Schwerpunkt '89 - Surviving the Aftermath of the World War III That Never Was

[ze_kraken]

SCHWERPUNKT '89

The Balloon Went Up in '85...

After Mikhail Gorbachev lost the internal party race to become general secretary of the Communist Party of the USSR in 1985 to a Stalinist hardliner Danya Vasilievich the world held its breath. Vasilievich, a long proponent of seizing the production facilities of West Germany to extend the life of the in-decline Soviet Union, had his eyes on seizing the economic assets of the West to keep the dream of a Socialist Workers Paradise alive for a few more decades so that the USSR might endure past the foolhardy arms race it had entered with NATO - one that was steadily running its coffers dry.

The war was anything but unexpected. A series of aggressive Soviet actions stoked the flames of distrust in the West, prompting rapid deployment of British, West German, French, and American forces along the "Iron Curtain" splitting Germany in twain. The lines were drawn, and the world waited on bated breath for what was to come.

Hostilities began on September 3rd, 1985 - just six months after Vasilievich's rise to power. Soviet tanks rolled across the Fulda Gap, pouring into West Germany and blowing apart resistance with ease in the first days of the conflict. But casualties mounted, and in an act of desperation a series of Soviet bombers opted to utilize tactical nuclear weapons to clear a West German armor division threatening to end their offensive.

The West Followed, and the World Was Never the Same.

Atomic bombs were exchanged first in the European theater along the front lines, and ICBMs were then more broadly launched in the United States and the USSR as the bombs continued to rain in Europe. The conventional war continued in Europe for some time after the annihilation of much of the United States, USSR, and European powers but to little cause other than to sustain a cycle of revenge. Once New Years Day came on January 1, 1986 the fighting stopped as supplies became too scarce to continue to wage a war that amounted to nothing worth fighting for anymore.

Soldiers fighting on both sides, still equipped with what remained of their military assets, formed into fiefdoms and gangs that began to pick through the scraps. Though the desolation in the United States and USSR was the peak of the violence and desolation, the use of relatively less destructive bombs on the mainland had preserved enough infrastructure and resources to continue their operation in the short-term at least.

These societies formed all around the mainland, taking in both military and civilian survivors alike. Some went underground, taking shelter from the fierce nuclear winters in the former metro tunnels below. Others stayed above-ground, clustering around spots where crops were able to grow in sufficient quantity to minimalist communities.

Others resorted to pillaging and raiding, taking what they could from the countryside for themselves. Often these raiders were those who still had access to tanks and infantry fighting vehicles from the War and able to, with relative impunity, take what they wanted from weaker rivals. For the first year, these sorts of conflicts were conducted between former NATO and Soviet units with some semblance of a command structure, but these conflicts were short-lived as gas, ammunition, and bodies were used at an alarming rate in fighting equally-competent opponents: it was simply more economical to prey on the weak, so many did.

Now, in the year 1989, life has stabilized as much as it is likely to just 3 short years after the end of everything. The worst of the nuclear fallout has claimed what victims it will in the short term, but many have begun to die from cancers in the radioactive hellscape of Europe. Military conflicts between the former NATO and Soviet powers have ceased in their formal capacity, but old animosities and rivalries have proven difficult to stamp out; rarely will the two allegiances be seen working together, even if infighting in the West and the East is equally common. Military-grade small arms are still in good working order with plenty of ammunition, but tanks and other vehicles are growing rarer by the month as the resources to keep them operational dwindle into nothingness. Rumors of a "Project Reclamation" keep the hope that some kind of government or rebirth of human society is coming, but since reports of mass devastation outside of Europe have begun to reach the mainland in force, hope too has died for any sort of phoenix-like ascension from the ashes...

American "Team Yankee" - 3rd Company of the 1st Armored Division

"Team Yankee" was deployed to the Fulda Gap alongside its compatriots in the 1st Armored Division in the lead-up to hostilities in 1985 and was comprised of both armored and mechanized elements. It fought extensively on the front lines and spearheaded a counter push into East Germany, placing it in relative safety when the bombs fell since the bulk of the Soviet strikes targeted West German hard points.

In the months that followed, Team Yankee - cut off from supplies and in hostile territory well past what had been friendly lines - fought a fierce war of attrition with Soviet forces until being forced to withdraw back into the West at great cost of both equipment and human life. Of the roughly 200 soldiers of Team Yankee that were deployed, only about 40 of them made it to the relative safety of West Germany.

There, they regrouped with other NATO forces for a time, but as the world became harsher and the outlook bleaker, desertion became all too common. By the end of 1987, Team Yankee was an American military unit in name only, having lost much of its military capability to wear and tear, desertion, and casualties. Now, only about a quarter of the inhabitants pledging fealty to the former American military unit were previously involved in direct combat during the war, with the rest coming from the civilian population. Though it still has a handful of M113 personnel carriers in working order, as well as a Leopard 1 and M60 tank in decent condition, they are hardly in dire straits but are outclassed by several militias and marauders that wander the wastes of postwar Europe.

Presently, Team Yankee operates along the former border between West and East Germany around the former city of Hanover. Roughly 150 occupants exist in the city center of what has been dubbed New Hanover, which has been reconstructed into a livable - if not comfortable - town in the center of the city ruins. The inhabitants of New Hanover enjoy a comparatively good life to others around the mainland, with consistent access to food and water on account of the core of Team Yankees former soldiers proving to be especially competent fighters. Still, gas is running out and scouting missions to forage for supplies are taking teams further and further away from the safety of New Hanover as the months go by...

Survivors of the War - Europeans, Americans, and Soviets Alike

Civilian populations were arguably the most devastated by the atomic strikes that heralded the end of any meaningful conflict between NATO and the USSR. Though armed forces were the direct targets, at least of the initial exchange of nuclear weapons, it was the civilian population that paid the brunt of the price in blood and ruined infrastructure that perpetuated a cycle of violence and decline. Millions perished in the first year - those that survived did so at great cost to themselves, and many joined up with whatever regional power had laid claim to their scraps.

Most of the time, this meant military units led by some commanding officer with sufficient equipment leftover to subdue the inferior-armed civilian populace. Many went willingly, seeing the armed forces as a source of stability and protection, and at the beginning of 1989 many once-civilians have been indoctrinated into their military culture. Several of the survivors survived on their strength, cunning, and will alone and so made excellent additions to the more rigid hierarchy of fighting units that led to the eventual consolidation and merging of both military organization and more guerrilla-oriented tactics.

In the case of Team Yankee, over three quarters of its force is made up of former civilians of various nationalities and descent. Several are the wives, widows, and children of soldiers who were deployed in Germany before the fighting. Others still hail from European countries ranging from Spain to West Germany. There is a plethora of military-grade small arms to go around, from a myriad of sources from the American M16s to British FALs. No two civilian fighters in Team Yankee are quite equipped the same, but all of them - even children as young as 10 - know how to fight when called upon.

Welcome to Postwar Europe - Good Luck

Schwerpunkt '89 is a post-apocalyptic survival RP set in the aftermath of both a conventional and subsequent nuclear war between the Warsaw Pact forces and NATO in 1985, drawing inspiration from novels such as Team Yankee and Red Storm Rising as well as a number of tabletop RPGs of the 1980s and 1990s that captured the imagination by detailing a world in the wake of World War III. You will play as members of the former American military unit designated Team Yankee as well as the civilian survivors that have fallen under its domain.

More specifically, you are part of Ranger Team 1, a small squad of civilian and ex-military scouts who scour the wasteland for supplies, keep an eye out for potential dangers, and escort more dedicated offenses into enemy territory on the rare occasion that conflicts emerge that are more than small, quick skirmishes. Though ex-military front line soldiers are exclusively men per the restrictions of the 1980s, both men and women are equally expected to pull their weight and contribute, and as such Ranger Team 1 is comprised of both men and women.

This is a largely player-driven RP in that I will not necessarily be providing you with an overarching plot, but will instead be giving you situations that you will need to respond to as you struggle to survive in postwar life. You will discover story threads that, if left unexplored, will remain secrets. Though I will prompt you with story threads in my GM posts that your characters may explore and then subsequently add as a form of "quests", nothing will be forced upon the group. Though Ranger Team 1 is still beholden to the pseudo-governmental or military hierarchy of New Hanover, unlike its main defense force, Ranger Team 1 is allowed to undertake missions of its own accord provided there is a suspected material benefit to the mission. All this means that active engagement in the process is expected, and a high standard of writing should be maintained throughout. Collaborative posts are encouraged, and often chat roleplaying or using Google Docs or other collaborative platforms for combat/dialogue heavy posts is expected.

Additionally, resource management and realistic portrayals of maintenance are core components of this RP. As outlined below under character creation, you will begin play with a set amount of ammunition, number of rations, iodine tablets, etc. that will be consumed throughout the course of your adventures. You will have to scavenge, trade, or produce that which you use - I will keep track of supplies and be transparent about how many supplies are used in any given encounter, be it a firefight or a long trip along the wastes but part of the responsibility to track and account for supplies will fall on you. The goal is not to be pedantic about it and turn this RP into a game of spreadsheets, but rather to create the feeling that the post nuclear war elements remain integral to the story and do not fade into background aesthetics. Equipment must be maintained - and your characters must be the ones to maintain it, or it might fail. Ammunition must be used carefully. Creativity in problem solving and creating scrap gear is encouraged, as it will preserve your scarce resources for when you truly need them.

