Kouropalates

War Never Changes

John Fulman- Arctic Haven Commander
The Ultra-Luxe, New Vegas

John sniffed carefully, trying to halt a sneeze. He'd watched since his small monologue, he eyed the argument in the room carefully and got up, quietly heading to the door while the rest of the room seemed embroiled in their border disputes. He'd kept his aide outside the meeting room as had been asked of him but he brought him into the room and whispered into his ear as the room argued, likely paying him no mind. "Fox. Keep here as my representative in my absence. I'm going back to the TCC, we may need our soldiers to put on a show to impress some of these folks here and lure in some business. Just say I had a meeting to attend back at our temporary base if anyone asks. But your real reason here is to keep that Pipboy 2000 on the table there relaying the audio of this meeting to the TCC so we can archive this meeting. Don't do anything to draw attention to it, just leave it idle as if you're uninterested or it's off." Tundra Fox saluted, his US Army patch flying upward as it connected with the long destroyed skin of his Ghoul forehead, without a word and John nodded as he exited the meeting room.

New Vegas Temporary Command Center (TCC), Allied Technologies Offices

John had arrived back at base via monorail route and went to looked around the base. Due to the survey team's inspection, the Pre-War office structure was quarantined off as uninhabitable for administrative purposes and blocked off with black and yellow tape. The base itself was well protected with ten feet concrete walls, each section of wall locked in place with massive support and hinge mechanisms. The men and women not assigned to direct Command communications were in the processes of a mock combat drill, using the old concrete barriers and cars found around the area as battlefield pieces, their guns using bean bag rounds and rubber bullets. It would still hurt, but the intention was to train them to hone their combat prowess. John fired his 10mm pistol into a nearby patch of dirt, "Cease fire!". The soldiers immediately dropped their previous actions and stood at parade rest.

John began to pace up and down the way, his troops having not had time to form ranks, "Wolves. The hour may be coming where you are sent once more into the fires of war." His face was grim as he continued, "You were trained for this, you still train for this. But soon the hour may come when all that training is needed. Ever since the Atomic Fire purged earth of America, we have been a land divided. Our founders of our Haven had a dream for us. A nation of soldiers, for soldiers, by soldiers. We do not take sides beyond where we're paid to and it's always been this way. We go where we're needed and we serve no one but ourselves. These nations and states, their petty bickering is their fight, not ours. When you die in the field on a deployment, you do not die for them, you die for our principles as mercenaries of war. Look to your left and look to your right, your brothers, your sisters, you all wear patches of foreign service not of the Haven and you put it aside for a higher purpose. No longer are you Legion, Brotherhood or NCR. No longer are you US Army or Chinese PLA. You are Arctic Wolves now, defenders of our den. Our Haven. We do the fighting these elite see themselves as 'too pure' for. For the Haven!" The soldiers raised their fists in the air in a salute, "For the haven!" John raised his hand to them, "Now go! All of you! Return your LTLs to the armory, grab your gear and get to your drilling. We want to look sharp for prospective contracts." John went back to his command trailer and went over to the audio officer's desk to listen in on the feed coming out of the Pipboy data.

((OOC: Gingy, since the Pipboy 2000 is still a RobCo device, if House deems it of worth, he can intercept data being transmitted if you feel like it. It's just the conference, but if you can find a plot/sub-plot you'd find interest in, you're welcome to use that open door if you're interested. Same applies to anyone with a sophisticated network nearby really.))

War Never Changes

John Fulman- Arctic Haven commander
The Ultra-Luxe, New Vegas

John had been sitting at the table quietly smoking his cigar, subtly transmitting the audio of the meeting and listening quietly as he had no place in conversations, but his ears perked up at the guy, who was obviously Legion, commenting with "If you've all had your wine and whiskey, then maybe we might discuss the fact that the Treaty of Goodsprings has reached its end. Mars alone knows exactly what that means, but I can take a fair guess. The treaty must either be renewed, or the Southwest will likely be awash with blood soon enough. And I can assure you, that whatever horrors the first war brought, the second will unleash even more." John gave faint wry smile, the scar running diagonal across his lips giving an ugly parting before he quickly brought his face back to a serious stance before giving his sales pitch. He hadn't expected anyone else to have seen the NCR patch under his overcoat, so he played himself up as an outsider. He gave a cough as he cleared his throat before he spoke up. "Excuse me, Mr....Lucas? Correct me if I am mistaken, but as I am told, the cause of both major wars for the Hoover Dam were started by your Legion, is that not so? If it is this way as was relayed to me, it seems the only ones who need have concern are the participants facing you at this table."

