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«12. . .4,3304,3314,3324,3334,3344,3354,336. . .4,3824,383»

NordicLand84 wrote:did any one share there thought about my game thus far
im currenty updating it

ANYONE

Post by United states of yeeet suppressed by New Rogernomics.

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCVk-WD-fiuGpWWoTMAyY_iQ

Yemrod wrote:Why am i here?

You heard the calling of Mmmph!

NordicLand84 wrote:ANYONE

what game?

In Treadwellia, Tubbius the Rotund is awake. He wants more sleep, however.

NordicLand84 wrote:remember when i told u guys i was making a game called stickman randomness?
heres the game thus far (unfineshed): https://www.dropbox.com/home?preview=StickMan+Randomness+Alpha+Thus+Far+23-3-2021_14-18-46.html
(a couple bugs with the game)

It says that the file does not exist. Have you posted the correct link?

Rightus wrote:It says that the file does not exist. Have you posted the correct link?

https://www.dropbox.com/h?=StickMan+Randomness+Alpha+Thus+Far+23-3-2021_14-18-46.html&preview=StickMan+Randomness+Alpha+Thus+Far+23-3-2021_14-18-46.html

Guiness Freaks wrote:Language please. the twins are still awake. Keep that for the PG13 hours.

A difficult task to accomplish since not everyone here is on the same timezone. If you excuse me I have matters of state to review. There are some monarchist to clamp down.
-- Chancellor A. Arthur

8 minutes ago: Following new legislation in Aigania, royalist is the most offensive slur in the Aiganian language.

I am the most authoritarian in the region. Cool

Moaning Lisa wrote:Sorry, Darling. I missed your earlier posting because I overlooked the spoiler. Starting a completely new region after a destructive raid is sometimes too much of a burden.

As for disrespectful, is there anything more disrespectful than deliberately destroying the work of another simple because you can?

We currently have our WA nation in The Embassy region aiding in the rebuilding of what the invading vandals destroyed. And yes, it was a very infantile thing for the raiders to do.

As I said, it's fine as long as everyone's a willing participant.

Yemrod wrote:How long was i out

A while, so clearly you need better time keeping. Unfortunately, time is running out to buy a fantastic urnanitrum watch due to a

Calgasia wrote:Yes! Yes! Shut up and take my money. Gimme 1000 of those uranitrawatches!

But there's still time, so buy one now!
NordicLand84 wrote:ANYONE

I'll get to it.

Rightus wrote:It says that the file does not exist. Have you posted the correct link?

isn't there a download button in the right side of the page?

Treadwellia wrote:365 + 335! 700 Tubby Days!

Almost two years! My how time flies.

New Rogernomics wrote:That would be because the forum software found your IP or email on a spam list here: https://www.stopforumspam.com/

but my email is legit tho

I need to bring back the courts, abolish child labour and reduce unemployment.

Divine China wrote:I need to bring back the courts, abolish child labour and reduce unemployment.

Good luck, my friend. You'll find the sweet allure of cheap labor from the young'ns will be hard to lay aside when you realize the economic benefits, my friend.

Cossack Peoples wrote:
The sharp, glacial rain did little to hamper the mood. Ducking under the cover of a tarp tent established on the sidewalk, Captain Ilya Markov was met with the close warmth of grinning faces with ruddy complexions and the dense smell of stew; and he knew there were plenty of reasons to be merry. In under a week, the CFOB 1st Division broke the siege of New Krasnoyarsk and swept into the belly of the beast; and in spite of the uncertainty of their predicament, the Federal Opposition Bloc had received success in most of their offensives.

Up and down the wet asphalt of the street, for once, the fires had been quenched; instead, on the street Federal Opposition Bloc soldiers worked to refortify buildings and clear certain roads of rubble in light spirits, and, to a lesser extent, civilians went about their business at quick, measured paces.

Markov shuffled forward as the line moved on, until the kitchen unit of the 39th Artillery Plastun filled his mess kit with the murky suspension. It was the first time in over a week hot food not served out of a box was available, and as the Captain observed from the faces of his nearby subordinates, it did wonders for morale.

“Captain?” Came the unmistakably shrill voice.

Turning, Markov saw the drenched, raincoat-covered figure of a junior aide-de-camp, with papers in hand sheltered by the sleeve of the rain jacket. “Orders for you, sir.” The aide said, handing off the paper before unceremoniously tromping off into the battered and puddle-ridden asphalt street.

