Current
Wont be around today, too busy dying from this massive hang over. Sorry guys!
9 yrs ago
This is asking for an RP in which the Southend-on-Sea furniture bots battle for control with the Korean casino bots, in an ultimate struggle that will destroy the world.
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9 yrs ago
Suddenly building some kind of wall doesn't seem like a bad idea. Vote Frengo 2016 for RPG President.
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9 yrs ago
Is it sad that I bought a 10yo Netbook from Ebay with the sole intent of using it just to write my RP posts?
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9 yrs ago
Sea Gorillas are not a "personal" issue, and affect the entirety of mankind. It's morons like you that prevent social and cultural progress.
I've been crafting my app in secret with Apollo's help. It's a Trade Federation battleship, equipped with its full droid compliment, and a couple of X-wing squadrons. The crew are untested "rookies" but are fully trained by a mash of ex-Imperial and rebel officers. The idea behind Honour Bound (the ship's name), is to employ its numerous yet inferior droid compliment in suicidal waves to overwhelm enemy positions, whilst you guys with your shinier toys do the real damage.
Captain Vekelb Vilreth of Neimoidia, and the Honour Bound, a Lucrehulk-class Battleship.
Captain Vakelb Vilreth
Race: Neimoidian
Home world: Neimoidia
Training: Former Imperial trader, and founder and Dean of the Neimodian University of Theoretical Warfare, a fledgling institution that strives to train Neimodians into competent battlefield commanders. The university's existence is unpopular, and often laughed at, but represents the epitome of Vakelb's extreme nationalistic tendencies.
Notable battles: Though possessing the means to aid either the Empire or the Rebel Alliance, Vakelb used his success as an Imperial merchant to indefinitely stave off his commitment to them.
Bio: As an ambitious Imperial Trader, Vakelb rose to prominence following the defeat of the CIS during the Clone Wars, and the subsequent rise of the Empire. It was a turbulent time, full of chaos, genocide and oppression, but which allowed for men like Vakelb to prosper. Beginning as an arms dealer, he sold off entire stocks of former Trade Federation battle droids to anyone willing to pay his "reasonable" prices - which, at times, was the Empire.
As his wealth mounted, he found himself becoming increasingly unhappy; being a Neimoidian, the race which started the Clone Wars and brought death to millions, he met his fair share of discrimination. Even his Imperial overseers looked down on him with disdain, often calling him a 'filthy coward', and 'unfit to exist' in the glorious ranks of Imperial citizenry.
This kind of treatment drove the trader to embark upon a brief spiritual reflection, and he spent months pouring over the histories of his peoples. The Neimoidians were thought of as greedy cowards, and would sell their own sisters into slavery if it meant making a few quick credits; and as Vakelb put down the last holotome, he could only agree with the notion.
Dismayed at the nature of his peoples, and horrified that he had unwittingly carried on the ways of his forebears without question, Vakelb sought to repair the histories of his people by establishing one of the planet's few native military academies - the Neimodian University of Theoretical Warfare.
His institution was largely mocked and laughed at by his kinsmen, but hundreds of Neimoidians who had become likewise unsatisfied with their merchant-based lives, applied for his courses. Vakelb was no warrior himself, and as the Civil War ended, there was no shortage of former Imperial officers and Rebel Alliance captains to start teaching the aspiring Neimoidian warriors - for the right price, of course.
It has been fifty six years, and the University still stands, but equally, is still considered a benign institution. Frustrated that his peoples choose to carry on their ways, Vakelb has decided to throw his lot in with the New Republic. Taking to the stars in a refitted Clone Wars-era Trade Federation battleship, he answers their call for assistance - purely because he is now too old, and too embittered, to continue working at his university, and feels that only by establishing himself in the histories as the first effective and notable Neimoidian Captain and Commander of the New Republic, will he finally inspire and affect the change in Neimoidian society that he lusts after
Ship name: Honour Bound
Class: Lucrehulk-class Battleship
History: Honour Bound was a derelict Trade Federation Battleship, decommissioned shortly after the end of the Clone Wars, and spent decades awaiting to be scrapped. However, twenty years ago, Vakelb's university required a test-ship for its recruits to practice on, and so, Honour Bound was bought.
Initially, it was refitted without armaments or compliments, but over the years, Vakelb etched away at his dwindling fortunes to restore the ship to its former glory. The Honour Bound now carries a full inventory of Clone War era battledroids, dropships and tanks.
There are also two squadrons of T-85 X-wings, piloted by Neimoidians who have been trained by former Rebel Alliance aces. They are untested in battle, but are fully trained, and form Vakelb's fighting elite as well as his personal escort should he ever take to space himself.
Crew: All of the Honour Bound's crew are Neimoidians who have graduated from the University of Theoretical Warfare. They have yet to face a battle, but have completed dozens of simulations and are fully trained.
150 Flight Crew - Charged with piloting the ship, administrating the Droid Mainframe, and overseeing the use of all ship-board systems.
500 Engineers - Employed to keep the systems running, as well as maintaining the droid compliment and Honour Bound's defences. They are assisted by an armada of maintenance droids.
