Player Section

Steam Name: Lewis
Age: Fourteen
How long have you been Roleplaying? (can be any game): About a year, really. I played Fallout RP on IG back in January, but I was pretty much a newbie and had no idea of what to do.
How long have you been playing Serious GMod RP?: Ditto.

Character Section

Authorization(s):
Emergency surgical skills (i.e stuff like sewing together a deep cut, not anything like heart transplants); a small area of skill with pistols (I'm talking like he knows how to shoot and maintain, nothing like hitting a target that's a kilometre away or anything, although he can aim it properly).

Name: Winston O'Shaughnessy
Age: Forty-one
Gender: Male
Affiliation: None

Write a detailed in-canon back-story how your character obtained these authorizations.

     Winston O’Shaughnessy was born in Armagh, Northern Ireland, on the twenty-fifth of December, 1975. He
was the eldest of the two sons – Winston himself and his brother Archibald – of Roslyn Berson and Peter O’Shaughnessy. One could say that both of Winston’s parents were academics: Roslyn had an interest in politics, albeit she didn’t get any ‘serious’ jobs, instead dabbling in the local council, eventually moving on to run the council around Winston’s early teenage years. Peter was different, instead he was interested by medical studies – which, most likely, was for the money –, and his liking and experience in this area eventually lead to an important point in Winston’s life, possibly inspiring him to move on this path as well.
     
     It was an autumn day in the mid-Nineties, and Peter’s medical expertise – and also his brother William, who lived abroad – had brought not only him, but nearly all of the O’Shaughnessy family to Tolyatti, Russia. William himself had gone to Tolyatti twenty years ago, primarily to escape the boring and bland landscape that was his birthplace of Northern Ireland. William had studied medicine with Peter, both of them sticking together through the four years. Peter began his residency training, most of it being as a simple assistant to the dentist, which is what he hoped to be. William went along with, although he was rejected as he tried to become a resident dentist, instead he left for Russia – then the USSR – and the family didn’t hear from him until a few weeks before they all went to Tolyatti.
     
     Peter was having trouble finding a job in Armagh. Sure, being a dentist was a good pay and all, but he was currently unemployed, as there wasn’t that many places for dentists. For a good while now, Roslyn was pretty much running the family. It was like the parental jobs – in an almost stereotypical manner – had been reversed: Roslyn went out and worked for the family, while Peter lounged around in their detached house, cleaning up things, making sure the boys actually got to school, cooking and feeding. At first he was astonished that he had got the phone call from William; it was the last person he would have expected to have called him. He came with news about a dental clinic, opening roughly three thousand and six hundred kilometers from home. Peter was prepared to move, he was, to put it bluntly, quite obsessed about money. I mean, who isn’t? Roslyn disagreed to move, instead she ‘needed’ to keep her job at being the head of the council. After Peter using his best coercive techniques and calming methods, they came to the agreement that Roslyn would occasionally come and visit, rather than staying there permanently.
     
     Peter was delighted: the clinic was real, and his brother was – technically illegally – working as a full-time dentist. Peter dived straight in; not many people in Tolyatti had the requirements to work there. The two boys, at first, were rather shocked and tired with the whole trip, yet they weren’t exactly excited like Peter. Winston just helped around the dental clinic, as he was now eighteen, and out of school. Archibald – affectionately as Archie – was still only in his early teens, and attending the school was extremely difficult for him. He had virtually cut off all bonds and ties to his friends, and he was in a school, working with teachers and pupils who spoke a language that he barely knew. It was like a legless man being put in a lion cage. Winston, on the other hand, was doing just fine. He worked behind the counter most of the time, sorting filing cabinets and pretty much playing about on the computer. Even when he was rarely at the counter, he just had to memorise a few phrases, such as “Hello, how can I help you?”, or “Ah, yes, Dr. Procio is just upstairs,” thus making his job rather easy. Winston stayed for another six months, before he left for Northern Ireland, having earned himself quite some money, so that he could pay for his further education. He attended Belfast Metropolitan College for some time, before moving to Belfast University, studying medicine for four years. It was hard-going, and he went barely scraped by, expecting himself to have done much better than he actually did. He was pleased with himself, and, still cruising up on his high hopes, applied for medical school. The first time, he was rejected, and the same with the second and third time, yet, luckily, two months later, on the fourth try, he got through, this time to a different school than the last three times. He studied surgery, as if to break the dental path that the family seemed to be following, not to mention he was more interested in that, rather than what he thought was looking and poking at peoples’ teeth all day long. More specifically, Winston wanted to be more with emergency surgery, more or less interested in the rush of racing against the clock – Winston isn’t really the most humane person, come to think of it – to fix the person up, and then, at the end get his pay. A greedy man, he was, like most of the O’Shaughnessy family tree. Most, if not all of them were all for the money, most likely because their parents wanted it, and their parents’ parents wanted it, etc.

