The Game

I played a game as a child; my cousins showed me.
I don’t remember the name in the old tongue, we called it Sticks.

Draw a card with a figure on it, keep it hidden. This is your goal.
Drop the sticks onto the board in a confused pile and the game begins.

It's played on several levels and utilized a host of skills.
It teaches you patience, precision and foresight but also subtlety.

We take turns drawing a stick from the confusion and set it on the side.
Both actions are significant: you can’t disturb the chaos or it will collapse,
Placing the stick realizes the simple shape on the card you drew.

If the pile comes down you lose. If you are too slow,
Your opponent will complete his geometric shape first.

However, there is also an advantage to holding your sticks: the patient win.

The shape can be usurped by an opponent with a well placed stick:
half your square can be made into a triangle.

You can play the game with any number of players:
The shapes are more or less complex, the thickets of sticks more or less dense.

Keep and eye on the chaos and know the easy sticks,
Lest you miss an opportunity.
Avoid the precarious or pivotal ones,
Lest you bring it all down.

Look at the shapes emerging, know when to draw and when to pass.
Anticipate your opponent’s goal and keep yours hidden as long as possible.

I haven’t played Sticks in years,
But here in Peace River, it's all coming back to me

Uncivilized police behavior

The car pulled up to the stout ferrocrete building that housed the Badlands Quarter Peace Officer Corps Precinct. It sat there for ten minutes, as the driver inside the little green car waited, watching the main public entrance across the street. The Peace River storm wall was half-closed, shielding the city from a north-blowing sandstorm, and casting much of the Quarter in a shadow. It made for easier surveillance from the car, as the lower ambient light made being inconspicuous just that much more simple.

A single figure walked out of the precinct, shuffling past the row of small patrol cars and police bicycles. He hunched over, hands stuffed in his long coat, his hair slightly more tussled than usual. He stopped at the sidewalk, turned to walk down the street, crossed the street and double backed to the car. The maneuver was essentially meaningless, but the man did them anyways. Old habits were always hard to break.

The door cracked open and the man climbed into the car, wincing slightly. The door closed shut.

"You alright?" the car started rolling forward, a slight hum emanating from its electric engine. The man in the back looked up at the rear-view mirror where he made eye contact with the driver, who had asked the question. He smiled grimly.

"Yes Wilkins, nothing a few analgesics won't cure," Claude Marlenoix nodded. Wilkins fished around in the glove compartment, one hand on the wheel, and produced a bottle of painkillers, which he handed back to his boss.

"Thanks," Claude smiled grimly. He popped the pills and looked out the window quietly, watching the crowds surge down the Street of Willows in the afternoon sun.

"How bad?" Wilkins asked, pulling into the side street next to the restaurant.

"Not bad at all. But strange. Usually PaxSec invites me to the precinct under some guise or another. This time the Peace Officers picked me up in the Bazaar. That CIB lieutenant, Vance," Claude rubbed his jaw, "bit of a brute."

Wilkins' eyes flashed. The two men had developed a very close working relationship during the War. "How bad?" he asked again, more emphatically. The car stopped with a shudder.

"Not bad!" Claude sighed, "but he's heavy handed. I don't understand why the POC is looking at us. Unless..."

"You don't think Delacroix-" Wilkins interjected.

"No, no," Claude waved the notion away, "not consciously, anyways. But there is a connection somewhere. I think Delacroix and his friends are making Vance nervous."

Wilkins chuckled, "they make us all nervous."

Claude nodded, "yeah, but now we've made Vance nervous."

There was a pause.

"I'll get on it boss," Wilkins nodded as they got out of the car.

"Yes. I think that's prudent," Claude didn't even nod. His eyes were fixated on the restaurant. Wilkins followed.

* * * * *

The woman walked through the alleys of the Labyrinth with practiced ease. She didn't look up. She didn't have to. She knew the route perfectly. Quickly dodging through the crowds only made it harder for anyone to tail her. She knew it wasn't foolproof, but she hadn't been tailed for more than ten minutes before she lost her pursuers in the Labyrinth. This time it was no different. The Labyrinth was just too good to her. She paused as she found the door and knocked three times. As she waited, she looked around the neighbourhood, such as it was. Busy alleys, shadows and an ambient hum of activity nearly overloaded her senses. Sonya would miss this place, she realized as the door opened. She smiled to herself and stepped from warm shadowy Labyrinth and into the cold, tense safehouse.

