Today I'm writing about the Aprile Family "Plot".
I'll describe how the Aprile family, (Namely Richie, partly Janice, Jackie Jr, and finally Ralph) all laid seeds to bring down Tony.
I've stated before on previous write-ups, but I'll state once more that Jackie Sr was the beloved leader of the Sopranos crew. This is highlighted in season 3, specifically the episode to "To Save us All from From Satan's Power" when in Tony's flashbacks we see a Jackie Sr that has his doors opened for him by Silvio and we see other crew members let out their chairs for him.
He was a man HONORED by his crew. He had support from NJ/NY through HONORABLE means. This is NOT the case with Tony. Tony built up his power through FEAMURDER first. We see Tony, though I believe it isn't 100% authentic, completely honors and overall respects Jackie Sr until his death. It's then Tony has to show his true character and sought the top spot.
Fast forwarding, as Richie is released, we see IMMEDIATELY he doesn't respect Tony's authority. This is highlighted in Season 2 first during Tom/Barbara elder's funeral when Tony sees Livia/Janice/Richie all together for the first time. Tony while getting a half-hearted apology from Richie tells him to BACK OFF AND RESPECT THE TITLE.
On another note, ALL of tony's enemies that he PHYSICALLY has to subdue call him "Anthony." These are all the people who saw him from his early years. This is why they have it out for him the most. They all KNOW he isn't fit to be "king". Yet his selfish nature can have it no other way. From Junior to Richie, Ralph, Feech, Blundetto (Out of jealousy), Hesh, Phil, etc each of his direct/in-direct enemies call him by his government name.
They do this is a way to MOCK him and usually due to their standing with him, (meaning he NEEDS them for some particular reason), Tony allows it. It's a very subtle clue into who has it out for Tony during the entire series.
Richie was used as a pawn for Janice, who mimics Livia's use of Corrado in the same way to bring down Tony. Richie, originally does not know/knew that Janice was using him as an overall pawn, but he himself, due to Tony not seeing him as equal and their issues of currency/the garbage business led to him being in direct conflict with Tony.
Richie, with his own personal baggage and theories on his sexuality, never has the respect to fully follow through on attacking Tony directly, Thus, he seeks out Junior to HELP aide him in his quest to retake the family/crew back from the Sopranos. Richie didn't mind Junior being in charge because him being out of the can meant all he had to do was wait and Junior's age would likely mean that eventually Richie would be in charge.
Also, Richie by episode 12 Knight in White Satin had already begun the plot to keep the Aprile family in charge by grooming Jackie Jr who then was still a student at Rutgers. We also see the closeness (though they never talk on screen) between Rosalie/Richie. She is front and center almost like the queen as Janice/Richie have their engagement ceremony.
As previously stated, I believe Janice was the overall chess player in that she was using Richie and he didn't realize it, but on the surface, Richie was marching headfirst into challenging Tony for the top spot by merging the families together and moving into a identical huge mansion with everyone noticing.
Once Richie goes to Junior to finally push through the need to usurp Tony, Junior agrees but understanding that he CAN"T be allowed to be noticed by Tony, he warns Richie to not fully commit to Albert. Junior is much sharper than Richie/Tony as far as being a consigliere (his true natural position), so he basically is the hidden middleman and puppet master for Richie. He deep down understands how the crew thinks/acts now. (End of season 2).
He knows that Richie hasn't been around long enough to garner the respect NOR FEAR needed to carry out what he wants against Tony. Junior understands that Tony will basically go to war and fight to the death (right or wrong) to keep his position. (Which basically what happens in season 6 more or less). Therefore, he plays possum and sends Richie out to do the deed and never attach his name to this second hit against Tony.
When Richie fails to pursue Albert, we see off screen that Jackie JRichie TOGETHER go to Junior to exclaim the bad news. As Junior yells ( I KNEW IT I FUCKING KNEW) he is verbally yelling out his subconscious that Richie is too week as he thought to carry out the plan against Tony.
Richie, who off camera with Jackie Jr likely already talked about strategy, THEN states to Junior that if YOU (JR) take out Tony, everybody will fall in line.
Richie in his street way, is now telling Corrado that hey, if YOU do it, everything will still work out because I don't have the muscle to do so. (Also notice that when Richie yells how he has "guys" in federal lock up who would love nothing better than to take out Barese; Junior gives him a perplexed kinda faint look like YEAH RIGHT. You can't even handle this yourself on the streets).
Junior then, realizing that Tony can NEVER find out he'd come after him twice, exclaims to Bobby his internal thoughts and says we must cut bait with Richie and let Tony know so he doesn't kills us for plotting to kill him twice. He convinces Tony that he wasn't apart of it and throws shade at Janice by telling Tony "Wonder where she is at in all this. My little Niece." Tony knows Janice's true character.
Janice provoke and kills Richie. Likely to save herself. Tony understands that now, by also getting rid of the body FOR Janice, that he OWNS her now as well. Not only did he have the proof he need that she plotted, but she also has a rivals blood on her hands AND only Tony can help her get rid of it. This was a deep and complex plot relationship most don't speak about between Tony/Janice.
In season 3, we see a now Christian-hypocritical Janice that literally is MUCH NICER to Tony than in season 2 in her initial arrival where she had this air of superiority due to age and life experience. Richie's plot to take down Tony by his OWN means dies with him at the hands of another Soprano.
PARTII of the plot now begins with Ralph/Jackie Jr.
As stated, it wasn't by accident that in season 3, Rosalie IMMEDIATELY sought out Ralphie as a spouse. This is the same method that Janice used in going after Richie except it's much more subtle. Rosalie never was away. She was the widow of the beloved boss. She was best friends (frenemies ) of Carmela the new Queen. Therefore, she didn't have to utilize the same approach as Janice. It had to be different. Not to mention, there is no way she didn't have silent ANIMOUSITY towards the Sopranos after Richie abruptly disappears. She knows how things roll. As Richie died, her standing also takes hit because the power is still not in HER family's corner still.
Thus, Jackie Jr now steps up. He started accompanying Richie in late season 2 on business disputes and Tony SHOULD have noticed him as a threat then that COULDN"T be changed. Christopher in episode Fortunate Son, is told by Tony to "keep Jackie out off it". Christopher states Jackie Jr is heir apparant prior to this.
Feech also spoke later about how power always gets passed to the son. Tony partially doesn't want Jackie Jr in involved because he understands that he becomes a rival who he'd have to deal with. It's the same in the Lion kingdom ironically.
Jackie, despite his actions was nothing more than a 21st century Tony without his dad there to carry him. Same academic profile, same Jock profile, and only difference is Jackie is being forced in the wrong direction partially due to Tony and his associates. The main one in season 3, being Ralphie who emerges more openly.
Namely, in Employee of the Month episode 4, when at at Sack's welcoming party, we see outside that Sack is secretly conversing with Ralph and Tony's worried glances notice this. The scene is very subtle in that the viewer SHOULD understand that Ralph/Sack are high level business men who have the propensity to drive home major dollars through construction. We never see Tony utilize anything but prior connects TAKEN from Junior when it comes to his business dealings. The HUD scam was grafted by Brian WITH Ralph in attendance. Tony never makes any spectacular business moves or scams that make you go wow.
The viewer finds out season 5 that the guy can't even write and is likely dyslectic. This makes total sense in why leading up, all his rivals usually don't respect him and only his closest friends do out of fear.
Tony is NOT a great or savvy businessman .He is a charming/brutal sociopath that charms up until a degree and then uses violence to take what he wants. Ralph is NOT that. He has business savvy. He is a PSYCHOPATH nevertheless.
Ralph is attempting through Johnny Sack, to plot his own rise to power in the NJ faction. This plot thickens in season 3, when Ralph, after realizing that Jackie Jr is making his move to become a member of the family. Several scenes, Ralph is bringing Jackie Jr deeper into the world with the gun, the x dealer suggestion, and taking him on missions to extort.
Ralph is poisoning Jackie with the trappings of the life. He, I believe is doing so to strengthen him to get the courage to challenge Tony and make a move while he can stay in the background and reap the fallout.
Tony/Ralph/Jackie Jr all kind of have parallels with the Lion King. Tony & Ralph playing the mufasa/scar roles while Jackie Jr is that of Simba. In a criminal way.

