Jeep Wrangler

RAINBOW SIX: Reckoning

if things get too hectic here, or there's demand for it, i was totally gonna make a discord server. for now though gonna stick to this, keeps things nice and organized.

Appreciate the offer my man.

@Caasicam

Sounds good! Can't wait to see this RP unfold. Will work on my character either tonight or tomorrow

RAINBOW SIX: Reckoning

<Snipped quote by LetMeDoStuff>

sounds good, if you've got any questions about the particulars of this setting and such feel free to ask. or if you wanna do some worldbuilding of your own; i tried to keep the universe as blank slate-ish as possible to give people creative freedom in developing characters.

@Caasicam

Love it!

By the way, if you need it, I host a discord server where people can use specified channels as OOCs for quicker communication. If you want to set an OOC up there for this RP I can get that sorted as well, but for the time being I'll communicate here : D

RAINBOW SIX: Reckoning

sure thing! got plenty of room. if things start to get too busy i'll probably just end up getting a co-gm to help run missions, but honestly this format works well with a large group anyway. not putting any sort of limit on numbers of characters either, if people feel so inclined to make more than one for use.

@Caasicam

I'd love to, I had a saved concept for a R6 character I'll drop by you. It's definitely contained within the R6 universe. Will get something up tomorrow!

RAINBOW SIX: Reckoning

Hey, I'd love to join this RP scenario, if you would have me as well?

RAINBOW SIX: Reckoning

If this is still going, I'll keep my eyes on it!

Ask the Person Below You a Question v2

About 2 years. I had been role playing on a private forum, largely with close friends and a sibling here and there. Without getting into specifics, things gradually became toxic and not fun as they use to be. It turned me off to the hobby for a long time. I didn't really get back into it before coming here and trying it again with a bunch of new people. Sometimes doing the same old thing with new faces is enough to resurrect your interest in something.

If you could own any animal as a pet, what would it be and why?

@BrokenPromise

Honestly, if I could own any animal as a pet it'd have to be a small bird of some sorts, something interactive and active to work with. I like animals that are fun to hang around and ones that can form a bond between, though that could really be anything. Plus an avian is one of the few things I've never owned.

What are new writing genres you want to work towards or experiment with, once you get the chance?

~ 1959: Into the Darkness ~ - Vietnam Dieselpunk [Open]

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"Seventeen what?" The sudden interception of his silent thought came from another voice, a low and sombre one. It was a change from the irritant familiarity that came from Mucker's personal conversations. Changes were sometimes welcomed by Lucas...sometimes. He lifted his head from his dazed cognition. As if the heavens had dumped the polar opposite figure from the pale-faced, tight-necked Corporal that had been following him around. She, on the other hand, was definitely something else. Greased with the dirt and grime plucked straight from engines she'd familiarised herself with. Mechanics weren't too common around the Firebase, but indeed they were a crucial asset to maintain operational support from walkers, tanks and vehicles alike. She'd seemed to have caught onto his private ramblings, quizzing his counting at least. He spent so much time wandering around in his thoughts that he eventually heard a second intercepting voice split through the two of them. Another woman, this time.

He didn't know the second any more than the first, but she was again far more different than the previous accomplice he'd been tortured through conversation. In turn, they spoke to the mechanic with a short but almost intrusive ponder. Bingo. She'd guessed it. Artillery counting: the soldier's alternative to counting sheep. Those European cattle-like animals weren't exactly something Vietnam could hold dearly. Too dangerous, Lucas thought to himself, and far to wild. The actual wildlife of Vietnam was still mostly a mystery. Reptiles and birds, equally outnumbered by the countless seas and mounds of insects, roamed free in the depths of the jungles and mountains alike. The woman had almost stalked into the scene without Lucas properly realising it. They conversed very lightly, more so on a one-sided note, whilst Lucas simply rubbed his eyes to alleviate the stress of waiting. Always, the waiting was the worst part.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Counting artillery." His unenthusiastic voice dribbled into the conversation lightly, beginning with a seedy implant of short responses. Knowing full well it wasn't satisfactory to the conversation, and considering he'd been almost wishing for a new talking partner, he continued to respond to her original question beforehand. "How am I? Fuck if I know. My hand hurts a little bit from earlier, caught it on the hammer of my 1911 during that morning raid. Ain't exactly bad, but every little thing adds up, I guess. What about you Private-"

He tried to search for some sort of collar or name-tag written upon her, but with his blurred vision he couldn't exactly focus on any sort of dog tag. Instead, he left the question there, rubbing his eyes once more to wake him up a little more. Turning back to the mechanic, he simply nodded, pointing at the second infiltrator's position as if to say she already answered her question. Counting was something simple, something almost sane in the dire depths of Vietnam. They weren't too far from Saigon, maybe fifty minutes or so by car if the roads weren't bogged down. To call Embers the depths was almost a lie, no matter how far into the hellish landscape it was. Nothing ever really felt distant from the war itself. Old wars had frontlines, ones that established truly where the fighting would happen. In Vietnam, it was anywhere at anytime. In cities, any wandering citizen could be just another Charlie waiting to gut them. Chances were sometimes too painful to take. It wasn't uncommon for a cautious soldier to intercept the nearest stalking Vietnamese cityfolk with a bullet.

