NationStates Jolt Archive

A man, dressed all in black, nails a piece of paper to a telegraph pole in the dead of night, then runs away. This happened in most every major country on the planet, within a week.

WARNING

If you are reading this then this warning if for you. Every word you read of this useless fine print is another second off your life. Don't you have other things to do? Is your life so empty that you honestly can't think of a better way to spend these moments? Or are you so impressed with authority that you give respect and credence to all who claim it? Do you read everything you're supposed to read? Do you think everything you're supposed to think? Buy what you're told you should want? Get out of your apartment. Meet a member of the opposite sex. Stop the excessive shopping and masturbation. Quit your job. Start a fight. Prove you're alive. If you don't claim your humanity you will become a statistic. You have been warned...

OOC: We're a sort of terrorist organisation, more vandal than real terrorist, but progressing towards full-on terrorism. Nations are encouraged to rp one or maybe two people applying at the Fight Club in New York. I'll rp my character, who shall not be named at the moment, and we'll see how you progress from there. The idea is for a terrorist organisation that everyone can take part in. I hope we get enough people, but I'll bulk it out with NPC's if we only have a few. The address is on the notice.

OOC: Come one, mates. It'll be a laugh. If anything, it'll be a continous rp. An *everlasting* rp. How many of those are there about? As long as we can keep thinking up ideas for it, it will live. I dunno about you, but most of the time I can't find anything to get involved in because it's already started/it's just not good rp/closed rp/something. Give it a try at least.

Bumpyness.

(OOC:)

Count me in, but give me a day or two to get my butt in gear... But I WILL be back... BTW great idea...

Bump. Come on, we've got one, but need more.

OOC: Bumpy bump bumpa bump. Bump. Come on, damn you, have a go.

((OOC: Excellent idea. Count me in.))

Johnny 'Amsterdam' Winnfield was a cop. He had been a cop for the past fifteen years of his life. He had taken down syndicates, busted drug deals, cracked murder cases wide open. He had been dead. Legitimately without pulse after a heroin overdose. A shot of adrenaline had brought him back, but ever since, he was never sure which side of life and death he liked better.

He walked down the dark, empty, New York street, his leather jacket flapping in the wind, considering what an empty hole his life and career seemed. It was all the same now. He had seen it all. He paused, leaning against a telephone pole as he removed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his jacket pocket. He took the last one from the pack, and placed it between his lips. He raised the lighter and flicked it. A spark, nothing else. The lighter was dead. Amsterdam sighed, putting the cigarette and lighter back into his pocket. As he turned, he caught sight of a piece of paper attached to the telephone pole. He reached out and grabbed the fluttering note, ripping it from the pole. He squinted hard under the light of a nearby streetlamp, slowly making out the words. After he had finished reading, he stared for a long time at the piece of paper. He folded it, and put it in his jacket pocket, beside the last cigarette and the dead lighter. Maybe...

Apom rolled with the cop in his arms. Blood dripped from the cop's mouth as he kicked Apom off. He ran at Apom, to find him jump up and grab and emergency escape ladder. The cop turned around and Apom kicked him in the face. He picked up a lead pipe on the ground and began beating in the cop's head. After the eyes fell out he stopped. Apom pulled out the cop's weapons and money and pocketed them. Then he took out the cops ID and switched it with his own. As the card fell to the ground he looked at it.

First Name:Apom

Last Name:Jackson.

Apom was dead now, he had to start a new. He was a Bormanian criminal, one of the few who didn't get caught for his muggings, murders, and armed robberies. He was in a foriegn country and couldn't stop from trying to mug, oh well he sadi as he walked.

He looked back at the ally and when he turned he ran into a pole.

"SHIT!"

He pulled the paper off and and read it. He crumpled it up and threw it on the ground. As he walked off a man jumped out with a knife.

"Give me your money bitch!"

The now "Jack" grabbed the man's arm and bent it behind him. He pushed it up and heard a crack as the arm broke.

"JESUS! I'M JUST TRYING TO EAT, LET ME GO!"

Jack snapped the man's neck and looted him. He looked at the crumpled paper.

"Why not."

He picked up the paper and put it in his pocket as he walked away.

