Recent Statuses

4 mos ago
Current "I HAVE NO BAN AND I MUST CRINGE." Rest in peace to the last of the good men in this world. I will shed a thousand tears and pour a hundred 40s of Olde English.
9 mos ago
I know I said I "change my status every year" but it has been three years. So...
3 yrs ago
I change my status every year.
5 yrs ago
"You went to the Chaplain, who also kicked you out. How do you antagonize a Chaplain?"
1 like
5 yrs ago
Current status: Bumming cigarettes off of a Chilean guy.


I'm Evan and I make poor life decisions.

Most Recent Posts


The view from the 107th floor never ceased to amaze her. Atop the massive steel-framed skyscraper was a prewar restaurant framed by floor-to-ceiling windows. Repaired over the years since the war, the 107th floor was where the North Tower’s residents came to eat, drink, socialize, or simply look out over the city. With a steaming cup of coffee in front of her, Sandra Napolini looked out across the city of New York. The city, roughshod and ramshackle, bore the scars of the old world’s violent conflagration. Buildings, many damaged and some toppled completely, were repaired across the cityscape with scrap or locally fabricated materials.

Even the towers that Sandra hailed from, the World Trade Center complex functioning as the beating heart of the old American economic system, had been repaired piecemeal over the centuries that passed. The war, the harsh environment, the radiation, and time’s unceasing march caused countless problems. Sandra’s mother, Helen, were among the engineers tasked with keeping the Twin Towers alive. Academically gifted with a knack for improvisation and creative thinking, these engineers were the backbone of the Towers’ settlement. Doctors served the people inside, while the engineers healed their home.

Sandra smiled pensively, thinking about how her mother taught the newest generation of engineers and maintainers: they had gone beyond the vertical fiefdom that had been carved out of the old city. Sandra, midway into her forties, had not yet been born when her mother had found the machine intelligence that lay beneath the complex. With its guidance, New York City was reborn in 2234. The last warring tribe, the stubbornly independent and holier-than-thou Staten Islanders, was conquered or bribed into submission by 2249. A community was born, with The Economist serving as its guide. It was all ancient history to her and many of her peers, who often had to endure their grandparents’ tales of scavenging and survival.

Sandra felt a familiar presence behind her: she turned to look and see an old friend standing by a window with a glass of beer. Samuel Powell, a technologist who worked with the Administration Division. In the vein of the old world, New York had come up with untold numbers of divisions and departments to neatly organize the jobs required to run a city. The Twin Towers and its surrounding buildings served as the headquarters for all of these, with branches and offices running into each of the territories that New York controlled.

“Mind if I sit here?” Samuel asked politely, motioning to a seat next to Sandra. She agreed, taking a sip of her coffee. He a facsimile of prewar office clothes, a luxury for tower residents but not one out of touch with the wasteland’s new fashion. His shirt was a dark green and his slacks black: muted colors that avoided the stains and filth that tended to accumulate on such clothes.

Sandra continued to look out the window where a storm cloud was slowly approaching from the shore. The water and the rain, while no longer wholly radioactive, had a slight greenish tint to them. She had heard of the Exploration Division’s scouts reporting similar phenomena in the Commonwealth and the Capital Wasteland. Another reminder that, no matter how hard they tried, there could be no going back to how things were before. She had never been behind the barrel of a gun pointed at a mutant, unless one counted smacking a radroach with a broomstick, but the reminders of the apocalypse were ever present.

“What’s on your mind?” Samuel asked, sensing that his old friend was deep in thought.

“The City Council has a meeting tomorrow, and they want The Economist’s input on a new plan of theirs,” Sandra said. “I’ll have to talk to him… it…”

“It’s okay,” chuckled Samuel, catching her slip. “I suppose we can call it a ‘him.’ After all, we name our boats after women. And The Economist is far more talkative than a boat. More personality, too.”

Sandra rolled her eyes, clutching her coffee in her hand. “Did people really talk like that in the old world?” she asked. The Economist, programmed to convey information like a suave fast-talking stockbroker on Wall Street, often irritated her. It didn’t help that people were already starting to imitate the accent and style, especially as the city developed its wealth and a corresponding population of affluent downtowners.

“I suppose they did. ’Nyah! See?’” he exclaimed, gesticulating wildly with his impression. He mimed picking up a telephone: “’Robco dropped their fourth quarter earnings and boy ain’t they shitty! Sell, baby, sell!’”

Sandra stifled a laugh. Samuel had been a goof since he was a kid. “I could never make it. Took a real wolf to survive back then. I’ll take the radstorms any day of the week.”

