The Ituri Conflict

[E-Stalin [Orthrus]]

For those of you who have played Far Cry 2, than you'll understand the game-play mechanism perfectly. If not, it will be summed up below.

This RP is set in the Ituri Province of the Congo. It is an Ethnic Conflict Zone.

If you are not familiar with such conflict zones, than I strongly urge anyone to research them, as it is an important modern-day problem. Summed up, the majority of the African Conflict is a war zone based around revolutionary bullshit and diamond and mineral mine control.

Sierra Leone, Uganda, Angola, the Republic of the Congo, former Rwanda, Somalia, Liberia, and onward. All of these have gone through a no-holds war in which human rights did not exist. Geneva, Hague, USA, and the UN are words those people never heard of. Revolutionaries abducted children from their parents, trained them, hooked them on heroin, handed them AK-47s, and sent them off on their marry way.
People raped women at least two dozen times before killing them. They'd cut unborn fetuses out of a living mother’s womb, dismember and hang children and adults alike, impale machetes through the vagina, slaughter unarmed refugee camps, and an uncountable amount of other such atrocities. All for getting a kick out of it. There often was no real reason, no sense, and no cause. Warfare is what they do, have done, and live by. Indeed, the very same slaughter continues today. The diamonds that many people wore as jewelry in first world countries came out of conflict zones, referred to as Conflict Diamonds, or sometimes Blood Diamonds. While today, the Kimberly process helps negate the market income of such diamonds, no one seems to care about other products that come from slaughter.

Today, Columbite-Tantalite ore costs three hundred USD per kilogram. With the boom of American and European cell-phone, television, computer, and video game usage, Coltan has become one of the most important materials sought in all industrial history.

Most of it comes from African Conflict Zones.

With the exception of legitimate mining enterprises in South America and Australia, the Coltan market has directly funded three civil wars in the past decade. It has been the core of conflict in the Congo, and drawn in the neighboring regions of Uganda and Rhodesia.

Just remember that every time you purchase a Cell-Phone, there is a large chance that the export funded the present-day conflict in the Congo. The same export of consumer electronics such as televisions, DVD players, and other such items funded the Genocide of over 800,000 people.

Every time you send that all-important text-message, somebody died in order to make it possible.
And they weren’t fighting for it at the time; they were fighting over the "I'm red you're black I kill you you kill me" principal.

They're still fighting for that reason today, as I'm typing this, so that we can be entertained by it.

---

In this RP you play as a mercenary, set in the Congo. The exact location is fictional, and based off the Far Cry 2 maps. The two primary factions present here are the Congo Liberation Front (The Lendu) and the United People’s Army (The Hema).
The primary language spoken is Lendu.

You can play as your own character, or play as one of several mercenaries secretly and illegally hired to support the Congo Liberation Front in order to facilitate Coltan Export.
The only reason the CLF was chosen was due to their numerical advantage, therefore the greater likelihood of Coltan Export happening quicker.
Depending on your character, you can fight for either side at any time, for any purpose. Just remember that if you are doing it for money, you’re participating in ethnic genocide for it.


Please provide profiles, and your current situation and location will be forwarded to you depending on your character affiliation. The system used is similar to that in STALKER. Simply put, you can move in a few ways.

1. Fast Travel: Used to transport over several squares in one move, possible only by the use of a vehicle. Quicker, but leaves one very vulnerable to ambush or booby-trap along the way. Unless a spotter is used, it is also very easy to miss any important detail.
Note that one can travel slowly while in a vehicle (See below)

2. Hiking: The only method possible while on foot. One square at a time is traveled per post, but the movement allows careful examination of the area ahead, and therefore safer and stealthier movement.


When traversing the Zone you will be perceived as a member of one or two factions, or none at all (AKA: They both kill you).
Factions will simply provide you an armband and that’s that. Note that no one is stupid enough to bother identifying targets, so unless you’re in your allied territory and they recognize you, you’ll simply be shot on sight.
If you’re white, the chances of this are even greater. Just make sure you pass off as a white African, and not an American (Or whatever else).
It shall be assumed you speak Lendu, and all speech and writing in this RP shall be written in English, unless it is writing on a Soviet-import crate or the like, in which case translation is your problem.


Paper money is worthless here. It is literally used as toilet paper. Payment is in the form of stones (Diamonds) and nothing else. Note that small, sand-like diamonds are also common as shit in these places, and you can expect an entire cup-full for payment. Unfortunately the sheer bulk of this becomes a burden, and so the real value takes the form in actual, individual stones.

--

As with STALKER, detail is extremely important. If you make a post where you load a magazine into your pistol, but forget to chamber a round, it will not fire. Note that the first time you make an action such as reloading your pistol, it must be very detailed, including each individual action. In future posts regarding that same action, it can be cut down to “reloaded”, because I already know that you know how to do it properly, and therefore assume it was done properly.
Each time you do the same action with a firearm or vehicle or whatever else, the initial detail must be written.

Note that most of the firearms found in the Zone are cold-war era importations from Com-Bloc. AK-47s, Makarovs, and H&K G3s are the most commonly encountered weapons amongst Factions. However, there are very many weapons from all around the world to be found here in the hands of old-time fighters and mercenaries, including Western, modern-day Soviet, and German weapons.

As usual, make sure you maintain all weaponry. That is, if you want to depend on it with your life. Of Course, the AK-47 and Glock pistols are virtually impossible to malfunction.

