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

[wichita]

He stands looking at the coins in his hand with confusion. "Uh....uh...Thanks, Numair....Thanks for your help." He turns and exits the alley, heading in the direction Numair pointed him towards the train. As he walks along the street, he looks around, trying to get a grip of his new surroundings.

[west]

John shoves his hands into his pockets, keeping a close grip on his keyring. He shivers slightly, partly from the wind and partly because he has no idea what "AC" means, or where he could possibly be.

He mentally runs through every American city he could think of, but none fit the bill except Atlantic City. He's heard it could be pretty rough there, but somehow he doubts it's this rough. Plus, he can't smell the ocean.

Everyone seems to be in a hurry, and many grim-faced people bump into or brush past John. Nobody looks particularly happy.

He zips his hoodie up all the way, for comfort as much as warmth, and puts his hands in its pockets. In the left pocket he finds a handful of Starlight Mints from the bowl in the dining hall. He unwraps one and puts it thoughtfully into his mouth. Hopefully it'll cover the bad taste this place is giving him. He starts to throw the wrapper onto the ground, but something stops him and he puts it back in his pocket, instead.

He shivers again, and stares at the storefronts wondering where he can get some food.

[Antichrist_Online]

Ricks mind wandered to the gun he'd taken from what he now knew to be Adam's body. "Too noisy" he thought "and I'll only get one shot off, before they close in". Instead Rick flicked his knife into the reverse gaurd posistion, those ju-jitsu classes would prove their worth here. Turning sideways to reduce his body profile, he bent back onto his rear leg, bringing his front leg up.
(edited to keep with the fight rule)

[Schme]

I have to ask that everyone playing this game read the OCC made by west (or east? I don't even know anymore.)


I'm going to get down to writting the next bit now. Just bear with me please.

Ah! I must edit something on the first page. Damn you, Latine America, it's all your fault, you and your goings on!

[Schme]

(Don't hesistate to answer to things that happened in the past. And please correct me if something would have gone differently.)

Roger took the unsmoken ciggarette and pocketed it. He listened intently, but looked as though he was rather confused.

"Middletown? Tennesee? You mean, Tennesee in the United States? I'm afrad yah got me a bit confused, there." he said, taking another puff of his ciggarette. "And you 'ad a car? Going to college? Your father 'er mother's a doctor or burocrat or something, then, eh?" he took one last drag of his ciggarette before putting it out, stuffing the remains in the plastic from the bread. "Alright, so let me get this here straight. Your family own some sorta plantation, and now yer comin' out here to the double C to go to the university? Then yah got drunk and got yourself down here somehow, I right? Don't worry about it. The police will be able to get you home, 'spicially a rich girl like yourself."

He looked at the unfinished green mush and laughed. "Not much for the cabbage, eh? Haha! Me neither, actually. I've never been one to eat to much ah that stuff." He picked up the plastic bowl and took a small pocket knife from his pants, unfolding a small fork from it, and began eating."

"What sorta factory? Oh, it's a gun powder factory. Yah, that happens alot, but don't worry about him. He'll be fine. I've seen much worse. That's why I gotta be carefull not ta let'em see me smoking. Could lose my job. But no harm if your carefull, eh?" he laughed again, his odd, with his thick odd accent.

He set down the empty plastic bowl, and stood up.

"I gotta get back to work." he said. "Break'll be over soon. But don' worry, I'll get yah to the station. See you in a bit. Oh, and if any ah those guys bother you, just shout out, and I'll be right over. See you later." and he then turned and left, closing the door behind him.

Several hours later, the door opened once again, and Roger appeared in the doorway. He was putting several bills and a bunch of coins into his pocket as he entered, and walked over to Turi.

"I'll get yah to the station now. They'll be able to help you out."

It was dark as they went onto the street. Shady characters crowded the field, loitering around the shacks. There seemed to be even more garbage the before.

