The People's Republic of Adanac (A role playing game)

[Schme]

I deleted this post by accident. The machine that the orginal thing was on crashed. I don't remember it word for word, but it had to do with setting out the game.

[InsaneIrony]

Turi Gunselio is 18 years old, about to graduate highschool. Having turned 18 just three days before, she'd been given a new car, a black Toyota Matrix, by her architect father and accountant mother. Her black hair had been recently cut, and curled in simply at chin length. Her brown eyes were made grey by colored contact lenses, and she wore a bright red sleeveless shirt, blue jeans, and white socks, seated on the couch, watching tv as she had been since she woke up. A half eaten bowl of rice, beansprouts, and beef that was drenched in soysauce sat on the kitchen counter, her breakfast. She'd been accepted for a nearby college, and was rather proud of her grades when her cellphone rang. "What is it?" Her younger brother was on the other end. She'd been feeling generous since he'd gotten her a nifty little red swiss army knife that had her name engraved on it, a couple keychains of her favorite cartoon characters, and a large box of hersheys. The keychains and nifty knife hung from a belt loop of her jeans, and she had a candy in one hand, her cellphone was in the other. Her brother had asked to borrow her car, and she'd let him. "You did WHAT to my car?!" She now regretted her kindness. Her sixteen year old brother, Sam, had gotten his drivers license two months before. And now he'd just put more dents into her new car than he had hairs on his head. After a bit more yelling, she hung up and threw her phone at the wall above the tv. It left a mark on the wall and probably was broken before it hit the carpet. She stared at the chocolate in her hand as an emergency broadcast started.
Next thing she knew, she was in the alley. The chocolate was smushed in her hand because she'd been so surprised and frightened when the earthquake had started. She dropped what was left of it as she sat up, and wiped her hand on her jeans. "Where the hell am I?" She growls aloud, pushing herself out of the pile of black plastic bags. She dusts herself off and is glad to notice her keychains are still there. She turns around, looking around, wondering how she got here. Shaking her head, she blinks, and after a few minutes finally starts to walk towards the street, to try and grab someone's attention. She glances around, hoping she'd know where she was. 'How the hell... What was that? I couldn't have been kidnapped... Why would I be dumped in a pile of trash... I... Damn. Maybe its a prank and they used sleeping gas or something. But hell, thats bad timing. I'm gonna kill Sam when I find him...' she thinks to herself.

[Schme]

It was early morning, and the sun was high in the sky. In the street, there were few people. Some were walking quickly, as though ancious to get somewhere. Some shuffled along slowly.

There were no cars.

Up against the wall of a small tenemant, a short, thin man was sitting up against the wall, wearing a baseball cap, with a blanket over his knees,smoking from what looked like a crack pipe.

A young, black haired white man stopped and turned to face her as the others passed.He could not have been much older than his early twenties. His hair was about shoulder length, and looked rather greasy. He wore a black long sleeved shirt, and faded blue jeans. His closed were covered in a fine black dust.

He wore a tired and uncaring exepresion on his face.

He glanced down at here knife before looking up and asking grufly "What's wrong? What do you want?" He hesitated before adding "You need any help or something?"

Behind them, people continued walking and shuffling along.

A group of youths, wearing bright yellow bandanas and sporting various weapons, baseball and cricket bats, pieces of pipe, knives, moved along in a loose group, chatting animatedly before passing a corner.

[InsaneIrony]

Turi looked around, and then at the strange man. She bit her lip as he looked at the swiss army knife that hung from a belt loop. As the armed youths passed by, her priorities changed, and she grew concerned.
"Um... Where am I? I don't know how I got here... I don't see how an earthquake could have tossed me out of my house and across town... Or across state... Or wherever I am..." She looked up to him, her socks feeling strange against the pavement.

[Schme]

The man looked at her with an exepresion of half surprise and half disgust. He mumbled something under his breath.

"Earthquake? Your high. Your high. Did your pimp do this to you? He make you take the stuff?" he made gestured as though inecting a needle into his arm, to emphasieze what he said."Your on Tuft street." He then mumbled to himself again, and shook his head. He looked as though he was thinking hard. Pulling two crumpled ciggarettes from his pocket, he lit one with a paper match, and then offered one too Turi.

