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/qst/ - Quests

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Previous thread in readable form:


The bell rings on your alarm clock and you hastily slap your wake-up call until it stops. Rubbing your eyes and propping yourself up, you remember all the bullshit you went through last night. Let's see...

Well you got off your first shift at a garbage construction job.

You got a sub from Vinny's, and that was probably the highlight of yesterday.

You got jumped in an alleyway, and your past caught up to you. Gotta come up with the money...

Shit, you look down and remember what happened to your arm. But you also remember Poole.

Ugh, what a shitty night. You pull yourself up out of bed, aching in places you never knew ached and on the way to the bathroom you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror...

(A word on the system next...)
you writing, OP? It's better to have a stuff like system explanations planned out beforehand.
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The slam behind your dunks. It's a force behind every hit you lay down. In a roll that is a straight up punch, this helps you.

The stat is general, but often area specific attacks will lend to focused crushing of a certain body part. Overall, it's represented by the number above, and at the start of fights it is what any uninjured body parts begin at. This is a mod on bracing for impact.

This is the way you get out of taking a punch. A full dodge on success, but you eat shit otherwise. This also doubles for things that might need some tact or positional assistance.

This decides how quickly you recoil as well as how often you punch. Note that whiffing a punch means you have to recollect yourself, so this can definitely help.

Last is your stamina, the ability for you to get back up after getting floored. This is a hidden stat until you are in a dire situation.


You look a little fucked up. A few scratches here and there don't say much, but the bandaged right forearm and wrist tell a whole story. You hear the television is on in the other room. Ma must be watching her stories. Still, she'll fuckin' flip if she catches this on you. She'd flip if she knew a lot of things...

>Try to hide it under a jacket.
>Be honest with her about last night.
>Write in

Yeah it just took me a second. I had it planned though, no worries.
>Be honest with her about last night.
We don't pussy foot around this shit and we won't start now.
>>Try to hide it under a jacket.
She'll just try to worry, and that will lead to crap about the mob, getting the police involved..
We'll just need to think of a good excuse if she looks.
and then mom goes out and leaves no survivors
I'll let you dudes figure it out for a bit.

I need food, because I literally woke up and started typing. Hahah. I shouldn't be long.

Alright, writing.
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You walk down stairs and your mom hears you coming. You know this by her trademark "Mornin'!" she lets out daily. It's a Tuesday, nice weather out, sun streaming in through the windows.

"Morning." Your reply was a bit off, probably because you were thinking about it too hard, as if trying to recite.

"Oh no no. I know something's up. I can hear it. What's wrong?"

She says all this with her eyes still fixated on the screen, which is crazy to you. ow can she keep up with a conversation in a story as well as hear something's wrong with you? Mom powers.

She's sitting, but you know her to be a few inches shorter than you. She's got black hair like you and an average build. Pretty soon she'll be putting her fold-away tray away and taking her dish up to the sink to head to work. Tuesday, right? Yeah this is her night for dishes.

She used to work a desk entering data, but didn't wanna keep up with the technology, so she ended up being an assistant at an old folks home. She looks after people because that's what she's good at.

"Last night was pretty rough on me, ma."

She immediately stands up, mom powers tingling, and inspects you. You're not trying to hide it, so you extend your wrist with a look on your face that betrays how shitty you feel.

"Oh my god! Gerardo Pittman, what on earth happened? Who did this to you?"

>"Just some thugs."
>"I was hurt on the job."
>"I fell on the way back from work."
>"You know how Vinny's can be!"
>Write in
>>"Just some thugs."
We don't necessarily have to specify which thugs, do we?
>write in
"I happened to be in the wrong place, wrong time mum, well atleast i got signed up at a gym so this kind of stuff won't happen again."


"It was right after I texted you. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."


You can tell she was livid. Not at you, but at whoever did this to you.

"It was just some thugs. And it's okay."

"How is this okay?!? What could you possibly mean?"

She is anxious about your well-being. You're surprised she's even listening and not freaking out.

"I signed up at a gym. I'm gonna get in shape and put in work. This sort of stuff isn't gonna happen anymore."

She looks at you confused. You've never really seemed like a sports type, but you were always reasonably athletic. She sits down on a stool nearby and thinks it over.

"What sort of gym? I mean, I don't like the idea of you just gettin' into fights and shit, but what gym?"

"It's on the southeast side, about a block down from Vinny's. It's near the site. It's all right there."

She bites her fingers for a bit and looks at the the time.

"You know what? We'll talk about it later. I really got a go in for my shift. You should call into work. Last thing we need is for my baby boy to make matters worse, constructing shit."

She lets out a nervous laugh.

You are scheduled to go in in about a few hours, but this injury might get in the way.

>"Yeah I'll call in ma."
>"Actually I got a better opportunity for making money."
>Tell your ma you're calling in to get off work, but then actually, the plan is to just quit your job.
>Write in
>"Yeah I'll call in ma."
We should probably be out of work till that arm heals up.


