'>>5980057

She grabs your arm - thick and musclebound, slightly tanned. Not the flabby, weak arm you're used to - and drags you outside. A huge crowd is assembled, and as you're led onto a raised dias, the numbers start to sink in. There must be hundreds of cars - Frankenstein vehicles bristling with weapons - and thousands of men, all dressed in black leather and carrying weapons from spiked clubs to sniper rifles.

She steps infront of you, raises her arms and shouts.
"Glory to the lord of SKULLS! Glory! Glory!" - each man drops to his knees, chanting in your honour as she gestures you to step forward.

>[System Information]
Rolls are a D10, rolled by me IRL.
You have two skills - Office Worker and Warlord. These are self explanatory. As you lean in one direction, you will lose points in one and gain those lost points into the other. You can ignore this and try to forge a third path, if wanted - like a diplomat or something. Mechanical alterations will be made if and when relevant.
You start with 5 points in Office and 5 points in Warlord.
Not everything you do will require a roll.
Creative write-ins are encouraged, although I may provide pre-written paths for inspiration.

This is my second quest, please be forgiving if this sytem sucks.

>Anyway... :

You see the men looking up at you, waiting for your words of inspiration. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Just like the mindfulness exercises you were taught in the mandatory staff party.
You begin...

>[Office] - "So... team. We've got a goal, a deadline to reach... deadline, hah. No pun intended. Those Bloodletters. Just, yknow. Team spirit, and work together. We can do this, guys. ExecuKillers number one!"
>[Warlord.] "I... I won't mince words - instead, we will mince the enemy. Let none survive."
>[Write-in speech.]';

'>>5980057
Please disregard the spelling errors. I had this wiped out by captcha fail twice and was rushing to rewrite it.';

'>>5980061

>[Office] - "So... team. We've got a goal, a deadline to reach... deadline, hah. No pun intended. Those Bloodletters. Just, yknow. Team spirit, and work together. We can do this, guys. ExecuKillers number one!"';

'>>5980061
>Double Warlord: "Today we will inflict suffering that will be remembered for generations. The Bloodletters actions will not go unanswered. Let's live up to our name: Exukillers!"';

'>>5980061
>[Synergy] We are one team of the deadliest butchers to ever roam the wastelands... the Bloodletters will choke on dust & blood when we're done with our quarterly quarterings! ExecuKillers!!!';

'>>5980272
Beautiful use of cross discipline team building to build or corporate culture sir. Has my support.';

'>>5980272
+1';

'>>5980272
>>5980335
>>5980389

>>5980272
Your speech starts with a stutter, sending a ripple of confusion through the crowd. You clear your throat - the quarter's profits rest on this speech, you tell yourself. If you fuck this up, Mr Murphy will be at your desk in 30 sec- Okay, you're overdoing it.
"'We're the deadliest team on, uhm... the scene. Nobody can stand against us." It's a rough start, but a current of excitement ripples through the crowd. Your crowd. "Yeah! You guys make this compa- warband! Without your
blood reaving, skull taking, without you signing their severance notice... we're fucking nothing!"
A couple cheers ring out, but most still listen intently. A few are nodding.
"But... you know that. I'll cut the shit - you get out there and cut *them*. Make this our best quarter... by chopping them into quarters! Buy those fuckers out!"
They erupt into jubilation. Guns are fired into the air, banners are raised in your name. The footmen begin to form up, and final vehicle preperations are made.

All the energy goes out of you the moment the crowd's attention leaves you. Legs go limp - but you stay upright, barely. The concubine tugs on your hand.

"That was... confusing. But you got into it, huh? The men seemed to enjoy it, and that's the important bit.
Anyway..." She leads you back into the tent.
"...I hope your, uh, hate to share bad news.. but you're to lead the main charge. Or, rather, the Lord of Skulls usually would. You can stay back, but some of the men might accure you of cowardice.
Your call, boss. Your Murder-Rig awaits." She grins at you, and sits on a plush chair, waiting for your decision.

