Freedom Faction RP

((Don't worry, Damien. A PM was sent and everything's squared away. Krissom is not literally an officer. He just fancies himself one. That and morale sergeant just doesn't sound quite right))

Anthony remembered when he didn't get a kink in his neck just for driving a couple hours. Then again, he also remembered being able to OK whatever came to his desk for the public to read. A lot has changed. The good thing was most things still looked the same, so no one could see the spread of discontent.

He instantly regretted his clothing decision as he stepped into the Virginian bar. The regulars threw him cross looks and the waitress inferred--disturbingly accurately--that Anthony was indeed looking for the motley collective of people that slowly trickled away out of a back door. Among them was a man that looked a slight bit older than Anthony himself was. He also seemed to be the one doling out drinks. Must be Jack.

The city lights are shining bright.
Party noises and the smell of the smoke seems mediocre tonight.

It has been 5 years, since my pop and mom has gone. I’m all alone now.

As I walk on one of the cinder streets of Leesburg Virginia, I noticed the beggars sleeping in a drastic state. With no shelter to give warmth each night, I wondered how they survived such unfortunate life.

I am not that poor, at least.

I continued to wander the streets and finally found the pub I am instructed to venture. The King Crowd’s pub is open with a bustling weekend crowd, pleasant conversation and wisps of cigarette smoke hang in the air.

I entered surprised and confused, with no guards checking me. The crowd are composed of middle aged people, some are under age, of course.

I approached the bar instantly, for I don’t wanna get involved with such persons here. I am classy. Perhaps I am raised that way, so I don’t want to get in touch with some drunkards and smokers here.

Alcohol and Cigarette is bad for your Health.

I ordered red wine to the one of the staffs. He is wearing white, not that muscular, just enough muscles for his daily functioning I think.

But before the wine is able to be served, I notice a room. Quiet and in peace. Probably preposterous in a place like a pub, where all you can here are champaign bottles and party rock stereos.

Thats it. My curiosity drives me in. I heard repetitive sound of tapping. Such of a type writer. The room is empty, no wonder its poignant. Except the fact that theres another door that probably would lead me somewhere.

I wonder what would it be...

A young raven-haired man stepped into the King's Court pub, a stoic yet somewhat mean look spread across his face. He scanned around the bar, taking in the sight of the many customers, and some of the staff, that eyed him weirdly. Of course, he couldn't blame them. Really, who wears a fedora with a tank-top, much less an ammo vest. The fact that he was carrying a long hunting rifle and another handgun didn't make him any less intimidating.

Of course, Adrian Phoenix may have noticed all of these, but he never really gave a fuck.

He took a seat near the bar and ordered some scotch. He looked at his watch for a while before going back to blankly staring at the shelves of drinks behind the bar.

"Almost time."

His scotch had arrived, just in time for...

*BEEP* *BEEP*

He shut off the alarm in watch and reached inside a pocket on his vest, taking out a pill container. He took out two and swallowed them in one gulp. After a few seconds, he put the pills back inside and sipped a little of his drink. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the waitresses giving him a dirty look, as if silently reprimanding his actions of taking medication and alcohol at the same time. He continued to glare at her for a while before he spoke up.

"What?"

The waitress just went about her own business after that, still looking crossed. Adrian went back to his drink. After a taking a few slow sips, he looked back at his watch.

He stared blankly at it for a while, before putting his hand back down.

"Eh...might as well."

He took his glass and walked over to the back door, into a room where he was meant to be in this whole time. He took his time to check his surroundings and the other people in the room. All he could think of was...

"Bland."

He saw an empty seat by one side of the table. Adrian sat down before looking to the center of the table.

All the while, there was a faint tapping noise echoing throughout the room, like a typewriter in front of a microphone, whose speakers were all around the room.

"This...is going to take a fucking while..."

I didn't pay much attention when a good amount of people left the room through the back door, as I was preoccupied with the pint of ale in my hands. I stood up quickly from the table.

"Uh. I really need to go.", I said as I went towards the bathroom, forgetting that I still had on the cat ears I bought earlier.

I took the way to the actual bathroom, as the ale seemed to go right through me, and came back out after a couple minutes. I walk the way towards where everyone else had gone and go into the dark room with the sounds of the type writer reverberating off of the walls. I see all of the people, but I notice one person in particular. Only because he had a laptop with him, and was looking at the screen. I bounce joyfully over to him and lean over his shoulder.