FIRST CHAPTER
PREVIOUS CHAPTER
This product is a fanfic of the Sexy Space Babes/Between Worlds product of u/Bluefishcake and one I highly suggest you read. It was created with permission, but give the OG works some love.
Imgr gallery of Comissioned and Fan Artworks
I'm Back Bitches! Again!
//////////
Junior Systems Engineer First Class Che’keero knelt before a semi-sparking control panel and sighed. She, and a large band of her fellow Engineers with Marine support, had boarded the pirate frigate with the singular goal of ensuring that the pirates didn’t scuttle their floating hulk and doom the slaves aboard to a, if they were lucky, a swift death in space.
The problem, of course, came with the pirate’s maintenance schedules and decisions to forgo certain… safety measures when it came to repair.
Like the panel before her. Usually a perfectly functional control system for the reverse-magnetic bulkhead doors that ensured void seals in power outages, some pirate at some point in their dumb, dumb life decided to fix the panel blowing a fuse… by ripping the fuse out and replacing it with a high density power cable. Which meant the entire thing was one massive shock hazard and actively sparking as the reactors deep in the ship flickered and surged due to damage.
Che’keero swore as an arc of electricity flashed towards her face after a tool that was not supposed to be magnetized, cheap dick WaDepth requisitions, caught a magnetic field, fusing the entire system shut and turning the formerly barely functional control system into nothing but pretty, decorative wiring and cheap solder. She punched the now utterly unfunctional control box and toggled on her radio. “Three-Two to Three-Lead, this door’s fried. You’ll need to bring in the cutters if we want to get to the rest of the ship. Might as well also bring in an inflatable airlock, I’m not liking how some of the metal strain sensors are flashing at me.”
A semi-synthetic voice replied back to Che’keero, “Three-Lead copies. I’ll be over there shortly with the stuff. Double check those sensors, I’m not getting the same readings, so let’s make sure something isn’t blocking errors from reaching me.”
“Copy that Three-Lead, Three-Two ou-” Something tapped against the back of her helmet and Junior Systems Engineer First Class Che’keero mentally swore.
“Now, now, lassie, how about you sit right there and don’t move.” A nasally, unfamiliar voice called out to her while tapping what a camera she set up to watch her back revealed to be a laser pistol to Che’keero’s helmet. “I think that you’re going to be our new best friend and way off this dead end ship.”
Che’keero paused, letting the situation settle in her mind, “Wait, what? Are… are you taking me hostage?”
“Yes!” The pirate replied.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you taking me hostage? This won’t work, none of the shuttles are jump capable and if you try anything, you’ll just end up jumped by marines. They specifically train to deal with pirates taking their engineers hostage. If you want to survive, you should just surrender and take the penal colony when it’s offered.” Che’keero mentioned, shrugging and continuing her inspection of the door.
The pirate seemed baffled at the sheer nonchalance of this response, the pistol slowly falling to merely point at her upper back instead of her head, “You… you really aren’t taking this seriously. I’m a pirate! I’ve killed people! I’ve killed boys, and you’re just sitting there like this doesn’t mean anything!”
“I mean… I wouldn’t say that.” Che’keero replied.
“THEN WHAT DO YOU MEAN!” The pirate screamed, the pistol moving away from Che’keero’s body by a fraction of an inch during an angry gesture.
It was at that point, a ceramic alloyed, carbon steel blade punched clean through the back of the pirate’s suit, slicing through their central nervous system and striking with enough force to shatter the faceplate of said pirate’s helmet on the way out. Muscles twitching, the laser pistol fired off randomly, missing Che’keero and slagging a chunk of bulkhead.
“I’m just buying time,” Che’keero replied cheekily.
“You really need to remember to check your cameras,” The semi-synthetic voice of Ventures Forth Bravely Into Great Unknowns commented as the ex-pirate fell to the ground and blue blood dripped from the long blade sprouting from her right arm and a toolbox hanging from her left hand. “This isn’t the first time you have been flanked, and this one wasn’t during training.”
“Look, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” Che’keero replied a bit testily.
“I’m sorry…” Ventures Forth prodded.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am.”
“Much better. Right, now what do we see in this- yeah you were right on it being fried.” Ventures Forth gently shoved the Junior Systems Engineer aside and took her place at the control panel. “Do a sweep of the strain systems. I don’t want this section of the ship breaking apart. Feel free to call up our hull patches. We’ve got plenty to share and this might have to be a lifeboat.”
“Aye, ma’am aye,” Che’keero replied with a crisp salute before rushing off to her duty.
Deeper inside the ship, Ventures Forth could hear laser fire, clashing of metal on metal, and cries for help.
The pirate ship was doomed, it was shattered and broken, but it was not destroyed. Not yet. \
And if she had her way, Ventures Forth Bravely Into Great Unknowns would keep it that way.
//////////
Roshal stood still as her steward continued to clean the dark blue and rapidly congealing blood off her armored form. “Comms,” She called out, “Do we have any contact with the shuttle we sent to the station?”
“Negative, ma’am.” The comm officer replied. She wasn’t the same one that was present when Roshal left to fend off the boarders. At the unspoken question, the woman continued “Communication’s Mate Second Class Lev’tal, ma’am. My superior got a concussion when the pirate ship rocked our ship during boarding. Strap snapped, prior damage. I took over.”
Roshal nodded approvingly, “Good initiative. Send a message to the station, see if we can’t rai-”
“Ma’am! Contact!” One of her sensor techs called out, “Belay that, two contacts. First contact, nav point 782 spinward, possible bogey, cruiser weight. Unknown movements. Second contact, nav point 102 coreward, aerospace assets inbound. Small flight. Hard to determine numbers due to damage. No less than two, no more than five.”
“Focus on getting a hard contact on that possible cruiser. Weapons, what is the status of our anti-aerospace.” Roshal demanded, holding her sword arm out for the steward to scrub at a particularly clotted chunk of blood splattered over her wrist.
The weapons officer shook her head, “If we’re lucky, then we’ve got 20% coverage on half our sides. If we’re very lucky, I might be able to bump that number up to 35%. Not going to quote doctrine, but that’s not nearly enough to fend off a flight of Aerospace assets on a strike run, and that’s assuming they don’t hit us on an unprotected flank.”
Roshal nodded once more, “Sound general quarters and get weapons and tactical back online. Tell the damage control parties to not be distracted and focus on critical systems first. Engine room, report. Can you give me maneuvering thrust?”
The nearby ship phone chimed in with a staticy hiss, “Negative, ma’am. The shot we made with the spinal mount tripped breakers up and down the reactor room. This isn’t an engine problem, we need to make sure our reactor doesn’t blow up when we siphon power. Before you ask, emergency power is still flowing and none of their circuits tripped, but that means we’re down to life support, basic systems, and dockyard thrusters. It will take at least 20 to get the reactor in a safe state. If you want 10, send the chaplain down so we have someone praying for good luck. The fact most of our structural engineers are doing an EVA boarding to ensure the pirate ship next to us doesn’t go critical and render the entire exercise moot isn’t helping matters at all.” The engine room replied Roshal bit down a bit of annoyance at the snark, but engineers were always a finicky sort with authority. They were the first to remind uptight officers that while the Captain’s word may be iron law, it was their work that truly moved the ship.