A few more updates, then I have to go for a few hours.

Good choice. Fuck. Still writing.
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"Yeah, I'll call in."

"Damn right you will!"

She starts jetting around the tiny kitchen area and grabs her purse and a kiss from you before you even realize it.

"We'll talk about this gym nonsense later. It's not like you're gonna be fighting anyone soon hopefully."

More nervous laughter, this time from you. She bolts out the house and waves at you through the window. You plop down onto the couch and change the channel. Can't stand those stories, and their being taped anyway. VHS no less. Same tape she's had for years.

Cartoons? Not now. History? Pass. Shopping networks? Eugh. Disgusting. News? Nah... wait.

On the news they're talking about the gym? Gun fire riddled all over the inconspicuous entrance to the gym. No injuries.


Looks like the fight is also getting some attention. Poole went on record and did an interview and mentioned it.

Donny was his name. The man that in a week would be meeting your gloves and you'd be meeting his. Donny was there in the gym and you recognized him by his scar on his left cheek. He's bald and looks like he's only got two expressions: focused and mad.

But shit man, no one said shit about guns. This has nothing to do with Poole or the gym.

You turn off the TV and lean back and stare at the ceiling. It seems closer now.

What are you gonna do now?

>Go ahead and call in. Get that out of the way.
>Call Poole, make sure shit's okay.
>Get dressed and head out.
>Write in.

Taking a few hours. Gonna be busy. Will return then and will keep it up.
>>Call Poole, make sure shit's okay.
Man, ugly weather in town tonight.
>Go ahead and call in. Get that out of the way.
We should probably check on Poole right after. Shit must have went down after we left.
this, cant have our new training ground get lost so early

Alright. Writing very soon.


You say this to the empty room.


Louder now. You pull out your phone from your pocket and, ignoring the cracked screen attempt to look past and call your work. Get hat shit out of the way.

You swipe the contact.

"Make it quick."

The shift manager is already sick of your shit and you've not so much as said good morning.

"Hey I can't make it into work, my right arm got fucked up last night."

"What? Look, I need somebody for this shift and you're on the fucking schedule. Do not fuck me on this."

You don't think he understands.

"I don't think you understand sir, I'm just trying to un-fuck myself and a construction site seems like a shitty place to try that."

"Yeah, well maybe you shoulda thought of that before you hurt yourself, asshole."

"Hey w-"

The phone call is over, signaled by the declining bloop tones made by your phone.


The empty room agrees.

Fuck, no time to waste. You look online to find the number of the gym. It takes a solid fifteen minutes because you're not trying to pay for high-speed, let's get real.

There it is, Poole's Gym. Kind of a lame name for a gym. You imagine Poole, when deciding the name, didn't give a shit.

You dial it up real quick and wait.

"Poole's Gym, this is Donny."

"Hey, I'm calling for Poole, is he available?"

"Who's this?"

"Tell him it's Jerry."

He'll remember Jerry. You're not too mad at the nickname either to be fair.

"Alright one sec..."

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Weird that Donny answered. His voice is like fried gravel and he sounds like he doesn't give a shit. Maybe he was just near the phone.

You shrug it off.


It's Poole.

"Poole, thank god you're okay. What happened? I just saw the news."

"News? Fuck the news. You watch the news?"

"That's not the point, Poole. Your place got shot."

He sounds exasperated as he takes a deep breath then sighs.

"Yep. Yep. But don't you fuckin' worry. I've dealt with worse. Seriously."

"I'm just glad no one got hurt."

He pauses for a long time.

".... Same, kid.

So anyway, you coming in to the shop?"

"What about my arm?"

"What about it? Boxing has just as much to do with your feet as it does with your gloves. Don't be a baby."

"I might swing by. Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

He hangs up.


Propping your legs up on the coffee table, stained through the years, you think. Still in just your boxers and a tanktop.



The city map is attached. You know the location of the local metro as well as getting around generally, but some parts of town are less known.

Any known location, you can navigate pretty freely. If you want to visit an area with something in mind, suggest it.

You can go to areas of the city you haven't been to in the context of the story and if you want to know what you're getting into when it comes to what areas are like, you can totally ask.

>It is 9:37 AM
>You are home.
>Where to go?
Let's swing by West Central on our way to the gym. I think noon would be a good time to start training at Poole's.

What's West Central like? Is there anywhere to eat?

West Central is the touristy part of town. There's plenty of places to eat. Probably the most in the city. Lots of variety.
Any more questions or input? Might wrap for the night soon.
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You slap on some clothes and check yourself in the mirror. You're gonna train later, so you're wearing track pants and a tshirt over a tanktop.

It's nice late autumn weather, so it's not a bad idea to go ahead and put in your jacket as well. You look okay for a man recently eating pavement.

Heading towards the metro station, you pop in your earbuds and pull out your phone.

Let's see, what's the song choice here...