“So cavalier,” agreed Samuel, settled down from his act. “No wonder they blew themselves up.”

The crack of lightning dully rattled the glass in front of them. Raindrops started to fall on the windows. It reminded Sandra of her childhood when, on some floors, the windows were still broken or not fully sealed. The cold winter breeze cut through her when she made repairs to the tower’s structure. That had since been solved by the judicial application of epoxy. Good small tasks for the apprentice engineers.

“This meeting won’t be about another block rehabilitation or the subway,” Sandra said after a moment. Samuel cocked his head.

“The Council is doing something? We’ve been rebuilding for years, and they want to do more?”

“Well, not by choice,” Sandra said. She sighed. “Maybe it’s not the best thing to say,” she turned her head to make sure they were alone. Nobody else occupied the 107th floor at this hour, “but it’s a power issue. They want to investigate the old nuclear reactor at Indian Point.”

Indian Point, some thirty miles north of them, was the Hudson Valley’s largest atomic reactor before the war. By some coincidence, it had been spared the bombs. New York could easily have been another Glowing Sea if Indian Point was targeted like the many reactors in Western Massachusetts. It lay dormant and, more importantly, disconnected from the city. But as New York grew, material concerns manifested. Its first and foremost concern was, like the old world, electricity. Indian Point powered the old New York and was eyed as a solution for the postwar. Sandra needed to get The Economist’s input on the operation.

The AI, using millions of data points from before the war and fed into it by people like Samuel afterwards, would generate a suggestion. Predictions on the reactor’s operating capacity, chances of survivability, how expensive it would be to repair, and how easy it would be to hold were all floating around in The Economist’s data banks. Sandra, as its custodian, needed to get the answers from it.

It wasn’t that Sandra had a special relationship with The Economist. She did, or at least as close a relationship as one could have with an AI. She had been trained quite literally since birth to interpret its results and translate the oracle’s sometimes arcane knowledge into reality for the City Council. It meant many nights with The Economist, often hashing out and making sense of its outputs. A lonely life, often devoid of friends. It was never overtly stated, but Sandra often felt like people attached a certain religious quality to her. Was she a priestess? A prophet and a messenger for a god? She didn’t feel like one. Yet there were similarities she couldn’t ignore.

Samuel finished his drink in silence, mulling over Sandra’s new mission. He clinked the empty bottle down on the table as the rain continued to fall. Sandra’s coffee was still half-full. “Are you going to be here a while longer?” he asked.

She nodded. Samuel uncrossed his legs and leaned over to look out the window some more, trying to see where she was focusing on. The raindrops streaked down the glass, obscuring the view. Fog rolled into the harbor and wind started to whip at the boats moored in downtown Manhattan’s piers. “I suppose I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “The wife has made some dinner. You’re welcome over sometime this week if you have the time,” he offered. “I know you’ll be busy though.”

Sandra looked back to him and smiled softly again. “Thanks, Samuel. I appreciate it. I won’t keep you. Have a good night.”

Samuel stood up, grabbing his beer bottle by the neck. A lone Protectron stomped its away around the corner, holding a tray on its bulky metal hands. Samuel walked up the robot and placed his glass down, to which the Protectron’s monotone robotic voice thanked him for not littering. He exited, off into a corridor that led to the stairs down to his floor of the building. Despite the bureaucracy that had taken root in the Twin Towers, people still lived in the building full time. Sandra was one of them, too. She took another sip of her coffee as the storm picked up.

Indian Point. The words repeated in her head. She wondered what The Economist would say about it.
@TheEvanCat I mean...since you're not either...

Hell yeah. Love working on a Monday.

Also I totally forgot how to format youtube videos for this forum.
Everyone in this thread:
Yeah, fuck Yam. I do what I want. Maybe if he can outdrink me for once then he can deny my posts.

Come at me, bro.
Name: New York City

Flag: The flag of New York City was redesigned sometime in the 2050s, but retains the traditional blue and orange colors.

Territory: The government of New York City maintains its core in the traditional five boroughs of New York: Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, and the Bronx. Surrounding major communities like Jersey City, Newark, Yonkers, White Plains, and various Long Island suburbs are also directly controlled by the city government: this has brought important prewar facilities like Newark International Airport, the Tappan Zee Bridge, and various ports under direct control and security.

