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Chev@role model By all means, ask what you need and I'll see about clearing up anything I can.
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What do you see Kaneda?
STATUS: This is why you shouldn't use an actual toaster to host a website. 6 yrs ago
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This is why you shouldn't use an actual toaster to host a website.
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[@Dnafein] Because people are salty about didney and have forgotten about the prequels.
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*angry moth sounds*
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Joke's on you Dagoth-Ur, I brought eighty bottles of sujamma.
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@Foundry What kind of character were you thinking of?
It is a galaxy teetering on the brink of civil war, twenty years after the violent close of the last. The Clone Wars, as the series of conflicts were called, was supposed to have only lasted a couple years, planned out in detail by the Dark Lord of the Sith. Yet the most minute of changes, deviations or miscalculations slowly resulted in an event that was beyond even the man who was purported to have been the most powerful of his kind in millennia. A man who lived when he was supposed to have died, an apprentice with doubts that led him to question his own motives, another who would not be swayed and instead stay true to the order that raised him. One after another these small changes that would have otherwise just be footnotes in history would drastically change the outcome of a war that was supposed to have been decided.
Where it truly came undone was with the First Battle of Geonosis. Hundreds of Jedi and entire battalions of clone troopers descended upon the planet to liberate not three hostages set to die at the hands of the Trade Federation, but to rendezvous with Obi-Wan Kenobi and the recently turned Count Dooku. It set the stage of the entire war, as without a clear leader another took control of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. One who did not have the same ideals as its founder, or the desire for true reform in the galaxy. The one who inherited the revolution was one who despised the Republic for everything it stood for. One who had lost everything in a war that, without knowing the truth of the conflict, the Republic interfered with and punished his people dearly. General Grievous, more machine than Kaleesh at this point for the wounds he suffered during the Kalee-Huk war. With his leadership the conflict became far more than what his 'master' intended.
He played his part though, at least initially. Battles were fought in those beginning stages where Sidious planned them, including the First Battle of Coruscant. There Grievous began to understand the Sith lord's intentions and made his own plan. It was one that as the months turned to years, made Palpatine realize that he could no longer crush the 'rebellion' and simply seize control over the Republic to create his empire. More than that, Dooku had turned back to the Jedi and more suspicion than ever was upon him. He had been backed into a corner, a wolf no longer among sheep, but among the hunters. The Republic and CIS bled each other for every system, the Clone Wars ramping up with every passing year and invalidating his plan with each battle. Palpatine had shifted from planning to destroy the Jedi in one fell swoop, to being forced to rely on them until the very end.
Five years into the Clone Wars the plan Grievous had set into motion was finally coming into play. Since realizing Sidious' plan, his true identity and what that meant for the CIS, he had steadily ensured that certain assets remained out of reach from both the Republic and even his own allies. More and more the CIS drew upon the finances of the Banking Clan, the resources of the Trade Federation and Bactoid, as well as every planet under their sway. As the Separatist leaders bickered among themselves as to who was stealing what, Grievous assembled a fleet that would be unrivaled. Thousands of warships sequestered away in old Sith Space and preparing for one final assault. When it finally came, he hit the Republic without mercy. Kuat, Kamino, Balmorra, Ord Mantell and even Corellia came under siege from what they believed to be the entirety of the CIS fleet. Without question the Open Circle Fleet rallied to defend these key worlds, pulling assets away from the defenses of others. And that was when Grievous struck the true blow. In a single night the CIS shattered the defensive fleet of Coruscant, the planetary shield that protected it, and tore the heart of the Republic from its chest.
It became known as "Knightfall" to those who survived, partially for the last stand of the Jedi Knights who held the line against overwhelming odds, only to fail. Under the rain of turbolaser fire from orbit, Cortosis Battle Droids ransacked the capital, relentlessly hunting any who did not perish with the bombings of the Jedi Temple and the Senate Building. It was there that Palpatine himself met his end, an irony of sorts for the Sith Lord who planned out the Clone Wars so carefully, only to fall victim to another's and be buried beneath the glassed ruins of the Republic he tried to control. If things had gone another way, it would have been there that the Republic died to thunderous applause, instead it shattered into a dozen regional governments without the jewel of Coruscant to hold them. Without the clone armies to defend them though, many would fall to Grievous and his new Confederacy. Some would question where the Jedi and their army went, only ever hearing the desperate calls for retreat.
In the aftermath of such a traumatic event though, others did stand tall among the wreckage. After a valiant stand against the odds, those remnants who were unable to rejoin the main fleets settled where they had fought so hard to keep free. Corellia became a new beacon of hope in the galaxy, declaring itself the true inheritor of the Republic and standing firm against the Confederacy. With the Green Jedi lords to govern them, they would secure much of the galaxy south of the core, claiming the ruins of Kuat and working to rebuild the rings after the traitorous attack that destroyed them. Yet many hold doubts towards the Corellians, noting how they denied the Republic in Exile when they were still on the run from the Confederacy, and worse yet how many of the worlds that have joined with them, did so without a choice. Regardless of how noble their intentions, the severity of their crimes or the accusations against them though, much of the southern galaxy flourishes under their control.
To the north others contest the Corellians, foremost among them the nascent Galactic Empire. Much like their rivals, they too arose from the remnants of defenders who had nowhere else to go. With the CIS swallowing up former Republic territory across the entire Outer Rim, the Eighth Fleet under the authority of admiral Jira Renkar quickly moved to secure as much space as they could around Ord Mantell. Unlike the other successor states though, they did not have the luxury of a strong industrial base, a dedicated people, or even a cause they could believe in. For the remaining military of the Republic in that sector, cut off from any hope of reinforcements and with the CIS surrounding and assaulting them at every opportunity, their only choice was to abandon their ideals. An empire was founded in the smoldering embers of the Clone Wars, admiral turned Emperor clenching a fist of iron around those few systems he could keep from the separatists. Violence and tyranny is their language, for while all others have come to accept the new status of the galaxy in their own way… For the Empire the Clone Wars never ended.