After a moment of hard thought, he cursed and let out a long sigh.

"Here, here." he said, putting his hands on her shoulder, and trying to speaking very slowly as though talking to a fool. " I must go work. You come with me to the factory, you can stay out of the way there until the drugs where off, k? Sounds good? I can take you to the police station then, and they may be able to help you out, but I cannot be late for work. Here, come, come, let's go."

Looking down and noticing she had but socks, he sighed again, and said "They stole your shoes, eh? Shit. Well, watch out for the glass. Come on. I can't be late."

And with that, he turned to leave.

"Come on." he said over his should. "Take it or leave it. I can't be late." And then began walking quickly down the street.

[InsaneIrony]

Turi blinked. "Uh... thanks..." She ran to follow him, making sure not to step on anything sharp. "What city is this? And I don't do drugs... By the way, my name is Turi. Thanks for helping me." She looked around, still confused. But she'd rather follow the only guy who'd even offered to help her instead of wandering around completely lost in a strange place. 'Tuft street... I'm definitely not home in Middletown,' she thought.

[wichita]

Mark's day was the same droll routine as every other day of his life since he had started working at the research institute five years ago. He had been so excited then, looking forward to his future as a scientist. He wanted to help people - save lives, cure cancer, save the world, that old cliche. Five years of sitting in a cubicle hour after hour, day after day, unadventerously running simulations and staring at spreadsheets had since beaten that will out of him.

On the way home from work, he got caught in a traffic jam. Some spoiled rich kid in a black Corvette cut him off, causing him to swerve and take out a street sign with his 1978 Gremlin. He had had this car since he was 16 in high school. It didn't run right then, it ran worse now.

A stop at the grocery store for a steak, a baking potato, can of tuna, and a six pack of Coors Lite - his evening routine purchase and the only bright side to his day. Returning home to find an overdue notice from the electric company in his mailbox, and no electricity in his one room efficiency, he tosses the steak in the trash, and the potato on the counter. "At least I'm too poor to afford an electric can opener," he mumbles as he fishes out the old rusty manual one in the dark from a drawer and begins to crank on the tuna can. With a loud meow, his cat answers the call of the can opener and emerges from under his futon. He cracks open a beer and collapses on the futon and shares the can of tuna fish with his pet.

"Ain't this the life," he mutters again.

**************

He is cold, wet, and his face is lying in a bannana peel. "What the -", he pushes himself up from the ground and looks about the alley. He feels something dangling from the top of his head, tickling his ear. He reaches jup and removes a used condom. "Good God!" he screams, leping up in disgust and stumbling backwards into a dumpster. "What is going on here?"

[west]

In an alley a few blocks away, Johnny Freeman wakes up rubbing his eyes.

He's tall, well over six feet, and slender if not exactly thin. His build is that of a high-school athlete (a swimmer, maybe, or a runner) turned less-active college student, and his brown hair is a tad on the shaggy side.

He sits up slowly, brushes a bit of Twinkie from his shoulder, takes stock of his surroundings, and notices without much apparent surprise that he's still wearing the same crimson zip-up hooded sweatshirt, grey t-shirt, boot-cut jeans, and Doc Marten work shoes (steel-toed) that he wore the ni...no, that's not right. He checks the front of his hoodie for vomit or alcohol stains. Finding none, he rises slowly to his feet, brushing trash from his legs. Hm. His head hurts a bit, and his mouth is a bit dry. He has to pee.

Maybe he was mugged? He pats his jeans pockets. Cell phone, wallet, lanyard with keys, everything's there. His heavy ring (a sterling silver replica of a French crusader's ring) was still on the first finger of his right hand, and his silver Celtic Cross necklace (a gift from his great-aunt) was still around his neck. Not mugged, then.

He glances around, squinting at the sunshine, trying to remember what he'd done the night before. Let's see...

Party at Leo's, yes. Celebrating his last midterm. He frowns, his forehead crinkling, trying to concentrate. Beer. There was beer.