     It came the day of the verdict and Winston was physically shaking, his teeth chattering, his palms sweaty.
      “Winston O’Shaughnessy,” rang a voice, “you lucky bastard!”
      The person who spoke wrapped an arm around Winston’s shoulder, smiling gleefully. It was his old friend Robbie, who also shared a mutual interested in surgery.
      “We bloody did it, we did it, mate. Think of it, Winnie boy, we’ll be in our big flashy cars, parking outside our mansions, you think of that, mate!”
     
      Robbie strolled off, obviously to brag about himself passing, even though about sixty-five percent of those who actually did the course passed. Winston sighed to himself, Robbie has the wrong image: he was thinking he had made it big. Sure, he might have made it a little bit of the way, but what’s to say he can’t get a job?

    Winston was already planning ahead. It had been eight years since Winston had been to Tolyatti, and over the course of the time, his father had relocated to a dental department in one of the city’s largest hospitals. Winston moved back to Armagh for a few months, sorted out his plans for flying, before taking all he had with him to Tolyatti. Winston got a job in a hospital in the Avtozavodsky district, where he began work as a surgeon in the A&E department. His life was finally beginning, at the age of twenty-seven. Life continued for Winston, and as a pastime, he began honing his skills at speaking Russian, which, to be honest, he wasn’t very good at. Life continued like this for a few years, Winston used his learning and past education to treat those who came in. Most of the victims were either lying with bullet holes peppered in them, knifes through their bodies or big marks where they’d been smacked with a blunt object. At first, the gunshot wounds were shocking to Winston; he hadn’t seen anything like it. After the first few weeks, it became apparent that it wasn’t a big deal, at least according to other members of staff. More and more gunshot victims would roll in, and it became more of a chore than an exciting and dangerous ‘mission’ that Winston would take part in.
     
    At first, the gun crime didn’t involve Winston, until the early Noughties when his uncle William’s dental clinic – the same one as before, yet the previous owner had passed the ownership of the clinic to William – was robbed by a gun-toting duo, who were after sedative drugs to calm their addictions. A few days after the incident, William revealed to Winston what he claimed was his “little surprise”. When William pulled open the car boot in the middle of that field, Winston felt like he was in some ‘deep shit’. His uncle drew out a brownish suitcase, and inside, were two black handguns. William went on and droned about how he had got them from an old friend, and how he ‘sure knew his way’ about them. Surprisingly, he actually did know how to use them. After all, it had been eight years, who knew what his crazy old uncle had been doing? William began showing him about the gun, and asking him to train with it each day, although almost every day, Winston forgot. His work at the hospital alone was extremely tiring and he could barely be bothered to do anything when he got home. William was quite annoyed, and every Sunday he would take him out and make him shoot the “stupid little gun”, trying to train him with it. Winston occasionally paid attention to William, but it took him about a year longer to actually be able to maintain and fire the gun, than if he was paying his full attention.
     
     Winston began carrying the pistol around every day, and he did so for eight years, until early 2011.
     
