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3 days ago
Current One of the stranger cold-war films I've seen was a movie about the start of WW3 directed as though it were a western, set in Alaska.
1 like
26 days ago
You'd be surprised by how much flavor and spice can go missing from a forum post if you remove all formatting.
1 like
2 mos ago
New Survival Challenge: Snow tornadoes. Yes, they exist.
2 likes
3 mos ago
So apparently the internet has decided to introduce me to: Billy-Bob: Space Trucker.
1 like
4 mos ago
Things I didn't have on my 2020's bingo card: Russian game developers portraying Ukranians as adorable youtube.com/watch?v=h009Orv…

Bio

-There will be delays in replies. Largely due to working overtime, voluntary obligations; other RPs and online-things may compete for my attention.

'Bout me:
Started RPing (badly) back in '05, mostly doing nation-RPs with an emphasis on technology and strategy, later edging out to character-espionage and military-tactics before doing "less serious" character roleplays that were outside of the 2005-2008 continuity.

That's when I went to Dead-Frontier, and found the RP community there, joined a clan, did some pretty good roleplays and pretty much loosened-up my online-personality. When the clan-leader decided to move her RPs here, most of the clan followed.

Took a course in technical-writing back in '08, so now I may sometimes use the semicolon correctly.

In 2010 I dusted off the old nation-RP continuity I had, doing a few hetelia-esque RP-shenanigans there..

RP-Habbits: I tend to geek-out on little technical-details, and sometimes infer how those details would impact the background of the roleplay. Great for world-building, not so great when you had a perfectly good plotline and I just MacGyver it off the rails (though I usually er to the side of amusement, sometimes it creates very grim side-stories).

Most Recent Posts

You have the ability to control glass.

Colonel Glass.
Rank A supervillian (helped that he had a healing-factor to match).

Potato seeds spontaneously are planted around you, as long as they could grow.

Start a distillery for vodka. Overthrow local warlord in Eastern Europe. Watch Top Gear. Play Minecraft. Get Pig.

Ability to make people forget their nightmares.
Spank Everyone
Blinking contest champion, able to hold off the weeping angels for another time.

Ability: Ability to juggle anything purple. Nothing that isn't.
The Hole

May 13, 1947
Another typical tuesday


In a secluded corner of the dingy bar sat a tired-looking maned-wolf, who'd occassionally peer at the dartboard whenever he felt a dart go *THUNK* into the wall. Instead he focused on the feet of a content little rummy ferret tapping his feet against the barstool as some sort of noise that probably counted as music played over the radio. Even deaf he could tell the tin-box sound of the speaker hardly did the young musical performer any justice... Frank... something...

Looking up, he saw Sully, working behind the bar trying to keep the happy people happy and eager to pay tips, and keep the unhappy people from bottling their anger up until they'd explode and ruin it for everyone. It was a art-form in action to watch, really; a bit hard to watch without subtitles, but lip-dubbing whatever words seemed to fit was often more entertaining anywas.

He tipped his glass from side to side, trying to see if there was anything left in the bottom that could be swirled-out as he contemplated going up for another drink, at risk of barging into the middle of a private and closely gaurded conversation. Of course, it was then something interesting had to happen.

Apparently the ferret was starting to get flirty, and wasn't pulling enough charm for the lady, but too drunk to realize it. He'd lean-in, she'd lean back; he'd slide his drink closer to hers, she'd pick hers up and set it down further away. Twombly got up and strode-over just as the ferret was getting handsy, pulling a dart from the wall along the way.

"What's a fine little flower like you doing up on the rocks amongst the moss when there's such fine music to dance to?" He enquired, he was taking a gamble on the song of course, but the rhythmn seemed slow enough to keep up with. (1941 edition)
@Massasauga You splash at my MiG, my MiG gonna splash right back.
We could also be re-engaging each other's targets, though.

Well, I'm imagining them as the timeless "Macross flying-bricks", beamspammery, and macross missile massacres.
-At least those are things I've learned to expect. Since RL-airfoils pretty much peaked about 20 years ago and things of/from space tend to be blunt for a number of practical reasons.

That isn't to say the dogfights in Macross are bad.
-In fact, if I start acting a bit too cocky, I fully expect to run face-first into this sort of predicament

Meanwhiles
Right, I'm assuming the aliens be chasing the slower of the two attacking planes, since they don't have their performance-capbalities memorized yet.

So they're likely falling back on "Faster plane = better thrust-ratio = more manuverable" like the BS-propoganda that happened when Americans first encountered rocket/jet fighters.

So obviously, mah MiG-23 is a brick to them... fun surprise-time for them.

I'm also assuming our intel from AWACS only told us of what they could see. Tight formations or passive groups could easily increase the amount of opposition we're facing.

Oh, and as usual, chances are the aliens got some sort of ECM, not sure how effective it'll be, but I'm figuring some missiles ain't gonna hit.
-But I'm hoping they're experiance brown-trouser levels of pucker-factor
Alright guys, well I have a confession. I've sat down to work on this but I just can't find the motivation at all. I do have an idea about where the plot goes, but I can't force myself to continue writing when I have no drive.