The dilapidated apartment building was near-abandoned when Roger and his closest advisors moved in. Now it stunk of human habitation and the cigarette smoke of social revolutionaries. Sonya wrinkled her nose and poked her head into the various rooms, looking for her husband. She found him hunched over the little kitchen table she had found for the group, smoking a cigarette and reading the latest reports on a datapad. Roger Zahn wasn't much older than his wife, but the hardships of the Prospects and the pressures of radicalism had taken its toll. Sonya swallowed hard. She would try, one last time, to reason with her husband. She knew it wouldn't work, but she had to try. Roger was committed to this cause. That's why she loved him, after all.

* * * * * *

The Badlands Quarter Peace Officer Corps precinct was bathed in the shadow of the half-closed storm wall. It significantly muted the view of the Quarter from Fenton's office, but he didn't notice. Detective Estobar Fenton was busy studying video and still camera surveillance footage, trying to put everything together.

So far, he had put Sonya Lien and that Doctor Chambers together. That was easy. Lien was a Mekongese national, and so was Chambers. They had an affair in university until the Doctor joined the MILICIA in TN 1915. The others didn't fit. Tarmalin was a nobody. Vonyran was a minor duelist. They came up in Khayr-ad Din and in New Baja. Big deal. Marlenoix and Delacroix were Southerners, but so what? He wasn't sure why Marlenoix was brought in. His senior partner, Rucker Vance, said something about sedition charges and gun-running, but Marlenoix's interrogation centered around Delacroix and Chambers.

"A need to know basis," I'm sure. Fenton muttered to himself with a wry grin. He looked down at the pictures and the transcripts of the interrogations. Vance wasn't telling him something, but that was pretty standard for senior detectives. He was warned at the POC Academy that it would take a while for a senior partner to trust him. These were not trusting times, Fenton noted sadly, as he looked up and out of the office window. The unrest was tearing the city apart. He knew that something would have to give. He wasn't entirely sure if Vance's tactics were sound, but even the precinct chief had to admit that the hard-nosed detective and his junior partner were getting results. The Quarter had gotten quieter, and the radical activists had gone to ground.

Fenton sighed. After going to ground, the activists' next move would be to do something spectacular. "So why are we worried about four itinerant Badlanders?" he wondered aloud. Naturally, he understood that the Badlands Caravan Guild was a conduit for information and smuggling in and out of Peace River. The POC and PaxSec were quite diligent in their security sweeps of the Bazaar and the caravan fleets as a result. The junior detective sat and thought. Was there a connection between the radicals and these four? The Guild did not stand to gain anything through an increase in radical activity and terrorism in Peace River.

Fenton remembered that interview that made the Executive caste uncomfortable. What was that old man's name? He chuckled. The harsh truths exposed by Trishaw Carmichael's interview had strengthened people like Simosa, and that reformer Hitachi. She had gone to ground too. But Fenton wasn't worried about Hitachi. He could see the writing on the wall: if the radicals' terror could be minimized, Simosa would sweep the election. So what was Vance doing?

Estobar Fenton frowned and continued his research.

Meanwhile, In Peace River

He didn’t mind the smell but the sound was sickening; like some half eaten meal being lapped up by a wild animal or the oozing fleshy sound of meat. He suppressed a shudder and tried to focus on his work.

Drawing his eyes away from the painfully slow workman silently moving in repetitive and regular movements he tried to push the tacky sound to the back of his mind as he finished filling the latest transit file from the ‘commissioned’ to the ‘billed’ file.

‘well, I`ll brake fo’ lunch now sir` The workman’s statement broke into Trevin’s concentration as he updated improperly tagged comments on the digital bulletin board of the BCG portal site. He looked to the time and saw that it was indeed mid-day, he gave the painter a nod and wished him a good rest.

The labourer put away his accursed rollers, at last silent in their washing solutions. Trevin looked at the work done and was pleased. The small office of the BCG in Peace River was shaping up. Just as well, according to a coded transmission, his boss was arriving in the coming days.