And then there is Mandalore. It was there that the Republic in Exile found themselves unlikely allies in the form of Duchess Satine and the new Mand'alor. Already the two had been working on securing the future of their people, of both the more pacifist Mandalorians and those who wished to carry on their warrior culture, and so when the Jedi and the Republic came seeking their aid, they gave it freely. That moment joined ancient enemies together, two sides who had fought each other almost since the founding of the Republic, having nearly ruined the other many times over the millennia. Jedi and Mandalorians united, all past grievances set aside in order to secure the future of both of their peoples. It was on that foundation that the legitimate Republic government "officially" relocated to Keldabe City, "elected" Satine as chancellor and ceded military powers to the Mand'alor. Since that moment their standing in the galaxy depends greatly upon from whose lips it is said, with the Corellians decrying them as little more than a band of looters and mercenaries with stolen Republic hardware. Certainly their assault on Kuat that left it little more than ruins lends credence to such, and with the Jedi assisting freely through the new Jedi Enclaves, it's harder than ever for the GRM to play public relations.
Yet, while the Corellians sabotage their image at every turn, historians call their rise the "Third Great Crusade" and warn of the impending invasion… Many look to them as the true inheritors of the Republic. Under the mythosaur skull banner, all are equal and all have the same chance to earn their place. To be Mandalorian is a choice, one that every world in their republic has made, and all have so far benefitted from their protection and lended their arms towards securing their space. No matter whether they be Miraluka, Twi'lek, Kaminoan, Devaronian or just a regular human, all are considered to be Mandalorian under their Mand'alor and afforded the same rights whether they fight for their republic or work for it.
But while the Republics fight and vie for supremacy against each other, they ignore the threat surrounding them. The Confederacy still lives, though it is has bled key worlds and founders over the last twenty years. Muunilist broke free in order to join into the Corporate Sector Authority. Dozens of sectors have been lost to the steady advance of the Empire. Most of their core world sectors were found to be too rebellious to keep direct control, instead handed over to the puppet-Republic under Alsakan. More and more the Confederacy burns under the rule of Grievous, who still sees it as his duty to dismantle the Republic completely, but struggles to maintain control over his own systems, much less those under occupation. Even Kalee is no longer his to command, as the Empire seized it years ago. It is a rebellion that has stagnated long past achieving their goal, without the sense to lay down their arms. More than that though, with the general meeting any resistance with force, crushing any who dare to rise up against him, it is inspiring more and more to treat with their republic kin. And they can taste the blood in the water.
So it is that after twenty years, though the galaxy has changed much since the close of the Clone Wars, it is once again teetering on the brink of civil war...
tl;dr - The CIS won the Clone Wars, everything's a bit fucked.
So, if you haven't read the block of text above and are wondering just what this is, or if you did and would prefer a more succint description of the RP, here it is. "After Knightfall" is a Star Wars RP, but not like most others for the key principle of the setting. While most RPs that take place in a fandom setting like SW are quite open about the canonicity of the RP itself, and how once the RP begins it is effectively in an alternate universe, this RP starts out as such before characters are even created. It began initially as just a joke of a question a while back, a "what if" of sorts, and over the years the RP setting grew into more than just a concept and into a story of its own waiting to be told. What if the CIS won the Clone Wars?
With the baseline of what sets up the RP established, I'll try to pre-emptively answer as many setting questions as possible, though understand that with a setting as broad as SW there will be so many more. First things first, the Republic as it was is gone. The Galactic Empire that arose after the fall carries many of the traits of the one we know, but is quite different, and controls far from the entire galaxy. In fact, after the dissolution of the Republic the galaxy is completely void of any kind of central government, only agreeing to the use of the "galactic credit" for the sake of a universal standard and to satisfy the IGBC. The Jedi Order has similarly fragmented into a dozen splinter orders, all with their own idea of what it is to be "Jedi" in this new era, and few of them getting along with each other. Most remain with those who were active with the Open Circle Fleet, reforming into The Jedi Enclaves and allying with the most unlikely of powers, the rising Grand Republic of Mandalore. Of course the "winners" of the Clone Wars still linger on, though with no unifying force beyond the iron grip of Grievous, a severe lack of allies in a galaxy full of enemies, and more and more systems ironically agitating for seccession from the CIS, their days are thought to be numbered.
Essentially, the galaxy is as fragmented as the days of the Republic's founding, multiple powers agitate against each other in a cold war that is every day threatening to go hot at a moment's notice. It has been twenty years since Knightfall, and a new generation has risen to decide the galaxy's fate. But that is just the first chapter of a story I'm looking to guide my players through, one that will see both old threats and new rise to challenge what remains.
All the story aside, my rules are fair and simple, the same that can be expected from any other GM on the forum, and I do my best to work with everyone to ensure that the story they want to tell of their own character, is given the same chance as everyone else. To that end, I will be giving everyone with a serious interest until December 2nd to ask their questions of which I expect to be many, to make their character and prepare.
Oh yeah, these two @Jasonhero@Apollosarcher are Co-GMs, so they've also got answers for the most part regarding the setting.
As the dockworkers invigorated themselves to getting the job done and making as much use of their newfound help as possible, Isabella resolved herself to ensuring that even if not exactly her first choice, she would not slack either. Both hands caught hold of the boat as it came in, assisting in guiding it to rest at the pier and looking over the catch. She recognized the fish well enough, a staple food of the region and migrating in with the change in seasons. It had been a decent bit since she had done any ocean fishing, but the Indigo Herring was familiar with her and so she knew how to handle the writhing net a little better.
Putting both hands into the net, she grabbed hold of the thicker strands and motioned for X'gihl to take up the other side. "One quick, but strong motion. Otherwise with all of them flopping about in the net, they'll take us in one way or the other. I'm sure you don't want to go for a swim about as much as I would, and we shouldn't spill the catch they worked hard on." Waiting on him to signal his readiness, she would brace herself carefully, and do a three count before hefting the entire net with him over into the cart with a dull thud of fish meeting wood.
"Wasn't too bad, a pretty good haul too." Isabella commented, standing upright and brushing her hands off against the leather underlayer of her armor exposed along the sides of her legs. Fishing in bulk and with a net didn't nearly have as much of the sport to it that she liked personally, but these people had to eat and this was how many of the coastal towns made a living. "Anyways, though Galfridus was who we were looking to talk to for Lyveva, you seem to know quite a bit about the goings on and are right here, so I don't suppose we could trouble you for some assistance in that matter?"
