With no offense intended if it was simply intended to be a plot development, it really seems to me to be more of a really game-y means of countering the size of the Commonwealth, which I wholeheartedly disagree with. That's my two cents. This is a RP after all, not Risk. We're not here to paint the map but to make a story.
It's unrealistic, but not in the sense that this game is 'unrealistic' (giant robots, power armor, gauss rifles, different geopolitical boundaries), but that it's completely unfeasible.
The Captain Member
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TripleS and Gendarmerie International have absolutely zero involvement in any current armed conflict.
They're just hunting down cartels in South America.
I promise.
(but this treaty is totally weird, it doesn't seem very practical to declare war on half the world and expect to annex everything without issue, even without outside involvement.)
They're just hunting down cartels in South America.
I promise.
(but this treaty is totally weird, it doesn't seem very practical to declare war on half the world and expect to annex everything without issue, even without outside involvement.)
CARIBBEAN SEA - SONS' SEABASE BRAVO
9:37AM EST
"Jesus H. Fuckin' Christ," Brandley muttered, again, for the third time, as he slid the manila-foldered briefing across the table, out of easy arm's reach. His gaze lingered on it for a few seconds more, and then he washed away the sour thoughts it'd given him with a swig of lukewarm coffee. He set his mug aside, not too far off from the offending stack of documents, leaned back in his chair, and raised an expectant, open hand, as if to say 'well, what now?'. It was a small gesture, but it conveyed his frustration to his staff more than adequately. To be fair, they were all a little frustrated with the news too. World War 5, right on it's way, across all the headlines as plain as day.
Brandley lowered his indignant hand back to rest, flat against the table, gave the folder across from him a nasty glance, and then turned his gaze to those present. His best and brightest. The first mates of his unwieldy, forty or so years old ship, the Sons of Liberty. "Each passing day," he started, grinning bitterly, "I get a little bit more cynical about my fellow man. A bunch of Imperial Serbs and some goddamn Nazis decide that the best course of action, immediately following World War Four is to invade the rest of the world. Carve it right up."
"In all honesty, sir," one of his staff piped up, a younger man, son of an old admiral. A boy who had grown up in the insurgency, been indoctrinated into its mission. In any other situation, Brandley might call such an upbringing morally questionable, but the circumstances were different here, at least in his opinion. And, regardless of the ethics of it, and the young lieutenant's life story, he had input. " ... This is all talk for now. And maybe it'll only be talk. I'd like to see the Nazis try to secure control of Russia. Fat chance."
Brandley nodded. He figured as much himself, but that didn't make the situation any better, and he said as much. "It's still happening. It's still their intent. This is the global community now. These are the world's leaders. They make twenties America look like an angel, and what can we do about it, tied up like we are in the north? Not a damn thing."
He rose to his feet and walked a circle around his chair to the map that had been posted on the wall behind him. A map that was now woefully out of date. Someone heaved a morose sigh behind him. Another coughed. He pressed his hand against the continent of Eurasia and squinted. His fingers curled, and he yanked the map from the wall and crumpled it up. He turned back to his subordinates. His presidential cabinet, in effect, and he held his balled world map up in a stern grip. "The whole world is turning all fuckin' Orwellian and all we can do is nip at Emperor Washington's heels. You'd think someone with the sense to get himself into office over there would also have the sense to learn from the mistakes of his predecessors. Jesus H. Fucking Christ. Nazis! Nazis and Yugoslavians! Why don't we just go get ISIS going again too? Maybe Stalinist Russia?! They'd be in damn good company."
He had almost started shouting, but just as quick as the rant began, it was over. He let out a bitter little chuckle and returned to his seat. "Alright, now listen. Jameson, get triple-S on the line, I've got to conference call about our ... friends across the pond. Martinez, your orders stand. Jericho moves forward as planned. We need to make headway against the Emperor and his mooks now more than ever. Same goes to the rest of you. No change in plans, but just be aware of the new circumstances we operate under. The world needs an America now more than ever, so ... let's not keep them waiting. Hop to."
In short order the conference room was empty again, save for a crumpled up map.
SOUTH AMERICAN POPULAR UNION - RIO DE JANEIRO - SOVEREIGN SECURITY SOLUTIONS DISTRICT OFFICE AND COMPOUND
1:09PM DST
"Monica, I'm not going to say it again. This is where we thrive. This is our sunshine and our water and our fertilizer. War. Jockeying for power. You know the way I see Eurasia? I see it like the prospectors saw California. It is an opportunity unlike any other. Three superstates, two at one's throat. If they're going to point any fingers, it's going to be at each other," the side-combed fifty-something man said, fingering the triple S pin on his lapel.
"Jonas, I didn't come here to talk realist foreign policy with you," the woman sitting across from him, also a fifty-something, dressed formally, said, "You decided, without the board's approval, to mobilize almost a tenth of the company's assets without even sending the board a memo!"