The clerk in the Badlands Caravan Guild office finished some last minor data entries before locking his computer terminal. He had been working there for a season now. It was little more than a hole in the wall on the third terrace. Everyday Trevin made his way from his sparse apartment on third terrace up to this office and set about doing his duties for the Guild. At the beginning of the season that meant very little, he oversaw the workman that reset the walls, and installed the dedicated Hermes network uplink. Then things started to change, both for the Guild and for Peace River.

The middle-aged man pulled out his lunch box, he used to go home for lunch and a nap, now that was no longer convenient. It seamed as if everyday new riots broke out in the streets, new protests. Mass disturbances that were an annoyance a cycle ago had become common fare and the scope of the unrest was reaching frenzying levels. Much better to stay inside the office and spare himself the grief of wading through the crowds milling about, perpetually on the verge of another clash with the Peace officers or worse…

In his job he had the unique privilege of knowing a fair bit more than the common Riveran. The BCG network portal was a nexus for information which people shared. As traffic on the portal grew, so did Trevin’s role of managing and intelligently classifying that information. Of course he had some help, a former contact of his who had recommended him for this position was providing him with programmes from time to time which helped him cope with the volume of useless information and weed through it for the interesting tidbits. The rest of his time was spent overseeing the work crews now reduced to a painter putting the final touches on the office and reviewing the receipts, transactions and commissions for caravans coming and going in the Peace River area.

The fact of the matter was that at first he was a little bored, as the work was almost nonexistent. Gradually it grew until now he could hardly cope, and he was relieved that his employer was coming to Peace River. At last he could request an assistant.

He was meticulously formulating a mental list of demands for this Dr Chambers when he would see him when he was woken by a dull thud. He new immediately that is was an explosion, not too close, by the sound of it, but unsettling all the same. He was sympathetic to the worker caste’s plight, he knew quite a few who had been abused by Paxton greed but he had a hard time abiding this violence. Soon there would be elections and he hoped that the new Paxton CEO would manage to quell the unrest which so violently disturbed placid day to day life in this city.

He thought of the violence, the bomb, it could have been terrorists or PaxSec, he was too well informed to have any illusions that one side was playing more fairly then the other. He thought of the senseless violence and the victims, soon there would be information on SNS and more posts on the BCG portal. He thought of the scenes he would be viewing and remembered the sickening sound of the paint rollers as it plastered the walls, the sound of blood drenched clothes and open wounds.

The clerk was momentarily overcome with revulsion, it rendered him ill. He was unable to finish his repast, instead he headed into the board room, sat on the bench under the window, and lay down. This room wasn’t as cool as the others and he could feel the warmth of the mid-day sun lulling him to sleep. As he drifted off his mind let go of the political intrigue of the coming elections, the trepidations associated with making demands on his long absent employer, the bookkeeping of caravan transactions and the confusion he would have to wade through this afternoon on the Hermes Network in the wake of this new violence.

In sleep came a blissful calm, he dreamt of simpler times and simple joys and the permanent crease that furrowed his brow gave way. And for a few minutes after he awoke and descended to the office Trevin was blithe, but soon enough the painter was back and so was the woeful sound of his roller and to make matters worse he had an encrypted message from the caravan out in the Barrington Basin waiting for him when he logged back on to the computer network. He thought about that information, the violence outside, the uncertainty that prevailed and the coming of the BCG head and his frown returned. He tied to ignore the world and concentrate on his work.

Meanwhile, Back at the Caravan...

"So, what are the rules?" the stern matronly voice of Avatanya Brom came over the radio. The woman perched on the top of the Behemoth transport she had dubbed 'Petunia' a long time ago, and surveyed the scene below her. It wasn't pretty.

Next to Petunia, some ten meters below, a diminutive teenage girl climbed into the cockpit of an equally diminutive heavy gear. The Ferret's hatch closed and the v-engine roared to life a moment later. The gear leaned back onto it's unique rear wheel as the legs locked in position, revealing wheels in its feet. The small gear began rolling forward in its reverse-tricycle configuration.