"Right now all we really have to go on is that another Highlander was responsible, or believed to be responsible for seizing the title to their company house, and that he was preparing to put it and everything inside on auction fairly soon. From the looks of things up at the square, it feels like he intends to do so by end of day." Pausing for just a moment, her expression went pensive as she thought back to Lyveva's description of the man in particular in order to be sure she had the details correct. "Otkar was his name, had two scars on his face and fairly recognizable I would say by the description we were given. And if thieving someone's home out from under them wasn't bad enough, we were also told he's a habit of parading about as a flame sergeant in order to seem more legitimate."
Of course things would become complicated, and if it hadn't been through the miqo'te before her offering assistance without strings, there likely would have been some other minor issue that would have cropped up. At the very least they were a friendly bunch, made all the more so from that offer and despite that she wasn't necessarily included in it, she would shrug and come alongside him anyways. He did actually have the right idea of things, in that normally people were a little more conducive to helping you out if you did something for them first, so she couldn't hold it against him and offered a slight weary smile.
"I'm not exactly a stranger to hard work, so that won't be an issue with me." She said, both to X'gihl and her fellow Hyur. "Not that I've done much dock work, so you'll have to forgive a lay hand." And with that she was off down the dock as well, giving a light stretch that made a little jingling sound of metal against metal, the plate armor rubbing against itself as she did so. Once at the boat she left her gear at the side, knowing that it would really only get in the way of things, and stopped only to dab at her face with a little bit of that ointment to relieve the burning of her sunburn once more. "Should note, that despite the enthusiasm of my fellow here, we've really got to be back to helping our comrade up at the bazaar."
Hard-working folk like them would surely understand the bonds of camaraderie, and more so the need to keep them intact and help their own. Isabella came up to take off her gauntlets, revealing the worn and calloused palms that had been seen years of spear-work to hone her skill, and nodded over to the man who seemed to be in charge of things, or at least who they volunteered to assist. "Might have heard something about it actually, Lyveva of that group the Blessed Twelve? They've had a spot of bad luck lately and so we've agreed to lend them a helping hand in maybe turning that around. Not for the gil mind you, and not just because they don't have much of it to spare nowadays. She just seems like the kind of person to have invested her heart and soul into her company, and there's a shortage of those kinds of people in the world."
It certainly had been quite the interesting ride, though more so for those awake at least. After departing the Quicksand most settled down into the carriage and seemed to be keen enough to get to know each other. The two seekers, or were they moon cats… Isabella wasn't sure on the differences between miqo'te to comment, only glancing at them from aside as she sat down next to one particularly eager and busy fiddling with some coins. She didn't comment on the oddity of tying coins around tails, seeing as how she didn't have one herself it didn't seem her place to contemplate the etiquette regarding such things. Instead she simply leaned back, adjusted her sunglasses and waited for the subtle rock of the carriage…
A nudge at her shoulder awoke her, the woman having been sleeping upright as the cats carried on with song in the enclosed space, and only with that motion was she disturbed. She didn't give a comment on it, only shrugging at him as the best response she could give considering she hadn't been listening enough to know if he had asked her something, or someone else had. One of the benefits of wearing sunglasses, people didn't tend to notice if she thought to catch up on some rest, most assuming she was quite awake. A moment passed and the one… Tora she believed, made a gesture towards the other women and she assumed it was just him being friendly. Proper introductions would have to be done later she figured, seeing as how she missed on any given within the carriage, but that too seemed to be coming to a close as they reached their destination.
Right behind the privateer she joined the others gathered outside the carriage, listening a little longer than he on the situation at hand. So there were a few around the settlement that could be questioned regarding the home and the title. Getting into a conflict first thing out of the gate wasn't exactly in her interests at the moment, regardless of whether it was physical or not. She would leave the Roe to the others on that respect, feeling it better to leave him to someone more… Diplomatic. Same with the lalafell if she was being honest, as her last experience with one back in the city left her even less eager to try bartering with one. That meant that Galfridus would be the best choice for her to speak to, and she was just about to say as much when that same cat bounded off for the pier.
"H-hey… Wait up!"
And off she was, right behind X'gihl for the fisherman. Behind her Lyveva had her own issues and while she felt for her fellow Hyur having to haggle for her own belongings, it seemed prudent to try and assist where her skills might actually pay off. Lance and rod clanked against each other on her back with her pack as she made an effort to catch up to their rogue rogue, finally stopping behind him as he called out to the laborers on the docks.
"Shouldn't we try to find Galfridus and get back to Lyveva instead of doing odd jobs?" Wiping her face and readjusting bandana and sunglasses both, she dabbed a little bit of sunscreen on her cheeks as she stood up more fully, armor creaking as she fixed X'gihl with a look. "Or at least make sure it's him first before offering hands to everyone at the Silver Bazaar."
With the imminent threat of potentially eating a dog dealt with, as well as the rogue elements that came along with it, Anchorage had little hold over the Noreaster or her crew. The engines idled as they cooked the bounty-hunters who seemed to think attacking a CR-90 was a good idea, and everyone was settling back down after a little too much excitement on shore leave. Not the kind she usually preferred either, if Solace was being honest with herself, watching everyone set to their tasks with varying degrees of diligence. The blue one they picked up was off like a bolt as soon as she gained consciousness, which she really couldn't fault her for if she was being honest. It had been a good few years since she took a tumble into a cargo bay like that herself. Then there was Natasha going about her own order, to which she stopped her before she left, fixing her with a dangerous glare.
"Touch anything in engineering, and I'll cut off your hands. We're still fixing shit after your last improvement."
