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Chronicles of a Professional


Adaptus

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OOC: Just not to confuse people, this RP will jump between a 3rd person narrative and a documentary style piece. Oh and since this isn't an RP of sorts, I hope you guys don't mind me poking around with your respected nations.


This is an account of Marc Marcellus, a Hypaspistai-turned-Mercenary within Vickers contractors branch. It tells the story of the decisions faced by those who choose to leave conventional militaries to join one of the most controversial professions within the whole of Europa. It follows the moral, ethical and physical stress placed on so-called "unlawfulls", in their line of work.

Marc Started out joining the Antioch Academy for Skilled Arts at the age of 16. He came from East Adaptus on the high plateaus. He grew up in St Jamesburg but decided to move to Antioch about 50 miles west of St Jamesburg to pursue his military dream.

To begin with, his mother and father were against his idea of joining up, but as Adaptus changed, and it's view on the armed service changed, both his mother and father agreed it was a fitting career choice. So he made for his new life.

Upon passing out from Antioch Academy, he moved again, this time at the age of 24 he moved to Alexandria and joined the 1st Legion of Air Cavalry. A Legion formed after the Herio Reforms. He spent five years with E Company, before being injured in the Oil Wars, not long after being promoted to Sergeant.

He later was returned to the front line, this time as part of 1st Legion's 2nd Battalion, this time he was recruited by the Hypaspistai and sent to reform a decimated D Company, as 2nd in command of 2nd Squad. His Company was sent back to fight in the Oil War. He served during the assault on Rig 16 and after an arduous battle came home. He found himself being promoted to Staff one month prior to the end of the war after the untimely death of his Squads commander.

After the war, he returned to Adaptus a decorated hero. He was placed on the eastern border, on a tour of the eastern border to combat the increasing number of across border pirates, who plagued the Adapton east. After six months on his new front line, Marc is looking for a change. Three months ago Marc left the Federation Defence Force and joined Vickers Defence Contractors Branch. Now he has just arrived at the Whitewater Training Facility located in plot 22. He is to be sent to a Vickers branch known as Foxhound. A prolific branch within the Vickers-Carlyle Group.

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After a long flight, and what seemed even longer Albatros Ride, the Quad-Tilt Rotor touched down. Marcellus looked out the small porthole shaped window. All he could see was grassy plains. Not much of a training area. Marc hadn't much enjoyed the trip over in the Albatros, he could have said he had better journies, but it was certainly not the worst.

"Right" came a strong Voceanian Accent from the front cab. "Last stop guys."

The large rear door dropped, as a glare of light filled the rear of the Albatros. Marx squinted to make out the dark figure standing at the end of the ramp.

"Alright then employees, move your arses." One of the figured seemed to be giving commands.

The people aboard the Albatros began to make their way down the ramp and into the training facility, which was an assortment of tents, cam nets and mobile command centres.

"Looks more like a @Mongol-Swedes shanty town" Marc found himself muttering.

The group of around thirty men were led into the camp. They passed through one tent and were given a set of camo trousers, shirt and jacket. They moved into another tent and were issued a log card which has previously been embedded with their photo, and identification details, including a DNA and Finger Print sample. The group was filed off into male and female tents and told to change their clothes. Only one woman broke off from the group.

Finally, the group made their way into a final tent now donned in brand new Krye Camo. They were seated in front of a stage style area. After several minutes three senior looking men appeared from a separate entrance to the tent. These wore an assortment of practical civilian clothes and ballistic vests. Finally, after around ten minutes of waiting, a man of good stature appeared from the same entrance as the other men. He walked in draped a glistening business suit, styled with the addition of a holstered Cx9.

"Welcome to Foxhound people. This is Whitewater Training Facility operating within Plot 22. Outside of international limits, and law.

This guy had immediately gained Marc's attention. This was the kind of this he was after. Glamour, guns and Gold Coins.

"You are now Unlawfuls, and part of the Vickers-Carlyle Group. Welcome to the family."

The man gave a long speech which gripped most of the people within the tent. Afterwards, the thirty or so new contractors were assigned to respected living facilities. It turned out that towards the back of the camp there were several what could be described as basic shelters. It was here where the recruits were assigned also their new squads.

Marc found himself part of Praying Mantis Training Branch. Praying Mantis was Foxhounds top Branch. so Marc was rather pleased with the assignment. He was sharing his accommodation with five others. He wasn't the only Adapton, he found out that another Adapton, from Sparta, called Leon was also assigned to Mantis. He had managed to make friends with all but one of the group. The groups also consisted of a Tagmantine by the name Francis Theodus, who Marc and Leon naturally bonded with, they had also befriended Amehd Zakari, a Native Mongol-Swede, which Marc and Leon liked to poke stereotypical fun at. Also, a fifth member of the group, an Akiryian, who was sharp becoming the wise man of the group was comfortably fitting in. The others being mostly Latinate decided to nickname him "Tat" due to his extream tattooing. While the sixth member of the group tended to keep themselves to himself. It was the girl, the only one out of the thirty or some others who arrive. The guys of Mantis had yet to even hear her voice. She was a funny one.