Character Creation - Building Your Survivor

Here is the outline for your character sheet. You are free, and encourage, to format it and way you see fit, but it must have the following information:

Name:
Age: (Minimum age of 18; underage individuals are not allowed in Ranger Force 1)
Sex: (Reminder both men and women are welcome within Ranger Force 1)
Nationality: (All non-Warsaw Pact nationalities are allowed)
Appearance: (Written Required, Photo Optional)

Brief Backstory: (Who they were, where they were when the bombs fell, what they do now, nothing extensive or all-encompassing)

Skills: (What is your character particularly effective at? All Ranger Force 1 members are drilled in basic firearms, close combat, navigational, and maintenance skills so these should be reserved for those talents that make your character particularly unique or different)

Relationships: (New Hanover is a tight-knit community, and reliance on others is integral to survival - what friendships, romantic relationships, familial bonds, etc. are important to your character?)

Equipment:
Equipment and its maintenance and consumption is an integral part of Schwerpunkt '89 and is a large part of your character creation. Each character is allowed a primary and secondary weapon as well as up to 2 personalizations/attachments for those weapons (either ones listed or ones that, within reason, could be added to the weapon). Your remaining equipment is standardized, and will be outlined prior to the RP start as well. The rest of your equipment - either personal in nature, or useful to missions - is up to you.

Weapon Attachments -
Scope, Bipod, Suppressor, Underbarrel Grenade Launcher, Foregrip, Extended Capacity Magazine, Sawn-off Stock, Fortified Stock, Shortened Barrel, Extended Barrel

All weapons begin play with ammunition for one full reload equipped as well as two reloads in spare. This means an assault rifle with a magazine capacity of 30 would begin with 90 rounds, a machine gun with a belt of 100 would begin with 300, a non-disposable rocket or missile would begin with 3, and a shotgun with a tube capacity of 6 with 18.

As a general disclaimer - I reserve the right to approve or deny any characters before admission into the RP. At this time I am accepting up to 6 players, which may increase should there be sufficient interest and interesting enough characters. These characters will be listed here:

1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.

Lastly, though it is not required to participate in this RP, a Discord server will be created to engage with your fellow players, plan collabs, share memes, and ask questions in a more readily accessible fashion than a forum post. Join the schwerpunkt '89 Discord Server! If you have any other questions, ideas, or comments feel free to shoot me a PM here or on Discord or leave a post below!

Look forward to scouring the wastes with you!

 

[Kazama]

Name: Finn Wei
Age: 25
Sex: Male
Nationality: Asian American


​

Appearance

Finn is about 5'7" and somewhat slender, though time spent doing what he does has built up some muscle tone. He has a few tattoos from before the war; some punk rock style cobwebs and roses on his right elbow, and a barbed wire loop around his left wrist. The kind of stuff you get to scare your parents. The ones on his elbow are a little warped; he got them as a teenager and they needed a touch-up even before the war. In addition to those, he has a few homemade tattoos from after the war. A row of dates on his left bicep and the letters "G.B.T." on his right forearm.

He had ear piercings before the war that he has only recently started to use again. New Hanover's relative comfort means that a few methods of expression unavailable outside its walls are tentatively viable again. Nobody's gonna miss a few earrings from old jewelry stores, so might as well. CO's give him shit for it, so they stay off most of the time. He thinks he looks better with them on; which is up for debate.

Backstory

Before the war, Finn was the very soul of rebellious 80's youth. Punk rock, piercings, and a gleeful disregard for the white picket fence. He was a college student too. That mix of attitude and critical thinking skills so reviled by older generations was alive and well with him. In 1985, he was on his way to visit relatives in China while the college semester was out; his parents' idea. His plane had made a stop in Rome when the bombs fell.

He spent the next few months jumping from camp to camp, slowly making his way up north. He eventually ended up with a group of about a dozen drifters; leftovers from the smattering of failed settlements in those early days. They became close knit and traveled fairly far up north, away from the military gangs and marauders.

They thought they were going somewhere safe. Western Germany had been where all the "real" military had been. The Americans and NATO and all those guys. They'd be better equipped. It would be safer there. They had no way of knowing just how much worse it would be.

There was this air force base along the West German border, close to where the Berlin Wall had been. NATO military there had long since run out of supplies. Desperate measures had been taken; and then even more desperate measured on top of those. Then they got into a feud with a Soviet settlement that happened to be bigger than them and desperation mounted yet again. It didn't help that this particular base had very little in the way of resources. They were on scarce land.

This had all snowballed and mutated them into little more than a military flavored tribalism by the time Finn's group got there. The base they operated out of had become dependent on the dying slave labor of what had once been their civilian population. To try and refill their dwindling workforce, they'd taken to capturing travelers and smaller communities to replace them. Finn's group got picked up near the wall and "booked" as these guys called it.

Most of his group, he never saw again. They were taken to some other part of the region. Of the two left with him, one took her own life. The other was made an example of when he refused to obey some lieutenant. Two weeks later, Finn escaped.

There was this belief back in the day. When shit hits the fan, and I mean really hits the fan, there are different kinds of people. Regardless of what you think of yourself beforehand, you either have "It" or you don't. Sometimes you think you have "It" and don't; sometimes you didn't know you had "It" in you, but you do. Finn was the latter.

He spent a few months scrounging on his own, surviving in hostile territory. He did what he had to do to survive. Soldiers and patrol camps became his main source of supplies. He did a lot of slinking in and out of camps, slit a lot of throats, bashed a lot of heads in, did a lot of hiding and running away. Rumors of some escaped slave cutting up stray soldiers or taking shots from windows started to circulate around outposts. "That Escapee" started to show up on more and more orders from command; soldiers slept less comfortably, a few not at all; and some lieutenant's body was found seriously fucked up with by an old wood-axe.

Finn got his slice of revenge, petty as it might be, and left the region.

When he got picked up outside New Hanover, he was probably a day or two from death. Starvation's a shitty way to go, but he got lucky that New Hanover's patrols have a tendency of bringing back survivors instead of just looting them. It took him a while to get used to civilization again, but that's not unusual when it comes to survivors. He readjusted. Learned to feel a little safe again. Regained an old sense of humor and a warmer personality as time went on and life became a little more comfortable. He grew to like New Hanover. It became home.

Trying out for the Ranger Team was a tough decision. Feeling safe felt nice. Really nice. And all he had to do was stack sandbags and farm potatoes. A roof over his head, his own bed, reliable meals; even booze and a monthly movie night. So long as the town could spare the food and power for some morale, which it usually could. Drinking vodka and watching Luke Skywalker blow up the Death Star in an old high school's auditorium probably puts him on some 1%er list these days. Even if the only version they have is in badly dubbed French.

But the recruiter had a point. Not a lot of folks had what it takes. He'd be wasted picking apples or chasing Mrs. Müller's goats around. They needed people who could get out into the shit. They needed people who had "It" in them. So he tried out and got in.

Skills

Finn is first and foremost a survivor, and displays a high level of resourcefulness and independence. Going it alone is one of the most dangerous things you can do out in the badlands, but the select few people capable of doing so make incredibly valuable assets. It's not about being a one man army out there, either. It's about knowing yourself and what you're up against. When to fight, when to hide, when to run... And if you DO fight; never fight fair.

His knack for resourcefulness means that even in a situation where he doesn't have any of his gear or weapons, he can still operate by procuring gear from his environment or opponents. Whether it's a stolen pistol, a piece of rebar, or a shard of glass. The sheer will to survive will carry you far if you've got it.

Finn knows a lot of the area outside New Hanover, and quite a bit beyond. He's done a lot of recon for New Hanover and has made some pretty reliable maps of the surrounding areas. Nice looking maps too; he's a pretty good artist.

He's stealthy, and it helps that he's shorter and thinner than most. He can escape and move through small spaces most others can't. But beyond that he has an almost innate capacity for noise and presence discipline. He can move through a hot zone undetected and get himself right up next to potential targets and objectives. He even wears tennis shoes instead of boots, to keep himself lighter and quieter.

Finn has a remarkable capacity for close combat, and is capable of taking down people much larger and stronger than himself. His approach is often vicious, and he has as tendency to fight "dirty". Biting, sticking fingers in eyes, going for the groin, pulling hair or clothing, and using literally anything he can get his hands on. He understands that ferociousness, overwhelming force, and speed of the take-down is what overpowers an opponent more than anything. Time in the ruins teaches you that there's no such thing as a clean take-down. Just a successful one and an unsuccessful one.

"If you have to stab the guy sixteen times, then stab 'em sixteen times. Those smooth Hollywood moves don't actually work. 'Specially when some of these fucking Soviet guys are built like rhinoceroses."

He uses a knife when ambushing, and he's gotten very good with it, but anything goes if the situation calls for it. He'll make do with a rock if he needs to. He has made do with a rock. At least once. When he fights up close, he carries the air of someone who's had to fight like an animal and can tap into that if need be. He's a survivor, after all.

Lastly, Finn can speak, read, and write Mandarin. While there isn't a whole lot of need for the ability to understand Chinese, it's helped once or twice. They may not have an original T-34 manual... but about two months ago, he found a mangled Chinese T-34-85 manual. It's incomplete, but about half of it's still there. It was on a uniformed corpse in a bombed out office. He's no engineer, but he can read it out loud if necessary.