The orders, printed hastily in pen upon recycled stationery, were clear.

CAPTAIN ILYA MARKOV TO REPORT TO GENERAL BRIGADIER PASHA ROSTOV AT HQ ASAP. BRING NECESSARY RESOURCES.

Sighing, Markov set down his stew on the corner of the serving line after instructing the cook to keep something warm for him and set off into the drizzle.
-
The headquarters plastun had set up in the relatively untouched WURCo. Business Park and it could not have taken up many other positions with sufficient space because, as Rostov knew, most of the government buildings were blasted to rubble. Compared to the rest of New Krasnoyarsk, the WURCo. Business Park, the base of operations of the massive corporation, was full of glass, using comparatively bright concrete set in seemingly exotic patterns along faces that would usually as per the city’s architecture be left smooth.

Of course, Rostov thought as he watched a young captain step over shards, most of that glass had been broken in the battle.
-
“While some of your troops may be celebrating, don’t keep your own hopes up. As of now, we know that a large armored division to the northeast of us is mobilizing to recover the capital, and the amount of aircraft sorties has increased in this sector. The battle lines now stand with New Krasnoyarsk as an easily attackable salient; there are strong hostile garrisons in Harsk, Sevyich, Maksima, and even Korf isn’t too much help. Our sole input of supplies is effectively by air unless we can manage to keep the pass between the Zaporozhian Cordillera clear-- which is difficult if amorred divisions like this one keep streaming in from the North.” Remarked Rostov, standing before the mass of plastun captains and higher officers.

“For now, we’ve got to keep on top of things; we can’t allow inconveniences like ammunition shortages linger because we’ll never know when we are going to have to defend the city. Keep track of your munitions, your equipment, and be sure to requisition more long before you’ll need it. Any questions?”

The room, which must have been a conference room of some kind before the rebellious 1st Division took it up as a forward operating base, stood nearly silent as a middle-aged and sparsely decorated Voiskovy Starshyna posed a question.

“My unit is up to our ears in civilians at checkpoints around the city and there’s no telling what’ll happen to them should the Federals try to take back the city-- my question is, what should be done about these refugees? Should we let them through or order them back to their homes?”

What should be done about the civilians?” Rostov echoed. “They’re of little tactical or strategic importance-- but they should be screened, just in case any of them smuggle important documents out. Let them pass.”

The question had put Rostov off balance. After the several days of the city’s bombardment, they had finally captured their goal-- and now had to deal with the humanitarian consequences.

The meeting concluded and the officers were flung to the wind. However, Pasha Rostov remained behind at the WURCo. Business Park, braving the campus’s cold gusts of breeze as he left his duties, if but temporarily. While striding through the sidewalk of the green space, wrinkled hands stuck in pockets, the general could hear the gunshots of some distant skirmish carried by the wind-- no way to know where the battle was or in whose favor it was in.

He was enthused before this-- what was it that brought his spirit down? It something to do with the fighting-- but that didn’t compute; he agreed with Lysiak and Silarz’s cause, there was no doubt about that, and he had finally transcended his marginal generalship to effectively be the commander-in-chief of their little coup d’etat. Then, he had suddenly lost his motivation. Every report handed to him, pin-speckled map he perused, or order he gave out hit his stomach in a pang he was not at all familiar with. It had started, as he thought back, at the first mention of civilians.

Rostov’s gait slowed. There were deaths-- many deaths-- not just of the enemy, but of their own, and those totally innocent of the fighting. After months of preparation to fight a powerful foreign foe tooth-and-nail, those preparations were spent on themselves. What an irony, Rostov thought, that it would also be in this conflict that his skills were properly utilized. The world rocked with each shell launched, each victory claimed or defeat taken, and all chips were down.

Was Lysiak really right? Was all this torment worth the simple reinstatement of Bezukhov? Was the system even worth that much effort? Rostov troubled hiimself with these questions as he came to a fork in the cement path. Before he could make an insignificant choice, however, he could hear the trudging of boots on the frosted grass behind him.

“General Rostov! Sir!” Came the voice. Deep, but not quite gravelly, Rostov thought offhandedly. Turning around, Rostov recognized it as one of the Captains from his briefing just minutes earlier-- Markov, his name could have been?

“What is it?”

“Sir, my plastun was restocking at a WURCo. Facility and we ran into trouble.” Markov said, still breathing heavily.