"Rules? We don' need no stinkin' rules!" a teenage girl's voice shot back into the radio. Karin Hassan's voice was jubilant. She was already tearing off into the sand dunes of the Barrington Basin, the Ferret's massive butt-wheel kicking up sand and dust in its wake. As the gear climbed a dune, Karin switched back into walker mode to better negotiate the sand. The Ferret waddled its way up. At the crest of the dune, she stopped, turned towards Avatanya back on Petunia and waved. Then she started reciting the rules as she leaned the gear back onto its butt-wheel.

"Rule number one," she began, "look before you leap." The gear shot across the top of the sand dune and leaned right hard, its hand dragging in the sand as Karin made a sharp turn and kept following the crest. The sun glared off the Ferret's sensor eye.

"Rule number two: obey all traffic laws," the girl smirked. The caravan hadn't been to a single settlement with traffic, let alone traffic laws, since they left Prince Gable nearly three weeks ago. Occasionally Karin wondered what the traffic laws were, but the topic was left vague and nebulous.

"Rule number three," the gear skidded to a stop at the edge of the dune. Karin looked and then let the gear drive straight down the steep slope. Her heart raced as she broke left at the bottom of the slope and opened up the throttle. The gear seemed to enjoy the impromptu sprint as much as its pilot.

"Rule number three?" Avatanya keyed the comm as she grinned, occasionally seeing a plume of dust rise up from behind a sand dune.

"No bad habits!" Karin yelled happily as the gear balanced backwards on its butt-wheel, turning it into a unicycle for a moment. The neural-net had already picked up the youthful exuberance of its two pilots. Only Karin and her friend Tessa were small enough to fit into the midget gear.

"Rule number four?" Avatanya rolled her eyes.

"Hey! There's no rule number four!" Karin protested as the gear landed back down on its two front feet and continued to zip among the sand dunes.

"No boys!" Avatanya growled.

"Awwww!" Karin groaned. The Ferret revved its engine.

* * * * *

Ben Cantor climbed into the Longrunner and walked into the little office. Bill Pearce was already there, sitting at the desk, data pad in hand.

"Any word?" Bill didn't look up as he continued reading.

"They left Baja," was the reply, "your friend Lenny said that they were probably headed north to Peace River. They'll be under the radar for a while, he said." He kept the news that Julie Pojhola would be arriving in Khayr-ad Din to manage the construction and operation of the casino to himself. Ben got the impression that Lenny was dubious of the whole arrangement.

"Sounds like Baja isn't the friendly place it once was," Bill frowned to himself.

"From what I hear, it never really was that friendly," Ben replied. He looked at Bill, "what do you have there?" he nodded to the data pad.

"Just an intel report from the Guild."

"Oh?" Ben leaned against the wall of the office.

"Yeah. Rover activity's up all along the Pacifica and Westridge ranges. There's also unrest in Peace River. The worker caste wants more rights, and the election's just around the corner," Bill shrugged, "sounds like your kind of work."

"Maybe," Ben shrugged, "but we've already got a job. And besides, Paxton's still one great big family. They need to change from within, not from without."

Bill nodded, continuing to read.

"This is interesting," he began, "looks like a dueling league is forming in the Badlands."

"You mean the Spider?" Ben looked puzzled, "that league is already formed."

"That's just it. It's called the Ultimate Dueling Championship League. Apparently it's all independent. They've been going around, challenging the Khayr-ad Din League duelists, beating them, and putting the footage on the Hermes network."

Ben chuckled. "Brilliant. I bet the Spider's thrilled."

"I bet. After all the money he invested in the new arena, you'd think he--wait, what's that?" Bill's eyes flitted to a blinking message on the little computer on the desk. Ben picked it up.

"It's from our source," Ben read it slowly, "we need Prabal. He's going to have to send a coded message to Peace River."

Enemies and Lovers, both hurt.

I’m glad Kain didn’t ask any questions about where I was going. His discretion is one of the only things that make him bearable at times.

Well I guess that’s unfair but I don’t feel like being fair: some Barnaby-dung eating fool shot me today.