Relationships

There aren't a whole lot of young people in New Hanover, but he's managed to grow into a few social circles in the town. Unfortunately, command doesn't always agree with some of the "troublemakers" that fill these social circles.

Amanda "Digit" Brown, American civilian, has received more than a few reprimands for excessive noise, drunken conduct, two fights, and one count of vandalism that was dropped because it's not vandalism if it's her own place. She's something of a tech head, troublemaker, and an amateur musician. Her job helping repair equipment. Her hobby is collecting disturbance complaints. She's put together an amplifier system and a rudimentary sound stage in an empty apartment. While not illegal as per New Hanover law (more of a rulebook really), the Sex Pistols playing at near jet engine decibels isn't welcomed by everyone.

Karl Schuster, German civilian, is someone else who's rubbed authority in New Hanover the wrong way. He grows weed. Like a lot of it. He has a greenhouse hidden somewhere near town with ten metric shitloads of weed. Some argue that this is an important service to the town; others say it's immoral deviancy. For now, he keeps the basement's location a secret just in case. But if you're cool, he'll hook you up. Ask Finn if you need any but don't wanna sully your reputation with command. Cause admit it, you want some.

Unfortunately for any CO's, they make up two of Finn's three best friends, and he spends a lot of his free time with them when in New Hanover.

Finn also has something of a secret romance with one Benjamin "Ben" Lawson. They've been together for a while, but for obvious reasons, their relationship is a secret. Ben was a medical student from the United States studying in Germany before the war. While he isn't a surgeon or a full fledged doctor, he acts as one of the few medics in town. Treating illnesses, the odd injury, and he was one of the folks that helped deliver New Hanover's first baby last year. He's quiet, and well liked within the community; one of the few younger people who isn't a shithead.

Ben and Finn have been more than friends for some time, but don't trust New Hanover to take the news of this well. As a result, very few are trusted with knowing about it. A few of New Hanover's residents have suspicions and while it's little more than gossip with most, this has created points of contention with a small handful of people. Finn has responded to some of the more vocal personnel by becoming confrontational. If his accuser is also confrontational, it usually doesn't end well. He's gotten into more than one fight with overly aggressive accusers, and at least one tussle has ended with somebody needing stitches. Reprimands are usually issued to both belligerents. CO's may have to keep an eye on points of tension like this, especially if it's between valuable Ranger Team assets.

Equipment

Finn's primary weapon is an M14 rifle utilizing extended capacity (20 round) magazines and a camouflage wrap. He can maintain the rifle consistently enough to keep it in working order, and he keeps it spray-painted and wrapped in cloth to camouflage it if he needs to ditch it for a while. Sometimes you have to leave the big stuff someplace if you're crawling into a hole.

M14 Rifle (Pre-Modification)​

As a sidearm, Finn keeps a more modern Sig Sauer P226. The gun features night sights, as well as an attached flashlight, since it becomes his primary firearm inside small tunnels and ruins. It's a 9mm, but these days, professional body armor's rare, and even that won't help much if the gun's pressed up to your gut. Since it doesn't have an external safety (the P226 uses an internal safety mechanism) the gun is always ready to fire and perfect for quickdraws. It can be out and ready to shoot faster than most other pistols.

P226​

Finn's favorite weapon overall, however, is a World War 2 era stiletto. It's a mean fucking knife, kept shaving sharp and mercilessly pointed. There's nothing fancy about it. It is very plainly a stabbing weapon and its use is simple. Stab, twist, saw around, and do a lot of damage. Go for the neck. The pommel is slightly pointed as well, for use as an impromptu striking weapon. He's kept it with him since just before he came to New Hanover.

WW2 Era Stiletto​

He also keeps a crowbar hooked against his bag. It's more of a tool than a weapon. The amount of times he's had a problem that could be solved by a crowbar made him really wanna get a crowbar. It mostly gets used on jammed up doors and crates. The amount of places and things you can get into with a crowbar is unbelievable. You may borrow it if you say please.

Finn has a makeshift ghillie tarp in his bag. It's made from netting and, cloth, those fake plastic plants you see in offices, and a lot of spray paint. It's big enough to throw over a single person, or a pile of stuff. As the squad's designated tunnel rat, it sees a lot use covering up his bags and rifle when they're too big to bring with him.

As mentioned before, he prefers tennis shoes over combat boots. If that bugs you, find a lawyer and sue him.

Lastly, two (2x) very vital cloth hair ties, worn around the wrist when not used to keep hair out of his eyes. New Hanover needs a good barber. Wilmer fucking sucks and he's an asshole. Never going back to him.

 

[Kuno]

TOM ABBOT

---

Name: Dr. Tom Abbot
Age: 35
Sex: Male
Nationality: British
Appearance:

Tom presents an orthodox study of an East End working-class male. The rugged man stands at a fair 180 cm height and is of a good and stocky build. His muscles lie undefined, yet he is solid and strong, years of towing patients, comrades, and heavy supplies lending itself to his innate strength. He is privy to thick, windswept light brown hair and a short beard of the same fair quality. Thin lips and a pointed beak of a nose peek out from among the hairs. His medium, unkempt eyebrows are typically drawn together in a constant appearance of somber study. Below this are perhaps his most compelling features: his eyes are warm pools of gentle brown. While not particularly attractive, they are comforting and kind and best reflect the inherent compassion buried underneath much of his stoicism.Tom's last memorable feature is his sole outward flaw. His left ear is missing a chunk of flesh from the apex thanks to a ricochet bullet. While otherwise largely intact, he has lost much of his hearing in that ear. Those in the community know to speak up when presented with his left side.

Character:

Even before the wars and its horrors, Tom was a perpetually serious individual. The Brit smiles little, and laughs even less. Though not a sour man by any means, his commonly reticent attitude leaves much to be desired for those seeking fun and witty entertainment. With enough drink in him, he can be quite funny - for those who can manage the desert dry of his jokes. Other than that, the English male can best be described as mellowed. Older folk would say he had an "old soul" - in a sense, he did. The war and life after has aged him prematurely, and much of the passionate emotions that define younger men has all but shriveled up in him. With a long-suffering patience he has weathered every storm. Anger is not becoming to him, and so he very rarely expresses it. What defines the man most is his kindness. Even in the face of constant trials and tribulations, Tom has not lost the love he has for his fellow man, and it is in that sense of compassion that Tom has managed to find the will to keep living on.

Brief Backstory:

Tom was never meant to stay in the East End of London. He writhed for most of his youth in the seedy poverty that so pervaded his family and escaped in a way many of his day often did: it was straight to the military for him once leaving secondary school. When he finished his tour at 22, he went back home to London to enroll in medical school and endeavored as broad an education as possible, focusing primarily on traumatic surgery and care. He emerged as a general hospitalist and was soon hired at a public hospital to help man their booming emergency department.

Somewhere, somehow in the chaos of school and work, Tom found time to fall in love with a magazine columnist named Darla. The two made the rather rash decision to get married in 1979 after only three months of dating.

It was an ill-fated match. Darla was a woman filled with life: vibrant, vivacious, and frankly much too young for Tom's aged spirit. She craved love and companionship that Tom was too distant to give. He loved her more than anything in the world but did not know how to show it. Consumed by his medical residency, Tom was unaware of the rift growing between him and his wife. It proved to be a fatal oversight.

At age 31 his service was reinstated to help supplement the bulk of fighters stationed near the Fulda Gap. His advance was ultimately halted to treat the wounded in Cologne, and it was there that Tom's world was torn asunder twice: first in the form of a divorce notice levied over the phone by his wife, and second by the encroaching bombs that rent the city in two. In the ensuing chaos, he and his remaining fellow soldiers made his way to Hanover - soon to be New Hanover. There they have remained, he in particular unable to turn away from the sweeping number of sick and wounded desperately needing care.

Joining Ranger One was one of the recent bright spots in his life. While it is unquestionable that his craft in New Hanover has benefited a great many, he felt a dull stagnation of his skills. He is, after all, bound to two codes: both to that of a doctor and that of a soldier, and he is quite honored to employ the solemn duties of the latter.

Skills:

The predominant value of Tom's life lies in his invaluable skill to save lives. As a hospital and field-trained traumatic surgeon, Tom has a significant wealth of knowledge and expertise when it comes to treating conditions stemming from (but not limited to): hemorrhage, broken bones, GSWs, wound evisceration, shock, stroke, heart attacks, and acute seizures. His patients range from a waddling toddler to a laboring mother to a elderly man in dire need of palliative care. In the face of medical supply shortage, he has been forced to adapt in order to keep his patients well and alive. The sterile O.R. of old has had to make way for the cleanest room one could find, and aseptic technique has conformed to the age-old dogma of traumatic surgery: "Save the life first, treat the infection later."

The flipside of Tom's medical prowess extends to mental afflictions in various cases. The man does not profess to be a psychiatrist nor a psychologist. But empathy is a powerful tool when utilized properly. The term "patient-doctor privilege" is one he exercises faithfully even in the absence of civil laws. Compassion to listen, to placate, to understand. Patience is a virtue of his, and his steady calmness and willingness to bend a listening ear at all times has mollified even the most violent spell of psychosis. Coaxing one to peace is something he is frightfully used to, even before the war. The negative side to this is that many a villager has felt comfortable confiding a secret in him, and while Tom is not necessarily opposed to this, some things he would have much rather preferred living his life not knowing.