>[Actions:]
>Ask for more information. (About what?) [This action can be repeated a few times without advancing.]
>See the Murder-rig and prepare for the battle.
>Refuse to go. Fuck that.
>Explore the tent, meet your other slaves.
>Write-in.';

'>>5980444
>Meet with our slaves & find out their skillsets/uses, then inspect our kill-dozer & prepare for battle';

'>>5980446
I'll agree with this. We are in a strange situation and need to be aware of everything.';

'>>5980446
Support';

'>>5980446
+1, even if it looks dead already';

'>>5981489
I was asleep then at work. Letting your quest die is a moral failing.
>>5980446
>>5980789
>>5980824
You glance around, "I'd better... meet my staff, first. Before I figure out what's going on."
The concubine stands up, bowing low. You get the feeling it's a sarcastic bow.

"Cynthia. No honourary, no family name. Concubine to the Lord of Skulls for 2 years, and now apparently... your advisor." - you look ehr up and down again. The woman must be in her early 20s. She's waifish and uncannily pale, with sunken eyes. When she talks, you can see her teeth are stained red.
Cynthia rings a little bell next to your bed, and a little while later - three men (?) walk in.

The first is tall, and muscled, wearing a mechanic jumpsuit. Mostly unremarkable, execpt for the black-metal rectangle replacing half his face. Three blinking lights shine out from it, and the edges where it connects with the flesh are mangled, burnt and tumerous. Beneath the skin, you can make out pulsating cables. His remaining eye refuses to meet yours.
"Johann. Your Murder-rig's custodian."

The second's wiry, standing hunched with too-long arms, giving him an ape-like appearance. He wears tight leather suspenders, and a dirty shirt with a faded graphic of a tuxedo printed on it. He smiles, teeth filed into points.
"Your personal butler, Fetter." - you find him unsettling, but make an effort to nod to him anyway.

The last man is, somehow, the weirdest. Bald, the top of his head has a collection of metal studs sticking upwards. Electricity arks from stud-to-stud. Each arm ends in disproportionately-large clawed metal hands. His legs are a black plastic with metal accents, ending in hooves - the legs connect to his abdomen, meaning he has no waist or groin. His lower stomach is malformed and spotted with rivets and staples, connecting the mechanical to the flesh.
"Satan, your body-guard. He, uh, it... is a Eunich Android. I think they're made by the Wanga Mountain Meat-crafters. He's utterly loyal to you, and other than regualr bodyguard stuff - he also tests your food for poison. He can tear even our biggest lads to shreds with those claws, and I once saw him vomit a kinda poison all over a dude. Melted his face away. Gross shit."

"These three men are the three who, well, have the best chance to murder you. The rest of your staff are managed by these three, and tend to get replaced quickly. Weakling slaves, meathead warriors... There's also the rest of your, ah, harem.." She exhales through her teeth, body langauge changing. "I had them murdered while you were freaking out. It was a snakepit, and I didn't want any of the other bitch- girls, even... to try to give you bad advice." - you look over at her and she flinches, body tensing up. It seems she expects some sort of punishment. Fetter licks his lips.

>[Actions:]
>Inquire about your other staff further, talk to your three main guys.
>View the murder-rig.
>Lie down and have a cry. This is horrid.
>Write-in.';

'> murder-rig babyyyy

What kind of wheels we got';

'>>5981647
>View the murder-rig.
Eh, power-plays are inevitable with harems. I'm not sure if Nigel would be down to lay with somebody he just met, if he's an office-worker, he's probably a bit of a weenie.';

'>>5981647
>Inquire about your other staff further, talk to your three main guys.
We need to know about our forces. Vehicles. Weapons. Food. Fuel. People. Where the fuck is our logistics guy? These three are just personal assistants, and i wouldnt be suprised if they were part of the power play, except for android guy, maybe. Go back to our bureaucratic roots';

'>>5981779
I think we'll have to be the logistics guy.