For Profile, please include age, biography, affiliation, and purpose.

You will enter the country with no weaponry whatsoever. You will obtain tools from a pre-brief mercenary that is holding onto them for you (A Firearms Dealer), and you will possess instructions on their recovery. From that point on, all tools must either be found, stolen, or purchased from FDs.

Remember that your profile abilities are entirely irrelevant. If you say your character is familiar with all the firearms ever made and a great marksman, it won’t matter if you, the player, doesn’t, because you’ll be incapable of detailing what you did in your post. You can’t field strip your pistol unless you detail it in your post after all.

Maps and other such details shall be posted in updates before the RP begins. Until then, think about gear-loadouts and character moralities. Because unless you’re a pure sociopath or a naïve idiot, this is one of the most ambiguous moral choices to make.

[Cerberus]

Name: Several aliases. Official birth name is unknown. Traditionally introduces himself as Cerberus or Ctserber. For official purposes documents are in the name of a Boris, Sidorovitch C.

Age: 27
Sex: Male
Physical Description: Tall and pale. Muscular and extremely fit but not of significant bulk/bodybuilder status. Unusually agile and has excellent stamina. Although he does have burts of above average strength he is physically built for endurance rather then pure strength/brawn. Pale blue eyes, similar to 'berg ice. Long dark hair, unkept and ungroomed. Currently wearing black denim jeans, rough and worn Soviet era-boots (waterproof), a black T-Shirt, and a light/thin dark brown leather jacket. Simple and cheap sling/belt combination.

Capabilities: In theory, an expert in virtually any form of combat and an expert in almost every firearm in existence. Well trained in warfare, espionage, CQB and CQC, infiltration, and a myriad of tactics and abilities, everything from sniper detail to an artillery spotter.
Quite innovative and had some basic general training in medicine, pharmaceuticals, etc. Fluent in English, Russian, and German. Knowns enough Japanese and Spanish to get by, but not a native speaker. Also speaks excellent Afrikaans, which he picked up during his travels in African conflict zones.

In practice: He doesn't know. Memories and skills don't match up with what they should be. Tactics and actions are a mixed blend and do not match any known standard operating procedures. He 'knows' that he is not capable of flying a cargo plane, and yet he naturally responded to it when necessary. He knows he should be capable of operating heavy armor, but cannot understand or recall when or how he learned, if at all.

General History: Extremely questionable. According to his general memory he used to be enlisted under the 23d regiment of Her Majesties Special Air Service. But the memory does not match what he can remember, and does not match what he can do. His memory is ragged, and filled with simple answers that are taken for granted. Although he is fully capable of Special Operations quality work, the actual details refuse to be discerned from the crumbling mess deep within his conscious.
The history he commonly accepts and believes is prior work under the 23d regiment and a solo insertion into a Mid-Western American city. The operation resulted in a total loss and he was supposed to have been terminated along with the rest of the operation and city alike. Instead he remained quite well and alive and dropped off the grid, migrating steadily through various conflict zones as a freelance mercenary. Why, or to what goal, he does not know nor think about it. War has become a routine action, and life a simple game of going from point A to point B. Combat history is all over the map, from El Salvador to Chechnya. Africa is an old favorite given that there are roughly 10 conflict zones at any given moment on the continent.

Who or what he actually is convoluted and uncertain. Memories taken for granted do not fit with the rest of his mind. Things he knows do not fall anywhere in the history he remembers. Soldier of fortune work is little more then a defense mechanism, burying himself deep in a world where no-one has a name, no-one has a history. No questions are asked, no answers need to be found. He's running, hopping from warzone to warzone, and vanishing in the storm of blood and brass where he will not be found, not by himself, and not by anyone else looking for him.

[E-Stalin [Orthrus]]

Updates:

This is your full Zone map.
















As you can see, it is divided into a 9 square grid. Each square represents 5 sq/km, and are treated as general areas, each with a smaller sub-map. For future reference, the squares shall be refereed to by Telephone number format, so the top-left square is area 1, the center square is area 5, and so on.

These territories, and further properties within them, are under a constant possession struggle between UPA and CLF forces.

Currently, CLF outnumbers and has a superior advantage over the UPA, possessing the entire Northern territories and a good portion of the central region. Lendu has enough men to patrol and maintain only grid squares 8 and 9.
All other areas are pretty much anarchistic. Lendu people kill Hema people, and there are of course rogues, bandits, and general assholes. Small children may kill you for the hell of it, as may any other civilian. In general, strangers on the horizon should always be treated as potential threats.

Note that the goal of CLF and UPA is simply to kill eachother. Despite any names, this is an ethnic conflict orientated around genocide and nothing more. Who you support and what you do depends on your goals and purposes for being here, whether it is for Coltan export or simple gun-for-hire monetary gain.

It is very important to understand that CLF and UPA currently have a stand-down agreement. Neither is currently engaging in open warfare in any official manner. Once again, Hema and Lendu still kill eachother, and both are trying to fuck eachother over at any given opportunity.

------

The center city, called Pala, is currently under total cease-fire. It is guarded, and you will be shot on sight if you draw a weapon, although it is obviously normal to have one, considering that almost every single person in this country will have a rifle over their back.

