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Retired Moderator
Posts: 10117
Founded: Nov 12, 2007

Postby Kyrusia » Mon Jul 29, 2019 7:45 pm

The origin of the above, image-based post is here.

In the future, it behooves you to provide a link, in the least, to the post in question if it isn't (cannot be) quoted, so context can be gained. This avoids needless dings for imagespam. This is especially true if you feel the post is so exceptional and novel, where added context can help demonstrate such.
Last edited by Kyrusia on Mon Jul 29, 2019 7:48 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Posts: 1663
Founded: Dec 25, 2017
Democratic Socialists

Postby Asardia » Sun Oct 13, 2019 6:38 pm

This is from the current Cold War RP. Context is that I (the USSR) sent a 4 sentence letter to South Africa, saying we support communist insurgents, but we won't support the South African government. This post showcased the leaders of the government, their motives and goals, and how they view the international community. I think it's very well written

Confederate American SU wrote:After having a short conversation for a bit, Malan and Andrews both received the message from the man of steel himself.

While Andrews merely sighed in defeat, Malan clenched his fists before shouting, "The hypocrite!" He then continued, explaining himself, "This is coming from the man who ice-picked Trotsky and purged vast swaths of his own party! Protecting socialists?! Even now, I'm hearing news that he's forcibly separating Bulgaria and Romania. Obviously, Stalin can keep socialist movements on a leash all he wants."

"I am quite sure that Romania and Bulgaria are close enough to the USSR for them to have more control," Andrews noted, "But, I think anyone with a basic grasp of history can realize Stalin's flip-flopping positions."

"Yes, and that is because Stalin is exactly the sort of leader that a godless nation would produce. One without moral values," Malan said.

"I'm an atheist, Malan. You think I lack moral virtue?" Andrews asked.

Malan let out an exhausted sigh, "I apologize. You...definitely are an honest man."

Andrews smiled, "It's no problem, comrade."

"Still, the Soviets are outright supporting the United African Commune. We can't tolerate this! They're helping the sorts of people who threaten our people fundamentally," Malan said.

"I hate it just as much as you. My movement had fought against the capitalists since the dawn of the first world war. Yet somehow, the same kaffirs who were used as strikebreakers by the British are suddenly the paragons of revolution in Africa? Stalin is going to let them operate in Southwest Africa with impunity," Andrews noted.

"And, we can't let that hap-" Malan was then interrupted by another voice.

"Is there something wrong?" B.J. Vorster, a delegate from the Volksraad of the Republic of Transvaal, asked as he entered the room. "I heard such loud screaming that I thought for a moment that we were in Hitler's bunker."

"Oh, we just received a message from the Soviets," Andrews explained.

"Wow, that only makes it more like the Fuhrerbunker," Vorster laughed as he took a seat, crossing his legs. "Well, I overheard the whole conversation anyways. Still, that is unprecedented. Secretly communicating with the Soviets without the rest of the Confederate Council. Our government is truly informal."

"It was more asking the Soviets for a conversation than anything. Also, the Confederate Council receives all telegrams sent from here," the old communist explained after struggling with a coughing fit.

"I see. That makes sense. So, the Soviets are supporting pan-African nationalists due to being socialist. Yet, we are socialist as well, yes?" the younger Afrikaner nationalist noted, "I think I have a genius idea that'd make Einstein seem like a Congo negro by comparison."

"A genius idea?" Malan asked.

"Yes. Basically, we're going to have a carrot and stick approach to the Soviets. And, of course, only the stick for the black rebels," Vorster explained as he crossed his legs, "Basically, we will send an ultimatum to the so-called 'United African Commune': Leave South West Africa or the full might of the South African Citizen Force will be unleashed on them. And, I mean the full might. A full-scale military crackdown."

Both Malan and Andrews nodded. "I agree, though that is pretty much a consensus at this point," Malan said, "But, the issue is that Soviet support for a Pan-African organization, even outside of South Africa, could still embolden blacks within our borders."

"Let me read the message." Vorster then peeked at the telegram. "You two are so caught up in the stuff about the UAC that you forgot that Stalin personally applauded our plan for ending British imperialism." He then smirked a little. "That leads us to the second part of my plan." With a sheepish smile, the Transvaal delegate declared, "We're going to give him a tour of our country. Show him the wonders of South African Syndicalism!"

Malan blinked and held his mouth agape in shock, "What?! We're going to reward this weasel with a vacation?"

"Let him speak his idea through," Andrews reassured the older Afrikaner.

"Thank you, old commie. I thought you were dead for a moment," Vorster joked before patting Andrews on the shoulder. "But yes, Stalin is so cooped up in his office in Moscow, dealing with the cold Russian winters. No wonder he is so brutal. The man just needs a warm relaxing vacation. So, we'll give him an invitation, have him tour South Africa. Maybe even let him hunt some big game. At worst, we just end up with our current situation. At best, we have a sympathetic Soviet Union."

"B-But-" Malan tried to speak up before Vorster interrupted him.

"You don't realize the game yet? If we're going to survive the coming decades, we're going to have to play a game of realpolitik. We don't want the Soviets to have a grudge against us. That would just lead to them pushing for the UAC to start an uprising in other states of the South African confederacy. But, we also don't want to alienate the Americans too much. This is why I actually do appreciate your secretive approach. Secrecy is essential in a geopolitical battle, especially with modern mass media. Basically, the only two countries that are direct threats to us are the British and the Pan-Africanists. The Soviets could be useful for the former. I actually do hope that the British Empire would try to enforce decolonization on the Southern Rhodesia area. We can start an uprising of white workers and farmers there too. I think our flag could use a sixth star."

Both Andrews and Malan were stunned at the random delegate from Transvaal seemingly taking over the meeting. It was as if he was predestined to be elected a Confederate Council member.

"So, we're going to give Stalin a tour of South Africa, and the Americans? Wouldn't they see that as a potential offense?" Andrews asked.

"Oh, if we do get good relations with the Soviets going, then we don't have to care much about the Americans besides business. We all agreed on developing the arms industry here due to the Citizen Force's out of date weaponry. Really, I don't see America holding onto their own form of white rule for much longer. Their President is integrating the armed forces, and he's a Democrat. A member of the party of the South. And, the push to end white rule in America will extend to South Africa. They will cut aid eventually," Vorster explained. "And, they're going to be rabid anti-communists anyways. We got rid of capitalism in South Africa, and the ideologues in America will see that as tantamount to us being no different from the Soviets."

"That is true," Andrews said, "Perhaps, the Spanish could be allies too? I heard news about them wanting to reconquer their African territories. Perhaps, they could be sympathetic as well."

Both Vorster and Malan nodded. "A telegram to them too wouldn't hurt," Malan added.

From: D.H. Malan and William H. Andrews of the Confederacy of South African Republics
To: Joseph Stalin of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

If the Soviet Union has a policy of protecting socialist nations, then we invite you, or a diplomatic envoy, to visit South Africa to experience South African socialism. Our nation prides itself on being ruled by the working class and farmers. You then can determine if our country fulfills the criteria. After all, have we not fought capitalism since the strikes of 1914 or even the Boer uprisings earlier on? We rose up with the Rand Rebellion, inspired by the Russian Revolution. We have been ardent in our socialist, syndicalist cause.

Sincerely, the first General Secretary of the Communist Party of South Africa.

In the Ou Raadsaal, delegates from the Volksraads of each Republic and each labor union met. At the center, the Confederate Council oversaw the meeting. After an hour of discussion, a decision had been settled. An ultimatum was to be sent to the United African Commune. Most of the debate was over allocating funds to the military for the crackdown.

Hendrik Verwoerd, a member of the Confederate Council, then announced the ultimatum with a televised speech.

"The Volksraads and Labor Unions of the Confederacy of South African Republics have voted to issue an ultimatum on the United African Commune. Withdraw all members and cancel all operations in the Republic of South West Africa, or else the South African Citizen Force will use all arms necessary to drive out or eliminate the United African Commune."

From: Percy Fisher, Hendrik Verwoerd, and Jimmy Green of the Confederacy of South African Republics
To: Caballero of the Socialist Republic of Spain

Greetings. The Confederacy of South African Republics is interested in setting up diplomatic relations. We're also curious about your attitudes when it comes to African affairs, as it seems like that the Socialist Republic of Spain is unique in wanting to preserve its colonial empire despite being a socialist republic.
If money is where you find happiness you'll always be poor
Often its not the driver but the passengers that find the right path

North German Realm wrote:Cantello. HE's empire looks like a Persian rug more than a flag, ngl

5pb wrote:"I'm cutting it off," Ayano raised an axe above her head

"Wait wait wai... FUCK!"

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Confederation of the Equator
Posts: 614
Founded: Jun 13, 2016
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Confederation of the Equator » Wed Dec 11, 2019 12:46 pm

In what's merely a post of standard WFF quality, the worldbuilding is brought to a scale of immense detail, with cultural quirks of local areas being brought into contrast with the characters' own views and experiences, as it's organically developed alongside references, throwbacks, and smooth dialogue/character development. Due to its size, the post was split up into two parts, and thus I'm only showing the first part of it here.

Turmenista wrote:


Are you familiar with the botanical gardens of Porto Plácido? They were once the most extravagant in the world... but that is not why I order you here. Word has reached us from one of our associates of a hidden chamber beneath one of the domes... housing the laboratory of professor Tiago Paz "Saci" Kleyton, the inventor of Berserk. The Signifers have studied his chemical developments, particularly his poisons. We have been informed of one that is quite potent in the aerosolized form... it would be useful to poison other high-level Imperial officials during the Fleet Day event.

Fleet Day, Act 2C
The Ranch
Western Mountain Range
Porto Plácido

(Image) South Atlantic Empire
May 25, A.C. 479
9:30 AM Aurum Standard Time
22 Hours Until Fleet Day

Missions were going out of the old OSP Ranch faster than Selim had ever anticipated—it was a welcome change to the usual impromptu manner of how Jimmy went about planning missions, which, unlike his normal demeanor, was mostly unprofessional. It felt good to at least have people who were well-organized and planning everything, reminding him of his days back in MILINT, where organization and accountability often took priority over bureaucracy. Back then, you received the order, and got the job done—no bureaucratic in-betweens or slip-ups.

In a way, The Ranch was the best place to run such secret operations from—it was secluded, quiet, and offered a great vantage point over the city to conduct missions from. He wasn’t sure how the rebels were able to acquire such a property, let alone who owned it before, but he was thankful. Thankful they didn’t have to work out of a cramped battlecruiser, for once.

Once more, perhaps by coincidence (or maybe the insistence of Joao), he had found himself with Erina, preparing for another mission. Kang and Cristina were already out in the field while the others were running support — so why they’d want him to be in the field made sense. Professional people with expertise in operations like this were people the rebels could practically kill for.

He heard Erina approach him from behind while cleaning his weapon, speedily putting the KT-107X back together. “Yes?”

"Briefing's ready, dummy. We've got, uh... an interesting job," Erina began, a hand on Selim's shoulder as she glanced over to the rifle he held. "..real interesting.." It seemed the weapon was enough to catch her attention, as she fixated on the foreign firearm.

“Don’t call me a dummy again,” Selim jokingly said, holding up the rifle for her to see before slinging it on his shoulder. “The amount of paperwork I had to bring this with me was impressive. I don’t know why we’ve got such a reliance on modularity and bullpups, but it’s like a laser beam, I tell you.”

"This one's gonna be outside," Erina explained, leading the way out of the room and guiding Selim on to the living room, devoid of the usual Triumvirate. Here and there Resistance radio operators assessed the situation, while suited ANI spooks kept a close eye on the entire affair.

Leading Selim outside, they would go on to an aged pavilion. Undoubtedly, it hadn't seen use in a long time — and had only been recently cleared of rampant plant growth. A standing board with a map of Porto Plácido had been set up, along with a PORTAMAPA and various other pieces of equipment. Standing at attention was João and Van Krueger, both men seeming to take note of the duo's arrival.


Managed a quickie, lovebirds?

"Managed a quickie, lovebirds?" João joked, smirking. It seemed it'd been enough time for the man to get into an even more revealing outfit, along with a change of wigs.

“I’m not a Nephonite.” Selim hissed.

“Yeh, andyualsoarn’tblack, kaffir.” van Kreuger taunted.

Ignoring the Ruiter’s snarky and irrelevant comment, Selim folded his arms, his eyes upon the drag queen. “Whaddya got for us, João?”

"Well, honey... it's a simple job, really.." Turning around, he paused for a moment to look on at the towering sight of the Imperial Palace in the far distance. Before either Selim or Erina could make assumptions, he quickly dissuaded their suspicions. "Oh, you're not gonna blow that ugly block of concrete up. That's someone else's job..." His allusion was vague as he continued. "You're going to the former grounds of the old University's botanical gardens. They were once the pride of the nation, you know. Now it's just something for the Impe signifer gringo pieces of shit to study..."

