Young Adult Roleplay discussion
1x1 Roleplay
>
Aimee eats Applejaxc
date
newest »
newest »
Dylan wasn't exactly getting everything that Alan was saying...actually he didn't understand most of what Alan was saying. At this point, Dylan was just lost. He didn't have any fighting experience with exception to a few brawls on the streets. If anything he was practically useless. But he did have his bachelors in electrical engineering and chemistry...both were off of scholarship money and four jobs. Maybe that could help? Dylan wasn't sure how this was going to go, but he was desperate and this was his best chance at success.
"I will assume that you have the deductive reasoning power necessary to ascertain my previous employment as a member of the United States military. You will forgive me if I assume a leadership position based on years of training and experience."
Dylan just looked at Alan as he replied, "If you mean that you're a soldier, I'm guessing honorably discharged...then I guess I'm on the same page as you." At the moment, Dylan wasn't sure where Alan was going with this. To be completely honest, Dylan just wanted to survive the first encounter and then figure everything else out.
"He said we have two weeks to prepare, right? How are your nonverbal communication skills? Do you know any martial arts?"
Dylan thought to himself and replied, "I took a kick boxing class back in freshman year. That was fun." Dylan remembered how he barely kept up and how epically horrible he did. When it came to combat, Dylan wasn't any help. To be completely honest, Dylan didn't know how he could be useful. In reality he probably wasn't in this situation...
"Brazilian or Muay Thai?" Alan paused, realized Dylan might not know the difference, and reclined his seat in recognition of the fact that Dylan made them weaker as a whole. "'Two men out of concert are worth half a man in combat.' Sun Tzu said that, wrote a book called Art of War. Do you understand what that means? A numerical advantage means nothing if the multitude fights as individuals."
Dylan shrugged at the kick boxing question. What was the difference? Who knew? Dylan kept quiet as he was interrogated. Realizing that he was really out of his league, Dylan replied, "Working together would be beneficial...Um, I don't know how I can be of use?"
"Every sniper has his spotter." Alan shrugged. "Every autorifleman his assistant, I-" he sighed. "Military analogies aren't helpful, are they? It's like this: In football, when the team with the ball wants to make a play, the quarterback needs to keep his eyes on the receiver's, right? But he can't focus if defense is trying to tackle him, so a whole team of blockers are trained to keep him focused for as long as possible, and they also have to make gaps to let the receivers go as deep as possible. The best teams don't care who the quarterback is, or the receivers, or the blockers; they care about how well the entire team works together. What kind of technical skills do you have? Mechanics and shop? Auto repair? Plumbing? Electrician? No offense, but you seem like the blue-collar type."
Dylan thought for a second as he tried to come up with things he was good at. "Well I did work as a computer technician and I mechanic for a time. For both jobs I had to quit because of family problems and stuff. Does that help?" Dylan offered his best smile as if to say, 'I'm sorry for my incompetence'. As he wondered what Alan would do with him, Dylan looked at his watch and realized that the day was flying by. Already he spent four hours with this guy. It wasn't exactly late, but the sun was setting and Dylan felt obligated to go home. "Here's my cell," Dylan stated as he wrote down his number, "Sorry but I need to go. Why don't we meet tomorrow? Same place same time? Oh, you can keep the flag. You seem more responsible than I." With that Dylan got out of the car and began to walk down the street towards his house. The other reason he had to go was so he could make it back in time for dinner. His apartment was almost an hour walk away.
Alan shrugged; rather than offer a verbal reply, he let Dylan leave and was glad he didn't ask for a ride; the gas tank wasn't far from empty.As Dylan made his way down the street, the car rumbled to life and pulled onto the mainstreet, driving in the opposite direction.
