Jeddaven

N.E.O. - New Earth Oracle

oglobo.globo.com.br

by Gonçalo Brandão, Lead Correspondent for American Affairs

By now, news is starting to filter across the world wide web and television of the successful bombing attack against the Hawthorne Army Depot (HWAD) near Hawthorne, Nevada, a U.S. Army Joint Munitions Command ammunition depot in one of the few remaining habitable parts of rural Nevada that remained an extremely important storage facility for the US Army's ability to wage war beyond a period of approx. thirty days. This is perhaps unsurprising, considering the facility's nickname as the "World's Largest Depot", both in terms of size (occupying nearly 150,000 acres of land) and the sheer quantity of pieces of ammunition it stored, but, what is perhaps more surprising is the sheer totality of its destruction by a "terrorist" (we use the word carefully due to the possible biases present in its use in this case) organization widely perceived as disorganized and chaotic. How could random bands of passionate rebels so completely destroy the largest ammunition depot in the world? How, indeed, when the facility was make up of thousands of hardened bunkers?

We may never know precisely how the attack was carried out, or by who, but we can know this much: any such attack, considering the apparent totality of the Depot's destruction as determined by satellite imaging (believe me, there's not much left but several thousand craters and a couple hundred of very large ones), would have required a level of organization and coordination utterly unprecedented in the history of military sabotage.

That much is clear, at least according to an EALN cell's statement on the matter on local usenet newsgroups (or perhaps it was simply due to the total incompetence of the US military, or the corporate contractors of Day & Zimmermann Hawthorne Corporation hired to protect the facility) - this was not meant at a terrorist attack. It was a planned, surgical strike against a military facility, with minimal civilian casualties.

The question remains: does the crippled US government even have the ability to stop them?

(Edit: the attack itself occured on March 10, notably an anniversary of the first paper money circulated by the US government.)

>> Date: Mon, March 11 1992, 12:00:00 -0400
>> From: =?ISO-2386-5?N?John_S j=T8ui?= [e-mail]
>> Cc: [e-mail]

[+]
>>
>> This is not an act of terrorism. This is a warning.

>> The HWAD has been destroyed, and with it, the largest storage of ammunition available to the imperialist, fascist United States military, by comrades dissatisfied with the injustices of their own government.

>> This is not a strike to create terror. Do not be afraid. We do not target civilians. We will not target civilians.

>> We are citizens of the United States government, and armed comrades of the EALN, who seek nothing but the following:

>> 1. The immediate cessation of the illegal American occupation and puppeteering of the former territories held by the nations of Canada, Mexico, the occupied territory of Greenland, Belize, Honduras, Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia, Venezuela, Ecuador, Argentina, Uruguay, Guyana, Suriname, Peru, Bolivia, Chile, Paraguay, and a others as applicable, and the subsequent holding of fully and completely democratic elections free of any interference.

>> 2. The holding of completely free and democratic elections in the territory of the United States, absent of any interference

>> 3. The disarmament of the imperialist armed forces of the United States of America as they currently exist

>> 4. Legal guarantees of non-interference in the elections of American peoples

>> Anything less, and we will continue our war in the defense of the inalienable rights of the people to "Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness". We will not accept any less. The people will not accept any less.

>> Inevitably, we will be accused of being violent, terrible terrorists. This is patently false. We attacked a military target, killing only those who willingly signed up to work for the US government at this facility, an obvious target. We will do so again. We are, nonetheless, saddened by the loss of any civilians working at the facility; this is why we chose very early Sunday morning to attack, a time when as few would be present at the facility as possible, and offer our sincere condolences.

>> Remember: this is a war. This is not and will not be an isolated incident until the demands of the people of the Americas are submitted to.
>> Everything for everyone, nothing for us!
>> Death to all enemies of the working people!

N.E.O. - New Earth Oracle

Hawthorne, Nevada

"Yeah, yeah - I've got the money." Michael sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. Unceremoniously rifling around, he extracted a hefty bundle of crisp, twenty dollar bills - and shoved it into the tan-uniformed guard's hand, rifle slung across his back. The man pulled the rubber band holding the bundle together away, rifling through them - and nodded, handing half to his partner before stepping out of the way.