“Confirmed, engine room.” Roshal instead replied. “Chaplains will be arriving shortly. Do what you can and inform me when you’re three minutes out from full power.”
The engine room didn’t even bother replying, just sending over the affirmative light as they got to work. Roshal approved of that. Sometimes, you just had to insult someone in order to get it working right.
“Captain, we have confirmation on contact. He’s an Alliance Karcharidon class Heavy Cruiser on intercept course. Energy readings are spiking… they’re charging their guns, ma’am!”
“Issue a hostile challenge and give me a firing solution with any gun still functional.”
“No response, ma’am. Hostile Karcharidon is increasing speed. Hard contact in 15 minutes.”
Roshal snarled, emotion breaking through her mask. “Of course, the pirates had one more vessel. Helm, fire our maneuvering thrusters, use the pirate hulk as cover. Weapons, get whoever’s left of our Interceptor flight to engage the enemy. Comms, get me in contact with the merchant fleet, tell them to evacuate. We’ll provide cover.”
“Aye ma’am.” The Communications Mate Second Class said with a shiver in her voice. “Sending-”
“Update on Aerospace assets!” Her sensor tech called out.
“Deliver!” Roshal demanded, cutting off the comms officer with a slice of her hand.
“Weapons fire. Definitely less than four contacts. Seems to be two grou- negative, only two contacts remaining- weaponsfire- one contac- IFF received, oh goddesses, IT’S RUNOFF THREE! FRIENDLY AEROSPACE INBOUND!”
//////////
Milk gripped her crash harness hard as Cookie slammed the Interceptor’s fusion torch clean past its safe thrust marker and into the red as g forces crushed her chest. “Last target down.” She reported after Cookie’s final laser burst hit something critical inside the final Aerospace fighter’s frame. “That’s 20 for 20. All enemy bogeys down. All standard munitions are in the black. Static drive is 48%, dump core ejected. All we’ve got left is our ASM and front laser.”
Cookie flashed back an affirmative signal.
“We going for that cruiser?”
Another affirmative.
“Well, I’m braced and ready on the release. Ready.”
“Ready.” Cookie spoke, his voice horse.
It’s funny what people think when their lives are on the line. Because charging towards a fresh enemy Heavy Cruiser, nothing but a single anti-shipping missile worth a damn, no allied support but the faint glimmer in IFF screens of their fellow flight doing the same… all Aoibhinn McDermott could think of was a poem she had read at least a decade ago or more at the Naval Academy.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the Valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
//////////
Ventures Forth Bravely Into Great Unknowns could do nothing but furiously swear as the basic sensor system her engineering team had restored on the thoroughly ventilated secondary command bridge of the pirate hulk revealed an enemy Heavy Cruiser bearing down upon their homeship.
“Weapons are trashed. We cored their reactor, anyway.” One of the tangential engineers reported, “Other teams are calling in. Things are worse where they are. We’ve found the slaves, though, luckily it was one of the few airtight bays. Also, have some more captives, but that really doesn’t matter right now.”
“No shit.” Ventures Forth replied, “Can we do anything?”
The engineer looked back to her, visor depolarizing so the Gearschilde can look into the black and yellow eyes of her Shil coworker.
“Pray.” The woman replied simply.
Ventures Forth Bravely Into Great Unknowns did just that.
//////////
Low chanting filled the engine bay as a small group of priests stood around the engine praying to whichever god that would listen to allow them one more shot. One more fight.
Around them, black handed engineers scurried, ripping out blown fuses and replacing them with soldered in high strength wire. A final measure of desperation. Sparks flew as engineers swore and chaplains prayed, power still remaining in circuits needing to be bled out before bypasses could be installed, turning every bit of solder and every ripped out fuse into a deadly gamble.
Already, someone was lying on the ground, no longer twitching.
They didn’t have time to check on their fallen comrade, the work was too important.
A clock ticked down. Four minutes elapsed.
//////////
Lieutenant Commander Cenywyn swore as she watched Runoff 2 die.
Their single Interceptor had mistimed a maneuver and had been caught dead in the middle of an Anti-Aerospace array, shredded in an instant. The only consolation she could take was that, seeing as the first shot went clean through the cockpit, they didn’t even notice they died.
“Runoff 4, stay in formation.” She ordered over the radio, “We’ll lead you in for the run.”
“Yes ma’am.” The hesitant voice of Junior Flight Lieutenant Griogill replied. She swallowed, “We’re- we’re ready when you are.”
“No fear, Lieutenant,” Cenywyn called back to the child she was leading to her death. “We’re pilots in the Imperial Patrol. We do our duty. No fear.”
A clock ticked down. Six minutes elapsed.
//////////
“Talk to me!” The last remaining senior engineer in the reactor bay called out to anyone who was able to reply.
Someone, she didn’t even bother looking to see who, called back “We’ve bypassed 60% of the fuses. Should be able to give ourselves a burst of combat power. No more than 10 minutes of it before the entire system overheats and we either die, or the reactor shuts off.”
“Any chance we can get more than 10 minutes?”
“Not before that Heavy Cruiser delivers us straight to the stars.”
“Fuck it, good enough.” She slammed her fist on the ship phone’s dialing button resting near the console the engineer had just ripped the last safety override out of. “Captain. We’ve got your power. You give us the word, and we’ll give you ten minutes.”
//////////
Roshal breathed in, breathed out, and nodded. 10 minutes of combat power before the entire ship shut down into uselessness. She’d done more with less. She couldn’t remember when, but she had. Luckily, this was a Patrol Carrier instead of a standard ship, so it was more than capable of combat maneuvers with nothing but RCS thrusters. That should give her some time.
Movement, movement was going to be the key.
“Comms, tell the engineering crews on the hulk that they are ordered to figure out anything that could draw the attention of the Heavy Cruiser,” She began, “Systems, break our mooring lines. We’re going to have to split from the hulk. Helm, prepare for maneuvers. RCS only. We are going to have to do this carefully. Engineroom, prepare for power activation, but hold until my command.”
This needs to be perfect, Roshal thought, A single mistimed action ruins it all.
A clock ticked down. Ten minutes elapsed. The Karcharidon had entered maximum weapon’s range.
//////////
He of Slender Tail shivered where he stood. The secondary command bridge was silent as Roshal began giving orders to fight. This was… this was insane.
They were in a ruined ship with nothing but a merchant fleet beginning to flee and a three thirds dead pirate hulk on their side against a fresh Karcharidon class Heavy Cruiser.
They couldn’t win.
This was suicide.
They would die here.
\ So why didn’t He of Slender Tail feel afraid?
He stood at his post, a secondary bridge console where he would relay orders to other departments, freeing up the other Watchkeeper to collate those orders, there was nothing he could do to help win this impossible battle, and yet…
