Vilageidiotx

The New Order(Post WW3 RP)

The Mosquito Coast

Jay Holden carelessly flicked a spent cigarette into the luminous turquoise water that lapped against the ARC Velez. The Velez was a Columbian destroyer, a sharp-angled Zumwalt Class designed for stealth, gifted by the American Federation as part of the World Peace Commission's effort in taming the war-torn anarchy in Central America. Jay had only served in the last few years of the war, where he saw action on the Ivory Coast. What he had saw there would stay with him. When the war arrived in Nigeria, it tore the country apart. He had saw entire villages slaughtered and burned. He had saw refugees, starving and maimed, cross burning grasslands to get away from their patrols. In Abuja, he saw a man literally explode has his blood quickly boiled from the heat of a thermal missile going off beneath his feet. When that had happened, he had wore that mans blood for days before getting the opportunity to wash it off. And they said Nigeria had been a skirmish in comparison to Central America.

The sun had all but set, framing the darkened coast in red flame. This must be what it had looked like during the war, when the entire region burned. Even now, a year after the fighting had officially came to an end, they could see pockets smouldering amongst the new growth. In the daylight, the scars of war had been visible. The landscape was marked with unnatural valleys and ravines where new jungle growth was only now starting to take hold. In other places, growth refused to take hold at all. They had said that strips of the landscape were permanently blackened where the soil was too poisonous to host plants. It was true. From what Jay could tell, the entire land looked poisoned. The jungle looked sick, filled with trees that reached a certain height only to die. During the day, it had looked noxious and unnatural. At night, it looked evil.

Their mission was on behest of the Peace Commission. Ricardo Palacio Delgado, the Director of the Panama Zone, had insisted on aid in patrolling the wild coast of "The Tears." His recent declaration that the Tears were rightfully his territory, and his ploy to win support with such antics as naming a young girl who had been maimed in the fighting to the nothing-office of "Vice Director", and changing his name legally to "Mister Promises", had caused the Peace Commission to reconsider his sanity. Panama was a laughing stock to the international community, but the eccentric Director was popular with his own people.

Jay flicked a second cigarette into the water. Had it been that long? The war had made it difficult for him to sleep. He found himself spending a lot more time staring into nothing, thinking about just as much. The moon was rising in the east, and the coastline was enveloped in blackness. Jay rounded the bridge and found his way to the other side of the destroyer, where lights were propped up around a gathered crowd.

Most of the sailors were Columbians. They had lived a hard life, their country ceasing to exist early in the war as revolutions within revolutions tore at each other for a decade. There were more men with burns or scars than there were without. Some of them were missing digits, or hands, or features on their faces. Jay had talked to a man who claimed to have survived having his throat slit, and he had the scar to prove it. Most of them had fought against one another during the war, and old loyalties still divided the crew. The captain had decided that an outlet was needed. That was how they came to organize the fight.

There were soldiers in the crowd as well. Some where American, some German, some British. They came from everywhere that honored the Peace Commission's interests as a gesture of adherence to the Treaty that ended the war. The old rivalries had been less of a problem with them. Even those who had fought each other had somehow learned to hate the war itself over their enemies. Disturbingly, Jay had found himself far more comfortable with old foes than he did with his family back at home. The war had fashioned it so he had more in common with the people he had tried to kill than the people who had raised him.

Between them, a makeshift ring had been fashioned out of rope and orange rubber cones. Lights focused on the two sweaty combatants, a hispanic man - one of the Colombian sailors - and a white woman. They were roughly the same height, the woman being an inch or two taller. The sailor had taken his shirt off, revealing a somewhat flabby torso with little more than a tuft of hair in the center of his chest to match the tuft of hair on top of his lip. He was smiling like a devil despite the blood oozing out of his busted lip. It looked like he hadn't had more fun in his life.

Jay knew the woman. She was a Dane, though the war had saw her fight for the Germans as well. Soldat Heidi Raske. She was more comfortable with the men then most female soldiers he had seen. Her dirty blonde hair was kept in a tight bun behind her head, simple and out of the way. She had lost her leg during the war and gained a cybernetic replacement. Most people wore a skin-tone sleeve over their cyber-limbs, but she never did. She said it was too difficult to clean.

Her nose was bent slightly, a product of it having been broken one time too many. Even now the fight had left it bleeding. Her cyber-leg looked like something that belonged in the engine of a car, with blackened steel parts formed in such a way that was reminiscent of the muscles they had replaced. Wires protected by thick rubber ran up and down the struts. The feet, more delicate than the leg, were protected by a black leather "Shoe" shaped vaguely like a foot.