I understand that the full-size map may be difficult to read and see icons on, which is why you'll be given proper resolution maps of the smaller areas (if I can get them).
Until then -

Firearms dealers: This possibly the safest profession. These shops are signified by a Pistol icon on the map. They consist of small, reinforced concrete buildings with a known armorer. These armorers are usually free-lance, and will sell arms to any and all unless they're on the pay-roll for either UPA or CLF.
Note that some firearms dealers will sell only a limited selection of junk, and know little of the workings of these weapons, but they'll cost cheap. However, there are a few former mercenaries that run very heavy-duty armories. They can sell all kinds of high-quality weapons, ammo, and fix and maintain them. However, they are hard to find and not listed on the map. Indeed, they are an underground orginization of gun runners. The reason for this is that UPA and CLF would run them down and take their stock the moment they knew of their existance.
If you enter this RP as a pre-hired mercenary, you will automatically be given coordinates for an armory support post for you to use. The initial equipment package will be provided free-of-charge, but all future support must be paid for.

Shelters: Ragged shacks and makeshift shelters and caches are very common throughout the Zone. It can be anything from a buried crate of MREs and water, to a small shack built in an out of the way place with ammo, weapons, and security. Note that these better quality dwellings typically belong to someone, and if you want to use it, you'll either have to pay (So they can kill you and take it) or kill them and use it yourself. Just remember, as uneducated as the native populace is, they are not stupid. Don't underestimate them and think you can just take whatever you want.

-----------------

Inventory: You have weight and bulk limitations. How much and what you carry depends entirely on how you carry it. If you have load-bearing-vests, rucksacks, and carrying slings, you can carry a hell of a lot more (and access it easier) than you would with jeans a T-shirt.

Note that your fatigue, hydration, and the kinds of actions you can do depend on your current weight and bulk load. The stuff you carry, such as a large ruck-sack and an RPG can easily interfere with agile actions.

Death:Unlike most RPs, you can fuck up bad enough here to be announced dead.

But this is the Congo. Dead doesn't mean not-alive. First a person is ill, then dead, then completely dead, and then dead-forever. Summed up, if you screw up you can break limbs, lose fingers or hands, or be knocked into a freakin' coma. These injuries will magically vanish over time when properly treated.

If you step on a land-mine and blow your foot off, you'll suffer the consequences of having a bum leg and being unable to walk. Once medically treated, you will fully recover in a certain time period, usually between one and a few-days depending on severity.
If it is not treated, you will 'die', lose conciousness, and be miraculously recovered by allies or employers and transported back to their medical service. In the process you will lose everything you possess, fail whichever mission you were on at the time, and be permamently handicapped (Slightly) for the remainder of the RP, or at least a long time.

[medic]

Name: Renald Biggs
Age: 34
Sex: Male
Physical Description: Slightly above average height, wide shoulders, and possesses a heavy, muscular frame. It does make him slower than someone with a thinner, more athletic frame, but he makes up for it in raw power. Renald's been on many battlefields, often working as a private contractor (mercenary) after having quickly outgrown any PMC. He's no legend, but he's earned 'campfire story' status in a few circles because of his extensive and unbelievable injury history. In fact, all told, he's been stabbed a dozen times (accounting for one close encounter that went very wrong before he could finish the job), hit by a jeep, and shot a total of seventy-two times. For a short time, much to his amusement, he was known as the man who couldn't die. This was soon uprooted, however, by the much more true title of 'the man who couldn't escape the hospital', much to his dissatisfaction. He's quite literally covered in scars, missing his left ring finger, and is missing a large portion of his upper right ear.



Affiliation: Hema, right now.

Purpose: Right now, he's on a corporate research mission from the pharmaceutical company Red-White, which is trying to crack a new, enticing market of 'pharmaceutically enhanced' soldiers. He's also searching for a rare form of malaria- the fabled 'Plasmodium Stalinist'. =P

[E-Stalin [Orthrus]]

Okey.

Current situation and starting locations will be PMd to each player shortly.

Since neither of you two are pre-hired to support any one side, you arrive by Bus in the city of Pala. You have no weaponry whatsoever, neither small arms or cold arms.

The link below will send you to a very high-res image of the entire Zone map, allowing you to zoom in close enough to see each individual area clearly.


media.photobucket.com/image/Far%20Cry%202%20Pala%20map/skacre/GemMapAct1.jpg


For screenshots of the area, google for Pala, Far Cry 2.

The city consists mostly of private houses, one good hotel (good by Congo standards) and is guarded by militia at periodic points, armed with AKs and mounted Light-Machine guns.

There is an armory and a bar, as well as a small third-world equivalent of a market place, selling some fruit and vegetables, which are starting to wilt and spoil. Several vehicles can be found ranging just outside the town. A bus-station can take you to any other Square area on the map. The first time you use it is free of charge, next time will cost money.

For that matter, you have no real currency at the moment. Remember, currency comes in Stones, no paper money.

The CLF headquarters are located at Grid 3, in the old Fort between mountain cliffs. They control grids 1-4.

The UPA controls grids 8 and 9, headquarters at the Chemical Plant on grid 8, which they control.

There are several locals walking here and there of course, any of which can be talked to or asked. Go crazy.

[medic]

Renald took a slow step forward, taking in the smell of dirt, dirty people, half-rotten fruits and vegetables-- it was a mostly dry, somewhat damp, dark, slightly sulfurous smell that registered in the very back and the top of the nose. He remembered it from a number of conflict zones, more vividly than any sight or sound. In third world countries, buildings tended to be brightly colored, with vivid labels on them, but inside a conflict zone, things tended to operate a little differently sometimes. Sighing and shaking his head a little, Renald started walking down the street towards the Gun Dealer that was marked on his map.