And yet he felt heat blossoming inside his chest with every single order delivered.
“Mooring teamsss, you are to cut your linesss immediately.” He relayed to a crew of Shil scurrying around the ruined bulkheads, “Damage control, prepare for electrical firesss and arcsss.” He commanded, switching between teams instantly.
He didn’t feel fear. He could see his Watchkeeper shiver every time the sensors reported the enemy contact was still closing, but he didn’t feel the same.
What he felt… was indignation.
How dare this pirate scum threaten his vessel, his crew. How dare they ambush this valiant ship after they had fought so hard to win. How dare they.
He let his fangs fold out as he spat the next order, “Anti-Aerossspace teamsss, prepare your batteriesss for grouped fire. Gunnery calculationsss are on their way.”
How dare they stand up to him.
A clock ticked down. 12 minutes elapsed. Weapons fire.
//////////
Roshal swayed slightly as she could feel the ship beneath her feet move. Movement is life in naval warfare, movement is death. “Right RCS fire, bring us clear of the hulk. Bow thrusters, up twenty.”
“Aye, ma’am, aye, right standard and bow up twenty.” The Helmswoman replied.
“Confirmed. Next maneuver, give us rear thrust-”
“Torpedo!” The sensor operator called out in a shrill voice, “Two marks on intercept course! Range, twelve K and closing fast!”
“Decorum!” Roshal snapped at the panicking sensor technician. “Comms, order Runoff flight to divert and intercept those torpedoes. Rear RCS to full, give us momentum.”
Roshal turned away from the bridge as affirmations were shouted, and the ship began to move, “Engineering, prepare to activate combat power on my mark and prepare for hard maneuvers. Mark in five.”
//////////
Griogill swallowed bile and tried not to feel too thankful that the enemy vessel had fired torpedoes at their home ship. Being diverted from an attack run had a much higher chance of survival than striking through an AA bubble.
“Runoff 4 engaging far torpedo. Moving in for intercept. Bre’kas, give me lock.”
Griogill’s backseater muttered something, and a target lock appeared on the far torpedo as Runoff 1, their previous Drill Sergeants, dashed by in a hard burn and blazed away at their own target.
“Right. We can do this. We can do this. No fear.” The rookie muttered as the sight of her friends in Runoff 3 being turned to vapor echoed in her mind. “I can do this.”
The target locked. She fired. The torpedo detonated.
A clock ticked down.
//////////
“Mark in four.”
//////////
The Heavy Cruiser loomed closer as the comparatively tiny Patrol Carrier spat its defiance in the form of two Interceptors dancing between the stars.
As a pair of torpedoes detonated, four more were launched, the anti-shipping weapons built for this specific purpose. Destroying disabled vessels.
And so the last two remaining Interceptors on CAP dove into the fray, risking themselves against an ever approaching AA bubble in order to save their ship.
A clock ticked down.
//////////
“Mark in three.”
//////////
All Cookie could do was stare and push his meager aerospace fighter further on its nuclear thrusters as shimmering dots of torpedoes lanced out from the Heavy Cruiser attacking his new home.
He pushed his hand forward and felt the throttle once more push back against him, the lever pushed all the way past safe thrust and into the further setting on his console.
The Interceptor was fast. It didn’t feel fast enough.
And so he spoke the words he spoke once before, back when he’d had to listen to his backseater’s screams of pain and the rush of wind after shrapnel pierced his fuselage, and the hospital was so, so far away.
Father, I pray that you will not hide your face from me. Whenever I pray, Lord please hear me and answer me speedily in Jesus' name. God, I pray that you will grant me speed through your help.
A clock ticked down.
//////////
“Mark in two.”
//////////
The Heavy Cruiser shifted, engine flaring and it began to close the range. A single disabled ship on emergency RCS thrusters and a pair of Aerospace fighters was nothing it would have to deal with.
It fired a third spread of torpedoes.
A clock ticked down.
//////////
They took the bait. Roshal thought with a vicious grin.
“Mark in one.” She paused, “Execute.”
In an instant, power flowed through the ship, emergency lights flickered off as the burning red boarding lights returned their fiery glow. The entire ship shook as the main thruster came back online, and capacitors began to charge for maneuvers.
“Hard burn, full thrusters, right, on my mark.” Roshal watched as the Heavy Cruiser began to react to her movements, the enemy ship was alive, you needed to roll to broadsides to begin bombardment, come on come on…
Roshal watched as a torpedo flickered out of existence, Runoff 4 gaining another kill.
Come on, dammit, you don’t get put in charge of a Heavy Cruiser without- THERE!
The Heavy Cruiser flinched, turning her bow away from the no longer stricken vessel, preparing for broadside.
The Captain’s grin showed more teeth than smile. “Execute! Full right thrust!”
“Full right thrust! Aye ma’am aye!” Her helmswoman called out as maneuvering thrusters dead cold roared to life and physically threw the vessel to the side, causing everyone not strapped in on the bridge to rock as a barrage of fire flew past their former location, manual targeting systems in play since the automatic systems would still be getting warmed up.
“Full thrust forward, prepare to divert all power to secondary weapons. Weapons, give me a firing solution.” Roshal commanded, hand raised and pointed at the enemy’s display as if she were commanding from a tall ship.
A chant of “Aye ma’am aye” flowed out across the bridge as the weaponsmistress was silent before calling out. “Port side is up to 45% secondary fires and 32% point defense. That’ll be our best bet.”
Roshal nodded. “Make it so. Target their main weapons. Helm, get us that facing.”
“Ma’am. We’re getting a call from Runoff 3. They are entering the AO and are asking for a target.”
Roshal smiled, “Weapons, shift target. Aim for the anti-aerospace systems. Let’s give Runoff 3 the opening they need.”
A clock ticked down.
//////////
“Cookie, we’ve got a targeting path.” Milk called forward. “Putting it up on your HUD.”
“One second… I’ve got it. Moving to comply. Did the Captain give us a plan?” her front seater replied, causing her stomach to do funny things as the Aerospace Fighter maneuvered while under high thrust.
“Something like that. She asked for a munitions report and specifically about our anti-shipping weapon.”
Cookie paused.
“Ah.” He finally said.
“Yeah.” She replied.
“Well, let’s hope they’re able to open us up to a window of opportunity. Or this will be a short charge.”
“Not our place to question why.”
“Just our place to do and die.”
Time to target… three minutes.
Into the valley of Death, rode the six hundred.
A clock ticked down.
//////////
Two vessels, three Aerospace fighters, one chance.
Six minutes of power remained. All actors took their places on the stage.
One hundred kilometers, close enough to check the weld quality of hull seams, the two ships danced across from each other. Maneuvering.
Five minutes of power remained.
The Karcharidon Heavy Cruiser rolled itself trying to keep the vulnerable top deck away from the Patrol Carrier’s presumably still working main gun as Roshal’s vessel jumped to the side. Thrusters roared.
Four minutes of power remained.
Runoff 1 and 4 shot towards their formerly separated comrade, forming up behind them in a wedge. The trio climbed towards the sun as their captain continued to chase and harass the Karcharidon.
Three minutes of power remained.
Roshal spoke. The lances of her vessel fired. Laser blasts carved across the hull of the enemy ship as it rolled.