He stood up, but didn't raise his voice nor leave from his spot at the table and simply continued. "This is like the days before The Bomb, both sides watching, waiting for the other to make the first move. Oh, I am certain some factions here will abide a new treaty, but I foresee a new political model rising with many factions waging proxy wars. Never daring to outright get their hands bloodied, but a fistful of caps from either side and suddenly there's two independent armies fighting a war they don't even know the objective of, they're just getting paid to fight a war. I've seen the looks some of you gave me, looking down on a merc as little more than bandits and pirates, but yet you're not moral enough to refuse to hire us. I've seen those looks from Magadan to Anchorage but they all never turned us down when they wanted blood shed. We're in an age of deterrence by the size of a nation's army and strength, but that won't stop a group of independent tribals conveniently decide to war on NCR or a mysterious mercenary crew comes out of the blue and Legion parties are found strung up on interstate signs. You 'nations' say you want peace, but you hire men like me to spill the blood cowardice and fear halt you from doing." He bent down and picked up his cigar from the tray and took a puff before continuing. "So get ready for the dawn of a new age, my fellow Wastelanders. A red age, not red for communism or red for lovely sunsets, but red....for blood. Men like me fighting your wars will become the future. I am not being a cynic, but I know how people who hold themselves to be nations and states behave and none of you are any different. When this conference is over, feel free to come find me and we can discuss contract fees." He took one last inhale before curtly nodding his head in a half-bow to the others before sitting back down. John sat, looking grim and serious, but internally, he was half pleased with the results of his speech, casting all sides as deceitful and war ready and thought to himself, 'Well, the seeds of mistrust are being planted. Let's see if this field will yield crop'.

War Never Changes

John Fulman- The Ultra-Luxe, New Vegas

John was messing with an old Pipboy that linked up with the nearby TCC they'd set up, since none of the other factions were here yet, he figured now was as good a time as any to update their Haven Command satellite's Pre-War map with Post-War map data collected by the Pipboy en route to Vegas. It was depressing to see the once pristine US layout become filled with pockmarks, divides and empty spaces where forests had once stood. He had an itch in the back of his head and looked up as he scratched and noticed members of the Enclave arriving. Of course, he'd never seen these individuals before, but it didn't matter. Even when he was a kid, Enclave vets all carried themselves with that same 'stick-up-the-ass' pomp as if being born on an oil rig made them superior, despite losing to a tribal. For a minute, he worried if they'd seen those Vertibirds of his, that were really just Enclave vertibirds from an abandoned base and re-painted, but then he figured given all they've lost and suffered, two vertibirds are likely the least of their concerns. He'd seen a younger soldier in NCR gear watching him as he transferred data. "What is that thing?" John shrugged, it's just an old Pipboy. Not as fancy as the 3000 series, I won't lie, but it's definitely sturdier. Our maps in our base in Alaska are outdated. Our journey here gave us a chance to update our maps." He watched as Kimball's procession came in and he gave a snort of derision.", which clearly didn't sit well with the kid next to him. He looked at John angrily, but wasn't about to embarrass his nation here, but he still confronted him. "You think something's funny, merc?", the young man said, clearly expecting this old coat to flinch. John didn't even react with hostility back, he just put his cigar in his mouth and lit it before he responded calmly, "As a matter of fact, I do. I'm wondering how a pissant like Kimball keeps his office when the man can't fight his own wars anymore and sends kids off to die for him." That really didn't sit well with him and he almost stood up before he composed himself. "And who the hell are you to judge us, old man? At least we fight for good. What the hell does a mercenary know about loyalty?" John smiled, the scar running across his lip parting with it.