"Looks good to me. You ever think about telling us why we’re getting these bonuses?” The guard said. His face was hidden behind a balaclava, but the smugness dripping from every word told Mike that he was almost definitely wearing a shit-eating grin.

Asshole.

“So you don’t ask questions.” Mike snapped back, pushing his way past him and into the concrete hallway beyond., past the label of “2073” above him. He felt like a weight had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders - as often as the conmtractors needled them, he doubted they had any idea why he was actually here. In this post-visitation world, and especially with the EALN being an active problem, most of the under-the-table bullshit that went on was the black market sale of military-grade munitions, not a quartermaster making his way down dry, poorly lit concrete hallways at hours so unholy it was a wonder he could even stay awake.

Michael hated it. He hated sneaking around, he hated being forced to bribe corporate soldiers of fortune, and he hated being constantly afraid that someone would catch him in the act and put a bullet through his brain after a short, unceremonious trial. Legally speaking, he did deserve it - but the scumbags that built the place ‘deserved’ it far more than he did.

Scanning his way past another, final airlock, he patiently waited as the blast door ahead of him creaked open on its hinges, groaning loudly thanks to years of rust and improper maintenance. He stepped inside, and after a few moments of his eyes adjusting to the darkness, was greeted with a chamber full of artillery shells - stacks upon stacks of 155mm howitzer ammunition, piled high from the floor to the ceiling in huge wooden crates packed with plenty of cushioning.

He cautiously made his way over to one of the crates, checking to make sure that the airclock had rolled shut behind him before detaching a small satchel from his hip.

Wires, a small block of C4, a blasting cap...

He didn’t have much time before the guards changed shift, and so, quietly bending over the crate, he set to work. Setting the explosive was a relatively simple matter for a EOD expert - but time was of the essence, so he quickly got to work, gingerly setting the plastic explosive into place before connecting the detonator; a tiny little electronic thing with dozens of small wires - and a tiny computerized clock - hidden inside.

The minutes rolled past without any interference from the outside, his work undisturbed by not a single sound aside from the muffled droning of the bunker’s ventilation fans, and then...

He was done.

Shifting the cushioning back into place over the tiny charge, he slid the crate’s lid closed, stuffed his things back into the satchel - and turned, making his way back outside, through the airlock.

“What were you doing in th-” one of the guards began.

“Nothing exciting.” Michael shrugged, pausing for only a moment. “Just making sure everything’s in the right place, this time.” He explained, continuing down the paved path ahead of him without so much as turning around to speak to them.

Minutes later, he was in his truck, driving quietly down the ‘359 in the dead of the quiet Nevada night, north toward Hawthorne. He whistled a quiet tune to himself, near-silently enjoying the drive until he was suddenly interrupted by the beeping of his watch.

3:30 AM, it read. Suddenly, he pulled his truck to the side of the road, stomping on the breaks as he dropped down into a bracing position, covering the back of a dull neck.

First came the sound of a dull thud, the rush of air path his vehicle - and the sound of shattering safety glass, falling onto the backs of his hands.

Daring to push himself upward, Michael glanced back, over his shoulder - and laid eyes upon the towering, orange mushroom cloud that lit up the Nevada sky.

Hell, an isekai style adventure

Can my spiritual parasite be my insurance premiums?

Crownless King

Bam. Here we go.

The Celestial Knight

"I will ask you this only once: allow me through to the Prince." Ygannea, their lilting voice tainted by the barest hints of frustration. Their knuckes, hidden behind a wall of plate such a dark shade of blue that the night left it nearly invisible, turned pale white as they gripped the tall half of a polearm, topped by a long, curved blade, its back straight as the warrior that wielded it.

Black, pitiless eyes stared two feet down at the two men standing before them, their face hidden behind a mask formed into the shape of a massive, snarling canine, befitting of the towering giant that wore it.