500 Combat Personnel - Neimoidian soldiers, who wear grey combat overalls and carry Republic-issued laser rifles. Their primary role is to operate Honour Bound's defence batteries, and their secondary role is to directly assume command of droid detachments.
I got four Rps here that never left the draft stage, with the exception of Dying Breed. Rather than consign them to the black void that is my PM draft box, I thought I'd unleash them on the unsuspecting masses.
Show interest, or show contempt - it's all the same for these four hapless souls that were almost never going to see the light of day. Take ideas, draw inspiration (haha, becuz i am so awesum), or simply shrug and move onto something else.
If anyone is like "OMFG THAT IS AWSOME!M!M!M!" then I could have a look at bringing the most esteemed of these drafts into their final versions, and launching an RP. Alternatively, people are welcome to take them, modify/use them as they see fit.
Roleplay Summary
Based on the first Resident Evil video game (The Mansion!)
Discount all other RE games and literay works. This RP concerns the original video game only, that way we're totally safe from the lore's later funkyness (looking at you Zero, and everything after 3 >.>).
Follows the original game's plot, up to the point that S.T.A.R.S Bravo Team crashes in Raccoon Forest.
Alpha Team's rescue operation is cancelled at the last possible second, as an Umbrella Director sees an opportunity to truly put the T-Virus to the test by pitting it against properly trained individuals.
Teams of the Umbrella affiliated (non-canon) Hazard Force are dispatched instead, though remain as ignorant as the members of S.T.A.R.S, and believe they are being put through another training op.
Teams are ambushed by zombie dogs as they set down from their helicopters, and the nightmare unfolds from there.
Base knowledge of the game required... though there isn't much to know. Go read a wiki or something. Big spooky house, filled with nasties and containing a nice little conspiracy in the basement.
Map of the mansion provided in the further reading section.
Some creative freedom will be allowed, to ease things a little. For example, the changing around of rooms, the ignoring of silly keys, or the minor customisation of the overarching plot
Not sure what version of the mansion to follow, the original or the remake? Hmmmmm.
The Story So Far
The call came down the line on July 23rd, 1998, Saturday morning. Straight from the Director himself.
"All personnel are to be put on Code 1 Alpha until further notice. All leave has been cancelled indefinitely. Maintain full preparedness for operations."
Hmph, that bastard. He was warming us up for his sadistic little game. Mine was not to reason why though, it was just to do and die. My contract - our countracts - with The Company said just as much. Most of us were ex-servicemen and women, from the world over. We had Russians, Canadians, Japanese, Irish, French - it didn't matter who they were or where they came from, not to The Company or that fucking Director. So long as their medical and service records checked out, then that's all that was needed. A five year term for a six figure salary.
Sounded like a dream come true when I signed the dotted line, but what I got was a nightmare.
We were known as the Hazard Force, a private military firm under the conglomerate known to the world as Umbrella. When I signed up, they sold it to me as a "privately funded and professionally maintained biological, nuclear, counter-terroist and disaster relief 'Resolution unit'." I didn't understand all of those words when they were spoken at me so quickly, and with that big money figure hanging over my head, I didn't care to hear them repeated.
Life was good. We had our own purpose built base in Nevada, totally disconnected from the U.S federal government's control, and were provided with state-of-the-art training facilities, along with generous amounts of paid leave. We spent two years putting ourselves into a coherent force, and in the process, we were taught a wide range of skills from hostage rescue to the disarmament of nuclear weapons. By the end of it all, we were confident, and we were waiting for a chance to test ourselves against whatever the world wanted to throw at us.
So then came Sunday. The Director ordered my team and two others onto a C-130, and flew us to the Midwest - some little sleepy industrial town called Raccoon City. Apparently the local feds had been having some trouble with a spree of murders, and the Director wanted us to assist the police department with their investigations. It was probably the lamest sounding cover for a training op that any of us had heard up to that point.
On arrival, we were told to gear up and get airborne. A couple of Blackhawks, bearing The Company's logo, were waiting for us on the tarmac. Dusk was already falling, and we were all cranky from the long flight, but equally, we all wanted to get out there and earn our pay. We loaded up, got our gear together, and before we knew it, we were a couple of hundred feet above a large forest - known locally as Raccoon Forest, which bordered the Arklay Mountains.
That's when we got our real orders. Local PD had sent one of their S.W.A.T teams on a patrol for the suspects of the recent murders, that were thought to be hiding in the vicinity of Raccoon Forest. Their chopper went dark not long after they reached the area, and the Director wanted us to locate the team and evac them. That was it. No more intel.
I thought the whole thing stunk of bull shit, and I was right. None of us complained though, because we were used to the secrecy.
We'd been airborne for just under an hour when we saw it, the wreckage of the local PD's chopper. Our pilots set us down, gave us the go code, and then they left us there. Told us they'd come back for us once the Director had given approval, and that we were to maintain radio silence until we'd found the lost Feds.
And then we were alone, surrounded by the dark of night, and something much, much worse.
Further Reading
Spencer Mansion Wiki. Has an excellent floor plan for level 1, but omits the others.
Reserve Team - To be dropped in later, if we lose players and need more to join.