She was enjoying the fight as much as the sailor, though Jay considered that it was likely for different reasons. These men hadn't seen many women like Soldat Raske. When her opponent took off his shirt, she had followed suit, wearing a simple military training bra. It didn't reveal much, but it didn't take much for this lot to take interest.

Every time Raske landed a shot, the rest of the Peace Commission soldiers cheered. The Columbians cheered anytime somebody was hit, and twice as much when there was blood. The sailor wasn't afraid of hitting her, but he did look distracted none the less, so it was no surprise when a leeward glance ended in an upward strike to the jaw. He looked like he flew before he fell, and it was over.

Jay joined the rest of the soldiers in congratulating her. They surrounded her, clothed in a variety of different uniforms. There were greens and greys and grey-greens. A few were dressed in camo, and a few is straight black. They represented different nations, all unified here off the coast of a place that had lost all unity to them and the weapons that had been brought under their flags a decade ago.

The New Order(Post WW3 RP)

Dinh AaronMk said
Russia better fight tooth and nail with NATO over those Baltic states, because they're members of it.

Something tells me that NATO is probably irrelevant now.

World Wars have a tendency to rewrite all the alliances and agreements.

The New Order(Post WW3 RP)

(I am RPing a place more than a nation, so I am using the group app because it works better for my purposes but it's more... in between the two concepts)

Type: No-Man's Land

Assets: The Panama Disputed Zone, A region colloquially known as "The Tears," consisting of Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, and large chunks of Columbia.

Personnel: Locals who failed to flee, soldiers who failed to leave, and exiles who failed to live in civilization.

History: War did no favors for the Central American nation-states. While the war shifted across the planet, this region stayed a constant battleground. The value of the Panama canal to naval forces turned the Isthmus and everything surrounding it into one of the worst battlegrounds man had ever seen. Mountains were leveled by the warfires, and fertile land near the sea were struck so often that levels of soil were obliterated for miles, leaving salt-water swamps where farmland had once stood. The land was made unsafe by radioactive weaponry and chemical waste. Most fled, seeking refuge in whatever camps they could find in whichever nations would take them. Some didn't. Some couldn't. As the war slowed down and the worlds militaries receded, they left behind ruins and waste. Neighboring nations have made unrecognized claims to this land, but none of them have went beyond that because the problem of policing it is too daunting and there are no taxes to be had. Some borderlands have slowly been reclaimed, but most of it remains a lawless bramble.

The term "The Tears" came from a wartime poem. Where the rainforests burned away during the war, the lack of foliage turned the ground into a horrible mess of ponds, swamp, and mud. Though the term originally applied mostly to the west coast of Nicaragua, where the fighting had been the thickest. The flooded foxholes and craters that covered the muddy moonscape looked like tears to the worn out soldiers who fought and died there. The locals have taken the name for their own, finding it more descriptive than "Panama Disputed Zone."

Piracy, drug production, human trafficking, and terrorism are common in The Tears. Warlords rule much of the interior, with the coasts being governed by weak local governments and foreign reintegration missions. Exiles and political refugees have found it to be any easy place to get lost, as have war criminals or those so mentally damaged by their time in the war that there is nowhere else they can go.

The Panama Canal itself is ruled by "The Panama Authority", an international organization whose director wishes to expand his influence across the entirety of the Disputed Zone. An American by birth, he changed his name to "Mister Promises" and is seeking to unify the area by politics and favors rather than strength of arms. He has limited foreign support, but is arguably the most powerful entity in the area. The disputed land to the north of the Canal is where the worst of the fighting happened. Most of the activity happens there. The area to the south includes most of Columbia. The Columbian government, once in exile, has been making inroads into its old territories. The Columbian government has made its capital in Barranquila

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

Sevan, Armenia

Sahle's head throbbed. He was a small room he didn't remember arriving in, looking out a shuttered window at a street he didn't remember traveling down. The bed he was sitting on was a poor, rough spring mattress covered in dull beige sheets. Wallpaper was pealing from the walls, revealing the water-stained drywall beneath. He was covered in his own sweat, droplets settling on his arms and soaking the clothes he had been wearing for days. In his hand, he was fingering the trigger-guard of a polished military-issue handgun.

It was heavy and cold. He stared at it in horrified fascination as he sat alone in the dark dwelling on all that had happened There were bits and pieces that he could recall. Snapshots mostly, of what little the acid had not addled. He could remember the light, and the flash of fire. He could remember the cops, and the dirty looks the old bar-owner, Horasian, had given him. He could remember Aaliyah sobbing, and the blood that covered the ground. And he could remember the Russian.