John put the cigar at an angle on the ashtray and halfway took off the right side of his overcoat, revealing his BDUs and an old service patch with a blood-red ruby chip sparkling in the light of the room, "Read that." he told the boy. He mouthed out the words and his eyes grew wide. Twentieth batallion? Your unit were some of the first units to see action during the first Battle for Hoover Dam." The soldier looked at John with reverence but John didn't acknowledge it. "That's right. That fleck of ruby is what they added in honor for all the blood our men and women shed for NCR. But do you know what I learned after that battle?" John didn't wait for a response, he simply continued, "I learned NCR doesn't care about us soldiers nor the people they claim to protect. All that matters to them is the power of NCR. And this patch...." His hand curled into a ball as he fought back anger. "This patch meant everything to us, but nothing to the NCR politicians back home. 'Nice job soldier, glad you survived, now go fight this next set of bad guys and hopefully you wont die there either'. This patch is in honor of my brothers. My sisters. They bled for that damn Dam just as much as I did, only they paid the ultimate price...." John noticed his cigar starting to burn out and took a puff to keep it lit. "I left when my enlistment was up and never looked back. I found my place among a bunch of mercs in the Alaskan seas and I've been there since. Ever since I found my place among the Arctic Haven soldiers, I realised we were a people all our own. Former Brotherhood, Veteran NCR, even old Enclave soldiers and their kids. They put that past behind them for the Haven, a place for us soldiers. Where we're wanted and appreciated." He slipped the kid his business card and soon after, all the Securitrons belted out an order of silence, the older man in the suit calling the factions at the bigger table to order, so he put his Pipboy on the table, allowing the audio feed to be recorded by the troops at the TCC to archive the data of what is discussed here for analysis and how to use that information reliably.

War Never Changes

Commander John Fulman- Leader of the PMC 'Arctic Haven'
10,000 Feet above the Mojave desert

"Boss, why are we so far from home?" One of the masked soldiers in the Vertibird asked, looking out the window to the desert below. John took a puff from his cigar and looked out the window with him, the sunlight hitting his aging face, the brown-grey beard shimmering in the sun. "We got wind from the Intel team that a bunch of self-avowed nations are calling a big conference in Las Vegas, or 'New' Vegas as the locals seem to call it now. Either way, it means a chance a profit for us. We've done enough work in the Bering Sea, Alaska and Russia, but now it's time we focus on the old heartlands of America." He looked back down to the deck of the Vertibird and fell quiet. The silence didn't last long as the Vertibird lurching him forward violently alerted him back to the present out of reliving his past battles. The pilot, codenamed Randoplh, called to him from the pilot's deck, "Boss! We have a problem! Duststorms over Hopeville! We'll have to fly around or this storm will take us down!" John looked out of the window, the 3D map at Haven Command had a Pre-War America map, this wasn't the site of an urban metropolis in the desert. This was a violent gash in the earth, as if God himself had cut her face with a machete and with it was spewing a dust storm and small human dots below impossible to make out. One of his bodyguards looked out below, a look of terror on his face, "What the hell do you think happened here?" John shook his head, unsure, "I don't know. Looks to be an explosion. Can't have been The War. Look at those houses, they're still standing. If this was an ICBM landing, the city would be vaporized. This is something else. Something worse. Randolph, take us around this storm. Don't try riding through it." Randolph nodded, his face still forward on the controls and out the window as he said, "Sure thing, Biddle."

New Vegas, Aerospace Offices

The Vertibird landed to a small base with room for a helicopter, five trucks a command setup and eight tents. John jumped out onto the earth as thirty men and women in olive drab BDUs stood with their weapons and saluting. "WELCOME, COMMANDER!". John raised a hand, signalling them at ease and to go back to their duties. One of the officers who'd been given command until he arrived, saluted him when he arrived at the command trailer, "Boss! Welcome to the New Vegas TCC. I hereby relinquish command of this base to you, sir." John nodded curtly, "Thank you, soldier. What do you have to report?" The officer stood at parade rest before the command desk inside, giving the report. "Upon arrival to San Francisco, we traveled as a small armed convoy, with a two man NCR team with us to watch us to ensure we weren't trying anything funny. Upon arrival at the Mojave Outpost, we were inspected, paid the border tax and made our way here. We found the securitron of House waiting for their cut too. We've been given permission to temporarily to business here and on The Strip as a business, but we're not permitted to carry a gun either. Otherwise, we're permitted to offer our services on the Strip in a small stall we've set up beside the McCarran monorail and on flyers. We're also permitted to do our exercise drills outside of the city itself, doubling as security during drills in return for a discount on lease. They said only the commander is permitted to enter the meeting though, so we're not permitted inside except you, Boss." John nodded in confirmation and reached for a bottle of refrigerated water, "Thank you, soldier. Dismissed." The man sharply saluted and left the office. John poured a glass, savoring it going down his throat, forgetting how how the south could get. He was impressed at the sight of the bright tower in the distance, not many places with electricity to waste like that.