The Noreaster was an old girl, and though she may not run as clean as an Imp-90, she was reliable if given the right kind of care. When it came to their Zeltron assassin, she would much rather take her chances with whatever dock-trash she dragged onto the ship. Speaking of… There was something odd about that girl Skylar, and she didn't quite have the skillset to determine what. That was something for either her sister or Airus, but first she needed to settle things, make sure everyone was accounted for and redistribute if she had to. Soft steps took her from the cargo bay, into the main hallway of that deck, and passed the conference room where she took just a peek in to see that everyone was getting to work. Sable was doing what a fully-unrestricted assassin droid trapped in the shell of a battle droid does best. For what it was worth though, the Lethan girl was giving it back to him double, and she kind of liked that sass to go with the- A presence down the hall alerted her to Five-Toes trundling towards the galley, looking every bit like he just lost an argument with Natasha over the dog. She would have to deal with that later, for now she watched those in the conference room for a moment longer before poking her head in.
"Hey, knock it off cunts. While I don't normally care if crew wants to beat the shit out of each other over something stupid… Brin, you won't win that fight. Firstly, he has a bomb in his chassis that ensures mutual destruction, so even if you win you lose. Secondly Sable… Well, you know what I'm going to say about that. Either way, cool it and get to know each other without beating each other senseless. I'm heading to the helm to get us into orbit and to the next stop."
Without even waiting for what would surely be a witty comeback or remark on her tastes, she gave a little wave through the closing door and was on her way. It was days like this that made her hate docking at Anchorage. Always had to be trouble of some kind, and it never helped that almost the entire crew had a bounty of considerable size with the Empire. A few moments of uninterrupted thought led her to the bridge of the ship, where her sister was already waiting, seeming to have expected her there. The strange bear-thing that she had collected from the cargo bay had been dropped off on her way, now left to its own devices which she was sure would be nothing good, but would have to be sorted later.
"Yeah, yeah. I know what you're going to say, and as long as no one is missing him he can stay. Just try not to let him run loose in place he shouldn't be. Oh, you want to do the announcement?"
She knew what the answer would be as soon as she asked, a light smirk playing across her lips as she slowly pushed the throttle up and watched as the shields over the hangar released to allow their exit. An end to a dramatic evening for sure, but now they were off into the stars and towards their next job.
---
"Attention passengers~" The rather cheery voice came over the intercom as the ship rumbled into full motion, always the transition from stationary to full speed leaving some concerned over the structural integrity of the vessel. "We are now departing Anchorage~ Please ensure that all st-sto-" A pause as just to the side there was a whispered question asking what a word was, and the reply came right before Sena continued. "-stowage is safely secured, and to remain in your quarters until we have a-a-achee-" Another pause, this time briefer. "Achieved(!) orbit. Dinner will be in two hours, courtesy of Mr Grell as always, and sis has also asked that all crew be present in the c-c-co-con-conference room an hour afterwards to discuss business~"
January 3rd 08:00 EST
New York City, New York - Farmer's Boulevard Spirits
Morning traffic in New York always tended to work one into a mood, even if road rage wasn't exactly a normal tendency. For Donovan Breen though, it was inspiring. Both hands gripped the steering wheel of the 32 foot box-truck, knuckles turning white as he resisted the urge to at the very least shout at the stupid fuck who just cut him off- "Watch where the fuck yer going stupid fuckin' tosser!" There it was, his fist shaking out the window as a honk sounded in return and the driver in question gave him the single-finger salute. Now he could feel his blood pounding, a slight twitch to his eyes as he took in a deep breath and tried to ignore his brothers arguing in the back of the truck. That had been going on for the last hour and honestly he had just about had enough, tempted to pull the truck over and shoot both of them. Yet they had a job to do, and unfortunately this job needed Angus' rather unique skill set.
The brother in question was sitting there in what little room was available, cigar in mouth and open bottle of whiskey on the floorboards next to him. Once Donovan might have been concerned about his brother's decision to smoke while he worked, but long ago he decided that if God were to take him from him in that way, he would just hope not to be next to him. Of the three, while he may have been the least likely to be suspected of some kind of violence at first glance, he just so happened to be nearing the top of the FBI's watchlist due to his so-called shenanigans. Angus was only being watched at the moment because he was merely suspected of having a role in a dozen bank robberies over the last decade, all involving thermite or explosives of some kind. Regardless of his supposed involvement in major crimes, he was likely the smartest Irishman most would meet, even if that's not saying much for some, and he did know what he was doing.
Next to him and scratching at the mess he called a beard was the other Breen, Patrick. Compared to Angus he might as well have been a rock for all he had rattling around in his head, but each of the brothers had a purpose and they rarely did a job without one of the others around. And if there was one thing that he knew how to do and did well, it was act as the muscle. He was probably the only one of the brothers to have an actual warrant out for his arrest as well. It was well deserved of course, he had very nearly beaten that police officer to death, and that wasn't even touching the six armed robbery charges, the fourteen assaults and the three actual murders. If Donovan didn't know any better he might think that the youngest brother actually enjoyed it.
"Look Paddy, I'm just saying that with a skirt like that I bet she keeps it nice and smooth. Like a feckin slip and slide if you get my drift."
"Oh I git yer drift alright, but ye cannae tell me that there's not the slightest possibility of her being an absolute freak."
All the while as they argued over the personal hygiene choices of prominent female heroes, Angus was tinkering with the job in his lap. The job of course being the warhead to a rocket. A rather large rocket at that, being the almost sixty-five pound ammunition for the launcher taking up most of the space within the truck. Donovan was probably the lucky one for this, and considering he was the boss of the local branch of the Irish Mafia, he banked this one on "Executive Privilege." Horseshit as both younger brothers called it, but he wasn't about to be set ablaze because he depended on Angus' "Ingenuity" as he liked to say. Really all the youngest of the Breen's was, was an overly patriotic kid for a country he wasn't even born in and trying to prove himself to a bunch of wankers overseas. In truth it was their grandfather and father who were the real hardasses of the family, the former serving in the last world war, and the latter taking it to the brits for the homeland.
It was part of how they were able to get their hands on this kind of hardware, shipped overseas in pieces and reassembled earlier in the week for the job that would put them back on the map. Yes, this would cement the Breen name in NYC history, and that thought alone was enough to settle not just his doubts on how crispy he might be once that big bastard launched, but also kept him calm enough until finally they pulled up to the spot. Farmer's Boulevard Spirits, a regular stop for the legitimate side of their gang. Of course, they had already done a delivery two days ago and weren't due for two more, but no one would be paying attention enough to really notice so slight a detail as that… Except perhaps for the real reason why they were here. Just down the street facing the back of the truck was the local Chinese Hand laundromat, and one of their main distribution centers for drugs and cash. Donovan could almost smell the sweet scent of charred heroin and burning cash now…
"Now the fast one though, oh man she's got the thighs to die for. Yeah sure she's not rocking the skirt and bare legs anymore, but even if you put pants on cake it's still cake."