"You know we can't let you do that," one of the men responded, gripping the pommel of his sword. "The Prince is in danger. Nobody is to see him, by order of-"

The sound of stomping boots grew closer, resolving behind the giant. They couldn't discern how many - not yet - but time was of the essence. The men impeding them, they surmised, had gathered the same. One was already pulling his blade from its sheathe, shield at his side, legs bending into a stride. The other was bringing his weapon - a halberd - forward.

Pushing their hand upward, they tossed their weapon forward, catching it again with both in a battle-ready grip.

Their long, muscular legs carried them forward once step, then two...

And their blade sailed into the gap between the halberd-wielder's helmet and breastplate, striking with such force that it shattered the intervening chain-links and pushed the steel plates, screeching and groaning, apart. Blood guttering from his wounds, the unfortunate warrior was tossed bodily from the nigh-flawless crescent blade, crumpling to the ground like a sack of lifeless meat. The blade continued to move. Slicing downward, and toward the fallen knight's comrade, it bit into the back of his palm, failing to penetrate the steel protecting it yet striking with such meteoric force that it shattered the bones in his hand, leaving him to howl out in pain in time with the sickening crack of his ruined bones.

The giant breathed, their heart thumping to the beat of the leagues-distant hide-drums of their home so loudly it was nearly audible. They howled, too - a bellowing war-cry accented by the clatter their plate-overlaid brigandine made as they moved. They bent their neck backwards, screaming some inhuman, blood-chilling cry at the yellow moon far above.

The marching feet grew closer. Faster. More desperate.

One step. Two. They collided with the sword-wielder, tossing him to the side like a charging bull. An armored boot brought down on his neck crushed his windpipe as the giant shifted their grip, carrying their pole-weapon under a single arm. They cast a glance backward, over their shoulder, as a troop of men-at-arms poured into the atrium behind them. Their eyes glowed faintly, radiating the pale light of distant comets, and the men froze in their bodies, organs crushing and veins exploding under the pressure of the freezing water in their bodies.

N.E.O. - New Earth Oracle

The Prime Minister's Statement

My sincerest condolences go out to the family of the late Noah Martin, a young life with so many years ahead of him. Many of you are angry, demanding that the soldiers involved in the killing be tried in Canada instead of US military courts, but the simple fact of the matter is that United States Forces Canada (USFC) is the entity best equipped to properly address the incidence, and I have full confidence that our American allies will see justice done, whatever that may be. As such, I have ordered the prompt and immediate transfer of the soldiers connected to the incident from a jail in Moose Jaw to USFC. Rest assured, justice will be done.

Ottawa, Canada. One week later.

Emma almost felt sorry for Mr. Pelletier. He'd been Prime Minister ever since the United States rolled into the country, a time marked by relatively few elections called for by the opposition, an unusual circumstance in Canadian politics.

Nonetheless, clutching a microphone emblazoned with the logo of the Globe and Mail, she couldn't help herself. It must've been a nightmare to be blamed for everything by your consituents, even if you probably were a lifeless puppet hand-picked by the CIA. Briefly glancing back at the crowd behind her, then the wall of RCMP Special Protection officers in front of her, and finally the Prime Minister standing at his podium above them, she quietly wondered if anyone gave a shit about what he was saying, or were simply there to shout expletives at him. He was an old man, too, in his late sixties, with few hairs that hadn't turned grey and wispy on his head, and a slight slouch to his stance as if his spine was getting ready to give up the ghost entirely.

"I understand your anger, your frustration, but I promise all of you - I was with USFC for every step of the proceedings, and I saw no evidence of corruption."

"Didn't see any?" Someone shouted from a few steps behind her. "What, were you too busy with the President's dick in your mouth to notice anything else?!"

"Yeah! How'd his balls taste?" Someone else added.

She was forced to clap her hand over her mouth to suppress the urge to laugh, narrowly holding back the noise.

The Prime Minister continued, undeterred; he was probably used to being belittled by now, she reasoned.