Perfect. A nice vibe as you head into the city. Something to calm you down before a day of training.

You get your stub punched and the train rolls on. It'll take you a solid half hour to get to West Central. You do dumb things on your phone to pass the time. You also look up boxing matches and quotes from famous boxers.


The train screeches and halts, alarming you to West Central. You hop off to see a ton of commuters all busy and focused, hustling and bustling. Elsewhere there are tourists staring up from the courtyard in the center. A large engraved plaque reads "LEGEND STATION" and famous celebrities and fighters and all sorts are immortalized in bronze here.

You walk out into the streets ahead and find your favorite joint here. Close to the station, tucked away so tourists don't get to it, and fucking amazing food.

Hell yeah, the Noodle Nook. People don't know, but this right here is the best noodles in town, and if you never had ‘em, you fucked up.

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You walk up to the glass doors to this establishment, tucked away on the corner of 6th and Roosevelt and ask for the number one. Your order is taken and before your eyes, the magic of stir fry takes shape and form. You pull up a stool to the bar behind cooks laboring away at the noodles. Focus in their eyes.

“So what’d you get?”

You look around to who said that, and your eyes rest on a woman to your right. She’s sitting, next to you with big brown eyes, reddish-brown hair, and wearing a maroon sweater.

“Uhhh, I got the uhh regular stir fry combo.”

You reflect on how smart the reply sounded but you didn’t even hear it.

“Nice. I come to this place all the time. It’s weird bumping into you!”

Shit. Shit shit shit. Do you know her?

“What’s so weird about that?”

“Oh well, I saw you on the news. You probably don’t recognize me.”

Damn right you don’t.

“Should I?”

You nervously laugh.

“I’m Becca, I was in a few of your classes in highschool.”

You don’t remember shit about this. Maybe she was behind you in every one of those classes because Becca may as well be a stranger right now.

“But what about you on TV?”

You sort of give a half shrug.

“I mean it’s no big deal. The fight will be interesting.”

The food arrives and you move your hand for the cook to place it in front of you.

Becca touches your right arm. Her touch is soft.

“So how’d you get this, Gerardo?”

>"Oh you know... construction..."
>"I got into a fight. No big deal."
>Write in.
I'll leave this hanging until tomorrow. Will check tomorrow.
Gotta be all sneaky and shit senpai
Tell half truths, try to turn the conversation so it's about her instead.
>"I got into a fight. No big deal."
this with a topic turner
"So, Becca i was on TV? Did i look handsome or what"
spaghetti is real
Will return later today. Expect me around 10:30 PM EST

Mood: https://vanillabeats.bandcamp.com/track/travels-2

"I got into a fight recently. I mean it's no big deal. But what's been going on with you recently?"

You stuff your face with noodles to hide your nerves. You just don't want to share everything.

"Oh, I've just been working at a market near here. Lot of fresh produce, organic hipster shit, you know?"

She lets out a cute laugh. After, noticing her food and taking her eyes off you, she takes her first bite.

"Oh yeah, I know how people can be in West Central. Bunch of tourists and hipsters."

In reality you didn't really hate the place. It's mostly a good food spot. It doesn't have that weird old/rich white people polish of the east side, and the aged cement on all the buildings gives this place some character. It's not too bad.

"Hey!" she says, jabbing you with her elbow mid-noodle slurp. (Impressive.)

"I live here now, dumbo! Trust me, the closer you get to the East Bay area, the more shit there is to do. But enough about that, you were on TV! Like what the hell? Imagine my shock. And then seeing you here? Crazy."

She makes an explosion hand gesture with her hands on the side of her head, misplacing her hair slightly.

"Again, it's nothing too major."

She finishes her bite.

"Now THAT is a lie. You're a liar. "

You look around nervously. Her tone changed so suddenly, it's like the room just got 5 degrees hotter.


She gives you an incredulous look.
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"I know it's worth a pretty nice wad of dough, Gerardo. I saw it! You and some Donny guy on the news."



"So, you think you're ready, tough guy?"

She winks as she says tough guy, reaching gently down your right sleeve, caressing the bandage. It feels magical, but you attempt to focus on the noodles.

>"I'm actually about to go train."
>"I guess we'll see."
>"Damn these are good noodles."
>Write in

>"Damn these are good noodles."
>"Damn these are good noodles."

Okay fine, writing. Hahah
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"Damn these are some good noodles."

Your obvious attempts at changing the subject don't go unnoticed, but she simply giggles at you.

You stuff your face once more as she retracts her hand. Her plate is nearly done.

"You got a phone, tough guy?"


"Well come on, give it!"

You look at her puzzled as if unsure why she wants your phone. It's a little strange consideri-

"So I can put my number in it."

She throws you an innocent look and you comply. Steadying your left hand, you fish out your phone and hand it to her. You make sure to flip to the contact screen first. Last thing you need is any embarrassing shit coming up on there.

As she types she gives you and your phone a surprised look.

"Damn, it's almost as beat up as you are."