Stepping up to the iron-bar grate door with a small hand-port (a sort of ironic turn on prison bars- there to keep the world out instead of lock a man in), Renald tapped his old library card on the door a few times as a knock. When someone called out to him, he said "I'm here to take what's mine," as he held the card in the port.

Go to local gun dealer
Cash in the 'library card' item

[Cerberus]

I leaned against the side of the bus, slowly taking out a small pack of cigarillos and examining the town. If it could be called a town that is. I was more interested with the other fellow, the only occupant on the bus aside from the driver.
The town was traditional Africa. Adobe buildings, dirty, everything covered in mud, dust, dirty. Posters were plastered over every other wall, most of them propaganda pieces supporting or insulting one of the two warring powers. Men walked around the streets with various weapons. Mostly G3's, some old AK's, none in shining condition. Makarov exports, and Star .45's... 1911 copies, chopped down for cheap production and quick sales. Almost every other bloke had a machete, and all were dull, chipped, rusty.
No women... Predictable.

I waited, slowly smoking the cigarillo, drawing it out as long as possible and taking a drag only when it was needed to keep it from going out. I watched other newcomer, and slowly began to follow him.
-----
Follow the other bloke (Dr. Curt, I presume,) and observe where he goes/what he does.

[E-Stalin [Orthrus]]

July 3, 7:04

The Licensed Firearms Dealer (Simply called Gun-Nuts by locals) was located in a small building made of cinderblock. The door is painted blue, and made of heavy-duty steel. Obviously this is one of the few remotely first-world quality buildings in the area.
Signs denoting its purpose were written in Lendu, and of course, English, the language of their past colonial oppressors. Naturally there were also a few pictures, considering most of the populace never considered reading to be a useful skill.

Upon entering the building, you immediately notice that it's divided into separate sections. The area you entered is a very narrow spot, almost a corridor, and on the other side if an equally small corridor with the Dealer. You're separated by a cinderblock counter and wire-mesh, probably made of higher quality steel. There is a door in the wall on his side, leading to some back room.
The Dealer is white-skinned, with dark hair, and obviously foreign. He's wearing simple attire; jeans and a sleeveless shirt, with what appears to be an armored vest over it. Like most anyone in the area, he's solidly built, and has a pistol holstered at his hip.

He accepts the card through the small, bank-teller like hole in the mesh, briefly glances at it, and tears it in half, dropping the pieces in a trash can. He walks over to the far-end of the counter, where there is a large mesh door, and unlocks it, swinging it in to his side.

"All right, come on."

The accent reveals him to be Slavic. Probably former Soviet, explaining his arms connections. He waves Renald in through the mesh and locks it behind him, before waving Renald down the corridor and into the back room.

----

The back-room appears to be nothing more than a typical gunsmither's basement, although a very neat one. One entire wall is stacked up with cardboard boxes, Zinc ammo cans, and wooden crates. Another wall has a wooden workbench set up, complete with tools for reloading ammunition, currently completely clean.
Nearby there is an electric furnace and mold for casting ammunition, also clean.
The other two walls hold several cabinets, shelves, and racks, all of which hold guns of one kind or another. There is a steel trap-door in the floor, currently held shut by a padlock.

The Dealer holds out his hand, and in a jolly fashion, "Welcome to our rather hyperactive home, I'm Joseph. You have a package waiting for you, I'll go over it with you in just a moment."

[medic]

'Our' home? Renald smiled and reached his own right hand out to meet the gun dealer's, gripped firmly, and shook. In a place like this, this guy had to have been here for a long time, and probably would remain here for even longer, meaning he had connections somewhere. Getting off on the wrong foot with Joseph would be a bad move. "Nice to meet you. I'm Renald Biggs, as I'm sure you already know. You've got an impressive stockpile here," he said, finishing up with a comment that both intended to appeal to the man's ego and allow Renald another moment or two of looking around the area without looking like he was planning anything- which he wasn't, he was merely taking notes of what he could see. "I'll have to come back here once my employers decide I need to be better equipped," Renald said, flashing a grin as he returned his gaze to Joseph.

[E-Stalin [Orthrus]]

"Undoubtedly you will, but then you'll have to pay. Whoever sent you here wasn't familiar with the economic situation, because I guarantee you'll lose this stuff within the week. They wanted me to give you, to quote, the best stuff possible. So I ripped them off. These magazines cost seventy dollars apiece, and you're going to lose them within a few days. Furthermore, I don't know how you like stuff, so you're pretty much getting the gear that I'd take. If you don't like it, that's not my problem, so don't' complain."

Joseph (He'd pronounced his name Yosef) waved Ren over to one of the tables and pulled a blanket off it, revealing the items beneath. There was a slim, Arc'teryx LEAF backpack, a rifle, handgun, and a machete, along with magazines, a belt and holster, and a vest.

"All right man, listen carefully. There is no standardization in this country. Almost everyone has a weapon of one kind or another, but they could be almost anything. I've seen people with Enfields from the first world war. There was a recent influx of Com-Bloc weaponry, pulled straight out of the Sovet Union when it collapsed, so the militias are loaded up with Makarovs, RPGs, and Dragunov sniper rifles. The AK-74s were replaced with old AKMs though. The locals prefer them anyway.