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Now, all the recruits had already done years of training and had years of experience, but it was assured to them that this was only to get them used to their new squads and company procedures and policies. Rather like an induction day. It had been a few days since they all arrived, and they were all getting to know each other well now. Although the woman of the group was somewhat distant, they were getting to know her. She had proved herself good when they were on last nights training exercise. She had tackled a rival Squads position on her own. For that, the rest of Mantis had dubbed her "The Gaffer".

Today was their first day off. Being a private company they were allowed weekends off, one perk of being a private company. It was around midday, and most of the squads were in the canteen. Most got on well with each other, Mantis and Great White has bonded extremely well, mostly due to the fact Great White was occupied by mostly Adapton and Tagmatine soldier. On the other hand, Mantis was also quickly becoming known as the top squad, out of the five at the training facility. Due to this, they had developed a strong rivalry with Peregrine. Peregrine was a mixed squad, full of southerners, @Suverinans, @Ide Jimans and @Tamurins.

Marc and Leon were in a queue waiting to be served for food as Tat and Amehd joined them. Francis was already sitting at the table along with the "gaffer". Marc took his plate of chicken curry and rice and made his way to the table.

"What do you think so far Marc?"

"Ugh..." Marc by now had a mouthful of curry. "Erm... It's good. Big change from the FDF.

"Yeah, we're getting our own kit issued next week, well that's the rumour anyway."

"Aye? Sounds fun. You know for such a flush company as the Vickers-Carlyle Group you would think their training rifles would be a little better then AK-74s."

"Yeah, Pretty shocking to be fair, and the vests and webbing we get, that's a load of sh*te too."

"Yep, Ba..." Before Marc could finish the other sat down beside them.

Leon was known within the group as a bit of a loose cannon, he was the youngest and was developing a reputation as a Jack the Lad. On last nights exercise, he jokingly took his rifle and pretended to thrust the "gaffer" with it in a rather inappropriate manner several times. Which resulted in a slap this morning when "gaf" had revealed she knew he was doing it.

"Fancy a trip to the local town centre tonight lads? Ooh and Lady..." Leon scanned the group for a response. When none came he continued. "Come on man peeps. Drunkenness!" A large grin spread across his face.

"Leon mate... we're in the middle of plot 22... There are no towns or cities for around 150 miles of here. Only pirates who roam these areas."

"Ah... yeah..." Leon's face slightly dropped.

"Your an idiot Leon". Came a sly comment from "Gaf".

"Says the Mrs Secretive over there."

"Piss off Leon."

Marc began to laugh, along with Francis. As they continued eating, it seemed to a lot of them that they had made the right choice. Training only lasted another three weeks. Then it would be off to Praying Mantis Branch, Based in the lovely climate of southern Europa. He looked forward to his new life.

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  • 9 years later...

OOC: Don't mind me grave digging. Something I wrote a long time ago. I'm going to jump ahead and add some stuff to this. 


Somewhere just off the south eastern coast of Aurelia. A small boat rolled across the coastal waters, as a helicopter flew over head. A man and a woman stood at the bow of the small boat, both wearing what seemed to be tight fitting one piece wetsuit like overalls, with webbing. Both equipped with side arms strapped to their thighs. The woman, a tall slender figure, held a cigarette by her face, with her arm perched in mid-air. The man, as broad as he was tall, stood straight, both hands clasped behind his back. 

The woman turned her head toward the man.

"This job is le grabuge!" She said, with a strong Lysian accent. She took a drag on her cigarette. 

"It is what is it." Replied the man, this time with a strong Adapton accent. "We do where we are paid to go."

"Oui! But this is not our usual security job! Non! This is not even security. This stinks!" 

"Listen, times are changing Zoe. And with changing times, so does our job. Embrace it. I haven't had a job like this in 10 years nearly. How times have taken a turn for the worse... All the better for us!"

The woman sighed in reply, returning to her cigarette. 

The man turned to a passing deck hand behind him. "We're heading in, prep the landing craft, and take down the banner!"

The desk hand moved to his job, as the woman left the bow of the ship and walked towards the inner hull. It was obvious these people were out of place. A few moments later, another desk hand appeared to lower a company banner that had been flying from the bow of the ship. A white background, centred with a yellow and black cracked skull, the words, Militaires sans Frontières surrounding it. 

These were contractors, private military contractors. Former soldiers drawn up from across the region, taking safe haven in Adaptus, one of the few places a PMC could thrive. Releasing their national loyalties and replacing it with a loyalty only to hard cash. Militaires sans frontières, Militaries without Borders in Lysian. One of the foremost PMC's based in Adaptus. Still of course, under the overall ownership of the ever percent capitalistic behemoth Vickers-Carlyle

Several years ago, amid Magus the Aggressors tyrannical joy ride through Adapton leadership. Vickers-Carlyle was forced to break up it's PMC operations. Filing them off into subsidiaries. Now several competing companies emerged. All owned by Vickers, but operating on their own. 

MSF was operating off the coast of Aurelia solely for the purpose of intelligence, and feather ruffling. A PMC of course, could hardly be traced back to the source. And a PMC didn't have to worry about the political fallout of doing all the dirty work. So, to increase its grasp. The Federal Kingdom has hired MSF and several other Vickers subsidiaries to carry out a series of raids, and sweeps along the none sovereign Western coastlines. An attempted to put out feelers for any future escalations. 

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