I just don’t get it! We came into this oasis tower unannounced, we found a quiet card game to pass time and wouldn’t you know it, someone calls us out by name and threatens us. It’s just getting real old! I wish they were more original, actually I wish I was less sloppy but maybe we could make a pact to be both:

‘To all polar intelligence agencies, would-bea ssassins, corporate spies and Keff sympathizers: please collectively endeavour not to piss me off with your threats, and I will promise for my part to try and make it as hard as possible to give you the opportunity.’

There, that should work: a silent promise to the sands. The problem is I keep messing up, making mistakes faster than I can learn from them. Apropos, I'm in the bazaar staking out that hotel, I don’t think I'm in much danger of being found; hiding my face with my scarf, wearing desert clothing and sipping root tea like half a dozen other quiet patrons in this stall. She doesn’t see me or she makes a convincing act of ignoring me when she emerges with her small companion. She does look around quickly. I guess nothing looks out of the ordinary because she moves on.

She showed up out of the desert blue today, at the exact same time as that anonymous and now-deceased assailant. Coincidence? I don’t know, it does seem a little too convenient. Am I being cautious or paranoid? Too damned much time with Kain, or too much time in the mid-day sun, same difference.

I drop a coin for the tea and move to follow them. I keep a good distance, I can see her clearly enough, I feel I could find her with my eyes shut. Great, now I’m getting romantic, am I tracking this woman because I’m suspicious or am I stalking her because I’m desperate?

Too many questions with ambiguous answers. I am traveling through a universe of gray where no clean lines exist. She has doubled back, is she lost or checking for a tail? I duck into an open door and make it up to the roof in under 30 seconds. I pull out my scope and pick her up almost immediately.

When we spoke a few hours ago I was un-composed. I was still angry. I asked her to partner-up on the Duelist Casino deal while belying my apprehensions, making it clear I didn’t trust her and yet...

I’m back on street level, she almost gave me the slip a block back, she’s good. That's hardly surprising. She’ll be an invaluable asset. I change my cloak over, rearranged my scarf into a turban and put on goggles, just a Badlander mixed-in with the others.

I trust her, I always have though I don’t want her to know that just yet, she might see that my fears are personal rather than professional. I walked out on her, I walked out on her and her daughter for this mission and I am all torn up inside. I miss her but we can’t be together, not right now and maybe not ever, I’m afraid I’ll lose her so I may as well just keep her at arms length. Wait, am I commenting on how I'm tracking her or how I’m involved with her?

Julie and Lita eventually made their way to a Longrunner and they rolled out of Kolmar Station without incident. I did my due diligence, the local water feeder said they had all come in together that same morning. He remembered Julie, how could he not? The fuel log I hacked on a nearby station pump confirmed the story.

I never really doubted her. I don’t have enough doubt to go around. I barely have enough to keep up with my own insecurities. I guess that makes me a trusting person. Trusting people get shot. Now I just sound like Sam.

Now that she’s gone I hope I’ll be able to concentrate. There’s work to be done. Someone is looking for us and I want to find them first so I can take out a healthy mix of misplaced and justified aggression on them. Introspection sucks.

Weapons and Equipment Guide - Revised 2

As most of you know now, work has begun on a consolidated Weapons and Equipment guide. With my recent purchase of 3G3, we can reverese engineer all of the weapons from the DP9 Equipment Guide, as well as assorted other sources.

I've asked some of you to help me prepare text for transfer to the new Big Guns Book.

Last night, Josh, Matt, and I kicked around a few ideas. We want to shake up the axis of individual weapons characteristics by the use of perks/flaws (like the rest of the game). To this end, we brainstormed a few different characteristics, and I have included what I remember below, as well as a few new ones. Please append your ideas as comments...I will update the main post as we go.

I don't think there will be a hard "cost" associated with these characteristics. We will have to eyeball it! :)

Accurate:
Rounds fired are more stable at long range. Reduce the penalties for long and extreme range by 1.

Ambidextrous:
May be fired with either hand

Ammo Hungry:
Burst fire consumes twice the usual amount of ammo.

Assault:
Either the Small Arms or Heavy Weapons skill may be used to fire this weapon.

Awkward:
The proportions/layout of this weapon make it difficult to manage, especially when time is of the essence. Drop 1 dice on combat sense rolls when this weapon is equipped.

