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Everything posted by CyberMurph

  1. I'd given up. And there are no barbie dolls!
  2. Anyone have a high res image of the cover of MLO (with the silver mask)? I am trying to make a t-shirt...
  3. You know, I wasn't making a comment on persnal musical / entertainment tastes. I really don't give a flying fuck what your personal music likes and dislikes are. I was just trying to have a CyberPunk related conversation, but as usual, socially retarded gamers make that an impossibility.
  4. If one needs further proof we are living the game. Lady GaGa looks like a CP2020 character jumped off the frikkin page!
  5. As far as "Deadliest Warrior" or any of those shows go, its all about "flash, bang pow" (an actual quote from History Channel producer). It has nothing to do with reality and the results are so subjective, its not even funny. I mean, what if the ninja was near sighted? Anyway, comparing a SWAT room clearing drill and an infantry fire team is apples and oranges. The SWAT team is there to serve an arrest warrant ( you can argue that all you want, but you can be sure the US Constitution trumps all cool-guy gear). A fire team is there to kill people. Although I do tend to agree with RockWolf. A 249 is just as good as a tricked out H&K USP for Good Ol' Battle Drill #6...
  6. And those pesky North Korean missiles. IIRC NK has an air force too...
  7. Well, for my $.02 on the bullpup, you will note that very few countries have adopted bullpup designs in recent years. That may change, but as of right now, the forerunners in the basic infantry firearm have a generally conventional layout with the magazine well and chamber to the front of the firing hand. Most designs have quick-change barrels with free-floating sights that do not require the shooter to re-zero his weapon when he changes barrels. (FN SCAR and H&K XM8 are two prime examples). Obviously not intended for use during a firefight, it does allow leaders to decide how many short or long barrels to bring and who will use each. Remember, in combat, down to the fire team level, soldiers fire their weapons as part of a team. They don’t run around shooting at whatever they want. That is only in FPS games and Hollywood. On the other hand, your character, or players, will obviously want what is the kewlest and most bad-ass guns. Personally, I don’t think that if a weapon is bullpup or not has actual impact in game terms.
  8. I like the idea of talking to them ahead of time. You can ask their opinion without giving away too much story / plot. Also, speaking for myself, you can always ask the veterans on this board for advice if you do not want to give away too much of the gaming session to your players. Feel free to PM me with questions.
  9. Bottom Line Up Front: The fantasy will never live up to the reality. Be thankful that it doesn't. Having said that, if he expects your pen-and-paper game to live up to the technical and visceral realities of killing people then he is being very unfair to you as a GM. If he cannot separate the reality from fantasy he should not be playing. My advice is to politely tell him not to get his hopes up and that, although you will try, you simply will not be able to live up to his experiences. Ask him to take the game for what it is and have fun with it. If he can't do that then I would apologize and ask him not to play. At any rate, it is impossible to simulate the realities of combat in a RPG, tabletop miniatures battle, first-person shooter or Airsoft game. Unless the players are willing to have referees walking around whacking people on the side of the head with baseball bats whenever something "explodes". Moreover, for my part, why anyone would want to recreate pieces of Afghan Police officers raining down on him or her is completely beyond me. I'm all for bloodless light saber battles. They don't weigh down on your conscience for the rest of your life. MAJ Murph Desert Storm? The Shouthwest Asia Live Fire Excercise? Unlikely. The dude was probably just a retard.
  10. CyberMurph