Clearing his mind from its tangent yet again, he returned to the world of the present. Momentary bliss flickered his mind as he felt the sudden urge to talk more, but his mouth simply remained shut, unable to really add anything of value. He was a Sergeant, not a conversationalist. Eventually, the tank-top woman spoke up a second time, asking him a more direct question he could properly answer.

"Out? Oh well, I mean me and my group aren't heading out until tomorrow. Day's off today. Pulled those strings to grant us that extra time. They'll prolly send someone from Charlie Company instead. You're coming with us, I guess?" He unscrewed the slippery lid to his flask and swung another swig down his coarse throat. The bitterness of its tasteless punch really hit the target, scratching the same itch he'd felt earlier that morning. It was a nice way to properly relax, especially considering the Australian group previously stationed there had taken all of their marijuana back with them. Outsourcing was going to be a requirement for that full stress-relief urge many of the Firebase's staff yearned for. "I mean if you're with us for a bit I gotta warn you for a bit. You'll be stepping into some shoes a few of my squadmates would rather not be filled. Standard stuff, you know. Guess they're still new to the fact people drop like flies if they aren't careful."

Left rambling, he only then realised the presence of two greenhorns entering the scene. Unlike the other two, this seemingly comedic couple ran through a formal, yet disjointed, procedure of introductions. Linde and Therese, coming in straight away with an embarrassing set of innocence dragged into his presence. Innocence. He'd forgotten what it was like for someone to simply be that naive. The situation was going to get worse for them, so he simply built himself up on the inside, planning what to say with a short pause after they'd finished. By all means, Lucas wasn't trying to deter them from being around him, only reminding them of their place here in Vietnam.

"Oh geez, here we go..." Lucas sighed, standing up and holding his helmet beneath his arms again. He tucked his flask deep into his pockets and stretched his back, arms and legs for a second. "First things first, stop calling me Sir, I'm no officer. It's either Sergeant, Sarge or whatever substitute that works, just not Sir, please." Going back to their introductions, he listened to their names in his head quietly. Specifically, the latter caught him off guard, realising they shared the same surname. At first he passed it off as siblinghood, but when the thought crossed his mind yet again he realised that the differentiation was just...well it wasn't as clear as he imagined. He pondered the alternatives before quietly muttering beneath his breath. "Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to put a couple on their first assignment?" Having cleared his rant in solitude, he looked back up to the pair and sighed, nodding in uncertainty. He didn't really know how to react to the two that had approached him. "You two are serious wet wipes, no offence. Either way, I guess this is your welcome party then. Don't really know what you want."

For reasons he wasn't sure of, he felt particularly spiteful in his delivery, sharpening his words and instilling a piercing energy to his words. Perhaps it was the death of Weber that was still aching his very cold and desolate heart. After all, friends were still friends, even if their deaths were to be expected coming towards the second year of his Vietnam service. He didn't want to go home to face the happy-go-lucky society that Therese and Linde presented, not after what he'd become accustomed to. Instead, he simply sat back and nodded back at the mechanic.

"So who're you? Guess it's always nice to meet the behind-the-scene gals and guys every now and then." Not too long after she started her response, a tap came on his shoulder. Behind him stood a weary private, nodding and mouthing silently that someone was here to see him, or vice versa. He couldn't tell. Lucas took a second to remind himself of the correspondent, the one who was going to be attached to his squad like a leech, photographing the true nature of the war for whatever philanthropic reasoning she likely had. Deep down, he really hoped that she was able to pull a trigger when needed. He'd seen her work, at least the bare minimum required to understand her tale. He forgot her name in the heat of his tiredness, but did recognise her notoriety throughout her junior journalistic years. Now she was stepping into some bigger boots, getting her feet a little dirty. Maybe she expected a puddle of mud, unaware she was about to sink into ten feet of shit. Lucas excused himself from the group and went into an empty mess-tent, one where his normal patrol gear was waiting, rifle and webbing included. Perhaps she wanted some early shots, perhaps not. Either way, she'd meet him there, and it was only a matter of waiting. Besides his own equipment was a handout of defensive clothing for her to don, amusing but probably as worthless as the helmet upon his head.