"And I apologized, didn't I? We're talking in circles. This is an opportunity I had to jump on, and besides, even if we lose all the assets I'm readying up we're still making a profit, aren't we? And," he jabbed upwards with a finger,"we've taken the necessary steps to ensure our tracks are covered. If anyone's helping poor little Cameroon it's the British and the Commonwealth."
She rolled her eyes. "Sure you apologized. Sure, you covered every base, but you do -not- run this company on your own."
"Now you're just arguing out of principle. Because you feel excluded. Or am I wrong? Because I can't think of a single thing I actually did to endanger our profit margins," he said. He looked back over his shoulder and said, "Blinds, dim to seventy five percent."
At his word, the elegant futurist suite that looked out at the Rio skyline dimmed as the window panes polarized. She was glowering at him the entire time.
"Take a moment to not be a dick. Pretend you're talking to a reporter, if that helps."
He gave her a pained sigh and clasped his hands together on his desk. "The Federales insisted we move, Monica. Half the world is poised to be set under siege. Deliberation has no place here. By tomorrow we'll be operating in Cameroon. If all goes well, we'll be sending aid to Mogadishu. At least that was the proposed outline I was given. Are you happy? It's not my fault. My hand was forced. Would you like a letter of apology?"
She gave him a flat smile and shook her head. "No, James, that'll be fine. Just keep us in the loop next time, will you? It'd be a shame if we had to pull the rug out from under you."
And, with that, she stood and walked out.
James Traxus decided now would be a good time for a drink.
NEW REPUBLIC OF CAMEROON - YAOUNDE OUTSKIRTS
2:31AM WAT
The cool, soothing voice of a woman eased Isaac Brown out of the stupor of pre-mission dozing. He didn't quite catch what she said, but he knew she would repeat herself. It was his ASTOR's onboard computer system, IFA, or Infantry Field Assistant, urging full awareness back to his faculties. He wanted to tell the machine he needed five more minutes, but of course that wasn't exactly a luxury that his mobile infantry frame provided. It was custom to sleep prior to long-distance deployments such as these, despite the cramping that being locked up in his suit guaranteed. It was like flying economy class. On a Fourth Reich commercial airliner.
"Ten minutes until drop. Ten minutes until drop. Armor systems initializing. Arming and refueling in five minutes. Pilot: Isaac Brown, Sovereign Security Solutions Deniable Ops Lance Five, please prepare for drop."
He rolled his neck left and right, eliciting a few cracks, gave a few earnest blinks to clear his vision, and curled and uncurled his fingers. He was going to feel this ride when he got back to base, he knew that much.
"Ifa, activate suit optics," he murmured sleepily.
His suit's display screen flickered to life and followed his eye movements. Left, right. Up, down. Everything was in order. He could see the CS160's cargo bay, gray, cold, and gutted of all obstructions to make room for his and his Lance Partner, Mendez's, ASTOR suits. The hunched form of her war machine sat directly in front of his, nearly balled up to fit in the back of the aircraft, just as his was. The flamboyant Aragon red and yellow stripes her ASTOR was so well known for were gone, replaced by a dull gray and a Cameroon flag. Necessary, and temporary, all for their current op, but he couldn't help but chafe mentally every time he looked at it. It reminded him of his now missing jolly roger.
"Pilot: Isaac Brown, be advised. Combat stims are now being administered. This may sting."
It did sting, but, at the risk of sounding like a junky, this was the best part, Isaac thought to himself. First there was the prick of needles in the right arm, and then the rush. Enhanced reaction time. Cold, beautiful euphoria. The frustration and stress of combat were nothing to an ASTOR-37a pilot. There was just the fight. Well, no. It was the physics. The maneuvers. The acrobatics. It was all a slow, sweet ambrosian blur of flawlessly executed wetwork. He could probably make some historical allusion, but he would just come off as unoriginal. Everyone else likened themselves to hashashin. To nordic berserkers. To the old Chinese genemod commandos. In some respects they were similar, but then Isaac Brown couldn't forget he was just fighting for a paycheck, not Odin or Premier Liu Qindu.
His thoughts kept spiraling. Hundreds of years of pondering in the blink of an eye. He wasn't even deployed and he'd gone from considering the romance of being a drug-fueled killing machine to reliving the moments of his mother's death in that car crash back home in Florida. And the self-realization of his spiraling thought process brought him to considering the combat stims themselves. He could recite the chemical cocktail by heart. The means of delivery. Where it was stored in his suit. Where it was produced in Peru. The national animal of Peru.
There he went again. Not enough stimuli, audible or visual, to keep his racing mind focused. That'd change not too long from now.
He inhaled deeply as the warning klaxons, signalling an impending drop, illuminated the cargo bay. He could see the red hue of Angelina Mendez's optics coming on line. He ground his teeth together and then opened the squad line to her.
"You ready?"
He could hear her rapid shallow breaths on the line. "Yeah. Yeah. Never changes, does it?"
"Not once," he muttered.