"Are University students going to be a problem?" Erina questioned.

"Oh, there's none of that in this shithole the Impes have created." João replied. "The University is abandoned. Why do you think most of those gr*ngo shitstains are illiterate? They are too busy praying to their presidente god and his false saints. The University is abandoned. A shame, really... all of its contents seized to further the so-called Empire's knowledge."

“Did you just pronounce an ast-nevermind.” Selim shook his head. Sometimes, he simply couldn’t believe he was dealing with these kinds of people... “Anyways, what’s so important about the university, João? I don’t exactly want to run into a Signifier that’ll melt my brain or whatever the hell those creeps do.”

"Are either of you two familiar with a man named Tiago Paz "Saci" Kleyton? He's long dead now, but I'm sure an Akhmanari hunk— I mean spook would know what the deal is."

“Vaguely, no, wait,” Selim paused. “Yeah. I definitely know. He was a professor, who made the chemical Berserk based off the Sanjari drug Pamyat. Something along the lines of wanting “invulnerable soldiers…” somewhere along the lines, we took Berserk and weaponized it. You don’t wanna mess with it.”

"Berserk wasn't his only invention, bitch. As it turns out, he had an entire laboratory beneath the botanical gardens — a laboratory the Impes have discovered and begun studying themselves in recent months. Now, I have a friend who's spilled me some... intel. There's a poison... a rather strong one... being held in the botanical gardens' grounds. XV-89. It can be aerosolized, too, from what I've heard. The Impes want to study it... probably use it against Alvimian rebel forces, or Angí forces in Kina and Floriana. We're going to stop them — and take it for ourselves... I'm sure you want to know why," João smirked, studying the two for a moment. It was difficult to tell what was going on in the eccentric Resistance leader's mind sometimes.

"Huh?" Erina raised an eyebrow at what the man seemed to suggest.

"You see—"

“Poisoning Ure or Marcian?” Selim finished, as if he were expecting an answer.

Selim's question warranted a laugh, and then a flamboyant golf clap from João. "You read my mind, sweetie. My plan and Jimmy's plan have a little difference, but I'm sure you'll love it. See, it'll make you a star ..." Gesturing to the whiteboard, he pointed to a few of his notes. "Fleet Day is going to have a gala of sorts. A little speech from the Admiral, a little speech from the Emperor... and I've hatched a clever plan. You're going to poison the event. How Erina here gets in is something I'll explain once you bring the poison back here in one piece."

As if reading minds isn’t my speciality, Selim joked to himself. “Understood.”

"So you want us to poison the Gala, kill Ure and Marcian..." Erina thought aloud.

"When everyone starts writhing on the floor, you take over. Kill Ure, Marcian even, on live Impe TV. Those stupid gr*ngos will lose their shit when they see their leaders shot and killed on TV."

“Instead of let the Ruiters hit the floor, it’ll be let the Imps hit the floor..” Selim muttered aloud, turning to van Krueger, who was too busy zoning off while smoking a cigarette to be paying attention. “Isn’t that right, cracker?”

“Shut up, kont.” Kreuger grunted.

"All of this paired with the IAN Westland going up in nuclear hellfire, of course. To the Alvimians living under the Impe boot, it'll be a call to action. I'm sure you can come up with something, Erina... it's all up to you, honey. Do you want to incite another Days of Rage, and urge the Alvimians to massacre their gringo masters? Or will you urge the oppressed soldiers, regardless of their nationality, to take arms against those who've used them for so long? But I'm getting ahead of myself."
Something about João’s swagger and dedication, along with their…bad bitch tendencies, was admirable to Selim. Frightening, yes, but admirable mostly. Again, it was definitely a welcome change from the Boss’s unpredictable and often borderline bipolar decision-making process. “Go on, then.”

João gestured to a few photos on the map. "You're going to be going through the Periferia, Porto Plácido's vast, sprawling slums— and the last bastion of a free Alvimia here in Porto-P. From there, you'll be going through The Wall. The Impes built it to keep us out. They know they can't enforce their 'Emperor's Will' on us all. Thankfully, it's rotting, decaying... there are more than a few passageways through the rotting concrete that our resistance friends know well. I'll mark a few of our entrypoints on your PORTAMAPAs for you."

Taking Erina and Selim's maps, he plugged them to his own and begin inputting some data through the device's attached keyboard, keys loudly clacking as he typed things out with rather bombastic flair...and painstakingly slow speed, at least for Selim. Raising his index finger for dramatic effect, the nail of which had been repainted another shade of hot pink since they'd last spoken with him, he slammed down on the enter key.

"There you go, sweethearts. I've also transferred some of my notes regarding a few locations on the path ahead. Some things might've changed since I last went out there, though — so don't let your guard down, bitch." Disconnecting their digital maps, he returned both to their respective owners. "So, once you get through the Wall, just be careful when you're going through Reinado. It's the most authoritarian hellhole in this city... everything around the Wall is, pretty much. Whatever. The entire path's on your map." With an expressive shrug, he left Erina and Selim to assess their situation.

“I guess we’re going into hostile territory..” Selim murmured, taking a look at his own PORTAMAPA and drawing an imaginary line across the route with his finger. “Doesn’t seem that difficult, or that frightening. How do you think we should go about this one, Erina?”

"Nonlethal where possible," Erina suggested. "Maybe we should use the 'PBWs' the Imperials play with. This is a Resistance hideout... I think PBWs wouldn't hurt to slap onto our guns."

“Sure. While we’re at it..” Selim paused for a moment, as if he were checking out his own things. “We should ask them for some stun grenades, if they have any. I feel as if they would work really well.”

Leading the way into the 'armory' of the Ranch, they were greeted by a mix of Imperial, old Alvimian and Angecalian firearms, no doubt the culmination of a mixture of scavenging and received aid. Erina was quick to take apart an Imperial BR-II, ducttaping the PBW to the base of her weapon and bringing its electronic switch within her hand's reach on her FC-65. "Imps won't see what hit them! Ahah!" She chuckled at her own rather bad pun as she stocked up on a few charged PBW cells, loading one in as she ran a final check on her weapon.

“Never make that joke again, please..” Selim grumbled, takine one of the PBWs and a roll of duct tape. After a moment, he had come up with a crude replication of Erina’s jury-rigged FC-65/PBW hybrid, the pistol grip of the PBW serving as a sort of foregrip.

"Couldn't help myself..." Erina still held back a bit of laughter as she geared up — running a few more checks on her equipment before slipping on her usual protective vest.

“As if you can ever help yourself..” Selim smirked, holding up his hybridized KT-107X/PBW to test. “Well, I guess it works. Kind of weird to hold it like this, though.”

"We won't know if it works until it works. I don't wanna try my 20-20 vision on this thing y'know..." She checked the weapon for a moment, making sure the duct tape was fastened. "Feels like we're in one of those campy 460s sci-fi movies... I'm holding a fucking laser gun!" Erina made sure to pose for the camera on Selim's own vest, toting the gun with a bit of pride.

“Or was it the one in 400…?” Selim muttered to himself, lowering his weapon to a comfortable position. “You know, the one where they’re fighting the monsters that look like canned meat. You know that one?”

"Oh, you mean Noite Preta?[1] Hell yeah — all we need now is some UFOs to show up over Porto-P..." Erina joked. "So, whadd'ya say we go 'Major Tom Hunt'[2] on these Imp cocksuckers?"

Pulling the charging handle on his weapon back and releasing it, as if he was making a dramatic one-liner, Selim looked straight into Erina’s camera, taking a pose of his own with his new weapon. “I’m feeling like a John Stryker[3] type myself..

Fleet Day, Act 2D
Porto Plácido Slums
Porto Plácido

(Image) South Atlantic Empire
May 25, A.C. 479
9:30 AM Aurum Standard Time
22 Hours Until Fleet Day

Selim’s eyes were peeled on their surroundings, his weapon occasionally bouncing from various open windows, despite the obvious lack of life in some of these windows. For all he cared, every open window was an open opportunity for a gang to shoot down upon them, or, worse, an opportunity for a sniper to get lucky.

Was he paranoid? Yes, but for good reason. The real question was about if he should be paranoid.

"I've always seen places like these in the movies, y'know..." Erina began, rifle in hand as they navigated the labyrinthian streets of the Periferia. It was a patchwork of different styles, and it often became hard to tell where the old, planned buildings before the Collapse had been overtaken by unplanned, 'homemade' housing. Most of the time, one could tell the newer buildings apart by the fact they were plain, unpainted brick — and had less graffiti, of course.

Passing a mural of graffiti, Erina would lead the way as they rounded a corner.

Beyond the corner, Erina and Selim would find what was a common sight of the Periferia during rush hour. Several plastic tables were laid out in front of a bar whose structure seemed questionable, although at the place’s proper standard. At one of the tables, they would find a group of at least a dozen men - all of them either shirtless or wearing second-hand football club jerseys.

With several empty bottles of beer on display, it seemed like the gang had been there for a little while now, the civilians who sat nearby seemingly paying no mind to their rifles that were just casually leaning on that same table.

“Gangs.” Selim called out, as if it wasn’t obvious enough already.

"Hopefully we don't get in any—"

Suddenly, they seemed alerted… and it was quite obviously a reaction to the JSOF operatives. However, the tension their reaction created lasted a mere second, as their expressions of surprise were replaced by more positive ones. “Carai, cuzão! Oia a gostosa do Jota Sofe alí!” One of them called out, immediately getting up from the table. He seemed to be that group’s leader.

"O—oi, gente! Não esperava que vocês iam conhecer a gente..." Lowering her rifle, Erina seemed to put herself a bit at ease. Selim tried to make sense of what they were saying, only being able to understand a few words here and there.

É claro que nóis conhece!” Glancing to the other operative who seemed to be in the woman’s company - another one whom they also knew from the show, in fact - the man decided to give Euphemian a shot. “We is part of Segundo Comando... Uh, Secondi Commandi. My name is Zé Rolha, I head of faction.” Zé Rolha said, still wearing a bright smile as many of his peers showed a similar reaction in the background. “Whati is you Jota-Sofi doing here? Want some cerva?” The man gestured to their table, seemingly offering them some beer.

"Claro!" Erina seemed sufficiently welcomed by the group of gangsters — that they knew JSOF was good enough. "Não quero estragar a surpresa... mas a gente vai fazer uns gringo por aí tomar porrada. Vai ser legal, só esperar até amanhã. Vai ter explosão e esse bagui tudo..."

“What?” Selim asked Erina, pretty much out of context.

"They're offering us a drink," Erina explained. "I'm sure a little glass won't hurt. I've got a high tolerance for this stuff, y'know. Do you? Anyway— they're also asking what we're doing here, obviously, but I just said we're gonna kick Imp ass and don't want to spoil the surprise." Gesturing Selim over, she'd take a seat at one of the plastic chairs by the table. He took his own seat, thanking the gangsters for their hospitality.

Like with many other TV shows, a lot of the people in the Periferia ran informal bolões on them. Who was gonna fuck next, get shot, that sort of deal. With a lot of luck, one could get real money from just betting on what was gonna happen in TV shows - JSOF included. As the two operatives took a seat, one of the gangsters poured some fine Austral beer in a glass for each.

One of the gangsters seemed to have a better grasp of Euphemian - although their leader hadn’t set the bar very high. “I have question. Have you two fuck in Periferia so far?” He asked directly in a very accented voice. If he got that right, his bet would land him some nice profits the other day.

Selim narrowed his eyes, practically spitting out his drink as he glared down the gangster. “What the fuck? Oh, uh, wait… yeah..” He fibbed, trying to make his lie genuine by smiling.

"W—" Erina would shoot a confused glance Selim's way, growing a little red. Why he was lying was beyond her. At least she didn't get to say 'not yet'.

“Good! Very good!” As soon as he said that, at least four gangsters pulled out their phones - himself included. “Peraí carai, vo apostar aqui enquanto tá uns odd massa.” He called out, immediately betting on the TV show's betting app while the odds were still good.

“I apologize for men. They too attach to bet. Many lose lot money.” The leader from before pointed out as half of them struggled with subpar mobile data. “Anyway, I like that you here to fight fucking gringos. The whiteliers[4] have bring death and shot on local population. A bunch of filhos da puta... We have doing job too.” He pointed to a standard issue Imperial helmet hanging from one of the many tangled power lines on the busy street.

"Coming right to the heart of the Empire in the south.." Erina agreed. "Anything you know on the path ahead? To the Wall, I mean..." Gesturing to the eastbound street, the Wall was still faintly visible in the distance — a testament, perhaps, to its monolithic height.