Team Leader
Rifleman
Rifleman
Rifleman
Rules
1) Be mature, and don't throw hissy fits because someone inadvertently did something that irked you. Diplomacy always! GM involvement as a last resort.
2) Stick to your role. A team leader leads, an medic rips people open, and an explosives expert handles big scary guns and bombs. I don't want to see a rifleman doing all of the above without good reason.
3) Try not to bog the RP down with senseless character development. By all means have yourself some development, just don't start the game with melodrama about your character's troubled past, as the zombie dogs play a game of chess to relieve the boredom of your sixty-post nonsense.
Plot progression, little development, some more plot progression, some more development - so on and so forth. Otherwise things stall and we all die of boredom and/or frustration. Keep it fluid.
4) No character has ever come into contact with the T-Virus or what it can do, and so they'd better react surprised to every ounce of horror they stumble across.
5) Use the map provided within the wiki (see "Further Reading") for room layouts, and what they contain. Wouldn't want us missing a boss fight now, would you?
5) Other than that, just the usual fluff that applies to most Rps. No God modding, no meta-gaming, no character controlling without consent of author, blah blah blah etc.
Character Sheet
Picture (ignore if using purely text for appearance)
Role and Team: Name: Age: Gender: Nationality: Appearance: The Hazard Force does not use standardised uniforms, so feel free to have a little fun here within reason. Urban camo? Vest full of pouches? Sexy black spandex? Additionally, use this section to give a bit more flesh to the picture provided, and to note any differences between it and your actual visualisation of your character. Background Overview: No need for essays here, just a little something about their lives prior to joining the Hazard Force. Primary Weapon: Make sure it was invented before 1998, as that's when the game is set. Secondary Weapon: Ditto Back-up Weapon: Bayonet? Hidden pistol? Taser? etc Grenades/Explosives: Equipment: Anything you feel needs mentioning, but there's no need to cover basics i.e flash lights or radios, as those are the kind of items I believe the soldiers would be carrying anyway. An example would be a tripwire or motion detector.
A fleet of traders became lost at sea after a succession of fierce storms, and were separated. After agonizing weeks of hardship, starvation and sickness, the various ships of the trade fleet have made land fall on an unknown continent. With supplies disastrously low, they are forced to disembark in an attempt to resupply themselves for an attempt to journey home.
The groups of the fleet's survivors differ from each other, depending on what their original intent was. Some are merely traders, carrying an abundance of wide ranging goods, such as spices, tools and of course weapons. Others are craftsmen, who were hoping to find work in the country of their destination. And then there are sailors and soldiers, who were assigned to the fleet as escorts.
Now they all find themselves in a lush land that bears no resemblance to any of their maps. Wanderlust and greed take over the primal urge to secure a quick escape, and before anyone knows it, they're venturing fourth to satisfy their curiosity.
A few things:
This is not North America, although it is certainly inspired by it.
Hexes on the map represent five miles.
I'm not writing a bestiary on the types of wildlife you will encounter; use your imaginations or steal from existing real life species, it matters little.
The survivors have guns, but the technology does not go beyond percussion cap.
Whether there are a Native American like peoples out there, or something completely different, is up to the player who wishes to encounter indigenous populations. Raving cannibals? Feudal societies? Half man, half dog creatures? Enraged pidgeon people? Whatever seems to fit your mood at the time.
The explorers come from a multitude of not mentioned but presumably pseudo 18th century European countries. The characters can reference them, but any lore they introduce about these places is down to them.
Groups of explorers will not exceed 300, you're an impromptu expedition, not a fully fledged invasion force.
Disease is a thing.
So is hunger and thirst.
If players establish bases and settlements, I will add them to the map if they show me where they are.
Players will be randomly allocated starting points; players that want to pair/group up must state so in their character sheet.
Yes, you can play as a lone wanderer.
Yes you can have a pet squirrel.
Races are HUMAN only, unless we're talking about the indigenous populations.
Any further questions will be answered.
And here's the character/expedition sheet thingy...
Expedition Leader
Name: Gender: Age: Appearance: Include clothing and armour, you naked lunatics. Notable Skills: Tracking, fighting, blacksmithing - anything that might be useful and relevant. Bullet point them so that my lazy brain can make better sense of it all. Weapon/s: AWWWWWWW yeah, show me dem pistols and sexy ass swords. Personality: Because everyone really cares about this part, for some reason. Background: This is where you make up some random names for some random countries that I refused to spend hours writing up. Honestly, so long as it all makes sense, you don't need to elaborate too much on your character's homeland, considering we wont be seeing it. Companion Animal: I er, I mean everyone wants a dog or something, right?
The Expedition:
Expedition Name: Example - Dave's Expedition. Wow, that was bland. Nationality: Go crack out that random name generator if you haven't already written out your leader's background. Expedition Size: Gender Distribution: Girl power? Sausage fest? Potential giant sex orgy? But no seriously, say something like 50/50 or 20% men and 80% women (oh Lord), just so we have a good idea of who you've brought along for the ride. Weapon Distribution: Gimme a brief description of the weapons available to your people, and how available they are. Starting Supplies: What was your ship carrying, that might be of assistance? Lots of food? Building materials? Extra weapons? Horses? Livestock?