"Oh. What have you got there? Are you doing anything interesting~?", I ask with a little hint of heat and excitement in my voice.

I was a bit drunk, but I didn't notice. I was just happy to have a slight opportunity to take a look at some of my Otaku fetishes and get out this pent up horniness that was inside of me, by masturbating. Even to the extent of not caring if everyone was going watch.

"Oh Dear. Seems that i'm a tad late I am." an unusual man said. At the current time, he wore a dark brown trench coat and wore a long scarf, with a beanie hat and a few other winter-like clothing. As many of his fellow members were instructed to do, he went ahead and arrived to a pub called The King's Court Pub and meet a man named "Jack". Sadly, due to his lack of care for time, he was 'preoccupied' with a few things before heading to the designated place at the proper time. As which as soon as he had entered, he saw that the place was quite busy, due to the heavy smoke and sound of glasses clinging. As he was scanning the room, he saw a man walking towards another, one who fit the description of the man who he was to meet. He went ahead and went to the table where "Jack" was sitting.
(=3=;; u guys should notify everyone about the start of the rp u kno :U)

((OOC: You should always check the RP that you submitted a character sheet to in order to not miss anythough, though, Pyro.))


Mira got up at last, after few of the members walked for the appointed location; she finally made her way to the room immediately.

She walked calmly as always, showing elegance in each step, reaching her destination in pure fashion of aristocracy.

Upon entering the room; fashionably late, she scanned it with her eyes ever so properly, it seemed ordinary. "No wonder" she whispered to herself.

She proceeded to the table and took a seat on one of the vacant chairs.

(to those of you in the room)

Suddenly a section of wall slid back and revealed Winchester's head seemingly trapped in the wall at floor level. "the fuck are you guys doing bullshitting in here? Didn't anyone take the key? Open the box?" Following a moment of awkward silence he looked around, "Apparently Jack forgot to mention... Alright just get in here the opening's wide enough to accommodate you single file." He moved aside and the hole remained open allowing access to the seemingly solid concrete foundation.

I type up my last reply on my forum,

"Thanks for asking, one of the many reasons why a gun that takes .223 Remington rounds can't take military 5.56mm NATO rounds is because of the make of the military round. The shells are in fact, quite thicker than the civilian .223 counterpart, making the rifle unable to take interes-"

. . . I made a mistake, the woman who had come up next to me seemed to have been talking to me and I accidently typed something she was saying rather than what I was meant to type. I take a deep breath before looking back to the woman, "I'm typing up a reply to a fellow user on this forum I go to, although I don't think you'd find it interesting yourself, you're welcome to read on as I type." With that quick answer, I go back to typing up the rest of the reply. I hit the backspace repeatedly, removing the unnecessary characters that I had written.

"Unable to take in 5.56x45mm. However, despite this problem with the .223 rifles, military 5.56mm rifles are able to take in .223 rounds. Overall, I suggest that you get a 5.56mm rifle if possible and if you can't and have to get a .223 then just head my warnings and don't use military 5.56mm."

I press the enter key and the page loads up with my response. I take a sigh and brush my hand through my hair before immediately reacting to a sliding sound. I look back and a section of the wall had gone, revealing the head of our leader's dear friend Michael trapped in the wall. He went on about the key Jack had given earlier before telling us to follow him through the hole.

I log out my laptop, putting it to sleep and it plays my customised sound for when it logs off "Over and out, Sniper Ling." I pack it back into my laptop bag, grab my guitar case and walk towards the wall with the hole. I take a knee and look through for a moment before pushing my guitar case in first and crawling in after it.

I come out the other end, picking myself up and my guitar case and stand by the hole, waiting for the rest to follow through.

I entered to the door hastily.

The pitch black atmosphere was incomparable with the traumatic noise outside. Here, all the lights are deemed to be restricted. But otherwise, the silence here didn’t give me any comfort. I felt just exactly as how I felt when my parents died.

The deafening silence. The uncolored solidarity. The tragic death. All came to me at once.

I leaned on the smooth, straight wall as the memories of the past resides me. Tears starts falling from my eyes because of the fresh wounds my parents altered.

But before the grief consume all of me, a man I know I knew, somewhat middle aged in height and looked intellectual, is standing on the right side of the door. Though, I can’t see all of him since he is hiding in the darkness, but I can still compute for the blurry image.