While not necessarily his main scope of practice, Tom has begrudgingly tended to the needs of Hanover's furrier companions. Some things remain the same no matter human or animal, and Tom doesn't mind setting the occasional broken bone or stitching the odd cut of a much needed beast of burden. Family pets remain a sore point of contention to him. No amount of needling or crocodile tears will make him expend any amount of energy to treat a useless pet, and it is one of the few times the man becomes cross over anything.

Much to his and his teammate's benefit, Tom possesses an uncanny eye for detail. Not just in surgery - in the field, in a gunfight, where every second of every moment counts, and one wrong move has you staring down the barrel of a gun. Tom can't help but notice things. It is the soldier's instinct in him ever-present. It is not so much paranoia as it is a constant state of preparedness. He is forced to be on guard at all times. After all - the last time he let down his guard was when a bullet took the top of his left ear clean off. One can never be too careful.

Relationships:

• Richard "Dickie" Pearson, aged 32: While most of their company splintered soon after the bombs ceased, Dickie remained at Tom's side. The fellow Brit is a shining example of optimism persisting in the face of tragedy, smiling in spite of his own trials and the loss of his left forearm. He remains one of Tom's few lifelines to the living. He is a brother forged by fire, and the younger man looks after Tom's well-being diligently despite resistance.
• Sofia Berkhalter, age 27: A warm body to hold when the nights get cold and lonely. He will never replace her beloved Jon, nor she his Darla, but they both accept one another as a passable substitute. In addition to her nightly "assistance", Sofia also works under him as a nurse from one occasion to another, particularly aiding him with female patients who may feel uncomfortable with his sole presence.
• Franz and Mika Fischer, aged 10 and 9 respectively: Orphaned siblings he's more or less taken into his care. The little scamps are prone to following him about his day to day, and he has taken to giving them menial tasks and off-the-cuff lessons throughout their encounters. He does not think of himself as impacting their lives any, but in fact has become a pseudo father figure. Purely for their amusement, he acts as if it is a great bother to have them hanging about.
• Benjamin Lawson, aged 25: He is one of the few medically skilled personnel in the community. A former medical student, the American has provided a much needed set of hands when providing patient care. In addition, Tom has taken it upon himself to resume the young man's doctoral training. After all, anything could happen to Tom, and he'd feel much better dying with the knowledge that someone as level-headed and capable could take his place.
• Sabine Weber, aged 22: Tom took care of the young woman after happening upon battered and beaten body whilst on patrol. She has since become something of a beloved younger sister to him, and Tom looks after the German native dutifully. While he can't say that he particularly approves of her role in Ranger One, he is, at the very list, satisfied that Sabine has found a meaningful sense of purpose.

Equipment:

Primary weapon - SPAS 12 with foregrip and extended capacity

Secondary weapon - M1911 pistol

Supplies kept excluding ammunition are held within his pack so long as they do not exceed a certain weight. Staples of his bag include mostly medical supplies: a suture kit, a free needle, free ties, gauze, iodine, rubbing alcohol, strips of clean cloth, a disposable #10 scalpel, marcaine, cefazolin, 10 cc syringes, 22 - gauge needles, and a half-full bottle of chloroform tightly sealed about the cap. Tom is always on the look-out for pharmaceuticals to pilfer from homes and vehicles; thus, a compartment on the back of the bag is reserved for such items. A small flask of a mystery liquid also sits nestled in a side pocket. Tom calls it his "emergency sedative", yet the flask smells suspiciously of gin.

 

[HiveFleetDelicious]

Name: Būlus-François Alhuthiu
Silas DeBarbara (nom de guerre)

Age: 29

Nationality: French (formerly syrian)

appearance

As was the way of Foreign Legionnaires, harsh living and subsistence on field rations had created a gaunt yet sturdy build. Standing at about 5'10", Silas was no different, becoming less a man and more a construct of sinew, sleep deprivation, and nicotine. Still fit to fight, but eschewing with the well muscled figure that comes to mind at the mention of "professional soldier" in favor of a more pragmatic physique. Somewhat unique to Silas was his complexion. At first he looked as any other Frenchman "ought to", but when The 2nd deployed to north africa Silas tanned much faster and much darker than many of his compatriots.

Background

Being in north africa when the first bombs went off seems like a great place to be for The 2nd Foreign Legion, and it was, at first. Then resupplies came less frequently. Then new orders stopped coming in. Then the resupplies stopped altogether. The 2nd Foreign Legion was on its own; halfway through Libya and not on good terms with the local nations or their citizens.

It took three years for The 2nd to fight, barter, steal, and sacrifice its way to Ceuta Morocco, and charter a ferry to spain, they had even managed to contact the spanish government for entry en route back back to their home nation. Daresay spirits were high for the brief trip across the straight, that was until The 2nd met with the spanish officials. They knew a shooting war had once again broken out in the mainland, but The 2nd had been kept in the dark about just how bad things had become.

Upon being received by their home states, command of the 2nd was promptly turned over to NATO joint forces and the regiment was dissolved and its remaining members were used to replenish lost manpower elsewhere, Silas himself was deposited into Ranger Team 1 where his experience keeping equipment and machines together with little more than sheet metal and harsh language would hopefully be of most value.

Relationships

Having only been in New Hanover for a year Silas has managed to settle in and establish a healthy professional rapport with his new unit and the rest of the community. However, due to the inherently insular nature of foreign legion regiments, Silas tends to spend most of his downtime away from his unit to be with his former comrades.

Skills

Languages:
French
English
Arabic
Turkish

Field engineering:
Silas was originally assigned to The 2nd Foreign Legion as an equipment mechanic, however as both supplies and manpower shrank, the scope of Silas's mechanical and engineering aptitude grew. Keeping engines running, no matter the available supplies, and in field fabrications became less convenience and more necessity. While he is by no means a miracle worker, Silas is singularly skilled in doing a lot with as little as possible. To him everything has potential, especially if it's made of metal and oftentimes a well placed shim makes the difference between making it to that next depot and being stranded out in the open with dubious at best knowledge of enemy disposition.

Equipment

Equipment:

Primary: FAMAS F1

Secondary: Glock model 20

As part of his loadout, Silas keeps an assortment of metalworking tools nearby to assist in salvage and repairs, consisting of the following:
brazing torch, forge maul, tin snips, metal handsaw, loktite (4 tubes), set of centerpunches

 

[Dakota K5]

Name: Otto White
Age: 38
Sex: Male
Nationality: American
Appearance:
Standing at 5'9" Otto isn't what some would picture when told he was a career army man, 140 pounds, lean and quick even for a man nearing 40. A distinct scar sits just to the left side of his chest between the pectoral and shoulder and sticks up out from his shirt just enough to be noticed in close conversation. Green eyes greet the world first and foremost as Otto observes rather then speaks most of the time.

Back story

Otto is and was a career army man, he joined up at 18 back in 1969, just in time to see some combat in the green hell that was Vietnam. Otto was never one to beat around the bush so to speak and unlike most saw his service in Vietnam as a duty to be embraced not endured so when the opportunity came he volunteered for the Long-range reconnaissance patrol just before their integration into the new 75th infantry regiment, Otto distinguished himself in these missions as an expert marksman as well as the fastest man in the squad, both in reaction time and speed leading to some very fortunate close calls that would have otherwise led him to the end of a punji stake or two. Before leaving Vietnam Otto was one of the first in the Army's new in-country sniper school taking his already above average marksmanship skills to a higher level and augmenting them with a new cadre of skills needed by a sniper. After Vietnam Otto was bounced around as the Army saw fit as he re-upped his service contract each time it was due to expire and by 1977 found himself at a permanent station in western Germany, he never let his rank get to the point where he'd be taken off of front line duty though with a small infraction here or there just to keep him from rising to high. By 85' Otto was a seasoned veteran with a developed mind for his mission and purpose so when soviet tanks rolled west he was with some of the first units deployed but that was then and this is now and now Otto uses his skills for a much less aggressive mission outside the walls of New Hanover.

Skills

Skills: Otto is a sniper, patient and deadly from a distance but also a discerning eye in situations that might be more or less than what they seem. Don't discount him in CQC either, he isn't an artist with a knife or the like but when it comes to killing he's no amateur. Otto is also a man who knows traps and their value from simple tripwires to place a forget explosives, he's not a sapper but he's not a pushover. Most of all though, Otto is a quiet sneaky man, he doesn't make much noise when he moves and sneaks up on people without meaning more often than not.

Relationships

Eric Lenker 33: A younger former auto repairman Otto met sometime after making it to New Hanover, they don't speak much but their relationship is defined by quiet reflection rather than rapid talk.
Devenee Sous 22: Young nurse from France, Otto helped guide her group to New Hanover. They share tea and simple conversation on Sundays.

Equipment

M40A1: Modified with a bipod and Suppressor
Otto's weapon of choice.
Browning Hi Power: Modified with an extended magazine of 20 rounds.
Tomahawk: A holdover from his days in Vietnam, a simple Tomahawk with meaning to Otto as well as a deadly weapon if needed, hangs on his belt 99% of the time he is awake.
Other than his listed weapons Otto keeps a multi-tool as well as a pair of binoculars with a greater magnification then what his rifle scope is capable of and finally, a six-pack of camo face paint sticks to hide his face if the need arises.