_{@Nyxira@Smike@Landaus Five-One@Mk2}

~ 1959: Into the Darkness ~ - Vietnam Dieselpunk [Open]

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Cynthia Ward

	Cynthia Ward 'Speedy' 5'4" | 120lbs | 24 Years | Heterosexual Birthplace: Manhattan, New York War Correspondent for the New York Times

Profile

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Appearance

5'4" and slender, Cynthia Ward would be described as a dainty and petite woman to those who saw her. She keeps her blonde hair short and neat, just above shoulder-length. Constantly pushing up her ill-fitted helmet or correcting her round glasses, it's clear she's no soldier, but her focused demeanor tell she's here for a reason.A camera is strung along her neck like jewelry, resting above a press badge on her oversized flak jacket. Rolls of film, tapes, and other accessories are fitted neatly into pouches and pockets. Cynthia tries to maintain her femininity despite the military attire she’s forced to wear while on the field. Lipstick, nails painted pink, things of this nature help her feel more at home despite the environment.

Personality

Despite her Small Frame, Cynthia is a fierce person. Driven to prove herself in a field where many people's voices fall short, Cynthia is a stubbornly determined and dedicated woman.While known to be a no nonsense,argumentative and at times overbearing journalist. Cynthia is actually quite sweet to those who get to know her on a personal level. She’s as quick with a compliment as she is with a helping hand.

She chose to become a War correspondent because of her distaste for how the war was being portrayed in the media. The government boasts of great victories and positive strides toward ending the war, but the soldiers coming home seem more like broken men than returning heroes. This reality crushed her, and she felt it was being under reported in the news which made her feel worse still. These feelings were in large part of why she went to Vietnam in the first place. She was driven to report the Vietnam War from the perspective of the soldier, to lend a real voice to the men and women who seemed to be suffering in silence.

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Rank and Role

Civilian - War Correspondent

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Biography

Cynthia Ward was the first of two children in a wealthy family of Judges and Lawyers in Manhattan New york. Only a year apart from her younger sister Caroline, the two of them wanted for nothing at an early age. They attended the same charter schools, and even had the same friends growing up. It was during highschool when differences in their personality began to appear. While Caroline became to focus more on her status as a socialite, flaunting her families money and status to host lavish parties and quickly becoming one of the more popular girls in their school; Cynthia focused on her studies, her goals of attending a prestigious college trumping her desire to be popular within the same Crowds as her sister.

After highschool, Cynthia pursued a degree in Journalism in a prestigious college. Her grades during highschool affording her the opportunity to attend with a scholarship. She excelled in her studies, even if she disappointed her parents by not pursuing law, they were proud of her dedication to the path she’d chosen for herself. They used their connections to help Cynthia get a job with the New York Times after she finished her schooling as a Cub reporter. Quickly she excelled in this position as well, becoming a notable name within the paper.

In 1958, Cynthia was working on getting her credentials to work in the White house when the war in vietnam broke out. Reports of the conflict drew her attention, they boasted great victories, but soldiers would come back seemingly broken. Deciding that real news was needed to be covered overseas, she would implore, and use her parents connections with her bosses within the paper to get sent overseas as a war correspondent, she intended to report the soldiers' experience.

Equipment

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Field and On-Duty

• Press Helmet and Flak armor.(To be received IC)
• War Correspondent Badge
• Handheld Camera
• Cassette tapes and rolls of film.
• Tape Recorder
• Leather Journal and assorted tools to write.

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Theme
TBD

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@MK2

Accepted boyo

~ 1959: Into the Darkness ~ - Vietnam Dieselpunk [Open]

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"18th August, 1959. Day's been going by restlessly. A woman clad in Ao-Dai lit up Delta Company's boys like a 4th of July cracker, fucked 'em real good, I'll say. They were stood on the Eastern side of Firebase Ember and the attack came as it always did, without a sound. Thunders from the Jungle really hit them hard. Seven dead in eight seconds flat. Efficient, but that's all I'll give the Charlies credit for. Two started bawling their eyes out, one even complained that the grenade had taken her fingers clean off. Never found her index or ring finger. Guess she isn't getting married now.