     It was a dreary day; Winston was sitting on chair in the reception of the dental clinic, staring out of the window. William sat at the wooden counter, twiddling his pudgy thumbs on his fat stomach. The hospital was closed due to a gas leak at the mains, and Winston had nothing to do until it opened in a few hours. He leaned forward, the pistol on his uncle-provided shoulder holster peeking out. He pulled his jacket over it, sighing. He began tapping his foot in sync with the second hand of the clock, before standing up, placing his hands on his hips. He was easily bored, and today was no exception. William snored, lying back on his chair. The door bell rang, William didn’t move, instead his snoring slowed slightly, before it regained its steady yet harsh beat. Winston slowly turned around, and to a shock of surprise and dismay, two men, clad in dirty and cheap clothes were standing, one holding a knife, the other holding a hammer, both of them were wearing what appeared to be socks with holes cut in them. It appeared the men hadn’t heard of balaclavas. The man with the hammer lunged toward William before Winston could react, smacking him on the forehead with the hammer, causing him to tip out of the chair, and to the ground. Winston stood still for a few moments, the initial shock of the situation gluing his feet to the ground. He reached for his pistol after a few seconds, drawing it out quickly. He aimed at the hammer-wielding man, his aim rather shaky. His finger tensed, and in a few milliseconds, it seemed that everything that William taught him was settling in, and it all appeared to click in place. He zoned out for a few minutes, and by the time he came to his senses, a homeless person was lying with a hole in their head and the other was lying with one through his heart, while William was lying behind the counter, with his forehead caved in. Both of the sock-clad men were, unfortunately, dead, along with poor William. The last thing Winston could remember was being thrown against the wall forcefully by a man with graying hair and a police uniform.
     
     It all went in a blur, and less than a week later, Winston was locked up inside the Black Dolphin, the worst prison in Russia, if not the world. For five years Winston was in there, behind three steel doors, locked in for at least twenty years, for what seemed like a completely unprovoked murder.  Winston never saw anybody apart from the guards in the prison for the next five years, and then there was a sudden and huge change in his life. It was a snowy day, and Winston himself had really stopped counting the days and just began to accept the fact that he was never getting out… well, there was a slight chance. He had just put in his appeal to be moved to a more lenient prison, yet he highly doubted it would go through. He sat, lying on his back. He couldn’t get comfortable; he was never comfortable in the cell. He twisted around, lying face down on the almost plastic-like mattress, his head cocked to the side. There was small cracking noise, and he could have sworn he felt a dribble of something on his back. He dismissed it with a sleepy mutter, not bothering to move. There it was again. He didn’t bother doing anything, instead coming up with the excuse that he was sweating. It came again, except this time it was a chunk of concrete about the size of a fist and it just missed his head. Winston rolled over quickly, and to his annoyance, dust and debris rained from above, luckily none of it actually hitting him. As the dust cleared, the snow began to settle in: part of the roof was missing from his cell. He stood, dumbfounded. What exactly had happened? His ears were ringing, or at least he thought so. Winston walked to the metal door, and it turned out it was an alarm bell ringing and not his ears. He walked around the cell slowly, dazed by the event, and trying to work out exactly what had happened. At once, all three doors of his cell swung open, most likely due to the alarm system that’s probably never been activated. He peeked outside the cell, only his head showing. None of the guards were around. All of a sudden, everybody else in his block seemed to have got the message that freedom was around the corner, and they all sprinted out, a huge jumble of barging and swearing murderers, cannibals, rapists and terrorists trying to get to the exit. Winston was trampled on, and quickly knocked unconscious by a rather porky man landing on his head.
     
     It was about a day before Winston awoke. He was confused and dazed, and really had no idea of what had happened in the past forty-eight hours. He felt at his head, it had been stitched up due to the recent injury. Opening his eyes, he looked around, observing his surroundings. He was lying on a bench on a pavement, a blanket wrapped around him, and a suitcase was at his head, acting like a pillow. A figure approached him, clad in some sort of gas mask and a black uniform, waving around a black metal tube of sorts. The figure prodded Winston with the black baton, and Winston retaliated by laughing at its face, as if he couldn’t really take in what’s happening.
     
     â€œHah, pinch me,” laughed Winston, “go on, I dare you!”
     Winston more or less got his first taste of a stun baton there, and he emerged at the other end of the checkpoint, rubbing at the back of his head. He turned around, trying to talk back to the figure.
      “I only asked for you to pinch m-…” began Winston, who was interrupted by another flick of the baton.
     