There were many more people in the street now. Off in the distance, music could be heard pumping, and a crowd could be seen in the light of the dim streetlights.

As they rounded a corner, a masked man ran past them, covered with blood and with a knife in his hand. Roger looked at him passivly, but did not stop walking, and did not show any surprise.

From an apartement window, crashes and screams could be heard.










As Mark continued in the direction of the train station, the streets became increasingly crowded. The streets were chocked with a slow moving wall of people, most of them black, arab and desi, however there was a noticeable number of white men in the crush also. That was another thing. Almost everyone seen was men. Very few women were outside, trying to get to the train, and fewer still were there alone, as many were accompanied by men, or were in small groups of women.

A short, skinny man ran up frantically to Mark, smiling widely and holding a brown cloth bag. “Hold this for me, my man.” He said, as he thrust the bag into Mark’s hands, and ran off quickly. Inside the bag was a VCR machine. (If the next happening would be different depending on Mark’s reaction, please do not hesitate to inform me.)

The man soon returned to retrieve it, and with a smile and a nod, ran off again into the crowd.

The end of the street thinned out into a large square, which was even more crowded. Against the walls of the many apartements, vendors had set up stalls, where they were pedling all sorts of wares. Vegetables, watches, screwdrivers, toilet paper, music casets, and an large number of other such things.

About forty feet away, even more chocked with people, was a tall concrete platform, on which were train tracks. As if on cue, a red and white electrical train pulled in, and almost as soon as the doors opened, people began flooding into it. The train, completely, packed, soon left, leaving hundreds of people behind in the small market. Many went back to there conversations, and some rushed to look through the stalls. Oddly enough, what was left of the would be passengers was mostly still crowded around the platform, engaged in idle chatting with the people beside them.

The square, although still very crowded, seemed emptier now.





A desi man in what appeared to be a clerks uniform rushed towards John at breackneck pace.

“Hey, hey, white guy!” he said, as he stopped abruntly beside him, skidding and sending tiny pieces of decayed concrete flying in all directions. “Here, here, come, come, I see your cousin, come!” he said, pointing towards one of the smaller first floor apartement shops on the other side of the street. “Come, come, god man, don’ jussa stand dare! Come, fool!” and that having been said, he ran into the shop, and then came out again, holding open the door and shouting to John. “Idiot, come, your friend here, come, fool!” he shook his head, mumbling something to himself, and when back inside.

The sign above the shop was dark blue, and had several languages on it, aswell as English in the middle. It read “Government General Store”.






(I’m afraid we shall have to change the fight. Sorry I confused you.)

Hesitating for a moment, as though exepecting Rick to say or do something, the man with the brass knuckles ran towards him, making a wide right hook with his right hand, the one with the brass knuckles, leaving his ribs unprotected. As he neared Rick, his arms flew in another direction, his right hand coming up to protect his ribs and face and his left hand going forward in a cross punch, which he stepped into hard, putting all his weight into.

The man with the machete was close behind, with large blade held in front of him with both hands, swaying violently as he began to run around on the left side of his friend so as to attack Rick.

(Oh, a note. Fights conducted in this game should be conducted in such a manner as to leave the other the decision and whatnot.

For example, say I have a guy, and I say “Bob throws a punch a Bill”. See, I wouldn’t say, “Bob hit’s Bill in the face with a strong jab”. I leave weather the punch hits or not up to whomever is playing bill.

It just makes it easier to play out fights that way, and makes them much more interesting aswell.

Anyhow.)

[west]

Cousin, eh. This is new.

Course, it could be a trick, but maybe he means 'cousin' as in 'fellow cracker'. John shrugs. If someone's in trouble he should at least try to help. He jogs over to the door of the Government General Store and knocks twice.

[wichita]

About forty feet away, even more chocked with people, was a tall concrete platform, on which were train tracks. As if on cue, a red and white electrical train pulled in, and almost as soon as the doors opened, people began flooding into it. The train, completely, packed, soon left, leaving hundreds of people behind in the small market. Many went back to there conversations, and some rushed to look through the stalls. Oddly enough, what was left of the would be passengers was mostly still crowded around the platform, engaged in idle chatting with the people beside them.