And what was I doing when this all went down? Always the same. Downing yet another flask just really hit that itch today. I knew it was going to be a bad day, I just didn't know it was going to be that bad. Later that morning the artillery boys thumped sixteen shells over the horizon. I counted them all. Probably supporting the Armoured Patrol that went out last week, probably. When the gunfire first started on that Eastern side I did all I could. Grabbed something dangerous and joined the first responders. Some fired sporadically into the bushes, hoping to just catch her off guard. Sounded like something hit her on the way out though, bit of unknown blood was left behind. Well, with some luck she'll bleed to death, or maybe catch an infection or three. I'd feel bad if she didn't fucking deserve it.

As always, it's been well over the year. Every morning I tell myself that. One year. One whole-fuckin'-year stuck in some country I should give a shit about, but don't. Every page of this whole journal probably says that at some point. Don't care though.

Weber got hit badly by the grenade. Gonna miss his cooking. His eyes were bloody and his skin was stained with mud, steel and whatever inside juices found from the buddy stood next to him. Always found it weird how the German got my hopes up, considering the last great war. When they brought him past me on a stretcher he looked fuming, spreading language so foul even I fear writing it down, just in case 'Ma' reads this someday. Either way, the chances of him making it are low, obviously finite. Asked the CO to send word if he survives and to never mention him again if he doesn't. Later on the rest of his platoon fought over the scraps of his latest meal. Took the sauerkraut from the now sour Kraut. I'd laugh about it if his stomach wasn't torn open.

Don't know what I'll do for the rest of the day. Most of the people I'd talk to get killed last month anyway. Might visit Saigon, might just go on a patrol, maybe if I'm lucky I'll find someone to kill. As always, if this is the last page taken from my corpse, tell Dad I love him."

And at last, Lucas tucked his pen back into his left breast pocket. Was it nearly out of ink? Probably. He didn't care, he could have just swiped another from whichever greenhorn came to replace the recently deceased. They'd become his form of currency. Most of them were easy to scavenge by when his eyes were turned to the correct places. Five months before a local officer stationed nearby was fragged by his men, all of whom were charged heavily with the bullets of those who caught them. Lucas didn't know the guys, instead he grabbed the pens from the aftermath of it all. A pen without ink gave him anxiety. Anxiety was something that instilled discomfort within his head. Discomfort usually led to a lack of focus. And when his focus found itself in shadows he'd find himself never being found again, sprawled across the bedding of nearby fauna. Thinking about losing his last pen took his mind away from a place of reconciliation. Lucas promptly closed his journal and tied it back up, placing it back into his flock of personal belongings. Now out of sight, Lucas returned to the real world, the gritty and distinctively more ghastly one rather than the one written on paper.

Somewhere nearby, the same radio played the same popular song requested by the same platoon in a different part of Vietnam. Johnathon Rogers' distinctive voice would occasionally break in between songs, throwing in a quip or two to help alleviate the men and women in green, easing in that reminder of what the American homeland sounded like. Four hours felt like four weeks and four days felt like four years. Home was a distant memory. Home was not really a concern anymore. To some of the soldiers scattered around Firebase Ember, the war had no threat to the United States, except for the men and women sent in to deal with it. Lucas didn't remember where he stood, or what he believed in, and took each day slowly, with a rifle in one hand and a flask in the other. Life wasn't always that miserable for him. Sometimes the other infantrymen would get him to play a round of baseball with them, or have a large sing-along to whatever terrible songs they all found utterly hilarious. When Weber was around they'd occasionally chant old Germanic war songs, in jest of course. Weber always found their awful German dialects to be hilarious. Lucas sometimes did too.

There were many things that Sergeant Whittaker had been expecting that day. More artillery shells or another attack were some of the lesser important ones. On his mind mostly was the apparent arrival of a reporter, a war correspondent of sorts, being attached to his very squad, or what was left of it. Those under Whittaker's command were loosely spread in every direction. Corporal Mucker had always been by his side since the last eight months had passed. Lucas would've been grateful if he didn't find him insufferable to work with. Some other names he barely remembered filled up some other boots: Hilton, Granger, Murdoc, Bishop and Bolton. Five men, two women. It was barely a squad anymore. If the war correspondent were to be attached to the Sergeant's accompaniment, then Lucas only hoped that they knew how to handle a gun if they really wanted to take some good photos. To him, a good photo was one taken by a photographer who hadn't been killed yet.

Occasionally, the woman in Ao-Dai came back to his mind. Hatred followed. Or was it genuine fear? He didn't know. He didn't want to see another woman like that. An old part of himself would've hoped she'd made it back to her home alive. Lucas instead swore for her death to at least come quickly before she split another skull open. Why she attacked the Firebase was beyond his understanding. No one ever truly understood the enemy, that was what made them so demonic.

