the undeserved status it achieved me, leaving me no doubt that his hand was not without 
action in my redundancy. I returned to Glesga in September, with hunger for proper work and talk of war in the air.

I have long opposed the imperialism, the repulsive oppression, laid out by the British Army. Their pretentious ranks serve only 
to fulfil a class structure which I so object to and my time in Spain only served to enforce this interpretation of my 
people's "protectors". However, I must maintain fully that this oppression is nothing against that of the Fascists. I knew that 
I did not like the army, but I knew that Fascism was worse. It seemed Hitler and Mussolini, with Czechslovakia annexed within 
a month of my arrival in Glesga, would soon bring war to Europe and I would fight them. I already despaired for the crushing 
defeats I heard inflicted upon my Spanish comrades - Any conflict being reported to me in snippets and rumours. It seemed if 
I was to fight Fascism again, the army would serve my purpose if I was willing to serve it. I was.

To this purpose, I joined the Cameron Highlanders in October - Having achieved only minor employment in my short while before 
that time. It was almost patronising to undergo basic training but, without any official record of service, I obliged and 
picked up a rifle once again with the enemy now beyond foreign borders.

Okay. You've got some skills. Throw up an app when you have time, and I'll see what I can do.

[Cylarn]

Guys.

[Mincaldenteans]

Guys.

[TriStates]

Role, If Any: The Mobster

---

Name: Raijen "Dogtags" Skorzeny.

"Rai-babe" by the friendly ladies of The Yellow Rose, to which he has been a long-standing, loyal customer. "Dogtags", "D-Tag","The Goon Dog" by Department and Criminal personnel . Other less widely known aliases are "Baba Yaga" or "Babak", for those who have managed to do more digging than they should have on Raijen.

Age: 46

Gender: Heterosexual

Appearance:

Intimidation Pose


Even He Takes His Licks


Kid Raijen & Skorzeny

---

Personality: Raijen is mostly quiet and aloof even from people he likes. Occasionally he speaks out of irritation or when someone isn't able to understand sign language, but largely he doesn't bother to accommodate people who can't communicate with him. Though frequently irritable and emotional stunted he's also capable of small acts of kindness, which are contrasted by his more extreme, sometimes barbaric, acts. Overall, he carries a mischievous streak with him, liking to pick on and prank people with his dark and sarcastic sense of humor.

Likes: Weapons, Women, Brawling, Pranking, Flouting Authority, Joy Riding, Hand-to-hand Combat, TV Soaps

Dislikes: Bureaucratic Red Tape, Large Crowds, Movie Theaters, Responsibility, Losing at games

Fears:

Fear of responsibility, of being tied down to another individual either through feelings of loyalty or logical circumstance.

Fear of crowds, developed through years of training and necessity of flying below the radar. Excessive crowding with other people can lead to panic attacks and violet episodes.

Hobbies: Fishing, Reading, Sex, Drinking, Martial Arts, Competitive Shooting, Bird Watching

Skills: Advanced close-quarters arms mastery, intricate knowledge of military munitions, battlefield experience.

Weaknesses (must be serious):

Legally deaf. He primarily communicates through sign language, though he can speak in a limited capacity. He is quite adept at reading lips, even from afar, and has attuned his other sense to make up for his lack of hearing.

Trust issues. More specifically, the ability to make himself dependent on another person, and put his trust completely with them. He feels that even the smallest amount of this is dangerous to do, believing that the only person, baring Skorzeny, he can truly count on is himself.

Emotionally bankrupt. Between his own grimdark view of things, personal apathy towards most things, and his own unresolved past issues, Raijen has a very twisted moral compass. This can quickly lead to danger for him and those around him, especially in situations that require delicate diplomacy or cautious handling.

---

Birthplace: Grozy, Chechen-Ingush ASSR, 1969

Nationality: American migrant. Russian expatriate.

Ethnicity: Russian(Of Japanese-Chechen descent)

Political Views: Neutral-Centrist. Apathetic most of the time.

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Religion: Eastern Orthodox, with a mixture of Islam, & Buddhism

---

Rank: Detective

Education: Ex-Soviet public records indicate a "Raijen Banri" enrolled in Grozy's "Pravda" Secondary School in the former nation of Chechen-Ingush ASSR at the age of 10. Further records show a "Raijen Babak" placed in Moscow's "Suvorov" Red Banner Boarding School at age 16. No Russian, Chechan, or Japanese, shows further enrollment in a higher education system to the current date.

Residence: A cheap, well-worn apartment flat in the Downtown area. Nothing much to look at, but its sparse, spartan, and kept neatly squared away. Just how Raijen likes it. He does keep a safe house, more like a shipping container than a real dwelling, active in one of the many abandoned warehouses in Brammertown. While he rarely visits, he is comforted to know that he always has a place to lay low should he ever have a reason to.