Unforeseen Consequences
This RP carries a simple premise, but boasts some great potential that hopefully offers potential players a variety of roles to pursue.
So, take yourself back to 1998.
Gordon Freeman has just pushed the sample into the Anti-Mass Spectrometer, and caused the resonance cascade. A dimensional rift has just been opened with Xen, aliens are dropping in all over the Black Mesa facility, and everyone is just about to have the worst day of their lives.
However, this time, you wont be the mute HEV-wearing, crowbar-wielding psychopath that we know and love, you'll be all the people that got dead-ed because of what he did.
Prepare yourself for a survival horror experience like no other, as you put on your labcoat and tie, and fumble about a quickly erupting war zone as a member of the Black Mesa research team. Die horribly as you attempt to stop the Resonance Cascade, or high tail it the Hell out of the facility... or wait to be rescued by some loving marines.
Or don your bullet-proof vest, load your pistol, and go toe-to-toe with an alien invasion as a member of the Black Mesa Security Team; shoot your way through the crisis, decorating the facility with the bodies of yourself and your comrades as you haphazardly try to overcome a security situation WAY beyond your pay check.
And when survival horror or good old fashioned shooting doesn't fill your appetite, hop aboard a USMC Osprey and join the U.S Government's attempts to contain the situation by murdering everything as you take on the role of a bad-ass, no-nonsense marine... before you yourself are murdered by an increasingly dangerous alien presence that is beyond even the might of the U.S military!
So fix your spectacles, grab your security clearance and prepare for war as you walk into the belly of the beast that is the Black Mesa Research Facility, and hopelessly try to survive the next 24 hours of your life.
So what's it going to be?
Science Team
The Black Mesa Science Team is the overwhelming majority of Black Mesa's population. With the Black Mesa Security Force, it is one of the most important bodies of the Black Mesa personnel. Each scientist is granted a different security clearance specific to his or her duty, with an average clearance of Level 5. Like other employees, scientists have an assigned uniform, consisting of a blue shirt, white lab coat, red striped tie and white (or beige) slacks.
Although cowardly and clumsily at times, scientists can perform certain tasks, such as using retinal scanners to open doors to restricted areas, or operating insanely high-tec and experimental hardware. They also tend to be physically weak; dying within a few shots, as well as having no combat capabilities.
Story Objective: Don't die, and escape the facility if possible... both preferably!
Security Force
The Black Mesa Security Force is the main component of Black Mesa's support personnel force. Along with the Black Mesa Science Team, it is one of the most important bodies of the Black Mesa personnel.
Security guards oversee the security throughout the facility. They have different ranks and are granted a different security clearance specific to their duty, with an average clearance of Level 3, as well as colored shifts in specific Areas of specific Sectors, such as Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, and Violet Shifts.
Part of every security guard's equipment load-out includes an armor vest and helmet, vital to their personal safety in the Black Mesa Research Facility. As well as day-to-day maintenance safety, the armor is also capable of absorbing (and possibly even deflecting) low-caliber rounds. The security guards are also issued combat boots which are most likely steel toe-capped boots.
The helmet will deflect 9mm bullets and shotgun pellets, though heavy guns, such as the Colt Python or the Crossbow will penetrate through the helmet.
Story Objective: Protecting and saving as many as your colleagues as possible, and getting them out of the facility. Not dying 3 days from retirement is also another goal.
Hazardous Environment Combat Unit
The Hazardous Environment Combat Unit, often abbreviated as HECU, is a fictional United States Marine Corps Special Forces Unit.
The Marines of the HECU are specially trained to deal with a variety of indoor combat situations, particularly involving a dangerous environment and unconventional enemies. Members of HECU are trained by drill instructors Dwight T. Barnes and Sharpe, and train at bases guarded and staffed by members of the Military Police.
They are part of a "dangerous and very efficient clean-up crew" sent to Black Mesa in case of emergency, and are supposed to work in concert with the Black Mesa Security Force in these cases.
Story Objective: Destroy EVERYTHING. Kill EVERYONE. No survivors.
Command successful. Connection established with 43.251.42.
#][...
Sergeant Hall: This is Recovery Team Alpha, breaking radio silence in accordance with the Autumn Protocol, over.
#;...
#/';#...
Fort Warrroad: Hearing you loud and clear, Sergeant. What's your status, over?
#^*%...
Sergeant Hall: We're one kilometer from the target, preparing to engage and recover, over.
#*&^*...
Fort Warroad: Outstanding Sergeant, are you ready to recieve your orders? Over.
Sergeant Hall: Affirmitive, Command. Go ahead, over.
Fort Warroad: Your target is an old pre-war ruin, formerly a RobCo affiliated Fusion Core production plant. Intel suggests the site has already been ransacked by scavengers, but with our supplies as low as they are, this factory is perhaps our last shot at securing the resources we need to keep our soldiers in the fight. I need not remind you how dire things have become for us, Sergeant, your recovery op is probably our last chance at any kind of future.