    Magpul Fmg9

    Still looks a little out of place when folded up, but yeah, I think we can say we are living it. Almost...
  11. Have not played since 2002. I will again. Someday...
  12. OK, I am taking a fiction writing class. Here is my first short story. Ever. (Not including high-school assignments...) Anyway, some day I hope to write some CyberPunk, but I want to get some practice before I give it a go. So here 'tis... REPRÉSAILLES René's shoulders hurt. There was nothing he could do, no way to relieve the horrible, persistent pain. His legs on the other hand had mercifully gone numb, as had his wrists. He looked down at his shadow, which was growing longer. The sun, he thought, seems to have passed its zenith. He thought that perhaps it would cool and relieve him of some of his misery. Sergeant Reynaud was talking again. He was cursing some unseen person, the words random vitriol, directionless, but no less spiteful. It amazed René that that even now, after all of this, he still hated the sound of that man's voice. He hated it more than he hated the sun, the Spaniards or even the pain in his shoulders. René could remember the exact first words he had heard that detested voice speak. It had been Reynaud's first day after taking over from Fournier as company sergeant. Walking into the bright morning light of the depot yard Reynaud, had taken one look at the company formation and then made a beeline for René. René had no idea what it was that had so attracted the sergeant's attention. He knew that he was fit for inspection and that one would be hard pressed to find a deficiency. Sergeant Fournier, with a little help from Austrian musket balls, had turned René from cobbler's apprentice into a right and proper soldier of the Empire. Standing almost nose to nose with René Reynaud said, "You're shit. You look like shit and you smell like shit. You must be shit." René had weathered this sort of treatment before. He did not know why Reynaud was playing the new conscript routine. It was old news to René, to the point where he was almost immune to it. Almost. Despite the knowledge of what it would bring, René could not resist the urge to respond. "Perhaps the sergeant smells himself?" René quipped. Knuckles to the stomach. René picked himself up off his knees and re-shouldered his musket. How drôle. He missed sergeant Fournier. Fournier knew how and when to dispense a beating. In fact, he made something of an art of it. He rarely did it simply to make a point, and he never, ever, did it for the pleasure. That meant you could trust the man. Reynaud, it seemed, was going to be no Fournier. That incident had been the first interaction between Reynaud's fist and René's stomach. Later, the company sergeant would also introduce his big, calloused knuckles to René's jaw, mouth and cheeks. Reynaud was smart enough not do any permanent harm though, because Colonel Legrand had no use for soldiers in the hospital. René lifted his head a little. Reynaud's cursing had degenerated into babble now. It had an almost singsong quality, not unlike a drunkard arguing with nobody, Reynaud was continuing his defiance of the world right up until the very end. "That man seems to hate the whole world. However, for some reason, he really hates you, René. Why do you think that is?" Bruno mocked without twitching a muscle. "Shut up you idiot! He's probably standing right behind us, waiting for you to run your damn mouth." René and Bruno had long ago mastered the art of gabbing while on post. From any angle and from almost any distance they were two ramrod straight sentries in front of red and white striped guardhouses. However, these two had spent many an hour on post badmouthing their comrades and superiors without betraying a hint of their indiscretion. "Nah, he's not in the yard. Listen. You can hear people talking. When that son of a bitch comes around everyone shuts up so not to give him an excuse. Everyone but you that is. Before you say anything, I know what you are thinking. He will break down before you will. Well, you are wrong. Look at Reynaud's hands. Look at his back and shoulders. That man is a lifer. I heard he was at Marengo" René groaned at that. "Everyone over thirty claims they were at Marengo" he replied. Bruno paused for a second, "Well, maybe he was and maybe he wasn't, but I'll bet he was in the army then." René replied with a doubtful Mmm-hmm. "So why isn't he in the Guard? He would be experienced enough and he is tall enough. He has the moustache too." "Maybe that's it", replied Bruno, "Maybe he's miffed he's not in the Guard. The moustache is a pretty good clue." "So, why isn't he then?" "I don't know. Because he's an arsehole?" René could not help laughing. "Easy shoe-boy," said Bruno "Or the Spanish will notice you are not dead. Now why don't you come down off of there and join the rest of us?" René jerked his head up again. Looking right, he saw Bruno's body, hanging