Backblast:
This weapons vents high temperature gasses (and potentially flames) to the rear, discouraging firing from indoors or enclosed vehicles.

Battle Rifle:
This weapon is designed for the rigours of close and brutal combat. May be used as a melee weapon (club: 5+AD) with no risk of damage.

Bayonet Lug:
A bayonet may be fitted to this weapon, allowing (AD+damage) Melee attacks to be made. Shooting attacks at ranges over Point blank are at -1.

Beaten Area:
This weapon lays down a prodigious amount of fire. When suppressed by this weapon, targets suffer a -1 penalty to their actions.

Belt fed:
This rapid-fire weapon is fed by a belt of ammunition. Feeding and operating the weapon alone is difficult. Attacks are at -1 die when operating without a loader (unless pintle mounted).

Break-down:
This weapon is designed to be quickly disassembled and reassembled. A successful Small Arms roll allows assembly or disassembly in 1 round. (Anyone caught making "No Disassemble!" jokes will be drawn and quartered)


Burst only:
This weapon has no single fire mode.

Catastrophic Misfire:
Botches when firing this weapon provoke a catastrophic reaction; the shell cooks off in the chamber, the receiver ejects the clip, or something similar. GMs should be imaginative.

Concealable:
Special care has been taken to make this weapon harder to detect when tucked away. +1 to either Camouflage or Sleight of Hand to conceal this weapon.

Difficult to Modify: This weapon is a high-quality, overengineered piece of... equipment. Parts are difficult to come by, tolerances are very tight, and moving parts are difficult to make sense of or access at all. Just cleaning this weapon requires a PhD. All rolls to repair or modify the weapon are at -2.

Easy to Modify: This weapon was designed with the maintenance needs of the combat soldier and field technician in mind. It is easy to make modifications with nearly any available part, easy to maintain and all rolls to repair or modify this weapon are made at +2.

Disposable:
This weapon is not meant to be used more than a few times, according to the rating. Reduce the Rating each time the weapon is used. Negative Ratings apply to attack rolls.

Fragile:
Prone to damage from impacts, dropping, explosions. This weapon will not function after being used as a melee weapon.

Heavy:
A STR equivalent to the rating is necessary to operate this weapon without penalty. Apply a penalty of the Heavy rating minus the user's STR to all physical skills (including Dodge, and the skill governing firing this weapon).

Heavy Recoil:
The weapon bucks like a mule, making subsequent shots less accurate. Taking more than one shot in a round incurs an additional -1 penalty on the second, -2 on the third and so on.

Hostile Environment Protection: This weapon is designed to be used and abused in the environment listed (terrain type). HEP: Jungle weapons can be exposed to humidity and water, HEP: Desert weapons are reliable in sandstorms, HEP: Cold weapons don't freeze up. A weapon lacking this perk can be used in a hostile environment, but not without great care, intense maintenance or the risk of major malfunction.

Inaccurate:
Some flaw in the barrel design or inherent limitation makes long range shooting more difficult. Increase the penalties at long and extreme range by 1.

Jam Prone:
Sustained fire radically increases the probability of a jam. Botches occur on any pair of ones, rather than a roll of all ones.

Large Signature, AKA: Loud and Proud:
This is the kind of gun that draws unwanted attention when fired. It's either inordinately loud, has a large, noticeable muzzle flash, generates lots of smoke, dust, heat, or any combination of factors that provide for +2 to Notice checks for those trying to locate the shooter at Short and Medium ranges, and +1 to Notice checks at Long and Extreme ranges.

Made in Timmins:
This weapon was either assembled by retarded blind chimpanzees or made by the lowest bidder--in Timmins. Either way, a botch renders the weapon inoperable. A full stripping and reconditiong of the weapon will restore it to operational status...maybe. (In non-Heavy Gear games, this is called 'Problem Prone')

Magazine Capacity (Low):
Less than standard.

Magazine Capacity (High):
More than standard.

Modular System:
Using a combination of parts, this weapon can be converted to a weapon of a similar type, i.e., pistols could fire different ammo, rifles could be converted down to carbines or up to LMGs, etc.

Mounted:
This weapon requires a tripod or pintle mount to operate.