The rolling ceased. A helmswoman swore as a full broadside caught the Patrol Carrier in the flank. The port hangar pod was ruined, armor shattered and all inside exposed to hard vacuum. Those who could scream died the fastest. The Interceptors had their opening.
Two minutes of power remained.
Silent wings swept through vacuum as three Interceptors began their dive, their formerly speedy arrowhead shape giving way to an inverted t as their wings swept out for stability, the ASF dove and dove and dove.
Five Kilometers away.
The range was too wide. They had one shot. It had to be perfect.
One minute of power remained.
The Into Harm’s Way spat its defiance into the world, limited power drained to give her pilots a seconds more of time.
30 seconds of power remained.
Three Kilometers.
Hard Lock! Milk shouted from the back seat of Runoff 3. Cookie was silent. The range was still too wide.
15 seconds of power remained.
Two Kilometers.
The Karcharidon seemingly began to roll before the Patrol Carrier once more fired, its last remaining weapons spouting their defiance against the world. Deep in engineering, systems began to blow, wires that replaced fuses sparked power and delicate circuit boards shorted out into useless scrap.
The lights went out.
No power remained.
Roshal, in her head, began to count down as lances of light began to sweep across her ship. Damage control did what they could, but the beams began to cut like an overly enthusiastic shipbreaker.
Five.
One Kilometer.
Four.
Cookie’s thumb depressed the firing stud as the Interceptor screamed at him.
Three.
The ASF launched its deadly payload.
Two.
Three Interceptors pulled back hard on their sticks to avoid colliding with the deck.
One.
The thruster of the anti-shipping missile roared as it rocketed the point blank aerospace distance to target.
Impact.
The armor piercing tip of the missile punched into the upper deck plating of the Heavy Cruiser, classified alloys allowing it to pierce into the armored plating just enough to allow the shaped charge to open up a hole as momentum kept the weapon moving.
Within the frame of a single second, the warhead of the missile had entered the ship and, before the alarms even had time to sound, detonated.
A new sun appeared in the void for a split second as a plasma-fusion warhead detonated inside the Karcharidon heavy cruiser’s hull.
//////////
Roshal allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief inside her head as the emergency power lights flickered overhead and the gravity ever so slightly lightened. What was left of their sensor arrays showed the enemy vessel powering down. “Engineering. Good work, your 10 minutes were just what she needed.” She called out, picking up the ship phone.
There was no answer from engineering.
She signed externally before pointing at one of the marines guarding the bridge, “Find a crewmate in a void suit. I have need of runners.” The marine clasped a fist to her chest before leaving to execute her captain’s commands. “Comms, do we have any contact with the engineering teams on the pirate hulk?”
The Comms officer held up a hand, Roshal waited, “No, ma’am. We aren’t getting- wait. We’ve got visual on flashing lights from the hull. Apparently, something shorted, so they’re having to rebuild broadcast arrays. They can receive just fine, though.”
“Good, once we can maneuver, bring us broadside of them. What’s the status of the merchant fleet?”
Navigation spoke up now, “Still heading for the Jump Point. Should we send the recall order?”
“Not yet, we are still unsure if the area is safe. If we have any sensors remaining, begin sca-”
The mentioned sensor technician interrupted Captain Roshal, “Ma’am, new contact, signature unknown. Just jumped in from outside the starlane!”
“Give me details. Course, range, and speed?” She demanded.
“Signal confused, can’t get a lock!” Navigation called out, “Can’t tell if confusion’s from them or us.”
Not another one… Roshal sighed, “All forces prepa-”
“Ma’am, we’re being hailed.” Communications called out.
“On squawk.”
“This is Captain Al’yosha Cal’rada of Her Imperial Majesty’s Ship Spear of the Knyaginya, responding to Merchant vessel distress calls. Imperial Patrol Carrier, are you in need of assistance at this time?”
Roshal recognized the voice. A junior officer from her days in the Navy and a fellow Sevastutavan. The memory of the fresh faced girl when she’d joined her as an Ensign straight of the Naval Academy flashed before her eyes. “Captain Cal’rada. Your timing is impeccable as always.”
“Admiral?” Roshal could hear the shock in her old protege’s voice.
“That’s Captain, now, Al’yosha. I require your aid in ensuring the disabled vessel still glowing from an ASM strike remains disabled along with Search and Rescue teams for our sister Carrier.
“Whatever you want, you’ll have it, Admiral_… Helm! All ahead flank and plot course to intercept. Launch gunships and prepare to deploy Bluejackets. We’ll test our _Orcas’ teeth today!”
The line cut out a moment later than it should have, and Roshal nodded in approval.
“Captain, I still don’t have a read on new contact. What is it?” Sensors asked.
“A Drep’na inspired vision, come to life.” Roshal watched, feeling an odd sort of parental pride as Al’yosha’s experimental warship began closing the distance towards the Karcharidon at breakneck speeds. “A swift sailing vessel and ten carriage guns…” Roshal murmured the line from an old Vaasconian poem from the ancient Age of Sail. She had heard Cal’rada had succeeded in petitioning the Navy to build her dream-ship, burning every favor and passing out favors to any and everyone to see the program through. Now, there she was, standing on the bridge bearing down on a ship twice her size, but if the rumors were true, only half her guns.
“Ma’am, contact is still not resolving, but IFF confirms Imperial Navy designation. An Akula Class Attack Transport. I’ve… I’ve never even heard of this class.”
“Perhaps we shall hear of them more in the future. Fortune favors the active.”
“Contact is disgorging multiple signals, moving at speeds consistent with aerospace assets.”
“That is our signal we may disengage. Comms, inform the merchant fleet that the area is secure and to begin refueling procedures. Helm, get us alongside the pirate hulk, we have people to recover. Marine, get me a runner to the MP’s, we shall need the port hangar prepared for an old tradition the Navy has regarding pirate prisoners…” Roshal commanded. The fight was over, it was time to begin the cleanup.
//////////
So… that took a while. Sorry about that.
Turns out when a combination of writer’s block, decision paralysis and LIFE hits you over the head, it becomes a touch difficult to get your shit together long enough to write something down.
On the plus side, we are out of the “unplanned bits” and right back into the parts I have brainstormed, so I won’t be staring at a screen trying to think how to make things connect as much anymore. On the other hand, that means we are now entering the epilogue of book 1 of Top Lasgun.
Don’t worry, the story isn’t ending, I’ve got “three” books plotted out in my head, so we’ll see how that shakes out, but for the most part, this is where I start wrapping up plot threads, laying down threads for what comes next, and all that other good stuff.
So yeah, next chapter is going to involve everyone wrapping up what happened here, some fun little Military Justice, and potentially a bunch of plot. Also, I’m planning on starting a “rewrite”/edited version of this to go up on AO3, so keep an eye out for that. Early installment weirdness is a bitch and I’m not proud of what the older stuff looked like.
Well, I hope you have a wonderful morning, afternoon or evening whenever you read this and I will see you next chapter.
[NEXT CHAPTER]