 

[Applo]

---

Age
Twenty-two

Sex
Female

Nationality
German (German Democratic Republic)

Appearance

Team Yankee is lousy with people who fit the general image of a military individual.With electric-blue hair topping her slight 5'5 frame and crudely improvised make up surrounding her gray eyes, Sabine looks about as military as a barn; a punk through and through, this is just the way she likes it. Her particular taste of self-expression is also evidenced by the multitude of tattoos in the post nuke style that cover the rest of the East German's body; her arms barely have a square inch of un-inked skin between them and the area to the left of her navel has a piece that traces the line of a large and jagged scar.

Of course living in the end times and playing the role of a soldier has forced some aspects of Sabine appearance towards the new normal. Her muscles are noticeably more defined then they ever were before the bombs dropped and her hands carry the kind of calluses and scars that would only have been found on the most veteran of factory workers; once styled finger nails are now cracked, dirt and paint caked affairs with distinctly chewed, jagged edges. Additionally her taste in clothes has shifted away from the outrageous, towards mostly sensible garments in muted colours that don't rip at the slightest provocation and that have lots of pockets.

Backstory
With every generation, some souls are born out of place. In Sabine's case, she was born less than one hundred meters out of place; one hundred meters on the eastern side of the Berlin wall to be precise. From as soon as she could crawl, the West called to Sabine, a fact that caused considerable familial tension with her party loyalist father. Whatever ties she had to the eastern status quo were severed when at the age of ten, her mother died and her father remarried within the year. By the age of fourteen Sabine had run away from home and was living in a squat filled with people who yearned for the freedoms of the west like her; undesirables as the government and the Stasi labelled them.

The government's mistrust was not entirely unwarranted. The degenerates, scum and malcontents that shifted in and out of the squat were natural targets of recruitment for those who wanted to throw off the soviet shackles by any means necessary. Sabine was no exception. Her longing for the freedoms of the West had only grown as she had fallen in with a punk crowd, its anarchic, anti-authoritarian ideals having chimed deep in her soul. Within a year of running away from home, Sabine was a foot soldier in a secret rebellion. Mostly she spread pamphlets, graffitied buildings with slogans and occasionally threw bricks through the windows of government buildings.

This all changed when Danya Vasilievich became general secretary of the communist party. Fearing regression to the bad old days of Stalin, Sabine's cadre decided they needed to take more direct action to free the people of East Germany. Obviously they could never match the strength of the Soviet forces, instead they decided to model themselves on the French Resistance. They would become saboteurs. This began a wild and dangerous six months where Sabine and her comrades were hunted around East Germany by the Stasi as they ripped down power lines, derailed trains and held up prison transports. Quite by chance, this wound up with Sabine pretending to be the good Soviet girl her father had always wanted as a guard, who five minutes after she left was killed by an improvised bomb, showed her around a checkpoint only a few miles from the Fuldra Gap just a day before the soviet attack.

The horror of those first few days of war also held opportunity. The Soviet advance had punched a hole in the border and left chaos in its wake. For the first time in years, there was a way to the West for those brave enough to take it. Some of the cadre's members thought they should stay and fight, but Sabine and a few others decided they had done enough. They were sure that soon enough the NATO forces would beat the Red Army back and the border would seal tight once more. Now was the time to seize the future they wanted for themselves. The group were just south of the town of Northheim when the first bombs fell and their dreams turned to dust.

In the days that followed, all of Sabine's comrades headed back east to try and find loved ones. Sabine knew she didn't care if her father had perished and so kept heading northwest with a new plan. She would get to the coast and get a boat, to London or Bristol, or even New York; really anywhere away from Germany where she could be herself.

Sabine never worked out where the soldiers were from. She didn't recognise the uniforms and they didn't speak any German or English that she heard, not that it really mattered. They found her huddled in a barn and decided everything that was hers was actually theirs and took it. The only things they left Sabine were the ripped clothes on her back and a jagged, bleeding gash in her side. Somehow, miraculously even, Sabine had enough strength to stagger through the night until she came face to face with a British patrol before collapsing. It was the voice that brought Sabine away from the darkness and back into the light. The voice she had heard on a thousand illicit radio programs. Opening her eyes she saw a face topped by light brown hair staring back at her. Only one word came to her cracked lips. London.

Doctor Tom Abbot never managed to shake Sabine after that. During the many conversations the pair shared as doctor and patient, she would take every opportunity to quiz the good doctor about his home city, living her dreams vicariously through his answers. When eventually she was well enough to leave Hannover, Sabine found she had no desire to; at least not without Tom. Leaving him behind would have been like leaving part of herself behind so she stayed. It was as simple as that.

Skills
David and Goliath struggles are never won by the smaller party in a single blow, except in stories. Taking inspiration from the French Resistance and the Afghan Mujahideen, Sabine and her friends hoped to help push the Soviets out of Germany through the doctrine of death by a thousand cuts.

While knowing how to fight is important to this, the most important skill a guerilla fighter can possess is the ability to find an enemies weakness and a way to exploit it.Why break down a door if fluttering eyelashes will get it opened for you? Why guard a road if a few bombs will make your foe too scared to use it? Why fight a platoon if killing one man will break them? In short, why do anything when with a little thought, the same result can be achieved for a much lower cost. Of course to achieve this Sabine has picked up a little engineering, mechanical and medical knowledge. She doesn't know enough to really fix anything, but just enough to help her break things more effectively.

Relationships
Dr. Tom Abbot: The man who saved her life and became the family that she had never had at home or in the squat. Sabine loves Tom like a brother and will listen to him and his point of view in a way that she will with no one else. For the better part of two years, Sabine slept on Tom's floor until he managed to gently persuade her to find her own space.

Nurse Berkhalter: Thanks to some well intentioned but very unwanted attempts at conversations early into their relationship, Sabine has always viewed the nurse with cool disregard.

Frans and Mika Fischer: While she has never been very comfortable around children, the Fisher siblings are important to Tom and so Sabine has tried to fit herself into a role of an aunt to them.

Lena Schmidt: A friend from before, Lena crossed the border with Sabine, only to turn back almost immediately to look for her family when the bombs fell; quite by chance she found her way to New Hannover in 1987 having found none of her relatives. After Tom, Lena is perhaps the person Sabine trusts the most and the pair live together as flatmates.

Equipment
Primary Weapon: L4A1 Bren Light Machine Gun with a Bi-pod.
Secondary Weapon: Sig-Sauer P220 Pistole 75 with a suppressor.
Spray Paint Cans in whatever colour she can find them.
A small tool wrap containing a variety of tools including adjustable spanners, hacksaws and hammers.​

---

 

[Hell Hound Woof]

Николай Вячеслав Асклаханов
Младший​

Name: Nikolav Vyacheslav Asklakhanov II
Age: 19
Sex: Male
Nationality: Formerly a Citizen of Soviet Russia
Appearance: Nikolav's face while marred by two fairly sized scars neighboring his right eye is still nearly flawless. A proud Slavic jawline like his fathers accompanied by the fairer brown hair of his mother. Under his brown eyes sit deep circles of purple hued skin as a result of the restless nature of the world. Fortunately for Nikolav his facial hair has hardly begun to sprout from his mix of blemished and dirt covered skin. Around his neck he keeps a tightly wrapped white scarf in which he keeps a stash of cigarettes and over his head he carries a worn in black ushanka. The young man does look quite formidable for a lone survivor. Boasting a height of 6'3 with broad shoulders and long arms Nikolav is better built to bear down on his opponents. Though most wouldnt notice his impressive stature as he often slouches low or hunches over his rifle. Adorning his shoulders is his own father's Soviet Warrant Officer Jacket. The golden aiguillettes that had hung pristinely from the right shoulder now were draped through one of the belt rings of his the jacket. The once bright red on the epaulettes had been tarnished to a near perfect dirt brown while the overall hue of the coat had faded into gray from contact with the ashen landscape. A fairly well worn in pair of boots cover his large feet which are in turn mostly covered by is dark blue winter pants. After years of wear there are a number of holes in his clothing that have been sealed with tape and quick patchwork stitching.

History

(currently in process of finishing it up but essentially the young man's been roaming around alone for a good while)



"Brief" Backstory: Nikolav's father was Senior Warrant Officer Nikolav Asklakhanov I, the commander of Soviet Mobile Infantry 13th Division. From an early age Nikolav Asklakhanov I was surrounded by war having been just eleven years old at the time of the invasion of Stalingrad. The man was a devout loyalist, believing in his motherland with every fiber of his being. . The sad state of affairs in the motherland had made it so few young men did not grow up soldiering. His lifelong dedication was not without consequence. The privileges and disadvantages of rank are never more evident than in the Soviet Ground Forces. His duties called him away to parts of his own nation that he had never been to before. It was only thanks to a good comrade that Nikolav Sr even managed to marry. The devout Stalinist could not truly be a great leader without a wife. He found himself married to a woman named Katya, an albeit less devout but altogether loyal Soviet woman. With that marriage came much disappointment and strife that was in no small part thanks to the Soviet Unions military efforts in other parts of the world. As a result of the Soviet's Brezhnev Doctrine, Nikolav senior was called away often for matters of war. When news reached him of his wife's pregnancy he was elated. Until of course the armed forces called again, this time to the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia only some few months before his wife was expected to deliver. The child was born in 1969 to a loving mother with an absentee father, in honor of her husband the child was named Nikolav Vyacheslav Asklakhanov II.