No Sight Rail:
This weapon cannot mount any sighting devices.


Quick Change Barrel:
Only a real consideration in protracted firefights, this MG can have its barrel swapped out (to compensate for overheating) as a single action by a trained loader on his action, allowing near continuous fire for prolonged periods. A single user must cease fire for one round to perofrm this operation.

Rifle Grenadier:
This weapon will accept rifle grenades.

Slow fire:
May only fire once per turn. (Bolt action rifles have this trait)

Slow Reload:
Requires 2 actions to reload, rather than one.

Sniper:
This rifle is designed for precision shooting. When used with the Marksmanship skill, the weapon receives a +1 bonus to called shots.

Suppressed:
This weapon features a built-in, purpose made sound suppression system. Alternatively, this weapon is designed with special operations/suppression in mind, and can be fitted with a specially made suppressor which acts as though it was integral to the weapon. Either way, double the number of rounds that may be fired before suppression is negated.

No Underbarrel Mount:
No auxiliary grenade launcher or other large underbarrel device may be attached.


Unsafe Trigger:
This weapon,either due to a poor safety or a hair trigger, is prone to fire at inopportune times, like while inside a bouncing armored vehicle or during a tense stand-off.

As close to Tarantino as I want to get.

TN1919 Autumn:

FADE IN: A well lit office interior. There are people milling about, doing whatever office workers do on a daily basis. This office, however, is the provisional city hall of New Baja, buried deep underground in a submerged MacAllen cave. There is no ambient light, and there is an oppressive feeling in the air. There are secretaries sitting at a central desk/counter area, wearing headsets and working at computer terminals. A security guard in grey coveralls and a pistol at his belt stands lazily nearby. The entirety of New Baja has been put on full alert and lockdown, but he doesn't expect any problems here.

CUT TO: An elevator door. There's a sense of impending crisis. The elevator stops with a soft ring tone, and the doors open slowly. Two determined faces greet us: the Gunfighter, and the Doctor. They quickly step out of the elevator car and into the hubub of the city hall office, doing their best to cut through the foot traffic whilst blending in to the best of their abilities. In the elevator, a grey coverall-wearing guard is slumped in the corner, blood trickling down his nose.

CUT TO: The Doctor's fist, sporting slightly bloodied brass knuckles. From just under his knuckles, you can see a couple of people reacting to the sight of the guard in the elevator. Or maybe they recognize the Doctor and the Gunslinger. They're not new to Baja, after all. The security guard hasn't clued in.

CUT TO: The Gunslinger and the Doctor approaching the central desk/counter. They give the receptionist a withering look.

The Doctor: Excuse me, which way to Mayor Dunn's office?

Receptionist (A little stunned): Er...may I ask who is...

The Doctor (only slightly annoyed): Doctor Chambers, of the New Baja Development Company.

Receptionist (relieved): Oh, yes, down the hall, make a left, all the way to the end. Who is this? (He has noticed the Gunslinger, who, as always, is not operating as though he's completely present and accounted for)

The Doctor (feigning ennui): My bodyguard.

The pair walk off quickly as a cry comes out from near the elevator. The security guard does his job and jogs over to the car, just as the Doctor and the Gunslinger round the corner and quicken their pace. They get down to the end of the hallway. There is a solid-looking door with a simple plaque attached to it at about eye level: MAYOR L. DUNN. The pair take a breath and then open the door.

CUT TO: The office of New Baja mayor Lloyd Dunn. There are three people in this spartan, utilitarian office with a thick glass window on one side (no real view, as it's too dark in the MacAllen cave). In the center of the room is a large conference desk. There is a trideo projector in the middle of the desk, currently shut off, and a couple of chairs for guests of the mayor in front of it. The ceiling is roughly 2.2m tall, and the concrete walls are thick, as is the floor. At the desk sits Lloyd Dunn, a tired-looking, greying man whose face reflects the plight of all of New Baja: compromises to maintain as much independence as possible. No one understands Dunn anymore, a hero of the anti-CEF resistance during the occupation of Baja. He still believes in doing the best for New Baja's citizens, but he has comprimised himself into a corner: the SRID have their hooks in him, the MILICIA do their best to control the city, and while he and the rest of the New Bajans have retreated into their underwater, underground refuge, Dunn knows that it's only a matter of time before New Baja must capitulate. He's desperate, he's cornered, and two of his old nemeses, The Doctor and The Gunslinger, have just walked into the room. Dunn is flanked by two bodyguards. They've just been warned of the pair's arrival.