"Ey, Lighter, you got one?" And just as the spawns of hell answered his stray thoughts, he turned up to add to the day's shortcomings. "Murdoc told me to suck it when I asked for her one."

Slipping his helmet by his side, Lucas too one clear look at his interceptor. Corporal Alfred 'Mucker' Muceroni. Fogged up on each lens, Lucas could barely see the man's eyes beneath his spectacles. Mundane and barely changed, his uniform still somehow retained an original pristine sharpness to it. Creases were few in numbers and its muddy complexion had been washed out through hard work and a general waste of time, at least in Lucas' eyes. The GI held out a hand, gesturing for his Sergeant to hand him his own lighter.

"Would you be surprised if I told you to suck it, too?" Deadpan in his glare, Lucas waited for his Corporal's response. He seemed to withhold his confidence, stepping back as if shocked to hear his crude and impolite Sergeant crack out yet another insignificant answer to the insignificant problem. Before Mucker could say much, Lucas smirked to himself before looking into his pockets for a few seconds. "Where is your own lighter, Corporal?"

"I don't know, Sergeant." Even in his formal responses, Lucas couldn't help but be slightly annoyed by his presence. He quickly challenged his lack of knowledge with a raised eyebrow, quietly slotting his gaze into Mucker's dishonest pupils. In his silent interrogation, the nearby shudder of Huey blades soared across the valley and the arrival of a few truckloads of soldiers revamped the awkward inactivity of the Firebase. "A-Alright, I lost it whilst I was doing the last cleaning round..."

How this man had survived eight months in Vietnam was beyond his understanding. What also baffled Lucas was how the man was a Corporal. The aforementioned Murdoc would've made a better candidate. Rough, hardheaded and easy to lend a hand if lives were at risk, she was the sort of squadmate that Lucas enjoyed having around. She wasn't exactly a conversationalist though, much like the rest of their merry band. In a minor way, he hoped the arrival of the replacements, nearby grunts, approaching war correspondent or anyone yet to be acquainted was going to strike up a conversation he desperately wanted. Besides, the day would end quicker for him. Worst case scenario, he always had the brothels of Saigon if the day truly was that dull.

"You're really wasting your time, Corporal. Not even the officers care if you look like a rat's ass. Stop losing stuff." Lucas tossed Mucker his own personal lighter, letting him quickly light his own cigarette before him. Once the Corporal had settled his qualm, he handed it back and stood there, puffing away desperately for that ashy release. "Anyway, can you go tell Murdoc we aren't going on patrol today? I've gotten us moved to tomorrow. Need another day's rest."

"Really?" Mucker perched up, straightening his back and letting a smile slip through his miserable tone. "Glad to hear that. Each day we spent out of the trees the better. Can't stand the shi-"

"If you're going to break into another monologue you can go stand over there where I can't hear or see you, thanks." Mucker looked to where he pointed, sighting the nearest officer's tent layered with hundreds of radio communcations equipment. The Corporal frowned yet he still submitted to the request of departure. Quietly, he nodded and walked off, muttering a small ounce of gratitude towards Lucas sharing his lighter. Personally, Lucas didn't think he was a bad guy, but rather just one who wasn't suited for the war. There was the greenhorns, the protesters, the draft dodgers, the volunteers, the veterans and the hardasses who didn't see anything as morally questionable. Mucker was stuck in the mindset of a GI bound with pride, at least in the sense that if he copied the mannerisms of some Napoleonic NCO maybe he'd be seen as efficient. The guy could barely shoot, at least when he was needed to. Lucas was sure that Mucker hadn't even killed a single Charlie since their reassignment to one another, whilst Lucas had counted each of the nineteen he'd put down in combat. Specifically the ones that were in combat. Sometimes he refused to count the ones from executions or fleeing from arrest. Sometimes he liked to pretend they were never really there in the first place, as if to keep a state of mind worth holding on to.

With the song on the radio coming to a close, Lucas switched his sights on to his surroundings, hearing the remaining Huey's land. Far above the sky, two Hardy aircraft flutter on ahead towards some other engagement, far off beyond Firebase Ember's reach. If he wasn't going to have any rest or relaxation in the base itself, he was prepared to move to Saigon for the remainder of the sunlit hours. Until that decision came forward, he simply sat down and took yet another sip from his flask, helmet by his side and eyes drifting across the landscapes he seemingly never got tired of, despite the fear of them. Another thump of an artillery gun shook the floor. Lucas smiled to himself, muttering in a croaked response.

"Seventeen."

~ 1959: Into the Darkness ~ - Vietnam Dieselpunk [Open]

WE ARE MAKING PROGRESS ON THE FIRST POST SORRY FOR THE DELAYS.

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