there, just as it had been since yesterday. The sun was behind him now, the wood blocking the sunlight and cooling René's back ever so slightly. His shoulders still hurt though. Worse, he had no one with whom to talk. That would be nice he thought. He really missed Corporal Neville. He wished Neville were here. It was always fun to speak with the good corporal. Neville could read and not just in French. René remembered looting a schloß in Germany, near Ulm he recalled, fighting with a Gascon over a silver place setting when the corporal walked in. He figured the corporal would pull rank and take the silver for himself, but he had walked right by. On the other hand, René had been distracted and gotten a fist to the face from the Gascon fusilier. Giving up on his prize, he turned and watched the corporal skimming a bookcase that dominated one wall of the room. Walking up to the corporal he said, "Neville, why aren't you an officer?" The corporal shot René a glare for his trouble. Ooh. Sore point he thought. He pressed anyway. "You can read and all that, you know drill really well and someone said you can ride. Sounds like a rich boy upbringing to me." "Did I just see you looting Fusilier Broussard?" the corporal queried as he pulled books off the shelf and tucked them under his arms. "I do recall that looting is a crime punishable by flogging". The corporal turned, shot a look at René and walked out of the room, books under arm. Later René found out that Neville's family were Royalist sympathizers. His father, an officer, was killed during the revolution. Even Napoleon seizing power and declaring general amnesty to Royalist officers had not convinced the family to withdraw their support for restoration. It seems that Neville was stuck with the stigma. René kept at the corporal though, and eventually convinced him to read some of his books aloud to the boys. The last time he had seen Neville was after that hellacious artillery bombardment at Talavera. The corporal had been lying on his back holding his guts in with both hands. Reynaud was nowhere to be seen, but Neville had stood his ground and kept many of the new fusiliers from running. Right up until a cannonball ripped through the company's ranks, and through Corporal Neville. "The sun was going down, but it was still hot," he heard Corporal Neville say. It was nice to hear Neville reading again. René stood over the mutilated Neville who turned his head toward René and continued to speak, "Fusilier Broussard's shoulders ached. The wind had kicked up the dust again and Broussard inhaled a nose-full. Now if you would just stop screwing around and come down off of there I'll read you a book…" René jerked his head up. Reynaud was not speaking anymore. He tried to turn his head to look at the sergeant, but the best he could do was roll his eyes left. The sergeant's head was hanging straight down, mouth open. He was gone. Damn it, thought René, the first voice I hear when I get to hell will be that son of a bitch. Looking outward, René saw that Señor Jefe was back. Jefe was stocky, brown, weathered and balding. He was like any other Spanish Campesino between here and Cadiz. He was a hateful, fanatic, superstitious, grubby little dirt monkey who took joy in slitting French throats. You could see it in his dark little piss-hole eyes. He would probably kill his mother to get his own way. He would sell you a melon in the morning and cut you a new smile ear to ear that same night. The sneaky, skulking Spanish way. Oh, but get them into a stand up fight and boy would they run. You simply could not trust a people like that. Not the English though. They would stand and fight. René never really hated the English. He had probably killed or wounded a number of them, but with all the musket and cannon smoke on a battlefield, you never really knew if you had hit anything. Sure, René had killed some Spaniards, but always in reprisal for some typically Spanish atrocity. The poisoned well that had wiped out half the company. The whore who had murdered Sous-lieutenant Devereux in his sleep. None of that really bothered him. It certainly did not bother him now. Not now, since Señor Jefe and his band of dirt monkeys had confirmed his every Spanish prejudice. The one that had bothered him had been the green jacket. That was the only time that René knew for certain he had killed a man, Spaniards notwithstanding. They had been in a fight with Wellington again. The Colonel ordered the company out as voltigeurs. René and Bruno formed a pair, one of them shooting while the other moved. Their opponents had been British skirmishers, the green-jacketed men with their rifled muskets. The voltigeurs carried a smoothbore Charleville. That meant the British had an advantage over the company in terms of range and accuracy. Nevertheless, the company was experienced in skirmishing and the pairs moved quickly to close the distance with the British. René and Bruno