"...Furthermore, in fact, I saw the opposite. The proceedings were completely free of miscarriage of justice, and I have full confidence that the verdict that was delivered is the correct one. The judge presiding over the case was quite strict, to the point that I'm certain absolutely nothing could have slipped past his watchful eyes."

"Bullshit! That's fucking bullshit, asshole, and you know it! They flattened a fucking kid and drove off like it was nothing!"

"Now,' he continued, clutching his podium a little tighter as the crowd surged forward, pushing Emma to the RCMP officers that seemed entirely unwilling to lift a finger. Was Pelletier sweating?

"The facts of the case indicate that simply wasn't likely the truth. The truck was moving too quickly for the soldiers to have noticed young Noah until it was too late, and the vehicle was too tall for them to see him. Furthermore, they reported the incident to their superiors as soon as they arrived back at their base, and they were-"

"Then it's their fault for going too fast!" Someone else shouted. Emma tensed, feeling the crowd surge behind her.

"-they both showed great remorse for their actions, and young Noah shouldn't have been in the road at the time."

Even Emma knew that one was bullshit. The rest of the crowd did too, it seemed, devolving into loud, angry shouts, expletives thrown about in French and English. The bombardment was relentless, so much so that his bodyguards were finally forced into action, moving toward P.M. Pelletier to escort him away.

"On s’en coliss! Mon tabarnak!" A man shouted. Emma turned toward the source of the voice, and although she couldn't see the face it originated from, she saw a hand - a hand, holding a large rock.

The next few moments passed at a molasses-slow place. First, she saw the arm cock back. Then, it twisted forward.

The man's grip on the rock loosened as he reached the apex of his throw.

The rock leapt from his hands.

It struck the Prime Minister in the forehead. The man wobbled, and for a moment, it looked like he might stay conscious. Then his eyelids flopped close as he careened towards the podium, his neck snapping backwards on impact with a sickening crack. The bodyguards were on him not long afterwards, hauling him back up to his feet, while the crowd continued to surge dangerously forward, forcing the wall of RCMP to retreat.

"Worthless fucking puppet!"

"Doughead!"

"Keener!"

"T'es une osti de vidange!"

"Decriss!"

Within days, cities across Canada were bursting into flames, and Prime Minister Pelletier was dead.

N.E.O. - New Earth Oracle

Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan

Liam hated his job.

Moving cargo from one end of Canada to the other wasn't easy. Even before the Visitation, it was a job plagued with bad roads, even worse weather, and long, thankless hours.

Post visitation, many of the problems were the same, if not far, far worse.

Roads were often destroyed at random. Trucks often had to divert from the Trans-Canada highway due to sudden, supernatural weather. The only respite was the series of fortified towns situated along the highways, havens from the devastation in the wilderness, even though it was less impactful than in America largely due to the sheer emptiness of much of Canada compared to its southern brother.

Today, sipping away at a glass of Crown Royal in a bar in, he was drinking to a comrade - Alex Jackson - lost in one such freak weather incident. Silent, aside from his soft breathing, and the occasional noise of him scratching at his thick, bushy brown beard.

The worst part, though, was the Americans. The Canadian military was far too small to escort every truck that moved across the country, so the US military, invited by a newly 'elected' government, stepped in to fill the gaps. New bases, new posts - most of the bigger convoys were being 'escorted' by Americans now, and those who didn't want it were quickly shut down, just like dozens of other businesses hostile to the 'Canadian' government or its American 'friends'.

Friends, Liam growled under his breath, resisting the urge to spit out the word if only to save the bartender - a young, blonde woman - the wasted time cleaning it up.

Pushing himself up from his seat, he let out a strained grunt, straightening out the worn leather jacket resting on his shoulders. Liam turned, about to make his way for the restroom - only to be interrupted by the sound of a rapidly accelerating truck, followed by a series of sharp, terrified screams.

"Oh my god! Oh my god, Noah! My baby!" Someone shouted - an older woman, by the sound of her voice.

Within moments the bar emptied, the entirety of its patrons rushing outside - Liam included.