(Alan is going to suggest that they train during the two weeks, which is physical exercise and martial arts that mostly involves grabbing or getting out of holds and smashing toes/knees/elbows/necks)
[[Sure what ever floats your boat]]Dylan got home about an hour later. Looking up at the sky, Dylan took a deep breath before entering the apartment complex. They were on the third floor in the back. Dylan opened the door to the two room apartment and saw his sister asleep on the only bed. His mother had gone out for a while. Quietly Dylan placed his stuff down and sat in the recliner. He closed his eyes and relaxed for the first time in a while.
(I'm sorry Alan very quickly changed personalities. I was going to play the sullen, mysterious man to the hilt, but with your schedule I felt it more prudent that he become a little more gung-ho about this, just to help get it started)The two weeks weren't easy for Dylan, or Alan, who refused to admit that he had failed to maintain the physical standard of his old life after getting back to the states. Between not eating enough, and eating junk food, and not having an ability to bathe post-run, he lost a lot.
Still, Alan mercilessly ran Dylan, shouting at Dylan the things Drill Instructors once shouted at him. And it wasn't very nice.
Push-ups and sit-ups weren't as hard; upper-body and core strength was what Alan had lost the most of, and he wasn't able to push Dylan as hard (and may have even had trouble keeping up).
Martial-arts wasn't difficult, but it was serious and it was tedious. Punch, kick, elbow, knee, punch, kick, elbow, knee. Alan didn't own any pads or training equipment; the somewhat spongy material the nearest track was made of, and the grass oval in the center of it, were the safest places to practice, but it still hurt getting thrown on it.
Alan had this advice for him: "In life-and-death, there is no honour or dignity. Sometimes you have to shoot someone in the back, sometimes you have to kick them in the balls as hard as you can. Don't feel bad; they'd do the same thing to you."
Had Dylan inquired about Alan's past, he had these sparing details:
Alan had served in the Marine Corps. He did not say for how long.
Alan's job was primarily military-investigation; he led a force-recon team to investigate reports in countries where the police wouldn't and seized weapon shipments, chemical- and radiological-weapons manufacturing plants, and similar things.
Alan's career ended. It didn't matter how or why.
[[Sorry about my schedule. Everything's really busy this year]]Dylan wondered if Alan would be the one to kill him. Although Dylan did a lot of physical labor, actually working out was hard for him. As the days grew longer and more tiresome, Dylan wondered what was wrong with Alan. It was obvious that Alan was in the military, but Dylan didn't want to pry. He wasn't about to share his entire past, so he wouldn't ask Alan to. The only thing Dylan was good at was running. Since he walked everywhere, his endurance was above average...Everything else was pathetically lower than average. Despite this problem, Dylan was making plans on his own.
He knew that area of town. It was the abandoned projects that never got redone. For the most part squatters used the buildings for shelter. Most of the buildings in that area were apartments, but this one was business. The flag could be anywhere and as long as they offed the opposing team they'd win. There was two options: 1. kill off the opposing team and find the flag or 2. allow the other team to find the flag and then kill them off then... The only major problem was killing off the other team. Either they were brand new to the game and were as confused as Alan and he, or they were veterans, which would make the game a whole lot harder.
(There's no need to apologize; whatever you have going on is more important)The evening before the match, Alan paid for a large pepperoni pizza and a 2-liter of Dr. Pepper. They sat on the trunk of his car, watching the building, with the sun setting behind them.
