gorgenmast

Amongst Gods (High sci-fi NRP)

Considering making an application now. Good Sci-Fi sandboxes are hard to come by and this seems promising.

If I might make a suggestion though, you may want to consider some sort of unifying plot arc that encourages us to cooperate/compete with one another. Open world RPs, especially when you have an entire galaxy to play in, are easy for people to be isolated in. Some sort of galactic congress where each player is represented would be a neat way to get people to interact. Open NRPs need something to drive everyone together, otherwise the RP becomes a collection of unrelated plotlines.

Amongst Gods (High sci-fi NRP)

Considering making an application now. Good Sci-Fi sandboxes are hard to come by and this seems promising.

If I might make a suggestion though, you may want to consider some sort of unifying plot arc that encourages us to cooperate/compete with one another. Open world RPs, especially when you have an entire galaxy to play in, are easy for people to be isolated in. Some sort of galactic congress where each player is represented would be a neat way to get people to interact. Open NRPs need something to drive everyone together, otherwise the RP becomes a collection of unrelated plotlines.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Suez Canal, Egypt

The Aksum shuddered and quivered again. A sharp, raucous screeching pierced the ears of the Cazadores as their stolen ship raced up the canal, another piece of debris had struck the commandeered Ethiopian flagship against her steel belly. In a short time, the Africans had managed to thoroughly trash the floor of the canal. It would not be fit for the Spanish Armada to traverse it for some time, but the task of clearing out the rubble would be possible now with the Aksum steaming for dear life out into the Mediterranean.

With the assumption that the Aksum survived the race out of the canal, that is.

The Ethiopians, at this time, knew that they had lost the canal. Even from the vessel's bridge, the Cazadores could see the muzzle flashes of the Ejercito in the darkness to the North; a sweeping curtain of lightning falling over the collapsing African line. Ethiopia was in full retreat, but even if they could not deny Spain the canal, they were intent on denying them the Aksum. Any mortars that continued to fire were being focused on their own flagship.

Minarets of pulverized water shot skyward all around the canal, as if the ship were caught in a storm tremendous raindrops. Others fell upon the ground on either side, erupting in mushrooms of fire and peppering the vessel's hull in shrapnel. Others still found their mark on the ship itself, leaving smoldering craters in the metal sheeting where the shells hit. The Africans were putting all their effort into this one last endeavor to render the canal utterly impassible, they knew full well that a lucky shot could detonate the explosives in the Aksum's hull and buy Ethiopia weeks of precious time.

The Cazadores stood within the bridge and watched as the hellscape of battle rolled past them. Explosions and muzzle flashes sparked everywhere on their flanks, and there they stood watching idly as the start of the war raged all around them. For such men of action, to do nothing while the battle was being won without them was deeply unsatisfying. Their mission, though, was tantamount. They would see this ship out of the canal even if it did feel like retreating.

It was a retreat under fire. An Ethiopian mortar team with a clear shot at the passing Aksum had simply leveled its barrel and launched a mortar directly at the ship. The Africans were rewarded with a direct hit on the superstructure of the Ethiopian warship right underneath her smokestack. The diffuse diesel exhaust wafting from the stack was suddenly blown away by a roaring fire and thick black smoke that belched forth deep within the wounded vessel. Beneath the feet of the Cazadores, the engine could be felt seizing and jerking beneath their feet. The mouth of the canal was now only a little over a kilometer away and closing, but it seemed now that the Aksum might not even make it that far.

"There's no reason for any of you to remain onboard." Captain Oliviero Jaco said to his subordinates, staring intently out the broken pane of glass from whence he had boarded the ship. "I'll guide the ship out of the canal from here, I want you to bail and make ready for extraction."

"The mission parameters are straightforward, Captain. We'll stay here until this ship is clear of the Armada's right-of-way."

"Nor will we miss the end of the last mission of your career!" Another added, giving their commander a slap on the shoulder. Captain Jaco gave a warm grin to his steadfast compatriots before returning to his cool, steely gaze out into the canal ahead.

The mortar barrage had suddenly slowed, likely for the advancing Spanish infantry scattering what remained of the Ethiopian forces. Despite the waning fire, another two shells found their mark on the deck of the battered Aksum in succession, sending shrapnel tearing through the air that shattered the remaining bridge windows. The engine shuddered and rattled below, threatening to fail and die at any second. It just had to last another few seconds, and the vessel's momentum could carry it out of the harbor. The mouth was approaching fast; the ship was almost there.

