QJT

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

The emphatic clang of metal, the heavy rattle and soft vibration of automatic weaponry horrified the amateur when combined with the fear of death. As his adversary turned around and signaled its withdrawal, though, trepidation was washed away, leaving only the ecstasy of carnal pleasure. Having minimal combat experience, Hamazasp was swept up by the fervor of battle. “You ought not to flee, you daft doppelganger! You cannot escape my wrath! Oh, shoot, apologies. I had comms on. Pursuing bogey. Muting self.

“There. DIE, you foul creature! Cowardice reflects poorly on me, you overgrown bug! You shame all Locust pilots! I won’t have you sully my reputation!” He recommenced movement functions and avidly pursued his quarry, matching both velocity and his opponent’s footsteps. His mechanical noggin lowered, and Sulser gazed upwards to maintain a steady direction, his jaw slightly agape in a smile.

Pioneering the course for the two of them, the limbless foe needed to ensure that each footfall was accurate. One misstep meant contact. Alas, it stubbed its toe against a sizable boulder on the terrain. The Ayrshire pounced onto its counterpart, shuddering upon impact. A more rational Hamazasp would pity the grunt in the cockpit, and perhaps a later Hamazasp might say a brief prayer over supper. Overwhelmed by pure euphoria, the current Hamazasp could merely laugh maniacally, not from schadenfreude but simply from punching armor clean through the engine compartment. He didn’t even need to fire his machine guns, not that he remembered to do so.

He felt the urge to locate an object and throw it. He reached to the side and slid out a rectangular prism. He peered into its rustic cover. Oh. This was a printing of My Life as a War Correspondent, by Mercer Thomlinson. An autographed copy, in fact. How lovely. He replaced it, making certain to preserve alphabetical order within the ensemble. Books would keep him sane. He reactivated communications. “My target is incapacitated. Further orders?”

Rolls and Damage

Charge: Roll of 7: Damage = 2 x Distance traveled (6) = 12 Damage, Center Torso Chosen
LCT-1V: Center Torso: 2 Rear Armor + 6 Internal Structure - 12 Total Damage: Destroyed

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Mezzanine - Early Afternoon, November 18th

Daniel instinctively thought to direct the Omertas homeward, but he couldn’t guarantee the willing participation of all inhabitants. Isabel particularly would hoist his noggin on a pike. Who among the colonists would he entrust with such precarious secrecy? Amber was broadly apathetic to the internal struggle, and her adoration of him surpassed her loyalty to the homeland. Apparently the sentiment was mutual, as he’d committed high treason. "The Meld's diner (on Vegas's northern perimeter) closed for flood relief efforts. Have your envoy ask for breakfast and, failing that, express intention to converse with either myself or Amber. That should maintain confidentiality."

A free wedding, a further debt, was hardly Danny’s interest. Amber regaled her dream marriage aplenty to Daniel, and casinos were far from that vision. The only category beneath that would be Vaults, Dominic’s secondary option. Daniel would locate a facility independently, but nonetheless wished to part in amicability.

He stood up and refit his newsboy’s cap. “You humble me, Don. I’ll relay your choices once I propose to my beloved, whom I intend to give the ultimate decision on these matters. I do hope to introduce her; she’s the fiery beacon of solace in the wretched world post apocalypse. My own personal Lady Liberty.” He bowed humbly. “With your permission, I’ll arrange to set the pieces in motion.” With a faint smile, he departed.

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Front Entrance - Early Afternoon, November 18th

No sooner had he reached the exit than he spotted an unexpected, perhaps unwelcome familiar face of yellow hair and lightly tanned complexion. Her heated discussion with the doorway security likely centered around the canine sitting patiently at her hip. Was that Shuffles? Gosh, Daniel last encountered him as a puppy. The mutt had grown swiftly!

That mere distraction alone kept Daniel from a heart attack. At first sign of rebellion, the Aces' champion appeared at the conspiracy's location. Maybe the Gomorrah had a backdoor-

Eve Cannon hailed him. “Nines! What are you doing here?”

Daniel swallowed and approached. “Salutations, Eve. I could say the same.”

“I’m honorably exiled,” announced the Ace. “I’ll visit your base of operations soon. I figured it’s been a while since I enjoyed myself. A few drinks can’t hurt, right? What of yourself?”

Quick wit summoned, “Simply congratulating Dominic Omerta for tying the knot. I brought Amber’s potholders.”

“Pleasant,” the Ace remarked. “So, considering the pets policy at this establishment, shall we stroll back to your home?”

Several miles alongside the enemy. What fun. “It’d be an honor. I’m certain we’ll find revelry along the way.”

The Meld - Afternoon, November 18th

Charlotte focused attention beyond the wooden barrier. “I’m hearing footsteps and conversation. It's no lone wanderer.”

“Apologies for the accidental deception,” Faye explained. “I just saw the one.”

Charlotte inspected the chamber of her rifle. “I reckon two others, judging by the pattern of sounds. One’s currently monologuing. Amber, would you mind opening the door? I'd prefer both hands on my firearm.”

“Certainly, boss!” Amber complied, her perky demeanor unfitting of the potentially tense situation. When the entrance was opened, Charlotte lifted the barrel toward the newcomer’s forehead. “State your intentions.” The reckless and astute might notice no loaded cartridge through the tube.

Charlotte spent a moment to glance past her guests. At a most inopportune time, Bradley had returned from collecting driftwood, softly arriving at the ensemble's rear with his ax in hand. Misinterpreting the scenario, he’d discarded his bounty and prepared to strike. He raised his chin, expectant of a signal to commence.

“Why haven’t you pulled the trigger yet?” Isabel demanded.

Unruly ebony strands of hair fell across Charlotte's countenance to hinder her view, but she wouldn't deviate from gripping her lever action. “Be patient,” Charlotte insisted. "I'm waiting."

Bradley interpreted that he was to instigate the combat. He swung his ax backward and silently charged forward. Thank God that his wife's keen perception caught him. “Stop, Bradley!”

Bradley redirected the metal head's momentum to his left, striking the soil beside the visitors. His stealth purposely ruined, he acquired an air of joviality and extended a formal salutation. “Pleasure to meet you! I’m Bradley Lewis, Jack of Diamonds.”

Charlotte sighed. “And I’m Charlotte Lewis, Queen of Spades. Matrimonial relations, not blood. Please forgive our… unorthodox greetings; this is the second gun related standoff we’ve weathered in under an hour. I still ought to deal with fallout from the former, so, if you’ll excuse me,” she provided a wry, mildly embarrassed grin. “Bradley, I need strength. Inside. Amber, would you-”

Before Charlotte concluded her sentence, Amber jumped out from behind the door, grabbing the female Follower’s shoulder and walking her away from the structure and towards the homestead's quieter parts. Finally, an opportunity to unload her gossip! She watched for Bradley to close her egress, then rattled off her baggage. “Alright, so for Failfest – it’s a festival on October 28 that celebrates multiple things malfunctioning simultaneously; don’t worry about it – for that, Danny – he’s the leader of our local branch – decided to declare independence from Vault 48 for a day. Now, we unanimously enjoy that idea. So, how do Americans celebrate freedom?”

Amber didn’t wait appropriately for an answer; her speeding mental faculties must have implied a response from her guest. “Fireworks and apple pie, exactly! But they stopped exporting apples a year ago, so Charlotte resolves to bake a cake instead. Fair enough. I design the Pinochle Expedition's flag, which adorns the confection via the icing. We have orange, black, and green for food coloring after celebrating the Fourth of July because those luxuries are usually shipped in April – go figure – but I fabricate something that looks decent. And to top it off, we have sparklers that will be inserted into the batter. We constructed a makeshift table outdoors, so we place our creation outside and light the sparklers. Thing is, Bradley had placed the fireworks below the surface so they wouldn’t get soaked in any potential rain. A spark flies off and hits the explosive powder. The table, the dessert, the entire assortment gets blown to smithereens! Thankfully we revel at a comfortable distance, so none are injured. Charlotte cries for hours, but, I dunno, I suppose that matches the spirit of the holiday, don’t you?”