"I went to Quantico twice, while I was in service." Alan broke the silence quite suddenly. "We trained with the FBI HR-eh, elite Hostage Rescue Team." As they spent time together, Alan slowly stopped using acronyms. "They taught us stuff, we taught them stuff, and we went through all these kill-houses, which are like plywood, fake buildings with targets in them, and did competing drills. See who could clear faster, kill less civilians, things like that. I took a round to the shoulder from this bastard Weapon's Sergeant from the LAPD my second time there because my team jumped them with paintball guns during a live-fire exercise. I'm not really sure what the moral of the story is, but these tenements look a lot like what Chicago PD trained with. Fighting in the desert, you know, buildings aren't this tall. If there even are buildings. I'm use to trees and caves... and having a well-trained and well-equipped team. So... I don't know. There's a lot of variables tomorrow." He shrugged. "I'm used to variables. You never know when you're going to run into a Doo-shka... eh, D S H K A Russian twelve-point-seven millimeter machine gun, or you're going to run into some goat farmer that couldn't lift a rock." Alan sighed. "I'm not even sure what point I'm trying to make. Whatever happens tomorrow happens, I guess. There's a payday in it if all goes well, or... well, we won't have to worry about what happens if it doesn't. I tried to learn about these STARZ guys at an Internet cafe near the track and I found nothing useful. No executives busted on coke, no rich daughters running off with exotic boyfriends. You'd think if they had the money to set up bloodsports there'd be more celebrity gossip about them."
The pizza half-gone, Alan grabbed another slice, then handed the box to Dylan. "You can take the rest of that home, if you'd like. Make sure you drink some water tomorrow morning, get a good breakfast. Oatmeal, banana, whatever it takes."
[[Thanks for understanding]]Dylan was quiet for the most part. He didn't talk as much as Alan mainly because he didn't have anything to say. Unlike Alan, Dylan's life was pretty uneventful. After a somewhat awkward silence Dylan finally spoke up, "STARZ is a conglomerate of the biggest and most influential businesses around the world. When people say that the businesses run the world they are correct. Because these businesses make so much money for the government, most of the information on these people and the businesses themselves are under lock and key. No one really knows why they created the game, but it is a prime time show, like on HBO or something. It shows each game live, but most people think it's all staged. A new episode comes out everyday. To prove it's legitimacy, the flags, in some capacity, are given to the public. At the moment our flag has not been revealed yet...probably the day of the show, on the internet." Dylan didn't have much else to say. He got up and took the box before heading home. "See you tomorrow," Dylan stated as he walked home.
(Thanks for RPing with me)"Heh," Alan chuckled at the mentioned of business's ruling the world. "One in three insurgents I killed had a weapon made by an American company. Everyone thinks it's all AKs and Doosh-kas and Russian knock offs. I used to be surprised what people would do to make a quick fucking dollar and now this." He sighed. "Have a good night, Dylan."
"Like on HBO or something." And here I thought all that channel was good for was porn.
Dylan went straight home. He wasn't really anxious about tomorrow. Part of him was unsure of tomorrow at all. He left the pizza for his sister...she loved pizza and they ate it every once in a while, when she was feeling good. Dylan wasn't hungry. Instead he went into his room and stared at the ceiling for the longest time. He woke up just before his alarm and nearly threw it against the wall when it finally went off. Dylan pulled himself out of bed and treated the day like he would any other. With a bowl of cereal, Dylan did the daily chores.
Alan woke early and performed his esprit du corps ritual, despite any other soldiers:Listening to heavy-metal that he did not enjoy but effectively built adrenaline, he did a quick workout after eating an MRE given to him by the nearest UFA. He dressed himself head-to-toe:
A black cap that had MTV circled and crossed out given to him by some promotional team he had since forgotten about.
The combat shirt he still owned but hadn't worn in months. It had camo-design sleeves but the actual torso and back were a dull tan color and very thin; breathable. Good for the desert, not great in the early morning air.
MARPAT jacket, which he wore when he first met Dylan. The sleeve slots had a sharp, wooden pencil, a mechanical, and a black-ink pen.
Black cargo pants held in place by an olive-drab belt. While dressing himself, he stared at the belt-holster he had to remove. Take away my goddamn license. The nerve of those as... it's not worth thinking about.
Long, black socks drawn halfway up his calves with his boots, tan Bates https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/im... (I own these IRL and they're great).
He tied their paracord laces in quick, strong movements while mumbling a cadence to himself. Out of service three months and this shit is still second-nature.