Without warning, a thunderous blast jarred the right-side of the ship, sending the Cazadores tumbling to their feet. A vast pillar of water rose up over the starboard side of the Aksum and spilled over the deck and washed into the bridge. The ship had stuck an Ethiopian mine with devastating results; the engine had halted completely and the hull itself could be heard buckling and warping under the strain. To complicate the mission further, the roaring fire spewing from the smokestack was now spilling over to envelop the rest of the superstructure. Under this much stress, the explosives that lined the vessel's hold could detonate at any moment.

"Get off of this ship now." Captain Jaco commanded of his Cazadores. "This time that's an order."

"It's been a pleasure to serve beside you, Captain. Congratulations on a successful and complete tour of duty." One of the Cazadores said in farewell.

"It was a pleasure to work with you all as well. Now bail already."

With that, the four subordinates under Captain Jaco briskly made their way out of the bridge, making haste off of the [i[Aksum[/i] per the final order of their commander. The Cazador captain was alone now on the bridge, the flicker of the growing blaze swallowing the ship glimmered in the spiderweb of cracks in the bridge's windows. The roar of the blaze and the groaning of stressed metal was all that he could hear as the sounds of battle faded behind him. The ship had coasted out of the canal by this point; the sea walls and jetties flanking the bridge opened up into the open blackness of the Mediterranean Sea and the Spanish fleet biding their time on the inky horizon. Captain Jaco spun the wheel hard to the left, pulling the burning warship hard to the East out of the path of the Armada. The vessel need only coast another hundred meters further out of the way. The success of the mission was assured. And as the dying Aksum rolled out into the Mediterranean, listing onto its starboard side as the hull took on water, Captain Oliviero Jaco took the bridge's onboard radio mouthpiece into his hand and flipped the instrumentation on, hoping that the fire had not yet rendered the radio masts totally inoperable.

"Admiral Santin, come in. I repeat: Come in, Admiral Santin." Loud pops and hisses could be heard as the Aksum's fuel burned in her lines. The bridge was warming rapidly as the fires intensified. "This is the ENS Aksum."

//Admiral Santiago Santin speaking from La Ira de Dios. I read you with some difficulty. I see I was right to trust the Cazadores with this thing. I can see her burning from here; recommend that you bail at once.//

"I'm afraid it's too late for that, Admiral." Captain Jaco relayed, his eyes following the dripping of burning, molten plastic falling down past the bridge windows. "The Ethiopians loaded the hold full of explosive. Any second now, the fleet's going to be in for quite the firework display. I had the rest of my squad bail out already, but you know as well as I do that the captain goes down with the ship."

//I regret that it had to be this way.// Santin's voice crackled in solemnly.

"I knew what I was signing up for." The bridge was beginning to reek of thick, acrid smoke as the fires swallowed the superstructure and worked into the innards of the ship, forcing from the Cazador a bout of coughing. "You know what? It's funny, Admiral. This was the last mission of my tour of duty. Mission accomplished, so I suppose I'm a free man now. This wasn't how I was planning on spending my retirement, you know?"

//You're cutting out... Sir, what is you name?//

"Oliviero Jaco. Captain Oliviero Jaco."

//Understand me, Captain Jaco. I'm going to see that you're not forgotten for this. The world is going to remember what you did here tonight.//

"That'd be nice..."

At that moment, the night became day. A brilliant white flash illuminated Ports Said and Fuad; a radiant light shone across the water and the deserts beyond the cities, and a clap of chest-pounding thunder rocked the battlefield. Rising into the sky from the sea was a great orange fireball, riding upward on a column of steam and smoke where the Aksum once was. The swirling cloud of fire rose up over the city like a second sun, swirling with angry tongues of yellow and orange, and then a dim red before fading into the night. The canal was wide open; the War for Africa had begun in earnest.

"We're not going to forget you, you brave bastard."

Sahara, Spanish Morocco

"Is everyone alright?" Joaquin asked, shifting to his feet with a lean against the handcuffs anchoring him to his seat as the dust within the fuselage settled. The attention of all those trapped on the grounded bomber gravitated toward Joaquin, all seemingly receptive to someone stepping up to take command of the situation. "Is there anyone seriously hurt?"

"My leg's fucked." One of the captive passengers spoke up somewhere in the front.

"I think my shoulder is dislocated." An older prisoner groaned from a few rows behind. No one else reported any other injuries.