Amber blinked and paused, as if to refresh herself. In her vain desire to talk from weeks of relative silence, she’d overlooked the desires of her newfound acquaintance. “I’m sorry; did you have anything to share?”

Noble Arms - The ASEAN War [Moved to New Thread]

New Clark City - 10/18/2022, 19:38 UTC+8

Jasmine exited the vehicle first, bearing an ample knapsack and wearing a sundress. She heralded the disembarking military personnel and Noble Masters as they descended the steps onto the fresh concrete below and encircled her. Iker was last and lingered longest. His shorts and collared T-shirt caused him to stick out unfashionably from the ensemble. On the final step, he inhaled the twilight air. "Fresher than that of urban landscapes; lovelier than the sea's," he commented, "our transport's exhaust notwithstanding."

The streetlights at that moment happened to flicker on, and Jasmine announced: "Welcome to New Clark City's inaugural evening shift!"

The following awkward pause hampered the cheerful introduction. "It feels so... empty," remarked a traveler. "It's eerie."

"As I'd suspect of a pet development project during wartime," Jasmine supposed. "It's nighttime, as well."

"So... What do we do?"

Jasmine lacked a fitting answer. "Well, um, walk around. Check out the facilities? Enjoy yourselves!"

"I recommend locating the restrooms and whatever amenities have food and drink," Iker intervened. "Remember this location relative to key landmarks, such as that government complex over yonder. I'd otherwise identify what work was needed and assemble a squad, but, since I'm to relax... Is there a tennis court present?"

"It's largely track and field, or alternatively a covered Olympic size swimming pool," Jasmine suggested.

"Oh." The minor assembly returned to silence.

A soldier signaled for attention. "I'm running laps in the amphitheater, if anyone wishes to join." He jogged off. Stragglers trickled behind him until Iker and Jasmine comprised the remnant.

Jasmine bowed in deferral. "You have experience with this!"

"Most employment in my adult career started by departing a bus," Iker explained. "You learn to unravel alien environments. Not everyone and everywhere is identical, but they do share certain aspects."

"Wonderful!" Jasmine affirmed. "Meanwhile, as the stadium's occupied, what say we visit the aquatics center?"

"I'd rather not," Iker stated. "And, I apologize, but I'd be a poor lifeguard if you sought to utilize it yourself."

"Why is that?"

Iker swallowed, hesitant to disclose the information. "I can't swim."

Jasmine instinctively laughed at the absurdity and tried to rein herself in. "Wait, but I heard you manned the lifeboat?"

Iker nodded. "That was a boat."

That was hardly an explanation. "So you risked your life, knowing how dangerous failure was for you especially?"

"It's what you do everyday, isn't it?"

Jasmine reflected on Iker's comment. An attaché had the luxury of safety, merely tasked with supporting from the sidelines. She motioned for Iker to follow. "If you're in the employ of the navy, that won't do! Let's remedy that, shall we?"

New Clark City - Aquatics Center - 10/18/2022, 20:49 UTC+8

Jasmine had packed a modest two piece swimsuit with her gear, and the grounds thankfully possessed official spare shirts and trunks for Iker (which an hour of rummaging and scrounging exploration would produce). They forewent the massive professional lanes for the humble training area. Iker submerged his bare feet. Jasmine lay herself astride the edge. "How's the water?"

"I anticipated colder." Iker recalled a prior gig in the wintertime, beside a frozen lake. He had doubted the frigidity that the rumors detailed. Curiosity nearly succumbed his digits to frostbite; his comrades saved him. He shuddered in remembrance. "It's quite warm, actually."

"Doesn't look it from my view," Jasmine teased.

"Recognized." Iker ventured further, pausing as it touched his waist and just before it reached his bearded chin. "I await your instructions, maestro." Iker glanced aside. "Maestra?"

"Either works," Jasmine chuckled, kicking her legs up in alternation. "I want you to mimic this." Iker's mimicry resembled an a old fashioned march. "No, off the ground, and much faster," Jasmine corrected.

Iker jumped up and followed his teacher's directions, bobbing himself upward while suspended underwater. He teetered into the ledge, bumping close to Jasmine and catching himself with his hands. "Apologies."

"No, that was adequate," Jasmine assured.

Meters away, her backpack vibrated, emanating a repeated fragment of a heavy metal tune. Iker pointed to it. "Is that important?"

"It's my cellphone," she dismissed, mildly embarrassed. "No, we're on a roll. I don't wish to disrupt that."

"What if it's an emergency?"

She peered back as the device chirped. "There's naught we can accomplish out here," she countered. "Admiral Abasolo mandated productive relaxation, and we're doing that. If he demanded us specifically, he told me he'd send an escort to recall us. Perhaps a helicopter! Return to your exercises; you were doing swimmingly. Next, you'll outline circles with your arms, cupping the surface and pushing it underneath you. Lie on your belly for this, as I am."

Iker breathed deeply and planked flatly. Despite splashing Jasmine, he successfully propelled himself forward. Jasmine beheld him sputtering like a toy mechanism to the opposite side, where he bounced innocently off. He floated backwards, motionless. Jasmine stood up in alert. After a few seconds passed, he flailed about, a flurry of white foam obscuring the helpless whelp.

Without skipping a beat, Jasmine dove in, wrapped herself across his abdomen, and kicked herself to shore. As Iker coughed up the chlorinated solution, Jasmine exhaled. "Don't forget to breathe, you fool! Tilt your head sideways!" She embraced him. "You had me worried there!" In the distance, the telephone reiterated hard rock.

"It's not my only brush with death; simply my sorriest," Iker quipped. "Regardless, I appreciate it. Permission to commence again?"

Jasmine waited for her heart to stop pounding as she vacated and dried herself off. She investigated her pack. Not looking at its screen for notifications, she shutdown her phone and stowed it. Her matters settled, she crisscrossed on the pavement. "Alright. Don't scare me this time."

Iker's second attempt was noisier and splashier but smoother. He remembered to collect oxygen, and he clung to the finish line once his crown bumped into it. Jasmine applauded. "Excellent; it's a start!" She stopped herself. "Sorry, that sounded condescending. Are you okay with... all this? I'm treating you as a child."

Iker inspected his watery reflection. "I was in Argentina, the Cordoba region if you're familiar with the geography. The hired help were intended to carry these enormous bales of hay." He outstretched his arm for effect but lost balance and reclaimed his position. "Raul was a street rat, down on his luck. He migrated to the countryside because none would hire him in Buenos Aires."

His eyes grew misty. "He wasn't strong, but he was willing. He never adapted to the climate, though. When he hauled it up to the truck with his partner, his allergies forced him to sneeze. He relaxed his grip, and the bale slid and crushed his chest. He died in the hospital." He looked to the sky. "It gave me perspective on the world. Something as simple as that can kill. A mining incident killed my father, and I figure I might die from another triviality. Humans are fragile creatures, indeed."

He smiled. "So I don't mind mockery, or mocking others in kind. The sheer scale of things beyond us, or that can be made so, renders any arrogance fruitless. My quest is to guide other folk through the hazards, that by my sacrifice my neighbors may prosper." He refreshed his mindset. "That was far too heady a topic for my intention. Whoops."

Jasmine arose and circumnavigated to Iker's place. "No, that was beautiful." She extended her hand to pull Iker out. "I suppose that's enough practice for tonight. It's getting late; we should change, and notify the land athletes."

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Vault 48: Fallout of the Jack's Revolt

"You agree with the Council's resolution?"

Even in the calmest alcove on the fifth floor, the hissing pipes and churning machinery hampered the tension. Eve pushed out her chair and ascended. "I stand with the Council."

"And you grasp our logic?" confirmed the chairman.

She dissected her peers. "I believe so," she commented, "for select members. For the rest, I'm unsure."