had gotten behind a large boulder for cover. From here, one could fire while the other reloaded, covered in part by the boulder. René went to fire first, his target a pair of green jackets, not far off, but facing away. Just as he brought his musket to bear a green jacket popped out from the other side of the boulder. Equally surprised to have been sharing the boulder as cover with two Frenchmen, the Brit had been slower to react. René, finger already on the trigger swung his musket around and discharged it directly in the man's face. The familiar blow to the shoulder, the pan flashing in his face, and the smoke from the powder did not hide from René the impact of what he had done. The half-inch musket ball had struck the man squarely in the forehead, exiting the back in a liquid cloud of red. The green jacket dropped like a rag doll. Drill took over and René, slightly in shock and without taking advantage of the boulder, set about reloading his musket. Putting his lips to the warm muzzle of the Charleville, he spat a fresh round down the barrel. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the green jacket's feet. The short black boots in green trousers were jerking and kicking. After ramming the round home he pulled out the ramrod and dropped it back in the holder. Lifting up his musket, he thought he heard Bruno fire. Try as he might he could not help but look at the man he had just killed. He looked at the British soldier, lying not far from his feet. The twitching had stopped and the smoke had cleared. The hole in the front of the man's head was huge. His face burnt black from powder burn and the angle of his eyes distorted by the blow to his skull. His rifle lay haphazardly across his chest. One arm was draped across the rifle, the other limp at his side. His mouth was open as if he had been about to cry out before the musket ball had carried his brain away. The green jacket sat up and looked at René. "Well, what are you waiting for you bloody stupid frog bastard? Get down from there and join your mates." René jerked his head up. Following his cruciform shadow to its apex, he saw Señor Jefe still standing there above one of the shadow's outstretched arms. Standing above the other arm, separated by the shadow's head was another man. He was taller than Señor Jefe was. The man was quite big actually, grubby (all Spaniards are grubby) and wore a straw hat. He carried a musket at the trail in his big right hand. The two of them were obviously arguing. What these two dirt monkeys could have to argue about was completely beyond René. Señor Jefe was clearly not pleased with Straw Hat. It became clear to René that Straw Hat had some sort of authority in the little brown world and was exercising it to Señor Jefe's displeasure. "He's a priest you little shit," said Sergeant Reynard. René rolled his eyes left. Reynard hung there the same as he had before, head down, mouth open. "Yeah, he's a priest. You mean you can't understand what they are saying? How is it that you have been here two years and you still don't speak Spanish?" asked Bruno. Well, thought René, I would imagine the dead know a priest when they see one. So what does a dirt monkey priest, with a musket, have to argue about with throat slitting partisan? Señor Jefe waved his hands forward dismissively towards the priest and stalked off back towards the village. The priest turned and walked slowly towards René, stopping at his feet. What does he want from me, thought René? A confession? A conversion? I am not in the mood for superstitious rituals. The sun had dropped to the horizon, giving the landscape a yellow glow and cast René's shadow out long before him. The priest looked up at René, and met his eyes. He can see that I am still alive, he thought. Maybe, just maybe he will climb up here and let me down. Instead, the priest lowered his head, and in the shadow of a crucified French soldier made the sign of the cross. He lifted the musket and cocked the hammer back. Putting it to his shoulder, he pointed the weapon straight at René's face. Well, thought the young soldier, At least my shoulders won't hurt anymore.
  13. http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/tech/2007...obo.soldier.ksl Its been so long since I played CP, I forget what they called the battles suites, but they are on the way...
  14. Anyone know of any real-world High Explosive or HEAT ammunition. Smaller than .50, I'm wondering if any have been developed in the 7.62-ish range.