Now," he picked up the vest and handed it to Renald, it was a desert tan vest with several strips running across the front and back. There were already several pouches hooked and tightly cinched onto it.

"I'm supposed to set you up, so you just stand still and let me do this. If you don't like the loadout, switch it up the way you want it later. I only have a few minutes at a time. Put this on now, slip the strap around and hook it on. Tighten it with this strap here. This is an American MTV, set up to use the gear I'm giving you. These are your rifle mag pouches up here, the left side of your chest. Pistol mags go lower down there, just above your waist. You can carry four magazines at a time in these pouches, with a fifth one loaded. Those small loops on the right side are for grenades. They're elastic, and hooked over on a clasp, so you can fit it over just about any kind. The grenade itself hangs off this loop by it's pin. When you need 'em, unhook this strap with a thumb, grab the thing and yank it off, so you only need one hand to get at them and throw them.
This thing isn't bullet-proof, but it can take class III ceramic plates. I wasn't paid to give those to you, so at the moment it'll protect you about as much as tissue paper will."

He was moving around Renald as he talked, not bothering to take his time. He was already threading the belt through Renald's jeans and hooking the holster onto it, over Renald's right hip. Then he picked up the pistol and pulled the slide back, locking it with the slide stop.

"This is a standard model H&K USP. It's full-sized, chambered for .45 ACP, and has trigger variant 3. It's a double-action/single action with no safety. This is your decocking lever here. If you don't want this thing to go off, keep your finger off the bloody trigger. This thing can't take a suppressor, but you can add a flashlight or laser under the barrel. It's brand new, I've put about a hundred rounds through it, and cleaned and oiled it to perfection.
It takes twelve-round magazines, and you've got five of them. Those four are already in your vest, and the fifth one is loaded in here,"

He pulled back on the slide and released it, chambering a round, and dropped the magazine out into his palm,
"These things are loaded with two-thirty grain .45 Supers, full metal jacketed. They're overpressure rounds, so don't load these things into some old gun that can't take it. This round's on the house,"

He loaded another cartridge into the magazine, and slid it back into the pistol, leaving it with thirteen rounds. Then he slid it into Renald's holster and buttoned down the strap, leaving the pistol cocked. Then he turned and picked up the machete and hooked it onto and around Renald's left hip and thigh.

"This is a British issue Parang, thirty centimeters long. The curved front is hollow ground and razor-sharp, use that for cutting or slicing someone up. Your middle and back area is convex ground, use that for chopping. It's made of 440c stainless. Full-tang, rubber handle. It's molded, so don't both with a reverse grip."

He tossed Renald the backpack, and tightened down the straps for him.

"Your pack's got a small med-kit with antiseptics, gauze, bandages, and demoral tablets. There's two scalpels, curved and straight needles, and thread for stitches. I've given you two half-liter bottles of water and an eight-year old American ration, all unopened.
You've got a few spare pouches in there to hook onto your vest if you want them. There's a radio-pouch, one for water-bottles, a dump-pouch, load them on later. Hell, shift around anything you want on that vest later.
You've got two boxes of .45 Super, totaling up to a hundred rounds in the pack. Now,"

Finally, he picked up the rifle. It was made of black polymer, and had a black nylon sling. There was already a magazine loaded, which was also made of ribbed black polymer.

"This is an AK-103. It's the Russian standard AK-74M rechambered for 7.62 Soviet rounds. You want this because most everyone here uses AKMs, so you can rip off their ammo. It has an effective range of about 500 meters, with two-point-oh MOA. An old AKM can take these magazines, and this thing can take the old magazines too. I replaced the scope-mount here, so you can load on PSO scopes along with just about every Russian optic ever made, but it's designed to use Kobra reflex sights. It's clean, functional, oiled, and zeroed in to a hundred yards. The magazine is fully loaded, and topped off for thirty-one rounds. The other mags in your vest are also loaded.

This thing is loaded with M43s, pretty standard bullets. They're steel jacketed FMJ, copperwashed for feeding. They have steel cores, and these things will punch through solid cinderblock. They'll go through one side of a car and out the other. They'll punch through 5mm of armor-grade steel at about a hundred meters, but they won't go through a class III vest. If you want armor-piercing, you'll have to buy it.
You've got three boxes of ammo in your backpack, totaling up to a hundred-twenty rounds in the pack, plus a hundred-fifty on your vest and rifle.

Last thing," he handed Renald a map sealed inside a plastic cover, "Your employers didn't pay for any more than this. If you want anything else; lights, multi-tools, knives, armor, you're going to have to come back and buy it. And dont' even think about shooting me, because not only are you fucking yourself over, but nothing you'll pick up here will work until I clear it. Shoo, comrade."


------------------------
Total Weight: 12kg

[Cerberus]

I spent five minutes loitering outside, walking along the streets, memorizing the basic layout, points of interest. It was a typical small rundown town. Only one or two buildings could actually be considered modern, and nothing was in pristine condition. Small too, you could sprint straight through it in all of twenty seconds.
During the walk I kept my back straight, pace smooth and long, head robotic. Not looking for eye contact but not avoiding it either. Not walking too close to anyone, but not deliberately increasing distance either. The point was to not strut around like an arrogant peacock with its first hard on, but also to not give an atmosphere of weakness. The gait of a coiled rattlesnake. Not welcoming a fight, but definitely going to leave scars if it gets into one.