Her apparent indignation rippled murmurs through the surrounding Aces; she remained stoic. The conclusion was hurried, lest the scene lose control. "Then we declare you honorably banished, Eve Cannon, Ace of Diamonds. Fare thee well, that you spread our majesty to whatever destination the winds of fortune lead you."

A gavel struck wood, and gentlemen with rifles appeared to flank her. She identified them: Mark fought beneath her; Kyle revolted against her. She reported to neither and vacated the premises of her own accord. The riflemen hastened to follow.

She spotted a mass of fur down the corridor. She halted and knelt. "Shuffles!"

The canine bounded to meet her; his tail whacked both sides of the hallway. She caressed the hair on his noggin. "The emblem of loyalty and innocence. I'll miss you terribly."

Mark reminded her of the law: "Among your privileges is the right to requisition an animal companion."

Eve contemplated the opportunity but literally passed it by. "I'm relieved of my obligations, and grateful for it." Whether she meant it was an enigma.

The vault entrance was a minute's journey away. Eve touched the firm fortified bulwark. "You can laugh, Kyle. I won't take offense."

Kyle attended to the panel that maintained the locking mechanism. "Recognized. If it were a laughing matter, I would."

As the round behemoth rotated outward. Eve gazed at the ceiling. She whistled, and her familiar mutt rejoined her. "Not every duty is a chore. I accept your offering, Mark. Prosper in my absence."

Mark saluted. "Best of fortunes. Where shall you travel?"

She peered into the verdant wasteland. "The colonies, I reckon," she answered, "to atone for my sins."

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Mezzanine - Noontime, November 18th

Daniel lifted his index finger. He intended to fulfill the don's errands and earn gratitude. This collateral absent, there was a nonzero percentage of leaving Dominic empty handed, and affronted crime lords yielded, ahem, unique repercussions. What was a straightforward venture had devolved into a catch 22. Scylla was a heavily guarded nuclear bunker upon which he'd bash his ambition to pieces. Charybdis was the bottomless cavalcade of torture methods a robber baron possessed. Floyd's navigation must be damn near immaculate.

Daniel racked his brain to reevaluate the risk. With decades of experience, Paul stood apart from his colleagues. Stubbornness or social ineptitude kept his innermost professional secrets from the fresh recruits, who resorted to dusting off the ancient manuals for wisdom. The latter would placate but ultimately disappoint the don. Convincing Paul, however, would be nearly as monumental a task as the Vault's conquest, a strict factor to the negative.

To the affirmative, in negotiations, Omerta showed nothing but earnest courtesy, defying the caricature his reputation implied. He acknowledged Danny's trepidation and dismissed his spouse to assuage his guest. His reasoning aligned with genuine interest in nurturing the community, regardless of underlying intent. Perhaps he wouldn't be so unforgiving if Floyd returned with naught but a broken sword.

Victory was attainable. Failure was tolerable. And yet...

Vault 48: Dawn of the Reforms

Vault 48 - Floor Ten Hospital

"I present the prototypes, as requested," Daniel announced with a tray. It clattered onto the stainless steel hospital table.

An unruly screw preoccupied Henry Hinshaw. The deathclaw assault last month demanded that he supplement the strained workforce. He lowered his product. "Excellent, Nines. Grace, would you fetch a random sampling from Drawer Fifteen?"

Unused to the manufacturing environment, the Ten of Clubs anxiously embraced her clipboard in the background. "Yes, sir." She skimmed the organizational cabinets for the appropriate marker. The floor's employees assembled as she arrived.

Daniel noticed Isabel's condescending akimbo stance but expectant countenance. She'd wring him via compressor if this was a wild radgull chase. Noise from four placed stimpaks hitting metal disrupted his vivid imagery. He swallowed. "Ready, boss?"

Henry selected from Grace's bounty. "When you are."

They each injected a device into their non-dominant arms. Daniel's arteries pulsated with biologic regeneration. Exhaling in relief but wasting no time, Daniel grabbed a second and repeated the process to similar effect. He hastily fetched the third and final prototype and compressed it.

The sealant broke loose, and red ooze splattered across his abdomen. The peanut gallery towards the rear exclaimed a festive "Opa!" as Grace retrieved a rag. Unbeknownst to them, Danny's palm had jammed into the syringe's glass, which shattered on impact. Henry rapidly applied his leftover stimpak to heal his subordinate. Daniel hissed as he clutched his wrist.

"Two out of three," Isabel noted.

"Ow... But using half the material, and fewer assembly steps," Daniel countered, watching the wound dissipate. "A net gain for production."

Henry discarded the used containers into a hazardous materials bin. "Gains are appreciated, but these aren't dispensed in a vacuum. Expeditions can't afford to carry faulty devices. Critically urgent scenarios necessitate a hundred percent reliability."

Isabel wandered to her station as the gathering dispersed. "I expect overtime to compensate for the delay. We're stretched thin as it is without your useless experiments."

"Overruled," Henry stated. "The attempt was admirable. If the template cannot be improved, though, I'm afraid the project is terminated."

"Thickening the cylinder or tacking scrap to bolster it would be cost inefficient," Daniel lamented, rubbing the scar. "Unfortunately, I concur. Where am I assigned?"

"Making thousands of regular models alongside us, as you could have done had you ignored this vanity entirely," Isabel quipped. "That's efficiency for you."

Henry sighed. "Daniel, let's debrief in the old Radaway facility."

Vault 48 - Floor Six Science Center

The dim indigo enclosure hosted a thousand spiders; Daniel circumvented the cobwebs as he entered. "I apologize for the error. I promise I'll-"

Henry dusted off a centrifuge. "How progresses your relationship with the Diamond girl?"

Daniel blinked. "You know about us?"

"It's obvious to anyone paying attention, Danny. Discretion isn't your specialty."

"Then why hasn't-"

"Charlotte's and Bradley's scandal trump a Nine's affairs. You're dodging my inquiry. Answer."

Daniel shrugged. "Our inaugural outing was yesterday. Far edge of the diner. She had a Reuben; I had a burger."

"Those things can get messy. Did you prepare for that?"

"Took small bites, ate once she was distracted."

Henry inspected a set of test tubes. "What portion was allocated for conversation?"

Daniel reflected on the evening, tabulating the night's topics. "Five parts of seven, I think."

Henry wiped them off with his shirt. "Did she have the larger focus?"

"Yeah, we explored Renaissance sculptures."

Henry filled them with water. The rickety faucet he employed sputtered in reactivation. "And the leftovers-"

Daniel vented his frustration. "I'm sorry. Are we discussing my recent failings or not?"

Henry began assorting various ingredients. "We are. I'm gauging your personality to see where you fit."

A demotion. Danny's dejection was visible. "Please, another chance. I assure you, I'll change for the-"

Mildly irritated, Henry motioned for silence. "Everyone assumes that they fully comprehend the concept of 'change;' I expected better from you. Where's that mortar and pestle?" He found his quarry and mashed the components into fine powder. "Do you recall the evolution chapter in the science curriculum? Specifically the moth story."

Daniel nodded. There were rival genetic variants: white and black wings. For millennia, the dark ones were easier to spot while resting on trees and were consequently hunted easily by the local birds. In the Industrial Revolution, the forest was covered in soot. The light moths were exposed on the bark and thus faced the brunt of new predation. "Sure."

"As much as it'd help our survival, people cannot modify their core natures more than insects their color," Henry declared, pouring his concoction into a vial. He capped and shook it prior to inserting it into a slot on the machine. "We don't change; environments do. We adjust. Folk like Isabel will endure anywhere. Praise be unto them; they are the foundation on which glory is constructed, and will relieve us if we fall."

He packed the remaining slots and activated the contraption. The ambience was a mechanical whir. "We are restless. We are hardwired differently: strong in certain disciplines, weaker in others. If we match our surroundings, our society advances. Otherwise, we're stored for a later age or circumstance as 'diversity.' It's not merely individuals. Ideologies, personalities, skill sets, creeds, you name it: they function the same way. Alas, some perish never properly utilized."