She smiles and winks, while handing it back. You feel your heartbeat quicken just a little.

As you grab it and look up to make a witty reply, she's already put her money down and is walking away.

"See you around, tough guy. Call me!"

Looking back at the phone, she put her name as "Becca <3".

Man what the fuck just happened?

Are more people just gonna straight up come up recognize you on the streets? You're not so sure about this.

Popping your earbuds in and changing song to resume your noodles, you try and relax.


These noodles actually are pretty good. You should get noodles more often. Fuck right, there's supposed to be a fight soon. Focus...
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While finishing your plate, you consider...

Who was she?

What now?

It's around 11:34 AM.

[Feel free to ask questions about Becca to try and jog your memory.]

>Head back tot he train station to get over to the gym.
>Explore the city more.
>Write in
Let's try to remember what we did in high school.
What classes did I take?
Who were my friends?
That kind of stuff.

Also, it's almost noon. We said we'll go train at noon. How long would it take to get to the gym? Is there time for other stuff?

>Head back tot he train station to get over to the gym.
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You go ahead and pay and stand up, letting your food digest, leaning against the building.

Your high school experience was sort of a blur.

You had a buddy named Richard, always fucking things up in some way. Wonder where he fucked off to? That dude was destined for better things. He's either in some ditch near a bridge or fucking a model in France.

No teacher really sticks out. For the most part, you never stuck your neck out in classes. never wanted to deal with teachers hassling you.

You never crushed on Becca. You hardly remember her. You crushed on a few cuties, but never Becca.

You had a few other friends. But none really come to mind.

damn my typos.

Yeah, there's not really much time. After giving it some thought, the walk back is about ten minutes. Not really enough time to fit something in of note, and you're fucking READY to get into some training.

Let's crank some tunes and make it back to the station.


You board the train, the train chugs on, and you hear the whistle blow.

You spend most of the trip psyching yourself up for the day ahead. You don't know shit about what's going down. Poole could fucking kill you and work you half to death. You might have to spar the fucking SECOND you get through the door. Don't they jump rope in those movies? You haven't jumped rope in a fucking lifetime.

The brakes screech and you're filled with anticipation.

You writing?

Yeah sorry, got sidetracked. My bad.
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You head down a few blocks from the station around a few corners and there you are at the inconspicuous doorway, freshly painted with bullets. Fuck.

Looks like the nearby storefronts that were already run down caught some strays too. Good thing no one got hurt. This isn't there fight.

But fuck it, let's get in there.

You hustle up the stairs, and open the door. Immediately the sounds of punches flying, smacking plastics, and exasperated exhales.

The free weights are anything but, as most of the benches are occupied. A girl in the corner is slamming into the hanging bag. She looks a little over 6 feet and she could and probably would whoop your ass.

"Her name's Zoe. And staring's for idiots. AAAAAhahah"

Poole, coming in HOT with the sickest burn.

"And over there?"

He gestures, training pads still on, but you get that he's trying to point. You get the point.

"That's Jim. He used to box, but NOW HE JUST RUNS HIS MOUTH!"

"You're embarrassing me!"

The blonde cheeky man laughs, then resumes crunching.

"And of course you know Donny. He's top dog. TOP DOG!"

Poole flashes a smile his way. Donny glances over and looks right past you. You get a weird fucked up vibe when you look at him. Probably nerves.

"So your arm's a little fucked, but you can still train. What do you wanna work on, you big can of garbage?"


>Jump rope, shadowboxing, crunches.
>Shadowboxing,, pads, suicides.
>Write in.

More info in next post.
(Each workout will feature opportunity for growth.)

Mood: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d5Ap1IS2Iy4



There will be available workout routines pre-selected, as well as all the potential workouts laid out. You will have a set of WOP (Workout Points) to design a routine around. As you train better and harder, you will be able to withstand more training.


Potential workouts right now in your condition:

>Jump rope (1)
>Shadowboxing (1)
>Pads (1)
>Suicides (2)
>Step ups and movement (2)
>Sparring (4) [Thanks to injury]

What are you going for?
Let's do jump rope, suicides, and shadow boxing.
We need to get a feel for moving around, as well as conditioning.
> Let's do jump rope, suicides, and shadow boxing.
>girl in the corner
Can she teach us too?
Yeah we should probably at least see what she's about before we leave the gym.
I'll let this bake for another hot and spicy few minutes. then it's time for ROLLS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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Mood: https://soundcloud.com/autografmusic/fatboyslim

[u]JUMP ROPE.[/u]

Your hand's a little fucked, sure, but you gotta hit this shit running. You can't really hold the rope, but Poole's amused at your attempts and takes pity after a certain point.

Laughing in his trademark way, he calls over Zoe to "take 5" and they help you with holding it. They signal to change speed and cadence over time, instructing you to keep up and do certain jumps of certain height. All very rapid.