"Yer a damn loon Angus, she'll give yer dick rugburn, and that's if the lass would even touch yer dumbass. Now that Sol on the other hand…"
"I'm the loon? I'm the loon?! Fer feck's sake Paddy, she'd crush you without even trying!"
"If only I could be so lucky…"
"Oi cunts!"
Donovan's shout was accompanied by the banging of his fist against the plywood separator between the cab and the cargo area, turning back to stare at his idiot brothers. "Truck's parked, so git yer shite together."
---
Meanwhile, just down the road with quite a bit less swearing, vulgarity and Irishness the Triad was doing business as usual. Above were the residents of the local neighborhood making nice with Madam Mao as she did the normal routine of giving out her 'sagely' advice and checking in with her neighbors. Never mind that one of them was a local hero, who the Madam was quite aware of and always did her best to appear as the doting elder that she played part-time as. It wasn't entirely an act though, as Robert Mao knew quite well and as did many of the local Triad members. The Madam as they called her, considered most of the gang as part of her extended family and that meant that any time one of them was in trouble she would be there to do her part. It also meant that they were subject to her full wrath if they happened to screw something up for the "family", but no one really paid too much mind to that.
At least Robert didn't, and once more as he went over the current business of the day his thoughts turned to matters of family. His own, that is. He took the stairs from the basement, handing off his clipboard with today's numbers on it and informed the crew he would be taking a quick break for a smoke. Madam Mao hated smoking, said it was a westerner thing and that it rotted his spirit just as it did his lungs, and as much as she was probably right he just couldn't kick the habit.
"I'm going out front for a smoke Mother."
His comment drew an exasperated sigh from the old woman, turning away from the pink-haired hero as she was about to go into another tirade against him, but seemed to think better of it. Maybe it was that she felt it wouldn't have any effect, or maybe she didn't want to seem like a bitter old crone from the far east hating the country she lived in to Sol. Robert made no fuss over it just as his mother didn't, resting a hand on her shoulder and promising to return in just a moment.
"My son, Robert." She said once he was out the front door, bell at the top ringing. "More American than some Americans, and certainly speaks English better than some of those kids I've heard running around in the afternoon. Says to me that he wants to leave New York, can you believe that? Married this Kansas girl who always talks about how much she loves the countryside. Sweet thing, works as a nurse in one of the hospitals, you know the type, one of the ones who does it for those in need."
As she spoke, coming up beside Sol and taking a lean against the counter, some discussion was underway down below in the basement. Mostly in the way of what product was being moved where, and some of those places most certainly not being Triad territory. With the relative quiet of some of the larger gangs of the city, the Triad had been rumored to be making moves, just the same as those moves were also rumored to be well and truly stirring the shit in New York. Sooner or later one of the others would have had enough, and raised voices down below made it seem like not only was the Triad prepared for such an eventuality, but that they were working towards it. Of course, most people in the laundromat couldn't hear over the machines constantly running, only one might be able to and the Madam stood beside her continuing on about her son.
"Robert, my dear son Robert, confided in me that he actually wants to leave the family business entirely and start a restaurant out west." Nothing too out of the ordinary for a family of immigrants from China- "Tells me that he can't stand our food and wants to fry chicken." Oh.
The son in question currently stood out front, quite unaware of his mother decrying his choices, but thinking of them nonetheless. He had been saving for a good few years now, worked on his credit applications and felt it wouldn't be too long before he would be able to say goodbye to the city and head west. A long draw warmed his body against the cool January air, the cloud of steam rising from his lips as he held the cigarette there for a moment and remained pensive. His thoughts were interrupted by the trundle of a large box truck working its way down the road towards the intersection. This time of morning it wasn't unusual of course, most businesses were receiving their deliveries and had already been open for a couple hours if not getting ready to do so. What struck the man was to whom the truck belonged. As it passed by he got a glimpse of the driver, an irishman who seemed like he took eight or nine punches too many in the last pub-brawl.
It was a face most of the local Triad were familiar with, that of Donovan Breen the head of the local Irish Mafia. What he was doing here this early in the morning was anyone's guess, but already Robert was feeling a little suspicious as the truck made the turn down the road facing the laundromat and pulled up in front of the local liquor store. A slow puff of the cigarette in his mouth accompanied his thoughts, working on what kind of angle could possibly be had. There was the logo of the 'legitimate' shipping company for the mafia, a rather vulgar interpretation of irish folklore depicting a leprechaun riding something called a butfor. After a few moments he simply shook his head and dismissed the thoughts, returning to those of his future culinary pursuits.
He didn't have long, as before half of the cigarette was gone the door to the truck opened and the vague outline of a large mechanism within could be seen with two men operating it in the confined space of the cargo area. It was almost comical in a sense, so much stuffed in that truck that there was barely room to move, and he would have laughed if he wasn't confused as to what it was they had managed to smuggle into town this time. If he had been a little more familiar with such things, he might have recognized the distinct shape of eight rockets sitting in the rack, steadily lining up with the glass front of the laundromat he was smoking in front of. Then came the bright flash of fire against the back of the truck, one by one each of those rockets firing and screaming down the street. In slow motion the cigarette fell from his lips, eyes going wide as he watched the cluster of eight powering towards him and the laundromat. There was no time for any sort of warning, all he could do was watch as a yellow-painted warhead passed right by his face and punched through the glass.
Almost as soon as it did it hit the back of the laundromat, landing in an open front-load dryer and detonating with enough force alone to bring the building down. The bow-wave of explosive force shattered the windows of the store, sending glass shrapnel ahead of the flame, and launching Robert Mao off his feet and across the street. Then came the explosions and the world screamed back into full motion as the laundromat went up in flames, as did the two businesses on either side, and burying the basement with everyone inside.