Biography:

1975 - 1980

Born Raijen Banri to a Japanese businessman and a Russian diplomat, when the 10 year old's life was forever altered. In 1975, Flight 935, a Boeing jetliner out from Osaka attempted an emergency landing in the Hindu Kush mountain range, over Afghanistan. Raijen was saved from the crashed aircraft by Afghani rebels, who on patrol, happened across the child, half-dead and freezing. Taking him in, the small group of fighters decided to adopt him, nicknaming him Babak ("Little Father") . Growing up Raijen's life was that of a child soldier. A rebel of the resistance army, fighting against multi-national insurgent groups, like the Maoist Afghanistan Liberation Organization and later, invading Soviet forces. He learned the use of small arms and basic survival techniques during this time as a guerrilla fighter. During his time, he also attained fluency in Persian, Russian, Manderin along with his home language of Japanese.

1980 - 1988

During this time, the Soviet offensive grew in magnitude, with the fresh success of the new tactics and leadership reflecting in their victories on the battlefield. In the early stages of the war, a Spetznaz strike team assaulted the rebel stronghold Raijen was posted at. During the attack, a high-yield RPG detonated within a bunker Raijen had decided to take cover in. The resulting explosion, while not killing the young rebel, destroyed most of his capacity to hear. Captured in the raid, the commanding officer on-site, strangely decided to spare Raijen's life. A show of mercy that would have sweeping implications for both of their futures.

As a 16 year old, and not a naturalized Afghani, he was taken into the Soviet state child care system as an orphan in Moscow. With literally no record of him available, since Raijen had been presumed dead 8 years earlier by the Japanese Government, he was in a most interesting position. Considering his dangerous conduct towards the state prior, Raijen was placed in a Suvorov Red Banner Boarding School, and assigned a military handler in lieu of a normal foster family, one Captain Pavel Skorzeny.

A more than troubled child, Raijen was a constant sight in the disciplinarians office. Physically small, scrawny and clearly not Russian, his first year saw many of the other students attempt to initiate conflict with him. Which her returned, with a relish. His offenses over his stay at the school ranged from petty theft and destruction of school property, to inciting student brawls and even fighting with school security. This earned him the title Baba Yaga Mahleenkiy (lit. The Little Bogeyman) from the other students and school staff. With out Captain Skorzeny's intervention and presence, Raijen would have most likely been kicked from the facility a year after his arrival. As it was, he stayed at Suvorov for two years, until his 18th birthday.

1989 - 1991

As the war in the Middle East progressed badly for the USSR, and the nation seemed on the decline, the relationship between Skorzeny and Raijen had developed significantly; from a simple warden and his ward, to almost father and son. Eventually leading to Skorzeny's decision to resign his post, and with Raijen in tow, left Russia for Raijen's own Chechnya in 1990. Following the fall of the Soviet Union and the lifting of the Iron Curtain, Skorzeny became a soldier of fortune, eventually accumulating enough to escape the country with Raijen. Their destination, a little known Caribbean rock, called Portocielo.

1991 - 2014

26 years old, and without two rubles to rub together, Raijen made his start by appealing to interest who needed a man with his particular set of 'talents'. Specifically, for the Lanza family, who had been instrumental in obtaining the dotted I's and crossed T's that made Raijen and Pavel Skorzeny's arrival in the Island city possible. Requesting nothing but the chance to show case his skills, Raijen proved to be a valuable asset for the Caribbean crime family, there being no job too dangerous or dirty he wouldn't do. So long as he was paid. This reputation for getting things done, with a reasonable fee, was one of the reasons the Lanza's offered him a more 'legitimate' position in their organizations. As an informant, planted within the PTPD. Bargains were struck. Wheels were greased. And after Academy Graduation, Officer Raijen Skorzeny's was sworn in to Serve and Protect.

While more elaborately trained than your basic flat-foot, Raijen was put on Patrol just like any other 'rookie'. Partially, to avoid any suspicion and snooping. Primarily, because a man on the beat is very beneficial for everyone. The Lanza's would slide Raijen information: dirty cops not on Lanza's payroll, first dibs on sure-fire busts, earning him wins with the Department higher ups. After all, if the Department looks good, you look good. In payback, Raijen would keep an eye out for Lanza's interest by safeguarding their people and operations. After surviving 3 years on the mean streets of Portocielo, Raijen was tapped as a potential candidate for Detection. Approval and final say was fast-tracked, with Laim Mackenzie's blessing and good-will from his Lanza's connections. By the end of the week, the Mobster found himself turning in his Patrol cap for a Detective's badge and Goon Squad slot.

2015

Picture the present. A nice little hot spot of an island. Filled with some of the most despicable snitches, spies, thieves, drug dealers,smugglers, human traffickers, arms dealers, forgers, hackers, mercenaries, and assassins in the Western Hemisphere. For the 49 year old outcast, among those deemed unfit for society, was where he felt at home. For almost 10 years, Raijen had juggled two possessions. One, was a Shield. The other, was a Gun.

The former, was officially the property of the PTPD. But no-one disputed that it really meant he belonged to the Goon Squad. The latter, was a constant reminder that he more commitments than just the ones sporting Blue. More specifically, the Lanza Family. They had done more than there share in helping him and the Old Man get this far. A person with such a colorful history would be hard pressed to go it alone from the get go. In the end, its all about keeping your balance between both of them.