As you get better, it will be increasingly hard to work on that area in training, so as your mod goes up, the potential for growth becomes harder. Repeated working on targeted areas will eventually yield results over time.

Alright. ROLL TIME.

>Roll 1d20 - 1
For evasion.

>Roll 1d100
For speed.

Fuck, there's no underline? dang
I'm a little new to the dice rolling system. Are we supposed to roll 2 dice in one post?
either 1 or 2 posts is fine

roll for both
Rolled 15 + 1 (1d20 + 1)

I have no idea what I'm doing
Rolled 31 (1d100)

wow I need to learn this shit proper

I'll accept the 15 -1
otherwise, thanks.

I'm looking for at least 3 rolls of both.

And you can't stack two types of rolls in one, so yeah it needed to be in separate posts.

I'll be averaging the results for both seperately and then that'll decide the IMPROVEMENT of the skill.

No worries.
I see. Thank you for being understanding of my ignorance.
Should I be keep rolling though? I feel like it might be a little unfair to anybody else in the thread if I just take all the rolls.
Nah you're good man.

Once this guy >>264289 solves his deal, we'll have two people. And if I gotta come back tomorrow, that's fine too.

But yeah 3 separate people minimum.

I have a 14 and a 31

I need two more sets of rolls!
You might need to come back later. I think it's slow time for the board right now.
My bad let's try that again with one post at a time
Rolled 14 (1d20)

Here you go, you filthy shilling bitch.
Rolled 31 (1d100)

My bad
Rolled 19 (1d100)

Rolled 15 + 1 (1d20 + 1)

Fuck off shill
Looks like I was wrong about the speed, but damn are we unlucky.







At first you're able to keep up tempo just fine, switching legs and showing off a little. To punish you for being a "fuckin' wise guy", Poole signals to crank up the heat to Zoe, who makes life hell, even switching into double dutch pose.

The side of your right ankle gets whipcracked and you timber to the tiled floor beneath you. Hurts your confidence mostly. But you still feel more confident on your feet. And sweaty.



You take a quick breather and wipe the sweat from your brow, removing clothes until it's just a tanktop and your trackpants. Jim gives you a joking "WooOOOooo". Fucking Jim.

After a little bit of waiting around and watching the others so focused, you stand back up.

Poole walks over to you. "Alright fucker. Let's get it." He shows you a mark on the ground on the side wall. On one side behind you is a mirror, and in front of you is a rather beat up looking wall.

"Start here, run to that wall, touch it, run back, run back to the wall, touch it, run back to the mirror. Repeat."

"When do I stop?"

"When I say so." He blows his whistle.


>Roll 1d100 for speed.
Rolled 45 (1d100)

Watch this, babyyyyyy
Rolled 15 (1d100)

Fug my life
Rolled 100 (1d100)

HAHAHAHAHAH, I fucking rock. I am a dice god, bitch.
>implies is dice god
>nat 100
Praise be the dice god, for he has blessed us with a CRIT!
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You feel you legs underneath weak already from just one suicide, and Poole has taken a relaxed position nearby, flapping a newspaper open and whistling a tune to himself.

After the second he yells, "Now, after you touch the wall, touch your toes!"

Fuck. You're already dying.


But then you figure something out, every time you hit the wall, you can shove off of it to make the run back quicker. It's a small boost but it helps. You look at the wall coming at you on suicide three and realize why it's so beat up. The wall doesn't stop you.. it keeps you going. Imagine all the greats that have set foot here and have slammed this wall recoiling to greatness. The spring locked pressure of your arms against drywall feels so natural.


Your toe taps start fucking with you. You feel like giving up. But then your toe taps got easier. You stopped stopping. You're now jumping out of the recoil from the wall right up to chest height and tapping them as they fly underneath you. FUCK YES.


You're fucking soaring. Nothing can stop you and you bust out suicides 18 19 and 20 like fucking nothing. Your breathing's never been better. You feel the eyes on you as they wonder where all this came from. They can keep on wondering. You're a fucking cheetah. You don't give a fuck.

Poole drops his paper in disbelief. You collapse at 23. He blew the whistle.

Heavy breathing is all you hear.


SPEED: 25 => 35 [thanks to crit success!!!]

Lastly, we got shadow boxing.

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You take what feels like an eternity to catch your breath and you're drenched in sweat. Getting the hair out of your eyes, you feel lifeless staring at the ceiling. Poole's footsteps get closer and you shit your eyes up and behind you. He stares at you for a good long while with a blank expression.

"How'd I do?"

"Not bad kid."

He lifts you up and sprays you with his water bottle while quickly saying "open your mouth".

You're dazed, but you've never been more alive.

You pop a squat on a nearby bench. Zoe waves at you occasionally. You wave back. Seems like she's handling her own doing jumpsquat deadlifts.

Alright, let's get back to work.


A nearby classic jukebox kicks on.


You're baffled at the cliche.

"For real man?"

Jim is too busy jammin'. Fucking Jim.

Poole interrupts.