The result was simply obscurity. Blending in. People notice mannerisms, gait, how a person gesticulates and behaves. Body languages implies how likely a person is to be a danger, confidence. In this environment I blended right in. Hard, cold, indifferent. A local attitude, and of no concern to any of the wandering gun hands.

The tip of the cigarillo glowed one last time and then was crushed beneath my heel, joining the various litter in the dirt roads. Mostly cigarette butts, light trash, and on occasion some old spent brass. A good sign... And with one last glance at the town I stepped up to the heavy steel door and slipped into the gun store that my fellow Muzungu had entered, just as he was walking out.
-----

Cold, bit dark. Behind the mesh stood a man, nothing exceptional about him aside from the fact that he was white. Not common, but not rare either. All it meant was that he was more likely to have certain connections then not. I watched him through the mesh from behind the aviator sunglasses, giving a small nod of acknowledgment but no other gesture of greeting.

I spoke in a calm growl, not bothering to mask the small tinge of Slavic accent that crept into my voice. "I'd like to discuss a mutually beneficial arrangement."
-----

Enter Gunshop, initiate conversation.

[E-Stalin [Orthrus]]

Joseph shrugged, "Sure thing, you hand over the stones, I give you boomers, we're mutually boosted. What else is there to talk about?"

He pulled a cigarette out of it's carton with his teeth, but didn't light it, opting instead to chew the butt to shreds. "You're not Ukranian, are you?"

[Cerberus]

I squinted slightly. "No... I'm definitely not Ukrainian.

At any rate, as I understand it you have certain types of work available. I'm willing to offer my services, limited as they may be, in return for certain accommodations. I imagine that you already have certain people available, and that around here there are several pogues with delusions of grandeur who talk a lot but are near worthless in a foxhole.

As it is I'm willing to work, move shipments, remove competition, whatever it is you'd like. I don't expect any payment of any sort until you are confident in my capabilities. First job's a freebie you could say. If we manage to establish a working business the only payment I expect is bare necessities. Ammunition, weapons. Nothing fancy or expensive but within reason. If a particular job happens to be far more demanding I may request payment in rough stones, uncut, or a particular piece of hardware.

I perform whatever work it is you wish to offer, you provide minimum wage in brass and iron. No payment or equipment is expected for the first job. So, you hiring?"

[E-Stalin [Orthrus]]

Joseph thoughtfully scratched the stubble on his cheek as he listened, briefly tapping his fingers on the counter, and then shrugged again. He pulled a piece of paper and the broken off stub of a pencil from under the counter, ripped off a short strip, and scribbled down a short row of things. Then he slid the strip and a map of the area through the crack between mesh and counter, suddenly detached and monotonous, all business.

"Go North, to the Shwasana sector. You see this river? Follow it to this riverbank here, the South riverbank. You see this small valley here right?"
He'd circled the specific point on it.

"You have to understand that this place is anarchy. Bandits group together all the time, maybe they're family or old friends, maybe they were army buddies together, it doesn't matter. What matters is they're a problem, they rob people, rape people, kill people, and not always in that order. Usually they're a minor nuisance, nothing more than the huligani back home yes?

Now, these guys have somehow gotten their hands on quite a few arms, several crate-loads of SVDs, complete with optics and sniper-grade ammunition. It's unusually good quality, most likely ripped off an influx convoy that was brought in from whoever the militas bought it from.

Go there, kill them, and recover the weaponry. You're looking at five wooden crates of rifles and five crates of ammunition, maybe 85 kilos apiece. Load everything you can get into a boat, and float it up the river to the North-East, just off of Goka Falls. Trade it off to another man who'll be waiting for you there. He's American, white, and will identify himself to you by holding up a plastic room-card for a hotel. Than again, no one else would be there anyway, so there's no need for such trivialities.
You should expect about six people, well armed, but they don't have anything heavy. They have their own boats on the river, use them.

Now, how you do all this is your problem. I've never seen you before, and I've never heard of you before. And believe me, in this business, reputation goes a long way toward getting business. So for all I know, you're going to run off the moment you step out of here, along with anything I give you.
I'll pay you and provide you direct support on future assignments, if you can show me that you're good for it now.

[Cerberus]

I slipped the paper and map into the left inside pocket of my jacket and nodded. " 'cept the huligani back home usually aren't packing Kalishnokvs. I'll be back around the same time tomorrow morning. The shipment will arrive to your American comrade somewhere between one and five A.M tomorrow, I suggest you tell him to start nursing a few Red Bulls tonight.

Now then, I only have two questions. Do you happen to have a spare pare of binoculars and an old blade you don't need?"
---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bus was already pulling away when I caught the edge of the open door and swung inside. The vehicle was falling apart. There were no windows intact, the doors were literally torn off from the frames. The driver didn't even blink when I swung in. Nothing he hadn't seen before, and the trip was free anyway.
The local armies, rebels, PMC's and the like funded the bus systems. Simple and reliable method of troop transport, and cheap too. Minimum wage was... What? Three cents an hour?

I crouched down in the far rear corner of the bus, right over one of the wheels. Typically the shocks were non-existent and the bus jerked and hopped with every pit and rise in the road.
My small corner of the bus was beneath the window, nice and out of sight, below typical firing lines. An assault on the bus would result in rounds fired into the windows, standing height. The corner would be safest if anything happened, and also closest to the exist. Which was a curse and a blessing. Easier to get out, but I'd also be the first in sight if anyone boarded. Didn't matter really... Never hurts to be cautious, but the likelihood of the bus being nailed was slim.