From the right side his belt hang a cord rectangle with two knives fastened to it in little sheaths, one the length of his forearm (and almost as wide), the other just longer than his hand, a finger-and-a-half in width. (Sorry I can't really provide a good picture of what this looks like) The knives were stainless steel, black, with paracord wrapped around their handles and no handguards. The set was the one service weapon he still owned.
Alan arrived early at their starting location. When Dylan arrived, he pulled the knives from his belt. "I showed you how to use a plastic KA-BAR, right? Remember how it had that nice, wide handle guard so you didn't cut your own fingers off trying to stab me? Well these are less effective, more dangerous, and easier to lose." He turned over the larger one, holding it by the tip to offer the handle. "Keep a firm grip, don't let your hand slide; cut a finger too deep and I won't be able to save it."
Dylan was at the starting location before Alan. He couldn't really sleep much or eat much. Before he came, Dylan forced himself to eat a hamburger. He was happy that he kept it down, but part of him knew that it probably wouldn't stay there for too long. As he looked up at the building his mind went through the building's schematics. Dylan took the knife and held it firmly in his hand. "Here, you might need this," Dylan stated as he held out a gun for Alan. "I have some friends," Dylan explained as he waited for Alan to take the gun. Once he did, Kendall passed over a small bag that clipped onto a belt which held ammo. "I know it's not that powerful, but it's something right?"
Alan's eyebrows came together when the gun was produced. "'Some friends'? No shit." He took it by the handle, three fingers and a thumb around it, with his index resting above the trigger guard. The first rule of firearm safety was don't touch the trigger until you plan to shoot something.Alan looked it over, the ejected the magazine. "The serial number is filed off, so this is definitely illegal. And it's a piece of shit Bryco-Jennings, M 59..." he mumbled to himself. He sighed and looked at Dylan. "Tell your friends thank-you later, if this works." He pulled the slide back to make sure the chamber was empty, then he held the pistol and the slide back in one hand, wrapping his thumb around the back and his hand around the slide. He pulled two nobs down on the sides, then pulled the trigger. With a click, the slide slid off. He held it out for Dylan, then pulled out a black cylinder with a spring wrapped around it. "It looks like it's still within its expected round life. Guns like this are cheap, on purpose; a manufacturer in California makes these and floods the black market with them. They're god-awful and they rarely last past 200 rounds, but they're easy to get and lack iron sights, so they're easier to hide and pull out of clothing. I would never trust my life to one, but as long as we're in-doors it should be useful. At least to scare the other team away."
Alan returned the magazine to the pistol. "Aaand... there's no safety-switch." He took the ammo bag. "You couldn't get more magazines? Once I go through eight rounds it'll take at least a minute to refill the magazine." He tucked the pistol into the back of his waistband, then pulled his jacket over it. "Sorry if I'm a bit critical. You ever see the movie Full Metal Jacket, where the guys are all shouting 'This is my rifle, there are many like it but this one is mine'? The service teaches you to take pride in the tools of your trade. This pistol... it's the US crime equivalent to the Ak, except Kalashnikov knew how to make a rifle last seven decades instead of two weeks."
(nvm I found it! http://cdn2.armslist.com/sites/armsli...)
Dylan wasn't sure how he felt about the entire lecture on the weapon...if it was a lecture. Either way, Dylan didn't want the gun personally. If anything, Dylan would rely more on his brains than his brawn. "I've looked at the building and it's relatively similar to a building I did work on. The power's been shut off and there's no backup generator. I brought flash lights. Also there should be four emergency stairwells that span the entire building, two elevators one on each end, and cubicles." Dylan wasn't sure if this would help a lot, but it was something. In his backpack was a laptop, two flashlights, and a first aid kit. Dylan hoped this would help in someway.