New York:

By 2290, the chaos of the wasteland had been quelled by a unifying force in the dense urban landscape. A charismatic leader has assembled a faction of disparate wastelanders and executed a plan with the help of The Economist: an incredibly powerful artificial intelligence beneath Wall Street. Initially designed to predict market conditions and economic futures, The Economist warned of a massive nuclear conflict when it became aware of a sudden uptick in defense contractors' stocks. Now, centuries after the great war, its collated data has generated wisdom far beyond its initial purpose.

The Economist serves as an oracle to the government of New York City, a machine that has fused its knowledge of the old world with the new. New York heals, organizing its defenses and bringing its residents under a shield of civilization and protection. Beyond the outskirts of New York's territories, a rugged wasteland awaits. Threats encroach upon the city on all sides: untamed radiation storms engulf Connecticut and the territories west of New Jersey, and exotic threats manifest south of New York's suburbs in New Jersey. The former upstate regions of New York are occupied by raiders, bandits, and mutants: a land ripe for exploration and plundering.

New York operates as a city state surrounded by dangerous threats. The city's high rises betray its pivotal role in the old world and display its potential in the new wasteland. Where New York has risen to the occasion before, it shall manifest again.
For my plans with the Commonwealth, I plan on doing the Minutemen ending where the Sole Survivor kills off the Institute and Brotherhood of Steel. Preston Garvey and Sole Survivor hate each other. And the Sole Survivor is still around.

Oh, don't worry. Totally canon. I get the vibes that Preston hates the player character and is trying to get him to fuck off and go away every time in FO4.
Havana, Cuba
August, 1955

Whether by necessity of the mission or the sheer fact that the DIPS headquarters wanted to get rid of him, Enrique Valdés found himself and his crew on an Aeroméxico charter flight straight to the palm-lined avenues of Havana. Valdés could hardly wait; it was a far sight better than the basement office that he had been confined to for the past month. He had heard rumors of the Mexican government’s activities in Havana, but the office had always restricted transfers to the most talented or secretive operatives. More important than that, the clubs and nightlife of the city were world renowned for their glamor.

The plane touched down on the runway with a thud and taxied towards the terminal of the international airport, its facilities and concourses far beyond even Mexico City’s terminal. As a hub of often competing factions, Cuba proved to be a conveniently placed neutral ground for transit and business both legal and illegal. The Cuban authorities raked in cash from all sides of the regional powers, and it showed. Modern architectural design boldly defined the international features of José Martí International Airport. Over the intercom, the pilot announced that they were pulling into the terminal and thanked them for flying Aeroméxico. A stewardess patrolled the aisles with an ashtray, allowing the passengers to stub out their cigarettes before disembarking.

Valdés’s sunglasses shielded him from the worst of the sunlight as he emerged from the cabin door to descend the staircase that had been rolled up to the vibrantly bright-orange fuselage of Mexico’s premier airliner. He felt the humidity of the Cuban summer immediately wash over him. Clutching a pair of suitcases, he stepped onto the hot tarmac of the airport and scanned around the crowd of waiting people for his contact. The DIPS office had given him only a name: Carlos Rubio. Valdés knew better to ask around in the crowd, instead deciding to wait until someone called for him.

“Enrique!” came a cheery voice from his side. “Hey man, I’m over here.”

Valdés turned his head to see an eccentrically man with one hand in his pocket and the other waving him over. Dressed in Bermuda shorts with a rolled-up button down shirt and sunglasses atop a mess of curly hair, Carlos looked more like a tourist than a diplomat. The two DIPS agents met and exchanged a firm handshake. “I can always tell,” Carlos deadpanned. “You new guys always look like you’ve got a business meeting to remove the stick out of your asses. Did Urbano inspect you before you came out here?”

“What? Are you Sen͂or Rubio?” stammered Valdés, cocking his head to the side.

“You can just call me Carlos. And I’m just gonna call you Enrique. I don’t like last names, neither do most of the boys in the office here,” Carlos said with a chuckle, patting Enrique’s shoulder. His hand returned to his pocket after each exchange, almost like they lived there when not doing anything else. He looked down to the brown suitcases that the newcomer had just set down on the ground. “I can get someone to take care of that.”

He whistled for an attendant waiting with a baggage cart who ran over and stood smartly before the man. Carlos said the name of a hotel into the boy’s ear and placed a small bill into his waiting hand. The attendant grinned, waved to his friend, and both rushed forward to take Enrique’s suitcases. They scurried off to the cart, tossing them roughly into the back before walking off towards the airport terminal. Carlos looked at the perplexed Enrique: “Don’t worry,” he assured him, “the boys don’t steal your shit. They get beat by their manager if they do. Let’s go get some drinks.”