"So, we all made it? How about that!" Now that Joaquin mentioned it, it was a minor miracle that anyone had made it through the crash; to say nothing of the survival of every single passenger. For their part the pilots had done an admirable job landing the plane in a controlled fashion. But for all their skill, the pilots themselves were likely killed when the cockpit separated from the rest of the craft. Julio felt little pity for them, even if they had saved their lives.

"Now then," Joaquin continued, "is there anyone who is free from their cuffs or can free themselves?" This time there was no verbal response. Manacles and chain links clattered together as everyone struggled against their binds. Julio too tugged against the pair of handcuffs affixing his right wrist to arm of his seat, but it held fast as did the bolts anchoring the seat to the dust-strewn corrugated flooring below. It was clear that he was going nowhere. Nor was anyone else.

"We're stuck!" Someone exclaimed. "We're stuck in this thing!" His panic was contagious, even as Joaquin tried to hush the anxious murmurs rising up amongst the captives. "Settle down, please!" Joaquin commanded. "We're going to get out of these seats and find help! I'll cut my hand off to do it if I have to!"

Julio kept his own pessimistic thinking to himself, but he could not help but doubt the optimism of his new friend. Joaquin had been a police officer; his training demanded he be reassuring in the face of crises to stave off panic. His impeccable optimism affirmed Julio’s worst fears. Joaquin knew as well as anyone else that they were all going to die here; he simply wanted them all to die in peaceful optimism rather than hysteric fits. Even if they could remove these cuffs, what then? The 'help' of which Joaquin spoke was illusory, like a mirage of the desert beyond the yawning opening in the airplane's fuselage.

""Help? Where exactly were we go to find help?" That most vocal and pessimistic of the passengers demanded. "Do you even know where we are?"

They had crashed deep in the Sahara - the heart of Spain's African empire. Julio knew it could be nowhere else. The plane may as well have landed out a thousand miles at sea, or onto the barren glaciers of Greenland. No one lived in this desolate and hellish place. If the prisoners could escape their downed plane, they would be doomed to walk aimlessly to the mountains in the distance. Without water, the midsummer's heat would kill them all inside of three days. Investigators seeking out the crash site would find a gaggle of mummies half-buried in the among the debris field. There was no escape from this fate. Julio and his fellow captives had only traded one prison for another.

"Don't talk like that!" Joaquin commanded of the naysayer. "We will find someone!"

But it was someone else that found them.

A single gunshot rang through the air, silencing the plane. Another followed several seconds thereafter. Two shots, one for each pilot. The blast that had shook the plane before it fell from the sky immediately returned to Julio's mind. The plane had to be shot out of the air. But this was the Sahara, Spanish Africa. To think this plane was shot down within its own airspace…

Footsteps were heard beyond the hull crunching against the sand. Shadow-veiled silhouettes flitted past the cracked and broken windows. Their attackers were approaching the plane; briskly working toward the front, moving stealthily and quickly as they hung just behind the jagged opening at the fore of the bomber. The prisoners held perfectly still and quiet, out of fear or desire not to startle the assailants.

On either side of the gaping wound in the plane, they came into view against the backdrop of orange desert. They were clad head-to-toe in black and blue robes, scarves and turbans wrapped around their heads so tightly that their eyes were scarcely visible. Cold black eyes scanned the inside of the plane, each pair set beside a ruddy-colored nosebridge just poking up from within the scarves. In their hands, straight-bladed steel swords glinted with yellow light. Some among them carried more modern arms such as hand-me-down rifles. The assailants almost seemed to be ancient warriors transplanted into the times of firearms and airplanes. A surreal sight indeed; Julio thoroughly expected it to be his last.

"Please don't hurt us!" Someone blurted, breaking the silence. "We're prisoners, not soldiers! Don't kill us!"

The antiquated warriors, seemingly confused, turned to themselves and spoke in their native tongue. Julio recognized it immediately as Arabic. It was a language he was well-accustomed to in his exile in the Middle East. It was a throaty, punctuated exchange intermixed with gestures and glances to the passengers and it ended abruptly with one of the robe-clad fighters stepping out of the aircraft as if to fetch something. The other speaker holstered a blocky Mauser pistol onto his belt and faced the prisoners.

"Do not be afraid, we can help you." He reported in perfect Spanish. His accent struck Julio as it bore little similarity to any Arab or North African who had learned to speak Castillian. It was a soft, yet regal and dignified means of enunciation. It reminded him of the way Samel and his friends spoke. "But we must move quickly. Are there any among you who cannot walk?"