Pre-war schematics show that the storage and cargo areas of the plant, or the logistical departments if you will, were in the basement. Encased in concrete and lead for safety reasons, this basement is going to be a real son of a bitch to get into. Only two access points that we are aware of; the large reinforced alloy doors at the rear of the factory that will take you down a tunnel and into the storage area, or the internal cargo elevator located inside the production plant. I doubt you'll have the fire power to convince either of these to work for you, but if you can find a working terminal, it could be your ticket inside.
On the plus side, if the elevator and external doors are in good shape, it's a sign that the factory's cargo has been largely untouched.
In either case, we need this op performed to your usual clinical standards. In and out, no hanky panky with the locals. We want those Cores, Sergeant, not more bodies to stuff into bags.
God speed Sergeant, and God Bless America.
#$$...
#[;...
Connection closed, (/Remote Host).
Sergeant Adrian Hall's APA MK2 (Advanced Power armor Mk II) hissed as he turned from the Vertibird's onboard computer, located in the same cargo hold as his squad. His bug-eyed helmet was held tightly in one hand, and his AER9 laser rifle in the other. Darkened stubble covered his scalp and his face, and icey blue eyes punctuated a nose that had broken more than a few times. A couple of pink scars decorated his pockmarked flesh.
"We're heading into the great unknown this time," he yelled over the deafening roar of the aircraft's dual rotors. "Our target is an old RobCo affiliated factory, approximately a kilometer outside of Winnipeg. Intel was sketchy on the details, and we have no idea if we will be encountering hostiles. As always, I want this run by the numbers. Shoot first, ask questions later, you all know the drill."
Maneuvering his way to the open door of the Vertibird's cargohold, he looked down on the rapidly approaching ruins of the pre-war city. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, he lifted his helmet over his head and secured it in one fluent, practiced motion.
His voice suddenly transmitted through the helmets of his squad with crystal clarity, his iron tongue echoing in his men and women's ears. "This is our last shot, death or glory, win or lose. The factory may have a payload of Fusion Cores in its basement, and without them, Fort Warroad wont last another week. We are the last Vertibird based recovery team still in operation, not that I need to remind you, so our failure here will spell disaster for the remnants of the American people."
The Vertibird shook momentarily as the pilots brought it to a hover, and then gradually, it started to descend. The RobCo affiliated factory came into view, for all to see.
Cocking his rifle, Sergeant Hall uttered one last parting word of wisdom. "Oooorah!" And then he jumped from the open door, to the concrete fifty feet below.
His squad scrambled to follow him.
Rules
1) All players are apart of Sergeant Adrian Hall's Enclave recovery team, sent to a pre-war factory to recover a possible cache of fusion cores.
2) I will be playing as Sergeant Hall, leading the way into the great unknown, with your characters at his back.
3) Ranks will follow pre-war USMC ranks, as opposed to Army ranks. Nothing higher than a sergeant.
4) No non-Enclave power armour, such as BOS or NCR Variants.
5) Players must be pure-breed human, with a history grounded in the Enclave or those from former "Auxiliary Units" (read the lore).
5) Behave, and have fun.
Lore
Fort Warroad is an Enclave outpost, perhaps the last of its kind for all that is known of their survival by official Fallout Canon.
Located in the far reaches of Minnesota, it is far away from the likes of the New California Republic or the Brotherhood. Most of its inhabitants were those who fled the fall of Raven Rock in 2277 from the Capital Wasteland.
The Enclave remnant in Warroad is headed by General Elliot Lance, a man approaching his seventieth year and who is said to be terminally ill - though he dismisses these rumors fervently. Under his leadership, he led the group of some fifty survivors in a few Vertibirds to the ruins of Warroad, a pre-war town located in obscurity.
On their arrival, they found dead vegetation and dilapidated structures. Not many dwelt in these ruins, and those who did were quickly driven out by the Enclave's superior tactics and weaponry.
They are cut off from what remains of Enclave High Command, and pay no homage to the old world's constitutional ideals. Rather, they are a militant remnant with extreme emphasis on military doctrine... though this is not much of a far cry from the main body they've sprung from.
General Lance has spent ten years strengthening his position in and around Warroad, and out of desperation, has even recruited wastelanders into "Auxiliary Units" to strengthen his hold over the area and to bolster his forces. Those who serve in auxiliary units become fully enlisted Enclave soldiers after a term of five years; however, he uses these units mercilessly and with little regard for their well being. Not many survive their term, and even those who do are looked down upon as "impure" imbreds.
Still, dozens of wastelanders turn to the Enclave for security and to escape the horrors of surviving in the wasteland, undeterred by what may await them. All Auxiliary Unit personnel are given full training, but denied power armour and advanced weapons - a perk reserved for the permanent enlisted men and women. They are barred from sexual relations with "pure-breed" humans, namely those who have their origins in the Enclave. Without them, Fort Warroad would have fallen years ago.
However, the Enclave's presence has become wider known over the years, and its questionable treatment of the locals has earned it many enemies. The Fort is attacked or harassed on almost a daily basis, and though it is surrounded by high walls and defended around the clock by the General's best, they are losing the war of attrition against a land that knows no mercy, and that rarely forgets grudges.
To keep Fort Warroad operational and secure, recovery teams are sent into pre-war ruins to bolster existing resources. At the RP's start, Warroad is running out of Fusion Cores, and its power-armour contingent risks becoming inactive. This would deprive the Enclave of its military advantage, and spell doom for Fort Warroad.