January 2nd, 12:05 PM (EST)
North of Atlanta, Georgia - Side of US Highway
Chaos did truly work in mysterious ways, or at least that was what she thought at first. It had been ten years since she lost pretty much everything she knew except her powers and the League, and they were better at saving people from physical danger than emotional as she found. Sure, for a bit she held out hope. There had been people coming in along both coasts from Central City, claiming to have escaped the destruction, and each time she had been there expecting… What could she really have expected? Every tale of heroes told about how they had to make sacrifices, and in those early years she thought she could be the exception. So it was that eventually, though she put on the same smile, she steadily lost hope. To the point where when someone showed up out of nowhere on the back of a friend, as cold a friendship as it was at this point, she doubted.
Doubt was what put her sister on the bench as she worked through every little possibility. She had gained a sense for chaotic magic over the years, and though it was nothing close to that of a proper demon or mage, this girl had a feeling of it about her that she couldn't shake. Not to mention the sheer coincidence of showing up just after being confronted by the spooky german. Next thing she expected Duncan to turn into a werewolf or something, maybe make an off-color joke about peaches and finding her in… Okay, she might have set herself up for that one and really couldn't fault anyone for that. Still, it felt weird and then… Then it got weirder.
She watched as all of a sudden her sister's hands started to vibrate, then energy sparked from them all around her. Being what she was, she knew what speed-force looked like and could see it coursing through the girl's body. Quite suddenly she remembered what her first time was like, ending up almost two counties over and more than a little confused as to what actually happened. Verra started to reach out, trying to get a warning out but found herself once again too slow as she had taken too much time thinking things through to act. With the quickness of a speedster just manifesting, the girl went from the bench and forward a dozen meters within the blink of an eye for any normal person. Then… Then she stopped quite suddenly, with the assistance of a brick wall.
"Hey! Language."
Verra was quick to scowl and point at Champ, finger wagging in his direction as she heard his curse and sighed. While the canuckistani could be rather endearing at times, difficult to reason with at others, and of course there was the whole thing with their last conversation… He had not once lied to her or anyone she knew of. Truly a boyscout. An alien one, but still a boyscout. She sighed again and pressed her palm to her forehead, fingers running through her vibrant red locks as she thought about it. If there was anyone left who knew her and her sister, it would have been him considering the connection they had before all this went down. So that meant… Well, first before she got hopeful, the girl had just knocked herself out cold with her first dose of speedforce. Everything else could wait until she was awake and aware.
"Okay. So, that's Lexi then. We uh… Should probably get her to a place less public and sort things out, people are staring."
New York City, New York - Farmer's Boulevard Spirits
Morning traffic in New York always tended to work one into a mood, even if road rage wasn't exactly a normal tendency. For Donovan Breen though, it was inspiring. Both hands gripped the steering wheel of the 32 foot box-truck, knuckles turning white as he resisted the urge to at the very least shout at the stupid fuck who just cut him off- "Watch where the fuck yer going stupid fuckin' tosser!" There it was, his fist shaking out the window as a honk sounded in return and the driver in question gave him the single-finger salute. Now he could feel his blood pounding, a slight twitch to his eyes as he took in a deep breath and tried to ignore his brothers arguing in the back of the truck. That had been going on for the last hour and honestly he had just about had enough, tempted to pull the truck over and shoot both of them. Yet they had a job to do, and unfortunately this job needed Angus' rather unique skill set.
The brother in question was sitting there in what little room was available, cigar in mouth and open bottle of whiskey on the floorboards next to him. Once Donovan might have been concerned about his brother's decision to smoke while he worked, but long ago he decided that if God were to take him from him in that way, he would just hope not to be next to him. Of the three, while he may have been the least likely to be suspected of some kind of violence at first glance, he just so happened to be nearing the top of the FBI's watchlist due to his so-called shenanigans. Angus was only being watched at the moment because he was merely suspected of having a role in a dozen bank robberies over the last decade, all involving thermite or explosives of some kind. Regardless of his supposed involvement in major crimes, he was likely the smartest Irishman most would meet, even if that's not saying much for some, and he did know what he was doing.
Next to him and scratching at the mess he called a beard was the other Breen, Patrick. Compared to Angus he might as well have been a rock for all he had rattling around in his head, but each of the brothers had a purpose and they rarely did a job without one of the others around. And if there was one thing that he knew how to do and did well, it was act as the muscle. He was probably the only one of the brothers to have an actual warrant out for his arrest as well. It was well deserved of course, he had very nearly beaten that police officer to death, and that wasn't even touching the six armed robbery charges, the fourteen assaults and the three actual murders. If Donovan didn't know any better he might think that the youngest brother actually enjoyed it.
"Look Paddy, I'm just saying that with a skirt like that I bet she keeps it nice and smooth. Like a feckin slip and slide if you get my drift."
"Oh I git yer drift alright, but ye cannae tell me that there's not the slightest possibility of her being an absolute freak."
All the while as they argued over the personal hygiene choices of prominent female heroes, Angus was tinkering with the job in his lap. The job of course being the warhead to a rocket. A rather large rocket at that, being the almost sixty-five pound ammunition for the launcher taking up most of the space within the truck. Donovan was probably the lucky one for this, and considering he was the boss of the local branch of the Irish Mafia, he banked this one on "Executive Privilege." Horseshit as both younger brothers called it, but he wasn't about to be set ablaze because he depended on Angus' "Ingenuity" as he liked to say. Really all the youngest of the Breen's was, was an overly patriotic kid for a country he wasn't even born in and trying to prove himself to a bunch of wankers overseas. In truth it was their grandfather and father who were the real hardasses of the family, the former serving in the last world war, and the latter taking it to the brits for the homeland.
It was part of how they were able to get their hands on this kind of hardware, shipped overseas in pieces and reassembled earlier in the week for the job that would put them back on the map. Yes, this would cement the Breen name in NYC history, and that thought alone was enough to settle not just his doubts on how crispy he might be once that big bastard launched, but also kept him calm enough until finally they pulled up to the spot. Farmer's Boulevard Spirits, a regular stop for the legitimate side of their gang. Of course, they had already done a delivery two days ago and weren't due for two more, but no one would be paying attention enough to really notice so slight a detail as that… Except perhaps for the real reason why they were here. Just down the street facing the back of the truck was the local Chinese Hand laundromat, and one of their main distribution centers for drugs and cash. Donovan could almost smell the sweet scent of charred heroin and burning cash now…
"Now the fast one though, oh man she's got the thighs to die for. Yeah sure she's not rocking the skirt and bare legs anymore, but even if you put pants on cake it's still cake."