The square, although still very crowded, seemed emptier now.

Standing on the crowded platform, looking around for some sort of posted schedule, Mark suddenly realizes just how lost he really is. He hadn't gotten out and explored Chicago much before he started working at Pharmacorp, but this looks unlike any part of the city he has ever seen or heard of before. Where did he wake up? Forest street, Numair said? <i>Where am I now?</i> he thinks to himself. He simply wants to get back to his apartment and take a long hot shower....the electricity was off. <i>Crap! How is this day possibly going to get worse?</i>

Tapping the nearest person lightly on the shoulder, he asks politely, "Excuse me sir. Could you tell me what platform this is and what train I should take to get to Clarke street?"

[Schme]

The man returned and opened the door, shaking his head. "Stupid why' guy...." he mumbled, and held the door open so that John could get in.

He then closed and locked the door behind him.

The store looked much like a seven eleven, with an open counter, which had bars over it that could be taken down or pushed into the roof.

There were a number of metal shelves going about twenty feet back, and at the back of the room there were a number of refrigerators built into the wall.

Security mirrors were in each corners, and a security camera overlooked the counter, behind which were many ciggarretes, lighters, and other such things. In a space above the ciggarrete shelf, there was a poster of a man standing in front of an apocoliptic backround, his eyes looking skyward in a hazy trance, and his fist raised firmly in the air as though shaking it as som hated entity. Underneath the picture, in large white letters, it read "REMEMBER".

Bright overhead lights lit up the store, one flickering occasionaly.

On a rather odd touch, the store carried things like bags of sugar, flour, bread, meat, tea, and a number of other things that most people would otherwise get at a supermarket. It did indeed live up to the name of general store.

Apart from that, it was essentially a normal convinence store.

"Here, here, yo' cousin'!" said the desi man, pointing at the clerk behind the counter, who was wearing the same red uniform as he partner.

The clerk looked up, and turned his head to look at John and the desi man. He was white and skinny, and had short blond hair, quite a bit like the man slicing open garbage bags in the alley.

"Is not my cousin, Rasha. I never seen him before." said the white clerk. "Oh, hello." he added, addresing John.

"Is no your cousin?!" said Rasha in surprise. "Is you even say have hair laike dais'!" he said, pointing at John's brown hair. "He does hai've is hair!"

"My cousin does have brown hair, Rasha. That's just not him." said the white clerk.

"Well then who is he?!!!" said Rasha, with ever mounting frusteration. "Aaagghh!" he said, throwing his hands and in the air and shaking his head, walking towards a shelf.

"Rasha, it's not as though it's his fault. I mean, just because he said he had a cousin who died his hair brown doesn't mean that everyone with brown hair's his cousin." said a voice from the side of the shop.

This drew attention to another odd thing about the shop. Beside one of the shelves sat, in a cheap folding chair, sat a man in a pitch black soldier's uniform, with a black berret, and with a fully automatic machinegun resting across his lap. This man also looked rather light looking, but he had a distinct bronze tinge to his skin.

"Sam." said the soldier, addressing John.

"Well, now just is have me confused." said Rasha, shaking his head yet again.

"Sorry to have you dragged in here. Our friend just mistook you for someone." said the white clerk. "Well, now you here, can we help you at all? I'm Bert, by the way."













Them man turned around. He was a very tall man, with black hair and neatly trimmed black mustache. He had a beard, but it was unkept, as though it was the result of not shaving for a few days rather than trying to grow one.He wore a light brown, tight fitting turban, and a long brown leather jacket, which reached down to his ankles. Under the jacket, he wore a dark green sweater, and loose cargo pants with a good number of pockets. His runners were tattered and falling to pieces, and he badly needed to new lases. Around his waist was strapped an ornate kirpan in an ivory hilt, and in his waistband was a sharp hunting knife in a felt case.