>View the murder-rig.

After the cool truck';

'>>5981779
+1, then we need to get on with leading our sales campaign-pillaging';

'>>5981779
Support

Well, sounds like a restructuring was needed in any case, now to restock the harem with more pliable women.';

'>>5981779
>>5982003
>>5982245

"RIght. Nice to... see you all again, I guess. Where's the logistics guy?"

Cynthia chuckles, Fetter grins wider and speaks. His voice is gutteral and strange. "My liege truly has changed, new memory, new man.... Very weird, very weird." He licks his sharp teeth, drawing blood. "The Lord of Skulls... you... saw no need for logistics... a, ah, formal system, at least. The worms outside pick what they need, and..." He looks over at Satan, who is staring blankly. "...myself and your Android, and the men he commands... would go out and demand tribute. So it goes."

You sigh. "So... it's every man for themselves?"

Fetter grins even wider. "Quite. Although they, your worms, tend to form into little groups. Clans and family groups, to help eachother. The weakest focus on gathering loot, pass on most of it to the stronger... And then the stronger take what they need... and the rest is taken by the stronger... But most are clever enough to save the best for, ah... you, my Lord."

So... no formal logistics. Strength rules. Absolutely brilliant, truly.

>>5981670
>>5981710
>>5981994

"Okay, cool. Right, uhm... Mister Johann?"
The mechanic perks up, saluting. "My lord!" He says. "Glory to your rei-" you wave a dismissive hand at him.
"Just... don't do that, okay? Can you show me the car? I mean, the rig? Murder rig?"
"Yes, my lord. Lead the..." He pauses, frowning. "If you would follow me, m'lord."

The rig is parked at the back of the Palace-Tent, in something of an improvised garage. The room is made up of tarps and corregated metal, and dimunative slaves scatter as you stride in. It is an alien vehicle to you, having driven a Smartcar for the past few years. It's... a tank? No, an APC? You think?
You walk around it, taking it in. It's a huge armoured truck, about 3 meters tall and 8 meters long. Three wheels sit on each side, with one at the front and two larger wheels close together at the rear, causing it to sit strangely with the vehicles nose pointed floorwards. Where you assume some sort of turret would've been on the base model - now sits a second vehicle... Some sort of Muscle car, welded straight onto the top. The car's roof is stripped away and a throne rises from the back. Various minor and major armaments are attached pretty much at random.

"The killblade is removed for repair, m'lord." Johann tells you, gesturing across the room to a modified bulldozer's bucket, festooned with spikes and barbed wire.
"It'll be readded immediately. We were repairing it and making your desired alterations."
You nod, and decide to enter your Murder-rig. A series of foot-holds lead up to the throne, and once sat down a feeling of power washes over you. This isn't as rough as you thought... but there are problems to deal with.

[Cont.]';

'>>5982485

Sat in your throne, you tally up all the problems.

You don't actually know who you can trust - Satan and Cynthia seem the best, but Cynthia openly confessed to slaughtering who-knows-how-many people just so she could "advise" you alone... and Satan's not said a single word, but is reportedly loyal to you.

The logistics situation is, obviously, another problem. You've seen compaies in roughly analgous positions and they tend to collapse, sometimes even going down for fraud when it becomes clear someone was taking from somewhere they shouldn't.

But that's a long term problem. Right now, you're expected to go into a battle pretty much blind. You don't know anything about these Bloodletters. Their numbers, their abilities, their resources. Everyone else seems confident, but you're still without almost all information.

So... what's the next step?

>[Actions:]
>Go into battle as expected, murder and kill.
>Go into battle but lead from the back.
>Avoid fighting.
>Write-in';

'>>5982525
>Tell your henchmen that you want a full accounting of every slave, warrior, & weapon in your warband to be prepared by the time you return; head into battle';

'>>5982625
I'll agree with this';

'>>5982625
I like this but there's no real way to do a census or inventory when a bunch of bodies and metal are about to vanish in the coming fight. Whatever numbers we get may also be inflated by those who seek to present themselves as stronger than the rest.