Henry pressed the off switch and held the result to the twilight. He dumped excesses into a sink. "48 notoriously has no built in storage, physically and philosophically. He who doesn't work doesn't eat. Fair enough, I suppose. It simply pressures me to reorganize. You and I recognize that you can't handle the mundane, not that your keen eye and book smarts should be wasted on such."

"Quite fortunate, that your talents have landed you a leadership role," Daniel challenged. Lesser leaders would have locked him in solitary for less, but philosophical aggrandizement warranted his flippant jabs.

"What, you invoke my Ace?" Henry sniffed his creation. "You don't understand. We cannot tell our grand purpose unless we commit to our position wholeheartedly. We push ourselves to our utmost. Enlightenment is realized under stress. Mash concepts together, and cling to what survives. You are my ward not for your intelligence or perception, but because you can weather a beating from the cosmos and bounce up again. Makes experimentation rather convenient for me."

"So, what's my next 'trial'?"

Henry slapped the walls with his free hand. "You'll start on these very grounds. We've exhausted most options but management. I'll assign you a few compatriots, and we'll find your true mettle. Success begets greater responsibility."

Daniel scoffed, "I clearly lack the charisma for that."

"Well, treat it as a date," Henry callously replied. He approached Daniel and gripped his shoulders. "Drown in complacence. Ask 'why?' and die. Relentlessness doesn't guarantee anything, but it's the only path to the promised land. To acceptance or rejection, demand a choice from Fate."

Fumes from the flask tickled Danny's nose. "That's sweet. What is it?"

"I'm going to dump it in the ice cream mixer; this flavor idea lingered in my head for a week or so," Henry guffawed as he stepped toward the egress. He stopped in the doorway. "I have loftier designs than the petty prestige of an Ace. I suspect they'll bear fruit shortly. I might face the fundamental question on everybody's mind but nobody's lips."

"Which is?"

Henry pulled from his pocket a worn card, decked with his signature. "That these are mere slips of laminated paper after all."

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Mezzanine - Noontime, November 18th

Daniel came to realize that he'd already reached the precipice, that he was obligated to steer. Striking the sails would drag his vessel and his beloved comrades to the depths. Defeat was preferable to inaction. As the self alleged "King of Sin" highlighted, the firmness to quell differences was his alone. He was heir to Hinshaw's memory and legacy. His other digits unraveled, and he firmly reciprocated Dominic's extended offer. "We do indeed. God bless our partnership. We'll provoke Fate as one."

He reseated himself, invigorated by the thrill of a life altering decision; he needed a moment to relax. He then finished his points: "If I may, I seek to marry my girlfriend in short order. I've arranged the proposal, the wedding lists, the catering, et cetera." He presented a minuscule box and flashed a piece of an aged brass fitting. "Everything except the location. Having recently married yourself, you've likely perused several. Amber admires proper traditional styles, so I figured you'd have advice. Is there any candidate you rejected for its quaintness? That sort of venue ought to sate our tastes."

The Meld - Afternoon, November 18th

Amber's ears perked up. The rapping on the door was rhythmic but uncommon. Charlotte recalled the sequence. "It's Faye," she concluded.

"I'll retrieve my shotgun," was Isabel's blunt reply. She disappeared around the corner. In a flash, she reappeared, placing cartridges in her gun's chamber, to discover herself in the sights of Faye's pistol. The rogue had barged inside. "Look," bargained the Jack, "you loathe me for my revolt. I consider you a mindless lackey. We have reasons to press our triggers, but I'm prepared before you.

"That granted," she explained, "I submit myself to the jurisdiction of the Nine of Clubs. We can either live in sleepless paranoia for our stay's duration, or lower our firearms and assume goodwill. Or would you prefer that I expose to the world here and now the vast emptiness in that thick skull of yours?"

The aggrieved hulk considered her choices, then extracted the bullet. "It'd be a waste of a Vaulter. Goodness knows there's a shortage." Her gun dropped.

"Kick it," Faye commanded.

Isabel kicked it.

"Charlotte, I entrust you with her weapon," Faye holstered her handgun and removed her belt, "and mine. Is that agreeable?"

The newfound responsibilities perturbed but didn't unnerve Charlotte. "Agreed."

"Welcome back, Faye!" Amber diverted.

Isabel attempted a brief levity. "Been ages since I had an arm wrestling partner. No man or woman in attendance can challenge me!"

"We'll spar soon," Faye assured. "First, Charlotte: a singing lady is heading for the Meld. I caught a glimpse of her, but I can't give you a description. She bore a guitar, at least. I figure you have an hour until her arrival."

"A customer? We closed weeks ago," Charlotte hypothesized. "Thanks. Duly logged. For the worst case scenario, I'll grab my husband's lever action rifle. Can't be too careful in Vegas," she winked.

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Vault 48: The Jack's Rebellion

"They engage the generator!" rung across the corridor.

Faye recognized that voice: Walter, Ten of Spades and a reliable confidante. She'd scheduled an assembly with her faction amongst the bunks; that information must have leaked. As she scanned the sleeping quarters, her fellow Vaulters' faces reflected her concerns. The placid council retrieved armaments with a cool vigor. She handpicked the five readiest: "Doris, Uriah, Carol, Kyle, and Eric. Follow me. The rest of you, assemble a replacement wave."

"Damn, my shotgun's jammed," Eric lamented.

"So you four will accompany me," Faye addressed the remnant. She obtained her own pistol and headed out. The radicals' single power station lay tragically a few paces from the front lines. Their only margin was a minuscule strength center which Walt guarded. She hoped he bore the tenacity to withstand a proper assault until the cavalry relieved him.

Faye stopped at the generator's entry and ushered her vanguard in. The thunderous shock of emptied cartridges reverberated throughout the halls. Tardy stragglers occupied the preceding hydroponics garden, anxious for their chance at glory. A pixie cut brunette marched through the doorway; Faye nabbed her collar and dragged her back. "You are dismissed, Nancy."

Nancy held up her laser rifle. "Granted, I wasn't the most competent operator, but I managed the circuitry here. I want to defend my workplace!"
"It's not that," Faye explained. "You turned nineteen a month ago. I won't expend you."
"So what? You're 24!" Nancy retorted. "I order you, from a King to a Jack!"

The distant thump on the ground signaled Walter's final act of valor. In olden times, Faye couldn't refuse Nancy's command, but rank mattered little nowadays. Far too strong to resist, Faye pried her underling from her energy weapon. "My decision is resolute. Paul, confine her."

"Yes, Ma'am," the Nine of Diamonds affirmed. He wrangled Nancy's arm behind her and pressed her against the garden's confines as his commanding officer vanished into the next enclosure. "Remain still, Nan. Don't muck it up again for the professionals." Nancy resisted for a moment but limply resigned. Confused about Nancy's sudden submission, Paul remained wary of breakout. Amidst the sounds and shakes of conflict, his keen senses detected not resistance but a slight tink, tinking.

He loosened his grip and, looking down the hall, relinquished completely. His face grew pale, and words escaped him. He unholstered his revolver and directed it with trembling hands. Finally, he summoned his nerve to yaup: "Radscorpion!"

Faye heard battle cries before her and shouts of terror behind her. An Ace assaulter tromped in and identified a nook within which he hid from bullet fire. Eager to calm the storm, Faye boldly stomped forward, grabbed her adversary out of his cover by his shirt, and tossed him into the dumbbells outside. Her allies' supporting projectiles kept her immune. Overwhelming force pushed the Aces' minions safely past the weight room. "Hold!" she commanded her supporters as she investigated the rear.

Calmness she would have. Upon return, the entire hydroponics section was dead or dying, including the beast. Clutching a baseball sized hole in her gut, Nan staggered towards her leader. Her former captor had died protecting her, judging from his lifeless corpse encompassed by chitin claws.