"Sorry man, what's that?" The man put his pinkie finger in his ear and cleaned it out. "I'm deaf in my left ear."

"Clarke street?" he asked "Can't say I know for sure. But I'm guessing you live near the center of town, right? Or is Clarke on the eastside? Wait a minute." The man studied the map behind a glass case on a large board as the rest of the people bustled around behind. After about two minutes, he turned around. "Well, I don't know where Clarke street is, but I can get you to the center part of the city, and from there you should be able to catch a bus home or something. Anyhow, you should be able to find your way home from there. Alright, just take this train to Faster station, and then transfer to two train thirty one, which should take about a half hour to get there. Then get off at Bronze and transfer to number eight. You probably don't want to stick around Bronze, by the way. Then ride the eight all the way to Danda-Vana and transfer to the twenty, and ride that all the way to Queen Elizabeth. And bam, your there.Should only take a couple of hours. Then I guess you can get a bus, or walk or something. You need fare, my man?" he asked. "Oh, here, you should take this." he said, handing a scrap of paper to Mark, on which he had written the route in blue ink. "Hey, I'm guessing your down here trying to score some stuff, righ'? Yah, not a bad idea. You can make some FAT profit, if you do it right, espicially if you go to the right part of central. Watch out for the guys protecting the diplomats though. Big man not goin' ta let that market ever be tapped, believe you me. But hey, if you need a supply, I'm your man. Smack, snow, purple, khat, whatever you need. Partnership never hurt a soul. You need, just ask. Here, I'll give yah a number........."

[wichita]

Backs away from the man at his offer, holding his hands up in a rejecting motion, "No that's alright, I don't need any drugs. I am just looking for the way home. Thank you for your help, though. I appreciate the notes. I think I got enough fare to get me there, but thanks for the offer anyway."

He backs away slowly, but as politely as he knows how, and weaves through the crowd on the platform to the next apparent boarding point. <i>What is with all the drugs around here? And where did the wierd accent come from? It can't be that different on the South Side. What is going on here?</i>

He tries to blend in a best he can, but he feels as if he stands out like a sore thumb - about the only white guy he can see, clean cut, except for the one day beared and dirt from waking up in the alley he assumed he is sporting by now, pair of wrinkled khakis, a plain white T-shirt, and a pair of classic black Chucks. Realizing how much he was standing out, not only in appearance but also because he must obviously look lost makes him fidget nervously waiting for the train.

<i>Come on! What is taking so long? I need to get back...before someone knifes me or something.</i>

[Schme]

"Hey guy! Outta my spot, guy!" said an irrate voice behind him.

A loutish young man, sporting a thin faded red T-shirt, was trying to take Mark's position, being closer to the boarding point. He gave Mark a rather light but aggressive shove, and tried to step forward to take the spot.

Not a second later, the same man was given a violent shove from another of the jostling group, which sent him forward towards the tracks.

The man, although looking surprised and angry, grabbed the iron railing that bordered the places were the trains doors did not line up, and pulled himself back up.

The fence looked exetremly out of place, and really rather idiotic looking, but with such a hurried and dense crowd, it was indeed worth it's weight in gold, as it stopped many people who were shoved from falling the several feet onto the concrete and rail below.

At last, another red and white train pulled up, and it's doors were flooded with people trying to get on. It had abviously not been painted for a long time, and it was near impossible to make out the red and white through the layer upon layer of multicoulored graffiti.

The writting on the sides of the train was, oddly enough, written in plain German, with no translation and no obvious exeplanation as to why.

Each door was guarded by two trebucheon wielding security guards, who quickly but carefully made sure that every border had a ticket or money, and sending away those that did not, aswell as giving those who would try to board for free a swift blow of there clubs.