Coulda sworn I walked home last night. Kinda blurry, but...

Oh yeah, I remember. Collapsed on the couch.

Didn't even have that much to drink. Just tired. What was that...three a.m?

He squints at the sky, trying to figure out what time it is, but the alley walls are too high and he can't see the sun. (He's still a bit disoriented, and forgets to check either his cell phone or his watch, which is stainless-steel with a black face and black leather band).

How the hell did I get here, then? This doesn't even look like downtown.

Ah well. He'll figure it out.

First things first, though. He unbuckles his tooled-leather belt (eagles worked into the sides), slides it through the heavy Civil-War style "US" buckle, unzips his jeans, puts one hand against a dumpster for support, and relieves himself.

Code: Select all

OOC:  He obviously was still passed out on the couch from the night before at noon when the trouble started. 

[Schme]

The man kept walking a fast pace. He glanced with a quizical look at her when she asked what city she was in. "Alex City." he said, with rather confused aire. "For east outskirts. You should really these things." He then again looked straight ahead.

"Don't do drugs.....Whatever you say." he said, doubtingly.

"Is nice to meet you, Turi." he said, trying to sound sincere. "It's no problem at all. Just keep up. I can't be late. I'm Roger."



The long street was filled with small, three story concrete tenmants. In alleys, homeless men sat miserably among piles of old trash.

There were people scattered along the street, either walking or talking in groups, most of them men.

Near what looked like it used to be a small shop, a group of young men and women had congragated, and were listening intently to a man in what appeared to be either a military or police uniform.

The long street stopped abruntly, giving away to a field. It was apparently the end of the city. There was only piles of trash and a scattering of small shacks in the field, and other than that, it lay empty, save a small dirt path leading to a low hill, on which was a large, sprawling factory complex, with concrete warehouses, and a massive central building, with smokestacks pouring out thick black smoke.

Roger walked down the path, and up the hill to the large metal doors of the building. Pushing them open, it revealed a hallway with an empty security desk.

In front of this desk, a number of uniformed security guards, armed with metal trecheons, sat on flimsy plastic chairs,some reading, listening to a small radio.

"Your late, idiot." said one, looking up from a newspaper, on which the headline read "Victory in the West". The papers name was "The Dominion Voice"

"Shut up." said Roger, as he walked past them to the security desk, where he reached over to punch in his card, before continuing down the hall through another set of doors.

The next room was a massive assembly floor. Hundreds of men were hunched over conveyor belts, vats and machines, while other ran around carrying buckets of chemicals or with armfulls of tools.

Near the opposite wall, obscured by the sea of people, a man burst into flames and began to scream. Another man, as though doing something he had done before, grabbed a fire extinguisher and covered the man in a cloud of foam. This incident did not seem to draw much attention from the other workers.

Roger walked to a small storage room, wherein were many tools and buckets, aswell as several fire blankets and fire extinguishers.

"You can stay in here. I'd stay away from those guys, espicially near the break. There crazy. I'll get you some food at the break, and then I take you to the station, and they might be able to help you out." and with that, he left, shutting the door softly.

"What is going on here?"

Music could be heard in the distance. Someone was playing something loudly.

In the middle of the road, people walked or talked. The people parted as a truck rattled by,unpainted and rusting, it's muffler obviously long gone.

The street, although full of potholes, had been paved, although how long ago one could only guess.

On either side of the streets, large apartement buildings loomed, casting dark shadow over the street in it's entirety.

The cold body of a man lay at the edge of the alley, cluthching a syringe.


Loud cursing could be heard as a man rounded the corner into the alley. He had black skin, about six feet tall, with short curly black hair, and around his neck was a piece of steel industrial chain that appeared to be acting as a necklace. He wore pants shorts that went only slightly past his knees, held up by a cheap false leather belt, from which a steel tire iron hung, and wore a basketball jersey that said “AC True SouthSiders”.

He was looking down at the body of the man, seeming rather upset. Glancing up at Mark, he said “Hey, how you doing, buddy?” and then called to someone to come over, before crouching over the body and examining it.