Taking a look down to the path she’d pointed, the gang leader seemed pretty relaxed. “Down the way is turf of Amigos do Roberto. They friend, they ally. You doesn’t have worry.” He added, taking a swig directly from the bottle of Austral. “Further down is some ruins, not many bad there, just sad view. Very, very sad.”

Erina glanced over to Selim, shrugging. "No Imp patrols go 'round those parts?" She questioned, raising a brow as she looked back to her gangster counterparts.

“No patrol report on little radio.” The gang leader gestured to his portable radio device, which many of his gangsters also carried. “The streets of here is safe. Just don’t do thing that make people think you Imperial.” He finished.

"Right, right." Downing her glass of Austral, Erina glanced over to Selim. "We should be going. Got an Empire to crash... wish we could stick around longer, but the clock's ticking. See ya!"

O povo tá com vocês. Good luck to two of you.” The gang leader said, followed by similar gestures from some of his men. The two would take their leave, continuing on through the favela's narrow streets.

“I guess that’s Alvimia for you—gangs offering you drinks and betting on us having sex.” To be honest, Selim was more surprised about not being shot up in the streets than he was about anything else right now. “Oh, uh.. also.. about that..”

"" Erina smirked, looking Selim's way. "You want to find someplace out of view of Imp sharpshooters? I see a lotta ruins ahead..." Suggestive implications aside, Erina was right. The ruined buildings ahead told an unfortunate story, the ground ravaged by an unrelenting spree of bombings and shellings — as far as either of them could tell, there was no life in this place.

“What? No..” Selim gingerly stepped past another one of the holes in the ground. “Not here, at least. Definitely not here.”

"Almost took you for an exhibitionist..." Erina joked, beginning towards one of the ruins to get a view of the area ahead. All was desolate, save for the occasional civilian. Here and there children would play amidst the craters, now filled with rain-puddles. "Looks like they were right. It's clear ahead."

“Right. Let’s get a move on then.” Selim took point, bounding first across the open.

Moving ahead, rifles at the ready, they trudged through concrete debris and walked past derelict automobiles. Already the signature echoes of the Wall's loudspeaker propaganda broadcasts were resonating through the ruins. A woman's voice, repeating the same monotonous reminders to report terrorists, that 'service guaranteed citizenship', and that the Empire would eventually triumph. This would be followed by an interlude of the Imperial anthem that gave the narrow maze of ruined city streets they navigated an ominous, almost foreboding atmosphere.

Selim wrinkled his nose in disgust at the propaganda, as well as the sheer scale of the wall. Nothing he knew of could compare to its size, sans the actual wall in Imalakia, but that was on an entirely different level. “It’s almost like the 420s propaganda videos of Akhmanar...but they’re here. You haven’t seen ‘em, have you?” He pointed out to the massive structure, which cast an imposing shadow down upon some of the buildings beside it. “They were pretty campy, I tell you.”

"..this is such a turn-off.." Erina muttered. "Here I was, thinkin' you could at least gimme a quick load on the way. I can't screw to this."

“What the fu—” Selim shut himself up, flexing his fist. She really was testing him… “I’ll treat you tonight, before the big day.”

"I'm flattered..." Erina would blush lightly as they walked on, continuing through the maze of rubble and ruin.

The Imperial anthem would come to a stop as it reached its conclusion, followed immediately by a propaganda broadcast.

We may not think alike, but that common heritage is something we must admit we share in unison. I simply cannot see any difference between us. I do not strive to bring war to those who cling to the legacy of the Federal States; nay, I have encouraged the Emperors to avoid such confrontations at every measure my friends! No one desires to see Fortress Morhatten activated… to see the many nuclear silos, some controllable and others maddened with rage and lust for devastation, obliterate our civilization and plunge us into a new Calamity only we - the Euphemian race - will suffer from. Even now, these same reasons - our desperate endeavor to oppose one another’s ideal images for a “new” Euphemie, are being preyed upon by the outside world. Angecalia… Acasia… Alvimia… Kina… Sinica… Fuxia… and perhaps, even Torch City itself, are all gathering upon our doorstep with the fullest intent of picking our peoples apart, one by one. I… I fear that Lancaster, home to the Federals’ only constitutional holding, may become ripe prey for this Coalition unsupported. I speak to you to administer a warning from the other side of the DMZ. On behalf of the island of Etoile Marin, who with Polarism’s own head of faith I was entrusted with liberating, I must plead that you can find it in the bottom of your Euphemian hearts to recognize that we cannot bear to fight each other so long as we are being subject to a war of annihilation… of our society’s destruction. Our religious institutions torn down, images of our centuries of Presidential legacies tarnished in an instant. Of our very culture squandered, diminished and degraded before the heel of foreign corporations demanding concessions from our lands. We must learn a lesson from the East- we cannot stand divided, but we can fall united. If we are to build a fortress to safeguard Ophir from these newfound aggressors… who would wish us forever torn apart, never to reunite… then what good will it do us to continue our fights alone?

I compel you, as one Euphemian to another, to find this redemption through camaraderie with your would-be adversaries. Peraps we may indeed be doomed to fight amongst ourselves for whether or not Euphemie will be united. But shouldn’t that be decision be one of ours to make? Give your answer to your mothers, to your fathers, to your sisters- brothers- children and ancestors. Every family has a story to tell in this great novel of Euphemia… and as its author, I seek to end it through a merry reunion. Would you see it end in a tragedy?... I hope not. May God bless your lives, my honorable opponents. And May your Supreme Commissioner hear my words and know that ours is the righteous cause not for any nationalistic sake, but for our races’ continued survival from this moment onward. That is all I can say to comfort you for now, but I do sincerely look forward to returning to my true home in Torch City someday.. When all those who would challenge God’s dream for a stable, united Euphemie have been defeated. May the Lord strike me down for invoking his name if I was not worthy; Hail Fern, and Hail to Neworder, the greatest icons of the name Euphemia to ever live. May we last another century more together, as one!

The voice belonged to none other than Laila All-Praised I. Neworder, the 'Living Saint' of the Empire. Both operators could hear the distant 'AVE GLORIA, AVE IMPERIO!' across the wall, no doubt from the loyal citizens of the Atlantic Empire. No doubt they were either Alvimian traitors or Euphemian colonizers— past the Wall, they were going to need to be extra cautious. Every man, every woman here could be a willing eye of the Empire.

“Gods, it’s like Akhmanar, if all the facial recognition cameras were people..” Selim shuddered. This place reminded him a little too much of how cities like Yevosh supposedly were—back when Emperor Tabuu had insisted on crushing internal dissent in places like Lyzentos and Zaratia.

"Fucking Imps..." Erina muttered. "You reckon that Saint-bitch will ever cross our paths one day?"

“If she does, I’ll give her a ticket to meet her maker.” Selim commented. “Of course, I’m referring to Atu-” He paused, holding his hand up, fist balled. “Hold up..”

Not far up ahead, one could tell apart yet another, larger group of local militia situated just by the base of The Wall. If they were to think back to their encounter with Zé Rolha, they would remember that area was turf of Amigos do Roberto. However, this time it seemed like they were too busy doing an activity whose importance, in the area’s popular culture, was way above simply drinking beer: they were focused like high-tier students on a very tense game of pool.

Eles tão apostando o quê?[i]” One of the gangsters, who found himself a good dozen meters away, asked, a bottle of [i]Austral in hand.

Três maço de cigarro… e a Rua Norte.” Another one replied.

That was no mere game of pool. Those were two gang leaders betting a piece of local territory on that game - an alternative solution to shooting it out on the streets. The tension seemed so high, despite the overall lack of visible guns, that none of them noticed the presence of the JSOF operatives.

“What are they talking about?” Selim whispered, leading the way past the two gang leaders slowly.

"They're gang leaders. Betting turf on a game of pool, apparently." Erina explained. "..and, well... that's fuckin' crazy.. entire territory on a game of pool..."

“Incredible.” Intrigued, Selim watched the two men play for a moment, taking note of their attention to the game, their focus—the two of them could’ve just settled their differences in the quick but barbaric classic gun duel, but, no. Here they were, betting the fate of the entire neighborhood on a game of pool. In a way, it seemed like one of the more civilized ways of solving disputes, at least, among the ways Selim had seen.

Passing by a few more gang members, it became evident that they were probably too doped up or busy with their own devices to give the two JSOF mercenaries any piece of their time. That pool game was probably the most important thing going on at the moment.

Queeeeem fizer quatro pontos ganha a Rua Visconde do Norte e trêeees maços de ‘Lâqui Atômico’. Estamos numa situação beem tensa pessoal, será que os Orelhas da Muralha vão conseguir tomar aquela rua dos Amigos do Roberto?!” One of the guys, talking in front of a guy who seemed to be recording with a smartphone, was clearly narrating the game live. “Muitas revelações da sinuca nessa noite, galera!

"He's narrating a pool game," Erina explained, looking over to Selim. "'s..intense, even if it doesn't look like it.." Both could, however, feel the tangible tension in the air.

“I definitely can feel something in the air..” Selim murmured. Porto-P, so far, was chock full of these encounters with various strangers, freaks, and other oddities.


The Wall's monolithic design is long overdue for renovation and repairs. Being designed by Euphemians, they failed to predict the humidity of Alvimia's climate. Much of the Wall's lower sectors are rotting, eroded by rainwater and covered in mold and moss. This has created a vast multitude of entrypoints through which the Alvimian Resistance comes in and out of the Imperial capital in the south.

By the time they passed the interesting scene, they were practically at the steps of the titanic Wall. The stench would come almost immediately as they reached the edge of the Imperial city's boundaries. To reach the entrypoint João had made particularly notable on their PORTAMAPA, they would need to cross a sewage canal. The pipes upon the Wall's external facade made it quite clear that most of the city's waste was being liberally dumped into the Periferia, its inhabitants be damned. A makeshift bridge had been erected by the rebels, presumably to allow those infiltrating the Wall a more dignified alternative to trudging through filth.

“Disgusting, but also disappointing,” Selim covered up his face with his shemagh, wrinkling his nose at the stench. “It’s like they don’t give a damn about these people.”

"..they don't." Erina agreed, taking a much more philosophical perspective — one she was often known for on JSOF episodes. "They're not white Euphemians who worship the president-God. Why would these gringos care about them? This Empire's society is all about conformity and domination. Domination of those who don't happen to be them, that is. Look what Porto Plácido has become... from the old postcards, to this. It's all so fucked up... which is why I'm starting to realize we can't just win in Guairá, pack our bags and leave. No, we've got to show them their place all the way to Hyperion. Look at how happy those people in the Periferia were — just living their lives in peace. That's what this Empire wants to crush. Sacrifice your free will... all to worship some president-God and lick some Saint's boots. We fight against the end of free will, y'know?"

“This isn’t right—how these people just live under shit like this, while literal shit is dumped onto them..” Selim shook his head. “It’s not right, and it shouldn’t be like this. I guess evil minds do think alike… the Ruiters and Imps and Kaels, all thinking similarly, y’know?”

"Says a lot about this society, don't it?" Erina remarked. Leading the way, she would cross the surprisingly sturdy wood-plank bridge, entering the Wall's confines. The hole itself had been the culmination of erosion, deliberate Resistance sabotage and other forces of nature, to which they were now navigating the hollow concrete skeleton of the monolithic barrier's underlevels.

It wouldn't take long for them to see the light on the other side...

Fleet Day, Act 2D
The Wall
Porto Plácido

Image South Atlantic Empire
May 25, A.C. 479
10:55 AM Aurum Standard Time
21 Hours Until Fleet Day

...and the light came right into their eyes. Selim pulled his helmet-mounted NVGs up, his eyes slowly adjusting to the light of midday. Only five minutes or so had passed in their fun little excursion through the tunnels, reliant upon a combination of night vision, their PORTAMAPAs, and good judgement. The other side of the wall, to say the least, was terrifying to gaze upon.

"Somehow it's even worse in here..." Erina remarked. Indeed, unlike the disorderly favelas, this place had been utterly stripped of individualism and spirit. Imperial (or rather, Euphemian) solar symbols loomed oppressively upon pedestals of grey, drab hab-buildings, some of which were seemingly copy-pasted right out of picture books of brutalist architecture and classical Lyzentine architecture. The echo of propaganda broadcasts, a thin film of smog, the smell of diesel — the pollution around them, of both mind, spirit and body — was practically suffocating there and then.

“I hate it already,” Selim groaned.

"This is what the Empire is really like, ladies and gentlemen," Erina spoke to her camera, looking about to give the to-be audience — whenever this was due to air — a good view of what had become of this place.

This was Reinados. To think it'd once been one of the most romantic quarters of Porto Plácido — the so-called 'Moulins of Ophir'. All that was gone now, replaced with fortifications, gene-helot housing and factory lines. It was now nothing short of a concentration camp for the lower castes.