The train was rediculously packed with people, and although an air circulator could be heard humming away, the air was stale and hard to breathe. With wall to wall people, once inside the train, and having taken posistion, you could no longer move an inch one way or the other.

Most of the seats had large slash marks in them, likely just mindless vandalism, done out of pure boredom.

The walls and windows were covered in yet more graffiti, some to the exetent that they were hard to see out of. Much of it was in foreign language, but a good portion was also in english and in french. The scriblings ranged from pieces of poetry to gang symbols to strings of profanity written just for the sake of doing something.

Even the poles have a good deal of writting on them. Although much of it was unsightly, it did give one a good deal of material to read.

The train soon began to move again, slowly at first, but was soon racing along at high speed, passing endless rows of those generic tenements and apartement complexes. At one end of the car, a baby cried over the voices as a mother tried to calm it down, while on the other end, two men could be heard arguing loudly, although what about was rather sketchy.

Along the roof of the train were the usual signs bearing coarperate advertisements, or signs with the names of agencies to help people get over various addictions.

One sign, printed in two languages, neither of them latin based, had an odd coat of arms, similar two the one on some of the coins. A white backround, with two large "C"s in each corner, one green and one red.

Above the bottom right corner was the picture of a tree.

In the middle was a golden crown, heavy set with jewels, with a large sword coming in behind it.

To the left of this was the two dimensional picture of a gray wolf.

The writting of the sign was written in dark red, on a black backround, one above the coat of arms, and another below.

Along the route, the train made several stops. The commotion and rush always intensified as people hurried to get off as others clamoured to get on.

As people got off, the guards handed out transfers to those who asked, at the same time taking money and tickets, all with great speed and keen eye.

"They almost work like machines, eh? Hahaha!" said one man to John, in passing, as he rushed off the train.

Near the middle of the journey, the train passed a large section of track that was inhabited on either side by a community of homeless men and women. Shacks and tents were set up haphadzardly everywhere, along with countless sleeping bags and crude lean too's. Some of the people got up and waved or shouted at the train, and many made rude gestures or threw rocks or trash at it, but the image lasted for no more than a few seconds and the train zoomed on.

The train, at long last, pulled into Faster station. This station was better built, the platform having many less cracks, and steel and glass shelters for the people waiting on the platform. This was, of course, no good to the people who could not fit on the platform, but it was there all the same. This too was covered with many layers of multicoulored graffiti.

As the train finally slowed to a complete stop, the doors lined up with the gaps in the railing, and the crush of people began again, as hundreds tried to get on and off.

The guard mechanically handed mark a green and white paper transfer, and then moved on to give a rather unruly border and firm punch in the stomach before shoving him off the train.

Here, after the boarders had gone and the former passengers had left, there were considerably less people than the other station, in fact, only a scattering on each side of the platform.

By now, it had gotten almost completly dark.

"You'll want to go to the right place, my friend." said a long bearded old man, who was leaning up against the shelter with a dirty and tattered blanket over his knees. He gestured to a concrete pillar quite a ways down the platform "I'm guessing your trying to catch the thirty one, seeing as you just got off that that train. You all right, son? You don't look to well. You should get home, kid. Get some rest. And watch out for those punks over there. Don't let them hustle you outta your money. Just keep your hands at your sides and look straight ahead. Can tell your from the center. You look as confused that Iranian diplomat........God, that was some time ago............Anyhow, off you go, son. Don't miss your train."


The other people near the pillar did not indeed cause Mark any trouble. They were talking amongst themselves, and if they'ed had any intention to get anyone's money, they had obviously either forgotten or where not going to execute it here.

Within several minutes, the section of the platform on which Mark was waiting had once again filled up, and the usual jostling for posisition and the minor hurried fights began again.

After fifteen minutes, the train came. It was much like the other, although not quite as crowded, and the car nearest Mark only held about nine other people.

The security guards, looking a good deal the same as the ones on the last train, took Mark's transfer with mechanical efficency, and replaced it with another one, before moving on to the next boarder, as though they were moving luggage down an airport conveyer belt.