“You shooting up with this guy?” he asked Mark.

Ah well. He'll figure it out.

People were gathered in the dark street outside the alley, in front of a small shop that looked a lot like a seven eleven, except that it had two a story above it, and was flanked on either side by two large six story apartement buildings.

Music pounded from a speaker system in the crowd, and a few peoples voices could be heard above all the others. Someone was giving a performance in the street. The vocalists voice was unclear, muffled by the people around him, but it could be made out.

“……..Tout it,
But without it,
Y’ain’t nothin’, are yah kid?”

Most of the people outside were men. The street was near empty, with the exeception of the crowd. Only a few people walked along, most seemingly going home or to work. At the left end of the short street, there was a much larger street, wherein a crush of people, on foot, on bicycles, in cars, fought threw the traffic, trying to get to wherever they were going.

Many people in the small crowd were sporting sky blue bandanas on their heads or in there back pockets.

A man appeared in the alleyway. He was white, had short blond hair, wore a large brown leather trench coat. He glanced passively at John, said “Hey man. Don’t mind me.” He then pulled out a long kitchen knife and began slicing over bags of trash, sifting through them and taking whatever it he thought might fetch a few cents. He seemed rather intent on his task, and paid no attention to Johnny.

The music muffled music stopped, to the disdain of the small crowd, who then spread out into small groups along the street, and began talking amongst themselves, or going out onto the larger street, looking for something to do.

Several men, who were at where the center of the crowd had been, also sporting light blue bandanas, and who wore overly loose clothing, could be seen pack up three speakers, a tape player and a microphone into two kit bags, winding wire, while one of them did nothing, looking, looking around, as though making sure nobody tried to make a running grap at one of what appeared to be regarded as highly precious by the small group (that being the speakers.)




Sorry this took so long. I’ve been rather sick today.

[wichita]

He blinks for a second, still disoriented and feeling even more so by the sight of the body and of the new visitor to the alley. "Uh...no. Hell no! I don't do that." He eyes the chain and the tire iron nervously, trying not to let the man realize that he is staring. "Where am I, though. I have no idea how I got here. My name is Mark...I am a scientist at Pharmacorp. The last thing I remember, I was in my apartment, and now I wake up here. I -" he stops talking, realizing that he is giving away his life story to a potential mugger. He shys closer to the wall and works his way slowly to the front of the alley, trying hard not to look frightened or suspicious.

"What's your name? Do you live around here? You look like you recognize that man."

[Schme]

He blinks for a second, still disoriented and feeling even more so by the sight of the body and of the new visitor to the alley. "Uh...no. Hell no! I don't do that." He eyes the chain and the tire iron nervously, trying not to let the man realize that he is staring. "Where am I, though. I have no idea how I got here. My name is Mark...I am a scientist at Pharmacorp. The last thing I remember, I was in my apartment, and now I wake up here. I -" he stops talking, realizing that he is giving away his life story to a potential mugger. He shys closer to the wall and works his way slowly to the front of the alley, trying hard not to look frightened or suspicious.

"What's your name? Do you live around here? You look like you recognize that man."

The man looked disbelievingly.

"Been dipping into the perscription drugs, have yah, my man?"
He had an odd accent, that sounded distincly unamerican.
He shook his head. "Really, man. If you have as good a job as a science man, you shouldn't waste your life looking for cheap chemical bliss. You probably got more than anyone around here, guy. I know it seem odd get advice from strangers, but really man, that just idiocy."

"So, you tripping in your apartement and you wake up here? You with anyone when you passed out? Might have been them. Probably cleaned out your apartement, man. I'd go to the police." He paused for a moment, and added "Not these police. You go to the ones near your home. You live near the center, I right, scienceman? Or no?"

"I'm Numair, is nice meet to you, Mark. Yah, I see this guy around, shooting up sometimes. Don't really know him. I am a contractor for the city. I give tips to the police, preserve crime scenes, and such. You wouldn't happen to have a cellular telephone, would yo? Oh, I believe you not hurt this guy. You should leave before police come. Should go home, to other police. You on Forest street. Need bus fare, man?"