Faye reached out her arms, and Nancy fell into them. As the King of Spades was lowered, Faye analyzed her for hope of potential salvation. She found none. Her sibling Eve's faint soprano arose from beyond the weight center. "What's the issue? Do you request truce?"
"Scorpion!" Faye announced.
A moment's silence. "You have three minutes' respite to attend to the wounded. Afterwards, we shall advance to occupy the reactor."

Faye grit her teeth. This disaster handed the opposition an insurmountable military and numbers advantage. A secure monopoly of power could halt any food production and water purification systems in the facility. Her cause in this civil war was doomed to suffocate to extinction.

"Flee this place," Nancy weakly interrupted Faye's musings. "Henry's legacy is lost without you."
Faye smiled gently. "And go where, Nancy? The Aces control the elevators, and the outdoors is wilderness and Green."
Nancy pointed above her. "Use the-" she coughed, "the vents. You're thin enough to traverse them, and they lead to open air."
Faye's gaze followed Nancy's direction. Wishful thinking, but not altogether implausible. She shook her head. "I should care for you first."
A wheeze prevented Nancy from hearing Faye's protest. "See? Handy advice. If just for that, my life was worthwhile, right?" She briefly flashed a grin. Her countenance slackened, and her muscles went limp.

Uriah appeared beside her, his heavy flamethrower luminous with heat. "She speaks truth, you know. Try the Vegas Meld. Floyd was equally Hinshaw's apprentice. If not support, you'll at least find compassion and haven."
Faye's fallen tears soaked Nancy's dress. "That her sacrifice not be vanity. What leeway can you provide?"
Uriah shrugged. "Eve adores negotiation. Possibly an hour. That failing, I have a flamer. Half that."
Faye nodded. "Recall Doris and Kyle. Some parts of me can't fit in the vent otherwise."
Uriah chuckled. "Yeah, that'll be quite the squeeze. I'd love to learn how the hijinks played out, but I probably won't survive to bid you safe journeys. With that, instead, adieu." He disappeared. "Eve! Fancy a parley?"

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Mezzanine - Noontime, November 18th

[Charisma: 7]
[Speech: 60]
Success!

Marjorie had departed when Danny responded, "Indeed, a pleasure to... Have me for dinner, yes..."

Danny refrained from dropping his jaw, but his wide eyes betrayed unfocused panic. Physically, the don exposed himself. On a whim, the loose acquaintance might hurdle the table and strangle Omerta, beheading the criminal syndicate by the time security reacted. Impossible, of course; the notion dodged Danny's mind entirely. Psychologically, a handful of brisk quips from the "King of Sin" paralyzed the Nine of Clubs in equal portions trepidation and contemplation. What mastery. The grizzled rogue master's secret to prosperity was readily apparent.

Daniel blinked to refresh his mental faculties, which sounded logical alarms. "No, this is ridiculous. What, I waltz in and announce my dominance? We don't operate the radio speakers; my buddy Kyle's exclusively safeguarded that since..." Daniel paused. Kyle was an old comrade, partial to neither Cannon. He was likely coerced out of necessity, not fanaticism. He'd implement anything Nines proposed.

"But I'd require leverage," Floyd countered himself. "I manufactured stimpaks. They wouldn't permit me near something as vital as..." Thomas was Amber's brother, Daniel's soon to be in-law. He alone comprehended the pipe network's dizzying schematics. If he sabotaged the system, discovery would last days; repair, years. He was overly protective of his sister, and would obey her every plea. Amber was similarly loyal to Danny, so by proxy Nines controlled the hydraulics.

"Desperate folk come out shooting, and we've garnered a mighty arsenal over the centuries," he considered. "A well positioned frontal ambush ought to mitigate that. I'd need twenty armed men at minimum, and the Meld can field six." He instinctively relaxed, perusing the ceiling in his calculations. "On second thought, it wouldn't take excessive effort to switch the locks on the armory closet, certainly not with an insider."

The Gomorrah was unusually serene. "Shit," Danny remarked. He never cussed. He glanced at Dominic, recalling the scenario in which he'd placed himself. Turns out he did possess a favor to ask of the crime lord. "Sir, I'm not excessively fond of indebtedness. I'd like to earn what favors you bestow. I'll allocate space in my schedule to ensure it. My price is a week's usage of a couple dozen experienced soldiers, and two hundred gallons of freshwater. You'd score a valuable ally in exchange, and your pick of the finer elements of our coffers, even after the square trade of labor." Vault 48 famously had no allocated storage area, but his compatriots had garments and weapons to spare.

He cocked his noggin as his superego resumed ownership. "Wait, why do I crave authority now? I didn't desire this prior. I've no grand machinations!" He focused his attention to a nit on a nearby wall. "But it's possible..."

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

"We followed Henry Hinshaw, and he respected us. He upheld what traditions didn't disturb our ascension. The whole host of dwellers, from lowly Nines to lofty Aces, labored in harmony according to a singular vision. We entered a Golden Age, the scope of which surpassed that of our prewar ancestors! We obeyed his commands, for they led to prosperity.

"The Aces concurred with his dictates, always accepting with grace their underlings' sacrifice. His final testament relinquishes a fraction of their privileges. Suddenly, the madman has crossed the line! How swiftly they betray his legacy with their authority at stake. Those who cannot comprehend loss of power should never have been granted it. My beloved sister is neither first nor last in the extensive annals of family lost to the Vault. I'll bury her with the card she so covets, and mourn recognizing that the harsh nuclear wilderness cannot abide dotards. Even amidst this apocalypse, we are glory bound! Aces Down; Jacks are Wild!"

Faye Cannon

"In our storied history, we weren't given understanding of these slips of laminated paper. Our forefathers carved meaning from the void. Unchallenged, universal influence in an individual's hands was destined for failure. Randomly selected Aces would bear that burden together. Their undeserved nature would grant them humility, sparing them from addiction to their status. Their varied lineage and expertise would stifle the dynasties and cliques that hobbled empires of old. Whether brilliantly planned or accidentally fashioned, that system had held for two full centuries by the time Henry Hinshaw assumed control. Hinshaw understood this and honored it.

"And so we cherish our heritage and shun would-be tyrants. I adore my older sister and so pity her. She blindly embraced an ideology which seeks to corrupt her. I hope whatever unblemished remnant she harbors survives the coming onslaught. Otherwise, I'll remain steadfast in my duty, which far eclipses me and my woes. A dozen generations stand with our cause! The Cards Count!"

Eve Cannon

Gomorrah Mezzanine - Noontime, November 18th

Don Dominic openly welcomed Daniel. He called Floyd his friend. He dismissed a reputable underling to allocate room. Such hospitality from New Vegas's elite unnerved the expedition commander. He half expected Vaulter on the club menu. He accepted the boss's hand, instinctively matching its firmness. Marjorie's recognition of the Meld's efforts partially but insufficiently explained the generosity. It alleviated Danny's concerns enough to allow the response, "It was an honor; no thanks necessary." The gemstone on that baroness's ring finger could focus quite a potent laser.

Daniel swallowed as he took the warm seat. "Daniel... Yes, Daniel works, apologies. My best friends call me 'Nines,' if you'd prefer." His trance vanished. Strangers in strange worlds couldn't afford to be caught in stupor. Technically, he represented an organization on par with the Omertas. Regardless of appearance, this was amicable parley between equals. Then why did it feel so lopsided?

Endemic of the imbalance, Danny produced three handcrafted potholders and placed them on the table. "Prior to talking business, I've brought these humble offerings. I wanted to bestow a fancier gift. As your wife implied, caps are hard to come by nowadays. Congratulations, by the way. Rest assured that once capital flows again, you'll witness a wedding present worthy of ancient royalty. Meanwhile, please accept these labors of love, sewn and stuffed by my own fiance."