Growing up the boy didnt have much other than his mother. Though his parents had tried to have more children after a number of tragedies Nikolav's parents declined the prospect of more children. His mother did her best to impart on him the importance of an education. Exposing him to any books or academics she could from the west was her primary concern. Having been married to a high ranking military official she knew it would be crucial for any young soldier to know the history of his motherland. In her lifetime alone she had seen three regime changes, several massacres and executions. Eventually her child would grow to see the same things she thought. It was not only history that she showed her son but she also enticed him to develop an interest in mathematics and chemistry. Nikolav took especially to combustible chemicals as well as things that changed form. Although the young man's life was primarily spent in solitude or with his mother he did not go wanting. Plenty of chemistry sets along with shelves upon shelves of books. His father would occasionally visit from whatever front he was on for the better half of a week then would leave again. Between these meetings Nikolav was expected to groom himself to his father's standard. With every meeting the boy harbored more and more contempt for his father. Though the young Nikolav worked hard to make his father proud but seemingly could never get a sign of affection. Nikolav began to understand the relationship between his mother and father through his own feelings of neglect. It was evident to him that his mother did not love his father. Even more evident that she was as much a captive as she was his father's wife. She withheld her discontent from her son for his own good. Even still she loved the son she had bore.

Nikolav Jr's teen years did not become those of a future soldier. Though he maintained his studies he began to pick apart the historical teachings that the Soviet Ministry of Education had sent. These stories contradicted things his mother had told him and some other things his father had said about their great motherland. Nikolav's curiosity sparked a small but bright light of rebellion in him. Eventually rebellion grew into an aggression towards his parents all together. Nikolav's mother took notice of the young man's change in attitude. Her efforts to sooth her sons anger fell short of the mark. The pair were growing apart so in an effort to rekindle her sons kind nature she began to buy him gifts. She bought records and cakes and nice meals but nothing could placate the young man... Until his mother had bought him a computer, a Commodore 64 1982. When he was just 13 years old he was using chatrooms and playing online games with people from all over the world. A whole new kind of information came to him. The Soviet Union was presently violating many human rights against both it's own people and those it subjugated in other countries. It was as if he'd been hiding in the dark for his entire life. It baffled him how so many of his countrymen could die for the things the Soviet Union stood for. He couldnt understand how any of them could do such a thing without knowing but he was young. He did not understand yet that all good soldiers follow orders. It dawned on young Nikolav that his own father was likely responsible for issuing those same orders. Sending men to die for a country that killed it's own people.


When she passed in 1985, 16 year old Nik was taken to live with his father in the city of East Berlin. The trauma of the loss was difficult for both of them. However with Nikolav Sr's job there wasnt much time where the two had time to talk. It seemed to give the two some kind of buffer between each other. They did not talk about her but both acknowledged each other's suffering with the occasional cursory glance. The area Nikolav's father had been stationed in was called Pankow. A fairly affluent and well populated area located in the north of East Berlin. Nikolav was drilled relentlessly by his father. The boy who his mother had coddled was now forced into a the militaristic lifestyle. Nikolav was to participate in calisthenics and basic exercise daily with his father. The pair would run in the early hours of the morning in almost complete silence, save for his father's occasional question about Nikolav's studies. It was only a few months into their living together that the world turned upside down. Nikolav senior had been ordered to remain in the city to maintain order with the remaining troops he had. In short time his men were being picked off by groups of disgruntled native Berliners. As the American offensive increased in strength Nikolav Senior hardly had the time to order a small number of his troops to flee the city with him. They knew it would be foolish to run while the American line was so close however so they hid themselves away among the sewers of Pankow. With them they had carried crates of rations to maintain them in the weeks they anticipated to shroud themselves in the sewers. It was by sheer luck the roughly twenty men managed to get out of the city in time to evade the erupting warfare. The sewers proved to be some great challenge to navigate for the Soviet Commander. The young Nikolav yearned for his home. His mother. With the coming week the group managed to escape the sewers in a somewhat unoccupied area. With no reason to attempt to combat an entire division of American armor and infantry Nikolav senior ordered his men to go North in an effort to evade the combat zone. On their way The soviet troops happened across a West German field hospital. A brief reconnaissance revealed the base harbored no more than a half a platoon. Seeing the potential yields Nikolav senior took the opportunity to ambush base filled with injured troops and few stationed guards in the dead of night. While the Soviet soldiers stealthily eliminated the patrolling sentries Nikolav Jr was forced to stay by his father's side safely away the encounter. Hearing nothing for sometime Nikolav Jr wondered if something had gone wrong but then gunshots erupted. It startled the young man but his father ordered him to steady himself and observe. In a matter of minutes the Soviet troops eradicated the West German troops. After Nikolav Sr's second in command Sokolav signaled the base had been secured the Asklakhanovs approached. Upon entering one of the hospital tents Nikolav was encountered with the scene of an older man in a bloody lab coat lying dead on the floor with an young woman grieving over his body. Sokolav informed his commander that they learned they were in fact deep behind the American Offensive line. The pair discussed for no more than a moment about the possibility of taking hostages. Nikolav Sr cut the conversation short stating they had no supplies to spare for the enemy. They could be happened upon by more Americans inbound to drop off more wounded. Nikolav watched his father produce his sidearm aimed at the woman then without a glance fired twice. The first shot hit the woman in the throat then the second in her shoulder. Nikolav Sr ordered the man to attempt to radio Soviet Command using the bases communications. The Asklakhanovs with a few men made their way to vehicles that were on base. Meanwhile the remaining Soviet troops proceeded to execute the remaining wounded as efficiently as they could. Nikolav Jr heard only four shots could be heard, certainly not enough to have been the entire base. Nikolav heard his father remark that some must have had the will to persist. Sokolov returned to inform Nikolav Sr that there were plans to eradicate the American Offensive with Nuclear devastation within the coming week before reinforcing the line.


When the bombs fell the small soviet force had managed to make their way to Wittenberg, a city barely outside of the fallout zone. The city had been majorly destroyed by what Nikolav Jr assumed had been Soviet air raids. The group made an encampment out the city's half caved in town hall. The Soviet troops stayed here for two months waiting for their brothers in arms to advance into the area. It wasnt until they began running low on supplies that they began to question the validity in their nations ability to come back from such a thing. For months many of the men had been speaking up that they were left here among the dying citizens of this land. Trapped behind enemy lines all because of the foolish decisions of their Commander. Words of dissent spread through the ranks but were quieted as quickly as they came up by a number of loyal men. In December of 1986 a contingent of American Infantrymen with some number of armored vehicles had been spotted moving into the area west of city by a scout team. The convoy consisted of a pair of armored carriers, two Humvees and a civilian shipping truck. Nikolav Sr knew this could be his only chance to rally his men and perhaps replenish their supplies. Within hours the troops under his command had set up an ambush utilizing the town hall's high roof and windows for the rifles and light machine guns. This time Nikolav Sr forced his son to participate in the attack. He ordered his son to conceal himself on the rooftop with Sokolov. Commissioning his son to the rank of Private the once great Senior Warrant Officer Nikolav Asklakhanov designated an RPK and a chest rig with several magazines to his son. Nikolav Jr did not speak but after the ritualistic moment the pair exchanged a dutiful salute. Nikolav Sr was to lead a squad of men on the ground floor of the building adjacent to the town hall. The area in front of the town hall harbored two statues in a large courtyard that opened up onto the main thoroughfare through Wittenberg. Either side of the town hall including the street behind it had been covered in the rubble from the back half of the building. It provided a blockade against any vehicle attempting to passthrough however exposed the Soviet Riflemen's positions in the town hall from the rear. The squad of men under Nikolav Sr's command was only seven men armed with grenades and an RPG loaded for a single shot. The odds seemed against them. On the roof there were only three machine gun emplacements. Nikolav Jr and Sokolov sat at the northeast corner with the RPK and an AK-74. The west corner of the roof had been reduced to a pile of bricks in a room on the second floor. A team of two men were entrusted with the unit's PKM, two one-hundred round belts, a single 200 round box magazine, and the job of covering the ground force while they dispatched the American troops. The third machine gun emplacement was positioned on the roof facing the Northwest corner in an effort to cover the potential advance on their rear with an RPK. The ground force's job was to eliminate the front armored and force the other other into the courtyard where a few makeshift landmines waited to be detonated. If all went according to plan the Humvees would be trapped in the immediate chaos with no way to escape once the rear vehicle's crew had been taken care of by the scout team that had been trailing them.