NPC's of Importance:

PAVEL SKORZENY: What can be said about Pavel? Well it were all written down, you could have yourself a book. He was a soldier, of a dead country and forlorn fortune. A Captain who has had men live and die, by his own words and actions. He is Raijen's mentor, comrade, friend, and the father he never knew. At 64 years old, Pavel is past his prime of soldering, though he would never admit it and Raijen wouldn't dare say it. Still, its got to be said, you've gotta have steel in your spine and iron-clad nerves to endure what he has.

[Mnar Secundus]

Would it be fine if one of the PCs (a detective sergeant, more likely) had been my character's Field Training Officer? I need a way for him to have been introduced into the Goon Squad.

[Cylarn]

I don't know if the PTPD would hire a deaf man, especially one without much legal documentation.

[Reverend Norv]

Name: Raijen "Dogtags" Skorzeny

I'm afraid that this is just too implausible for me. From the plane-crash backstory to the business with the katana to the idea of a crack soldier who's deaf, it just strains credulity beyond the breaking point. And since all but two paragraphs of Raijen's backstory have nothing to do with Portocielo, I certainly don't feel comfortable with him taking the plot-vital role of the Mobster.

So I'm afraid that this character is a non-starter for me. You're a good writer, and if you can come up with another, more realistic idea, then I'd be glad to have you. But Raijen is just much, much too unrealistic for what is supposed to be a fairly hard-boiled setting.

Would it be fine if one of the PCs (a detective sergeant, more likely) had been my character's Field Training Officer? I need a way for him to have been introduced into the Goon Squad.

Absolutely. I hereby volunteer Cylarn's character for that role, since he's probably the longest-serving detective sergeant on the Goon Squad.

[Mnar Secundus]

Would it be fine if one of the PCs (a detective sergeant, more likely) had been my character's Field Training Officer? I need a way for him to have been introduced into the Goon Squad.

Absolutely. I hereby volunteer Cylarn's character for that role, since he's probably the longest-serving detective sergeant on the Goon Squad.

Thanks! Hope you don't mind, Cylarn.

[TriStates]

I'm afraid that this is just too implausible for me. From the plane-crash backstory to the business with the katana to the idea of a crack soldier who's deaf, it just strains credulity beyond the breaking point. And since all but two paragraphs of Raijen's backstory have nothing to do with Portocielo, I certainly don't feel comfortable with him taking the plot-vital role of the Mobster.

So I'm afraid that this character is a non-starter for me. You're a good writer, and if you can come up with another, more realistic idea, then I'd be glad to have you. But Raijen is just much, much too unrealistic for what is supposed to be a fairly hard-boiled setting.

Not a problem. Would you be willing to accept the plane-crash backstory, if I ret'd the katana, his service with the Soviets, and the rest of it dealt more realistically with the setting?

[Rudaslavia]

I'm afraid that this is just too implausible for me. From the plane-crash backstory to the business with the katana to the idea of a crack soldier who's deaf, it just strains credulity beyond the breaking point. And since all but two paragraphs of Raijen's backstory have nothing to do with Portocielo, I certainly don't feel comfortable with him taking the plot-vital role of the Mobster.

So I'm afraid that this character is a non-starter for me. You're a good writer, and if you can come up with another, more realistic idea, then I'd be glad to have you. But Raijen is just much, much too unrealistic for what is supposed to be a fairly hard-boiled setting.

Not a problem. Would you be willing to accept the plane-crash backstory, if I ret'd the katana, his service with the Soviets, and the rest of it dealt more realistically with the setting?

Surviving a commercial plane crash is not an easy feat, mate. Explosion + fuel = very minimal chances of maintaining life.

[Rupudska]

I'll try to have an app up by Monday, but as I will be moving next week, my posts will be short and sporadic at best for a while.

[Reverend Norv]

I'm afraid that this is just too implausible for me. From the plane-crash backstory to the business with the katana to the idea of a crack soldier who's deaf, it just strains credulity beyond the breaking point. And since all but two paragraphs of Raijen's backstory have nothing to do with Portocielo, I certainly don't feel comfortable with him taking the plot-vital role of the Mobster.

So I'm afraid that this character is a non-starter for me. You're a good writer, and if you can come up with another, more realistic idea, then I'd be glad to have you. But Raijen is just much, much too unrealistic for what is supposed to be a fairly hard-boiled setting.

Not a problem. Would you be willing to accept the plane-crash backstory, if I ret'd the katana, his service with the Soviets, and the rest of it dealt more realistically with the setting?

I can't make any promises, but I'd be prepared to look seriously at such an application. Make the changes, and I'll let you know.

[Reverend Norv]

I'll try to have an app up by Monday, but as I will be moving next week, my posts will be short and sporadic at best for a while.

Understood. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.

[Rudaslavia]

I will be controlling Virrey, yes?