He smiled hesitantly. He sought private advice, yet made men surrounded him. Leisure seekers reveled within earshot. Daniel lacked the charisma to suggest that Omerta move elsewhere. He certainly wouldn't ask him if he trusted his spouse. Daniel wasn't overly fond of public torture and execution. Ergo, this scenario must suffice. He pulled a colorless photograph from his pocket. A brief glimpse reminded him of home, well, his birthplace. The Meld was his newfound land. "I request no favors, merely wisdom from the wise."

He displayed the picture before the crime lord's view, pointing out key individuals. "This is our Women's Choir. My precious Amber smiles in the middle there. Beside her is Charlotte; behind her is Isabel. I figured I'd introduce them, since they're all in town." He hoped that the few blurred pipes and cramped background wouldn't reveal the chorus's underground location in Vault 48.

He drew Omerta's attention to the left flank, where a couple conventionally attractive, nearly identical blondes with pigtails had arms around each other's shoulders towards the ensemble's rear. "These are sisters Faye and Eve Cannon." Eve had slightly lighter hair and darker skin; Daniel reckoned a personal touch would clarify matters. "Our faction head, my mentor, assigned the former to rule in his stead when he passed away earlier this month. The current interregnum disagrees with his choice. The latter appears to be their champion.

"They're equally competent by my account," Daniel stated. He paused to reflect. "Eve's more intelligent, but Faye's savvier with people. In earnest, I just realized that now. Frankly, we'd benefit greatly from either management, but we're presently locked in bitter civil engagement. Neither will tolerate joint leadership, despite my attempts to reconcile.

"Eve while younger represents disciplined tradition. She'd integrate us into the central network. Instant communication. Efficient transport. Faye embodies the hopeful expansion of eras past. She's discussed personally her grandiose construction project proposals to expand our headquarters. She might sink us in pursuit, but infrastructure is welcome."

He relaxed in his chair, his discharge of information therapeutic, albeit overwhelming. "Both demanded my support. I gave none. Without a chance to grieve, I can't make decisions of this scale. I've seen your handling of flood relief. You navigate murky situations like making lunch. What would you do in my shoes? I have additional material, if you need."

Rise of Rasalhague

Hamazasp Sulser

While calculating his plan of action, Sulser wondered why he was so frequently omitted from the overarching strategy, his pleas to engage so flippantly dismissed. The humbling firepower that spewed forth during his minute's musing and the visual reminder that his comrades literally towered above him quickly settled his questions.

Nonetheless, it rendered him redundant. Fuka provided ample distraction. Overkill and Alvin spearheaded the rear charge. Jaromir suppressed the vanguard. Karel's inaccuracy humored the crowd. Sir Commander coordinated from distance. And Hamazasp... was there too.

Then again, irrelevance had its benefits. His vehicle bore no pockmarks as of yet; neither his foes nor his friends expected much from his craft. By the time his calculations concluded, Zhu hailed over the comms.

"Near bogey affirmative; far Locust untouched," he replied casually. A shiny new target tempted the dairy farmer, but he understood the difference between three enemies and four. He reached for his medium laser button... which one was it? A stray thought reminded him of sparring practice with Nakano. Get in their personal space, and their fluster will prevent a reaction. Doubly so with his adversary reeling from previous batterings. Triply so as a practical ghost on the battlefield, appearing from a blind spot. It was certainly a better chance than an unskilled lout had at aiming his energy device.

"Engaging ramming maneuvers," he reported, his lack of coordination disabling his capacity for weaponry as he adjusted to face the LCT-1V. His thrusters at maximum, he bade his 'Mech push forward. He lowered his vehicle's head, the rush of combat forcing him to smile. The first shrapnel grazed his hull quite too late to stop him.

Impact. A right good hit, at that. Largely by accident, he'd found the perfect angle to sheer the Locust's left arm from its nub. As the Ayrshire reeled back, the Taurian switched gears from movement to armaments. He knew where the machine gun controls were, and he slammed bullets where his cockpit once imprinted. The mirror reflection of his potential demise discomforted but didn't unnerve him. He now possessed a close quarters weapons advantage to his doppelganger: two to nothing. With any luck, the enemy's response would be minimal. Of course, skirmishes rarely bless the humble soldier with such fortunes.

Rolls and Damage

Charge: Roll of 11: Damage = 2 x Distance traveled (2) = 4 Damage, Left Arm Chosen
Machine Guns (x2): (AUTOMATIC HIT): Damage = 2 (x2) = 4 Damage, Left Arm Chosen
LCT-1V: Left Arm: 4 Armor + 3 Internal Structure - 8 Total Damage: Destroyed

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Northwest Passage, "Meld" Outward Base: Morning, November 18th

Pastime at the Meld was an oddly tense affair. Amber slouched in her indoor rocking chair, threading a needle across tight fabric. Temporarily relieved of serving the homeless, Charlotte casually flipped through the lunch section of her recipe booklet, attempting to utilize her remaining supplies to the utmost. Isabel, neither cook nor craftswoman, hurriedly scribbled a spreadsheet onto a blank page, which would hopefully supplement the trigonometric reference material she'd forgotten on her journey over. The singular noise was an axe's thwacking outside.

Amber intermittently glanced at Isabel. For a fortnight, she'd wanted to reminisce about the Failfest revelries with a companion. Isabel would throw a fit if she discovered that they'd seceded in jest. Floyd (perhaps rightfully so) didn't assign Isabel any excursions, so she busied herself in the kitchen, eternally within earshot of the homestead's every corner. Apparently that was a habit of Vault 48's queens, as Charlotte's station was the table's opposite end.

"Charlotte," Isabel inquired. "One plus the squared tangent is the squared cosecant?"

"Secant," Charlotte responded. "You divide both sides of the Pythagorean theorem by the square of the cosine."

"That's what I did," Isabel countered, considerably calmer than her reputation allowed.

"No, cosine to the negative first is the secant."

Isabel rechecked her formula. "Funny, the way that works. Thanks!" She sounded eerily cheerful.

"No problem," Charlotte assured. "Happened to me plenty."

The men were similarly useless. Bradley forbade disturbance during his outdoors woodworking, despite the plethora he caused. Daniel didn't invite Amber on his frequent outings. He likely thought they didn't intrigue her enough to warrant accompaniment, though she longed for anytime alone together, no matter the boredom. The only individual who more often left the abode was Justin, commonly to drink, waste caps, and bring back surprisingly competent gossip and negotiation positions. And so Amber was abandoned to cherish the pleasantries herself, her cool frustration channeled into her artwork. Charlotte had taught her to cross stitch, and the student had quite handily surpassed the master.

Daniel entered the living space, his newsboy's cap displaying his intentions to leave. "Hey, sweetheart, how's it going?"

Amber smiled, her teeth on full display, her eyes concealing her musings. "Fine, honey! And you?"

"Just swell, knowing that you're happy," he announced, his earnest goodwill nonetheless an unintentional lie. He approached the wall of crafts and perused the contents with a keen eye. "Say, I'm headed to market, and I need something to trade. How much of my allowance do you want for these three potholders?" He pointed out his quarry to his fiance.

"A kiss," she stated bluntly.

Daniel was taken aback. Still, he helped Amber to her feet and lovingly complied. "You drive a hard bargain, Miss."

"Oh, come on, it wasn't that bad," she quipped. "Care for another?"

"You're making us sick," Charlotte interrupted. Bradley's thwacks continued at a steady volume. "Get a room, or stop it."

"Protocol permits displays of affection in dining, sleeping, and similar relaxation quarters, in manners that don't disrupt urgent or vital duties," Isabel denoted.

"Like you'd know, Isabel. You've never had a boyfriend," Charlotte commented.

"I read the manual. Haven't you?"

The romantic mood long since deceased, the Nine of Clubs squeezed the hand of the Nine of Hearts, collected his recently purchased goods, and departed forthwith with a smile.

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Front Entrance - Noontime, November 18th

Having reached his destination, Danny doffed his cap and lowered it to his heart. He felt remorse over lying to his girlfriend, but he understood the consequences of clouded judgment. No, he'd make his decisions alone. Well, not completely.