Their voices were irregular. Trembling tones. Irregular pronunciation. They were caught up in the act of speaking. Too focused on their own voices, on trying to sound normal despite the rush of artificial hormones and endorphins. It leveled out by the time they made landfall. Usually.
"One minute until drop," Ifa stated, matter-of-factually.
Lance Commander Lagi's voice crackled through, "Alright. This is possibly going to be an extended op. Your suits have been outfitted accordingly. I've seen to it you've been supplied extra ammunition and stims. Our mission is to halt Yugoslavia's advance, as per our employer's wishes. Local forces have proven ineffective. Cameroon isn't exactly a military superpower, after all. That's where we come in. We halt their advance before Yaounde. The capital does not fall. We'll cut in and out. Remember your training. Do not present a front for them to fight against. Mobile. Hostile. Hit them where it hurts. Lance Four is on standby in the city center with a strategic artillery ARCO2, Lance Three is being deployed from the north to cut into Yugoslavian reinforcements and logistics. If we're lucky, we'll just encircle and destroy."
A chorus of 'yes sir's' echoed through the squad radio line, and Ifa joined in by announcing that the drop was imminent.
The Godhand's bay doors opened wide and Mendez's ASTOR shot out, propelled by in-bay pneumatic catapults and her sputtering VTOL pack. It was good to slow her descent, and not only that, but also gave her limited flight capabilities on the field.
Isaac closed his eyes and embraced the sickening rush of gravity as he was catapulted out right behind her.
The dark of the African night embraced him, and he was jerked upwards by his own VTOL pack roaring to life. He watched from up on high, adjusting course as needed to keep in line with his lance. The city was dark. The people had fled or gone into hiding. All that remained now was Cameroon's desperate national military, barricading itself inside its jewel city for a last stand. But Cameroon had friends in high places. It was one country, at least, that wouldn't be squashed under the heel of autocracy just yet, if this multinational corporation had anything to say about it.
9:37AM EST
"Jesus H. Fuckin' Christ," Brandley muttered, again, for the third time, as he slid the manila-foldered briefing across the table, out of easy arm's reach. His gaze lingered on it for a few seconds more, and then he washed away the sour thoughts it'd given him with a swig of lukewarm coffee. He set his mug aside, not too far off from the offending stack of documents, leaned back in his chair, and raised an expectant, open hand, as if to say 'well, what now?'. It was a small gesture, but it conveyed his frustration to his staff more than adequately. To be fair, they were all a little frustrated with the news too. World War 5, right on it's way, across all the headlines as plain as day.
Brandley lowered his indignant hand back to rest, flat against the table, gave the folder across from him a nasty glance, and then turned his gaze to those present. His best and brightest. The first mates of his unwieldy, forty or so years old ship, the Sons of Liberty. "Each passing day," he started, grinning bitterly, "I get a little bit more cynical about my fellow man. A bunch of Imperial Serbs and some goddamn Nazis decide that the best course of action, immediately following World War Four is to invade the rest of the world. Carve it right up."
"In all honesty, sir," one of his staff piped up, a younger man, son of an old admiral. A boy who had grown up in the insurgency, been indoctrinated into its mission. In any other situation, Brandley might call such an upbringing morally questionable, but the circumstances were different here, at least in his opinion. And, regardless of the ethics of it, and the young lieutenant's life story, he had input. " ... This is all talk for now. And maybe it'll only be talk. I'd like to see the Nazis try to secure control of Russia. Fat chance."
Brandley nodded. He figured as much himself, but that didn't make the situation any better, and he said as much. "It's still happening. It's still their intent. This is the global community now. These are the world's leaders. They make twenties America look like an angel, and what can we do about it, tied up like we are in the north? Not a damn thing."
He rose to his feet and walked a circle around his chair to the map that had been posted on the wall behind him. A map that was now woefully out of date. Someone heaved a morose sigh behind him. Another coughed. He pressed his hand against the continent of Eurasia and squinted. His fingers curled, and he yanked the map from the wall and crumpled it up. He turned back to his subordinates. His presidential cabinet, in effect, and he held his balled world map up in a stern grip. "The whole world is turning all fuckin' Orwellian and all we can do is nip at Emperor Washington's heels. You'd think someone with the sense to get himself into office over there would also have the sense to learn from the mistakes of his predecessors. Jesus H. Fucking Christ. Nazis! Nazis and Yugoslavians! Why don't we just go get ISIS going again too? Maybe Stalinist Russia?! They'd be in damn good company."
He had almost started shouting, but just as quick as the rant began, it was over. He let out a bitter little chuckle and returned to his seat. "Alright, now listen. Jameson, get triple-S on the line, I've got to conference call about our ... friends across the pond. Martinez, your orders stand. Jericho moves forward as planned. We need to make headway against the Emperor and his mooks now more than ever. Same goes to the rest of you. No change in plans, but just be aware of the new circumstances we operate under. The world needs an America now more than ever, so ... let's not keep them waiting. Hop to."
In short order the conference room was empty again, save for a crumpled up map.