Carlos took Enrique inside, up through a staircase that led them to the terminal proper. Havana’s airport was massive, with spokes going in every direction leading to various countries’ national airlines. Pan Am flights left daily to Miami and the Southern states, Panair do Brasil flew to Rio de Janeiro, and a lavishly decorated gate to the British Overseas Airways Corporation led to their famed transatlantic flight services. Enrique looked at the sign for BOAC with a pang of morbid curiosity: part of their coordinated war plans involved capturing their pilots and aircraft with the express purpose of handing them British officials for a one-way trip back to the United Kingdom. A political act of merciful deportation to curry diplomatic favor and generate its reputation as a “good war.”

He ignored a uniformed British pilot chomping on a cigar with a cavalier swagger as he tried to flirt with a Cuban stewardess. Enrique wondered if he would be facing a Mexican paratrooper’s gun barrel in the next few weeks. Carlos led Enrique past the main concourse’s huge center stage where they apparently put on shows and musical performances during high-travel periods. It was empty now, with huge speakers playing an upbeat dance number much to the delight of a drunk passenger who stumbled around in front of the stage pretending to salsa dance with an invisible partner.

Outside the grand windows of the airport, the view of the tarmac and the airplanes parked along it contributed further to the grandeur of the airport. Enrique even caught a glimpse of the dirigibles moored along towers in a field past the runway: Cuba had bought several German zeppelins and had made a lot of money setting up Caribbean tour lines by air. Rich Mexicans and Americans alike would book leisure cruises on these airborne hotels, enjoying fine dining and entertainment with a view few things could match.

Their detour around the stage led them around to a large bar situated on a ledge overlooking the center stage. Carlos ushered Enrique inside, finding them a booth next to the window in the back. Carlos invited Enrique to sit down, carefully hiding an examination of the bar’s patrons. He’d been here before, and some of the other customers certainly had too. While Carlos never tacitly acknowledged it, he knew many of the people here. They knew him as well.

The window looked over a small garden separating the automobile loop by the main entrance. Tropical plants arranged pleasantly presented a welcoming view to frame the entrance of Cuba’s premier port of travel. A new parking lot had been built for the increasing number of private Cuban cars, many of which were owned by wealthier Havana residents in professional industries. Beyond that, the sprawling colonial architecture of the city was seen in the distance: José Martí had been built on old plantation land and was still in a rural part of the country just outside of the Havana city limits.

“So, Enrique,” said Carlos as he finally sat down and waved at the bartender. The balding Cuban man standing by the taps motioned for a waitress to approach the table. “How long are you gonna be here?” he asked.

“Hopefully not more than a few months,” the new employee replied. The waitress arrived at the table, leaning up against the table in a tight dress that left little to the imagination. Carlos obviously was enjoying the scene as Enrique uncomfortably tried to order a drink, his awkwardness twisting his words: “Yeah, hi, uh… shit, I’ll just have whatever… yeah, what my colleague wants.”

Carlos chuckled, cocking his head towards the waitress. “What’s your name, baby?” he said with an attempt at charm.

The waitress smiled and played the game, stepping back from the table and putting her hands on her hips. “Vera,” she replied. “Now it looks like you’ll be ordering for two. What are you thinking?”

“Tell you what,” Carlos said, looking back at Enrique. “My associate hasn’t had much of the stuff before so I think I’ll treat him to some of that bourbon you have here.”

Vera agreed and told Enrique that Carlos had made an excellent choice. She left back to the bar. “I thought you were some kind of party animal,” Carlos chuckled. “Getting all square about it now? You should be killing it with the ladies.”

“Yeah,” Enrique said, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt. “I guess not at work though. It caught me off guard. They have bourbon here? It’s hard to find back home.”

“Of course!” exclaimed Carlos as Vera returned carrying a platter with a pair of snifters and a bottle balancing atop it. She placed the glasses down with a sharp clink and poured from the white-labeled bottle. The name “Jim Beam” topped stamp with the letter B on its label, a banner boldly describing it as “Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey” in English. Enrique watched her pour a heavy amount of the whiskey before smiling again at Carlos. “Let me know if you need anything else, hon,” she said with a wink.

Enrique swirled the copper-colored liquor in his glass as Carlos raised his glass for a toast. The pair clinked together and both took a sip. It was good: Enrique was never a fan of the whiskies in Mexico, but something about the bourbon lit a fire in his chest. “Huh,” he said. “Shame we don’t have this in Mexico.”

“I know, right?” Carlos agreed as he took another drink. “I keep taking jobs here so I can enjoy the fine liquors of the world.”