Plans rarely go accordingly. The Soviet forces managed to destroy the foremost armored vehicle as it pulled into the intersection using the RPG. The second armored vehicle however managed to turn into the north facing street on the west side of the courtyard before stopping in front of the pile of rubble. Atop the vehicle sat a mounted turret which began delivering suppressive fire at the Soviet ground team's position seconds after the first vehicle had been destroyed. The two Humvees positioned in the middle of the convoy each opened fire with the a .50 caliber machine guns placed on top of them. After the surviving armored vehicle had come to an abrupt stop the first of the Humvees swerved into the courtyard detonating the landmines. The second Humvee screeched to a halt between the burning wreckage and the civilian supply truck. The PKM gunner rained down fire on the on the convoy's soft targets managing to kill the drivers of the shipping truck. Nikolav Jr and Sokolov were attempting to keep the American .50 caliber under suppressive fire to prevent it from taking out the soviet emplacements on the west side of the building. Nikolav Sr's ground team had already taken a pair of casualties from the turret's sustained fire. With the ground team pressed into cowering in the few defensible positions that hadnt been eaten away yet they were effectively incapacitated. The American Humvee's machine gun managed to kill one of the two men operating the PKM as it fired the last round of it's second belt. In this brief gap of fire the armored vehicle's rear doors were thrust open to unveil a squad of infantrymen with rifles raised and firing. The American soldiers moved with heads low as the turret continued to fire unrelentingly at the dwindling Soviet ground team. Meanwhile the .50 caliber machine gun switched targets to Nikolav Jr's position. A grouping of snow covered tiles erupted into the air from the impact of a round striking a meter in front of Nikolav. Another grouping of tiles closer up this time erupted spitting debris into Nikolav's face while more rounds impacted the rooftop. The American infantrymen pushed up the pile of rubble in an attempt to breech the hotel but were met with a torrent of fire spat from the PKM as the second gunner opened fire with his final magazine. Several of the American soldiers fell. Some dead and some wounded while the rest took cover behind whatever they could, some even opted to run back to the armored vehicle. Roughly twenty American troops now occupied the crowded west end of the courtyard divided between their two still functioning vehicles. The Americans' rifles were exchanging fire with the remaining two Soviet machinegun emplacements on the west end while the .50 Caliber tried to pepper the remaining emplacement on the southeast end.


Rubbing the grit from his eyes Nikolav Jr looked to see Sokolov staring at what had been his left hand. The man been struck inches below the elbow severing his hand. Nikolav Jr wretched before scanning the rooftop around them for Sokolov's lost hand. It seemed to have disappeared. Nikolav heard an uproar of small arms fire coming from the courtyard which prompted him to look over the edge of the rooftop. He could see the scout team had caught up to the convoy and was now engaging the passengers of the Humvee and armored vehicle from their position behind the civilian supply truck. Nikolav Jr picked up his RPK to reposition it against the peak of the rooftop before settling himself into a comfortable position behind the rifle. Before he could acquire a target through his scope he heard Sokolov let loose a bellow from beside him. Staring over his shoulder Nikolav saw the man raise himself with his assault rifle in remaining hand. The Soviet soldier's shock seemed to fade as his face contorted like a man possessed. He raised the weapon then expended a third of his magazine while attempting to see through the scope atop his AK-47 trying to hit the .50 cal gunner. Nikolav was simultaneously disturbed and impressed watching Sokolov stand there with one arm half gone still fighting while the machine gun let loose rhythmic thumps. The sight was awe inspiring enough to Nikolav Jr that he decided to peek back through the scope of his RPK. From a brief training Nikolav Jr had gleaned that in order to place a shot on a target accurately he needed to line the point of the highest triangle in the middle of the scope with the desired target. It took him a moment of angling the rifle barrel using the lip of the roof as a rest. By the time Nikolav had managed to take aim Sokolov had left their position in order to begin advancing along the obscured side of rooftop. For a wounded man he moved quite hastily Nikolav thought to himself. The young man tried to call out to Sokolov but to no avail.

The turret of the armored vehicle finally fell silent granting the ground team a window of opportunity. The three living members of the ground team including Nikolav Sr emerged from cover to unleash their remaining fire power upon the .50 caliber and Humvee's occupants. A fair number of the American troops had been caught off guard by the assumed dead Soviet's on the ground. The Soviet's brief volley of fire had yielded a number of casualties for the American troops near the Humvee. Their presence on the ground now reduced to a collective of men under the fire of the PKM and single gunner in the Humvee. With a gap in the American firing line the scout team moved to reinforced the ground team, advancing further around the shipping truck. It was only a moment before the now five man team found themselves under fire again from both the armored vehicle's turret and the .50 caliber. In the first second one of the scout team had been caught in the open attempting to make a beeline for the Humvee. Nikolav lined himself up with his rifle's stock under his cheek and his eye peering through the scope. After lining up the arrow with the back of the gunner Nikolav squinted. He squeezed the trigger for only a few seconds with his eyes shut until the weapon stopped firing at which point Nikolav Jr looked through the scope tracing the line of the vehicle trying to see if he'd hit anything. Looking to the roof of the vehicle where the .50 caliber sat silently he could see the American gunner's red stained hand lazily hung in the air. With a quarter of their offensive power eliminated the American's opted to make an effort to push the destroyed half of the town hall in order to gain more favorable positioning. The armored vehicle's turret turned towards the PKM emplacement now that they no longer needed to cover the Humvee. The vehicle unleashed a stream of fire against the second story of the building silencing the Soviet gunners' positions for good. The armored vehicle maintained it's watch of the second floor while the American soldiers moved into the building on the ground floor and into better positions around the Soviet ground troops. The situation had seemed to only grow worse with each passing moment.

Nikolav could hardly see the armored vehicle from his position at the south eastern edge of the building nor could it's turret see him. Through his scope watched as the American troops advanced on his father's position. Nikolav counted ten men moving for the ground team's position. An assumed twenty or so soldiers must be advancing into the building and street behind the town hall. Nikolav watched with baited breath as the Americans made slow calculated movements towards the Soviet ground team. The Soviet soldier remaining behind the civilian cargo truck held out his rifle angling around the engine block. Nikolav watched as the blind fire managed to strike two of the advancing Americans down. This prompted the armored vehicle to deliver another torrent of heavy machine gun fire against the Soviets. This time targeting the engine block of the shipping truck. It took no more than a second for the bullets to penetrate the metal compartment and strike the man on the other side. Nikolav watched as the shrapnel and bullets caused an eruption of blood before seeing the remainder of the mans body strike the ground. Angered by the shocking possibly of such a swift end for his remaining comrades the young man took aim at the Americans that were visible from his position. In his sight picture Nikolav found an American that had taken cover near the wreckage of the destroyed Humvee. This time Nikolav did not blink. He stared as he squeezed the trigger. The weapon made a metallic click, signifying to the young man he'd run out of ammunition. Cursing himself Nikolav angrily struck the receiver of his machine gun before thumbing the mag release with his left hand. Fumbling with a pouch on his vest in an attempt to pull a magazine from it. As his fingers failed to find a grip his breath grew rapid. His heart became heavier still in his chest with each muzzle retort he heard. Though the process seemed to take an eternity not a minute had passed. The lip of cold metal magazine as his fingernails hooked the feeding lips on top of it. With anguished circumspection he drew the magazine from it's pouch before feeding it into his RPK and racking the bolt. Taking aim through his sites yet again Nikolav found a grouping of three American troops approaching with rifles raised at his father's position. The men took turns letting loose bursts as they moved forward. With gritted teeth Nikolav leaned against the stock of his rifle, lining up the shot before letting loose the entire magazine on the advancing men. 40 rounds of 7.62×39mm struck the ground around them while some pierced two of the men's bodies. Peering up from the scope Nikolav could see two of the men laying dead but could not make the third.


The armored vehicle now made aware there was another point of contact somewhere to it's south reversed towards the Soviet ground troops in order to gain a visual. As the turret raised towards Nikolav's position the young man fell to cover behind the lip of the rooftop. The heavy thump of the turret was almost immediately drowned out by the sound of the roof top shattering under the sustained fire. The panicked young man began to slide down the rooftop before slowing himself a few feet from the edge. Looking down the street behind the town hall he could see the advancing Americans who would almost certainly see Nikolav in moments. The injured Sokolov's escapade had gone unnoticed by the Americans thanks to the lip of the roof. He was now positioned almost perfectly above the nine combatants. Nikolav could see the unit advancing closer below Sokolov as he peered over the edge. With him he still held his Kalashnikov, though now haphazardly gripped in one hand. Nikolav began reloading his weapon anticipating Sokolov's next move. The Americans raised their rifles to opened fire on the young man upon seeing his movement. As the bullets struck the rooftop around him Nikolav wanted to call out to the man. Though in a stupor the wounded man let loose a hailstorm of automatic fire on the American soldiers below him. Nikolav could hear the man shouting something but couldnt make it out over the overlapping machine gun fire. He watched as Sokolov's weapon ran empty. The man with one hand slung his rifle towards the American troops before tearing his pistol from it's holster. Happily the Soviet soldier took lazy aim at each of his targets making short work of dispatching five of the men he'd struck earlier. Nikolav watched in awe while he completed his reload then raised the weapon in front of him. He squeezed the trigger for a moment trying to hold the rifle's aim. He watched the rounds impact the road beyond where the Americans were now laying. Nikolav looked up to see his comrade with his pistol as it ran empty. Now useless Sokolov let it drop to the ground before stuffing his hand in his pocket to retrieve something. The injured man was struck with a burst of wounds across his stomach. Nikolav raised himself to a more stable position and peered down the scope to see one of the wounded Americans with his rifle raised. As Nikolav took aim Sokolov clenched his teeth around the pin from a grenade he had produced from his pocket. Nikolav opened fire this time striking the wounded enemy soldier in the head. By the time he looked up from his scope Sokolov was already sinking through the air rapidly approaching the ground. The young man shut his eyes hearing the sound of flesh impacting the pavement. Nikolav placed a hand on the roof to steady himself as he opened his eyes then stood with his rifle raised in his right hand. The grenade's explosion caught the young man off guard causing him to stumble. Looking down into the street he could make out the mangled corpses of the Americans but Sokolov was nowhere to be found. The turret of the armored vehicle had stopped firing but now Nikolav could hear the exchange of small arms fire.