"My leg... it's hurt." The same prisoner who had spoken up before reported. The warrior who had left the plane returned at this time with a pair of boltcutters in his arms. With a feverish pace, he began snipping the chains of each set of manacles and freeing the passengers

"Then you will ride with me. Everyone else will have to follow us on foot. We will take you to safety, but you cannot slow us down. The Spanish will be upon us very soon and we must not be here when they arrive."

The cloaked man soon arrived at Julio's row and unceremoniously clipped the link holding the cuff attached to the seat's arm and leaving a manacle with free-hanging chain around his wrist. Joaquin too was freed moments after. Without a moment's hesitation, the two filed out with the other prisoners and bounded off the plane into the desert.

Do you keep RPing a secret? Is it safe?

There's no benefit to telling anyone about RPing as far as I'm concerned. I can count on one hand the IRL people who I've had to explain roleplaying to and every time it's just a pain in the ass. Half the time, their immediate response is "Oh, so you're into kinky shit huh?" and then you have to talk them down from that. Better to just let the plebs play their Cawladoody and Madden 20XX.

A Patchwork Multiverse

Enalais said
Please don't accecpt the above.

Good thing it's not your call to make. As ASTA kindly noted, it doesn't infringe on the rules in any way.

A Patchwork Multiverse

- Name: [Robot] Hou Sai Tsang/ Robo-Hou
- Gender: Male
- Species: Human android
- Universe of Origin: Precipice of War
- Abilities: His arms morph into giant dildos and he rapes people.
- Equipment: Nothing save for his transforming dildo arms.
- Description from original thread: A thin, aging Han Chinese man with sharp pointed features and a distinctive, goatee. Or at least, that's what he's made to look like. Unlike his living counterpart, the robotic Hou is a product of an insane attempt by the overfunded Spanish military to defame the national leader of their Chinese rivals. To this end, Spanish scientists have constructed a humanoid robot covered in a realistic sheath of vinyl skin to ruin Hou Sai Tang's reputation by participating in all manner of sexually deviant behaviors.
- Backstory/Bio: Robo Hou was only kept from bringing ruin to the world on which he was created by the use of sorcery. He was expelled from the world known as Earth by the use of dark magic; never truly defeated. While his homeworld was safe from his destructive wake for a time, he was loosed out onto the universe and sent floating helplessly through the cosmos. For centuries, the android drifted through the void. This great exile ended after a time; exactly how was lost to history. Loremasters disagree whether the one known as Robo Hou was taken by a passing starship or if he landed on an inhabited world. In any case, his imprisonment amongst the stars had ended. And with his freedom, the one known as Robo Hou unleashed his lust with great fury. Entire civilizations fell before him; their inhabitants all left dead and violated in the most heinous manner. With every world he vanquished - with every victim he humiliated - his power grew, his thralls multiplied, his armada swelled. The Rape of Worlds had begun.

For a century, Robo Hou's wake of destruction continued uncontested. Empires defied his unholy rampage, only to meet humiliating demise on fields of battle across a thousand worlds. The alliances built to halt the Rape were left broken, their armadas obliterated and scattered through the stars. He could not be stopped...

But he could be sent into exile once again.
- Other: The RP form which this character originated can be found here.
- Start Hex: Will be revealed after introductory post.

Swag lords: The quest to become popular.

Felipe Chimichanga steps up to step forward to be enlisted. "Hi he says I am Felipe Chimichanga as you know I am a cool kid an most handsome boy. Let me be voted for number #1 Cool Kid. If elected I will make sure everyone gets $100 free money so no one will be poor." He says as he twirls his mustash in his fingres.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

I just felt like congratulating Byrd on doing an awesome job starting out in PoW with little to no direction. So many of the people who try to start in PoW want to do what they want with complete disregard of established lore, but you've done a fantastic job working with the previous story and weaving it into your own. It's refreshing to see someone who gets it. Keep up the awesome work, Byrd.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

?????

They were going South. Julio could see the sun's glare glowing through beneath the hatch separating the cockpit from the cargo bay, indicating that the plane was heading in a southerly direction. The bomber had been airborne for some time now; it had surely covered a great distance by now. Without any landmarks to see outside the windows - all painted over in thick gray paint - Julio could only guess the aircraft's heading and it's location. It had been maybe two hours? Three? Forty-five minutes? He had no concept of time anymore. That unknowable space of time he had spent in Arratzu's walls had ruined his mind's timekeeping ability.