Here is mine!

1. Dear Billy 10/10 I just love how ll the action for the show starts with episode 4 Finding Wills body, Will getting possessed, and The sauna test, for example, but... that scene, you know the one!
   
2. The Massacre at Hawkins Lab 10/10 I just love love love how the teens were trapped in the upside down and we spend the longest in there by far, and I love how's its stuck in 1983 and can't wait we see what they do with that. And not to mention that sick bike shot!!
   
3. The Piggyback 10/10 This was so great. I loved the idea of El piggy backing of max it was so smart and honestly. I am so glad they lost. It adds more and will make a much better season 5
   
4. The Hellfire Club 9.5/10 I love set up episodes especially in this show, I love how we get to see everyone's mental start Max isolating her self, Lucas being a joke meeting Eddie with Mike and Dustin, El at school, it was just start was to start the season I just wanted more of El in school
   
5. The Dive 8/10 We start getting into the meat of the gates and the story, and I'm in love with the underwater shots
   
6. The Nina Project 8/10 The start of Eleven's storybline was fun, I genuinely thought it was very creative and liked how they made her relive her past and the creel house investigation, Yes!
   

7.Papa 6.5/10 I actually forgot about this episode, but Eleven not forgiving Papa was 10/10, and I thinks it was such a good way to end this storyline in the season and that scene with Mike and Will was great and Noah's acting was so good dude!

1. Vecna's Curse 5/10 Best Title of the Season, but I kinda wish he saw more of the investigating part but this was a great way to set up Vecna's name lol also I was very disappointed with Hopper just running and jumping like... what? But proud of El for hitting that Bi*ch with a roller skate
   
2. The Monster and the Superhero 3.5/10 I like this episode, but we lacked a but for me the ending with Max seeing the clock and Lucas betraying his Jock friends was the best part for me other than that all the other story lines lacked for me, and why was will wearing that tight @$$ shirt like dude, you got muscles now wear something bigger!
   

Not this being said, I love this season with all my heart ots the best one, in my opinion, and I don't hate any episodes. I love them all!

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sink, sir, sister, sit, site, situation, six, size, ski, skill, skin, skirt, sky, slave, sleep, slice, slide, slight, slightly, slip, slow, slowly, small, smart, smell, smile, smoke, smooth, snap, snow, so, so-called, soccer, social, society, soft, software, soil, solar, soldier, sole, solid, solution, solve, some, somebody, somehow, someone, something, sometimes, somewhat, somewhere, son, song, soon, sophisticated, sorry, sort, soul, sound, soup, source, south, southern, Soviet, space, Spanish, speak, speaker, special, specialist, species, specific, specifically, specify, speech, speed, spend, spending, spin, spirit, spiritual, split, spoil, sponsor, sport, spot, spray, spread, spring, square, squeeze, stability, stable, staff, stage, stain, stair, stake, stand, standard, standing, star, stare, start, state, statement, station, statistical, status, stay, steady, steal, steel, steep, stem, step, stick, still, stimulate, stimulus, stir, stock, stomach, stone, stop, storage, store, storm, story, straight, strange, stranger, strategic, strategy, stream, street, strength, strengthen, stress, stretch, strike, string, strip, stroke, strong, strongly, structural, structure, struggle, student, studio, study, stuff, stupid, style, subject, submit, subsequent, substance, substantial, substitute, succeed, success, successful, successfully, such, sudden, suddenly, sue, suffer, sufficient, sugar, suggest, suggestion, suicide, suit, summer, summit, sun, super, supply, support, supporter, suppose, supposed, Supreme, sure, surely, surface, surgery, surprise, surprised, surprising, surprisingly, surround, survey, survival, survive, survivor, suspect, sustain, swear, sweep, sweet, swim, swing, switch, symbol, symptom, system, table, tactic, tail, take, tale, talent, talk, tall, tank, tap, tape, target, task, taste, tax, taxi, tea, teach, teacher, teaching, team, tear, technical, technique, technology, teen, teenager, telephone, telescope, television, tell, temperature, temporary, ten, tend, tendency, tennis, tension, tent, term, terms, terrible, territory, terror, terrorist, test, testimony, testing, text, than, thank, thanks, that, the, theater, their, them, theme, themselves, then, theory, therapy, there, therefore, these, they, thick, thin, thing, think, thinking, third, thirty, this, those, though, thought, thousand, threat, threaten, three, throat, through, throughout, throw, thus, ticket, tie, tight, time, tiny, tip, tire, tissue, title, to, tobacco, today, toe, together, toilet, token, tolerate, tomato, tomorrow, tone, tongue, tonight, too, tool, tooth, top, topic, toss, total, totally, touch, tough, tour, tourist, tournament, toward, towards, tower, town, toy, trace, track, trade, tradition, traditional, traffic, tragedy, trail, train, training, transfer, transform, transformation, transition, translate, translation, transmission, transmit, transport, transportation, travel, treat, treatment, treaty, tree, tremendous, trend, trial, tribe, trick, trip, troop, trouble, truck, true, truly, trust, truth, try, tube, tunnel, turn, TV, twelve, twenty, twice, twin, two, type, typical, typically, ugly, ultimate, ultimately, unable, uncle, undergo, understand, understanding, unfortunately, uniform, union, unique, unit, United, universal, universe, university, unknown, unless, unlike, until, unusual, up, upon, upper, urban, urge, us, use, used, useful, user, usual, usually, utility, utilize, vacation, valley, valuable, value, variable, variation, variety, various, vary, vast, vegetable, vehicle, venture, version, versus, very, vessel, veteran, via, victim, victory, video, view, viewer, village, violate, violation, violence, violent, virtually, virtue, virus, visibility, visible, vision, visit, visitor, visual, vital, voice, volume, voluntary, volunteer, vote, voter, voting, wage, wait, wake, walk, wall, wander, want, war, warm, warn, warning, wash, waste, watch, water, wave, way, we, weak, weakness, wealth, wealthy, weapon, wear, weather, web, website, wedding, week, weekend, weekly, weigh, weight, welcome, welfare, well, west, western, wet, what, whatever, wheel, when, whenever, where, whereas, whether, which, while, whisper, white, who, whole, whom, whose, why, wide, widely, widespread, wife, wild, wildlife, will, willing, win, wind, window, wine, wing, winner, winter, wipe, wire, wisdom, wise, wish, with, withdraw, within, without, witness, woman, wonder, wonderful, wood, wooden, word, work, worker, working, workout, workplace, works, workshop, world, worried, worry, worth, would, wound, wrap, write, writer, writing, wrong, yard, yeah, year, yell, yellow, yes, yesterday, yet, yield, you, young, your, yours, yourself, youth, zone.