Tommy Vince sat on the floor in the hotel room, empty liquer bottles surrounding him, as well as several unconscious figures. There was a song scrawled on an empty pizza box, and a naked hooker dozed on the couch. Tommy wrapped the belt around his arm, tightening it with his teeth. He raised the syringe, and inserted the long needle into a bulging vein. He pulled the plunger slowly, allowing the blood to mix with the fluid in the syringe, before forcing it down. He winced, and his eyes drifted towards the ceiling. His body fell to the floor.

Tommy's eyes shot open, and he jumped back, hitting his head against the wall. He gasped, as his eyes stared at the paramedics. He looked down, seeing the long needle sticking out of his chest, above his heart. Several people stood around, staring at him.

"Jesus Christ..."

"You're lucky to be alive man. What the hell were you thinking?"

A paramedic pulled the needle out of his heart, and Tommy struggled to his feet.

"Jesus Christ..."

Tom Vince was the guitarist for the heavy metal band Crazy Madness, a group notorious for hard rock and roll, and equally hard living. Recently, tensions within the band had caused a recession in popularity, but this had not subdued the dangerous lifestyle. Tom's overdose was a testament to that.

Recently, Vince had gotten bored with everything, constantly seeking bigger, harder, more dangerous thrills. On one fateful morning, he would find exactly what he was looking for.

Vince walked down the hot L.A. street, sweating under a leather jacket. Through his aviator sunglasses, a small poster caught his eyes. He walked over to the building where it was stapled, and tore it free. He stared at the paper, before folding it and dropping it in his pocket. An hour later, he was on a first class flight to New York City.

OOC: Assuming GE's cop was the first to arrive, as he posted first, I'll rp with that a bit.

Adam Sanders woke from the semi-blissful state of sleep to the cold, wet state of concious sobriety. He swept his hair from his face and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He hadn't had a haircut in the last two years.
He struggled from his bed and into a more or less upright position. He stood, and grabbed his dressing-gown from a nearby chair. It was in a sorry state, a dull lime green, worn thin and patched in places. He stumbled downstairs to the front door. He opened it, still functioning on automatic, and brought in the milk. He had a vauge perception of someone standing on the porch. He opened the cupboard, grabbing the nearest packet of cereal and a bowl and spoon from the sink, and had breakfast. After allowing a minute or so for his brain to resume control of his body, Adam returned to the porch. There was indeed someone there.
Adam looked him up and down.

"Too fat. Get the fuck off my porch. And get a haircut"

taggity for later...

Johnny Amsterdam looked at the barely sober man.

"Who the fuck are you? Here."

Amsterdam pulled the crumpled flyer and showed it to the guy.

((OOC: Not sure where to shove a physical description. When it comes up IC i'll put it in there, but for now:

Johnny 'Amsterdam' Winnfield

Height 5'11

Weight 200

longish brown hair. Not particularly well groomed. Mostly undercover work with the police.

I'll do Tommy Vince's phys. description IC))

[OOC - posting... maybe later]

Adam looked unsurprised, "I'm the guy who owns this house is who I am, and if you want in, you will listen to me. You will go away from here, get a haircut, and get rid of that beer belly, fat boy"

OOC: Adam Sanders
6'0''
32 yrs
168lb (12 stone)
Shoulder-length, untidy brown hair. Hazel eyes. Yellowing teeth. Ex US Marine (By ex I mean dishevelled, rather than still living the life). Smoker. Pallid-looking.

Jack walked through the metal detector and the alrm went off. After several times he was screened and the guards found a key stuck in his pocket.

"Go ahead."

Jack walked on with the knife in his shoe poking at his heel.

"Final boarding call for the flight to New York."

The elevator door snapped open. It was very business-like and precise, efficent like everything else in this place. To a newcomer to the Resi Corporation, the excess of nuances such as this would drive them mad before long. However, the man leaving this certain elevator was no newbie to the nuances of the Corporation.