His face doesn’t mark of such pity for me, nor curiosity. His good posture reminds of my father…

I slowly stood up and faced the man. Wiped my tears and attempted to conceal my emotions, which I know is useless because he is standing right there for a long time, watching me cry.

“Who are you?” I asked the man with the strange smile, showing only his lips.

“Haven’t you remember me?” The familiar voice started to ventured in my mind. I know this man. Somewhere in my past, when my father is still alive.

The man slowly shows his face to the light.

Alas! I am not wrong. He is Winchester. My father’s colleague in the Freedom Faction.

I can still remember him being served by my mom with a coffee in our living room. The memories of him with my father conversing about NBA are still fresh as the flowers of Daffodils.

He stepped onto the light. Showing a 30 year old man whom I knew that would help me to go into the Faction.

“The others are in, we are waiting for you, Chelsie…”

((OOC: Sorry for not following, I used other situation instead that would benefit my character))

After enough had filed out of the bar and the Pale Ale in front of Anthony was a memory, he finally stood and strolled out the back door, flashing another smile at the waitress, which she returned this time. He left in time to hear a door to his right click shut. He hastily walked to the door and pulled it open to see a group of people waiting as one after another they crawled into a small hole. Anthony stifled a chuckle and quietly closed the door behind himself before taking his spot in the queue.

It wasn't long before he heard the incessant clicking of a mechanical typewriter through the walls, the same cacophony that was present when he first joined this little exercise in free expression.

"Guy can't even get a friggin electrical typewriter? Just has to be loud so everyone knows when he's typing." He muttered to himself, opting to mention that he kept and used one of his own at home.

The area below the cement floor was deceptively spacious. The sounds that filled the chamber widened when the members entered. The rhythmic sound of generators humming, the metal clicks of Browning figuring out his new pistol's mechanism, the repetitive sound of the typewriter and the shuffling of papers filled the sure. The chamber was lighted with cheap florescent lights which gave the bare concrete a sickly grey-green color. Along the walls there were empty hooks sized out for the main weapons of the Faction's members. Winchester strolled up lazily probing his nail beds with a 5" bowie knife and infrequently placing the tip in his teeth. His tall stature made him appear awkward in the room. He shuffled through his plaid jacket and pulled out a letter that seems to have originated from Jon himself. The vault door that occupied a corner of the room was the small tomb Jon placed himself in. The only access to the vault was a small drop box, probably capable of taking multiple grenades before showing even a scratch for the worse. Walking to the center of the tom he calls for four volunteers for an "undisclosed operation".

The room we entered in was surprisingly big than I thought it would be. I take a while to scan my surroundings from my spot before Winchester calls up for four volunteers to go on an operation. I instinctively, step forward, raising up my right hand as I clutched my guitar case with my other.

I looked behind me to see who else would join.

Darren jerked out of his daydream and wiped a strand of drool from his mouth, standing up and pushing the chair back in time to see everyone crawling through a hole.

"What the hell? Why's everyone crawling through a hole...?" he asked in bewilderment.

As he crawled after the group, he heard the rather tall Winchester ask for volunteers for an 'undisclosed operation'. Hearing these words, he grinned rather manically and raised his hand.

He volunteered quickly, stating, "Sure, why the hell not?"

"Alright just 2 more. Jon told me to get volunteers before describing it so whatever." Winchester shrugged and looked around again, then went back to his nail beds practically ignoring the presence of the group. He didn't always intend on being such a dick, it just came natural to him. He wasn't igniting anyone on purpose, but without Murphy there to keep him on task he'd always lose interest. Since he gained his rank and position he lost focu. He ease a man to do whatever he could get away with from 1,000+ yds with 5 or fewer rounds.

((Sorry for being late. I was preoccupied yesterday....))

Lex shrugged as he listens to Winchester's ranter while he looked on. He never liked the guy. Although he's a good shot and a guy trusted by Jon, Lex could never bring himself to like him. Lex thinks of the guy as a loud and irritating guy. He would have preferred if he was not the one "welcoming" them.

To Lex, Michael Winchester was an arrogant man that tried to order other people around even though he shouldn't, he tried that with Lex and it didn't end very well. Lex got a dislocated jaw(punched by Michael) and Michael sprained his ankle after Lex tripped him as he fell.

As everyone gathers in the underground room, Lex went over and checked the equipments on the walls and goes into the room while he contemplates on what would Jon's orders be.