The harsh rhythm of the bus helped me to drowse a bit, never settling into a deep sleep, but enough to give my brain some rest. I drifted back and forth, always being sure to check the location of the bus every few kilometers, comparing landmarks to the small spots on the map until finally the bus was slowly rumbling over a bridge, the African river swirling past the damp supports below. I hopped to my feet with a brief stretch and stepped to the doorway, lightly jumping out and stumbling with the momentum briefly. The bus had only been going ten miles an hour or so. People hopped on, hopped off. Considering the bus only had one stop every dozen miles it was the only real method of transport anyway.
-----
I slipped into the reed beneath the bank and beneath the surface of the river, slow, quiet, out of sight, and began to make my way upstream. Sticking to the Southern curve of the rock, keeping just my head above the water, in the reeds, lilies. Slow, out of sight. A small hat I'd swiped off a sleeping grandpa further decreased the ease of sight. Unless someone was actively looking for me they weren't going to see anything amongst the shade and vegetation.

Leeches, blood sucking fuckers that they were, were of little concern. I'd made sure to tuck every piece of clothing in, tie down sleeves, crunch pants in the bootleg. As it was the only exosed areas were my neck and hands above the wrists. Easy to check for parasites later. I hate parasites.
------------

Finally I arrived at my destination, a small strip of land where the rock wall gave way to mud and foilage. I slowly creeped out of water and into the mud, vanishing into the few feet of reeds, grass, and shadow. I stayed along the edge of the rock, crawling ever so slowly forward and forward. No quick sudden movements, standard stalking procedure. Moving maybe a hundred meters only every forty minutes. Time passed, the sun blocked out by the mud and grass. And finally I arrived at the Northern tip of the rock wall, roughly four hundred meters away from the Bandit camp, tucked into a small hollow in thick grass and shadow, covered in dried mud, and starting to examine and map out the layout of the camp. Putting simple name tags to faces, counting personal, routes, armament.
-----
All things discussed and explained to proctor.

[E-Stalin [Orthrus]]

Cerberus remains unnoticed and relatively unhurt, aside from a few scratches on his hands. He's rather well rested, though thirsty and virtually dying of heat. If such activity continues in such a humid and hot environment, he'll begin to suffer from heatstroke.

You have three leeches latched onto your neck, two on the back, and one just over the jugular.

The encampment consists of a single brick (Appears to be adobe) hut with a thatched roof. There is a wooden outpost enclosure holding a black, unmarked barrel of unknown substance, and several loaded magazines on a table.
You can see a total of six men, all black and armed with AKMs. They have pistols holstered on their waists, though the make is obscured by the large holster strap. Mostly they wear typical attire of jeans, T-shirt, and baseball caps or sunglasses.

There are two heavy-duty jeeps parked near the encampment, facing South. From your position you can see that they didn't leave a key in the ignition, or anywhere in plain sight. Both trucks have several large wooden crates piled up in them, stamped with Cyrillic writing: Снайперская
North of the place, just ten meters off the hut is the river. There is no dock, but there are two boats. One is a small wooden rowboat, and one is a motorboat. There is a jerry-can of in the motor-boat and a small plastic box.

The men mill about continually, some guys moving in and out of the hut, one of them sitting at the wooden outpost, drinking something.

[Cerberus]

I spent five more minutes examining the location and then slowly began to crawl back towards the river, in the same slow rhythmic movement in grass and mud. Once I was safe behind the rock wall alongside the river bank I stripped off the leather jacket and transferred everything from its pockets to my jean pockets.
One pair of old rugged binoculars.
A small and chewed up old fashioned Puuko knife. Just what I wanted.
A small scuffed tin case containing cigarillos and matches, water-tight.
And a small dark leather hip flask containing near 200 proof home stilled whiskey. Ludicrously strong shit, for emergencies of course.
And a standard typical map of the area contained in a plastic sheet.

I wrapped the jacket up in a bundle and buried it in the soft mud. I kept the binoculars tied in a string around my neck, keeping the slack very small so they didn't bounce around much. The flask and cigarillo cases went into the rear pockets where I also had some paper money in a plastic bag. Not much, and near worthless anyway.

I swam out slowly to the center of the river where the current was strong and actually flowing and the water clear near the surface. I tread water there, enjoying the cool flow, and slowly lapped up water from the surface.
Enough to satisfy the requirements of the body, not too much to risk vomiting or cramps. After I finished I swam back to the river bank and checked myself for any new leeches. And then I resumed the same slow, tedious, methodical crawl back to the previous position.

The leeches were of no concern. They'd drink their fill and drop off in roughly twenty minutes. They didn't carry disease, and then didn't drink near enough to cause any negative side effects. I could manually remove them with the edge of the Puuko, but what was the point? It'd only result in severe bleeding if it was forcibly removed. And removing it with salt or heat was also a bad idea. It caused the thing to regurgitate back into the wound, significantly increasing a chance of infection. If they had to be removed I would use the somewhat dull edge of the Puuko knife and slowly, steadily, slide it through beneath the jaws until it was fully removed. And then use a small scrap of cleaned metal (all over the place along side the river bank) to cauterize the wound after the removal, and down the entire lot of the whiskey as a general anesthetic and antiseptic.