SOUTH AMERICAN POPULAR UNION - RIO DE JANEIRO - SOVEREIGN SECURITY SOLUTIONS DISTRICT OFFICE AND COMPOUND
1:09PM DST
"Monica, I'm not going to say it again. This is where we thrive. This is our sunshine and our water and our fertilizer. War. Jockeying for power. You know the way I see Eurasia? I see it like the prospectors saw California. It is an opportunity unlike any other. Three superstates, two at one's throat. If they're going to point any fingers, it's going to be at each other," the side-combed fifty-something man said, fingering the triple S pin on his lapel.
"Jonas, I didn't come here to talk realist foreign policy with you," the woman sitting across from him, also a fifty-something, dressed formally, said, "You decided, without the board's approval, to mobilize almost a tenth of the company's assets without even sending the board a memo!"
"And I apologized, didn't I? We're talking in circles. This is an opportunity I had to jump on, and besides, even if we lose all the assets I'm readying up we're still making a profit, aren't we? And," he jabbed upwards with a finger,"we've taken the necessary steps to ensure our tracks are covered. If anyone's helping poor little Cameroon it's the British and the Commonwealth."
She rolled her eyes. "Sure you apologized. Sure, you covered every base, but you do -not- run this company on your own."
"Now you're just arguing out of principle. Because you feel excluded. Or am I wrong? Because I can't think of a single thing I actually did to endanger our profit margins," he said. He looked back over his shoulder and said, "Blinds, dim to seventy five percent."
At his word, the elegant futurist suite that looked out at the Rio skyline dimmed as the window panes polarized. She was glowering at him the entire time.
"Take a moment to not be a dick. Pretend you're talking to a reporter, if that helps."
He gave her a pained sigh and clasped his hands together on his desk. "The Federales insisted we move, Monica. Half the world is poised to be set under siege. Deliberation has no place here. By tomorrow we'll be operating in Cameroon. If all goes well, we'll be sending aid to Mogadishu. At least that was the proposed outline I was given. Are you happy? It's not my fault. My hand was forced. Would you like a letter of apology?"
She gave him a flat smile and shook her head. "No, James, that'll be fine. Just keep us in the loop next time, will you? It'd be a shame if we had to pull the rug out from under you."
And, with that, she stood and walked out.
James Traxus decided now would be a good time for a drink.
NEW REPUBLIC OF CAMEROON - YAOUNDE OUTSKIRTS
2:31AM WAT
The cool, soothing voice of a woman eased Isaac Brown out of the stupor of pre-mission dozing. He didn't quite catch what she said, but he knew she would repeat herself. It was his ASTOR's onboard computer system, IFA, or Infantry Field Assistant, urging full awareness back to his faculties. He wanted to tell the machine he needed five more minutes, but of course that wasn't exactly a luxury that his mobile infantry frame provided. It was custom to sleep prior to long-distance deployments such as these, despite the cramping that being locked up in his suit guaranteed. It was like flying economy class. On a Fourth Reich commercial airliner.
"Ten minutes until drop. Ten minutes until drop. Armor systems initializing. Arming and refueling in five minutes. Pilot: Isaac Brown, Sovereign Security Solutions Deniable Ops Lance Five, please prepare for drop."
He rolled his neck left and right, eliciting a few cracks, gave a few earnest blinks to clear his vision, and curled and uncurled his fingers. He was going to feel this ride when he got back to base, he knew that much.
"Ifa, activate suit optics," he murmured sleepily.
His suit's display screen flickered to life and followed his eye movements. Left, right. Up, down. Everything was in order. He could see the CS160's cargo bay, gray, cold, and gutted of all obstructions to make room for his and his Lance Partner, Mendez's, ASTOR suits. The hunched form of her war machine sat directly in front of his, nearly balled up to fit in the back of the aircraft, just as his was. The flamboyant Aragon red and yellow stripes her ASTOR was so well known for were gone, replaced by a dull gray and a Cameroon flag. Necessary, and temporary, all for their current op, but he couldn't help but chafe mentally every time he looked at it. It reminded him of his now missing jolly roger.
"Pilot: Isaac Brown, be advised. Combat stims are now being administered. This may sting."
It did sting, but, at the risk of sounding like a junky, this was the best part, Isaac thought to himself. First there was the prick of needles in the right arm, and then the rush. Enhanced reaction time. Cold, beautiful euphoria. The frustration and stress of combat were nothing to an ASTOR-37a pilot. There was just the fight. Well, no. It was the physics. The maneuvers. The acrobatics. It was all a slow, sweet ambrosian blur of flawlessly executed wetwork. He could probably make some historical allusion, but he would just come off as unoriginal. Everyone else likened themselves to hashashin. To nordic berserkers. To the old Chinese genemod commandos. In some respects they were similar, but then Isaac Brown couldn't forget he was just fighting for a paycheck, not Odin or Premier Liu Qindu.