Jekt Neicons was a hard worker who, through some stroke of un-luck, managed to go unpromoted for years. This caused him no end to his mental anguish, because all purpose in the Corporation revolves around one concept: make more money than anyone else. Resians are taught this at an early age, and it is pressured into them and ingraned into all aspects of who they are. Jekt was obviously no exception to this rule, and was even more of a slave to the system than most people in the Corporation. He thought he had been called up the elevator by his superiors for a long-awaited promotion, but in fact it was this facet of personality that was more of the reason his superiors had thought to page him.

He walked out of the elevator, barely able to contain his excitement. He walked with unfailing certainty down the corridors that led to his boss' office, sure that his life was taking a turn for the better. He had often traced the route to his boss' office on a map of the building he kept on his computer, planning in anticipation for this day, so finding his way there was almost second nature to him now. He took a left, a right, went straight a ways, took another right, smiled to a passing co-worker (how could he not?), and arrived at his boss' secretary's desk.
"Mister... Neicons?" the secretary said, not even bothering to glance up at him, "Mr. Hurm will see you now."
She said this as if in a trance. This was commonplace in the Corporation, where people can proform their jobs without be fully concous of doing so. Some of the homeless and jobless on the streets of Resi City still mumble out phrases they picked up on their former jobsites, as sort of a habit. It's not at all uncommon for a starving man in the Corporation to ask you if you'd like fries or onion rings with that as you pass him by.

Without saying a word to the faceless secretary, Jekt proceeded to the room behind the door next to her desk, certain that sweet and certain success was behind it. He layed a trembling hand on the doorknob and twisted, pushing the door open and letting it slide slowly forward, revealing an immaculate room behind it. There was his boss, Mr. Hurm, behind his desk in front of his massive glass wall/window, and there was the couch near the desk that was obviously ment for him to sit in.

As he approached it, he noticed a fake palm next to it. It seemed a bit gaudy up close, but from far away it looked tasteful, almost natural, if it weren't for the fact it was growing out of a pot instead of normal earth. He sat on the couch underneath the palm, and looked towards his boss.
"Neicons," Hurm said, extending his hand, "It's been far too long."
"Ain't that the truth," Jekt muttered, taking Hurm's hand and shaking it. He then looked Hurm in the eye, and talked to him in a normal voice.
"Aye, I've missed checking in with you, sir."
"Really? That's a shame, Neicons, seeing as you won't be needing to check in with me anymore."
Jekt stopped. He hadn't expected this high of a promotion, nothing could've prepared him for this. Of course, there was always the distinct possibility that the boss was referring to firing him, but he had shut that out of his mind entirely. Clearing his throat, he continued.
"W... what do you mean, sir?"
"I mean, Neicons, that you're going to be working on a special assignment. Here, read this."
Hurm passed Jekt a weathered piece of paper acrossed his desk. This was the standard-issue Fight Club notice which had been appearing all over the known world, battered by the elements and punctured with at least ten staple marks.
"Wha... what is this?" Jekt said, a little confused.
"This is a seed of dissent, my son," Hurm said. Jekt was taken aback by the "my son" bit, which he had never been referred to as by Hurm, but before he had too much time to consider this, Hurm went on.
"Dissent must be stamped out, and that is where you come in."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Infultrate whatever organization this is and bring it down from the inside. From the looks of this, they want every-day people, which is why we aren't sending spec ops. You will be in direct communications with us during the day, and may even get to keep your normal day job, but by night you'll be a member of whatever that is."
"Sir... is this a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Look at it any way you want, but all you need to know is that you'll be getting a 10% raise for your 'troubles'."
"Then, sir, you can count me in."
"As if you even had a choice," Hurm concluded, shaking Jekt's hand before sending him on his way.

Joey Benneli walked down the streets of down town NYC. He was a huge, muscular, ex-marine with nothing better to do, so he went out as a gun-for-hire. He came to the apartment of one of his employers, Mr. Anderson, and headed up the stairs...

"Hey Joey! How ya' doin'!"

"I'm great. So, what's dis' big job you talkin' bout' ova' da' phone?"

"Yeah, there's this police chief I want iced..."

"You know what I told you about icein' cops: its bad buisiness. The answer is no."

"Awww, c'mon Joey-"

"Man, I ain't gettin capped for icein' some cop, capiace?" he said, turning toward the door.

"Wait, yo'! I think I got something that might interest you..."