At the verge of the Imperial zone of control is Reinado, perhaps one of the worst parts of Porto Plácido. Separated from the Periferia by the Wall, a 450 ft tall defensive barrier not only protecting the inner city from the malcontents of the Periferia, but obstructing the 'unsightly' area from the view of foreign tourists. Reinado was once one of the more prosperous parts of Porto Plácido, much of it styled in the traditional Caleportese colonial architecture of Alvimia's past due to its status as a preferred neighborhood by the Alvimian Emperor, due to its beautiful promenades once frequented by the Pantaleon kings of Alvimia. By the 420s, it was considered the 'Moulins of Ophir'.

This popularity as a tourist hub would be interrupted, however, when the Collapse occured. Reinado would be one of the worst-affected areas of General August's southern campaign, over 70% of the original population massacred during the gas-bombings. A majority of the traditional architecture would be demolished to make space for habitation housing for gene-helots as the situation on the Periferia worsened beyond Imperial control. It now serves as a brutalist monument to the regime's oppression. Fervently hated by Alvimians beyond the boundary, the Imperials regard it as a necessary evil to ward off terrorism.

Continuing through the rubble that was their surroundings, Erina and Selim would be caught off-guard — running into a group of gene-helots in plain greyish drab uniforms. The men in question had seemingly been tasked with clearing debris. At the sight of Selim and Erina, the four gene-helots fled in terror. Yet oddly enough, none of them screamed... were they helping them by not drawing attention, perhaps?

“Slaves or otherwise, I was worried I was going to have to drop them,” Selim commented, lowering his weapon down to a patrol stance. “Still, it’s terrible, don’t you think? Not even the Ruiters do this…This is just slavery, at this point. Imagine it — the Ruiters of all people being higher than these barbarians.”

"A lot of the slaves are captured foreign POWs, apparently. Aside from people descended from the original 'lower class'... like I've said, these people don't give a fuck about the poor. And to those watching, this is the Porto Plácido the Empire doesn't show you. Not the scenic beaches, not the pretty skyline... this is the real Porto-P. This is what they've done to the heart of Alvimia."


Residents of Reinado are subject to near-24/7 broadcasts over loudspeakers situated across the Wall, and work quotas are often tightly and brutally enforced. Posters and telescreens of emperor and saint alike are plastered upon these monoliths of oppression, a reminder to the Alvimian people of who rules over them.

Carefully navigating the rubble, Erina would heed the PORTAMAPA's guidance — until they were loitering before a set of stairs leading underground once more. "..better than breathing this smoke n' soot, don'tcha think? JV's notes say that sometimes the slaves build paths to help the Resistance, to 'fill' their work quotas. This would be one of them."

“I think anywhere that’s not up there is much better than, well.. being up there.” He made his response quick and witty, but his head was still on a swivel even as they moved underground, making sure to check their rear as they entered the literal bowels of the city.

“So, these corridors..” Selim murmured, instinctively checking his wrist for a smaller PORTAMAPA—then cursing himself as he remembered he carried it on his utility belt. “How’s it having us move through this, hm?”

"We're getting past a few steel mills and Imperial apartment blocks. The Imp geneslaves aren't all we have to worry about — this place is practically crawling with soldiers, on the surface I mean. Some of the slaves might respect us... but others might want promotion, or some way to ascend from their place on the caste. Naturally, turning us in would benefit them greatly. So we ought to avoid people where we can." Erina explained.

“Just let me know if I need to drop a few..” Selim muttered.


The mazelike corridors beneath Reinado.

It didn't take long for them to reach the end of the labyrinthian corridors, Erina and Selim ascending the steps until they were once again in the choking atmosphere of hellish Reinado. The tunnel had led them to an abandoned building complex — practically untouched since the Collapse, it still bore some semblance of Reinado's traditional architectural origins... before it had been bastardized by the Empire, that was.

"Now we're back in this dump... this is a piece of history though, y'know... this is how this place was before the Imps tore everything down," Erina explained, gesturing to the archaic building before them.

“Kind of eerie, don’t you think?” Selim pointed out another building off in the distance, which, much like the others, had been spared the destruction of some of the other buildings, and its subsequent rebuilding. It was almost as if it was a whole different city inside of Porto-P—that is, the Imperial version of Porto Plácido. Something under the surface that was yearning to come back up, something the Imperials kept pushing further and further down...something that they needed to liberate.

"We're fighting so things can return to the way they were," Erina began, pausing. "No... we're fighting for a better tomorrow. And to that end, we've got to put a bullet in that Admiral, and the Emperor. The leaders of this Empire are to blame for the people they've condemned to a lifetime of war and suffering... that's why I don't want to just kill enemy soldiers."

Suddenly, as if it were a scripted event in a video game or some action movie, Selim pointed to a large Caleportese-style clock tower in the distance, which a massive flying object had just passed behind. It didn’t take that long of a glance or that big of a brain to figure out what it was—it was a giant zeppelin, emblazoned with the same solar imagery as the banners on various buildings and The Wall. Through the smog and haze shone a large spotlight, seemingly scanning the streets at random as it advanced towards them, creeping onwards like some giant, sluggish predator.

Selim yanked Erina out of the open and advanced towards one of the vacant buildings, raising his leg and kicking the door open with ease. He didn’t know if the blimp had already spotted them, or if it was simply looking at the wrong place at the right time for them — either way, he didn’t want to be near when it was flying over. As it eventually did so, a sullen shadow was cast over the area, time seemingly slowing down as he hid himself in a dark corner, rifle at the ready.

As it passed overhead, the echoes of propaganda broadcasts resonated through the city streets. It was, in practical terms, a repeat of Laila's speech, which would only warrant a roll of the eyes from Erina. She'd hardly even heard of her, and already the woman's arrogance in her brainwashed conviction for supporting the Empire was mildly irritating.

“I think if we head out the back entrance, we can continue on the same path as before,” Selim noted, pointing to his PORTAMAPA.

With a nod, Erina led the way this time, making doubly sure the blimp had passed before continuing. The path ahead was dotted with shell craters here and there, a grim reminder of what violence had become so commonplace in the city. It was uncertain whether it was remnants of the Fall of Porto Plácido almost fifty years before, or the recent work of Resistance artillery work, but it was something that would surround them as they continued to navigate through the desolation.

Soon, the desolation of Reinado would be behind them — a tunnel, as marked on their map — would lead them out of the grim miseria that was the outer perimeter of the Imperial-controlled city.

Fleet Day, Act 2E
Xipucaí Plateum
Porto Plácido

Image South Atlantic Empire
May 25, A.C. 479
11:30 AM Aurum Standard Time
20 Hours Until Fleet Day

“It’s Xipucaí..” Selim whispered dramatically.

Despite the fact it was almost noon, it was practically dusk below the architectural maze that was Xipucaí. Darkened by the sheer amount of structures that'd been built upward, sunlight only occasionally trailed in through the grates at the far heights of the neon-lit space. It was busy, too — they could hear the chatter of local and tourist alike as they wandered through the derelict construction site from whence they'd entered the ward of the city.

"Looks like an entirely different city to the shithole we were just in," Erina noted. "Still looks like a fucking nightmare... marginally less horrifying, I suppose." Erina took note of the glowing propaganda telescreens, matched side-by-side with advertisements. Payment was only necessary for foreigners. Imperials themselves, it seemed, needed only use ration cards and work cards to 'purchase' the metaphorical 'fruits of their labor' at these glistening shops.

“Apparently, this was once the technological hub of Porto-P. The ‘tech village,’ they called it. Lots of students,” Selim explained.

"Yeah, I mean..." As they navigated an alleyway, Erina would halt — noting a garbage cleaning robot pass them by, oblivious to their presence as it whirred away, sucking in trash. This was a testament to the Empire's more tech-savvy aspects, one could suppose. Xipucaí was promoted on the foreign stage as a 'city of the future', and proof the Empire was on equal footing with the foreign powers. "..I think it still seems to be a pretty high-tech place, dont'cha think?"


Xipucaí was once a bustling, high-tech community also referred to as the "tech village," due to the many inventors and larger IT corporations which had facilities in the complex. Residents ranged from wide-eyed and hopeful young inventors straight out of college with STEM majors, to the most professional and elite of investors and CEOs, all of whom formed the beating heart of Porto-P's information technology industry. Sadly, much of Xipucaí was annihilated and later taken over during the initial invasion, being rebuilt into little more than a "display" of the Empire's technological prowess, despite most of these innovations being Alvimian in origin. Many of the young engineers that once lived in Xipucaí went underground—quite literally, forming a veritable community of hackers and cyber-rebels that fight the Euphemians on an entirely different battlefield.

“I don’t know..” Selim chuckled, taking note of one of the robots darting around sucking up trash. “These seem like the ones you’d have in your house—if you want robots, go to Akhmanar.”

"Yeah... my pet back home is... uh..." Erina trailed off. "It's something like that, yeah."

“Yeah, I know someone who has a— uh, y’know what? Nevermind..” Selim also trailed off, his face becoming redder than usual.

It wasn’t long enough before they came across some trouble—trouble that Erina spotted rather quickly as she quickly gestured Selim to stop. At the end of the alleyway, a group of them — though not armed, they were easily identifiable by the bright orange armbands they wore: Citizens. They had served the Imperial Legion at some point or another — and had either been honorably discharged or were off-duty at the present moment. "Wait these retards out," Erina instructed with a hushed whisper, idly watching the group of men ahead. There were two of them — nothing they couldn't handle, but the men in question were also unarmed.

“..and I totally want to become a Signifer one day, seems like the best path to go nowadays — you hear what’s going on?” Selim could hear that their incoming guests were, much to their surprise, youngsters, perhaps even teenagers..and rather pretentious ones at that. He couldn’t help but listen in to what they were saying, even as he kept his sights trained on the sides of their heads as they walked by.

Signifer? You’re stupid. The real place we should be going is SADAFOR. I hear the locations are getting more and more exotic..”

“What would be more exotic than being asked to serve in Turmenista — that is, when we take it over, of course. We do have the strongest navy in the Atlantic..”

“Being a pilot.”

“You got me there..”

Selim cringed internally, looking back at Erina as the two citizens passed by. “So.. ‘Strongest navy in the Atlantic?’ SADAFOR? Somehow, I don’t think things couldn’t get cringier than that..”

"Ugh." Erina muttered. "Strongest navy my ass... they tried and failed to take Turmenista. Once they realized Angecalia was going in, they didn't dare send the fleet. Pussies. We'll be answering the Westland question soon enough, won't we?"


Almost as if they were taking notes from Utsanji or Akhmanari cities, or perhaps even Torch City, the streets of Xipucaí are increasingly full of autonomous robots, primarily for cleaning trash. It is no surprise that hackers have taken advantage of this, often reprogramming these robots to go berserk or even spy upon Imperial troops in the city.

“I think we will..” Selim muttered.

"You think we'll ever run into those SADAFOR retards? Wonder what they'd do if our sponsors' corporate squadron downed one of those SSTs.." Erina thought aloud as they continued down the alley — swiftly crossing the narrow street to continue through the maze of dimly-lit alley on the other side.

“I hear they’re a bunch of mentally-deranged retards, from the milsperg boards,” Selim explained. “As for what I heard when I worked intelligence...pretty much the same thing, eh, but more professionally.”

"Maybe if they get real desperate they'll try to drop on the Nero," Erina joked.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they do try something like that,” Selim noted. The Empire was just as well known for its totalitarian aesthetics as it was for its rather unpredictable and, at times, downright ballsy behavior, making dealing with them all the more irritating and tense.

"I'm sure the boss is ready for something like that."

“You’d think..” Selim muttered in response to Erina.

JimOS 1.0.14
Channel Name

[BOSS][James "Jimmy" Sykes] “Let me just say, if those MENTALLY ILL fuckwit SADAFOR bastards try and fuck with me, I’ll have so many Kuron-Darzi and MAAT corporate fighters on their asses that they’ll be turned into fine mincemeat on the way down from the stratosphere. Mother fucking FUCKEEERRRRRRSSS think they wanna fuck with me?”

[B TL. Selim Hars-iri-nofre of Adris Khas] “Uh..”