His thoughts kept spiraling. Hundreds of years of pondering in the blink of an eye. He wasn't even deployed and he'd gone from considering the romance of being a drug-fueled killing machine to reliving the moments of his mother's death in that car crash back home in Florida. And the self-realization of his spiraling thought process brought him to considering the combat stims themselves. He could recite the chemical cocktail by heart. The means of delivery. Where it was stored in his suit. Where it was produced in Peru. The national animal of Peru.
There he went again. Not enough stimuli, audible or visual, to keep his racing mind focused. That'd change not too long from now.
He inhaled deeply as the warning klaxons, signalling an impending drop, illuminated the cargo bay. He could see the red hue of Angelina Mendez's optics coming on line. He ground his teeth together and then opened the squad line to her.
"You ready?"
He could hear her rapid shallow breaths on the line. "Yeah. Yeah. Never changes, does it?"
"Not once," he muttered.
Their voices were irregular. Trembling tones. Irregular pronunciation. They were caught up in the act of speaking. Too focused on their own voices, on trying to sound normal despite the rush of artificial hormones and endorphins. It leveled out by the time they made landfall. Usually.
"One minute until drop," Ifa stated, matter-of-factually.
Lance Commander Lagi's voice crackled through, "Alright. This is possibly going to be an extended op. Your suits have been outfitted accordingly. I've seen to it you've been supplied extra ammunition and stims. Our mission is to halt Yugoslavia's advance, as per our employer's wishes. Local forces have proven ineffective. Cameroon isn't exactly a military superpower, after all. That's where we come in. We halt their advance before Yaounde. The capital does not fall. We'll cut in and out. Remember your training. Do not present a front for them to fight against. Mobile. Hostile. Hit them where it hurts. Lance Four is on standby in the city center with a strategic artillery ARCO2, Lance Three is being deployed from the north to cut into Yugoslavian reinforcements and logistics. If we're lucky, we'll just encircle and destroy."
A chorus of 'yes sir's' echoed through the squad radio line, and Ifa joined in by announcing that the drop was imminent.
The Godhand's bay doors opened wide and Mendez's ASTOR shot out, propelled by in-bay pneumatic catapults and her sputtering VTOL pack. It was good to slow her descent, and not only that, but also gave her limited flight capabilities on the field.
Isaac closed his eyes and embraced the sickening rush of gravity as he was catapulted out right behind her.
The dark of the African night embraced him, and he was jerked upwards by his own VTOL pack roaring to life. He watched from up on high, adjusting course as needed to keep in line with his lance. The city was dark. The people had fled or gone into hiding. All that remained now was Cameroon's desperate national military, barricading itself inside its jewel city for a last stand. But Cameroon had friends in high places. It was one country, at least, that wouldn't be squashed under the heel of autocracy just yet, if this multinational corporation had anything to say about it.
So just to clarify, am I clear to post?
I believe I'm all ready to roll.
duck55223 said
I realize thisHowever this RP isn't supposed to be realisticHowever it is a bit stupid to assume a empire with 2 billion people will be happy and dandy.
If you can excuse the conquest of China and the conquest of the entire Middle East then I think you can excuse the partnership of a number of nations in the interest of mutual security and political/social stability.
FACTION APP:
NAME: The Sons of Liberty
TYPE: American Pro-Democracy Insurgency
ASSETS:
Personnel:
-Members of Gendarmerie Internationale Inc. and Sovereign Security Solutions, both of which are private military contractor companies that threw their lot in with the Sons of Liberty after lengthy negotiations between the three groups. Both of these groups provide tactical and strategic expertise from combat around the globe during the third world war and the interim bush wars between feuding states and factions. They also have their own skilled combat and support personnel, most of which are military veterans. Their cutting-edge materiel, such as assault mechs and aircraft, have seen significant wear and tear during armed operations against the Empire, but they're still a potent arm of the Sons and are able to finance and supply the rest of the organization due to their status as multinational corporations.
-Dissidents of the Imperial American Military, especially nostalgic and/or ambitious members of the officers corps who brought along sympathetic soldiers and whatever materiel they could gather. The majority of these rebels hail from Mexico and the former Central American states, and they consider themselves patriots and freedom fighters. Deserters such as these are the most recent additions to the Sons of Liberty, and likely to become its new backbone as the old guard are worn down by continued fighting. They bring an inside knowledge of modern American military doctrine and critical insight into enemy methodology and planning that have allowed the Sons of Liberty to go from fighting a reactive, defensive war to making strikes against American military infrastructure.
-Veterans of the Second American Civil War, their descendants, and their 'new blood' who they've recruited through an intensive, decades long 'hearts and minds' campaign in opposition of the monarchy. These individuals form the core of the Sons of Liberty, its command apparatus, operating under the old American military chain of command. In fact, that still regard themselves as the legitimate military forces of the United States of America, and the official stance of the Sons inner circle is that the war hasn't ended, even after the coronation of the Emperor and the subsequent consolidation of his power.
Arsenal:
NOTE: STOLEN IMPERIAL MILITARY MATERIEL NOT LISTED.