One of them would have been dead if it hadn't been for Vasily. When the assassin pulled his weapon, Vasily had acted quickly and drove a knife into his back before he could aim. The bullet had been fired into the ceiling, harming nobody. The only other injuries had been caused in the panic that followed, and that had been little more than bruising. But that hadn't been the end of it.

After the police were convinced the dead man had been killed in self defense, Vasily came to Sahle and his friends. "I am not thinking that you are popular to everyone." he had said in his dry way, but there was something else behind his words. "I will be hiding you now."

And that he did. It had been hours since the Russian left. When he put the gun in Sahle's hand, he had asked if he knew how to use it. Sahle had nodded, but he was not sure.

I have killed men before. I know how. He still could not completely explain what had happened when they escaped Cairo. Perhaps it had been the adrenaline, or his boundless love for Aaliyah, but something had driven him to pull the trigger and kill the Sheik's men. He was not sure he could do it again - not now, not in this way. His mind played through the scenario over and over. When he imagined them busting through the door, dusty white flakes falling from the chipped white paint, he pulled the gun up as quick as he could. Nobody was there, but he froze anyway, and his fingers were hardly steady enough to keep it in his hands. His guts were churning. I could never kill again. I'm no killer...

When Sahle had been an Emperor, he had ordered people to their deaths without a second thought. He had ruled during wartime, and his words had caused thousands to die. Even now, sitting humbled in the gutter, he did not care. It wasn't their lives he was afraid of taking. It was something else. He couldn't place it, but the entire idea that his life depended on the trueness of his trigger finger frightened the fuck out of him.

"He is dead now." Vasily's sing-song voice echoed through his head from somewhere in the fog of his memories. Why had the Russian taken so much interest in him? Did he know? Sometimes, Sahle felt certain that his identity would be discovered. It seemed miraculous that it hadn't yet. He had been an Emperor after all, and his face has been plastered all over a continent. Could Sotelo do the same, or Hou? Or maybe someone else assumed dead was walking amongst the dregs in disguise. The thought of not being the only phantom king made him feel uncomfortable.

Where is Aaliyah? This entire situation was suspicious. Who had the bullet been meant for? What were Vasily's interests? He thought of his friends being pulled away into the darkness so they could be murdered quietly, and he awkwardly drew his handgun and aimed it at the door. I don't think I shook as much this time...

Sahle heard a soft thump. He jumped and looked at the window only to see the Russian climbing through. Sahle aimed. Vasily saw and laughed. "You should be putting way that away now." he said quietly, waving his hand as he hopped down. "I know what you are wanting to also know."

Vasily tossed a bloodied card down on the floor. It was white except for the brown-red stains, and the image of a the Giza Sphinx. "I found that paper on the body. I found a hotel key, and I found the hotel too."

"The h..hotel?" Sahle stuttered. His eyes were fixed on the Sphinx. He knew what it meant. We got away though...

"Your little problem is done now, I finished it. But it is a big problem too I am thinking. I am thinking you will be seeing more of it. I may be knowing a man who can make it go away."

"Do I have to stay here then?" Sahle asked, "I want to see Aaliyah." His voice has been shaken until now. When he said her name, he said it firmly. The Russian cocked his head.

"I am understanding." he nodded. "I will take you to the man I am knowing tomorrow. If you want to see your woman friend, I am thinking it will be safe."

Vasily sauntered over to the door. It was the same door Sahle had aimed at over and over again that night. All night, he had imagined assassins breaking down that door and finishing him off right there as he trembled and surrendered. That door had been at the center of his worst thoughts all night. Vasily opened it. When Sahle seen the dim hallway that had been behind it, the door suddenly seemed different. And then the entire room was something else. It was no longer a tomb, it was just a room.

Sahle followed. The wallpaper in the hallway was a deep red, though it was turning pink in places where the sun reached it through the windows. When he stepped out, his feet met with dark crimson shag carpet which felt like mush after the wooden floors of the room they had left. This is a hotel. He instantly recognized. How many hotels does a town need, anyway?

The halls were thin, barely allowing room for the passage of two people abreast. Each door they passed was a rich mahogany rather than the pale white door with chipping pain that he had stared at for most of the day.