The train soon started, and was now on it's way to Bronze station.

[west]

John nods to the soldier and the clerks.

"Bert, Sam, Rasha, I'm Johnny Freeman. I got a couple questions. Don't think I'm crazy or anything, just confused. I woke up in an alley back there," he points back along Artery to the street he had left, "and I don't know where I am. What's AC, where's Chicago from here, and..." his stomach rumbles, "you got any food? I'm starving."

[wichita]

Mark collapses in a seat, snagging it from some teenage kid at the last second. <i>Saw everyone doing this, I just hope this is the way it's done.</i> He waits for a response from the kid, sitting staring nonchalantly ahead to appear as if Mark is ignoring him. The kid shrugs and continues to stand where he is. Mark heaves a silent sigh of relief and relaxes in the seat, already tiring of the journey.

<i>I am definitely not in Chicago anymore!</i> Images from the Wizard of Oz begin to flood his head as his brain scrambles for an explanation to all the insanity about him. Where is this place? How did he get here? More importantly how will he get home? He begins to long for his cucbicle at Pharmacorp, with his cup of black tar-like coffee sitting beside him, the flicker of the fluorescent lights above his cubicle reflecting off his computer screen, his crappy little efficiency apartment with no electricity...all of that would be so much better than the insanity he was witnessing before him now. All the drugs, all the rude people milling about.

<i>Well...actually...have they been so rude?</i> He looks about the crowd on the train now observing them. While things seem hectic, the whole train ride has gone as planned for the most part. The guards did leave him alone...and Numair, though the look of him had frightened Mark at the beginning....and the punks at the station paid him no mind despite his concern. Maybe the people weren't all that bad. Maybe it just seemed that way to him because this was a far cry from the normal Midwestern experience he had grown up with - even for the amount of time he had spent in Chicago he had not seen such a mixing of cultures.

<i>Still, please God, just get me home.</i> He continues to gaze out the window has the train rumbles along the track.

[Schme]

The three men looked at each other, at John, and then at each other again, with expressions of great concern. The men then began to chuckle good heartedly.

“Nice to meet you, John.” Said Bert, nodding. “Yes, nice to meet you.” Echoed the other two.”

“John, I have to say, my friend” said Bert, using a tone of absolute sincerity “That you are by far the cleanest junkie I have ever seen in all my life. Just thought I’d tell you.” He said this as though it were the greatest of compliments. The other two muttered and nodded in agreement.

“AC means Alex City, John.” Continued Bert. “I’m guessing your from out of town.”

“Most people know that even if they never been near here.” Piped in Sam. “I suppose your from outside The Cradle, or something, eh?”

Rasha nodded. “We say it out east, too.”

“I think Chicago’s in Illinois, isn’t it?” asked Sam.

“I’m pretty sure.” Said Bert.

Rasha nodded. “Yes. Capital of Illinois. Why do you ask?”




“Well, if your that hungry, I guess it couldn’t hurt if you took some food.” Said Bert.

“I suppose not.” Said Sam.

“Jus’ take whatever yah need, man. I’ll go dismantle the camera.” Said Bert, who went into the back room, and came out, grabbing at chocolate bar as he returned.

“Door still locked, Rasha?” he asked.

“Yeah.” He replied.










The train pulled into Bronze station, and the ritual clamouring and fighting could again be observed.

The side on which Mark had to get off had a glass shelter, much like the one before, but on the other side the platform was completely unprotected.

The station was illuminated by dim street lights, which bathed it in a aura.

Both platforms opened onto paved market squares, much like the one at the first station.

There were only several hundred people scattered across the platforms, and so there was ample room to stand.

Much like before, people had broken off into there little groups to talk, or stood alone, staring at the tracks, waiting for the train to arrive.

“Good night to be out on the town, is it not, my friend?” said a voice behind him. Upon turning around, one could behold a small group of men, four in all.