-ASTOR-37a Mechanized Infantry Suit: ASTOR is the crown jewel of the Sons of Liberty arsenal; a mech possessing unprecedented speed and agility due to its limb construction and advanced gyroscopic balance and orientation mechanisms. It is competitively armored, with active and passive countermeasures, and heavy ceramic plating. The use of grasping, fingered limbs enables the ASTOR to handle objects in the field and on base with ease, and also allows it to be armed in a modular fashion using macro-scale infantry firearms designed for use against enemy armor first and enemy infantry second. Various models are also equipped to combat enemy aircraft or for long range artillery strikes.
-ARCO-2: A behemoth of ceramics and space-age alloys that was developed by South American arms manufacturers in the post-war period. The ARCO-2 is already showing its age due to the rapid advance of war technology, but the sheer brute force it brings to bear in close engagements can not be matched. The Sons of Liberty maintain a small stable of these machines for their most exceptional and violent operations.
-M47 Odierno MBT: A heavily equipped evolution of traditional American MBT designed, adapted by the Sons of Liberty to their relatively limited finances and resources. It it highly modular, able to quickly replace armor segments, armaments, and its treads given proper replacements and experts. It is capable of deploying three unmanned support drones operating on autonomous AI, who are capable of seek-and-destroy missions as well as the defense of the tank itself.
-Caracas IFV: A 12-wheeler IFV designed by the Venezuelan regime for extended operations in hostile territory. It's active countermeasures and thick armor plating are able to defeat roadside ordnance and defend, to some degree, against anti-armor weaponry. It seats eight at maximum capacity, including crew.
-IIS (Integrated Infantry System): (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) Sons of Liberty infantry operate using old American materiel, in particular the IIS, which is a robust and modular system of squad inter-connectivity, armor, life support, and combat assistance. Onboard computer systems in each soldier's armor monitor vital signs, hostile signatures via acoustics and infrared, and personal drones. Infantry armor is capable of being equipped with VTOL insertion frames for rapid ascent and descent in the field.
-LIF2: The Light Insertion Frame is an old British assault VTOL which never saw service in the Commonwealth's military despite the limited production it underwent. Gendarmerie Internationale was able to purchase the craft in bulk for rapid attack and exfiltration ops from the British military contractor in question. It is small, and can be outfitted for troop-carrying as well as ground attack ops.
-UH90 Choctaw: An older American-designed VTOL which saw extensive use prior to the Second American Civil War. It is a tried and true vehicle and troop ferry and also features a typical payload of missiles and twin autocannons for close air support. It often operates in tandem with LIF2's during operations, allowing infantry and armor to be deployed and then providing aerial support.
-CS160 Godhand: The workhorse of the Sons of Liberty airfleet, which is capable of ferrying its mechs and armor to distant battlefields. It is often equipped with sophisticated electronic warfare and communications packages in order to stand in for the Sons' lack of military satellites and attack enemy computer systems and radar. It is the primary platform for the rapid deployment of mechs and armor, as well as VTOL-pack infantry.
-F46 Shrike: A multi-role stealth joint strike fighter craft that was just put into production as the Second American Civil War commenced. It is a relatively outdated aircraft, but its sheer versatility, stealth technology, and ability to carry a wide variety of ordnance have secured its place in the Sons of Liberty arsenal as an invaluable asset. It has snatched more than a few victories from the jaws of defeat even when pitted against heavily armed and armored hostile spaceplanes.
Notable Cells:
Bear Flag Revolt
US Army Signal Corps (and Code Talkers)
Rio Grande Regional Militia
USMC
USAF
US Navy
US Army
Joint Task Force 1
The Minutemen
Concerned Citizen's Brigade
Continental Army
Cascadian People's Army
Garde Québec
Nuevo Norte
Ejército de Liberación de Centroamérica
NOTE: THE IRREGULAR NATURE OF MANY OF THE SONS OF LIBERTY'S CELLS MEANS THAT MUCH OF THE EQUIPMENT IN USE IS NOT LISTED HERE. THIS LIST IS INTENDED TO DEMONSTRATE THE BREADTH OF THE SONS' MILITARY CAPABILITIES, WHICH ARE, DESPITE THEIR STATUS AS A GUERRILLA FORCE, NEARLY AS ROBUST AS MOST MODERN FORCES WHEN MANPOWER AND SUSTAINABILITY ARE DISCOUNTED.
Doctrine: The Sons of Liberty operate in the typical guerrilla format of decentralized cells united by a single umbrella inner circle, primarily concentrated around Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada, Mexico, and Central America. They work to keep their manifesto in the public consciousness through propaganda efforts such as hacking, leaflet campaigns, and by organizing public protest. At the same time they use their military resources to strike at the Washington family's so-called 'cult of personality' via the destruction of monuments, governmental buildings, military installations, and infrastructure. They take extreme care to avoid civilian casualties and cultivate a public image of 'ethical war' and by drawing upon the concept of the much-romanticized American 'freedom fighter'. Cells are just as often distributed through the citizenry in urban and rural areas as they are in hiding in the vast Canadian, American, and Mexican wilderness. Their numbers are impressive, given their status as an insurgency, and they have access to the world market, in the form of supplies and finance, by way of their PMC allies.