Only one Vertibird remains in working condition, and it belongs to Recovery Team Alpha, who use it to conduct long distance scavenging runs for Fort Warroad.
Primary Weapon: Any gun or melee weapon from the Fallout universe, barring special/legendary editions. Secondary Weapon: Any gun or melee weapon from the Fallout universe, barring special/legendary editions. Ensure it is reasonable that your character can carry it alongside their primary. Grenades or Other Equipment: i.e mines, Eyebots, lock breaking kit etc Power Armour Variant: No BoS or NCR variants, strictly pre-war or Enclave versions.
Key Skills: What is your character trained with? No need to ground yourself in game lore, but you can certainly use it as an inspiration. Examples: hacking, lock picking, energy weapons, animal handling, robotics, stealth tactics, gun specialist, heavy weapons, engineer, Vertibird pilot etc etc. Other: Anything else you may like to include.
Pure Breed or Former Axuillery: Pure Breed
Name: Adrian Hall Age: 35 Gender: Male Physical Appearance: Adrian carries a tall and muscular build, common for most power suit wielding soldiers of the Enclave. His left arm and chest are horribly scarred, a relic from his encounter with the Lone Wanderer at Raven Rock some ten years ago. His skin is pale, which makes the shadows around his icy blue eyes even more prominent. Creases line his forehead, and black stubble covers his scalp and jaw. His nose is disjointed, showing signs of several breaks - though he seems to have a full set of teeth. Backstory: Adrian started life in Raven Rock as the only child of two Enclave soldiers. His father, a decorated Army Captain, was slain by Super Mutants in the Capital Wasteland as he conducted a secret salvaging mission. Adrian was ten years old at the time. His mother lived to ripe age of sixty, before succumbing to lung cancer.
Adrian, indoctinrated into Enclave beliefs from birth, became a fine and fanatical soldier. He led several teams in the Enclave's war against the Capital Wasteland's inhabitants, and obtained the rank of Sergeant before a run-in with the Lone Wanderer at Raven Rock left him badly injured and unconcious for the remainder of the conflict.
Airlifted to Warroad by Vertibird, along with some other casualties and a contingent of soldiers under General Lance, Adrian was eventually nursed back to health and returned to service. Disheartened by the Enclave's defeat, Adrian became depressed and saw that the death of the true American people was inevitable. Nevertheless, a dedicated soldier, he engrossed himself in his work and quickly became known as a reliable operator in Warroad's environment.
Initially he spearheaded attacks against local settlements that threatened the Enclave's position, but was then put on Recovery Detail. He has been leading recovery teams for the past two years, but each successful mission does little to restore his faith in the Enclave's chances of survival.
Furthermore, the admittance of Wastelanders into the ranks has irked him. He sees them as inferior creatures, undeserving of the Enclave's insignia - though some who have served their five years have garnered his respect, though not admiration.
Primary Weapon: AER9 laser rifle Secondary Weapon: AEP7 laser pistol Grenades or Other Equipment: 3 x Fragmentation Grenades, Portable Welder and Two Small Steel Plates. Power Armour Variant: Advanced Power Armor Mk II
Key Skills: Energy Weapon Specialist, Power Armor Engineer, Medium Hacking Skills. Other: Will discriminate against Former Auxiliaries whose backstory does not impress him.
So @Frengo, what happend with doomguy? Light is digging him out as we speak.
Well if it were in-game, he probably hit "`" on the keyboard, and typed "God" frantically into the console half obscuring his vision, just as the bombs fell.
In the RP though, and keeping in scope with our brand of semi-realism, he was blown up violently; his armour isn't anything to brag about, and he can't really be considered to be invincible. The Doom games are all about dying dozens of times, and I'd feel that for him to have survived in tact would be a heresy.
And shamelessly piggy backing off of that, is my formal resignation from this RP. Life is such that I cannot afford the mammoth amount of commitment that this grand crusade requires. I could wing it, that's a given, but it would require me to literally skip all posts that don't directly affect me, which would cause problems later down the line when my posts start missing out key details that my character should be aware of.
Thanks for the fun guys, and I wish you/the RP all the best.
1) If Doomguy was to crawl from his supposed grave as an enraged torso, could someone glue his legs back to his dismembered mid-section?
2) Is anyone else struggling to keep up? And if so, do they want to pair/group up so that those of us with jobs haven't got to choose between eating and reading up on the IC meat and OOC trivia?
3) Why does cold coffee taste awful? I mean, all that has changed is the temperature, and yet it has a totally different taste? Someone google this for me and come back with a simplified explanation.
Troopers in white plated armour; black visors of the abyss forming an emotionless mass of an unfeeling, remorseless army of an autocratic empire that Doomguy knew little of. Walkers, thirty feet tall, with large heads and a clumsy chicken-like gait. Spherical fighters glided overhead, with hexagonal wings, and unleashed an ear piercing shriek as they passed by.
Behind this disciplined battle force, came a horde of demons, their flesh red and their limbs plentiful; some with gaping jaws that displayed hundreds of razor sharp fangs. They snorted, roared and screeched with blood lust, stomping their feet in anticipation.