      He walked away, suitcase in hand, laughing like an idiot as he walked through the streets, unable to take in what was happening. He looked at the piece of card in his hand, reading off the number on it. He was pushed along by another of the gas mask figures, and thrown in an apartment, with only a key and a tin of what looked like colourless porridge. Winston began his new life – for the second time, now – in what is known as City Forty-Four. He lived like that for about two months at the most, laughing his way about, not really coming to sense of what has happened. A month and two weeks in to his stay in C44, he relocated himself to the slums, locking himself in a water treatment plant, with only a few utensils and a mattress. The next two weeks went by slowly, and eventually Winston thought to himself:
     
      “Fuck it.”
     
     Winston threw himself over the railing in the plant, in to the stagnant water of the channel, slowly floating down it, towards the sewers. The sewers carried him for a few hours, and he awoke, beached on a muddy river bed. By now, Winston had came to his senses, and he realised he was in quite a sticky situation. He had gathered some knowledge over the past two months, mostly about what had been happening, although until now he had simply dismissed it all. Winston stay stuck in the canal system for possibly months, until he banded together with a group of four or five others and they all set off, following the tracks of what looked like a convoy. They made good time, and arrived about a week after the convoy first arrived, which, itself, is quite a good time, considering they were all on foot. Winston parted ways with the refugees, and he spared some ammunition and supplies to set them on their way. He did the last mile or so on foot, climbing slowly up the mountain hill.
     
     Winston stood atop the hill, his hands on his hips, watching the sun rise higher in the sky. The sound of the waterfall behind him was creating a relaxing atmosphere, while the pleasing aroma of burning wood came from the fire near him, where some refugees huddled over it. Winston, essentially now that he has came to his senses, has his new beginning, the new dawn. He knows nobody. He can start all over again. This is his chance.


What will these authorizations give your character in regards to perks or defects?
Perks
Could help himself and others in need, if applicable.
Surgeons aren't exactly common, so it'd bring him in some money, if Winston decides to charge for it.
Although he specialises in emergency surgery, Winston does know some small bits and bobs about other medical subjects, i.e, say, symptoms of a stomach bug.
He has a bit of skill with handguns, so he could defend himself if necessary, and clean up his gun.



Defects
Winston will have to maintain tools (if he acquires any) in order to keep those operated on from becoming more injured than they already are.
He's quite greedy, and he doesn't have a white knight attitude, so he might start charging people for help.
Winston doesn't really know his way about the bio-gel and what-not, thus he'll have to get used to it.
Winston will have to find a way to sterilise his tools after use, to prevent contamination.
 

What do you plan to do with these perks/defects?
Really, just to create some Medical RP. At first, I used to be obsessed with Engineering/Mechanical RP, but after a while, it gets very tedious and boring. I've never tried Medical RP and I really want to try and make some engaging and memorable Med. RP, as most of the Med. RP I've seen involves something like this -


/it man's wound begins to heal up instantly, he'll be feeling better now.

I really want to try and do something better than that, and instead it would probably be about five minutes OOCly of ICly preparing my tools and getting kitted up.



Will anyone else need these auths? (If so, list OOC and IC name(s))
Nope.

Which server does this apply for?
Outlands

Extra Notes (optional):
derp

Edit because you guys will be all "wall of text" so I put spaces in between the paragraphs, so yeah, I'm sorry, Grammar Nazis out there, but the spaces had to be put in.

Hello fellow CWUfegs, as you probably - have not - noticed, I, i.e "Pierre Grosvenor (Tier-2. Bus)" (Or w/e that last part is) have been inactive for about two weeks or so. The main reason is that for the current moment in time, half of my Garry's Mod maps are fucked up. (See the thread I made for the actual pictures about it) I made this thread so that there would be an understanding to my inactivity, and that I am not just bored of HL2RP; I actually have a real problem here. Until I fix up my computer by possibly reinstalling Windows - which is my last resort - I will be very inactive in all Civil Workers Union activities and whatnot. So, I hope you all understand my inactivity - which also goes for all my characters - and I'll try and get my computer fixed up as soon as possible.