[BOSS][James "Jimmy" Sykes] “FUCK NO! Punk weight, BIIITCH! I am the beast I worship! *SNNNNIFFF*”

This warranted a bit of laughter from them both as they continued on down the alleyway. Per usual, the Boss was listening in on them, and now had been an ideal time for his input. "Guess that answers our question.." Rifle at the ready, Erina led the way down the narrow corridor, passing graffiti here and there as she evaluated their surroundings. A silent gesture to the right seemed to indicate to Selim that they were to round the next corner.
where the fuck is my ground support

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Posts: 5765
Founded: Apr 09, 2014

Postby Turmenista » Thu Dec 12, 2019 12:56 pm

Chow (Valefontaine) went from being a quiet, enigmatic background character, to a Hong Kong Action Cinema-tier badass that can still drive and shoot even while being shot in the hand, to one of the coolest WFF characters, cybernetic hand included. His interactions with Ricardo (Confederation of the Equator) are, to say the least, quite interesting. The following is a standard post of WFF quality featuring Chow and Ricardo on a mission with the usual — nice dialogue, character development, humor, and worldbuilding. I recommend reading the entirety of that RP for similar posts.

Valefontaine wrote:


"This is the vault. This has shit... on every Imp you've ever heard of."

One of the posterboys of the Empire in the south has recently gone turncoat. Irritated with rampant corruption and Euphemian arrogance towards his culture, he has compiled years worth of dirt on a multitude of high-level Imperial officials... and he's giving us the chance to go public with it on Fleet Day. Turns out those rumors about Admiral Ure's womanizing tendencies go back decades...

Meet him at the old Serena Hotel in Manacapuru. See what he has to offer... but beware Imp patrols.

Fleet Day, Act 2H
The Ranch
Western Mountain Range
Porto Plácido

(Image) South Atlantic Empire
May 25, A.C. 479
6:40 PM Aurum Standard Time
13 Hours Until Fleet Day

The clock was ticking, the sun was setting, and there was still work to be done before the fateful events of tomorrow. Chow Tze-hung was quietly anticipating his turn to be useful while much of Alpha Squad still loitered... and that time would come soon, surely. He was well aware that there would be two more 'jobs' before it was time, and that he'd be involved in one of them. He knew neither who he'd work with, or when this time would come.

Resting by the patio, he drew from his suit jacket a pack of Dromedário™ cigarettes, taking one. From his cyberprosthetic left hand, the mechanism would produce a lighter — with which he'd set his cigarette alight and lean back, watching the sun crest over the western horizon over the mountain peaks, rays of orange bathing the treeline as he exhaled a puff of smoke.


Chow Tze-hung, the Fuxian corporate.

This mission overall was equalled only in scale by their boss's megalomania, and it was clear to Chow that the odds were stacked... in or against their favor, he wasn't certain. He merely knew that their actions here would have consequences of unprecedented scale, regardless of what outcome came about. Yet these thoughts were trivial musings as he took in the ambient — somewhere nearby, old Alvimian music playing on the radio. There wasn't a need to be on edge all the time, after all — much to the contrary of the work culture back home. Fuxia wasn't an easy place. Studying all day, living up to the standards of strict, paternalistic family culture — all to slave away in some office or oversee said offices... Chow never liked the idea of that.

It was why he'd come here — even though he was a millionaire. He wasn't here for the money, no. He was here to get away from it all — and to make a name for his family's corporation, Shuntian Heavy Industries, in the process. It'd be better than the mind-numbing dullness of the big business lifestyle he'd been born into.

In sharp contrast, the root of all evil was the main force motivating Ricardo to put his life on the line for an insane billionaire’s schemes. Granted, it’s not like he wasn’t enjoying himself. After all, when one fails in almost everything they’ve tried - from not getting into college to being turned back from the Angecalian military due to his… situation - the JSOF might have been what saved him from going down a likely worse path. It wasn’t healthy putting himself in the same general area as bullets and mentally insane people, but if his goal was accomplished and he found himself liking it, what could go wrong?

The sun had set, and in its demise came Ricardo’s best hour. The night owl was as ready as ever.

Noting his squadmate's presence, Chow stood up a little, discarding the spent cigarette into the bushes. "I presume this is either a courtesy... or we have a job on our hands."

“Never thought I’d be hoping for the latter.” Ricardo replied in what was his first real conversation with Chow. “I suppose it not being early in the bloody morning and not hearin’ any intercoms blast worked for a change.”

"Hopefully we're not receiving a briefing from the..." Chow trailed off, holding back his thoughts regarding João. "Alvimian man, I suppose."


A peaceful western sunset... a reminder of the Alvimia that was.

The setting sun painted The Ranch a mix of red, orange, and even some blues, giving the area a surreal, dreamy, and almost arthouse aesthetic. Matching the aesthetic was none other than van Krueger, facing the sunset in an at ease posture, as if he were a general inspecting his troops—or, better yet, a general surveying the land before a conquest. The man obviously carried with him the weight of his past sins and other missions, but it seemed as if these didn’t affect him at all. Looking beyond his gold-lensed aviators couldn’t reveal much in those stone gray eyes of his, as if trying to discern what he was saying yielded any results either.

Van Krueger stood beside the whiteboard again, a neat assortment of files, photos, and intel on the table beside him, which also held a map of the city, marker covering points of interest that the day missions had already targeted. On the corner of the map was another trinket..a shrunken head, acting as a paperweight.

The Ruiter turned around as Chow and Ricardo approached, taking his prized cigarette holder out of his mouth for a moment. “Okayuh…” his finger crossed between the two of them. “Jungleswart girl and, uh, Sinicanguy. Yeh.” He turned to the board, which had been decorated with a large assortment of pictures, magnets, and markings, tapping on it with his finger. “C’mereforasec.”

"" Chow elected to ignore the remark calling him a Sinican — and he needed not mention the macabre decoration the Ruiter had chosen for a paperweight.

The board itself wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, but van Krueger was seemingly a savant at organizing missions on such a board. “Okayuh, thisone’s gonna be a bitonthe long end. Mission here,” He paused, tapping to the aptly-named “MISSION” column. “Theresuhhh, Imp defector. He’s, eh, gotsome verknipt dirt on a whole lotta people—I mean, a lot. Apparently used to be some posterchild for the Imps, proof that Alvimians be ideal soldiers..” He scoffed, looking at the picture of the flamboyant Alvimian in question. “Nyways, hisnames Erasmo Caval- cal… vervloek dit-Erasmo Cavalcanti, yeh. Faked his death, now he wants to go viral withthedirt hesgot ona hard drive. Calls it ‘The Vault’.”


Once promoted by Imperial propaganda as an 'ideal' soldier, Erasmo grew increasingly discontent with Euphemian 'colonizer mentality' towards Alvimia. By early 479, it became readily apparent to him that the Empire wished nothing short of Alvimia's cultural bastardization. Faking his death, Erasmo intends to go public with all he has gathered over the process of years.

“Sounds kinda ominous… We just getting this drive then?” Ricardo asked, a faint tone of red on his face as he savoured every accented word of the man.

“Yeh, uh..” Krueger paused, raising an eyebrow if only for the briefest moment, before continuing. “Yeh. Offerin’it for us for deh.. uh.. Fleet Day, right. Yeah. Anyways, Execution here,” He tapped on the second column, titled “EXECUTION.” “You’regoingin, to thuh city, that is. Path’ll take you first here, through Periferia, then, eh, here, to Araxú, then to Manacapuru, where you’re, eh, gonna meethimup in a hotel. Fancy. Meet him there, get duh drive back. One piece. Snappy. Questions?”

Ricardo just shook his head. From what he’d heard from Cristina, the Periferia was surprisingly safe for their usual standards, while being full of uniqueness… Although he wasn’t sure if that would be the same during nighttime.

"I presume it won't be unlike the... lower parts of Zhongyong," Chow thought aloud. "As for Manacapuru..." Glancing out to the city from the pavilion, he took note of the towering spire that was the Imperial Palace. Oppressive and foreboding, it'd replaced the original Alvimian royal palace and its surrounding city blocks. It was massive — taking up more than half of Manacapuru proper. "I feel it'll be a little difficult to walk around the Empire's beating heart, no?"

“Eh, youcanfindaway, ifyuhdont run into Imps. You aren’t going into the heartoftheImps and its eye..nah..”

His finger moved over to a grainy photograph of what was once a hotel, now rundown and abandoned. “You’re meeting Calv-won’t pronounce his damn name! You’re meeting ERASMO in this hotel, the, uh..old Serena Hotel. Meet him there, gettheuhh, drive. Getback here. Sounds simple? Yeh, it is.”

"Sounds good, I suppose..." Chow glanced to his apparent partner in crime, offering a light shrug. "In gearing up, we should take a few precautions beforehand... I'm certain the armory's filled to the brim with Imp guns. Those blinding lasers, suppressors... everything we need for a clean entry into Porto Plácido."

“Yeah, I guess suppressors are a must… As long as we aren’t taken for Imps, anything should be fair game.” Ricardo replied, already thinking what else he would event want to add to his gear.

The walk back to the Ranch would introduce them to the weapons stacked about within the armory, as they passed João and Vanessa debating some matter about fashion in the 'command room'. Taking a moment to review the weapons stacked within, Chow took note of the assortment of Alvimian, Angecalian and stolen Imperial firearms that'd been arrayed there.

"Are you perchance familiar with PBWs?" Chow questioned, taking one of the Imperial rifles and setting it on the table as he took note of its attachments.

“Don’t think so. What about ‘em?” Ricardo said, keeping an attentive look.

"Well," Chow noted, raising the weapon to gesture to its under-barrel attachment. "Personnel blinding weapons. The Euphemians came up with these things before the Collapse— the Imps miniaturized them into rifle attachments. It's rather self-explanatory... a handheld human rights violation, ideal for rendering electronic optics— and people's eyes— inert." Detaching the attachment from the Imperial rifle, he would look for duct-tape first, strapping it to his already-bulky AR-467.

“A literal laser? Sign me the fuck up.” Ricardo grabbed one of the other Imperial rifles and, in the same fashion, detached the aforementioned attachment, utilizing the same gambiarra to put it on his FC-65. “I should get a suppressor, too. Goes hand-to-hand with the whole night time thing.” He added, doing just that. He was currently on his lifetime peak of modification.

With a nod, Chow reached for another rack in the small armory, attaching a suppressor to his assault rifle. The AR-467 was multipurpose in more ways than one, having an airburst grenade launcher additionally attached — overall, it was a rather heavy thing to carry around, but when push came to shove... it was a damn fine weapon, and was worth the small fortune he'd paid for the Torch City-made service rifle. With a final click, his rifle was loaded and he was, by all means, set. "Just waiting on you now."

“Well, I guess I’m all set too.” Ricardo had negligible experience when compared to his squadmates, and that obviously transferred over to not being qualified with as many specialized devices or weapons. A laser-thing and a suppressor were all he needed - and had any hope of using properly.

"Just try not to fry your eyes with that thing on accident... or mine," Chow joked, beginning for the door. It was going to be a long evening, without a doubt.

“If my glow didn’t fry your eyes, I doubt this gun will.” Ricardo joked back, adding a wink as he followed Chow out.

Fleet Day, Act 2I
Porto Plácido Slums
Porto Plácido

(Image) South Atlantic Empire
May 25, A.C. 479
7:40 PM Aurum Standard Time
12 Hours Until Fleet Day

The favela was certainly a far cry from the slums either of them had been familiar with in the past. Life among the locals was going on as usual, though the sounds of artillery bearing down — and the sights of distant explosions pulverizing the haphazard brick housing gave their entry into the Periferia a rather somber note. Gunfire echoed in the distance, tracers illuminating the night sky.

Leading the way, Chow trudged through blast craters and debris from adjacent houses, some still trying to drag their family and friends from the rubble. It almost pained him that they worked on such a tight timeframe — that they didn't have enough time to help these people.

Wiping off some dust that had gotten on his face, that alone told Ricardo a lot about what they were talking into. “This hasn’t settled yet… It’s all pretty recent.”

"Wonder if the shitshow from earlier's to blame for this retaliation," Chow wondered aloud, studying their surroundings as they continued forward. The sharp whistle of artillery here and there would strike an adjacent neighborhood as they went on, a reminder of the merciless brutality with which the Empire confronted opposition. "..fucking hell. This kind of stuff gets me riled up. Nobody deserves this."

“...yeah, it’s pretty shitty.” Ricardo couldn’t add much… He was there for money, after all, but it was certainly an eye-opening experience. It only made sense that such retaliation was falling upon the Periferia after the two missions that had taken place earlier that day. “But I guess we’ll get them for this… Only a matter of hours, I hope.”

"I won't need more than an hour's rest to be ready for what comes tomorrow," Chow assured.

Still, life seemed to go on in this place. As they continued through the battered neighborhood, they could see a group of gangsters resting beneath the protection of a makeshift bomb shelter, situated in a basement access stairway adjacent to one of the corner bars. The smell of tobacco seemed to permeate from the place as the men in question as they idly chatted among themselves. There was no time for talk — and it seemed they were still trying to recover from the most recent spree of bombings that'd pelted the Periferia.