He worried it had done more damage than that. The melange of drugs they injected directly into his brain, that horrible truth serum, very probably had a myriad of deleterious side effects that his interrogator had neglected to warn him of. And what of that antidote, the counter-drug they administered to keep Julio's mind from being destroyed too prematurely? What if that had been administered sloppily by his captors? Could it be possible that trace amounts of the truth serum remained in his very brain, left unchecked to slowly warp his mind until he was left an empty husk, a zombie? He had experienced frequent headaches, inexplicable twinges of stinging in his head, even random spasms of his digits and legs; all things he didn't remember experiencing before Arratzu. He wasn't sure if this was just hypochondria or if his fears of lingering truth serum were justified.

"You were in government." His neighbor, Joaquin, spoke up, giving Julio a friendly nudge to the elbow. "Got any ideas where this thing's going? There some sort of secret prison for political prisoners that I'm not aware of?" He asked in jest.

"South. Maybe West." Julio spoke up, galvanized out of his anxious thought. He nodded over to the yellow glow of sunlight shining into the fuselage from underneath the cockpit door. "We're flying into the sun. I imagine we're heading somewhere into the Mediterranean. Portugal, Italy, maybe Malta? Perhaps they've outsourced dedicated facilities for political prisoners to sympathetic countries?"

"Political prisoners?" Joaquin gasped in sarcastic, pretended surprise. "I thought we were all here because we had that virus!" Julio couldn't help but laugh; it was the first time he had laughed in as long as he could remember. Never before had Julio appreciated a sense of humor like Joaquin's, even under such bleak circumstances.

"I remember the voting for the authorization of funding the Ministry of Health's quarantine program. I see now that much of that went to financing the interrogation facilities we saw back at Arratzu. It makes you wonder what else we were bankrolling in the Senate under the guise of seemingly-innocuous legislation; just how many Arratzus we naively allowed to exist."

"Consider this, if it makes you feel any better. Look around, at all these people on this plane, get a sense of who they had to arrest and lock up back there. You have a few people like you, Senator. People wanting to rock the boat, that really threatened the way things were starting to work in Madrid. It was only natural that they'd come after you. But then you have the other, what, nintety-nine percent of people who are on this plane. People like me who didn't give a shit about the powers that be. People whose regular work and daily routines were such a threat to this delicate order that the powers that be have built up over the years."

"Our dear Prime Minister, Senor Sotelo, has made way too many enemies too quickly. Both at home and abroad, he's pissed off too many people and he's realized this. Arratzu is a way of disposing anything or anyone that can challenge him; but it's inefficient and sloppy as all Hell. Sooner than later, someone like you - someone who understands that things have to change and drastically at that - is going to catch wind of this. It's inevitable. Someone's going to figure out what Arratzu is, just what this quarantine is actually about, and there's going to be no amount of suppression that will keep the angry masses down. Arratzu is going to be death of that asshole Sotelo and I just wish we could live to see it."

"What did you actually do to get here?" Asked Julio. "What was it you did that was so threatening to the government?"

"I challenged the quarantine orders being procured by the Ministry of Health. You see, I was part of Madrid's Police Department before this whole situation. I discovered that the Ministry of Health was not only issuing quarantine orders, but actually taking these individuals suspected of being infected, all independent of any judge or input from the Ministry of Justice. Naturally, I came to the conclusion that these false arrests and had no legal merit. I spoke with the families and friends of those who were forcibly quarantined, and they couldn't understand why there would be any risk of them possessing that virus... it wasn't long before I was rounded up for quarantine myself."

Sooner than Joaquin was allowed to continue, the bomber banked sharply and without warning onto its side, jerking the prisoner's down to the Earth to the right side of the fuselage. Prisoners seated in the right half of the cargo bay slammed against the hull as the propellers groaned and protested against the sharp maneuver. Above the anxious whelps and cries of the other passengers, Julio heard an angry hissing from outside the plane building rapidly to crescendo, followed immediately by a jarring blast and the sound of an explosion to the left of the aircraft. The concussive force of the blast rattled the plane to the core, throttling each and every rivet holding the craft together and jostling Julio's insides. Warning beeps from instrumentation in the cockpit complained angrily from the damage the airplane had sustained. An angry, roiling blaze could be heard roaring just outside the left half of the airplane. The propellers choked and groaned against the fire consuming the left engine pods before they surrendered with a popping sputter. Julio's stomach lurched up as he felt the plane begin to lose altitude.