"Alright. Follow my lead, look into the mirror, and watch how your body shifts and meets the demands of your stance.

Guard up!"

Here we go.

>Roll 1d20-2

14 for success. 17 for huge success.
Rolled 12 (1d20)

Here we go
Rolled 16 (1d20)


Just need one more! So I may be released into my slumber for now.
Rolled 4 (1d20)

Where are our sponsors? We're super great!
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In case it was not clear before, I'm taking averages of all rolls when comparing to my tables.

"No, no, no."

You've heard that from Poole like ten times now. You're tired out and the adrenaline is wearing thin. You're struggling to keep guard, and no one is even trying to slam you. You're on Round 13 in a 12 round fight.

You understand the technique and flow of it all, and you've seen it in videos, but your legs are jello and you are gassed. You know that phrae because you hear murmurs and people saying it. And then of course there's Poole.

"You're gassed, kid. You've already put in a full days work. Go on."

He's right, and without saying much you just nod.



You rest on the bench for what feels like forever and end up nodding off...

I'm out for now. Will continue tomorrow more than likely. be thinking about what to do post-workout. If you have any questions, I'll see 'em.
Will be back in about 12 hours or less. Keep the tab open.
get back here
It's taking a bit but it will be worth it. I promise.
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You doze off and think of the past and how the fuck you got here.

It wasn't that long ago.


His name was Sam. Sam and you went way back, all the way back to elementary school at Whispering Oak. You shared games, walked to school together, and got along great. As the years went by, you got into all sorts of little shit. You’d light shit on fire, graffiti the bathroom stalls, steal shit from the teachers. It was all in the name of fun and you never meant harm. Just kids being kids.

Time passed and on one fateful day, something wasn't right. He usually strided right into homeroom with a look like he owned the place. Usually he dreamt of some shit for us to do the next day to break up the monotony. Standing about average height, he’d usually have wet red hair from his shower that morning. He’d usually be in a jacket and some loose fitting cargoes on his skinny frame, jacket the same color as his glasses, jet black. Not today. Today something was fucked.

“Yo, what’s poppin’?”

“Nothing much.” He looked away as he sat down.

“Seriously, what’s going on man. You can tell me anything. You piss yourself last night or something?”

He chuckled, but quickly slumped.


Announcements went by rather quickly and you noticed something different in the air during the study block. His clothes looked a little torn, his self-esteem looked shot. Rather than making dumb hand gestures and mouthing inside jokes, he just tried to look busy, cracking open a book for maybe the first time in his life. It was fucking concerning.

It wouldn’t be until later that day that you’d finally catch up to him. He didn’t notice you and instead of meeting up with you at the typical spot to walk home near the busted stop sign near the entrance, he left out the back. His home is nowhere close, he didn’t move. What the fuck? You decided to tail him. See what’s going on for yourself if he wouldn’t spill the beans.

You followed him down some skeezy alley, making sure to keep a healthy distance. He checked over his shoulder a whole lot, and it wasn’t until he made his way up to a rusted fence that you realized what was going on. There were a bunch of dudes who looked like thugs you’d only seen in movies you snuck into. They were all positioned around an old boombox like a pride of lions staking their claim to the turf.


He reached into his pants and pulled out a crazy wad of bills and looked ahead to a fold in the fence. You started to panic. Running up behind him, he turns around as you’re a few steps away.

“Yo man what the fuck!?!”

He looked like he’d be been caught doing some devilish shit.


“Fuck fuck FUCK, man do not tell anyone please!”

His harsh and strained whispers exacerbated his lack of composure. He was rattled by some shit.

“Don’t tell anyone what? You’ve been avoiding me all day.”

“Okay, yeah. Fuck. Fine.”

He seems like he’s giving up on hiding it.

“This is drug money.”

You guessed that, but it sounds so bizarre to hear out loud. Sam and you never fucked with drugs, never did this type of shit. Sam was usually too busy fucking around with mailboxes or some shit to care about drugs. Being high off life was always a sort of lame phrase, but if one person ever fit that bill, it was Sam.

“Fuck. That’s heavy.”

“Yeah. But look at all this fucking money man. It’s crazy. I’ve just been so nervous all day.”

“You use?”

“No, it’s not like that. I just make the money, and these guys are my suppliers.”

He uses his wad to gesture over to the group behind the fence around the corner from the alleyway. It all made sense.

“So who are these guys?”

“El Desmadre. It means ‘The Chaos’ or some shit.”

You looked back over to the group. One of them was in some fold back beach chair, sunglasses on. He looked important. There’s a low brick wall where three people sat behind him, perched up and looking different flavors of thuggish. There were about five others, all dressed in black with black face guards.

He looked at you with a look of pleading.


“You ain’t gotta be a part of this. You can turn back now.”

You took a good long look at the wad of cash.

“So why are you here?”

“I’m just giving them their cut.”

“Let me go in with you.”