"Can't help but feel a little sympathy.." Chow muttered, noting the men. "I suppose that'll come in due time."

Continuing forward, they would happen upon the smoldering remains of an Imperial convoy, some gangsters still cheering in the aftermath. At least they were in good company here. The bodies of the light-skinned outliers still lay strewn about the haphazard cobble streets, some brutally executed upon the sidewalk. Naturally, the community did not take kindly to their oppressors attempting to ravage their homes... it was only natural that the same brutality the enemy employed be returned in kind.

"Opa! Jota-Sofe is here... you should seen the shit that happen here! Fucking gringo piece of shits. Be careful ahead, taokei? Fuckers is crawling all over the Perife since sun setting!" One of the men called, lowering his rifle to greet them.

"Crawling all over, you say?" Chow questioned, looking to the massacred Imperial convoy.

“Well, they might be crawling but clearly aren’t being greeted with flowers and Austral.” Ricardo replied, flinching at the sight for a brief moment. “It’s just like Cris told me, no one here takes ‘em for overlords.”

The man continued, pausing only to bash one of the injured Euphemians against the sidewalk. "I already hears Jota-Sofe was going around the Periferia, you know. Word spread quickly in the Periferia, you know? Hell, even Imp might know. Be careful, tá ligado?"

"..troubling.." Chow quietly muttered to himself.

“Alright, man. Thanks for the heads-up.” Ricardo answered, just barely managing to look at the injured Euphemian.

"Tamo junto, traveco!" replied the football jersey-clad gangster as the duo continued on through the narrow streets of the Periferia. Truly, it was an urban warfare nightmare for the Imperials, to which their attempt to once again show dominance upon the Alvimian people was being met with harsh resistance.

"I'm... not exactly versed in Alvimian. What did he say to you?" Chow asked, brow raised as they rounded a corner.

Ricardo sure hoped that their NVG couldn’t pick up heat as he blushed a faint tone of red. “Uh… It was a friendly remark, he wished us… luck.” He said, following Chow around the corner.

"I see. I'm sure fate will be kind to us. I know for certain the Lady of Fuxia watches over me." Religion in Fuxia was a matter that few outside the country had an exact grasp of — to which the allusion to his religion was, perhaps, a matter of curiosity as they continued through the maze of alleyways and narrow streets.

“...I see. Well, I’ll put full trust on my trigger finger… Just to be sure, y’know.” The atheist replied, trying not to be fully insensitive to what he considered systematic delusion. Not even Cristina, who at least worshipped something that was way more rad, was free from that. Was he really alone?

"Naturally, if push comes to shove... I don't have a doubt in my reflexes." Chow continued. Soon enough they would approach tighter alleyways — and the smell of churrasco was tangible even from afar. The place in question had, at one point, been the ruined carcass of a crashed Imperial C-120 Pegasus, transformed into a sprawling marketplace. Street foods were on display, under the watchful eye of well-armed local soldiers — presumably the White Ghost's men. Here and there, international aid workers stood out among the crowds of local vendors, distributing foreign aid supplies to the needy.

"Were we not running on limited time, I'd stop for a quick snack... it's not unlike the streets of home, you see." Chow explained, taking brief note of their surroundings.

“Agreed… Maybe if there were less gunshots and we weren’t wearing this, I’d convince myself that we are just some hungry tourists, y’know?” Ricardo said with a chuckle… Well, he sure wanted a snack, too bad there was a whole war thing going on.

"It's a shame... at least these people aren't starving during the bombardment." With a subtle shrug, Chow led the way out of the marketplace, to which they were soon navigating desolate, narrow city streets. It was eerily silent — too silent for the typical bustle of the favela.

"Something doesn't feel right," Chow began in a hushed whisper, checking their surroundings as they rounded another corner.

“What, you gonna say one of the cliché lines? Are the hills too quiet?” Ricardo replied, not quite getting Chow’s concern.

Yet as they turned another corner, Chow would practically pull Ricardo into cover beside him, the two hiding in one of the darkened alleys. His cold, cyberprosthetic hand covered Ricardo's mouth as the sound of boots against cobblestone became apparent — an Imperial patrol, perhaps?

Well, that had been perfectly timed. If it wasn’t for the hand covering his mouth and the sudden realization that they were in an actually serious situation, Ricardo likely would have made a kinky comment. Instead, he just quietly looked over at Chow, his expression making it quite clear that he wanted to ambush the Imperials.

"They're headed our way," Chow whispered, peering from one of the graffiti-laden dumpsters to note the approaching group making their way towards the alley. Releasing his grip from Ricardo's mouth, there would be an awkward, if not mildly tense moment as they silence allowed for little more than the boots of the enemy patrol and the Angecalian's ragged breaths. "..a—anyways.. move further up the alley and prepare around one of the corners," Chow suggested.

With a smirk on his face, Ricardo nodded at his partner, keeping a low profile as the thin-framed operator moved around one of the corners near them, giving himself a better position to ambush the Imperials. Setting his rifle to full-auto, he merely waited through the seconds that felt like a lifetime.

Raising his AR-467, Chow would wait until the enemy approached the dumpster they'd been cowering behind moments earlier. Firing away an airburst grenade, the explosion would swiftly overtake two of the approaching Imperial soldiers, throwing their dismembered, lifeless forms against the wall with intense brutality, almost as if they'd been mere ragdolls to the blast.

Taking the quick sound of the grenade’s explosion as his cue to act, Ricardo peeked out of cover and escalated the newborn gunfight even further as he fired FC-65 on full auto upon the dazed Imperial patrol, gunning down three of the men before they even had time to properly react to their ambush.

The last of the men returned fire in a panicked spray, bullets whizzing past the two operatives before Chow would put him out of his misery with a swift, single shot from his assault rifle. Taking a moment to study the uniforms of the bodies now sprawled across the alleyway, it dawned on Chow that they'd ambushed a group of Signifers and their armed infantry escorts.

"..Imperial combat scientists, all the way out here. I can only question their motives..." He muttered, lowering his rifle.

As it became obvious that it was all clear, Ricardo moved out of cover, replacing his 2/3 empty mag with a fresh one. “Well… I’ll never doubt your gut again. You really saved my ass there.” He said with a cheeky grin and a thumbs-up.

"I'm more confused as to why the Imps are sending..." He trailed off, sighing as he noted the Imperial seals upon the corpses of the scientists. "I'll leave behind a message of sorts, I suppose." Taking a brief moment to put up the seals at the alleyway entrance, it would send a clear message that a group of Imperial-sanctioned scientists had been massacred there, and that any that followed would surely meet the same fate. Turning back around, Chow would approach Ricardo once more, gesturing to the alleyways ahead. "If my portable map isn't mistaken, this'll take us to the Wall. The rest should be easy peasy... compared to crossing the Wall, I mean."

“I ain’t really the most optimistic, but I sure as hell ain’t questioning your resolve after that.” Ricardo said, finally getting into the same ‘combat groove’ that he’d had in the first mission. Sacrificing a bit of sanity for performance in the field was a great deal in his perspective, after all.

Continuing onward, they would navigate the alleyways of the Periferia. In the distance, the first faint echoes of the Imperial anthem were audible from the wall's loudspeakers. Life around the perimeter separating the Empire from the largely-uncontrolled areas of the Periferia was undoubtedly one of totalitarian miseria. It warranted a sigh from Chow as they persisted through the network of alleys.

They would reach the end of the alleys eventually, a narrow cobble street standing between them and more narrow alleyways. Chow would abruptly gesture Ricardo to a halt, crouching down to get a better listen. "..I hear engines. Don't think a lot of people have the money for cars here."

Having essentially mimicked Chow’s actions, Ricardo nodded. “Yeah, I hear them too… Can’t possibly be a good sign, unless we have the most ballsy motherfucker just vibing around in the middle of a warzone.” He added, trying to get a better listen as well.

"It's getting closer." Without hesitation, Chow ducked behind one of the graffiti-riddled dumpsters in the alleyway. The two would wait there as the sound grew ever closer... until two Imperial M337 Kombi utility vehicles would pass by, no doubt bound for the ongoing warzone in the slums. That seemed to answer their question, at least.

“Fuuuuuck… Man, I wish I had brought AT to lay hell on those fuckers.” Ricardo said in a clearly disappointed tone. On second thought, he should probably have picked up some from one of the Imperials they’d cancelled in the alleyway from before.

"Sometimes the less engagements, the better. Especially if the Imps might know JSOF is in town. You heard what that hooligan said." Chow pointed out, carefully peering out of the alley before leading the way across the street.

With a mildly disappointed, pouty look, Ricardo followed his squadmate across. It made no sense to him, after all they were there to fuck up Imperials… Which would probably mean more viewers… And more pay, if Jimmy wasn’t feeling particularly nuclear about some oddly specific thing or on drugs.

The next few alleyways would soon lead them to narrow, derelict streetways. Here and there a few people watched from small, haphazardly-constructed balconies along the makeshift housing, watching Imperial rockets trail upward from across the Wall. As Erina and Selim's testimonies on their experiences had said, the area in the vicinity of the Wall was a hellish plethora of propaganda. Almost as soon as the Imperial anthem reached its conclusion, it would be replaced by a voice on the loudspeakers — that of Laila All-Praised I. Neworder, the so-called 'Living Saint' of the Empire.

We may not think alike, but that common heritage is something we must admit we share in unison. I simply cannot see any difference between us. I do not strive to bring war to those who cling to the legacy of the Federal States; nay, I have encouraged the Emperors to avoid such confrontations at every measure my friends! No one desires to see Fortress Morhatten activated… to see the many nuclear silos, some controllable and others maddened with rage and lust for devastation, obliterate our civilization and plunge us into a new Calamity only we - the Euphemian race - will suffer from. Even now, these same reasons - our desperate endeavor to oppose one another’s ideal images for a “new” Euphemie, are being preyed upon by the outside world. Angecalia… Acasia… Alvimia… Kina… Sinica… Fuxia… and perhaps, even Torch City itself, are all gathering upon our doorstep with the fullest intent of picking our peoples apart, one by one. I… I fear that Lancaster, home to the Federals’ only constitutional holding, may become ripe prey for this Coalition unsupported. I speak to you to administer a warning from the other side of the DMZ. On behalf of the island of Etoile Marin, who with Polarism’s own head of faith I was entrusted with liberating, I must plead that you can find it in the bottom of your Euphemian hearts to recognize that we cannot bear to fight each other so long as we are being subject to a war of annihilation… of our society’s destruction. Our religious institutions torn down, images of our centuries of Presidential legacies tarnished in an instant. Of our very culture squandered, diminished and degraded before the heel of foreign corporations demanding concessions from our lands. We must learn a lesson from the East- we cannot stand divided, but we can fall united. If we are to build a fortress to safeguard Ophir from these newfound aggressors… who would wish us forever torn apart, never to reunite… then what good will it do us to continue our fights alone?

I compel you, as one Euphemian to another, to find this redemption through camaraderie with your would-be adversaries. Peraps we may indeed be doomed to fight amongst ourselves for whether or not Euphemie will be united. But shouldn’t that be decision be one of ours to make? Give your answer to your mothers, to your fathers, to your sisters- brothers- children and ancestors. Every family has a story to tell in this great novel of Euphemia… and as its author, I seek to end it through a merry reunion. Would you see it end in a tragedy?... I hope not. May God bless your lives, my honorable opponents. And May your Supreme Commissioner hear my words and know that ours is the righteous cause not for any nationalistic sake, but for our races’ continued survival from this moment onward. That is all I can say to comfort you for now, but I do sincerely look forward to returning to my true home in Torch City someday.. When all those who would challenge God’s dream for a stable, united Euphemie have been defeated. May the Lord strike me down for invoking his name if I was not worthy; Hail Fern, and Hail to Neworder, the greatest icons of the name Euphemia to ever live. May we last another century more together, as one!

It brought Chow to cringe somewhat as they walked amidst the rubble, listening to the mind-numbing jingoistic delusion of a woman who was no doubt little more than a tool for the Imperial propaganda machine. "We'll see how that arrogance holds when Porto Plácido burns with the fires of revolution," He taunted the disembodied voice, as if his words would one day be heard by the person in question.

Maybe it was part of his whole thing about being non-religious, but long, boring speeches like that sounded like complete shit in his opinion, even if delivered through the cutest fucking voice in the world. “Fucking hell, I feel complete pity for the poor souls that have to listen to that several times a day. I think that might qualify as torture, even.” Ricardo added.

Chow chuckled at Ricardo's cynicism. "That's their so-called 'Living Saint'. Acts like a holier-than-thou cunt because she's descended from some dead Euphemian president. Sure, president Neworder liberated my homeland of Fuxia back in the War... but he also nuked the shit out of it. I'm not going to pretend I like him, or his spawn for that matter. Besides, I'm sure he'd shoot the bitch if he were still alive, knowing what happened to his country."