"What is it?" he asked, as Anderson took out the pamphlet.

"Fight club eh? Might have to check that out..." he muttered, putting the paper in his pocket, and heading toward the door.

"Yo Joey! You're gonna' owe me big time if this pays off!"

Actualy, I'm gonna forget you exist and move to Florida, ass hole, he thought to himself, heading down the stairs of the roach-ridden building.

A well dressed couple stepped out of one of the thousands of yellow cabs throughout lower McLeodia. They had decided to walk through the park to their hotel, since it was a reasonable evening. As the cab pulled away, the two strolled down a dark, tree lined path, chatting to each other and holding hands.

The only warning was a snap of twigs behind them, but before either of the two could turn, it was too late. A dark shape materialised out of nowhere, slamming into the man, snapping his neck as they fell, before leaping up and slashing the throat of the woman with a long slightly curved knife. The attacker stooped, picking up anything of value before running off into the night.


<Two hours later>

"Good evening. I'm James McLeod, and this is my co-host, Keira Peacock. Welcome to the ten o'clock MNN news. First, yet another tragic double murder occured in Memorial Park this evening. Police are refusing to comment on most of the details, but are asking for anyone in the park at around eight this evening to come forward and tell them if tehy saw anything suspicious." the television blared, before a flying boot knocked it off its stand, and the screen went black.

The room itself was small, dark, and damp. It was typical of the council-type accomodation in the slum areas of McLeodia, still existant after the massive building programs of recent months following the 2nd Civil War. It contained a few cupboards, an old microwave, the aforementioned television, and a decrepid sofa-bed, falling apart through years of use.

There was a single occupant. Any close observers would recognise him as the same man responsible for the murders earlier. He was of average height and weight, with dark brown hair and green eyes. In his hand, he held a copy of the Fight Club notice that he had grabbed off a streetlamp outside his apartment block. With a soft grunt, the man rose, grabbed a battered jacket from a hook by the door, and left, walking towards the nearby International Airport, looking for the cheapest flight to this New York.


IC Info:
First Name: Unknown
Second Name: Unknown
Alias: Ghost
Date of Birth: Unknown
Height: 182cm
Weight: 14 stone
Known History: N/A

Adam got up. First mistake. He walked to his door, kicking over a bottle on the way, and put on his dressing gown. He walked downstairs and went to fetch the milk. Someone was waiting for him.

"Hi buddy" said the Someone. Adam studied him for a few seconds. The man wore jeans and a leather jacket. Sunglasses were visible under the hair.

"Get a haircut" said Adam, "Come back tomorrow"

OOC: That was Tom Vincent. Remember, Fight Clubbers, short hair is better. Long hair gets pulled. Hair pulling hurts.
Also, no more applicants please, other than those who have already posted, or those I have asked to participate. Too many people will ruin this. We have six already and a couple might be joining/have said they will.

Jack walked through the doors as they closed behind him. He wasnt sure what lied ahead........

IC post to come soon

Jack pointed a gun at the guard

"Guess what, bump"

Johnny Amsterdam walked down the dark street.

"Who the fuck does he think he is? Too fat? Get a fucking haircut? Fuck this."

Amsterdam did the one thing he could do in this agitated state. He went home. Home to a crappy apartment building. Home to a whore of a girlfriend. Home to a half empty bottle of whiskey. Home. Yeah right.

Amsterdam sat in the worn out leather chair, draining the bottle. His woman lay passed out in the other room. He looked around at the place. The wallpaper was peeling, the kitchen was empty. What was he doing here? He remembered. He lived off of a cop's salary. For all the times he had risked his fucking life, this was what he got. His hazy mind drifted back to the man on the porch.

"Too fat. Get a haircut."

Amsterdam spat. Then he looked down at himself. Maybe...No. But...Never. He couldn't. Yes. It was what he needed to do. Amsterdam threw down the bottle. It was 4 AM. He took another look at the apartment. All that was there for him was the empty bottle, and a cheating girlfriend. He turned and walked out the door.

Amsterdam found himself once more on the dar street. Ahead, there was a convenience store. 'Open all night', the sign read. He walked inside.

"Pack of those, and a lighter."