An extremely tall and largely muscular white man towered above the group. His brown hair was in a mushroom cut, and he wore new looking blue jeans which contrasted sharply with his tattered and ripped white T-Shirt. His hands were tightly clenched into tight fists.

Beside him stood an albino white man stood beside them, shorter and thinner than the other, but still rather muscular. He wore dark green cargo pants, with several extra pockets sewed on wherever there was room. His arms were crossed over a black shirt, on which was a strange logo of an aqua blue dove, with the name of the company emblazoned in blood red “NY18”. His dim green eyes were loosely fixed on Mark, and he wore an expression of malice on his face. His paper white hair was twisted into a tight pony tail.

The third man was only about five feet tall. He was an oriental man, with short black hair, and he sported a short curly mustache. He wore a long pair of shorts, which went down past his knees. He also wore a brown summer jacket, which was zipped up all the way to his neck.

In his hand, he held a piece of steel pipe.

The fouth man stood in front of the rest, and was obviously the speaker. He was a young, short, skinny black man. He wore a silver and blue basketball jersey that read “AC Street Ballerz” and he, like the tall man, wore new blue jeans. On his face were gold rimmed spectacles, and in his hand was a long, razor sharp hunting knife. He was quite obviously the leader of the group. His hands looked soft and without callous, and so it was also apparent that he was not a frequent fighter, nor a steady laborer.

“I see your riding the train.” He continued. “Good way. Safe way.” He nodded in approval.

“Judging by your dress and composure, coupled with your taking this train, me and my associates here have gathered that you are not in fact from this part of town. What me and my friends here think” he said, gesturing towards the three men behind him “What we think is, that you are either here, quite far away from your home, in the search of illegal substance, or perhaps paid company of one of the many friendly young ladies who inhabit the general area. Or perhaps you are off to go out to some of the local esteemed and distinguished drinking establishments?” he flicked his knife absent mindedly. “Either way, we figured that, seeing as all these endeavors require a substantial amount of cash, we decided that it was only fair, seeing as you were buying locally produced goods and services, and seeing as all of these things, whichever of the three it may be, funnel the profits to a certain small group, allowing the capital to stagnate, that it is really only fair that you pump some hard currency into the local economy aswell. And so, it would be greatly appreciated if you would turn said hard currency over to us, so that we could spend it at local businesses, so as to begin the circulation of it within the local economy.”

The man took a deep breath, and stifled a yawn. “Excuse me.” He said.

“Now, as I was saying, we would appreciate if you would co-operate with us in the transaction. However, should you be unwilling to help our local economy, I feel it is only fair to inform you that we shall, for the sake of the community, take action to rest the aforementioned funds from your possession.”

No one seemed to much care what was happening, and the scene around Mark was not in fact drawing the attention of any of the people waiting for the train.”



(Sorry it took so long to write this. I have so much to do. But I got it done.

Haven't seen InsaneIrony for a bit.

Anyhow, goodnight.)

[InsaneIrony]

Turi blinked to Roger as they walked. "So I'm not in America?... Oh, and my parents aren't exactly rich, but they have money, I guess..." She looked around as they walked, her socks plodding carefully against the ground. As the masked man runs by, she jumps. "Woah! Did you just see that man? There's so much chaos here..." She bites her lip but follows closely behind Roger, uneasy in the dark and filthy surroundings.

[west]

Hey, man, John protests. I'm no junkie. Never used drugs in my life...
Well, not recently, he admits.

He pauses, and takes a chocolate bar from the shelf. The wrapper doesn't look familiar. After watching the others to make sure it's okay, he unwraps it and takes a bite. It's plain chocolate, like Hershey's.

Around a bite of chocolate, something occurs to him.
Chicago's not the capital of Illinois, Springfield is.
He says so out loud.

I've never heard of Alex City, though...and what's The Cradle?

He sighs. Do you have a map I could look at?