The idea of inventory taking is good but we should do it after the battle. We need our henchmen with us to help command or to ensure we make it out if things go bad.';

'>>5981647
>Letting your quest die is a moral failing.
Where the hell you think we are?

>>5982682
This guy has the point, the other two anons are missing the fucking point and also meta-fagging

>>5982525
>Go into battle as expected, murder and kill.';

'>>5982525
>>Go into battle as expected, murder and kill.

>>5982682
>>5983056
Agreed, we take inventory after the battle.';

'>>5983130
>>5983056
>>5982682

A census is impractical at this time. It's vital, though, but best left for further down the road.

"Cynthia."
She looks up at your throne, "Yes?"
"Bring me my weapons. Whatever's... the most spectacular. So others can see I'm in the battle."
She nods, then looks to Fetter. The two stare at one another, before the butler leaves.
"They're being brought, m'lord. So, you ARE fighting?"
"I don't see much choice. Tell me what's expected of me. How battles go down. That sorta thing."

"Satan and your Killboys can do all the actual work - driving, manning the guns. You just need to sit there and shoot at stuff, yell, try to avoid stray shots..."

You nod. "What did the Lord of Skulls do?"
"Similar. Sat there and made a show. Generally tried to get into a scrap with the other warlord, if he could. But once we're fightin', there's not much coordination. E'rryone shoots at whoever they want, even friends. Though most 'all have banners to minimize the chance of that by accident."

Fetter reenters, carrying an old military-style crate. Or, rather, old now. The sleekness of it and flashing lights make it look like a sci-fi prop.

"Master's phaseon cannon."

The crate opens with a hiss, and a strange gun sits inside. The grip and stock are, well, typical. Look like any old gun from 'War Duty X' - but the main body is covered in metal tubing, honeycomb-pattern wires, and flashing lights. The barrel is a thin tube with concentric circles decreasing in size down it's length. It looks like a Ray-Gun from a shitty B-movie.

Taking it from it's box, the gun's lighter than you thought, and comfortable to wield. You pull the trigger, aiming down at the sand, and it vaporizes a sphere about a half-meter in radius. Gone. The sand at the edges is glowing white. Holy shit.
Cynthia laughs, and Fetter grins wide.
"...If Master would like a slave to try it on... just to reaffirm master's great skill before the battle..."

It was just getting fun, but reality hits you. You are going into *battle* to KILL. To kill humans! To vaporize them! You've never killed before! You're an office worker! How are you...
"Master, you appear pale." Fetter tells you, snapping you out of it.
"Strange indeed, my liege, my master. To balk at bloodshed. Unlike you, truly. If I may be so bald, I daresay you'd not want to behead an upstart slave?" He bows deep.
"Excuse me, of course. How could I say that our liege would be so cowardly. Master loves such violence. It must be an error, truly. A mistake on the part of Fetter, indeed. Forgive me." - a subtle, sly smile sits on his face. The first time he hasn't been grinning wide. A glance at Cynthia reveals concern.

"So, my lord. The slave...?"

>[Actions:]
>Get it over with - shoot one of the mechanic slaves.
>Prove Fetter wrong. Behead the misbehaving slave.
>He's baiting you. Hurt him.
>You don't have the time or the desire to kill someone here. Get ready to go out.
>You can't KILL- Return to your chambers';

'>>5983233
>Have Fetter and the slave whipped for insubordination
>Go into battle
We aren't weak, but we won't be killing people for no reason.';

'>>5983270
+1, but have Fetter whip himself & the slave, at the same time';

'>>5983233
>>5983270
He should be whipped for the implications of cowardice, + 1 to this.';

'>>5983270
>>5983233
Better idea, whip em both raw and make slave person the logistics guy. They're always hauling stuff so we'll make em keep count of the shit they haul!