Dunn (unreadable): Gentleman, what can I do for you.

The Doctor (equally unreadable. The Gunslinger has his eye on the two bodyguards, his hands ready to go for his guns. The two bodyguards are nervous. They're competent, but the Gunslinger's reputation has preceded him): Lloyd. Good to see you. I have something for you. I'm willing to trade it in order to get me and my associates out of New Baja.

Dunn: You have something for me?

The Doctor (removing a datadisk from his duster, places it on the desk and pushes it towards Dunn with a single finger): Plans for a next-generation submarine gear.

Dunn: Is that so? And why would you think I'd help you, Doctor?

The Doctor: Because if we make your life easier, then you can make our lives easier.

Dunn (unreadable, pauses. Then after a moment, he grins): Well Doctor, it's about to get a whole lot easier for you.

CUT TO: The door to the office opens. Four guards in grey coveralls armed with meaty submachineguns are about to pour in.

CUT TO: The Gunslinger's gone for his twin 11mm magnum revolvers.

CUT TO: The Doctor has gone for his heavy pistol.

CUT TO: The two bodyguards have gone for their pistols.

CUT TO: Dunn has gone for his pistol.

The ensuing firefight is brutal, short and chaotic. The Doctor's loud pistol fires, and one of the new arrivals spins towards the corner, shot through the shoulder. The Gunslinger's pistols fire, and one of the bodyguards falls backwards, dead, blood spattering the wall behind him. The other bullet grazes Lloyd Dunn's shoulder. The other bodyguard puts a few rounds into the Gunslinger, but his duster and his flak suit prevent major injury. He remains standing. Dunn fires as he recovers from the attack. The bodyguards rush the room, and open fire with submachineguns at close range. Fortunately, the action is too close, the noise and the flashes too blinding, for any accurate fire. One of the guards begins wrestling with the Gunslinger. The other two take positions in the corners of the room, unsure as to how to proceed. The Doctor rounds the table and is about to shoot Lloyd Dunn when one of the bodyguards sprays the corner down with fire. The Doctor slumps to the ground, badly wounded. Dunn has been hit too, and his shot accidentally hits the bodyguard who just shot him, rather than the Doctor. Meanwhile, the Gunslinger struggles against the guard, and finally breaks free of his grapple. The Doctor and Dunn fumble for their pistols, struggling and grappling, slipping in blood, both wheezing and wincing from their wounds. The Doctor is out of bullets: the heavy pistol does not have a large magazine. Lloyd smirks, aims, and then is shot by the Gunslinger, whose revolvers deal out hot lead death. The remaining guards go down in a flurry of gunfire. The Gunslinger fires at Dunn's sprawled body. Then he walks over to the Doctor, who is barely conscious, and failing to staunch the blood pouring from his body. The Gunslinger helps the Doctor up and they make their way out of the office, leaving a haze of smoke, blood and a ringing echo of gunfire left in the room...

-----------------
30 Autumn, TN1919


Dear Sir,

We have received your manuscript, and we must reject it. Not only is some of the content (allegations of SRID involvement in New Baja indeed!) verging on the seditious, but we here at Republican Films also strive for realistic depictions of violence in all our work. You might be better served sending this manuscript to a particularly wealthy and bloodthirsty nobleman in the Eastern Sun Emirates.

Good day,

J. Y. Jungers
Submissions editor-in-chief
Republican Films.

--------------------
Somewhere else:

"I found the tape. It looks like it's been hacked already."

"That's fine. Who's on it?"

"The businessman and the gunhand."

"Delacroix?"

"No, but he can't be too far. At least he's back on our radar."

"He's in New Baja. He's still off our radar."

"Yeah, but he and his crew will have to come up for air eventually. Keep your eyes open. We need to know how he found out about Mishka."

Game Thug's Bookshelf - Update

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