They were too late.

The broken body of a child lay strewn across the crosswalk, his mother kneeling by his body as a boxy US Army truck sped off into the distance.

War Never Changes III: Annals of the East

The faint smell of burning alcohol hung in the air as the RCMP Vessel Mississauga trundled along through the Erie canal, belching ethanol fumes into the air as it went. Its deck buzzed with activity, men and women dressed in plate carriers and forest camouflage manning their posts. Oliver Adams, for his part, stood at his station, a small cannon with a large, cylindrical drum attached to the side, his lightweight body armour dragging down on his shoulders.

Some small part of him almost wished he'd get the chance to use it. For more hours than he could count, though, he'd been listening to the crazed - and entertaining - ramblings of the former Gunner on the radio.

At least he can pick his music well, the Sergeant thought, and he keeps his guns pointed in the right direction.

Bored, he placed his hands on the old cannon's grip, swivelling the gun around on its mount. he wasn't too worried about being caught offguard - after all, the ship he was on carried far more firepower than was necessary to deter raiders - and he was protected by several inches of armor, both the boat's 'railing' and his gun's shield. Raiders were garbage shots, and even if they weren't, he assumed some mortar fire, at least half a dozen Ma Deuce, several twenty-millimeter cannons, and a handful of Bofors would do the job. Most of the hardware was old, and without point defense lasers, the boat was still vulnerable...

But for a wasteland riverboat, it was more than enough.

Every once in a while, though, some idiots hopped up on Psycho tried to jump them, or some Gunners showed up to cause trouble. It was only the latter that worried him, he thought, swivelling his mount across the treeline, firing imaginary shells at imaginary attackers.

Again... And again... And again. Nobody showed up. Nobody caused problems for the Foreign Affairs Minister, and that made his job all that much easier. Letting out a yawn, he finally released his grip on the gun mount, leaning back against the wall behind him.

Can't see shit out there, anyways. Even if the Gunners showed up, they couldn't hit shit in this weather, he thought, briefly sticking out his gloved hand out from beneath cover, catching a handful of raindrops.

Turning to his left, toward the bow of the ship, he peered far into the distance, down the last stretch of the Erie canal toward the Albany docks. He could see the faint, blinking lights of the radio tower in the distance, a mostly useless relic of a time when civil aviation existed.

"Hey, Campbell! It's your turn to watch the gun!" He shouted, turning to head into the bowels of the ship, eager to change out of his body armour.

The people in town always loved their red sarges.

---

[/hr]

Straightening out his beige Stetson, Oliver sucked in a deep breath, carefully making his way down the gangplank and onto the Almont docks. Fishermen and traders buzzed about the place, some hawking goods, others gawking at the comparatively massive gunboat, the pristine flag of Ronto flying below the Canadian flag on a second, smaller pole. It felt good, honestly, being at the center of attention, even if a good chunk of the townsfolk thought Oliver looked like a stuffy asshole in his carefully maintained uniform, a leather holster clasped shut at his hip.

Making his way down the gangplank, he couldn't help but remember stories his grandparents told him of when the first Canadian Army soldiers rolled into their village. He wondered how many of these people felt the same about him as he gently pushed his way through the teeming crowd, pausing only to glance back at his fellow officers, confirming his departure one last time.

Now, though, it was finally time to get a drink.

War Never Changes III: Annals of the East

@Irredeemable In regards to the Navy, Ronto has a pretty large riverine and lakebound fleet, mostly for defensive purposes and protecting trade. Blue water naval stuff is mostly handled by PageMaster's dudes, which actually exemplifies something that's fairly common in Ronto - one of the ways they've managed to be so effective is through smart delegation, even if that means passively delegating an unofficial 'job' to another nation-state. The Red Devils, for example, operate fairly independently, and much of the army, which it has a command structure, emphasizes ability to operate independently yet cooperatively, because of the way I have the Canadian military going guerilla when the Americans invaded.