There was a moment of bizarre tranquillity as Doomguy approached the host; they studied him, as much as he did them. For who was this green armoured warrior? An army of one? Against so many? A suicidal bid to reach some high level of stupid heroism?
And then he brought up his BFG and discharged it repeatedly.
Explosions tore through the neatly arrayed white plated soldiers, followed by pulsating green lights that signified the dissolution of many organic bodies. What was only moments ago a disciplined force of well trained soldiers, quickly deteriorated into a mass panic. Red lasers fired at Doomguy in their dozens, many falling wide, others glancing him.
Doomguy sprang to life, strafing left, and then right, firing again and again at the largest masses of his enemy. The BFG tore through their ranks, killing dozens upon dozens with seemingly little effort; a walker took a green plasma bolt to the head, dicing it in half. Laser fire continued to fly around him, some of them smashing into his armour, but none of it was enough to stop him.
He continued to run side-ways in a freakish display of agile talent, escaping the worst of their return fire. The ground was a scorched ruin in his wake, where missed shots blasted sand into glass.
A trooper came out from his left, blind siding him with a point blank shot to the face; Doomguy's visor shattered, glass raking his flesh and eyes. In a rage, he reached out and put his knuckle duster through the trooper's own visor, killing them instantly. A brief flash emitted from his recently slain foe, and energy rushed into Doomguy as he absorbed the trooper's soul.
It was a familiar feeling; Euphoria gripped his senses, his muscles bulged, his skin thickened. Lasers slammed into him, seemingly having little affect, and he turned to his foe with a gleeful smile. Berserker rage flowed through him.
Doomguy charged forwards, disregarding his BFG, and leapt into the thickest part of the troopers. He launched his fist into the nearest, sending the man sprawling head over heels several feet in the other direction; knocking half a score of his comrades over in the process. Then, Doomguy turned sharply, gripped another trooper's head, and tore it from their shoulders with little effort.
"RIP AND TEAR!" Doomguy roared out, as his enemy started to back off. "RIP. AND. TEAR."
The next thirty seconds were of blood soaked madness, as Doomguy continued to rip his enemy to pieces with his bare hands. The troopers turned and ran, broken by an enemy they could not understand. A few walkers covered their retreat, firing heavy lasers at Doomguy, and knocking him back.
Weakened by the relentless enemy fire, he stumbled backwards with each blow, until he was forced to admit temporary defeat.
Saving the best for last, Doomguy managed to pull forth his semi-automatic rocket launcher as he strafed aside another barrage of heavy lasers. He responded with a salvo of missiles, that slammed indiscriminately into the walkers and the troopers they were trying to cover. One by one, they collapsed to the savagery of his assault, unable to get a clear shot as he began to run circles around them.
For a moment, it looked as if he'd just taken on a whole army - but then the enemy craft zoomed in, swarms of them, unleashing green lasers and bombs. Doomguy disappeared under the resulting explosions and smoke.
One moment, Doomguy was curled up like a baby - a baby with a plasma rifle firing a never ending arc of blue flesh-dissolving bolts - but a baby all the same. The demon had managed to get its claw across his stomach, but unsurprisingly this was not the first time he'd been hurt in such a way. A smile met his lips, as he remembered his confrontation with the Cyber Demon those many years ago. He'd come out of that fight barely alive, and this right now, was little different.
And then before he knew it, a chain of sanity-breaking events took place. A large armoured robot of a kind he'd never seen before, landed beside him with a thud, and added its devastating fire power to his plasma barrage. Beast and soldier fell, reeling from their grievous wounds, and their attack momentarily halted. Doomguy struggled to his knees, the pain in his stomach a searing heat that caused him to grow weaker and weaker by the second.
Something heavy hit him and exploded, launching him a few feet across the sand. He thought he'd been hit by a rocket, and was expecting to find his legs had gone off in their own direction, but a quick check told him that all was strangely well. In fact, he'd never felt so good! The wound across his stomach had vanished, a staggered claw mark in his green armour a monument to where it had been.
Doomguy looked around, the chaos of the battle overtaking even his own eagerness for mindless testosterone filled mayhem, and tried to make out friend from foe. He wasn't suited to this kind of warfare; his tales were of compact corridors, filled with demons standing shoulder to shoulder - of treacherous rooms, filled with obstacles and hazards. His skills, as great as they may have been, were ill suited to this slogging fest, in which far greater beings than he contested for dominance.
"Screw this," he murmured, getting to his feet. "Let's crack this nut."
There had been times in Hell, and on the moons of Mars, that Doomguy had relied on his legendary speed and agility to carry him by hordes of monsters unharmed. Such a stratagem, effective then, would hopefully prove effective now.
Dropping his plasma gun into the sand, Doomguy drew his prized chainsaw. The weapon was unremarkable in appearance, but Hell would remember well the suffering it sustained at the hands of its belted blade.
"One," he said, steadying himself. "Two." His eyes rested on the weakest part of the RoC line. "Three."