The words sounded so foreign as they escaped your lips. You can’t believe you said that, but the money was real. Must have been thousands.


“Yeah, for real, let me walk up there with you. I wanna sell for them.”

After much back and forth, what followed could only be considered bizarre. You walked up with him as he agreed. You ducked through the fence and came up to the Don. You heard the man speak to Sam as you hung back and waited. Sam gestured to you and you couldn’t make out what was being said over the loud music. He gestured for you personally.

He was extraordinarily tan, hair slicked back. Glasses on. He was wearing a loose maroon jacket and jeans. Light facial hair and tattoos from top to bottom. He spoke without even looking your way.

“You wanna sell?”

“Yes sir.”

“I respect that. It’s for the money, right? It’s always the money. RIGHT?”

He shouted the last word and laughed extremely loud. Everyone else laughed around him.

“Look man I get you. I understand. How about this: I start you small?”

He snapped his fingers and a small pack of plastic wrapped coke is delivered to you by a man dressed in black.

“Inside there, they are all individually wrapped. Ask your man how to move them. But there’s a catch.”

Your heart skipped a beat right there.


“I get a 65% cut. And I always get my fucking money.”

He laughed again and sent you away. You can tell he gave you fucking nothing to him. You and Sam look at each other dumbfounded. That night he’d teach you all about the terms and how much it’s worth. Where he sells and who he sells to. He’d go to parties, make a killing.

Every week, he’d deliver the cut, and every week he walked away with a small fortune.

This kept on for about a few months during senior year. Over time, your stacks grew and your cut changed. You diversified and sold in more far off places to higher value people like in the Northwest end. Your mom was none the wiser, or she was so happy with your “new job” that she didn’t want to ask. It wouldn’t be until March, a few days after your birthday, that shit took a nosedive. Sam was freaking out.

He panicked and fucked up his count. He got robbed and couldn’t move shit. Sam was screaming that rainy night and couldn’t tell anyone in the world but you. So you made the hardest decision you ever could.

You gave him twenty thousand dollars, the money that was gonna go towards college, straight to him.

“Get out the country. Go. Don’t say another fucking word. I’ll be fine.”

He cried and hugged you. You can feel his body fill with relief and anxiety. He moved his family somewhere. Not even you know where. You graduated and weeks passed and you didn’t hear about him. You don’t know want to know where.

It was so hard.

(Cont. [1 more])
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“Where’s the rest?”

You gave your last payment after saying you wanted out to the don.

“I don’t have it yet.”

He took off his glasses for the first time since you met him. His scar over his left eye betrayed his angry right.


He screamed. You noticed all the others reaching into their pants real slow. Strapped.
You bolted. It’s a fucking miracle you made it out alive, you felt your breathing get heavy. You hid in a dumpster for a fucking day.

You were scared. Your heart raced.

You heard a knocking.




You wake up in a sweat. It's 7:47 PM. You're in the gym. Poole is kicking your ass out.

"Go home, kid."

You take a deep breath and look around. Everyone's gone home.

You walk outside, legs wobbly, and spot Zoe speeding away from the lot out back in her rad car.

You lean against the wall and take a moment to breathe. The wind chills the sweat on your face.

You pop in your earbuds and hit shuffle.




EVASION: 1 => 2
SPEED: 25 => 35


Checking your texts, Becca texted you about 15 minutes ago. She asked if you want to grab something to eat.

You're pretty hungry, but you're fucking exhausted and drained emotionally.

Where to?

>Head back home and rest.
>Text Becca back and make plans.
>Write in
Also, thoughts on the update? Questions? Sorry I didn't know it was 3k post limit. Could have made it more readable.
>>Head back home and rest.
We need to get home and rest after getting a bite to eat. I'm not even feeling Becca all that much either.

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Ignoring Becca. You're fucking super tired and can't deal with the crazy amounts of pasta you'd have to put up with.

You've never been more drained. The cool air blowing past you only lends to the urgency of getting back quicker. You put your jacket back on, zip up high, and head back to the station.


You turn your brain off in a big way and just vibe to the music.

When thoughts of Sam enter your head, you just sort of shake your head. You gotta forget about him. He's probably in some better place now. Maybe he's selling coke there too. Fuck it.

You crank your music.

Walking through the station, you make your way to the connecting train for West Central. All the people in the train probably think you smell like shit, but in your head your a motherfucking champion. But you do smell a little like shit. You sprawl out and spread out over a quiet corner seat up on the top level. Cushy seat where no one will bother you. To keep awake, you pull out your phone and start thumbing around. You got a lot of rest, but you still feel like conking out any moment.

I mean, who knows, maybe someone wouldn't mind talking? You need something to do on the train anyway.

>Text Richard. You haven't spoken in a while, but you're probably still on good terms.
>Text Becca and explain you're not gonna make plans. Courtesy.
>Look for a place to eat (suggest a type of food to eat in West Central)
>Play phone game
>Write in
>Text Richard. You haven't spoken in a while, but you're probably still on good terms.
send him a lot of ":3"'s
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Last time you caught up with Richard, you were still in junior year. He always rolled with Sam and you and would always support your silly mischief. He never really came up with a plan, but between you three he was the best behind the wheel.