Y. H.
ZAKI
29/11
E. #001


    This will be the first of many records of my plan of "Purification", our fight for survival, and generally, our lives. It feels rather odd, writing to nothing, a piece of paper, but still, one shall not reveal his name, for a multitude of reasons. One will also not reveal these reasons, for the privacy of few, but those few mean a lot. Now, to the actual part of records. It has been almost two weeks since we gathered together, my brothers and I. We may not be closely related through blood, but we are through ideas and brain. We have slowly and surely equipped ourselves with clothing, ammunition, fire armaments, food and drink; the spoils of 'war'. Our war, to put it bluntly, is against many of those westerners. Do not mistake me for a fool, as some of them are intelligent, and worth keeping close yet good relationships with, but others are unkind, cruel, and foredeeming rats. We have kept close to ourselves for the most part, and tried not to use force. On that matter, we escaped death by the hands of a westerner, through lies and slander. It is amazing how so little can cause a mature man to break, just like that, snap. But I digress. We have gained two allies, one, who was quite fortunately a person of the homeland, we got along just fine, and shortly after, we took on a westerner, but a wise one. He knows about the mass majority of prejudice people around these parts, and is a man of his word. Speaking of the aforementioned prejudice people, it brings me joy to tell that we have truly silenced many of them, just last night we were engaged in a shocking shootout after we were 'discovered' tracing down our number one enemy, the man we know as "Baldy". We took his friend at gun point, and after refusing to hand himself over, we dragged him back to our home, and killed him. But the battle for Baldy is far from over, the man is crafty and wise, yet we are "Al Hasan Nass", we are five strong, and we are wiser, and we will triumph.

---

---

I suppose one should start with an introduction. My name is Ichiro Sakura, and I live in one of the marvellous Universal Union controlled Cities, City Fourty-Five, to be specific. Unlike most of the residents here, I am not a follower of the Universal Union. But as it is always said, it is good to respect your 'enemy'. Although, the UU should be getting no respect at all, for everything they have done, and neither should those no-good Loyalists and Civil Workers. My views on the UU should not clog up my notebook, so instead, I will record chronicles of my life in this City; the good things, the bad things, more bad things, and the bad things again. From that, I suppose one can get a fair view on City Fourty-Five, from an honest opinion: it is horrible. The Loyalists and Civil Workers get away with it all, they get the royalty treatment, whereas we get treated like dirt and beaten about, especially in the main Sector. And so, today, I am planning to escape to Sector Six, the slum area. Although, the armed mall-cops at the huge barrier make it look like an impossible task. Aside from plotting a way in, I have also met with a man, who actually supplied me with a bottle of alcohol, for a price. He didn't seem like one of those pro-Union Citizens, nor did he seem like one of the crazy anti-Union types, who want to destroy everything, ranging from the City Adminisration team, to a can of water with the Union symbol printed on it. It has not been too much of an interesting second day in the City, perhaps I shall document something later, or something interesting will happen. Goodbye for now.

OOC

Well, honestly, I don't know if this will turn out good or bad; it's a hit or miss really. Rather than go through some tedious process of transporting entity paper throughout the City, I figured a little topic where people can post IC letters to the CA(s) Honestly have no idea if the other guy has activated his yet, or I'm the only one) would be better. I plan on 'replying' to the letters ICly every Friday and Saturday, at around 22:00-00:00 hours GMT/UTC + 00. Criticism is welcomed.

Format + Example letter below.

[font=georgia][size=10pt](NAME)
CID #
CITY 18
DISTRICT (Number here)[/size]



(Write your message/question here.)[/font]
Example:

John Bourne
CID 75829
CITY 18
DISTRICT ONE

Dear City Administrator,

I feel that your work on the city is perfect, your speeches are given with the utmost elegance, whilst continuing to be informative.
However, some citizens are not learning their place. Is it possible to introduce stricter searches and barriers around the city? To stop any with contraband. I have noticed a slight increase in contraband handling lately and would like to see it lower.

Yours respectively,
John Bourne, Civil Worker.

