It is the 27th of July, 1944. The 4th Armored Division prepares to take Coutances. You are an M4 Sherman tank and its crew, at the tip of the spearhead.

Who are you?

Tank Type: <span class="mu-g">M4 Sherman</span> <span class="mu-s">(Early) (75mm)</span>
Tank Name: _____
Commander: Sgt _____
Gunner: Cpl _____
Loader: Pvt _____
Driver: Pvt _____
Assistant Driver: Pvt _____

>Write-In Names
>>Write-In Backstory if it fancies you

The president put on the ceremonial gowns, now knowing the terrible conventions of society.
A forbidden fruit, offered to her by subordinates and friends, that which they all deemed an essential part of youth; the what to say, the what not to say; the great secrets of seduction; the three gazes of the man-eating leopard; “The height of skirt that melts the inexperienced virgin”. And she endured it all, like a woman. She endured to have them play with her, as if a rag or some mauled doll; only by the time they began to imply that the size of a bag was perspectively proportional to the osseous width of her body, she had already ran out of patience. And with the skirt, and the blouse, the inconspicuous accessory and the invincible bow of black hair, victory was served with imminence, and tremendous prematurity.

As the lead of the Paranormal Investigation Club, she was in labour of solving mysteries in the company of her most trusted. Who hasn’t heard yet about the rapist of human souls, the phantom on the staircase, or the not single instance when the devil went and took the farmer's cows for a dance? After that, and many other adventures together; seemingly united, in their hearts she earned a deep place with her pure merit. And this time it was their turn to prepare her with the ubiquitous knowledge, to face the unknown, and perhaps even… to scare her fears. Trembled the world when the day came,

Surely, long had spilled been the tea; and yet, in shame, a single drop lied and dared not to be spit. She, and she alone knew; thoughtless, truly thoughtless the compromise had been conceived. Upon their first and only conversation she was met with a sudden and unknown boiling emotion. She couldn't admit; the temptation was too much to bear. From the pure desire to partake in that which impossible is, agreed they to meet the next Sunday, despite knowing her she lived in the neighboring city. And even then, prepared and committed, without respect for distance, without fear, she departed on the afternoon, towards a station lost in time, lost from reason, all so she could ever meet with him... the next morning.

-
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-s">The Hairy Hand</span> is a quest ruled by contradiction of wills and whims The President has towards all gruesome realities awaiting. Survival is doubtful, and physical integrity is never assured; bad decisions are ultimate.

Players can cumulatively pick a maximum of 3 choices, once 3 different courses of action are picked, no alternatives can be proposed nor votes. Actions are taken upon popular vote, effected at irregular, arbitrary and unforgiving times. Small and menial actions may be taken by individuals at times; affecting or not the outcome of an encounter. The whims of a few may just suffice to change The President's fate. </span>

Humanity has spread out into a massive sprawling empire throughout the galaxy. The edges of the sprawl remain poorly guarded and sparsely settled after all humanity throughout a thousand stars has always been alone save for their own creations which once waged war against them. This is no longer true now an unknown force has begun to attack sector 63 and other sectors and it is up to poorly supplied and desperate sailors to hold them back.


You are the Admiral of the naval fleet of sector 63 one of nearly a 100 rimward sectors on the edge of settled human space. The war has finally turned in humanity's favor the once unending horde of bird ships, who you now know are called the Argono have finally ebbed away. Your industry soars and the first of the friendly fleets have begun to probe from Mid Rim sector 63 in your own sector to hopefully soon relieve you.

You're currently on patrol facing off against a small fleet of enemy ships made up of 4 battleships, 2 battlescruisers and 12 Heavy cruisers facing off against your veteran picket line of corvettes, destroyers, and several light cruisers along with your freshly converted semi guided missile cruiser. The enemies' lasers dance around the picket line as the push forward even as your missile cruiser comes to a stop and turns to give the enemy their broadside. There's several large flashes as all 12 of its missiles fire and burn fast toward the enemy capital ships. There is some swearing over comms as the missiles zip past the picket line and your strike craft but the pilots and captains are too busy dodging incoming fire as they loose their own torpedo strikes to give too much complaint.

Could I get a 1d100 best of three please

Past Threads:https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=BrinkQM

>be you
>be at the edge of the world
>your people are finished
>the last great city is a sinking husk behind you
>the Old King is dead, choked on his own prophecies
>the crown is in your pack, heavy with failure
>ahead lies only the Black Sands, a sea of ash under a dying sun
>the scrolls say nothing lives there
>the scrolls were wrong
>something is moving in the ash, and it has seen you
>the survivors at your back are silent, waiting
>choose

"JESUS FUCK." A bit of spit leaves the girl's mouth with the utterance of the expletive. The thin blonde man shoots an annoyed look at his coworker as he leans on his broom, watching her wipe the spit from her chin.

"Hey, management said we couldn't curse. Get that side for me." The brunette gives him an indifferent glance, grabs a dustpan, and starts sweeping in various things: rose petals, scrapped, <span class="mu-s">badly framed photos</span>, a dust of cocaine that had slipped from some celebrity's torn pocket. She scoffs at the discovery of a used condom leaking all over the concrete.