"They shot us down!" Joaquin exclaimed over the terrified shouts of the fellow prisoners. "They must have been trying to fly us to China!" This time, Julio didn't care much for Joaquin's sense of humor. White knuckled hands seized the arms of his seat as he felt the plane tumble lower and lower.

"Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! La Cabeza come in, we are going down!" He heard shouted from the cockpit.

Julio felt the plane lurch upward one last time, and then another jarring crash as the tail of the aircraft smashed into the ground. A raucous screech rang through the interior of the airplane as the tail dragged across the ground, bringing the plane's belly down with it. The two working propellers on the right wing rattled and screeched as they were halted and ground down upon contact with the Earth. Then the belly hit the Earth in earnest, and the screeching scream of scraping metal was replaced at once by a deep, thunderous, bellowing sound like water being forced out of the way of something moving at tremendous speed. A positively fatal sound - Julio was certain that it would be the last thing he would ever hear. He ducked down into his lap and braced against the sudden impact that would surely end his life.

That impact came with a sudden lurch upward, and threatened to tear Julio out of his seat, but it did not end his life. Instead, it tore the nose of the bomber off of its body, as if it were made from wet paper. Wires and tubing swung down into the fuselage as the cockpit was torn off and shunted under the wing of the plane, eliciting a fresh round of panic and screaming. Before the prisoner's eyes - at least those whose eyes weren't clamped shut in horror - the front of the plane tore open to the world beyond, flooding the dim fuselage with orange light. Many of the blacked-out windows shattered in the crash, flooding the interior with light and dust.

So much dust and sand had poured into the fuselage as the aircraft continued skidding across the land. Julio could feel the plane grinding down to an eventual halt. The plane was twisting around against the wings, but even so, Julio dared not open his eyes. With one final bounce and a slight roll to the port side of the plane, it had at last come to a stop. At last, he opened his eyes tentatively, scarcely able to believe he was still alive. As soon as his eyelids opened, they were filled with dust. The air was completely laden with gritty, yellow airborne dust. He rubbed his eyes to squeeze the errant particles out of his eyes. All around him, the survivors coughed and wheezed as the dust invaded their lungs.

"Look, Senator!" Julio felt a familiar jab against his shoulder. "We made it! We made it!" Julio opened his eyes once again, as instructed. Some of the dust had settled, and he could see through a hazy veil the world beyond the wreckage. Through the hole in the fuselage where the cockpit had once been, Julio saw a trackless sea of sand dune stretching far beyond to a hazy mountain range far in the distance.

"I don't know where the Hell we we are, but it's not Arratzu and it's not wherever it was they were trying to take us. All things considered, I'm pretty pleased."

Airspace over Port Said, Egypt

A deep, vibrating rumbling of the four propellers of a Gargola bomber whirling in tandem was all that could be heard in the cargo bay. By the faint light of the fuselage's overhead bulbs, five spectral beings, clad in close-fitting black jumpsuits, picked through a wide assortment of tools and weapons splayed out across the floor of the aircraft in silent diligence. Munitions cartridges, grenades, pliers, screwdrivers, waxy blocks of plastic explosive, detcord, knives of every shape and function, battle dressing, antiseptic, battery packs, and more; every item was thoroughly inspected and placed within a heavy duffelbag. A tool for every conceivable task that their mission might require, and there was a great deal that would be required of them. The Spanish endeavor in Africa could very well hinge on that their success or lack thereof.

It was therefore only natural that the Cazadores would be assigned such a pivotal function.

They were the finest soldiers in the Spanish Army; the most thoroughly-trained warfighters in all the world. Whenever the Spanish Ejercito required a powerful expenditure of force delivered by an exponentially-smaller task force, or when discretion or delicacy was needed, the Cazadores provided the muscle for the diciest, most daring military operations. The training required for each of these five men to take part in this mission was daunting to understate. Brutal tests of endurance, mental stamina, and willpower had to be overcome. A year-long training regimen in the Spanish Pyrenees decimated all but six percent of enlistees. For those that withstood the hazing, for another nine years they were the property of the Spanish military. In exchange for their service, upon the conclusion of their combat career, they were assured handsome pay for the rest of their days. Their immediate families would be compensated, and would never pay a single peseta in taxes for their entire lives. In return, the Cazadores needed only to survive.

Captain Oliviero Jaco had survived. For ten years, he had served in Spain's most esteemed special forces unit. He had seen combat in Puerto Rico, the Tyrrhenian Sea. He had fought socialists in Helsinki and abducted military personnel in the Canadian Yukon. Since 1970, he had been sent the world over to see the will of three Prime Ministers meted out. Jaco's tour of duty was coming to a close. Were the hostilities with Ethiopia a month and a half later in coming to a head, he would be free from ever holding a weapon again. But the War for Africa was underway now, and there was no man more qualified for overseeing this mission, the final mission of his military career.