"Yer a damn loon Angus, she'll give yer dick rugburn, and that's if the lass would even touch yer dumbass. Now that Sol on the other hand…"
"I'm the loon? I'm the loon?! Fer feck's sake Paddy, she'd crush you without even trying!"
"If only I could be so lucky…"
"Oi cunts!"
Donovan's shout was accompanied by the banging of his fist against the plywood separator between the cab and the cargo area, turning back to stare at his idiot brothers. "Truck's parked, so git yer shite together."
---
Meanwhile, just down the road with quite a bit less swearing, vulgarity and Irishness the Triad was doing business as usual. Above were the residents of the local neighborhood making nice with Madam Mao as she did the normal routine of giving out her 'sagely' advice and checking in with her neighbors. Never mind that one of them was a local hero, who the Madam was quite aware of and always did her best to appear as the doting elder that she played part-time as. It wasn't entirely an act though, as Robert Mao knew quite well and as did many of the local Triad members. The Madam as they called her, considered most of the gang as part of her extended family and that meant that any time one of them was in trouble she would be there to do her part. It also meant that they were subject to her full wrath if they happened to screw something up for the "family", but no one really paid too much mind to that.
At least Robert didn't, and once more as he went over the current business of the day his thoughts turned to matters of family. His own, that is. He took the stairs from the basement, handing off his clipboard with today's numbers on it and informed the crew he would be taking a quick break for a smoke. Madam Mao hated smoking, said it was a westerner thing and that it rotted his spirit just as it did his lungs, and as much as she was probably right he just couldn't kick the habit.
"I'm going out front for a smoke Mother."
His comment drew an exasperated sigh from the old woman, turning away from the pink-haired hero as she was about to go into another tirade against him, but seemed to think better of it. Maybe it was that she felt it wouldn't have any effect, or maybe she didn't want to seem like a bitter old crone from the far east hating the country she lived in to Sol. Robert made no fuss over it just as his mother didn't, resting a hand on her shoulder and promising to return in just a moment.
"My son, Robert." She said once he was out the front door, bell at the top ringing. "More American than some Americans, and certainly speaks English better than some of those kids I've heard running around in the afternoon. Says to me that he wants to leave New York, can you believe that? Married this Kansas girl who always talks about how much she loves the countryside. Sweet thing, works as a nurse in one of the hospitals, you know the type, one of the ones who does it for those in need."
As she spoke, coming up beside Sol and taking a lean against the counter, some discussion was underway down below in the basement. Mostly in the way of what product was being moved where, and some of those places most certainly not being Triad territory. With the relative quiet of some of the larger gangs of the city, the Triad had been rumored to be making moves, just the same as those moves were also rumored to be well and truly stirring the shit in New York. Sooner or later one of the others would have had enough, and raised voices down below made it seem like not only was the Triad prepared for such an eventuality, but that they were working towards it. Of course, most people in the laundromat couldn't hear over the machines constantly running, only one might be able to and the Madam stood beside her continuing on about her son.
"Robert, my dear son Robert, confided in me that he actually wants to leave the family business entirely and start a restaurant out west." Nothing too out of the ordinary for a family of immigrants from China- "Tells me that he can't stand our food and wants to fry chicken." Oh.
The son in question currently stood out front, quite unaware of his mother decrying his choices, but thinking of them nonetheless. He had been saving for a good few years now, worked on his credit applications and felt it wouldn't be too long before he would be able to say goodbye to the city and head west. A long draw warmed his body against the cool January air, the cloud of steam rising from his lips as he held the cigarette there for a moment and remained pensive. His thoughts were interrupted by the trundle of a large box truck working its way down the road towards the intersection. This time of morning it wasn't unusual of course, most businesses were receiving their deliveries and had already been open for a couple hours if not getting ready to do so. What struck the man was to whom the truck belonged. As it passed by he got a glimpse of the driver, an irishman who seemed like he took eight or nine punches too many in the last pub-brawl.
It was a face most of the local Triad were familiar with, that of Donovan Breen the head of the local Irish Mafia. What he was doing here this early in the morning was anyone's guess, but already Robert was feeling a little suspicious as the truck made the turn down the road facing the laundromat and pulled up in front of the local liquor store. A slow puff of the cigarette in his mouth accompanied his thoughts, working on what kind of angle could possibly be had. There was the logo of the 'legitimate' shipping company for the mafia, a rather vulgar interpretation of irish folklore depicting a leprechaun riding something called a butfor. After a few moments he simply shook his head and dismissed the thoughts, returning to those of his future culinary pursuits.
He didn't have long, as before half of the cigarette was gone the door to the truck opened and the vague outline of a large mechanism within could be seen with two men operating it in the confined space of the cargo area. It was almost comical in a sense, so much stuffed in that truck that there was barely room to move, and he would have laughed if he wasn't confused as to what it was they had managed to smuggle into town this time. If he had been a little more familiar with such things, he might have recognized the distinct shape of eight rockets sitting in the rack, steadily lining up with the glass front of the laundromat he was smoking in front of. Then came the bright flash of fire against the back of the truck, one by one each of those rockets firing and screaming down the street. In slow motion the cigarette fell from his lips, eyes going wide as he watched the cluster of eight powering towards him and the laundromat. There was no time for any sort of warning, all he could do was watch as a yellow-painted warhead passed right by his face and punched through the glass.
Almost as soon as it did it hit the back of the laundromat, landing in an open front-load dryer and detonating with enough force alone to bring the building down. The bow-wave of explosive force shattered the windows of the store, sending glass shrapnel ahead of the flame, and launching Robert Mao off his feet and across the street. Then came the explosions and the world screamed back into full motion as the laundromat went up in flames, as did the two businesses on either side, and burying the basement with everyone inside.