“Well, praising human beings like they’re deity sounds like the worst of the worst. Is she good looking at least? Is she prettier than me?” Ricardo asked in a joking tone… Unless?

"You know, sometimes I forget you're a boy.." Chow chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "Not that I'm.. into that. I'm not into some Imp Saint-Bitch, either. You're giving me a tough question."

Chow’s slight awkwardness made Ricardo chuckle a bit. “Don’t worry about it, you can sacrifice a bit of your sexuality in order to put that living-bitch in her proper place.” He added, paying close attention to how his squadmate reacted to his teasing.

Smirking, Chow gave his partner a shrug before speaking to the camera mounted on his body armor. "I'm certain you're hearing this by the time it gets out, viewers. To the Imp spooks listening, this is a rape threat. We are one-hundred percent serious. I am not joking. We are going to rape your 'Living Saint' when we find her. Death to the Empire. That is all."

Approaching the Wall, they luckily weren't in the vicinity of any waste-dumping canals. Rather, amidst the debris surrounding the monolithic concrete barrier, an entrypoint was marked on Chow's map... one he soon found before them, amidst collapsed ruins situated against the massive structure. Surely it had rotted due to years of nature, fighting and more — to which a glaring, gaping hole now was readily available to the two to bypass.

Flicking on his AR-467's flashlight into the breach, Chow looked back to his partner. "Anything before we go?"

Taking a curious glance of his own into the breach, Ricardo looked at Chow and shook his head. “Don’t think so, lead the way.”

Fleet Day, Act 2J
Araxú Streets
Porto Plácido

Image South Atlantic Empire
May 25, A.C. 479
10:00 PM Aurum Standard Time
9 Hours Until Fleet Day

Emerging into the light, the two would be graced by far less miserable surroundings: Araxú, or at least its outlying blocks. They had found themselves surrounded by abandoned structures, no doubt preceding the Occupation. These dilapidated apartments hadn't been given mercy by nature or time: plants had already overrun most of what'd, at one point, been an apartment complex. Carefully checking their surroundings, Chow would gesture to Ricardo as the Angecalian emerged from the bleak darkness of the makeshift 'access tunnel' that all was clear ahead.

“What the hell… It’s like we just walked into an abandoned museum, or something.” Ricardo moved up ahead, taking some time to admire both his surroundings and the treatment that time had given them. Porto-P was, quite obviously, the only place where he’d ever walked from a low-class, war-torn area straight into an abandoned one.

"Might as well be a museum now," Chow joked, beginning through the derelict space. Bullet holes here and there, no doubt from the terrors of nearly five decades prior, were a cold reminder of Alvimia's final stand in those dire hours...

Past the abandoned apartment complex, they would soon happen upon an area that'd undoubtedly been battered by shelling, rockets even — whether the Imperials or the Resistance had done this was hard to tell, but judging by the fresh debris littering the streets, it was recent. Given these parts weren't exactly inhabited, it could've been anyone — if anything, area denial for Resistance smugglers was a probable cause of action. The adjacent botanical garden's grounds seemed to almost overtake these abandoned areas with plant life, which made the area a small urban jungle of sorts to navigate.

"This should just be the outskirts. I'd advise a bit of caution when we reach civilian areas, though." Chow advised, leading the way through the overgrown ruins.

“Affirm…” Ricardo’s voice trailed off as he followed through. It was a shame, for it they weren’t there on a mission that place would’ve been quite the attraction. Old, ruined buildings overtaken by nature… And an oppressive boot on top of the whole area. “Talk about a way to kill the beauty.” He murmured to himself.

It wouldn't take long for them to reach a network of narrow streets, though Chow took point amidst the overgrown bushes as he eyed the occasional civilian bystander amid the streets ahead. "Imperial society is divided into three echelons," Chow explained, studying their surroundings through the scope of his AR-467. "Citizens are those who are either active or former active-duty military. They're effectively the favored elite... they have the right to vote, and serve in anything from the proper military to overseeing the factories."

Ricardo nodded. About time he actually learned how the place he was shooting people in actually worked. “I’m assuming these guys aren’t the ones we meet in the Periferia…” He murmured, maintaining a look of their surroundings as he listened to the lecture.

"The people in the Periferia are free, thank the Heavens." Chow continued, studying the civilians ahead through the lens of his scope. "Then there are the Civilians. They're most of the population. They don't have voting rights, and work most mid-level jobs... you could say they're like second-class citizens."

Chow finished. "And then there are Gene-Helots. Formed from the brunt of the lower-class, they're effectively chattel slaves to the Empire. They have no rights. You can only ascend in this system through military service. Most foreign POWs that aren't killed outright are reduced to gene-helots."

“Well, fuck, even the name sounds ominous. Are all Alvimians considered gene-helots, then?” Ricardo asked.

"There are the traitors that sold their homeland — their descendants are surely enjoying a decent life," Chow muttered. "How foreigners fall into this system weighs entirely on the Empire's inclinations. Most Alvimians are either Civilians, Citizens... and a fair quantity are probably slaves. That so-called Saint you hear on the propaganda broadcasts is just another puppet defending this heinous system, of course."

“Figured. No wonder everyone hates their fucking guts then… Justifies quite a bit I’ve heard of them from the other people in the team.” Ricardo said, coming to a sort of realization. In a way, he mentally reprimanded himself for going into what was such a violent conflict with nothing but money in mind - so much to the extent of only learning about the reasoning in situ.

"Well, there's money and politics to this war too." Chow explained, lowering his rifle momentarily. "When the Imps seized the southern half of Alvimia earlier this year, they nationalized all foreign mining interests in the country. Now they're just exploiting Alvimia's resources for themselves. Naturally... I am sure you know I have a bit of involvement in corporate politics. It's only fair that I fight in my family's interests. There's a fair bit of confiscated wealth I'd like to be returned from the hands of these brutes."

Ricardo raised an eyebrow as Chow went a bit more in-depth about himself. Granted, he hadn’t heard much about the guy before that moment. “Well.. I suppose you aren’t here for money then. Being honest with you, I can’t understand why anyone would be here for any other reason… Unless you’re like that Alvimian girl and just hate the enemy so much, I guess.” He replied with a good bit of infused honesty.

"I hope this'll give my people some clout too, I suppose. But that's enough about me..." He shook his head, chuckling. "The promenade's cleared up. Now's our chance."

Swiftly leaving cover, Chow would cross the street, making it to the alleyway on the other side with great haste. Checking the street, he hurriedly gestured Ricardo over.

Keeping a low-profile, Ricardo made haste to the other side, moving up next to Chow as he covered what was not being watched. In a way, he already missed the Periferia, for at least it was not as gloomy as where they were.

What followed next was a maze of alleyways, narrow cobble streets and oppressive corridors. Evading civilians on the way, the streets were notable by the flickering telescreens and their Imperial News broadcasts, and the occasional dreary echoes of Imperial speeches as they soon escaped the boundaries of civilization once more — into the bombed-out husk of what'd once been a cluster of neighborhoods, now largely overtaken by plant life. Yet as they trudged through these forlorn remains of what'd once been, it allowed them a clear view of something far more oppressive, far more foreboding...

The Imperial Palace towered just before them, illuminated practically a hundred floors up its massive facade. It spanned several city blocks, and practically pierced the sky with its height. This was the nerve center of the Empire, built over the ruins of the original palace that'd hosted the Alvimian royal family.

This was their enemy, ultimately.

Chow spoke first, looking up at the towering spire. "These ruined paths lead straight to Manacapuru. Heart of Porto Plácido... and the Empire that occupies it."

“If you showed me a pic of that building before I ever saw this place, I’d be totally fucking sold on Porto-P.” Ricardo said as he gazed upon the Imperial Palace. It was a very obvious sign of oppression, but it looked astonishing nonetheless. “Well… Let’s un-occupy it then.”

Fleet Day, Act 2J
Manacapuru Administorum
Porto Plácido

Image South Atlantic Empire
May 25, A.C. 479
10:45 PM Aurum Standard Time
8 Hours Until Fleet Day

Slipping into the literal heart of the Empire had led them to the dilapidated few city blocks that had been cordoned off from 'mainline' Manacapuru. Chow was following the map's path, straight to where the derelict Hotel Serena stood. Still, there was a bit of walking until they'd reached the building in question, to which they were mostly walking amidst the abandoned structures of Porto Plácido's past.

"..this place must've been a lot more impressive before," Chow thought aloud, silently trudging through the back-alleys of the abandoned space.


The nexus of Imperial oppression in Alvimia. Where historic promenades, scenic riverwalks and the original Alvimian imperial palace once stood — centuries, if not almost a millennia worth of history — all has been erased to make way for the titanic megastructure that is the Imperial Palace. Towering at 1503 ft — the year Caleportese settlers discovered Alvimia — this titanic structure has transformed a once-bustling financial district of the Alvimian metropolis into nothing short of a massive administrative hub. As legends foretold, the first settlers of Alvimia set their flag on a hill within Manacapuru... a hill long gone, replaced by this vast mega-palace.

It is said that a great Potu warrior once defeated a great îakaré in ancient times, and in its dying breath the beast blessed the land for the warrior's people to freely inhabit. The Euphemians have taken this old folkloric tale to a new level in justifying their dominance over this district.

Soon enough they would reach the outer perimeter of the Serena Hotel. It loomed overhead, a testament to better days gone by. Amid the vacant parking lot, a glimpse of glowing lights — Imperial helmet-mounted lamps illuminating the dreary, overgrown asphalt ahead. They would disappear into the darkness, presumably scouring the surrounding area for any intruders... which seemed to give Chow the all-clear.

A breach amidst the chain-link fence would serve as a cue for both operatives, as Chow led the way in, crawling through the gap. A few derelict cars, corroded from decades of disuse, sat idle in the parking lot as the two began their way through the open space.

Making their way through what was yet another open graveyard where Alvimia’s better days were buried, Ricardo stuck close to Chow, moving in relative anxiety as he expected anything to pop out at any moment... And his fears were only confirmed as Ricardo took a very quick glance of what seemed like an Imperial patrol.

Immediately, he pulled Chow to the side as both took cover right behind one of the abandoned cars. Gesturing for Chow to keep quiet, he pointed in the general direction of the whiteliers he’d spotted. “Patrol, dead ahead.” Ricardo whispered to his partner.

"..they came around quicker than I'd expected," Chow muttered. A silence would befall the two of them as they idly waited for the group of Imperial soldiers to pass. Once again, they're rounded one of the corners of the abandoned building, effectively leaving the front entrance open for the duo to enter the hotel grounds.

Entering the space, they'd come across a lobby that had pretty much been gutted of most of its contents — either by opportunistic looters, or, judging by the bullet holes here and there among the walls, gung-ho Imperial occupiers. Finding cover behind what'd once been a fountain, Chow gestured Ricardo to the fountain opposite him along the lobby's once-grand atrium.

Replying with a firm nod, Ricardo crouched as he hastily made his way over to the fountain opposite to his previous position, not even taking the time to admire what that lobby had probably once been.


The Serena Hotel was once host to the most high-class of occurrences among Manacapuru's cosmopolitans. Its desolate halls bear the memories of special galas, ballroom masquerades and artisanry intrigue... all ghosts of the past now.

Thankfully, they had found just the right place. An Imperial fireteam would trudge past broken tiles, discarded debris and the dusty carpet flooring of the lobby grounds as they seemed to head off into one of the maintenance stairways — presumably to investigate some odd sound or another... which left both Ricardo and Chow in the clear.

With a silent gesture to the grand staircase that served as the centerpiece of the hotel lobby, Chow would silently begin towards the stairs. Once this place had no doubt hosted Porto Plácido's eloquent elite, and now it served only as testament to the ghosts of the past.

Following the gesture, Ricardo quietly moved up to the grand staircase, which even in its lastimable state seemed to channel all attention towards it. Moving up close to Chow, he breathed a sigh of relief given they’d made it past the Imperial patrols.

Chow would count the rooms as they began along the stairs, checking the notes on his PORTAMAPA as if to confirm his suspicions. 101, 102... 103, 104... 104. It wasn't anything special, not from the outside. Checking their flanks, Chow would hesitate momentarily before turning the knob on Room 104.

“That’s the one…” Ricardo murmured quietly, the tension still not getting to him.

Closing the door silently behind them, Chow would at first see nothing — until they were faced by a rather flamboyantly-dressed man, shotgun aimed to them both. "..ah, fucking hell." He muttered, quietly lowering his gun. Running a hand through his hair, he shook his head. "Fucking Imps have been crawling all over the place looking for my 'killer'. They don't realize..."