He stood patiently at the doors. With gifted artwork no longer a concern, he better appreciated the architecture: the faux pointed arches, the tasteless titanesses above the main hall. What felt familiar were the patrons rushing past him to enter.

He flagged down someone who looked official. "Pardon me, I seek an audience with Fa-" he shook his head, "with Don Dominic Omerta. If you'd-" He didn't complete his sentence when his contact walked away. He realized that, unlike a castle, he required no permission to enter, only to approach the king. He donned his hat again and marched inside.

Danny "Nines" Floyd - Gomorrah Reception Area - Noontime, November 18th

A stranger to this type of establishment, he was shocked by the gaudiness of the facility. A Vaulter like him comprehended practicality and simple pleasures, and this gold and red behemoth far outreached his scope. He stumbled around trying to gather his bearings before realizing the receptionist was just to his left.

Daniel sheepishly approached the desk. "Howdy! Um, apologies. What's your name?"

The lady had clearly remembered him from the prior debacle. "Clarice. You're that yokel leader, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am he. Greetings, Clarice. I hoped to have the audience of Don Omerta, if at all possible."

"For what purpose?"

Daniel swallowed, doffing his hat again. "Advice, for certain discreet matters of state." From his experience, the rich and powerful desired naught else than to be considered rich, powerful, and wise. He didn't intend to exploit that truism; honestly, he was desperate for stable counsel. Henry was no longer around to mentor him; Henry was in fact responsible for this kerfuffle. Daniel entrusted nobody from the Vault with the fate of the colony, and some schmuck would lead him astray. Watts was a refined but untested man of culture. Dominic knew the price of kingship. Floyd's coffers couldn't afford it, but he knew those who could.

Noble Arms - The ASEAN War [Moved to New Thread]

PLA Navy Ship Zunyi – 10/11/2022, 19:54 UTC+8

“Damnation, where could the enemy be?” Field Officer Pan’s eyes were glued to his binoculars, the command deck warming from the fires of his quiet vitriol. He was too preoccupied to notice his crew’s timid glances on his periphery. No sane subordinate, not even the captain, would suggest that the commander alter course. Pan muttered his frustration to himself, “We should have passed them by now.”

A beep from the communications device blessedly broke the tension. The aide received the first line of dialogue. “Field Officer Gao again, sir.”

“On speaker,” Pan demanded. “I’m busy.”

He would regret this decision. His accompaniment could hear the grin through Gao’s smug vocals. “Pan, you dumb bastard.”

“I’ve no time for your antics, Gao,” Pan announced. “I’m hunting prey.”

A snicker. “I take it you don’t require assistance from my reconnaissance, then?”

Pan came to the defense of his own fragile ego. “We do swimmingly ourselves.”

“I scrambled my jets to investigate your paranoia. Turns out, we did identify a fleet of enemy vessels. Two, in fact.”

Pan’s curiosity betrayed him. “Where are they?”

The voice cracked into a semblance of laughter. “The vital one is behind you, a few miles offshore of Mischief Reef.”

“Impossible!” Pan declared. “We had an impenetrable line of patrol ships. They couldn’t have subverted our eagle eyes!”

“Yes, about that: we detected a hole in your line, one ship large. They sailed straight though.”

Pan dropped his binoculars in shock. “Captain, can you confirm this?”

The captain acquired alternate communications and demanded confirmation from the blockade chain. Gao resumed his harvest of schadenfreude. “I’m certain you’ll report truthfully, but you’ll forgive me if I contacted the Central Military Commission in advance, to provide my humble perspective on the matter. Your pigheadedness tonight will cost you, Pan.”

Pan gripped the nearest railing. If Gao possessed mere fabrications, his testimony alone could relieve Pan of his post, and possibly of his head. Of course, if the evidence was more substantial…

“Field Officer Pan!” the captain reported. “The Luzhou does not respond to our hails!”

Gao dropped all mirth for his conclusion. “I’ll enjoy watching you fry.”

Mischief Reef – 10/11/2022, 20:15, UTC +8

The assembled crew had inadvertently partitioned the sandy beaches. On one side stood the ASEAN delegation: a cadre of captains, officers, and curious Arms Masters (most notably Iker Orozco), Captain Rhiannon Kennedy first among equals despite not deriving from a ASEAN nation. Her cap was tucked fashionably underneath her armpit. She held her chin high, not merely out of formality but in order to see the towering bearded Arms Master standing across from her. He himself was predominantly flanked by a short young man with white hair and a glowing sword, and secondarily flanked by a number of soldiers in tactical gear and armaments.

Kennedy hailed them. “Greetings to the Qing Restoration Society. In recognition of your efforts against the People’s Liberation Army, the Association of Southeast Asian Nations bestows supplies and ammunition. May our mutual prosperity safeguard the seas.”

The bearded man snapped his fingers, and a soldier hesitantly approached him. The tall figure stared Kennedy down as his underling translated her words into Mandarin. He responded in kind, and the soldier replied: “We are glad that ASEAN sees value and reason. It will be great benefit to you in the future.”

Captain Rhiannon nodded her approval, moderately concerned that her counterpart expressed not gratitude but assumption. Their support saved them from certain death, and the help seemed almost implied. Such things annoyed but didn’t faze her. “I was told to expect Jin Li, the commander here. None of you match his description. Where is he?”

The grunt started to translate, but his superior dismissed him. “Jin Li defends the waters. I am Ren Zhao, head of the Qing Zodiac. I have authority to address all matters here. The emperor will see you as He sees fit.”

Cranes on the Supply and Stalwart lifted relief goods off their decks. The crates were cracked open and distributed among the eager ASEAN, Qing, and automaton terracotta soldiers below. An ant line trailed into the concrete bunkers on the island to store the newfound bounty.

Iker was leftmost on his delegation’s side. Either willfully or unintentionally, he ignored Kennedy’s silent glare as he spoke out of turn. “Zodiac? I presume you must have special abilities, then.”

Ren Zhao beamed at the opportunity, unfurling his radiant banner. “I have the power to deflect incoming projectiles.”

“Sounds very useful to our current circumstances,” Iker commented. “Why aren’t you assisting Jin Li with the defense, then?”

Ren Zhao’s smile vanished as Kennedy tried to conceal a smirk. “And why aren’t you helping unload?” he retorted.

Iker unveiled his luminous axe. “I move single objects of similar material. It’s not quite practical to hack into grain and rations packaging.”

The white haired lad beside Zhao piped up quietly, motioning to the crane yonder. “I’m certain you could move the supply crates closer to the bunkers, then.”

Iker pondered the proposition. “That works.” He promptly departed the gathering.

Rhiannon resumed, “Regardless, I believe our obligations are met. Is there anything else you request from us?”

“No,” Ren Zhao stated. “You have done your duty. You have our permission to leave.”

The Australian saluted, and the Chinese bowed. With an about face, Captain Kennedy departed to manage the disembarkation. A seaman passed her by to draw the Chinese delegation’s attention. “We’re wrapping up; I don’t believe we need as many soldiers anymore.”

The lad nodded. “Of course.” The glowing sword and terracotta army vanished into earthen dust, carried towards the sea on the wind.

PLA Navy Ship Zunyi – 10/11/2022, 20:22 UTC+8

The crew still reeled from such a sharp 180 degree turn, as surely the rest of the battle group likely felt. Their fellow sailors had the right to complain, but they themselves bore no such privilege. They resigned to sit at their stations while listening to Pan rant about how “I’m going to get them this time! Catch them by surprise when they least expect it! A brilliant strategy indeed!”

A curt signal on the comms cut short his musings. Pan picked it up personally. “Glory to China!”

“Pan Gang. You are not authorized for this exercise. Stand down.”

“Who is this who thinks he can order around a Field Officer?”

The voice was not amused. “General Huang Chao, Joint Staff Department of the Central Military Commission.”

Pan sobered up rather quickly. “J-Joint Staff?”

“Stand down, Field Officer Pan.”