"Let's wrap up, everyone." Captain Jaco ordered, standing up and wiggling the duffelbag slung over his chest into a comfortable position. He looked himself over, ensuring the plastic anti-ballistic padding strapped over his jumpsuit was snug. He had become so accustomed to this pre-mission ritual, it was strange knowing that it would be last of his career. His comrades finished their gear inspection and stood up to sling their bags over their chests as well.

"Pilots tell me we're closing on the drop point." Jaco began, looking about the Cazadores under his command, briefly checking them over to ensure all appeared ready. "It's a six kilometer drop into an active battle. We'll have the cover of night, and the Armada has leveled any anti-aircraft capacity of hostile forces. That's a good thing, because we've got a small target to land on: one ENS Aksum."

"How fucked are we if we happen to overshoot our landing?"

"Fairly fucked." Jaco stated plainly. "Good thing you won't miss."

"Understood."

"From there, we take the bridge and steam out of the canal and bail before the Armada reduces the ship to scrap metal. Any misunderstandings?"

"I hear you're something of a pirate, Captain. This is gonna be the second ship you've commandeered, no?" One of his companions chimed in.

"Right. I participated at the Battle of the Tyrrhenian Sea. We took the Netunno and landed a hit on a Loyalist destroyer."

"Sounds like this should be a cakewalk in comparison."

"Hopefully not. I think we'd be out of a job pretty fast if any of this were easy." Captain Jaco dismissed as he glanced back to the cockpit and saw the pilot give the signal to prepare to drop. "Pop the hatch!"

The Cazadores stepped back from the center of the plane as gears beneath their feet winched a retractable door in the belly of the bomber up into the interior. A howling wind invaded the aircraft through the opening in the hull, buffeting them as they stood ready to drop down to the surface. As the bomb bay opened before them, an aerial hellscape burned several miles below. Fires and muzzle flashes demarcated the extent of the land in the encroaching darkness. Islands of clouds glowing blue in the moonlight would occasionally pass between the plane and the ground beneath, making the task of seeking out their target on the surface that much more difficult.

"I can't see a fucking thing for these clouds." A Cazador huffed as a puffy blue mass passed squarely between the plane and the city.

"Parachutes ready." Jaco ordered, ignoring the complaint. "When we pass through the clouds, release the chute. We'll glide around to find the ship if we have to. Stick close. We're not going to miss the Aksum."

"With all due respect, Captain, I don't like the prospect of spending any more time in the air than we have to above an ongoing battle." Before the Captain could meet his response, the pilot turned in his seat and gave him a thumbs-up gesture. It was time.

"Safeties off!" Captain Jaco demanded. "Jump time!"

Without another word, the Cazadores flipped the safeties off their silencer-equipped carbines and stepped through the bomb bay into the swirling torrent of wind below. After the four others had gone before him, Captain Jaco pencil-dived through the bottom of the airplane and into the night. The howling gust immediately swallowed him and became a fierce buffeting setting every loose flap of his jumpsuit to flutter violently. He took a last glance up at the bomber rising farther and farther above him, watching for a second as the closing bomb bay doors shut out the warm glow of the aircraft's interior. With its strobes shut off, it banked hard and veered back westward toward Malta. They were on their own now.

The Captain redirected his attention back to his comrades, who he could see as faint, black silhouettes racing down into the moonlit cloud rising up to meet them. He locked his legs upright and held his arms against the firearm fighting against its strap to tumble in the wind, continuing his pencil dive and rocketing Earthward to form up with the rest of his squad. No sooner than he had formed up with his comrades, they pierced the upper surface of the cloud and tumbled through a hazy milkbottle for a few seconds. Droplets of moisture collected on his jumpsuit as he sank through the cloud, only to all wick off in the wind as they fell through the cloud's underside. As instructed, the others tore out the cord on their chute packs, instantly unfurling an elliptical gliding parachute. Jaco did the same and felt the familiar, reassuring tug on his back as his own chute deployed. He tugged on a pair of cables that descended from the parachute he dangled from, allowing him to guide his descent and bank to and fro.