Salones Are the perfect organisms standing a solid Three feet bigger than their next next comparable Species. With razor-sharp claws that can cut through the strongest medals with ease. In reaction times so quick they leave others in the dust.
This specific one was sent on an assassination mission to kill the Ambassador to a meeting of meeting of the leaders of the galaxy.
He torn his way through the roof of the transit truck. an especially large one, caring, probably dozens of lesser species. Scraping his way through the roof and couldn't wait to tear into the lesser species.
Only to hear words that will be stuck with him for the remainder of his life, which was very short.
"That's A Huge fucking rat"
Looking up rapidly he saw four gigantic beings standing easily three feet taller than even himself.
One of them grabbed A metal seat bolted to the floor using the strongest aluminum there is.
He wripped it out and threw it at him. Thinking as quickly as he could, he jumped out the way only for a Buton to hit him in the side of the.
Bone teeth and flesh tore away from the side of these four giants proceed to squish the giant rat flat
The video abruptly stops
And this class is why you don't fuck with humans.while being laughably slow take several minutes to do geometry, not even inside their own head.
They are by far the most physically stronger race there is. Barely having enough intelligence to get off their shit hole of a plant that we did not expect much I'm the new of species.
Until their physical attributes came into play coming from more the highest density planets, that can support life close enough. And the goldy locks zone to have enough energy To host gigantic creatures, the entire planet is home to giganticism of every form.
The standard Humans stands around 5'10. The galactic average is 1'4.
Having extremely dense muscles that require an absurd amount of energy, humans are somehow always hungry.
Everything about a human is gear towards physical strength. Do keep in mind this when you're next to a human. As to not accidentally hurt yourself around one, and the reason Im going over this species, specifically in history class.
Their involvement in the Salones war Is not able to be put into words how vital they were towards victory. The Salones come from the most vicious death world in the Galaxy. They are the perfected Organisms to survive on just about any planet. Normally, being able to tear apart any other species with their bare limbs.
Until humans came along all that perfection organism crap went out the window when you're getting hit in the face by something that could fold aluminum in half and laugh about it.
There are a variety of materials on their home world to to the high gravty. That others rarely available to them to use. Aluminum is nowhere near the strongest material on their planet. In fact, their skeletal structure incorporates metal that how abundantmetal is on ther home planet.
This also means that conventional weaponry was not an option for them instead of using the regular air pressure system that's commonly used today.
They invented a chemical system which releases at such high speeds. It's close to the sound barrier. Even then, that's not a guaranteed kill.
Pausing a moment, seeing the class was not paying much attention aside from the jocks.
How about I play your video just demonstrating how strong they are
booting up a video on the class projector, she proceeded to show a video of a young human. Probably five running in front of a fire range by accident.
Weaponry that shot compressed air with plastic spheres going at great speeds went down ranged and hit the cash straight in the head.
Many of the classes yelled, not wanting to see a young child die.
They are very quickly science.Doing the young child cried for its mother and she came barnching off the child saying that's what he gets for not listening to her.
The child was picked off the floor, barely even bleeding.
The class professor then showed the airsoft matche, demonstrating what they consider. Deadly weapon was nothing more than amoree mature toy for them.
Should I make more is this good?

Salones Are the perfect organisms standing a solid Three feet bigger than their next next comparable Species. With razor-sharp claws that can cut through the strongest medals with ease. In reaction times so quick they leave others in the dust.
This specific one was sent on an assassination mission to kill the Ambassador to a meeting of meeting of the leaders of the galaxy.
He torn his way through the roof of the transit truck. an especially large one, caring, probably dozens of lesser species. Scraping his way through the roof and couldn't wait to tear into the lesser species.
Only to hear words that will be stuck with him for the remainder of his life, which was very short.
"That's A Huge fucking rat"
Looking up rapidly he saw four gigantic beings standing easily three feet taller than even himself.
One of them grabbed A metal seat bolted to the floor using the strongest aluminum there is.
He wripped it out and threw it at him. Thinking as quickly as he could, he jumped out the way only for a Buton to hit him in the side of the.
Bone teeth and flesh tore away from the side of these four giants proceed to squish the giant rat flat
The video abruptly stops
And this class is why you don't fuck with humans.while being laughably slow take several minutes to do geometry, not even inside their own head.
They are by far the most physically stronger race there is. Barely having enough intelligence to get off their shit hole of a plant that we did not expect much I'm the new of species.
Until their physical attributes came into play coming from more the highest density planets, that can support life close enough. And the goldy locks zone to have enough energy To host gigantic creatures, the entire planet is home to giganticism of every form.
The standard Humans stands around 5'10. The galactic average is 1'4.
Having extremely dense muscles that require an absurd amount of energy, humans are somehow always hungry.
Everything about a human is gear towards physical strength. Do keep in mind this when you're next to a human. As to not accidentally hurt yourself around one, and the reason Im going over this species, specifically in history class.
Their involvement in the Salones war Is not able to be put into words how vital they were towards victory. The Salones come from the most vicious death world in the Galaxy. They are the perfected Organisms to survive on just about any planet. Normally, being able to tear apart any other species with their bare limbs.
Until humans came along all that perfection organism crap went out the window when you're getting hit in the face by something that could fold aluminum in half and laugh about it.
There are a variety of materials on their home world to to the high gravty. That others rarely available to them to use. Aluminum is nowhere near the strongest material on their planet. In fact, their skeletal structure incorporates metal that how abundantmetal is on ther home planet.
This also means that conventional weaponry was not an option for them instead of using the regular air pressure system that's commonly used today.
They invented a chemical system which releases at such high speeds. It's close to the sound barrier. Even then, that's not a guaranteed kill.
Pausing a moment, seeing the class was not paying much attention aside from the jocks.
How about I play your video just demonstrating how strong they are
booting up a video on the class projector, she proceeded to show a video of a young human. Probably five running in front of a fire range by accident.
Weaponry that shot compressed air with plastic spheres going at great speeds went down ranged and hit the cash straight in the head.
Many of the classes yelled, not wanting to see a young child die.
They are very quickly science.Doing the young child cried for its mother and she came barnching off the child saying that's what he gets for not listening to her.
The child was picked off the floor, barely even bleeding.
The class professor then showed the airsoft matche, demonstrating what they consider. Deadly weapon was nothing more than amoree mature toy for them.
Should I make more is this good?