That is a an example of a good letter. Credit goes to Rictalspace for actually posting that. (I hope you don't mind me using it. :3)

DISCLAIMER: If your name + CID gets metagamingly used during rations, a search, some sort of point addition shit; I take no responsibility.
                     If your 'letter' doesn't get read out on the /broadcast, it was either retarded or I was answering too much.

Also, don't write out dumb things like : "rashuns!?" or "herpderp" as this is IC.



Edit: If the person(s) who posted the letter(s) isn't on during the broadcast, I will post an IC letter back on this topic/thread/forum interwebs.(W/e the jive it's called.)




 

DAY ONE.
ENTRY ONE.
PIERRE GROSVENOR.
#93151.

Well, here I am - my new life in City 18.
From the moment I stepped off the train, I knew it would be different, like another world compared to City 36. One thing's for sure, it's a lot more spacious here, we were all like sardines back in City 36. From my first views, I thought that this place would be safe, but a wise man once said 'never to judge a book by it's cover.' I guess he was right. I walked down the street just outside the station, following the flow of other citizens, until we ended up at a checkpoint. I was guided off to District One with about ten or so others, and we were dropped off in a place they call 'The Plaza'. I walked to the CCH, and was assigned a room. Shortly after, rations were called, and I, once again, followed the flow of citizens, a rather large amount of them, this time. After a procedure of showing my Civil Identification Card to confirm my 'status', I received my ration pack, and immediately got stuck in. Now, it was probably about three hours after arriving, so I decided to go for a walk around the plaza; get a feel for the place. I bought a Request Device from a shop, and headed back to my apartment.
While in the lobby, I got a bit thirsty, and walked off to the vending machine in the washroom, where a couple of shady people were standing; a man and a woman. Buying my water, the man leaned on the machine, whispering something along the lines of -

"Buddy... you want some..."

- he coughed, then added the word "steroids." I thought back to when we learned about illegal items, contraband and what not, and reflexively stuck my hand in my pocket, fingering my request device. The couple ran off, and I requested for help, waiting in the lobby. A short while later, the man came back down the stairs, holding something behind his back. He walked over to me, and pulled out the item, a rather large piece of pipe, and smacked me right on the forehead with it. I must have blacked out for a few minutes, because when I woke up, the man was pressed against the wall, with around three or four Civil Protection unit around, one of them tying him up. Staggering to my feet with the aid of one of the C.Ps, I was lead, along with the man to the Nexus, or whatever it's called. I didn't notice how much the man had injured me until one of them gave me a sterile bandage of sorts, telling me to use it. I thanked him, and I was lead off again, back outside after giving an account of what happened. I've got no idea what happened to the man, but he was shouting very loud. Well, I'd better get some sleep, my head's aching, and I haven't slept since I got here.

(Got bored writing journals, as it's always the same shit in them; well, it's 1:30am and I'm bored, so it's story time.)
WIP.

On the trail


The frost quite literally bit the man's face, as he sat in the desolate room; desperately trying to get a spark, get his small 'camp fire' going. Sighing audibly, the man gave up, scratching at his head in a cliche manner; scrunching his eyes up as he thought. Angus Buchanan was in a bit of a pickle; he was stuck, not by his own intentions, in a small concrete room. He couldn't risk exiting the room, and getting caught outside, in the frozen barren of District Two; and he couldn't get back to District One, his previous 'home'. Rubbing his hands together for a moment, Angus slung his backpack off, emptying the contents onto the table.
A raincoat, a pair of socks, a few jars of supplements, and two bottles of water.
Ruffling in the small compartments, he pulled out a Citizen Issue spork, tossed it onto the table, and stuffed his six-hundred-or-so tokens into the raincoat pocket, before pulling it on.
The man looked at his flashlight, before tapping the bottom, the batteries falling onto the table, one of them rolling off, landing with a slight 'tap'.
Ignoring the battery on the floor, he walked to the door, pulling back the eye slit, peeking out into the exterior corridor. He closed it with a sigh, knowing that some day or another he would have to leave. He picked up his backpack, stuffing his minute amount of possessions into the main compartment, before zipping it up. Opening the door a few inches, he peeked out into the corridor, looking in all directions, before running to the other end, through the archway leading outside. Edging slowly round the corner, Angus felt for the familiar metal rungs planted in the wall, instinctively pulling his hand away, the ice numbing his hand for a second or two. He slowly climbed the ladder, trying to hook around the rungs with his arm, rather than using his hand.
This technique was painstakingly long, but it was better in the end. Edging himself up onto his knees, he stood up, shuffling along the edge; until he came to his next path. Angus tugged at the window, until it finally opened, the hinges creaking in response. He slipped in, immediately walking to the door. Giving it a small budge with his foot, the door opened; unlocked, just as it was before.
He hurried up the steps, once again in the cold night air, until he came to a door, connected to a large housing complex.
Angus clicked the handle down, expecting the same reaction as before.
Something clicked behind the door, and started to make a high-pitched 'beeping' noise.