... Yeah, too much hassle for my taste. They'd fall off long before I finished my make shift stake out.
----------------

Return to the same vantage point as previously described, hidden in mud, shadow, grass, etc, and continue to observe all the individuals. Tag them with a number to a face, memorize exactly how they behave, how they move, where they go. Watch for anything unusual, etc.

If thirst becomes too severe return to the river for a drink in the same manner described above.

Wait until 1:30 A.M in the morning. Sleeping is of no issue, as Orth is well aware he'll feel tired later in the day, not at night when he has business to take care of.

[medic]

Renald looked over this drug's fact-sheet while he waited for the bus. Quickly glancing up to take a look around- spurred by the sudden, excited clucking of a chicken across the street- Renald watched the bustle of the town, which seemed to retain an undertone of general anxiety despite the 'ceasefire'. Pulling his tan cap down a little, Renald settled back against his place on the stucco wall in the shade behind the bus stop.

Red-White hadn't really given him any specific plan of action other than to obtain a baseline combat skill in a group, distribute the drug, and observe, document, and report the effects and battle results. Renald had already decided on distributing the drug to the Hema, since he already had a baseline, given that the Hema were getting destroyed. This drug, Cansolyse, had the intended effect of slowing the onset and decreasing the severity of battle fatigue, as well as slowing the onset biological timer for the sleep cycle by an estimated 6 to 12 hours. The suggested dosage was a single 10 mg pill per day, though there were also test requests for a 20 mg dose per day, a 10 mg dose every two days, and a 100 mg dose in a single day. There was also a small request for a basic dose to child soldiers as well. Renald's face twitched just slightly at the sight of that. No wonder they sent me to Africa. If the FDA ever heard about this, they'd eat Red-White alive. Ah, hell. They don't pay me to be ethical anyway.

Some of the expected (and thus, to be studied) contraindications were the use of amphetamines, cocaine, and excessive amounts of methylxanthines like caffeine. Also on the list were heart conditions, lung problems, high blood pressure, mental disease, blah, blah, blah, more blah, and... Malaria?! Renald recoiled a bit, not quite expecting to see that on the contraindicated list. That was going to be a lot harder to objectively check for than the others, but he was intrigued to find out why they had contraindicated it.

Some of the possible (which doesn't at all mean probable) expected side-effects were allergy, sympathetic nervous system (SNS) over-response, SNS 'lock-down' (what he assumed to be the SNS stuck in the 'on' position, which should present similarly to parasympatholytic poisoning), panic attacks, insomnia (to which Renald sarcastically rolled his eyes), confusion, agitation, increased aggressiveness, delirium, hallucinations, paranoia, heart arrythmias, increased speed and strength (if under fight-or-flight conditions), increased visual acuity at night (if under fight-or-flight conditions), and while there was no expected crash, it did state that the sleep following the drug's wearing off would probably be particularly deep. The sheet also stated that the probability of the psychotic effects were fairly low if the individual was stable and the recommended dose was used. It did recognize a mild possibility of dependency on the drug, but suggested that it should take a month of regular doses before an addiction of any sort could form. The 100 mg dose was intended to exacerbate any side-effects and confirm an estimated lethal dose.

Renald didn't have all the clinical equipment he suspected he'd need, but Red-White apparently felt that simple observation and detective work would be sufficient for these initial field trials. Folding the sheet up and placing it in his pocket, Renald lightly shook one of the small pill bottles in his hand, thinking about the small, glossy, blood-red pill inside. If it worked without too many negative side-effects, it could well destabilize the current situation and make the war between the Hema and the CLF anyone's game. Then again, a lot of it still fell on the skill of the soldiers to utilize any gifts the drug gave them. As the bus to grid 8 pulled up, Renald quickly packed away his things and stepped forward just a step from the wall, hanging back to watch who got on or off the bus and if there was anything particularly suspicious going on. Then, he moved up past the stop and boarded the bus.

Check drug instructions for new trial drug: Cansolyse
Board bus to grid 8

[E-Stalin [Orthrus]]

The bus is a free system, and generally safe. There is no armed guard however, and the only useful gear the drivers have are good quality gloves. In general, no one attacks the buses, but hey, you never know. No incident happens for either Renald or Bo...Cerberus however.

Renald arrives at his destination in forty-five minutes. Unfortunately, there is no bus-station in Grid 8, and so the Bus circles through it. It shall be assumed that you got off at the Grid-9 Station. Examine your map for details of location, and note the guard outposts North, South, and East of the position.
The area is mostly dry desert, interspaced by rocky cliffs with the roads spacing in between. There are several small abandoned shacks here and there, and a desert oasis in the South-east. If you decide to stay on the bus and cycle back over to Pala, say so.


----
Cer's position remains unnoticed, and as far as he is concerned, he may fast-forward to 1:30 AM. Four of the men have retired into the hut, though whether they're asleep or not is unkown. The remaining two have lit a small camp-fire by the wooden-outpost, and are keeping eachother company over a bottle of spirit. Their seating positions mean that they are directly facing east and west, though they keep a general eye on the area to the south.
The jeeps are ten meters further south than they are, and the boats are...well, the boats are the boats.

[Cerberus]

Mega slow crawl to the back wall of the hut. Lie by the corner at the Eastern wall. Wait an hour maximum for something to happen. Someone to exit, shift change, the two lads to get up and move, etc.