He watched the Russian as they walked. Vasily looked out of place in his brown fatigues, with a long skinning knife hanging from one holster and a thin sort of dagger hanging from another. He moved around as comfortably as a tourist would, leisurely walking the halls like he owned them, but his head bobbed subtly from side to side as they passed each door. In the dark, he was as pale as a ghost. Sahle could remember visiting Denmark several lifetimes ago, when he had just been a care-free Prince with a taste for liquor and pussy. He had seen white people before, but people as white as those from the far north still seemed odd. Vasily was especially pale for his race. His skin seemed almost translucent in this light.

They reached a door at the end of a hall, which led them into a shaft of cement stairs in a brick stairwell. Their footsteps echoed as they descended. It smelled damp, like standing water after sitting in the sun for a few days. A moldy brass pipe ran between to of the walls. Rust bubbled where the pipes met the walls, causing red smears to run across the sandy bricks.

The door at the bottom of the stairs emptied into another thin hallway. Racks covered with brightly colored clothes and rolling carts covered in make-up supplies tipped Sahle to where he was. When they reached a wooden platform that sounded like a drum as they walked, Sahle knew for certain. He had been in show business for a while now, and he was well used to the settings. A thick blue curtain divided them from the rest of the room, but Sahle could imagine the rows of seats on the other side. Wooden cut-outs hid the back wall from view, each one painted white with simple green pine-trees dotting their surface.

Vasily stopped suddenly. Sahle looked at him uneasily as the Russian bent down and knocked on the floor three times. A knock answered, and Sahle understood what was going on. Vasily pulled at an short rope-handle and climbed down.

"Sahle!" Aaliyah's voice greeted him with a squeal. They rushed into each others arms as Vasily stood there gawking. She feels so pretty.

With Aaliyah in his arms, Sahle inspected the pit. The floor was hard cement, but the walls were all dusty wood. Poles held up the stage above them, which was hardly but half a foot above his head. They were surrounded by a mess of weird things. There was several wooden horses with angry faces carved onto them. Small models of churches and cabins sat in a pile on the other end. A crown sat on the brow of a canvas mannequin near the ladder. It was thick and covered in purple jewels. Silver chains covered in gemstones dripped from the golden circlet. Below the mannequin, a crude puppet with demonic, child-like features was propped against its base.

Vasily caught Sahle looking at it and puffed up. "Those are from a play that is playing at this theater that we are being in." he explained. "Writer is one of my people. The story is about Ivan III of Russia and how he united the fighting Russian nations and became the Tsar." He looked at the crown, and a weak hint of sadness seemed to play across his eyes. "I am thinking this should be happening against some day. My people have been thinking this too."

"Where are they?" Sahle asked.

"Many Russians are in Russia, I am thinking." Vasily answered.

"I mean my friends." Sahle corrected. "Yared and Marc."

"Oh yes." Vasily nodded. "They are in other places here. I will take you to them."

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

Canada passes IMHO. It does open questions that Googer and Aaron would need to find a way to retcon. Specifically why China wasn't involved, and why Spain let this happen. Because of that, I would suggest both Aaron and Googer should also approve before we move forward.

If you want to polish it up, I would suggest making the revolution less convenient. It just sort of seems to work out all the time. I do admit you'll see that in the previous histories, in part because this RP started with looser standards and because we've had to go back and retcon the histories in such a way that they could be accessible while still making sense.

Slaughters are always a good impetus for revolution. The economy tanks, different groups rise out of the divide, the socialists take to the street in Quebec, the army/police/paramilitarists kill a bunch of people. Those in the middle condemn the aggressive right-wing attackers and the government is implicated one way or another. The only other thing you'd need to work out is why Spain isn't involved, but you could work that out with either.

Like I said at the beginning, I don't think this change is absolutely necessary and if it feels to uncomfortable to you than I would understand. What you have now works well enough. And of course, if you do want to update it you wouldn't have to follow the script.

Just remember that, for the most part, revolutions have a tendency to be somewhat ugly. It isn't a rule, but it's a common enough occurrence that we kind of expect it.

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

Hopefully I will post by the end of this weekend.

I got two separate posts sitting halfway done in PM's. Been a busy week, and i've been too lazy to write betwixt the business.

A Nation Divided - Civil War RP

What are the chances that I could join as the a Lakota chief? I think adding the Sioux Confederation into the mix in a more meaningful way could turn this version of the war into something altogether new.

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

I call for a return of the Grox rp's!

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

Pepperm1nts said
I sent it to get checked at the doctor's first.

>MFW

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

When the Spanish touch ground on the east coast, Yaqob and company are going to leave the country via that very same method.