And then he was off, his feet pounding the sand quicker than a human could possibly hope to run under normal circumstances. What looked like an android, seven feet tall with shoulder-mounted rocket launchers, reached out with a clawed hand - and recoiled as Doomguy moved under the attack, and briefly shoved his chainsaw into the machine's abdomen. Before its systems could determine the damage, he had vanished.
The chainsaw ricocheted from the face of some nameless demon, and plunged into the neck of an armoured skeleton. A man in a balaclava levelled a rifle his way, but Doomguy was gone by the time he'd pulled the trigger.
The battle whirled around Dooguy as he dodged, butchered, jumped and dived his way through the explosive chaos. Many tried to stop him, and he cut them all down in kind. Before long, a carpet of corpses stood in his wake, and the tide was thinning as he reached the rear of the RoC battle line.
Fortifications graced him in the distance, a few hundred yards away. He presumed these marked the outer defences of the RoC base - or outpost - or whatever it was he was sent here to destroy. He longed for their tight corridors and the close quarters slaughter that they would undoubtedly offer him.
He cleared the ground rapidly, his chainsaw chugging and spluttering as it struggled to free itself from the muck that had started to clog the chain. It wouldn't last him much longer, but it'd nearly done its job. Doomguy kept up his sprint, swerving around what he could only guess was an Ogre, but came to a standstill when he was greeted by a solid wall made of some dark alloy. Hellspawn jeered at him from the battlements above, and he found himself weaving in and out of fireballs and lightning bolts.
This was going to be a long day.
Or was it?
The chainsaw hit the sand, as the BFG 9000 came up in his hands. He aimed the mighty weapon towards the battlements, and fired off a round. A big green ball of plasma struck the metalwork, and exploded. Dozens of the Hellspawn were instantly vaporised, and the wall crumbled outwards, providing him with a ramp of rubble to climb to the top.
Many tried to block his ascent, as more fireballs scorched the ground around him. He replied in kind, firing off more devastating green balls and smiting scores of his foe at a time.
However, as he stood upon the ramparts of Chaos, he looked back on the battle and awed at its entirety. Thousands were engaged below, as hundreds of dropships spewed forth from the sky - weaving between dog fights conducted by many smaller craft. Yeah, it certainly wasn't for him. He was nobody's cannon fodder. He was a God damned hero, the likes of which the world hadn't seen since 93'... however long ago that was; if he was going to die, it was going to be from suffocation after the masses of his downed enemies eventually smothered him in what would be the biggest corpse pile the Multiverse had ever seen.
Turning from the carnage, he looked towards the main RoC base - a series of hardened structures and towers, off in the distance. Hundreds upon hundreds more warriors of Chaos were assembling in the space between the base and the outer defences. They were as varied as they were deadly, augmented by mechanised forces and low-flying support craft. Looked to him that they were getting ready to launch a counter attack.
Instead, they were going to hit a wall. A Doom Wall.
He started to descend to meet them, taking a staircase that would convey him to the next arena; his BFG in one hand, and his knuckle duster in the other.
"Nice to meet you Penny," Doomguy uttered. "Let me bring you up to speed. That out there," he pointed towards the gaping doors of the transport ship, "is a literal beast. It will eat you up, it will chew you to pieces, digest your carcass and shit you out the other end. That's what it'll do!" He cocked his assault rifle, and checked the sights by peering down them. "When we leave that door, we're going to turn things on their head; we're going to reverse this here situation, by throwing ourselves up the literal beast's ass hole, and come out the other end. It's a basic science, and one that I'm an expert in."
With no further adieu, the Marine gave Penny a brief nod, and then turned towards the hatch. The sounds of war echoed, reaching out to greet him; men screaming and dying; women cursing in anger and injury. He'd join them soon enough, but the thought did not trouble him in the slightest. His heart beating in rhythm to the chaos, he quickened his pace into a sprint, and leapt from the transport with practised savagery.
There was indeed chaos all around; a great beast that defied the legions of Hell, swam through the air, laying waste to the frozen ground that had covered the desert basin just a moment before. A knight with flaming attire, a familiar portrait of Hell itself, stood in the background, as troops rushed around him; energised as they were, to beat back the likes of Doomguy.
A demon ran up to him, four limbed and breathing fire; Doomguy darted out of its reach, pasting its skull with hot led. Another such creature came from his side, and he leapt away, blasting its kidneys from its lower abdomen with another flurry of searing rage. Then something not unlike an Angel came for him from above, its gaze terrifying, its being holy and yet unholy - Doomguy's rifle clicked as the magazine ran empty. Throwing the rifle aside, he pulled forth his trusty Super Shotgun, a double barrelled monstrosity.
As the creature came for him, Doomguy responded in kind, unleashing a dual barrage of devastating slugs that tore the "angel" a new mouth right below its neck. It fluttered to the ground, screaming and crowing.
And then Doomguy was struck from behind by another demon, its red flesh hot to the touch, but he was able to launch it several feet backwards with a push of his booted feet. It fell onto the sand, roaring in anger, but before it had time to stand, he threw aside his super shot gun and pulled out his plasma rifle; his back a seemingly endless arsenal.
The beast charged, and Doomguy reduced its face to ash.
And as the legions of Chaos came forth, rounding on him, he could only hold down the trigger, and keep it there, until they all went away.