“Holy shit, man, you fuckin’ scared me.” Ricardo said out loud, breathing relieved as they’d finally made it. “Good thing you weren’t that trigger-happy.” He moved up further into the hotel room, taking a few glances around.


Desolate Room 104.

"..this place used to be a penthouse suite," Erasmo commented, looking about. "Anyway — the Vault... let's see here..." Quickly he got to the point, beginning to search through the various tables and shelves in the room. "..where'd I put you... c'mon... oh, and put the lock on that door, will you?" He gestured to a makeshift wooden mechanism that had been set up behind the door, which Chow promptly set up. It could keep the Imps at bay if they came, at least.

“Quite the gambiarra...” Ricardo said, admiring the improvised mechanism. It totally suited the whole feeling that torn-up building gave him, anyway.

"..I used to work with the Imps, you know. I got fed up with what they were doing to my country. My culture. Couldn't take it anymore — faked my death, made it seem like a murder... they traced it to me, thinking the killer's hiding in this building. Right, right right right — this..." He held up a small electronic datacard for both operatives to see. "Is the Vault. This has shit... on every Imp you've ever heard of. Senators, generals, politicians— and even the Admiral that drag queen tells me you're after."

"So, it's some kind of... 'archive'?" Chow questioned, raising an eyebrow as he approached to get a better look at the device.

“Do you think people will listen, though? I mean, considering all the propaganda out there, I’m not sure what some shady doings could do… In fact, I’m not sure what anything but bullets would do.” Ricardo thought back to the Periferia, which was in itself a symbol of true resistance, of gangs even putting their differences aside to face a common, ruthless enemy, one with no regards for any of the locals.

"What do you think a society hinged upon its so-called 'moral superiority' to its neighbors will do... when it realizes all is a farce, that their leadership is nothing more than morally degenerate hedonists? Ah — that PORTAMAPA will suffice." Hooking up the data archive to Chow's PORTAMAPA without warning, he would quickly open one of the files.

"Ah, fuck!"

"That's your Admiral— uh, must be... lemme check the date on this thing... twenty-six years ago." Erasmo explained. "As you can see, the, er... subject of his desires is being pinned down with no signs of the man stopping."

“What is that…?” Ricardo walked up to them, trying to get a better look at the PORTAMAPA’s screen… “Kinky.” He muttered to himself, upon a better look.

"I... can't say I wanted to witness this," Chow muttered to himself.

"Oh! Oh!" Erasmo flamboyantly feigned a gasp. "He didn't pull out. That's some poor Imp's conception right there, without a doubt... I'm sure there'd be quite the uproar if this stuff got out on Fleet Day. Just hook this up to a projector and get the show rolling, really. Wonder the damage control the Imps would go on if it became readily apparent their leadership was rife with the degenerates and pornographers they accuse their enemies of being?" The man chuckled.

“I see… No matter what else happens on Fleet Day, having this means that they’ll never have any moral ground to say anything.” Ricardo took a better look, just barely recognizing the Admiral. I guess people did look quite different when they were behind four walls… Or, in that case, so they thought.

"..and now to get you the hell out of here." Chow thought aloud. "I believe we shouldn't delay any further... how do I delete this off my PORTAMAPA?"

JimOS 1.0.14
Channel Name

[BOSS][James "Jimmy" Sykes] “Uhm… can you, uh, save that recording? I need to ID whoever that is… for some stuff. Also, say hi to Erasmo for me.”

"Our boss says hi, by the way." Chow said, looking to Erasmo.

JimOS 1.0.14
Channel Name

[BOSS][James "Jimmy" Sykes] “Tell him I’m a big fan of his work, ‘Rebel in Defeat’.”

"...I'm not going to say what else he's said. But I'm sure he'll be pleased to meet you if you join us aboard the Nero when we're out of this dump." Chow said, holding back a chuckle.

To this, Erasmo simply snickered. "Oh, certainly. Perhaps I can do a bit of PR work for the good guys this time."

“Well… This does mean we’ll have to go through the Imps outside again.” Ricardo pointed out, not necessarily eager for another spy movie-level sequence of sneaking past enemy troops. At that point, he’d rather shoot them than go through the tension.

Smirking, Chow simply glanced down to his rifle. "I'm not afraid of that. I'm sure we'll slip by if we keep our wits about us... now, let's get to that, hm?" Turning off the video obnoxiously playing from his PORTAMAPA, he was quick to reopen the map tab — before unlocking the door and carefully slipping out.

The lobby was, thankfully, clear — the patrol fireteam had stepped out of the lobby and headed outside practically the moment they'd exited Room 104. This made leaving the building a relatively easy undertaking, the three-man group soon stepping out into the cool night air.

The Imperials were gone — they'd quite literally packed their bags and left, their search through the building presumably turning up nothing they'd desired. Fate truly had been kind to the group in that moment, as Chow seemingly double-checked the corners of the hotel grounds in disbelief. "..I don't want to say it's clear.." He muttered, eyes suspiciously searching about the grounds.

“Don’t jinx us, okay?!” Ricardo said to his squadmate, whose gut seemed to be a magnet of whatever it was looking for. The faster they did that, the better.

Taking their leave, the silence of the empty parking lot was almost deafening — and Chow remained awestricken as they managed their exit through the chain-link fence without a single run-in with further Imperial troops. Standing there outside the derelict grounds of the Hotel Serena, he lowered his rifle. "Well I'll be damned..." He muttered to himself.

"So, this is going on TV right?" Erasmo questioned in a hushed whisper.

“Hell yeah, it is.” Ricardo replied, almost too excitedly. They sure were gonna be blowing up with views at that point on the next day.

"By the time this hits the airwaves..." Chow muttered. "I don't know what we'll be."

“Hopefully alive, breathing, successful, and a fair amount richer.” Ricardo said, putting some extra emphasis at the end of his sentence.

"That I can do." Smiling, Chow gave his partner a nod. Soon enough, JSOF would be entirely ready for Fleet Day...

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Khan of Spam
Posts: 51189
Founded: Jul 01, 2008
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Ameriganastan » Thu Apr 29, 2021 5:04 pm

I'd like to submit a little something, courtesy of the Elementals RP and my fellow player Lazarian. Who occasionally takes over other characters for a post. And he's good at it. He can even make my goofy sellsword Eric come off as awesome.
Lazarian wrote:
He whistled for Belle, who despite still looking ready to strangle him, flashed into his hand in sword form.

"Put up your sword, little man. Time to knock you down a peg or two."

“Oh, it’s my pleasure, grandpa.” sneered Aerion haughtily, running his fingers along the flat of his blade. “I’d like to see you try. You don’t have a clue where I’ve been and what I’ve done. Tell your Angelle lover to ask Terestark how many of his sons I put below the mud he sculpted! Or, to ask Hydrata how many of her rivers I filled with the blood of her daughters. Better yet, ask Pryastar how many I fed to his flames! I’m a god among men, and you’re a miserable old man running on fumes!” Aerion boasted.

“Kid,” Eric replied, shaking his head, “quit the talking and raise your sword.” he said with uncharacteristic steel in his voice.

Aerion felt somewhat unsettled that Eric was completely unfazed. Usually a boast like that would scare off any challenger. Taking his portrait out from under his arm, he tossed it into some clumps of soft grass nearby.

“Alright, old man, I’d be hap-” he proclaimed - and then mid-sentence, leapt through the air and swept an enormous cleaving strike at the man. Eric reacted almost instantaneously, parrying the blow, knocking Aerion’s sword to the side. Holding his stance solidly, he knocked Aerion away from him with a kick to the chest. Aerion stumbled backwards, quickly regaining his balance.

“I expected no less, you little shit.” proclaimed Eric. “So this is all Froenstia’s self-proclaimed champion has got - cheap tricks and sneak attacks? Jeez, if this is the best Froenstia can put out, I really don’t believe in her.”

Aerion felt the blood rushing to his head, and he swung ferociously at Eric again. His attacks were wild, consisting of incredibly aggressive sweeping motions and lunges. It was incredibly effective against ordinary, run of the mill soldiers - it was unlikely that they’d be able to hold against such a ferocious and reckless assault. Eric hardly moved as Aerion danced around him in a tango of steel and fury, deflecting every powerful blow with precision.

“Huh, the Yuelkelu sword arts. You know, kid, I’ll actually give you a little bit of credit. That takes a while to master.” Eric bantered, before parrying a particularly careless strike into the mud, and then kicking Aerion squarely in the groin. Froenstia’s “champion” howled, dropping his sword and clutching between his legs.

“But I’ve seen better. Lots better.” he continued, grabbing Aerion’s newly-purchased hat off his head and ripping it in two. “C’mon, are you even trying? Pretend like you actually want to kill me.”

Aerion gritted his teeth, fury filling his mind. He was being mocked. There was nothing he hated more in the world. He certainly wasn’t used to it. Even as a child in his village, he was always the favorite, the popular one admired by all. And as a mercenary, he had risen precipitously to the top, praised and envied by his comrades. Being insulted like this was a disgrace, and he hated it. As the blood rushed to his head, the past and present fused into one, his memories bleeding into reality. Pulling himself to his feet, he extended an open hand at Eric, adorned in a blue Commonwealth uniform.

“DIE, NORTHERN SCUM! BLIZZARD OF BLOOD!” he cried, lifting his arms to the sky. Spears of ice fell from the sky like javelins, piercing through the cobblestones of the courtyard in the twenty meters around him. Eric ducked and darted to a nearby corpse, ripping a shield from the body and holding it above his head. The remaining icicles bounced off it, shattering on impact as Eric slowly marched forwards. Around Aerion, the temperature dropped rapidly, and everyone in the courtyard could feel an unearthly chill in the air.

“HAILSTONE HELLSTORM! You owe me your freedom! All of you! I built this company from the ground up! Don’t you look at me like that! Get away from me!” Aerion screamed frantically at everyone, freezing moisture from the air into frozen bullets and launching them at the corpses of the men he’d killed shambling towards him. His friends and comrades, Northerner and Southerner alike, all drifted towards him, their skeletal visages staring in disappointment. Frenzied, he quivered violently - his golden locks were now an unkempt mess.

“FROENSTIA’S BITE!” he roared, closing his fist. Eric felt the blood in his arm freezing solid, spikes of ice piercing through his elderly joints and out of his skin. The frostbite travelled rapidly from his hand towards his neck, immobilizing his arm completely. Aerion laughed madly, following up with another reckless two-handed swing. It had sloppy form and an obvious tell, exchanging subtlety for sheer power.

“Belle, juice it!” Eric shouted, throwing her up in the way of the blow with his good arm. Aerion pushed harder, pressing Belle backwards towards Eric’s face. The edge of the holy blade halted centimeters from Eric’s face, grinding to a halt as the two men strained to overpower the other. In response, his frozen arm glowed blue, steaming as his cells rejuvenated themselves and cast off Aerion’s spell.

“That’s enough.” said Eric firmly, before using his newly healed arm to punch Aerion in the face. Dropping Belle to the ground, he followed up with a rapid series of jabs, a left hook, a right hook, and an uppercut with blazing speed. Aerion may have been a decent swordsman, but he was hopeless in a fistfight. Falling back, he lifted his hands to block, and Eric kicked him in the chest, sending him falling backwards into mud. Sprinting after him, Eric caught up to him, before kneeling on top of the fallen Elemental’s chest.

“Stop! Being! Like! This!” he snapped, slapping Aerion in the face in between every word. Reaching into his Fanny Pack of Wonder, he pulled out a pitcher of cold water, splashing it on Aerion’s face.

“Get your head together! Go meditate, have some beers, pray to whatever gods you’d like, fuck some whores, I don’t care! But you’ve gotta stop being an egotistical maniac, or I’ll personally remove you from this quest.” he grumbled.

Aerion laid in the dirt, completely unresponsive and unconscious, lost in cold and dreamless sleep.

I've been playing this character for almost 8 years and I can't write an action scene that good.
Last edited by Ameriganastan on Thu Apr 29, 2021 5:05 pm, edited 1 time in total.
The Incompetent Critic
Eric Lumen: Ultimate Chad
Force of nature.
The Ameri Train.
The Ameri song
Tsundere Ameri.
Ameri goes to court.
Universal Constant
Edward Richtofen wrote:Ameri's so tough that he criticized an Insane Asylum and was promptly let out

Ameri does the impossible.
Fire the Ameri.
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Krazakistan wrote: He is a force of negativity for the sake of negativity

Onocarcass wrote:Trying to change Ameri, is like trying to drag a 2 ton block of lead with your d**k.

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Khan of Spam
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Luminesa » Wed Jan 12, 2022 4:45 pm

I don’t entirely know how to link posts here, but this post by Kingdom of Irhk is one of my favorites I’ve read recently.
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faith, hope and love are some good things He gave us...
and the greatest is love."
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