  15. Look, I work for an evil Japanese corporation. Not only that, but I manage security for an evil Japanese corporation at the center of the financial universe. I have learnt a few things in my trnasition from evil government stooge to evil corporate suit. Corps in Cyberpunk games, movies and novels are rarely portayed as behaving in a corporate manner. Corps are businesses and their sole purpose is to make money. They have no other motive. Profit. pure and simple. Most often corps behave like governments, in particular second or third world governments. The Suits that represent the corps act like banana republic bureaucrats. I particularly love the frequently used "poetic justice" at the end of the story where the suit gets screwed over (usually killed) by nameless, faceless backstabbing suits so they can take credit for his accomplishments. How long would any business survive if its management behaved like that? Yeah, people hate it when "that jerk Bob" closes a huge deal and gets a $10 million bonus. But you know what? That also means the the Corp has more $$$ in the bank and that (at least) management can expect raises and/or bonuses at the end of the year. Plus, how motivated is your management going to be knowing that their hard work might be rewarded with a flechette round through the central nervous system? This, of course, is why we have coups in 3rd world dictatorships. Then the is the (drum roll...) Corporate Army (bum bum BUM!). Hello! Can you say "overhead"? A business does not improve profitability by maintaining an expensive professional military force, much less by actually using that military force. Even if they are third party contractors. Unless of course your private army consists of Po' Folks, but then how effective are they going to be? Will they be worth the return on the investment? This is where the Edgerunners come in. Below board. Paid by the operation. No indemnity. Plausible deniability. As long as the expense is less than the potential increase in revenue. Now if the scenario is a personal one where a suit is motivated by hatred or jealousy etc. then the use of Edgrunner to do dirty work makes even more sense since the issue is personal. My $.02 worth...
  16. The great Russian groups will be authorized soon with raising their own army THE WORLD | 05.07.07 | Updated • 13h53 05.07.07 | 13h53 N economic world Russian held according to a feudal system, where each stronghold directed by a company would have its own army... The last decision of the Russian Parliament leaves think that a better safety of the large companies should almost pass some by there. Wednesday July 3, the Duma adopted, in third reading, a law authorizing the Gazprom giant, as well as the monopoly of the Transneft pipelines, to have their own service of safety, armed and equipped with widened capacities. These guards are authorized to use "special equipment" anti-riot in order to avoid any attack against the gas pipelines, pipelines and other installations "necessary to the contracts of State", according to the text of law. The new agents of safety will have the same prerogatives as the Russian police force. At the origin of the vote, deputies whose past is partly related to the sector of safety. One of them, Alexandre Goudov, justifies the initiative by recalling that the incidents concerning the pipelines passed from 84 acts of vandalism in 1999 to 1 000 today. MICRO HALF-COMPARTMENT AT THE TIME OF THE DEBATE The project must still pass in front of the Council of the Federation then in front of Vladimir Putin. This last will surely not fail to support it. Because of its past to the service of FSB (the ex-KGB), but also perhaps of its future: one lends the intention to him to take the direction of Gazprom. Russian Net surfers are ironical already about a Putin perched in top of a large tower, ordering its own army and its own fleet after the end of its mandate in 2008. "We are opening a Pandora's box", warned Guennadi Goudkov, deputy of the Russia party right, at the time of the debate, before its microphone is not cut. The national bank Sberbank or the railroads could want to make some as much while agitating the threat of terrorist attacks. As of at the time, of the companies but also of the concerned owners could want to shoot at the robbers to protect their ports, their deposits. Special services and private police forces already exist, then an army with the service of particular interests... Madeleine Vatel (Moscow, correspondence) Article published in the edition of the 06.07.07 Original Article en francais
  17. CyberMurph

    Dragon Skin

    Well, after stomping through the woods wearing IBA in 90` heat in Fort Drum, New York a couple of weeks ago I do NOT want another 20 punds added to my body armor. I will stick with the IBA.
  18. Dunno. I'll be at GenCon though.
  19. CyberMurph

    Dragon Skin

    Buy now, pay later! Its the American way!
  20. I believe Hall & Oats are band under an international torture convention.
  21. CyberMurph

    Dragon Skin

    Well, unless congress forces DoD to act, nobody is getting DragonSkin any time soon. IBA works, is in service, and would be incredibly expensive to replace.
  22. CyberMurph

    Dragon Skin

    Well, if you people shoot as well as you argue, Phipps, Rockwolf and DeeEight should be just fine!
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