Looking down, Jaco saw that they didn't have much more descent to work with. Muzzle flashes flashed in and out of the night less than a thousand feet beneath his legs. He heard mortars whistle through the air and saw the resultant explosions manifest amongst the ruins. His comrade was right to be worried about this stage of the descent. A single stray bullet or mortar shell now would spell disaster for the operation, perhaps the war itself. They needed to get their boots on the Aksum before a lucky Ethiopian bullet found them.

Beneath the Captain's feet, a storm of muzzle flares scattered the night. Their flashes sparkled against the water of the canal, allowing him to orient himself. He banked over to the water's edge and rode the parachute's descend Southward down the canal's extent. There, straddling the canal like an iron colossus, was the Aksum. Spotlights from her fore castle scanned the broken cityscape around it for any sign of Spanish assault. He could see Ethiopians walking around on the deck, or standing guard down below on the edge of the canal. But in the forecastle, framed in the bridge's windows and illuminated by its lighting, were the ship's officers.

With one final tug down on the front of the cables, he guided his descent directly into the glass of the bridge's windows. He could see petrified shock on the face of the captain and his officers as the Cazador sailed out of the night toward them. He leveled his carbine and let loose a volley of bullets from his carbine into the bridge. With a dozen thwips form the silencer-tipped barrel, the bridge's windows fragmented into a series of spiderwebs which shattered effortlessly against his weight as he crashed through the window and tumbled into the bridge amidst a pile of glass shards and Ethiopian officers. The Aksum's captain, reeling from a bullet buried into his arm, reached with his good hand for a pistol holstered on his side. Before he could dispatch the Cazador, a black, gloved hand seized the African by the neck, his spent firearm dangling at his side. He pressed the Captain against the wall and pressed down against his throat with all his might. The Ethiopian fought viciously against his assailant until his windpipe collapsed under the Cazador's vicelike grip. Unceremoniously he allowed the Aksum's captain to tumble to the floor, his face now a dark shade of purple. The bridge was his to command now.

As he made his way to the myriad of consoles at the vessel's helm, he witnessed his comrades come down onto the deck of the Aksum amidst a volley of silent bullets. A hail of lead that was announced by no report, but fell upon the Ethiopian soldiers and clanged and sparked against the steel of the ship all the same. Under their withering fire, the remaining Cazadores touched down on the prow of the vessel. At once, they disconnected themselves from their chutes and took firing positions. Still unsure of what was going on, or even unaware that they were under attack, the Ethiopian soldiers on the bank of the canal came under a hail bullets coming down from the sides of their own warship. It was not long before unsilenced reports responded to the almost-inaudible thwip of the Cazadores' rounds. Even so, many Africans had fallen in the confusion. The first strike had been played out to its full extent, the Ethiopians would now fight fiercely to keep the Aksum or, failing that, scuttle it in the canal. Under the cover of suppressive fire, an entire regiment of Ethiopian soldiers could be seen fighting their way to the ship's gangplank to that end.

On the console beneath him, the Cazador saw the engine's throttle, a sliding lever pivoting about a semicircular base. Seizing the handle, he pushed the throttle as far forward as it could go. Immediately, the engine beneath him rumbled to life as its pistons were infused with diesel lifeblood. The Aksum lurched forward as its propellers cut the water behind it into an angry froth. The gangplank slid out from under the Ethiopians as the ship steamed forward at full speed, spilling them all into the canal below. The anchor bit down into the silty bottom the waterway, but ultimately gave way under the force of the fully-throttled engine. The Aksum charged forward through to the mouth of the canal, into the open maw of the Spanish Armada. With the boarding party put paid, his companions on the deck fanned out toward the superstructure and filed inside.

As the Ethiopian flagship advanced through the canal, it was jarred by a sharp bang ringing against the prow of the vessel, the aft point of the ship shot upward as the vessel literally screeched to a grinding halt. The ship had run aground on the debris planted by the Ethiopians. The Cazador captain pulled back on the throttle and threw the lever into reverse, hoping that the vessel would free itself from whatever obstruction was on the bottom of the canal, even if the propellers were far less powerful in reverse.

//Captain.// He heard one of his men call out over the radio headset on his ears. //We've run into a problem down here in the hold.//

"I saw. We've run aground on some debris. It's probable the whole canal has been littered with obstructions. It's going to take some time to reverse off of it. In the meantime, we'll need to hold our position and keep hostile forces from attempting to sink this ship, which they will attempt to do now that they have lost control of it."

//No, it's not that. I'm afraid we have another problem.//

"And that is?..."

//That the ship is rigged to blow.//

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

America is officially back in action.