I really do appreciate you giving this a shot, but I don't know if I'm quite cut out to manage this sort of plot-trail RP. This was a challenge with other versions of FRAMES as well.

I'll understand if this frustrates you; it would if I was a player. But I don't have any enthusiasm for it right now, not when there are other projects I've invested myself in and real-life responsibilities to fulfill.

Thanks for the interest and staying as long as you have; I'm glad that something I created was able to provide you with a bit of enjoyment.


Well, when you do get the time, revive it. Right where we left off.
Mood music

"Clem" Captain Greggor stiffly acknowledged to the plan to blow-through them, and drag the Yurril right back into Ranger three's crosshairs, as he dropped tanks, swept wings, and the MiG-23 breifly went into a ballistic-dive as it cranked-up airspeed. The Yerril knew they were coming, they had radar too. His HUD confirmed this as it put red blips up on his windscreen, but like a crocodile lazing in the sun, he wasn't too worried about those. They'd also learned not to leav all their radar up, the far bigger danger was from the crocodiles that were well-hidden; at the very line of the merge, everyone flew blind under the direction of whoever was in back with the beefiest radar.

His IRST picked up a pair of fast-movers traveling dark. He gave the left rudder a nudge, a bit of right-stick, and put it into a gentle mach 1 left-slip as he picked-off a plane for his first R-27ET, then shimmied his plane into a right-slip to dump his other passive heat-seeker in a seprate direction, all the while trying to remember the proper inter-service brevity for what he just did, "Maydog, Maddog, Fox Two." Although not true all-aspect missiles, flying bricks tended to get plenty warm compared to a sleek fighter-jet.

He then rolled inverted, getting a good look at the spectacle below him as he readied the next salvo of otherwise dead wieght. Thankfully if Xi was any good at his job, the MiG-31 that graciously held-back would be able to simultaniously guide-in more missiles on the opening-salvo than the plane itself could carry.

He popped a flare to get the Yerril's and Xi's attention as he lined-up a few shots. This time he did not mince his brevity. "Fox One Cheapsot, Fox One Cheapsot" Now a full metric ton lighter, Yuril pulled back on the stick and put his bird in a dive at full-burner, his plane did best in the boom-and-zoom, but even despite its antiquated age they were up against a race that mastered interstellar-travel, no matter how good of an energy-fighter was dragged-out, theirs would ultimately prove better.

Clem could see a pair already making a steady climb up to meet him, he estimated them going at better than 800 meters per second of closing velocity. Most of it was his.

He flipped a switch on his dash and pulled the trigger on his stick. "Clem. Grakata." Two streaks of light came shooting out his UB-32 rocket-pods. Yerril ECM may be good, but he'd never seen someone argue for very long against the ten kilos of hypersonic-steel spewn out in front of him covering a swath the size of a soccer-field. That is, however, had the rockets flied true, one broke right, another went high. The upside however, was that one of the pair merged with a cloud of steel and got themselves peppered for their trouble. The other broke low and disappeared under the nose of his MiG.

Flipping another switch, Clem yanked the stick, heard a tone in his ear, and popped a nasty surprise a quarter of a second later to give the rear-pointed R-60 just barely enough room to arm itself lest they run out of range. "Fox Three. Bittersweet." The Bulgarian grunted into his throat-mic, the strain of the 7-G pullout was wearing heavy on his lungs even as his RWR told him to evade the inevitable counter-punches. Flares, chaff, snap-roll, turn the pullout into a Cuban-8 as he broke into a dive to the left in order to get back in-line with where Lonnie's MiG-31 should've been popping out from the furball he was now dragging on the deckline. His mach-gauge was redlining at this altitude on 1.2, he was pushing the needle a little past that.

He wasn;t sure how many he'd gotten in the first pass, or how many bandits were being dragged through the weeds behind his plane, but it felt like he was trolling all the entire Yerril forces staring up his stovepipe as he flew low, fast, and between just about every obstacle he could put between him and one of their death-beams. He could've sworn he was picking-up small-arms fire and hostile tree-branches as he buddy-spiked the MiG-31, and re-acquired visual of the tiny speck of steel in the sky to save himself the trouble of calling out that five was blind. All the while his last R-60 was giving the steady hum of afterburn-heated ground-clutter. He puffed flares at just about every jive through the valley though, just to be sure.

Then he saw the fellow MiG finally turn to re-engage... time to bump.

"Clem!" He keyed, as his plane burst into an unsustainable zoom-climb, within 4 seconds he was already 3 kilometers up, bleeding airspeed just enough for him to unfold his wings back from its aggressive 72 degrees, to 45 degree dogfight configuration, and then whip his plane back around tail over nose to re-engage like a crop-duster getting ready to sow poison upon the next row of grain.
<Snipped quote by Foster>
Fite me

I already flashbanged you in another RP.
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