As for defeated foes, Ronto's policy could be described as fairly light, barring treatment of US government personnel and especially egregious raiders. Lots of them get firing squads. Negotiating with an organization like the Enclave, in that it tries to represent the pre-war US, aren't so much an unlikelihood as much as they are an impossibility. It's shoot to kill or prison camps for them. For other people, though, there's a lot of 'forgiveness' offered, and unique cultures that have joined Ronto (such as some tribals in the Southern Ontario region) are given votes and all like you might expect, but they're encouraged to keep their own cultural identities intact. Ronto's policy towards conquered people or groups that accede to them, then, can generally be described as this; "they've survived this long. We'll help where they want it, but they must've been doing something right."

I think that would be a (if not the biggest) point of contention between Ronto and the Confederacy, barring debates over who has rights to Southern Ontario. Ronto might generally respect multiculturalism, but the country is still generally pretty certain that it's got morality figured out. Sometimes that's for the better (I'd argue it is in the case of opposition to slavery), but sometimes it's for the worse.

War Never Changes III: Annals of the East

@Jeddaven

I wonder if Ronto might have some Confederacy Pathfinders, and vice-versa. Also, what’s Ronto’s opinion on slavery? The Confederacy does practice slavery, but in quite a ‘gentrified’ sense, where slaves are taken into a family whilst being unpaid labour- probably one of the nicer places to be a slave, but still a slave.

@Irredeemable

I could see that, honestly. The reason tribals are so valued in the Pathfinder corps is because of their experience in living off the land and understanding the local natural surroundings better than the city folk; Ronto would find Confederacy Pathfinders valuable for Pathfinder operations outside of their territory because of that assumed experience.

As for slavery, Ronto generally opposes it - I think their opinion on this gentrified slavery would be advocacy against it, but not to an outright militant degree unless the Confederacy threatens Ronto. Their policy of non-interference and occasional support of First Nations peoples would conflict here - on the one hand, they're trying to right the wrongs of the old world Canadian government, but, on the other hand, slavery is something they view as fundamentally wrong, so... it's a bit of an open question. Honestly, I see that question as someone to be debated in Ronto's parliament - if it were more openly egregious chattel slavery, however, there'd be calls for war.

War Never Changes III: Annals of the East

A fun question for everyone: What is your faction's elite? Their Brotherhood Paladins, their Institute Coursers, their NCR Veteran Rangers?

The Grand Confederacy doesn't hold to traditional Haudenosaunee beliefs regarding those killed in wartime (although they do believe that those killed in the Great War remain to haunt the world,) mostly because it's impractical to have such a societal taboo when it comes to dying in battle when 80% of the threats out there will kill you violently. Their elites are Turtle Warriors: named partially after the capital, and partly after the fact that they're the only ones permitted to wear Power Armour. Turtle Warriors are trained at Bonfire Base, the former Camp Greyling, and are expected to not only be entirely self-sufficient on the field, but also superlative soldiers, and are outfitted with the best weaponry the Confederacy has access to, most of which was also taken/made from the blueprints they got from Camp Greyling.

@Irredeemable

There are a couple elements to that for Ronto. First and foremost are the boys in red - the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. They serve roles similar to the RCMP in real life; although the military handles actual assaults against fortified Raider positions, the RCMP handles a lot of the actual hunting down fugitives, some elements of border control, and, of course, the good ole' handling of 'federal crime'. Now, Ronto's government isn't as centralized as any IRL government, but they're doing what they can to bring civilization back, and that includes a federal legal code. They also handle protection duty for Federal officials such as the Prime Minister and Governor General, which, although they somewhat resemble a real-world secret service, the nature of the enemies they face more often than not means they're kitted out in full, obvious combat gear, even if it's dressed up quite a bit. Trained to the nines, these dudes are, unlike the modern RCMP, expected to regularly get themselves into combat situations.