Alan looked to Dylan again. "You really did your homework. And I was proud showing up with two knives. I'm more out of practice than I thought. And I'm sorry about the gun thing; I do appreciate it-it could be the difference between life or death-but companies like BJ make firearms look bad, and I'm still pissed about my concealed carry license being suspended. And a building like this, I'd rather have-well, it doesn't matter what I'd rather have."We should be careful with the flashlights. They might give us away. So, cubicles? I thought this was a condemned tenements building, and we would clear it apartment-to-apartment. The plan doesn't change, though; stick to my back, watch for trouble. We'll move carefully. Do we know what the objective looks like? Is it a literal flag, or another one of those keys we got?"
Dylan did his homework, but couldn't find anything that had to do with the actual flags. He guessed that they were either kept a complete secret for all newbies and outsiders, or they were different each time. Either way, it will be interesting trying to find the thing. "I thought it was an apartment building too, but no. Supposedly this building was built as an office building to call in problems with products...a complaint building that also had space to hold conferences and other official stuff." Dylan looked at the falling sun over the horizon. They were just outside the building when their flag began to vibrate in Alan's pocket. When he took it out the voice said, "The game starts now. May the darkness of oblivion clear your path."
"So we're clearing a building full of smashed windows and defunct recalls. We're either going to cut ourselves on glass or get burned to death by faulty hair dryers. It's Kuran all over again."Alan felt the buzz, and reflexively reached for the phone in his left chest pocket before grabbing the right item. He held it up for both of them, in case it decided to flash or display anything. "Did the rules say anything about needing to keep this with us while we 'play'? I don't like the idea of someone else's GPS tracker in my pocket." He pulled the pistol back out of his waistband and pulled the slide, chambering a bullet, then ejected the magazine and replaced the missing bullet before loading it again. Now he had the magazine's 8 + 1 in the barrel. "Every advantage," he mumbled to himself. "Of course normally I got to call in M1A-tanks. Big, loud, scary, made the Taliban shit themselves before a 20 millimeter explosive spread justice and shrapnel all over their house." He looked the weapon over again with a predatory smile. "You ready to do this?"
[[I'm so sorry for replying to late.]]Dylan had no idea what Alan was saying, but decided to just stay quiet and go with the flow. If anything, Dylan just wanted to survive. When Alan shot the flag Dylan jumped at the sound. This was the first time he's been near an actual round going off. He decided that he didn't really like it, but it would be something he'd have to deal with. "I'm ready," Dylan replied rather confidently as he looked at the building. They needed all the help they could get and something told him that Alan would be doing most of the heavy lifting.
(It's fine. Like you said: Your schedule sucks)(Also: Alan didn't shoot the flag. When did anyone say anything about it? He just took it out and asked Dylan if he knew if there was a rule against keeping it with them; he didn't attack it)
Alan looked at Dylan one last time, then at the building. "Try to stick to hand signals as long as we can. Move quickly but quietly." He took off at a brisk pace, splaying his feet widely to either side to eliminate noise as he approached the door. The pistol was returned to his waistband; Alan held a knife in one hand and his flashlight in the other (turned off). He put his shoulder against the wall to one side of the doors and looked to Dylan for confirmation before kicked it clear off the frame (this was less a feat of strength and more a simple fact that poorly-constructed plywood doorframes rotted just as well as the rest of the dilapidated building).
Alan turned left, took a step forward to let Dylan in, and stopped, expecting Dylan to turn right and check the other end of the hallway for him. Of course this assumption was the result of years of training, something Alan's new partner didn't have. "Clear."
Alan looked at the entrances, wishing the map detailed the surrounding area. His eyes darted around, considering the METTC. "This assumes the rules are consistent for the other team: We are numerically similar in an unfamiliar territory. Rotting floorboards, torn open walls, and worse means universal opportunities for concealment but no practical cover and constant footfalls. Thank God America made me get booster shots as a kid. The weather isn't an important factor, except heavy rain will impede our ability to hear. We don't know anything about our enemy. Civilian inclusion should be limited to vagrants. This will be about speed and observation, though we should try to remain unknown for as long as possible."