“Trouble? What sort of trouble?” Rostov inquired, glancing momentarily back at the fork in the path.

“I think it’s best you come see for yourself. Sir.”

Stepping off the LAZP-53 and ankle-deep into a waterlogged pothole, Rostov grunted imperceptibly as he looked beyond the moon-like surface of the road and to the apparent trouble. They were surrounded by some of the outer suburbs of New Krasnoyarsk, with soulless duplexes filling the periphery dotted by trees carved by juveniles and police stations impeccably clean and empty.

Walking alongside Captain Markov, the old general very quickly identified the wide, bleak concrete outline of a WURCo. depot. In front of the structure, blocking all passage through the tall barbed-wire-tipped perimeter walls with an equally tall fence gate, stood no more than six disparate men and women. Some wore worker’s dungarees, black uniforms with no markings, or simply plainsclothes; but they all had an obstinate expression that scanned the oncoming pedestrians. Some had pistol holsters, and those in the black security uniforms bore personal defense weapons and rifles. The general’s armed escorts stepped forward, approaching the gate but stopped short as the gatekeepers shouldered their firearms. They were not moving easily, Rostov noted.

“An uryadnik of mine tried resupplying at this depot and they fired shots.” Markov uttered in a low, quiet voice. Rostov nodded before stepping before the six armed men and women.

“What is the meaning of this? Why are you defending this warehouse?” Rostov asked, They gave no response except in their shifting postures. “You--” Rostov pointed out one of the people in worker’s clothes. “-- you’re an employee here. Are you defending WURCo. property from us?” Rostov looked over the motley crew of vigilantes. “Or are you operating on your own interests?”

This time, however, one of the plainsclothes walked off with a radio, whispering into the reciever.

“Who are you calling? If it’s your superiors, I’d like to speak with them.” Rostov called, yet again he was met with no response. Furrowing his brows and scowling amidst a quiet stream of curses under his breath, he raised his voice. “Open this gate and surrender yourselves now, or be treated as enemies of our cause!” Rostov yelled.

Suddenly, a great uproar came and weapons were trained on both sides-- Rostov had not realized he had unholstered his pistol in his anger. Still, a silence stood where there once was action-- the combatants on both sides of the fence eyeing one another through the sights of their weapons.

“Wait-- stand down.” Rostov said sheepishly, lowering his too-hastily-drawn pistol. Hesitantly, without a word more, both sides lowered their weapons-- withdrawing the fuel from which those sparks might have set ablaze. Rostov caught the attention of Markov, standing some ten feet away, and jerked his head toward their vehicle.

Once their party had withdrawn from the gate, Rostov put a hand on the captain’s shoulder and began to whisper in a low tone.

“Not yet.”
“Sir?”
“We won’t be shooting anyone like that while I’m there.”
“What do you think, sir?”
“I’ll see if we can spare some kind of vehicle to storm it, but let’s let them sit for a while. Doesn’t look like they’re going anywhere.”
“I see, sir.”
“And I’ll want you to lead it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Try and pick up some prisoners-- we need to know if they’ve got any other surprises like this in the corners of the city.”
“Absolutely, sir.”

Reaching the LAZP-53 car and swinging open the passenger door, Rostov grunted as he bent into the seat.

It seems like there is yet some trace of resistance in the captured city.

By early evening, Captain Markov had assembled a handpicked contingent of fourteen soldiers and scrounged up a vehicle to accompany them in order to storm the stubborn WURCo. facility. It was unknown whether the warehouse was seized by opportunists or defended by Smirnov-sympathetic employees, but it was important to the Cossack Federal Opposition Bloc’s liberation of New Krasnoyarsk that every pocket of resistance was swept away.

Markov himself was surveilling the gates of the enclosed warehouse from atop the flat roof of a concrete domicile a block away, of which was one of the few structures undamaged apart from its windows. Through his binoculars he could make out the squad of infantrymen pace alongside the ugly bulk of a converted Type 290 tank-turned engineering vehicle, declawed with the absence of its 150mm main gun. Further up the road and around the corner, Markov could see the sparse guards of the facility, unaware that the rumbling they felt was headed for them.

“What’s our status?” Markov asked, lowering his binoculars to look at one of his lieutenants.

“They’re just around the corner. Squad leader reporting all good, except--” The lieutenant stopped.

“Except what?”

“Sir, the squad leader said he was winded. Wanted to ride on the tank, sir.”