The New Vegas Strip

John arrived on the strip via monorail to reach the meeting dressed in a Pre-War general's olive green overcoat and an officer's uniform. He walked down the stairwell, passing a snack vendor and a soldier serving as a crier who quickly saluted him. John nodded, "As you were, soldier" and she went back to calling out to gamblers and vacationers. Meanwhile, John went down the street, stopping before this monstrously large hotel. Once inside, the desert heat was washed away with the cooling relief of air conditioning, but his military bearing kept him from showing the relief it felt on his skin, long used to the arctic climate he grew up in. He was escorted to the conference room, but as a non-nation, felt would be over presuming his place there and instead sat at a table with the bodyguards of the invited and decided to help himself to a stew and a glass of milk and quietly at the table since the conference was yet to start. Clearly he looked out of place to them in his officers uniform, but he was there as an observer. He was no nation, he had no positions to take and none to give. To him, his purpose was two-fold: To find out about the world east of Alaska and who could use their services.

War Never Changes

Arctic Heaven

Hey all. I decided to join at Vatrou's insistence despite initial reluctance. I won't be dusting off the old Olney or Change sheets and decided to create a new (and not at all inspired by Outer Heaven) nation.

Arctic Haven territorial map:



Name: Arctic Haven

Flag: A grey flag with the Yukon Wolf walking through the snow.

Territory and Geography: Alaskan Isles (Specifics TBD if accepted)

History: Formed in the aftermath of the Great War by Alaskan militiamen who had been veterans of the Operation: Anchorage campaign, they are a small but strong mercenary nation who live for but one purpose: War. In their eyes, the battlefield is the only place of true honesty, where both sides can see either's true colors. They have no national or political loyalties and care only for who pays them. They retain the right to turn down a contract they feel uncomfortable with, but there's few jobs they won't turn down. To them, war is purely business and they only do the maximum amount of damaged required of them by their contractors. To join them is to forsake old allegiances and forget the misdeeds of former rival countries and serve only the purposes of the Wolves, the nickname of the Arctic Haven.

Population: 5,000 Soldiers

Government/Domestic Politics: Personal liberty of the individual, but they hold no traditional civilian model of government or foreign relations. They're a huge mercenary outfit, not a nation of traders and businessmen.

Notable People:

John Fulman: A grizzled 47 year old on the cusp of middle age, or old age in this world of Wasteland and the war business. He's seen it all and done it all. While not an evil man, he knows that if there's a hell, he's surely going there. But in his eyes, the only thing that matters is the protection of 'their' lands. Under his auspices, they have gone from working security against tundra bandits in Alaskan towns to working ops on the mainland for whoever paid them. They've gained a reputation of mistrust and respect for their non-allegiance to any one party and for their strict neutrality in conflicts they're not involved in. Many people know to leave them alone if they're not at war as past groups who tried to take advantage against them in a fight quickly became tributaries for set periods by contracts.

Military: The pride of the Arctic Haven outfit are their old Enclave Vertibirds (Think Fallout 2 style, not Fallout 4) that carry them swiftly to the mainland, essential for time sensitive missions. The bulk of their military arsenal are pre-war weapons and armor. Plenty of Pre-War Tanks reserved for heavy duty war contracts, White BDUs for Arctic ops and olive drab BDUs for the Wastelands south of the Canadian line. They are most notable for their shoulder insignias, a grey patch with the white Yukon wolf on the shoulder outlined in a black border around the patch. Their right shoulder they carry previous service patches, some with NCR patches, some Brotherhood and even a few Enclave among them. The heavy duty equipment is generally transported by Pre-War tankers where they offload the vehicles and electronic equipment and whatever place they hold as their temporary HQ on the frontlines.

Economy: While not a traditional nation, they do grow food on their islands to help reduce the need for food from merchants. They also use sophisticated desalinization systems to keep them supplied with water for personal use and for trade. But their main source of income is through their costly combat operations contracts.

