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 [Battlelords Remix] The Long Frontier RPG 
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Deadlier Than You
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Joined: Wed Aug 19, 2009 11:55 pm
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Post [Battlelords Remix] The Long Frontier RPG
So my friend Auston is going to be starting an ensemble game using his homebrew re-mix of the Battlelords system and setting. Ensemble meaning a whole load of people make characters, and whoever's available and interested for the game sessions he announces can join on in. Not all people/characters are at every session. I will add, Auston is a FANTASTIC GM, and the old B-lords games we did were always raucus fun. Here's the intro setting pitch, and some notes from him about it. If you're interested, let me know and I'll get you onto the forums where this stuff is discussed, scheduled, etc.

*******
It’s like this: you cack some sphere-jockey in Hubspace, or you sell Bluetab to the chemjunkies on Arcturus, or you bop with some Biggie’s girl and he throws SPIT-NET a bone, and you find yourself lookin’ up the nostrils of a Judge as he looks down. Prison, he says, or worse. But you’re a slammer, still running green on all your lights—young, strong, not a total dumbass—so your law-squawk cuts you a deal. Prison or a CFC. For you jump-chumps sqattin’ on the john and scanning this down, that means Corporate Frontier Contract, affirm? A one-way ticket to the ass-end of nowhere, the Big Empty, hupping for snot-pay through more shit-top ugly duty than’ll reg on a heavy scanner. Rads, rock-watches, pirates, the rest of it. Crazy.

Still, it beats prison.

You keep telling yourself that, anyway. You keep it flashing green on your HUD as the med-techs clamp you down on a table and squirt a tube of nano-goo behind your left eyeball. You keep saying it to yourself as TRACI goes live and starts whispering in your ear, saying shit you never scanned before, ramming her nanotech cables deep down in your thinker, till your hands can run protocols you never clocked hours learning. You field-strip hypersluggers in the dark; you got specs on how to set bombs and where to put them for the biggest boom; you got a chump bitch-chatting you in a bar and there’s TRACI, telling you all the spots you can hit him to make him cry. You don’t even have to make your hands go—just give the lady the go-ahead, and she does all the work. Still, it beats prison. You got your hands wrist deep in that guy’s guts, but still it beats prison. Yeah.

CFC terms in five years, affirm? You run your course, you stay green, then you rate a duffel full of cred and a chip in your thinker that scans SPIT-NET that you’re shit-top fine citizen and top-flight colonial specimen. Regs say they even shut down sweet TRACI, and drop you free, drifting off on your own course. Those are the specs, anyway, but it don’t matter. You don’t make the five years, chump. More ways to wind up going for the Big Float in this duty than anywhere, affirm? Odds are running seven to one you don’t make it your first year. Nine to one says you don’t see year three. Don’t ask me the odds on year five, chief—even TRACI don’t crunch that math, affirm?

Even if you’re cagey, and know all the tricks the Barrys send down the wire, and keep yourself hull down when the flak starts, guess what? You didn’t keep yourself running green by being all smiles and handshakes, did you? You violated regs, and violations rate blackers. One blacker, one more year on the contract. You cack a guy you shouldn’t? Blacker. You bitch-chat a Barry? Blacker. You evac on a mission? Blacker. I’ve been CFC-ed to the Interstellar Mining Consortium for eight years running, and got me two years left. Only one guy been here longer than me, and that’s Vivian. He’s rated sixteen blackers in his time, and run twelve of his twenty-one years. Nobody else has lived that long. Nobody.

Ugly dude, Vivian. Not on the outside, neither—all deep down. Scan it through his eyes, chief—nothing but dead black space and mean stares, running on loop. He run more black ops protocols than you downloaded from vid-flicks, ‘cepting he’s done it in the flesh. His own two hands choking out some putz, thumbs screwed into his windpipe like they was riveted there. Run evictions, hits, smash-n-grabs, duffle-stuffs—all of it. Tell you about it, too. Ain’t one for blinking, is Vivian. Cold as the Big Empty and twice as dark. Cack you as soon as shit on you.

Guess what else, chump—he’s your pappy. The boss. Captain. C-fucking-O. He runs the missions, he marks the protocols, he chats with the Barrys. He tells you your X and your Y and your fucking Z. You don’t do it? Blacker. If you’re lucky. Odds say he just puts a slug up your aft while you’re walking point with the twitch-gun, calls it an accident.

Still, it beats prison.
Right.

*******
Okay, so the above is some fluff text introducing you to the re-boot of the old Battlelords franchise. A lot of you were involved with it back in the day, but I realize our little gaming group has shifted a good bit over the years, with folks moving away (Josh, Will) and other folks getting involved (Brandon). The low-down is this:

1) This game is a set of one-shots. We play from time to time and, if it becomes popular enough with a core group of players, it becomes a kind of rolling campaign.

2) Everybody (and I mean everybody) can make characters and play. Missions will usually be for up to 6 players from a rotating roster. The liklihood of serious injury or death is substantial, so fortunately making PCs doesn't take very long.

3) The system is completely changed--it is a homemade system I have devised. It works off d6s and is, I think, relatively simple. I have yet to give it a good try, though, so part of the game is going to be tinkering with how the system works.

4) I am *mostly* finished with all the materials needed to play the game (still writing up all the different gear and equipment you can get, but the core rules and the setting specific character creation stuff is finished).

5) The setting is the 2280s on the very frontier of human expansion, working as essentially indentured servants (euphemistically referred to as 'contractors') for a major interstellar corporation. You do their dirty work in exchange for not going to prison/being executed/going bankrupt or whatever horrible life choices or circumstances led you to sign your life away rather than face the music. The tone is going to be darkly humorous, gritty, and long on player-generated solutions to complex pre-designed problems (so, Mission: Impossible or Firefly and not Alias or Buffy).

I'm looking for folks who want to make characters--no party limit. If you don't belong to the Battlelords forum, please join to get more info or post here with questions.


Fri Apr 08, 2011 9:45 am
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