Markov scoffed. “Tell him he’ll get his chance soon.”

Meanwhile, the fourteen soldiers and their accompaniment reached the gate. Markov watched the soldiers, taking cover behind the advancing diesel beast or around the corner of buildings, trade shots with two sentries before one of the employees retreated into the building, leaving his colleague to bleed out. The engineering vehicle powered through the fence gate, sending the panels of woven steel crashing into the asphalt. In a mad dash to seize the structure, the squad made for the side of the warehouse before falling out of the view of Markov.

A few minutes and muffled pops of gunfire later, the lieutenant reported that they were in possession of the warehouse.

The interior of the warehouse (WURCo. Depot 32, the nameplate read) was covered in a layer of dust no doubt shaken from the roof during the bombardment. Markov had the entire structure examined for booby traps or enemy forces in hiding, and they had come up clean; the only hazard was the smoking remains of folders and papers left in garbage bins.

General Pasha Rostov, after leaning over to examine the ashes in one bin, refocused his scowl straight ahead.

“Curious. They burned the records,” Rostov mused, stepping through the door. Markov, holding it open with his foot, allowed him through before falling in stride.

“Not the behavior of robbers,” Markov said.

They were now in what looked to be the main cargo area; dock doors lined the northern side of the room and the space in between the tall concrete walls of the room was filled with stacks upon stacks of wooden and steel crates, ranging from ones the size of a briefcase to ones large enough for a standard naval shipping container.

“So, we’re certain they were employees-- but to what end? Were they acting under their own interests in hopes of a promotion? Were they politically motivated?” Rostov asked, rustling and listening to the contents of a box.

“I’ll suppose we’ll find out when we interrogate the survivors,” Markov responded. Rostov handed the box to Markov, who, unsure what to do with it, tossed it onto a pile of cargo. Of the handful of people who guarded the warehouse, two had been successfully captured-- they were currently held at a district police station, awaiting whatever system of justice the office in charge deemed fit. Rostov, who was that officer, nodded his approval of the cargo and munitions that surrounded him.

“Well, Captain, I’ve got other business to attend to and you have your supplies. Be generous; share it as much as possible so I’m not running an army of ragamuffins.” Rostov said, turning towards the door.

“Yes, sir,” Markov said, quickly saluting.

Rostov, stopping momentarily before the door, added, “And Captain?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Good work.”

Divine China wrote:I need to bring back the courts, abolish child labour and reduce unemployment.

Why, why, and the unemployed probably aren't worth hiring anyways (that's why they're unemployed).

Cossack Peoples wrote:Good luck, my friend. You'll find the sweet allure of cheap labor from the young'ns will be hard to lay aside when you realize the economic benefits, my friend.

How do I give you a digital high five?

Yemrod wrote:How long was i out

*Yawn*
*Stretch*
What year is it?
What planet am I on?

Free Market Buisnesses wrote:

Unfortunately, time is running out to buy a fantastic urnanitrum watch due to a

But there's still time, so buy one now!

So a customer buys you 1000 watches and you have stock problems? How big your stockpile was? Someone has to revise the supply chain...
(*slightly dissapointed mmph*)

Calgasia wrote:So a customer buys you 1000 watches and you have stock problems? How big your stockpile was? Someone has to revise the supply chain...
(*slightly dissapointed mmph*)

It's a limited time prerelease. This way we can mark it up a bit, but more importantly make everyone who didn't get one jealous. Plus we can only export so many before your customs officials notice, since safety testing ever so slightly maybe kind of definitely hasn't been completed abroad*.

Free Market Buisnesses standards are unfortunately not accepted in many countries, due to being set by private companies, often the ones who manufacture the products. The government itself is currently trying to integrate itself into the free market. We have successfully privatized law enforcement.

Cossack Peoples wrote:Good luck, my friend. You'll find the sweet allure of cheap labor from the young'ns will be hard to lay aside when you realize the economic benefits, my friend.

But there has been no economic benefits lol

Free Market Buisnesses wrote:Why, why, and the unemployed probably aren't worth hiring anyways (that's why they're unemployed).
How do I give you a digital high five?

Because having a codified justice system and abolishing child labour is an enlightened reform. And keeping people in jobs keeps them busy and contented instead of unemployed and restless which turns into anger against the government.

«12. . .4,3304,3314,3324,3334,3344,3354,336. . .4,3824,383»

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