Winchester lead me on an area behind the door.


The area below the cement floor was deceptively spacious.
The sounds that filled the chamber widened when the members entered. The rhythmic sound of generators humming, the metal clicks of Browning figuring out his new pistol's mechanism, the repetitive sound of the typewriter and the shuffling of papers filled the sure.

The chamber was lighted with cheap florescent lights which gave the bare concrete a sickly grey-green color. Along the walls there were empty hooks sized out for the main weapons of the Faction's members.

I noticed about 3 people inside, and one somewhat familiar in my sight.
The feeling I felt when I saw Winchester is the same feeling I felt with this man. I stared at him for a moment.

"He is Jon" Winchester said surprisingly.

I tried to recall the name Jon, but no instant answer appeared.


Winchester strolled up lazily probing his nail beds with a 5" bowie knife and infrequently placing the tip in his teeth. His tall stature made him appear awkward in the room. He shuffled through his plaid jacket and pulled out a letter that seems to have originated from Jon himself. The vault door that occupied a corner of the room was the small tomb Jon placed himself in.

((OOC: Copy pasta is a bad form of RPing for the RPers. That said, one is better off not re-describing a room or a place after it was done so unless a special case takes place.))

Mira lazily walked towards the small space on the wall, after which she crouched and then crawled her way in. Looking around the mechanical yet... cheap looking place, Mira listened well to Winchester, "I shall volunteer, because it's been quite boring recently."

Adrian had been looking at the center of the table the entire time, listening to the rhythmic tapping, but didn't fail to notice a lot of the other members going towards what appeared to be a hold in the wall that just opened up, and the head of a man who was apparently ordering them to go through the hole in a single-file line. He glanced at him from the corner of his, but only for a second, before rolling them.

"Fan-fucking-tastic. We got a hillbilly giving us orders now."

After everyone had already gone through, Adrian waited for a little longer, probably after everyone was out of his line of sight, before getting up from his seat and walking towards the new opening. He crawled through it, grasping his rifle to make sure it wouldn't fall, and ended up in a new, spacious room. He looked around the room again with his analytical glare. A line of hooks for weapons along one side, an eerie green hue given off due to the fluorescent lights, and the hillbilly himself standing in the center of the room.

He saw three people were standing closer to the hillbilly, who he now remembers was called Winchester, who was looking around the room expectantly. An Asian with a guitar case, another man with headphones, and a young, raven-haired lady with a gun not befitting her apparent stature.

"What, a mission already?"

Adrian closed his eyes for a while, contemplating on the situation. Should he do the logical thing and stand back, watching how things go at first, or should he risk it all right from the start?

He sighed and opened his eyes.

"This goes against every tactical fiber in my being, but..."

He steps forward and stands beside the three "teammates" of his for this operation, without saying a word or looking at them, once again blankly staring out to wherever.

Jon's outline vanished from the room trailing wisps of cigarette smoke which circled around the now empty space he once occupied. As he entered the vault he flung an empty bottle of gin from the tiny room. The metallic clank of the typewriter settling in it's new home on Jon's steel desk. The last sound Jon produced was the loud squealing of the massive hinges and hallow mechanical clank as the vault door locked. The silence of the room was broken by the resumed sound of the typewriter muffled by the sizable vault door.

"Right..." Winchester said as he scratched the back of his head. "he's just sour that I beat him in our little drinking game before y'all arrived" the smell of alcohol on his breath was enough to knock a man down. Winchester was a notoriously skilled drinker and allegedly never lost a game before. Strangely he wasn't swaying, slurring and didn't appear even slightly intoxicated. "anyway" he continued "y'all volunteered for this so no notching about it later" he straightened his glasses and opened the letter reading it to himself for a moment before setting it down and going to the vault door. "Jon, you're fucking crazy this mission is bullshit." The typewriter stopped for a moment before restarting. "real fucking mature man. There's no fucking way dude". The typewriter stopped again then picked up again in a sound like morse code. The coded message seemed to say (to those who understand morse code) I don't care just do it. Winchester shrugged and said "basically you've got to take out the police airbase" he cleared his throat and went on. "he says, be creative, just don't kill all the birds."

Darren blinked for a second, then stared at the drunkard. Ignoring the incredulity of the mission, he furrowed his eyebrows and asked, "Wait, the police have an airbase? What...?"