Pan swallowed, visibly calculating which actions wouldn’t lead to swift execution. “But, General Huang, we can still counter their actions!”

Authority wasn’t working; rationale must suffice. “Not while they’re within range of Arms Master traitor Jin Li. Your failure will not be compounded by the additional loss of our vessels.”

“Then we shall wait until they leave that zone!” the would be tactician proposed. “They have to depart sometime!”

“And outrage the international community with an action clearly made out of spite? NATO is still not directly involved.”

“But-”

“Pan!” Huang exclaimed, resuming his authoritative status. “It’s over! You have lost! If you pursue your current course, we will have no choice but to declare you an enemy of the state. You will stand down, like all the other fleets in the area. Is that clear?”

The bridge was deathly quiet as Pan came to terms. “Very clear, General Huang Chao.”

“Good,” Chao audibly sighed. “You will embark on the nearest craft to Zhanjiang for questioning. We will manage your replacement.”

The only question in "questioning" would be whether a bullet or injection was cheaper. Blood drained from Pan’s face. “Understood. Gòngchǎndǎng wànsuì!”

“Gòngchǎndǎng wànsuì.” Click.

Summoning his last strength, Pan stumbled across to the ship’s captain. He bowed lowly. “It was an honor to serve alongside you.”

The captain returned the bow and lied through his teeth. “Likewise.”

Downtown Angeles City – 10/14/2022, 20:26 UTC+8

Rear Admiral Adrián Abasolo wore not his customary white military fatigues but slacks and a button down long sleeve shirt covered by a jet black blazer. Nonetheless, he’d fashioned a small pin of the Philippine flag above his breast out of patriotic duty. His aide sat beside him, her form fitting sleeveless cocktail dress similarly defying typical dress code. Adrián’s eyes blurred as he peered out his window and the lights of the city faded into stars. “Jasmine, when did you last visit your family?”

Jasmine shuffled in her seat. “Probably a few months? Before the war, certainly.”

“Alright, once we’ve settled our guests, take this sedan and spend quality moments with them. I want to hear some more household stories like the one you told me yesterday.”

“Sir, I couldn’t.”

“Nonsense! Ryan would love to escort you. Isn’t that right, Ryan?”

The chauffeur in the front seat didn’t have the luxury of choosing his own attire; he bore the suit of a lieutenant. Perhaps he preferred that, given his lighthearted demeanor. “A pretty woman like her? Sure thing, boss!”

“No, it’s not that,” Jasmine lamented. “We believe my brother died in Lingayen, sir. He was reported missing, and he hasn’t reappeared since. I doubt we’ll have such merriment at home, not for a while.”

“Ah,” Abasolo uttered. He used the sobriety to prepare himself for the coming interaction. “You have my condolences. You’re entitled to bereavement leave whenever you require it.”

“Thanks, Admiral.” Jasmine smiled. “I’ll take it when the war’s over.”

Attagirl; what a treasure. The car braked as it reached its destination. The admiral looked behind him to see a string of parked buses. Two, three, four… they’d all made it. Excellent; traffic was no concern. “Well, let’s go pamper some magic people, shall we?” He opened his door, circumnavigated the vehicle, and opened Jasmine’s.

“Let’s,” Jasmine agreed.

Ritz Hotel Angeles, Angeles City – 10/14/2022, 20:30 UTC+8

The milky white inner room was yellowed by evening light. Arms Masters were directed to and seated in rows of chairs of high luxury and middling comfort. When the audience was situated, Admiral Abasolo appeared at their front. His smile felt unnatural, so he dropped it as soon as he introduced it.

“Greetings, everyone. While some of us have talked personally since, I’d like to congratulate you all collectively on a successful exercise to Mischief Reef." He didn't appreciate applause and so allotted no time for it. "We haven’t heard the QRS express their gratitude due to jamming operations, but the concerns we’ve received from intercepted PLA transcripts proves that our work was fruitful.

“Now,” he relaxed his stance slightly, “We already have another mission for you. However, unlike previous, that mission is not time sensitive. I’ve postponed it for a later date. Even now, I’m certain you’re exhausted from your endeavors in the South China Sea, and I won’t throw that kind of soldier onto the battlefield if I can help it.

“To that end, the Philippine government has authorized the renting of this establishment. The management has experienced a drop in revenue and so agreed. Apparently the well to do don’t typically spend their vacation in a war zone during wartime.” If that was a joke, his face expressed no humor.

“I’d like to make this perfectly clear: this is not a charity. This is mandatory recuperation in preparation for your next assignment. Keep physically fit, but don’t overexert yourself. We will offer daily trips to New Clark City’s stadium complex as needed.” New Clark City was a money pit, the brainchild of some city planner with time in excess who thought he’d usher in a utopia free of economics or rational thought. While it was there, though, Abasolo found no reason not to utilize its functions.

“A few drinks are fine, but you will be detained and reprimanded if you appear at roll call shitfaced. You are expected to be on your best behavior, especially to the staff here. They anticipated a leisurely pseudo vacation but now have to tolerate you. Treat them accordingly, with humility.”

He scanned the room. “If there are any questions, you may address them to me privately, not out of confidentiality but out of efficiency. The concierge at the front has your room keys and is on standby to distribute them. Dismissed.”

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

October 21st: To recuperate caps spent in purchasing the painting, the Meld commences its first attempts at revenue. Amber volunteers to make crafts, while Charlotte converts the colony's excess rations into restaurant quality dishes. The Meld opens for public dining but fails to gather initial traction. Meals run for six caps; fabric goods for fifteen.

October 26th: The Happy Trails Caravan makes contact with Vault 48. Concerned about wanton expenditures, Henry, Ace of Clubs assigns siblings Queen Isabel and King Justin Moore of Clubs to assist colonial finances and foreign affairs, respectively. Despite his aloofness, Justin is renowned for deft negotiations around Sac Town. They arrive on the 29th.

October 28th: The "Failfest," a local festival that commemorates the day upon which multiple systems across the vault malfunctioned simultaneously. In celebration, all non-vital elements shutdown, leading to a temporary cessation of outside communications. Cutoff from instant messaging regardless, Daniel Floyd takes the opportunity to jokingly, temporarily, declare independence. Fine beverages are purchased for the occasion.

November 2nd: Henry Hinshaw falls ill. Layman doctors concur that the symptoms are caused by terminal cancer. He appoints a successor: the promising Jack of Diamonds Faye Cannon. Tradition dictates that the remaining Aces select a new leader from amongst themselves after the death of a predecessor. Hinshaw's revolutionary decision causes great turmoil. Eve Cannon, Ace of Diamonds and Faye's equally capable younger sister, is the most vocal opponent.

November 5th: Eager to assist the flood relief efforts but too distant for effect, the colony agrees to donate all excess foodstuffs to the Omertas' and White Gloves' food programs. Isabel protests, and her outcry is duly logged and overruled by Floyd. The Queen of Spades helps serve the impoverished and homeless. Choked of supply, the diner closes and has not since resumed operations.

November 6th: Hinshaw passes, leaving behind a fledgling empire of his own creation. He is celebrated as a hero by the entire clan, despite his final testament, maybe genuinely but perhaps in a bid to garner popularity. Portraits and similar artwork adorn his grave and appear throughout the facility. He is sealed in stone under a defunct room on the premises.

November 9th: To compensate for revenue loss, Bradley proposes to take up woodworking, and Charlotte recommends pottery. Both initiatives are fully endorsed. Driftwood is gathered from the ruins of destroyed housing to supply Bradley's endeavor. The first furnishings are crude but practical and commercially viable. The Expedition prospects for clay pits, though the Green limits their options.

November 12th: Eve sends an emissary and Faye arrives personally to beseech Floyd's support. In the heated discussion Daniel leverages the tension by detailing visions for a machine parts factory under the control of the Expedition. Neither party makes promises. He expresses neutrality but affirms his broader loyalty, sending them both away with homemade wood and fabric crafts but otherwise empty handed.