The young man felt a sickness growing in his stomach but fought to quell it as he made his way along the rooftop. He hurriedly hobbled across the slanted rooftop till he found the place where they'd ascended from. Nikolav clambered down the rubble into the second story of the building. He began making his way down the hall to where the stairs descended into the lobby when he heard the sounds of footsteps coming from downstairs. Nikolav thought to retreat back down the hall but decided it would be better to hold them off at the head of from the western end closer to the remaining Soviets. The staircase was of course in the middle of the hall. If he did not hurry it was likely he'd be stuck cut off from his comrades. His heart jumped in his chest as his instincts forced him to advance. In a panic he sprinted down the hallway hearing the Americans beneath him shouting to advance. His blood pumped harder as he heard their steps thumping against the stairs. Each footfall of his own seeming heavier as he neared the staircase. The mouth of the staircase was roughly six feet wide and almost four feet away from him. Planting his left foot Nikolav bent his knee then extended it to throw his weight into the air. As his feet hit the ground halfway through the opening he turned his head to see a pair of American troops as they raised their rifles to fire. In an attempt to shield his head Nikolav raised his arms around his head nearly smacking himself in the face with his own rifle. The Americans opened fire ripping holes through the walls of the hallway all around the young man. As he sprinted down the hall he heard one of the Americans shout their word for grenade in English. He managed to get himself within a few feet of the room the other RPK had been stationed before hearing the metal thud as it struck the wall behind him. The young man picked up his sprint trying to escape the coming explosion. As he neared the door the force of the blast sent Nikolav into the air crashing against the side of the frame. Accompanying him was a wall of debris, shrapnel and dust none of which spared him the pain of their impacts. As his body wrapped itself around the doorframe Nikolav lost the air in his lungs with a groan. The shock of the blast left him laying in the doorway with his legs in the hallway. In either leg he could feel various splinters of wood and other items that had penetrated his thick winter pants. In his lower right abdomen a piece of the grenades shrapnel had lodged itself between his ribs and the skin. The upper right part of his coat had been torn to pieces revealing a bloody gash in his collar bone.

In a state of delirium the young man rolled onto his right side trying to find his footing. The action forced a whimper through gritted teeth as his hands clawed at the floor trying to pull himself into the room. In front of him he saw the corpse of the man who'd been charged with defending the back street. Through the man's skull Nikolav could see out to the street below. He stared a moment without realizing his ears had been ringing intensely for some time. Only just now could he make out the sound of the American's advancing down the hall, announcing their position by communicating to each other. Nikolav grabbed the barrel of his rifle dragging it closer to him from where it sat near the doorway. He pushed his elbows under his torso in order to move himself further inside the room before trying to raise his legs to kick the door closed. Met with agony the young man let out a yelp. Under his left kneecap a piece of wood roughly as long as a bayonet had lodged itself above his calf. He sat up quickly before throwing his legs aside to slam the door to the room. Before the door had even closed Nikolav had thrown himself on top of his rifle then raised it above his stomach lazily aiming at the wall next to the door. His ears still rang but he could hear the Americans saying something as they advanced down the hall. Hearing their footfalls slowing to a stop the door he squeezed the trigger. The recoil of the rifle drove pain through Nikolav's shoulder causing his aim to drift significantly to the left. The pattern of bullets danced along the wall erupting in tufts of dust for a brief second as he emptied the last of his magazine. In the hall he could hear men wailing and bodies falling. He waited with bated breath trying to figure if he had truly eliminated them all. Nikolav heard the shuffling of feet in the hallway prompting him to reach for the deceased man's weapon. Dragging it from the corpse's arms proved to be a feat for Nikolav's injured shoulder. Though he endured it the pain struck him near blind as he leveled the weapon in front of him. Letting out an anguished cry Nikolav squeezed the trigger emptying the drum of the RPK in a spray painting the wall with a pattern of puncture marks. Nikolav's head fell back against the shoulder of the deceased man as he lazily stared at the half destroyed door. He couldnt make out any sounds coming from the hallway until he heard a man sobbing. Without the encroaching forces Nikolav reminded himself to reload before making any other move. Rolling onto his side he pushed himself up using the stock of the RPK to stabilize his right side. As he hunched over in a seated position Nikolav felt the searing pain in his abdomen grow intense. A wince and grumble escaped his lips as he set the rifle aside and began to fumble with his dead comrades magazine pouches. Now with his hands in front of him working deftly towards such a task he had a better look at the condition of them. They were gnarled from clawing to the rooftop with bloody cuts along the various digits. Nikolav pulled two filled magazines from a pouch on the underside of the mans belly with a grunt before dropping them on his own lap. Grabbing the rifle from his side he fiddled with the magazine release for a moment in a frustrated fervor. Managing to release the empty drum to replace it with one of the 40 round magazines. He hooked his finger around the charging handle then drudgingly pulled down with all the force he could muster. Slowly he managed to drag it all the way down before releasing it in order to chamber the first round. He lowered the weapon so that it was aimed at the door then with one hand still stuck to the grip of the rifle began to check his wounds. The piece of shrapnel in his abdomen seemed majorly superficial however the injuries to his legs were more intense. The spear of wood stuck in his leg was causing him a significant amount of pain but he could not remove it without releasing the blood it was holding in. Nikolav looked to the dead soviet next to him to see a scarf around the mans neck. Without a second thought the young man reached with his left hand and began unwrapping it from his neck. He took a final glance through the decimated door before deciding to chance the time to wrap his leg. Releasing his grip on the rifle took more strength than he realized. His trembling hands moved to grab his leg just above the knee and pulling it closer to his chest. Taking the scarf in both hands he wrapped it around the wooden spike before he wrapped it around the front of his leg then again just below his knee. Yanking on the ends of the scarf tightly he winced waiting

Skills: Deceit, discord and downright dirty deeds. With little in the way of equipment or ammunition Nikolav must rely on more cunning methods. Setting up traps and using his physical advantages the young man is capable of taking down small groups provided he has the right environment. Often in these times filled with destruction, corpses and the deluge of derelict items he finds himself in ample cover with plenty of concealment.

Being a devout follower of the West's greatest creation, Punk Music, he has gleaned a considerable amount of the English language from it. Enough so that communicating with people throughout the wastes is not impossible. With Russian as his mother tongue he mostly makes a point of not speaking unless around other Russians. It's not as though old animosities die easily. In these times it's a comfort for a Soviet Soldier to meet someone who speaks their language. Even if only for a moment before they meet their makers.


Relationships: Nikolav has been alone for the better part of the three years since the bombs dropped. No sense of belonging ever held onto him though he has made contact with groups of survivors, bandits and even former Soviets. Though the loss of his father had at the time seemed so insignificant to him as time had marched on it began to weigh on him. Truly the only definitive trait the young man developed was a spiteful rebellion directed against his own father. It is a sense of loss that propels him forward, perhaps hoping to again find a family.

Equipment:

RPK- The RPK is a light machine gun of Soviet design that fires in 7.62×39mm developed by Mikhail Kalashnikov in the late 1950s, parallel with the AKM assault rifle. It was created as part of a program designed to standardize the small arms inventory of the Red Army. It's magazines are interchangeable with most AKM variants while the two rifles have a number of differences. The RPK features a thicker and longer barrel than the AKM. This allows for it to be fired for longer without permanent loss in accuracy due to the barrel heating up. The chrome-lined barrel is permanently fixed to the receiver and isnt readily available to be replaced in the field. The barrel also features a folding bipod mounted near the muzzle. The barrel itself has a threaded muzzle, enabling the use of muzzle devices such as flash hiders, compensators, and blank-firing adapters. Maintenance on this weapon while still quite basic is not a quick field maneuver. One needs time and the proper equipment to modify or repair the RPK properly. With him Nikolav carries one 75 round drum magazine and two spare 40 standard box magazines.

Weapon Attachments -
PSO-1 Scope
Bipod

Tokarev TT-33- The TT-33 is chambered for the 7.62×25mm Tokarev cartridge. Externally, the TT-33 is very similar to John Browning's blowback operated FN Model 1903 semiautomatic pistol, and internally it uses Browning's short recoil tilting-barrel system from the M1911 pistol. While in other areas the TT-33 differs more from Browning's designs—it employs a much simpler hammer/sear assembly than the M1911. This assembly is removable from the pistol as a modular unit and includes machined magazine feed lips, preventing misfeeds when a damaged magazine was loaded into the magazine well. With a n eight round magazine it is a relatively light and easy thing to carry. The 7.62×25mm cartridge chambered in the TT is powerful, has an extremely flat trajectory, and is capable of penetrating thick clothing and soft body armor. Able to withstand tremendous abuse many TT-33's were produced during the years leading up to the drop.

In his pack Nikolav carries a hatchet, a 15 foot section of rope, one canteen, and several non perishable items.