Culture and Technology: Their candidacy pool draws primary from citizens in the former USA and due to their ties with Pre-War military, their routines strongly consist of US Army culture, albeit slightly personalized for Wasteland use. The technology they use is well maintained military and civilian electronics and machinery to allow their mercenary force to continue working as a well oiled machine. From sun up to sundown they work and train extensively in their fields assigned by testing as well as standard combat training.

Religion: They hold no official religion, citing a reverence for separation of church and state, however their soldiers to practice and pray on their own private time as they see fit so long as it doesn't interfere with their Haven duties. But most of their soldiers generally do not care about whether a God or Gods exist, most of them preferring to train and practice for future contracts.

Service Patch:

Searchlight Airport, AKA Fort Hope

Edit: May 26th, 2017- Added a detailed faction territorial map for reference.
Edit: June 29th, 2017- Added a detailed map for Searchlight Airport for reference.

War Never Changes

Arctic Haven

Hey all. I decided to join at Vatrou's insistence despite initial reluctance. I won't be dusting off the old Olney or Change sheets and decided to create a new (and not at all inspired by Outer Heaven) nation.

Name: Arctic Haven

Flag: A grey flag with the Yukon Wolf walking through the snow.

Territory and Geography: Alaskan Isles (Specifics TBD if accepted)

History: Formed in the aftermath of the Great War by Alaskan militiamen who had been veterans of the Operation: Anchorage campaign, they are a small but strong mercenary nation who live for but one purpose: War. In their eyes, the battlefield is the only place of true honesty, where both sides can see either's true colors. They have no national or political loyalties and care only for who pays them. They retain the right to turn down a contract they feel uncomfortable with, but there's few jobs they won't turn down. To them, war is purely business and they only do the maximum amount of damaged required of them by their contractors. To join them is to forsake old allegiances and forget the misdeeds of former rival countries and serve only the purposes of the Wolves, the nickname of the Arctic Haven.

Population: 5,000 Soldiers

Government/Domestic Politics: Personal liberty of the individual, but they hold no traditional civilian model of government or foreign relations. They're a huge mercenary outfit, not a nation of traders and businessmen.

Notable People:

John Fulman: A grizzled 47 year old on the cusp of middle age, or old age in this world of Wasteland and the war business. He's seen it all and done it all. While not an evil man, he knows that if there's a hell, he's surely going there. But in his eyes, the only thing that matters is the protection of 'their' lands. Under his auspices, they have gone from working security against tundra bandits in Alaskan towns to working ops on the mainland for whoever paid them. They've gained a reputation of mistrust and respect for their non-allegiance to any one party and for their strict neutrality in conflicts they're not involved in. Many people know to leave them alone if they're not at war as past groups who tried to take advantage against them in a fight quickly became tributaries for set periods by contracts.

Military: The pride of the Arctic Haven outfit are their old Enclave Vertibirds (Think Fallout 2 style, not Fallout 4) that carry them swiftly to the mainland, essential for time sensitive missions. The bulk of their military arsenal are pre-war weapons and armor. Plenty of Pre-War Tanks reserved for heavy duty war contracts, White BDUs for Arctic ops and olive drab BDUs for the Wastelands south of the Canadian line. They are most notable for their shoulder insignias, a grey patch with the white Yukon wolf on the shoulder outlined in a black border around the patch. Their right shoulder they carry previous service patches, some with NCR patches, some Brotherhood and even a few Enclave among them. The heavy duty equipment is generally transported by Pre-War tankers where they offload the vehicles and electronic equipment and whatever place they hold as their temporary HQ on the frontlines.

Economy: While not a traditional nation, they do grow food on their islands to help reduce the need for food from merchants. They also use sophisticated desalinization systems to keep them supplied with water for personal use and for trade. But their main source of income is through their costly combat operations contracts.

Culture and Technology: Their candidacy pool draws primary from citizens in the former USA and due to their ties with Pre-War military, their routines strongly consist of US Army culture, albeit slightly personalized for Wasteland use. The technology they use is well maintained military and civilian electronics and machinery to allow their mercenary force to continue working as a well oiled machine. From sun up to sundown they work and train extensively in their fields assigned by testing as well as standard combat training.

Religion: They hold no official religion, citing a reverence for separation of church and state, however their soldiers to practice and pray on their own private time as they see fit so long as it doesn't interfere with their Haven duties. But most of their soldiers generally do not care about whether a God or Gods exist, most of them preferring to train and practice for future contracts.