HISTORY: 'America's Idi Amin, hehe," Chief of Staff Brandley smiled thinly at the thought and leaned back into the padding of his office chair. The rhythm he was playing out against his desk with his pen was uninterrupted. "That's what my father called the first King Washington, and we got a laugh out of it. A dictator with delusions of grandeur, a man who took the first president's image and perverted it for his own gain. We were waiting for him to say he'd conquered the British Empire, for news to leak that he had syphilis, but, well, my father was a comedian, not a prophet."
His smiled faded, and he shook his head free of the wistful recollections of those days. He continued, more solemn, "The man who we had made president had cultivated the image of an American strongman. He became more than a wartime president. He made himself into a titan, standing head and shoulders of the American people. His leadership made us feel invincible despite the terror of the third world war, and at the same time it made him invincible as a leader. The fact that so many flocked to his side after the cataclysmic conflict, and all the pain that it brought, stunned us, the ones who still so faithfully saluted the stars and stripes. But, you know, it shouldn't have. He was an effective leader. A shrewd man. He wouldn't have been so bold as to grab the crown from the pope's hands and place it on his own head if he didn't think he could get away with it."
The interviewer, who sat across from him, scooted forwards in her chair and glanced down at her tablet. It was still transcribing properly. She cleared her throat and then, to keep the interview moving, asked, "Let's disregard the old cliche of 'history is written by the vict-' "
But she wasn't given the opportunity to finish that sentence. He cut in, his voice raised, "This war isn't over. I'm an officer of the United States Military," he said, tapping the forward-facing flag on his uniform, "We operate under the same institutions as we did at the time of the coup. History is not finished being written, not until the death of every last person on earth who believes in the principles of freedom and democracy, and I do not think such a dreadful day will be coming anytime soon."
The newswoman pressed her lips together and glanced downwards, taking a moment to rephrase her question, "Let me be blunt, then. The Second American Civil War. What's the Sons' take on it?"
"The coup, and the subsequent war," Brandley began, "were, as the Imperial history books will tell you, an extremely one-sided affair, but it's not because he had the whole of the nation at his back against a few ungrateful rebels. No, simply put, he was ready to move, he had his loyalists in key positions of power. He knew where to strike and when, and he moved with the utmost speed. By the time we were in a position to react, to fight back, the American people and their military were reeling. We were split up, divided and conquered. We couldn't project force, we couldn't present a united front. It was a desperate struggle, freedom being grabbed from behind and strangled by tyranny. We had no chance, but surrender was, and still is, out of the question."
"What has you convinced that you can win? That you can topple the Emperor of one of the most powerful nations on Earth?"
"At the risk of sounding cliche, well, it's not the American way to fold, to submit. Not even when things look as grim as they do. This is .. " he paused, and he grinned, "This is our Valley Forge. It'll go down in history as a moment of true grit. Of valor. Not one of desperation. America is destined to be free. Whether it is made so by our hand or someone else's? It doesn't matter. We aren't alone. The spirit of revolution can't be snuffed out. Someone will take our place if we fall. The 'reds', as we call them, for example, also fight up north, and we count them as kindred souls, despite our differences in opinion."
"Elements of the monarchy have made the claim that your organization possesses nuclear and chemical weapons and is fully prepared to use them. Is there any truth to this?"
Brandley chuckled softly, shook his head, and said, "No. Absolutely, one hundred percent not. We do possess nuclear armaments, mostly of the tactical variety. We do not, however, control any chemical weapons and we have zero intention of ever using either. As we've stated numerous times, our goal is not to take lives, we take the utmost care in regards to collateral damage and the safety of the American people. Our goal is to enact political change from the bottom up. The American people are our allies, we're their sworn protectors. We will not nuke the country we intend to save, nor will we use such weapons on those nations, such as Mexico and Belize, which are held in bondage by Emperor Washington. Consider them insurance, for that fateful day when the Emperor might think to use his own weapons of mass destruction against his own people."
The interviewer smiled and rose to her feet. She extended an open hand across the desk. Chief of Staff Brandley followed suit and shook her hand. "It's been enlightening, sir. We're grateful for the opportunity to hear from you."
"And the same to you, Miss Pacheco, give the people of Chile my regards. Good day. You'll be shown out of the compound and returned to your staff."
And thusly the interview concluded.
Hello hello hello, as Senor Herp mentioned I'd like to try my hand at the earthquake ravaged Hightower. I'll roll with what's already allotted to Hightower: humans will remain the majority and wheat and wine are perfectly fine for trade goods.
Until I have a little more free time, probably later tonight, I'm just going to get some of my basic thoughts down regarding the nation. It's probably better that way, since if I screw something up or if something's a no-go we can catch it before I invest myself into building up a sheet.