The Arab man behind the counter put a pack of cigarettes on the counter along with a cheap lighter.

"$4.50"

Amsterdam put some money on the counter. As the Arab reached out to take it, a man in a ski mask burst through the door, brandishing a glock.

"Alright asshole! Put the money in the bag!"

The Arab put his hands in the air. Amsterdam froze. He instinctively reached towards the back of his pants. Nothing. His gun was in a drawer in the apartment. The criminal saw him, and moved towards Amsterdam. He put his gun up to the side of his face.

"You wanna shoot me pal? You packin' buddy? What are you gonna do, huh? Citizen's arrest."

"Amateur."

Amsterdam lunged forward, knocking the gun fromt he man's hand, and tackling him to the floor. He picked up the nine millimeter, and smacked the man over the back of the head, rendering him unconscious. He stood up, tossing the gun onto the counter. It discharged, and the bullet shattered a glass cooler door in the back. Amsterdam took the cigarettes and lighter. He pulled one out and lit it, inhaling deeply. he walked out. The Arab called after him.

"Thank you, come again!"

Despite everything, a smile crossed Amsterdam's lips. That had felt good. Maybe it was time to start doing it more often. He made his way towards the nearest barber shop.

ooc> Am I under the "might be joining" category? Sorry it took me so long.

Imperial Praetonian News IPN

All over the Imperium hundreds of people, claiming to be members of a 'Fight Club' have been arrested for fly posting. The Imperial Police is starting to take a hard line with these people, as after the first few hundred arrests police stations started to over flow. The earlier arrests received cautions or small fines, but the latest arrests are to stand before Magistrates' Courts over the next few weeks. They are expected to receive at least 10,000 Praefeli fines, some are expected to receive three month jail sentences. The Imperial Police are currently searching for the HQ of this 'Fight Club' Flyposting Organisation, if caught the leaders are expected to receive up to 5 years in prison for Incitement to Commit Criminal Acts.

More on this story later, in other news a cat became stuck up a tree whilst attempting to rescue a small child who was also trapped in the Oak....

OOC: Yes, Gronde, you are. I tg'd you, didn't I?

Damn. I knew some 'Super Security' nation would get in on this.

bump

ooc> Cool. Fight Club: Could you TG me with some info on the setting of this RP? Time period/tech level and where it is. Thanks.

One single-serving plane trip, train ride, taxi drive, and a short walk later, Jekt was standing in front of a beat-up shack that wasn't obviously the headquarters of a terrorist organization. Except for one or two idiots standing around outside the house, no one was anywhere near him. This was the way he liked it, on a job, working, and having to talk to no one but those obligated to by contract. The surroundings were a little drab, but he was sure that the first order of business these terrorists would pull would be to spruce up the place. Maybe slap a layer of paint on the buildings, replace the rotting wood, add bulletproof glass, just generally make this place an attractive hideout for dangerous criminal types.

Having really nothing else to do, he walked up to the porch to try and gain access to this place. The rotten floorboards creeked and made snapping noises under his hand-crafted Bandonian black alligator hide shoes, which gave him second thoughts about the job, but those were quickly dispelled when he remembered that he was forced into this job on penalty of poverty. If he couldn't complete this, he'd be deemed unfit to work, and be forced to eat the greasy synthetic turkey broth that the Resi Corporation would supply him and other homeless people with just so that the Corporation can keep their PR up by not having a bunch of bums dying. With this information in his brain, he knocked on the door.

Specs:
Name: Jekt Neicons
Age: 30-40
Sex: Male
Hair: Black (shortish-medium length)
Eyes: Bluegreen
Height: 6' 3"
Weight: 190 lbs
Sidenotes: Not perticulary handsome. He could be, but business takes priority over everything, even sometimes hygene, in the Resi Corporation.

when is it progressin

Damn. I knew some 'Super Security' nation would get in on this.
((OOC: Naw, trust me here. This will not turn out how you think we want it to.

Trust the Resi. Believe in the Resi. :P ))

((OOC: Naw, trust me here. This will not turn out how you think we want it to.

Trust the Resi. Believe in the Resi. :P ))

[zombified]"I trust the Resi. I believe in the Resi."[zombified]

Lets get this started.