He began sifting through the pockets of the man, and carefully, and pulled out several strange coins, and pocketed them.

He then looked up at mark and smiled. "This guy no one important. Money not involved here. No harm done. Gotta be carefull though. Guy's like this, they got needels in there pockets, stab yourself" he gestrued with his hand as though poking himself with a needle "and you get some junkie disease, eh? Hahaha!"

[west]

John watches the shorter blonde man sift through the trash, glancing a bit uneasily at the long knife. Now that he looks closer, most of the people out on the street, especially those with bandanas, seem to be carrying some sort of improvised weapon, from tire irons to chains to golf clubs.

John went to school in a suburb north of Chicago, and knew gang signs when he saw them, although the color was unfamiliar. Careful, now, lad.

He leans against one wall of the alley, watching the man with the trench coat out of the corner of one eye and scanning the crowd. He wasn't much of a fighter, but he was pretty strong and he was willing to wager he could outrun anyone in the crowd, even in his heavy-soled work shoes.

He mentally took inventory of anything on his body that could be used as a weapon.

Ring, yes. Heavy enough to punch with, although it'll bend and trap my finger if I punch too hard. Keys, good. Swing them from the lanyard, get someone in the face. Unconsciously his left hand drifts to his pocket. Hooded jacket, all right, wrap it around your forearms, deflect knife attacks. Belt buckle's pretty heavy, we can work with that. Steel toes, great. Kick someone's leg hard enough, break their shin.

Despite his mental bravado, John is more than a little nervous. His size had kept most people from messing with him up till now, but the people in the crowd look tough and wiry, like they've had to fight to survive.

His head's feeling a little bit better now, enough to remember something important. Making sure the blonde man isn't watching him, he takes his wallet out of his back pocket and puts it in his front pocket. Harder to steal, that way.

Thus reassured, he steps out of the alley and walks towards the crowd.

No point talking to a knife-wielding dumpster-diver until absolutely necessary.

[Schme]

The people talking in the street did not seem to pay much attention to Johnny.

Upon leaving the alley, one could see that most of the people were black, desi and arab. Most of them did indeed have a weapon of some kind, and those who didn't quite obviously had something in there waistbands.

Some people looked passivly at him, before returning to there conversation, but most did not even spare the time.

About half of the people were speaking english, but many were speaking french, arabic and urdu.

The man who was watching the street for the music group looked closely at John, and then, tapping one man on the shoulder, and pointed him out to him.

The other man, who had been crouched on the ground trying to fit a speaker into the overstuffed kitbag, looked up and John, and then said something to the rest of his group, which consisted of three other people. All of them looked up, and they stood.

"Hey, what you doing, guy? Who are you?" said the lookout man.

This drew the attention of the rest of the small street, who stopped there conversations and turned to watch to ensuing scene. It did appear that the musical group was rather popular among these people, and they were indeed quite interested in what was going on.

"I bet his part of the devision." said one man to his friend.

"Would surprise me at all. Undercover devision." replied his friend. "----ing devision." he said, and then spat.

In a rather odd and unsual occurence, all eyes were on John.

[west]

John raises his hands out in front of him in what he hopes is a disarming gesture.

While his inner monologue damns him for an idiot, his mouth manages to say,

Nah, mate, no division. I don't even know where I am. I just woke up here.

He scrubs his hand through his hair and looks at the crowd warily.

He mutters to himself,

I need a drink.

[Schme]

The crowd seems rather bored, as it seems they think they are just looking at a drunk.

However, one man from the band, clad in the usual overly loose clothing, a baseball cap facing the wrong way, and wearing numerous pieces of silver jewelry, steps forward and regains the crowds interest.

"Like hell, guy!" he says, giving himself away as the groups main vocalist, who had been singing earlier."What the hell you doing here, then? I have a feeling you not just come here for kicks."

A murmur of agreement went through the crowd. One boy, in his early teens, stepped forward and cried something in arabic, which seemed to upset the crowd even more.

"Criste, il a raison!" said one man, who looked just about ready to plow into John.