Also we need to work out who's going to be the head of our new HR department to handle some on these unruly workers and get ready to hire new talent. I'd consider Cynthia since she already fired our harem but I think she's a better secretary, I like that venom. Reminds me of someone...';

'No update today. Thread's not dead.
Big update tomorrow.
c+c welcome at this juncture.';

'>>5983684

Something changes in you as you look down at the apeish man. You feel colder, more distant. A passenger in your own body. A voice that's not quite yours speaks.

"Fetter. You will whip the slave until he is punished, but still able to do his duty. You will then whip yourself the same number of times. Do not bait me again."

He bows, smiling wider. Strange man.
"Of course, my lord. Forgive me for my... insolence." - he leaves the garage-area without another word.

[Stat Update: Warlord: +7. Office: +3.]

Now, to battle. Satan awaits with a crew of enormous, muscled men - you didn't see them enter.
"My lord." - the Android speaks. His voice is tinny, like an old phone connection, and he is trying to maintain a monotone, but it sounds difficult. Strained. - "This is your battle crew. May we board, and fight for your glory?"

You nod, and the crew lurch into motion, practising a well-rehersed dance of minute adjustments and preperation. Satan drives, testing the clutch and listening to the roar of the engine as he cycles through gears. A bald man on your left pushes his augmetic hand into a port, bringing a gun-array to life. An overwight man with dreadlocks is forward-right of you, checking the internals of an enormous speargun. Behind you, a darkskinned warrior does much the same - adjusting weapons.

They continue the process as the Kill-Rig rolls forward slowly, leaving the garage-tent behind. It picks up a little speed, but maintains about 20mph going towards the head of the massed forces - a spectacular sight. Two columns of vehicles, hundreds in number, sit ready. Between them, formed-up ranks of warriors mill about, jostling with one-another as they try to board improvised troop carriers or taking up firing positions on vehicles.

The Kill-Rig pulls infront of them, and a horn finds it's way to your hand.
BwaaaaAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!! - engines and men roar, and your force strikes out into the desert....';

'>>5986725

You're clinging onto the arms of your throne, rarely feeling safe enough to actually try to participate on the fight. The sound is deafening - gunshots, steel-smashing-on-steel, tearing and crashing and collisions. The screams of men maimed. Your kill-rig rolls over a spiked motorbike, sending the pilot flying under another car. Satan whips the wheel to the right, revving the engine almost to the point of failure - the whole 'rig launches into a drift, side-swiping an enemy car and sending them flying into a mass of infantry. Accelerating forward out of the drift, you're brought face-to-face with a triple-raised truck, the front festooned with skulls! Speeding towards you, the co-pilot opens fire. A chunk of your throne's blasted off, one of your gunners takes a bullet! The hostile driver steers towards you, a direct collision course.

Mere seconds before the impact! You...

>Leap left, letting your 'rig crash and burn.
>Charge forward and leap, trying to board them... but you'll still crash.
>Start shootin'.
>Write-in.';

'>>5980066
write it in a text document, or use google docs or writebox, then copy paste
This was a lifesaver for my quests after so many fucking captcha wipes';

'>>5986738
>Charge forward and leap, trying to board them... but you'll still crash.
cant show any cowardice in the middle of battle now';

'>>5986738
>Charge forward and leap, trying to board them... but you'll still crash.
Let the anger and hatred for our former boss fuel this battle!';

'>>5986738
>>Charge forward and leap, trying to board them... but you'll still crash.';

'>>5986738
We have a fucking phaseon cannon, blow them the fuck up (to minimize resource expenditure, lending itself to increased profits)';

'>>5987156
>>5986852
Shit you're right! Changing to blast the bitches away.';

'>>5986738
>>Start shootin'.';

'Still not dead. Started a new job. Update tomorrow, please forgive the slowness.';

'>>5990049
In an office or as a warlord?';

'>>5990081
A slave, obviously.';