Enrique laughed, sniffing the wide-brimmed brandy glass and enjoying the new smells of American whiskey. He was thinking about the bottles that he might need to stuff in his suitcase for the plane ride home. After all the fighting kicked off, he had no idea if he would be seeing this again.

“So the building you’re working in is real nice,” said Carlos as he changed the subject back to work. “It’s an old hotel a few blocks away from the embassy where your main staff are. Pretty far away from the flagpole, the environment is easygoing enough that the regional director won’t get too stupid on you.”

“That’s a relief. I need some time away from the stuffy assholes in charge.”

Carlos raised his eyebrows in agreement, looking out the window as a plane thrummed it way off the runway and gracefully raised into the air. It banked towards the coast, sunlight glinting off the blue and grey paint scheme that Pan Am was famous for.

“Another benefit, you’re close to these Dominicans that are holed up in Havana,” added the agent. “I couldn’t believe the balls on them, they just walked into the embassy and said they’re setting up their own country over there. Good for them. Got some drive.”

“Have they been talked about around town?” Enrique said, looking over his shoulder. He could sense the eyes on him: he turned around to see a handsome forty-something American man with a square jaw and a close-cropped haircut wearing a pearly white suit chatting with a friend in a booth on the other side of the bar. He had looked away by the time Enrique noticed, but Carlos had been keeping his own eyes on him.

“I wouldn’t worry about that guy,” reassured the veteran agent. “I think his name is Bill or something. American OSS, obviously. Very obvious, they just send the movie stars in white suits down to send a message. He clearly doesn’t want to know what we’re talking about, just tell us that the gringos are always watching. I see him around from time to time. I don’t even think he speaks Spanish.”

“Plus these guys already know your friends are in town. Didn’t exactly keep it secret when they arrived, asking every swinging dick on the street for directions to the embassy. Half these people are.”

Carlos nodded to Vera, who was serving the American another beer. The bottle appeared to be the stout brown bottle signature to the Modelo brand. Either the man liked Mexican pilsners or, more likely, he was signaling to the Mexicans. “She’s definitely collecting. But I like to ‘collect’ on her, if you know what I mean. Great ass, for a Cuban.”

Enrique shrugged. He couldn’t tell the difference, or least didn’t have the experience yet. Pretty girls were all the same to him.

“I figure the, uh, Gua-,” Enrique began, but Carlos cut him off.

“We have a phrase for them. Unidad is the project name, seeing as that’s what they want to do to that ‘Hispaniola’ of theirs. We generally want to obfuscate their identities and specifics, even if the actual group isn’t that secret. They’re fighting a vicious war, for fuck’s sake.”

In the corner, Bill quietly finished his beer and paid with a stack of Cuban pesos underneath the empty bottle. Without a word to Vera, the bartender, or the DIPS agents in the other booth, him and his partner both stood up to leave. They carried suitcases along with them to fool the average airport employee into thinking they were passengers, but the way they effortlessly jerked the cases off the floor indicated that they were empty. “Looks like the OSS is done here. And so are we,” Carlos said. He swirled the last of his bourbon in the glass and downed it before withdrawing his wallet from below the table.

“Vera!” he called out, catching the attention of the waitress who now only had them left to serve. “How much do I owe you?”

Vera sauntered over, looking down at the two men with her hands on her hips. “Well, for the two glasses of the American stuff? Three pesos.”

“Three pesos?” inquired Carlos, flipping out bills and flashing a thick wallet to her. He counted off three from his stack, looked at her, then counted off a few more. “How about if I give you nine, I’ll throw in the address of my hotel for free?”

Vera raised her eyebrow, her expression turning from playful flirtation to disgust. “How about you tip me an extra peso for my service, pig. That might convince me not to throw you out.”

Carlos walked back the money and put four pesos down on the table. Vera snatched it up angrily, fuming off towards the bar. The agent looked back to Enrique, untroubled, and shrugged: “Always worth a shot with these broads. Now how about we get a cab and I show you where you’re staying for the next while?”
Just for everyone's public awareness since there is a smattering of folks not on the Discord (and to reduce future confusion), I am tentatively going to play New York City as a city-state.
Never played a nation RP, what makes it different from say, Casual or Advance RPs ?

I would say a focus on a nation being a character vs. an individual. Although it's told in the form of individual characters, of which there are multiple people doing things that form a country's actions. Take a look at some of my posts where I have Mexico written out in PoW and France written out in NEO. It'll make more sense that way.

I play different characters from all over, not necessarily describing the country in a neutral third party perspective.
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