"Well, shit." whispered Angus, to nobody in particular.

Plan B


The man scurried back, trying to retrace his route, looking for a way back to the comfort of his relatively new 'home'. The anxiety and paranoia building up, the man decided to look for somewhere, else, and he continued running around, going back and forth, lost in the labyrinth of alleyways and tunnels. Just when he thought he was settling down, Angus felt a sensation of floating, for a few milliseconds, and he saw a large piece of material envelope him as he fell to the ground, making a large 'splodge' sound as he landed. Dazed, Angus pulled the heavy material from him, and looked at his mud cladden clothes. Looking upwards, there was a hole, and no visible way back up. He felt the material, deciding whether to take it or not.

"Tarpaulin," thought Angus, "Could come in useful..."

Dragging the material into the dark of the tunnel, and through a rather short but wide pipe, he sat down on the edge of the water, stuffing the tarpaulin into his backpack, looking up at the storm drain; the heavy clatter of feet attracting his attention.

"Something must be going on, something big..."

He continued on, trying to ignore the smell of the sewage; more worried about his safety; his well-being. He continued skulking around the sewers, not aided by the fact that he couldn't see much. Nearly four hours had passed since his mishap; his unintentional descent into the sewers, and he was getting quite tired. Setting himself down on a pallet, underneath a pipe, he took out the tarpaulin, using it as a makeshift cover, lying on the pallet. Slowly he dozed off; snoring lightly in the dark of the sewers.

Out of the frying pan...


Angus awoke with a start, something felt wrong; out of place. He looked around, and noticed his backpack was missing. Someone had taken it while he was sleeping. Angus felt furious, but he felt relief; he had made it out of the City. Peeking through a storm drain, he saw the early morning sky, the sun rising. Sadly; no birds were chirping to complete the scene. Crouching down, he edged through a small gap in the drain, out into a puddle. Oddly, his backpack was lying in the puddle, opened up, some of his possessions were floating in the puddle.
He looked to his left and right, a look of confusion replaced by horror. A man was lying face down in the mud, only a few metres from his backpack; the water turned slightly red. Rolling the man over onto his back, there was a large hole in his forehead, presumably he had been shot.

"If he can rob me, or at least try to," thought Angus, "It wouldn't hurt to take a little from him..."

Rifling through the man's pockets, there was nothing to be found. The man was just trying to get along, survive; just like himself.
He wiped his hands on his trousers, pushed the man back onto his front with his foot, and set off again, through a canal gate; where he was once again in the dark.
There was a noise of static, and Angus turned round, surprised to find a radio lying at the bottom of a collapsed table.

"This is Easy Station, do you come in Beatle?" crackled the radio.

Also on the table, there was a small handheld radio; albeit it was not on the same frequency as the larger radio. Angus picked it up, turning the dials until they were in the same position as the larger radio.

"I repeat, this is Easy Station." emitted both of the radios; a second or so delay between them.

Tucking the radio into his pocket, he exited through the tunnel; and began to walk across the small outdoor expanse between him and another tunnel.

"Beatle station, please, respond." crackled his radio, the noise echoing through the tunnel.

"Is anyone out there?" called a voice.

Angus dropped down onto the concrete, meeting the face of a bald man.

"You're the guy on the radio, I guess?"

The bald man nodded, and began to speak.