January 2nd, 12:05 PM (EST)
North of Atlanta, Georgia - Side of US Highway
Chaos did truly work in mysterious ways, or at least that was what she thought at first. It had been ten years since she lost pretty much everything she knew except her powers and the League, and they were better at saving people from physical danger than emotional as she found. Sure, for a bit she held out hope. There had been people coming in along both coasts from Central City, claiming to have escaped the destruction, and each time she had been there expecting… What could she really have expected? Every tale of heroes told about how they had to make sacrifices, and in those early years she thought she could be the exception. So it was that eventually, though she put on the same smile, she steadily lost hope. To the point where when someone showed up out of nowhere on the back of a friend, as cold a friendship as it was at this point, she doubted.
Doubt was what put her sister on the bench as she worked through every little possibility. She had gained a sense for chaotic magic over the years, and though it was nothing close to that of a proper demon or mage, this girl had a feeling of it about her that she couldn't shake. Not to mention the sheer coincidence of showing up just after being confronted by the spooky german. Next thing she expected Duncan to turn into a werewolf or something, maybe make an off-color joke about peaches and finding her in… Okay, she might have set herself up for that one and really couldn't fault anyone for that. Still, it felt weird and then… Then it got weirder.
She watched as all of a sudden her sister's hands started to vibrate, then energy sparked from them all around her. Being what she was, she knew what speed-force looked like and could see it coursing through the girl's body. Quite suddenly she remembered what her first time was like, ending up almost two counties over and more than a little confused as to what actually happened. Verra started to reach out, trying to get a warning out but found herself once again too slow as she had taken too much time thinking things through to act. With the quickness of a speedster just manifesting, the girl went from the bench and forward a dozen meters within the blink of an eye for any normal person. Then… Then she stopped quite suddenly, with the assistance of a brick wall.
"Hey! Language."
Verra was quick to scowl and point at Champ, finger wagging in his direction as she heard his curse and sighed. While the canuckistani could be rather endearing at times, difficult to reason with at others, and of course there was the whole thing with their last conversation… He had not once lied to her or anyone she knew of. Truly a boyscout. An alien one, but still a boyscout. She sighed again and pressed her palm to her forehead, fingers running through her vibrant red locks as she thought about it. If there was anyone left who knew her and her sister, it would have been him considering the connection they had before all this went down. So that meant… Well, first before she got hopeful, the girl had just knocked herself out cold with her first dose of speedforce. Everything else could wait until she was awake and aware.
"Okay. So, that's Lexi then. We uh… Should probably get her to a place less public and sort things out, people are staring."
"Halone… I know you're the Fury and all, but this disciple would greatly appreciate a little less of that right now…"
Somehow, some way she had managed to make it into the Quicksands before the bell, and before a few others in order to ascertain the company that she may or may not be joining with. It had taken what felt like hours just to slip into basic clothing, the fabric like razorweed across her forearms and shoulders. Each motion stung almost as bad as a Morbol smelled, and getting her armor on was a feat and a half considering she was working with plate by herself. Yet she did somehow manage. She did find some way to finagle herself into her proper adventuring armor, the simple plates attended to the night before as best she could considering the circumstances. At least none who were present had been there a few hours before to hear the exhausted thud of metal breastplate meeting table, and the agonized sigh to follow as the blonde Highlander accepted her fate.
The waitress at least was kind enough to inform her that those there for the Blessed Twelve were given drinks on the house within reason. A couple who had succeeded her chose to partake of that a little liberally, but Isabella thought it best to be restrained for now and keep to cool water. It helped a little with the heated sensations of her skin against the fabric underlayers of her armor, and especially with the flush to her cheeks. Her father had once given her advice on that in particular, she now remembered much to her detriment and failing pride, that the only thing worse than a full-body sunburn, was one on the face. At least she had her sunglasses to keep her eyes hidden, and the bandana around her forehead to cover up as much as she could. Then again, it could always be worse. She could be here joining up with a Free Company that was little more than a name and hope...
Once more she cursed Halone quietly, soft sigh bubbling into her glass of water as she listened to her fellow Hyur, a woman named Lyveva it seemed, and the leader of the Blessed Twelve. Part of her wondered how it was that information five years old could linger for so long, but then she spoke of Cartenau and she couldn't hide the flinch of shame. She had no part in that battle, nor did most of her kinsmen, something that left a bitter taste in the mouths of those who survived the Calamity regardless of how far reaching it had been. Nevermind that most of Coerthas had frozen over, or that the Dravanians had been relentless in their assault upon the Holy See. Ishgard had refused the call to arms. Ishgard had refused to stand with Eorzea at Cartenau. And to many, it felt as if Ishgard had refused to stand against Garlemald. That one stung particularly hard, as no small few accused her people of cowardice in the least, and many seemed to think that if only the knights and dragoons of the north had come to their aid then the battle could have been won.
Except some of them had gone to Cartenau, and a familiar face presented itself in the tavern not too far away. Theodore. It had been several years since she last saw him in Foundation, perhaps longer for him if he even recognized her, but she definitely remembered him from being around the Haillenartes. At least he seemed to be doing well, more of a fighter than she remembered, and it did well for her spirits to find another Ishgardian among the dreaded heat of Thanalan. Nostalgic thoughts were interrupted by a bit of a commotion among those gathered though. No small amount of people had left outright after Lyveva's honesty regarding the position of the company. They apparently had… Well, nothing. Barely any members, gil and even their home was in threat of slipping away as well, though that last one felt a bit more due to the naivety of their current leader. A few of those remained seemed enthusiastic in her appeal for assistance though, and she had to admit that at the very least she wasn't actually promising that glory or gil that most did. Especially since the Blessed Twelve appeared to have approaching zero of both. Reyna would certainly be getting an earful after this, she had determined already.
"Well, I at least appreciate the honesty."
Isabella spoke up, a raised brow from behind sunglasses as Theodore finished his proclamation towards justice, vengeance and so on and so forth. Unlike the rest she would not stand, but she was not leaving quite yet either. Her lance shifted a little on her back as she too adjusted to sit up a little more upright, presenting the very clear image of a very sunburned woman out of her element.
"But uh… Does this mean you don't have any healers either?"
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