Next, the Pathfinders. Likewise based on the Canadian military formation of old, the Pathfinder serve a similar role as to before - that is to say, as an elite, highly trained reconnaissance force, with the secondary missions of evacuating civilians from combat zones and acting as a deep penetration infiltration/light infantry force. They don't do much resembling modern special forces, and instead operate more akin to the what the names says they do - finding the best ways to reach places safely for the rest of the troops.. They're lightly armed and armored, but are well-trained nonetheless, and frequently equipped with small, fast boats, off-road jeeps and buggies, and the like. Tribals willing to sign up for the Pathfinders are highly valued - while there are plenty of experienced people from the towns and cities of Ronto, they're generally less familiar with the wildlandscape, being that, well, they didn't live in it.

Royal Canadian Horse Artillery - I wouldn't call these guys 'elite' in the traditional sense of the word, but they're highly regarded enough that they might as well be. These are the guys in charge of most the field artillery used by the army of Ronto - the howitzers, rocket artillery, and other heavy weapons they've managed to scrounge together. Now, the wasteland being the wasteland, this is hardly a real world national military's artillery regiment, but it's enough for the wasteland, for the most part. They mostly grew out of a frequent need to bust up bunkers and fortified military positions; essentially, kicking former American troops and raiders out of military bases or other heavily fortified camps. They've seen a bit less field use lately, but they're kept kicking because of the looming threat of the Gunners and, to a lesser extent, the Enclave.

The Royal Canadian Dragoons - like the Horse Artillery, the Dragoons were revived out of a need to have a force dedicated to the effective use and maintenance of salvaged and produced military vehicles in Ronto, a veritable soup of various designs. The dragoons don't see a ton of use, however, as the armour they have is both extremely valuable and difficult to maintain, and are mostly deployed against similarly mobile forces of raiders or unusually well equipped foes. Theoretically, they're expected to fight anything from the (now destroyed) Talon Company, to the Gunners, to the Brotherhood (should they decide to try and take Ronto's technology) or the Enclave, so you can imagine they'd be trained to an extremely high standard as a result. Big guns.

The Red Devils: based on the US-Canadian regiment of old and pieced together from fragmentary information from the bunkers beneath the ruined CFB Petawawa, the Red Devils are probably the closest thing to a real special forces unit Ronto has, but they're far closer to a mishmash of the Black Watch or, to use a Fallout example, the Desert/NCR rangers. In other words, they're a somewhat independent force, mostly 'light' infantry, though still relatively effective at sabotage and assassination-type missions. Almost all of the power armor has been thrown in here, though most of it's relatively light Canadian pre-war suits, slightly modified and stripped down American armour, or a handful of stealthsuits from their Chinese friends. Command is split between the old Chinese ghoul and their exiled ranger buddy. These guys are the cream of the crop, the best armed and armoured motherfuckers in Ronto, and they're the source of a lot of stories about Ronto's military might - daring raids, devastatingly lethal ambushes on cruel raiders, strikes against slavers, and the like. Infantry laser and plasma weapons also almost all go here, with very few exceptions - the Pathfinders, for example, are expected to work behind enemy lines for a very long time and need to be able to scavenge, so energy weapons aren't really practical for them. With few exceptions, people that get here are volunteers already experienced in other branches of the military, or exiles from other groups that can prove that can be trusted and have a fuckload of experience, like Brotherhood exiles. Standards for entry, though, are extremely high, and training's harsh enough that even that cream of the crop doesn't always make it through. They're probably the closest unit yo your Turtle Warriors

All-in-all, while I see Ronto's military as organized (for the wasteland), commanders are still expected to be able to make decisions on the fly. imho, the biggest advantage Ronto has is relatively solid access to radio communications equipment. They aren't really interested in expansionism, especially into the territory of nations that aren't actively trying to take territory from them, but they've grown to rely on their military (rather than economic importance as Reno or New Vegas might have) to keep them safe. I like to think of it as a policy of aggressive defense; of maintaining Ronto's safety by trying to keep civilization intact in its surroundings through occasional intervention. That's why Ronto supports the People of Three Fires in their control of Manitoulin - Manitoulin is strategically importance for keeping the Great lakes safe, but as long as the lakes are kept safe, Parliament couldn't care less about who controls it.