He always seemed like he was going too fast for life. Like you'd be lighting poop on fire and ringing door bells and he'd be exploring abandoned train cars and selling porn to grade schoolers. He was kind of nuts in the best way.

You fire off a quick text, realizing that it's been a few years since you last talked. He didn't even say goodbye. Probably because goodbyes were slow. Shit, he doesn't know about El Desmadre. He doesn't know about the drugs or the fight. Donny or anything. Shit it'll be like talking to a stranger.

Maybe he'll text back later, but you wait for a solid 15 minutes with no response, lost in thought.

Few more stops and you'll be there.

>Text Becca and explain you're not gonna make plans. Courtesy.
>Look for a place to eat (suggest a type of food to eat in West Central)
>Play phone game
>Write in
Text Becca. She seems nice, she's interested, Gerardo needs some poontang and musclegrill is far from a sure thing at this juncture.

Do you mean to make plans? Or just let her know not now but soon?
Look for a place to eat and ignore Becca.
Not now but soon I mean fuck niqqa we gotta sleep n shit. Maybe tell her how we committed all those suicides.
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You sort of feel bad for just leaving her high and dry, so you shoot her a quick text.

"cant make it tonight sorry"

Gotta leave it vague, and you're too tired for punctuation, though that's never been the reason before. Mostly just laziness. But now you're lazy with a purpose. Point is Becca can chill.

"Now arriving at West Central Station."

A robotic sounding pleasant lady voice echoes through the mobile tin can. The brakes screech and before you realize it, you've already got a text back.

"Oh all good. you were probably very tired from ur workout. hope youll have some energy for me later ;)"

Your heartbeat quickens, but you soon realize you're sitting on an emptying cabin and you're not trying to skip dinner. Taking a deep breath, you exit the station and head into downtown.

You remembered ready somewhere that boxers eat a ton of food so they can have a ton of energy, and you are NOT about to argue with that. You find your favorite burger joint a block or two away and are delighted at the neon.

The Smoky Rib greets you off 15th and the music can barely contain itself within.


You head up to the counter fucking DELIGHTED at the smells in the air. The smokehouse has such a comfy vibe and the prices are not bad either. But you're just there as a congrats to yourself for being a fucking beast earlier. And as a sorry to your calves in the morning.

You take one bite into your juicy burger. No that's a lie, you take a number of bites into your juicy burger and before you know it, it's gone. You never realized just how fucking hungry you could get. Fuck.


You say this to no one, though the place is crowded.


Fast forward a bit until you're off the train again, this time near home sweet home.

You're full as fuck, satisfied with your performance, and ready to pass the fuck out. And it's only 9:55. Once you're through the door, you see a light in the kitchen.

Your mom left you a note:

"Dear Gerardo,

Had to work late.

Rushed home to make you this during lunch.

Love you."

Under the note is a tin foil covered dish. Peeking under, it looks like lasagna.

Goddamn that woman knows you well.

You decide to head up to bed and crash.




Something just fucking shattered. You're woken up! Panicking, you look over to your clock. It's 3 AM.

Shit what's happening???? Shit shit shit shit.

Something illuminates your room.



You jump out of bed.

>Roll 1d20 + Evasion (2) vs. 15
Rolled 2 + 2 (1d20 + 2)

Pop pop pop I don't wanna watch Gerardos drop
Rolled 19 + 2 (1d20 + 2)

It's bo3
Rolled 12 (1d20)

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You roll the fuck out of the way and quickly turn on the lights and figure out what the fuck is going on.

Jumping out of your bed, your muscles ache and give way to the pressure and strain, making you collapse to the floor after seeing the cause of the disturbance. Your mom yells and starts to run up the stairs.

You see a fucking brick and shattered glass all over the floor. You see a roll of fireworks attached sparking off like an angry whip.

Fuck fuck fuck. You have to stand up now.

"Honey what's going on?!"

She bursts through the door.


Instincts kick in and she complies. She ducks near the top of the stairs.

You signal to her to wait. She is flipping the fuck out. You hear murmurs outside.

They're reloading.

This is your chance.


>You hear a ref count out in your head.


>Roll 1d10 + Stamina(1) vs. 7


>Roll 1d20 + Force(1+1) (Stat and fear-filled.) vs. 17.

>Both Bo3
Rolled 1 + 1 (1d10 + 1)

Rolled 19 + 2 (1d20 + 2)

Rolled 6 (1d10)

Rolled 5 (1d20)

Rolled 6 + 1 (1d10 + 1)

Rolled 18 + 2 (1d20 + 2)

Prepping for next time. See you in about 12 hours good shit to come.
You may want' to make a new thread when you come back.
I plan on wrapping up the current moment and then I totally will.

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