"Just saying. You'd think that at a big event like this, people would be a bit more dignified." She turns to look at the big black block letters that burned boldly on the arena sign.

<span class="mu-s">MILLER V HAWKE</span>
<span class="mu-s">FATHER V SON</span>
<span class="mu-s">TONIGHT</span>

(1/5)

>AI Overview

>Community theater quotes capture the passion, humor, and unique challenges of local stagecraft, focusing on shared human experience, the magic of collaboration, and the joy of live performance, with lines like "The play was a great success, but the audience was a disaster" (often attributed to Oscar Wilde) or "Love the art in yourself, not yourself in the art" (Julie Theobald) highlighting the dedication and quirks of the scene.

You love these 85IQ simps. You're the new director for the local catlic theater. Ever since you were a kid, I mean, you're still a kid because where you are, you've got to be 65 to be not a kid. But anyways, ever since you were a kid, you've participated in all the theater stuffs every season without fail. Mostly at your same local theater, but also the summer camps and your college degree, and now it's finally happened, you've been chosen to be the new director.

Who even are you?
>Garry Hermano
>Cunty McCuntface
>Sophy Artho
>Steven Johnguy
>Jeff Joo

You are GEROME. You have been jailed pending trial on the charge of the RAPEMURDER of multiple infant babies. You are in the LONGHOUSE PENITENTIARY. You want to escape.

What do you do?

What are your daily objectives?

Welcome Back! Due to some new job shenanigans this is a bit late but I hope you guys enjoy the new cover art for this thread. Last time we played; Mark had accepted a night shift working the guard detail for Bruce Wayne, suspected target of Kal. C. Late and Anarky...

Previous threads: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Gotham%20City%20Beat%20Cop%20Quest

======

"Let's put Bunko and Chen in the car by the road. No offense to 'em but Bunko's a little lazy and if he can take a shortcut patrolling he will."

Hawthorne chuckles dryly with a nod.

"Looks like you already got the next lesson taken care of. It's important to know your strengths and weaknesses but it's better to know your fellow officer's. Because when shit really hits it, it helps to know what to expect."

"Like with you?"

"Right. You know to be there to help me pull the boot out of their ass when I'm done with em." He chuckles with a wry grin that could be taken as cocky. But the glint in his eye lets you know it's well earned.

A conflict of muffled voices at the front draws your attention and just as fast as he grinned, the smile is gone and his jaw is set as he marches stiffly to the front. You watch him freeze in the door and a vein begins to creep up his neck.

"Bunko." He says in a seething whisper. "The man said no shoes..."

=====

The meeting between you all is short. Hawthorne makes his position clear, outdoor patrol goes to Banks and his partner while Bunko and Chen handle the main road. There's hardly any time for small talk as the butler, Mr. Pennyworth, is less than subtle in his desire for their to be as few people in the manor as possible. Hawthorne sets the channel for your radio checks and sets them for the top of every hour. Everyone nods in quiet agreement and you break for your patrol routes until Banks catches you by the arm for a quick moment.

"Hey D, just wanted to ask you about Kimble real quick. I worked under him and everything but we aren't like... tight or anything. But I know he feels kinda shitty because he gave me a hard time over the undercover stuff and he didn't know about-"

You cut off his rambling.

"On the clock, Banks. Whaddya need from Kimble?"

"I just wanted to invite him camping. Let him know it's water under the bridge, y'know?"

"Sure thing man, I can let him know. I'm sure he'd be interested, military dudes love camping right?"

Banks shrugs but lets out a relieved chuckle.

"Guess we'll find out. Have a good shift, D."

"You too, Banks. Be safe."

You watch him head out with Costas but you can't help but notice Costas' expression as he glances at you over his shoulder. Eerily reminiscent of the first glance you got from Rogers at the gym. His eyes flick over your shoulder and he quickly turns away, you glance yourself and see a stern faced Hawthorne.

A Tale From The World Of Frostpunk

The year is 1909, and the Great Frost hangs over the heads of every living man, woman and child. In the previous decade, global temperatures dropped to an unsustainable point, and the geopolitical landscape of Earth was changed forever. Mass refugee crises. Starvation. Hypothermia and frostbite. War. Nobody survived unscathed, and billions perished in the chaos.

Many of those that survived huddled around grand Generators, built by hundreds of engineers, acting as mechanical monuments to warmth and survival. Others sought out bold new technological developments, endlessly-running trains, subterranean colonies and grand zeppelins flying above the clouds. But for the majority, there were the Generators.

You never knew the world before, having been one of the “Frostborn” — those that felt their first breath of air in this icy world. Your parents were British refugees, fleeing north from Newcastle with thousands of others. Things were very hard growing up, and you feel strange absences in your memory, repressed parts of your youth locked away by your developing brain. Mum and Dad always told you that the less was said about the White Years, the better. That was the worst time, you’ve gathered.

Since then, many cities have fallen, crushed beneath instability, lack of resources or sickness. Others have developed into busy, industrious centres that now begin to hesitantly chart out the Frostlands beyond just the immediate scope of their perimeter. Your own city, Beacon, is one of the latter.