So Hightower, as I intend to make it, will be something of a city-state which will be governed, at least officially, by a convention of prominent landowners and delegates from semi-independent boroughs. In practice things are quite different. Hightower's gendarmerie, which make up the bulk of its military strength, are under the direct control of the city's 'Imperial Castellan'. The holder of this title traditionally, in Imperial times, would act as a viceroy of sorts. An executive of imperial law and a go-between for local nobility and the Empire's rulers abroad. In modern times the Imperial Castellan is more of a dictator, however, and without a clear means of succession, such as appointment by an Emperor, the title has flip-flopped through hereditary succession to election and then right back to usurpation by force or intrigue. The relative instability at the top of the Hightower political hierarchy has not done the city-state any lasting harm just yet. After all, it takes a shrewd man to cling to the title. A fool who doesn't act in accordance with the position's mandate, as the defender of the city and its people, is unlikely to last long. It'd be self-destructive to utilize the title for personal gain, simply put, but it is coveted all the same due to the prestige and power it confers on the holder, and because it is vogue amongst the nobility to be seen as a champion of the people and the empire, even despite the empire being long defunct.
Hightower, due to its fairly strategic position, was, up until the collapse of the empire, an imperial demesne. It was from Hightower that, centuries ago, the nascent empire launched its forays into the deserts to the south and east and the jungles to the north. Hightower itself is an extremely mountainous country, particularly in the south, while the north is characterized by vast, humid, and temperate basins, valleys, and hills which have been cultivated into some of the most productive farmland in the known world. The mountains of the southern stretches of the country are a blessing in many ways, given that they are both a natural barrier against invasion and also act to keep an excess of moisture from escaping south. I figured mountains made the most sense, given the topography on the map, in which relatively green Hightower juts outwards into what is otherwise an arid, desert region.
And you're welcome to try and come over and kill us! Hightower didn't survive centuries with the neighbors it has by being populated by soft, sedentary people.
Until I have a little more free time, probably later tonight, I'm just going to get some of my basic thoughts down regarding the nation. It's probably better that way, since if I screw something up or if something's a no-go we can catch it before I invest myself into building up a sheet.
So Hightower, as I intend to make it, will be something of a city-state which will be governed, at least officially, by a convention of prominent landowners and delegates from semi-independent boroughs. In practice things are quite different. Hightower's gendarmerie, which make up the bulk of its military strength, are under the direct control of the city's 'Imperial Castellan'. The holder of this title traditionally, in Imperial times, would act as a viceroy of sorts. An executive of imperial law and a go-between for local nobility and the Empire's rulers abroad. In modern times the Imperial Castellan is more of a dictator, however, and without a clear means of succession, such as appointment by an Emperor, the title has flip-flopped through hereditary succession to election and then right back to usurpation by force or intrigue. The relative instability at the top of the Hightower political hierarchy has not done the city-state any lasting harm just yet. After all, it takes a shrewd man to cling to the title. A fool who doesn't act in accordance with the position's mandate, as the defender of the city and its people, is unlikely to last long. It'd be self-destructive to utilize the title for personal gain, simply put, but it is coveted all the same due to the prestige and power it confers on the holder, and because it is vogue amongst the nobility to be seen as a champion of the people and the empire, even despite the empire being long defunct.
Hightower, due to its fairly strategic position, was, up until the collapse of the empire, an imperial demesne. It was from Hightower that, centuries ago, the nascent empire launched its forays into the deserts to the south and east and the jungles to the north. Hightower itself is an extremely mountainous country, particularly in the south, while the north is characterized by vast, humid, and temperate basins, valleys, and hills which have been cultivated into some of the most productive farmland in the known world. The mountains of the southern stretches of the country are a blessing in many ways, given that they are both a natural barrier against invasion and also act to keep an excess of moisture from escaping south. I figured mountains made the most sense, given the topography on the map, in which relatively green Hightower juts outwards into what is otherwise an arid, desert region.
And you're welcome to try and come over and kill us! Hightower didn't survive centuries with the neighbors it has by being populated by soft, sedentary people.
Hello there, folks! I'm stating my intent to create a Cho-Ja centric nation and I'd like to kick things off with a quick question.
Could traits such as heavily armored or various other things of that nature refer to natural armor (or weapons, as the case may be)? For example, I intended to have a heavily carapaced/exoskeletoned soldier caste who would shun all but padding (for fear of maces and warpicks and the like) and simple ornamentation in terms of protection and dress, respectively.
Could traits such as heavily armored or various other things of that nature refer to natural armor (or weapons, as the case may be)? For example, I intended to have a heavily carapaced/exoskeletoned soldier caste who would shun all but padding (for fear of maces and warpicks and the like) and simple ornamentation in terms of protection and dress, respectively.
In
Adrius: Age of Strife(Magitech Nation and Character RP/High Casual)
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11 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
I was considering a non-human secondary/npc nation.
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