Live Music

• JC Hatfield Trio, Mill Top Tavern, Tuesday, May 14th, 12:00 pm – 4:00 pm,
• Joshua "Tennessee" Worthy, Pierre's Pub, Tuesday, May 14th, 1:00 pm – 5:00 pm,
• Damon Slaughter, O.C. White's Seafood, Tuesday, May 14th, 5:30 pm – 8:30 pm,
• Jim Johnston, Prohibition Kitchen, Tuesday, May 14th, 6:00 pm – 9:00 pm,
• Smokin' Joe Schauer, Ann O'Malley's Deli and Pub, Tuesday, May 14th, 6:00 pm – 10:00 pm,
• Jazzy Blue Band, Cortesse's Bistro, Tuesday, May 14th, 6:00 pm – 9:00 pm.

Romanza: North Florida Saxophone Quartet

Romanza Festivale presents the North Florida Saxophone Quartet as they perform a variety of familiar music in a live concert in the Courtyard of St. Cyprian's Episcopal Church, on Sunday, May 14, 2024, beginning at 6:30 p.m.
The four saxophonists have each played with various ensembles worldwide, and North Florida music lovers have been delighted that each has made playing in this quartet a priority. They choose music from several genres — from classical to Disney — to create a lively show that audiences always enjoy. While the members of the North Florida Saxophone Quartet certainly focus on the sax, all of them are proficient with other woodwind instruments, such as the flute, oboe, clarinet, and bassoon.

• Paula Prince performs on the soprano saxophone and graduated from the Cincinnati Conservatory of Music.
• Charles Almeida performs on the alto saxophone. He served in both the U.S. Army military band and the U.S. Air Force military band. In addition, he has played with several well-known big bands such as Harry James and Tommy Dorsey.
• Robbie Zukauskas plays tenor saxophone and played with the U.S. Army Band and the Florida National Guard Band. Robbie studied music at the University of Central Florida.
• Bill Prince plays the baritone saxophone. He's a professor emeritus at the University of North Florida and arranges most of the music for the ensemble. Bill has also performed around the world with famous bands and as a solo artist.

Guests are asked to bring lawn chairs.
Admission: Free.
When: Sunday, May 14, 2024, from 6:30 to 7:30 p.m.
Where: St. Cyprian's Episcopal Church, 37 Lovett St. in downtown St. Augustine. The concert happens in the courtyard and attendees are encouraged to bring their portable chairs.
This event is part of the Romanza Festivale of Music and the Arts, an annual festival of two weeks of historical, cultural, and creative events celebrating all things St. Augustine. From May 3 -19, the nation's oldest city will be jam-packed with music and dance concerts, living history events and historical tours, live theater, and art exhibits.

2025 Pin Up Paws Calendar Contest

• May 14 @ 12:00 am - 11:59 pm
• 2025 Pin Up Paws Calendar Contest
• It’s that time of year! The St. Augustine Humane Society Annual Contest for the 2025 Pin Up Paws Calendar begins at 8:00am on May 1, 2024. The “Sweet Things” themed calendar will showcase the winning pets in all their adorableness.
• Submit a photo of your pet and start rooting for votes, each vote worth $1.00. Voting is May 1, 2024 at 8:00am through Saturday, July 13, 2024 at 8:00pm. And, you can vote as many times and for as many pets as you wish!
• The Pet with the most votes becomes the cover pet for the 2025 Sweet Things calendar. The next twelve pets with the next highest amount of votes will be a monthly pin up pet. All pets will enjoy a professional photo shoot with award-winning photographer Addison Fitzgerald.
• Prizes: *First-Place pet (along with being on the cover) also receives a $100.00 gift certificate to the Columbia Restaurant, two tickets to the Pin Up Paws Party, and two copies of the calendar. *Second-place winners receive a $50.00 Columbia Restaurant Gift Certificate and two calendars. *Twelve runners-up will be featured with their submission photos and a description. *The top 80 pet fundraisers will have a small photo on a collage page.
• The 2025 calendar will be revealed at the Pin Up Paws Party on Thursday, October 24, 2024 at The White Room.2025 Pin Up Paws Calendar Contest

Art in Public Spaces Exhibition

• May 14 @ 8:00 am - 5:00 pm
• FREE
• Stop by the Rotunda Gallery of the St. Johns County Administration Building to view the Art in Public Spaces Exhibition … Fair Winds to Elysium: William Bartram’s Travels in East Florida, 1774-1778. Presented by the St. Johns Cultural Council, the artwork celebrates the 250th Anniversary of William Bartram’s Travels in St. Johns County. The exhibition features the work of 24 local artists whose pieces were inspired by the flora and fauna of St. Johns County’s natural landscapes.
• Free and open to the public.
• Dates Time: Monday – Friday — April 16 through May 29, 2024. 8:00am-5:00pm
• Join us on Tuesday, April 16 at 8:30am for an exhibition preview prior to the Board of County Commissioners meeting. Or …. Wednesday, April 17 at 5:30pm for the evening reception.
• Participating artists include: Amy Hemphill Dove, Bob Arbogast, Byron Capo, Carole Adams, Catherine Avery St. Jean, Cindy Wilson, Dan Voellinger, Debra Mixon Holliday, Gail Beveridge, Gail Brown, Herrick Smith, Lauren Ehlers, Louise Meredith, Margaret Galloway, Martha Ferguson, Nikki Rakov, Paula Pascucci, Rhonda K. Lovett, Siv Spurgeon, Stephen Mullen, Stephen Rosche, Susan Miller, Teri Tompkins, and Terry Bottom.Art in Public Spaces Exhibition

Senior Yoga

• May 14 @ 9:45 am - 10:45 am
• Senior Yoga
• May 14 @ 9:45 am - 10:45 am
• Recurring Event FREE
• Looking for a Senior Yoga class to strengthen your core and increase your flexibility? Join SJC Parks & Rec at the Solomon Calhoun Community Center Gymnasium on Tuesday & Thursday mornings. Ages 50+.
• Offering eight-week yoga sessions, each consisting of 16 classes.
• Date Time: Tuesdays & Thursdays — *March 5 through May 28, 2024 9:45am-10:45am *Please Note: No class on March 19, April 16, 18, 23 and 25.
• Learn various yoga skills through a combination of physical exercises, mental meditation, and breathing techniques. Increase your flexibility and muscle strength, plus reduce stress.
• Participants — wear comfortable exercise attire. Please bring your own yoga mat, towel and water bottle to stay hydrated along with other items the instructor suggests.
• Space is limited to 50 participants!
• Cost: Zero for each 8-week session each session consists of 16 classes.

I am unable to post the sources because they are getting flagged as spam since they are all similar in name. So please visit this site for the list.
Written out urls here tinyurl.com/yjkw32kd

For future events please visit the Discord.

https://discord.gg/NG4eZSWAgR

Live Music

• JC Hatfield Trio, Mill Top Tavern, Tuesday, May 14th, 12:00 pm – 4:00 pm,
• Joshua "Tennessee" Worthy, Pierre's Pub, Tuesday, May 14th, 1:00 pm – 5:00 pm,
• Damon Slaughter, O.C. White's Seafood, Tuesday, May 14th, 5:30 pm – 8:30 pm,
• Jim Johnston, Prohibition Kitchen, Tuesday, May 14th, 6:00 pm – 9:00 pm,
• Smokin' Joe Schauer, Ann O'Malley's Deli and Pub, Tuesday, May 14th, 6:00 pm – 10:00 pm,
• Jazzy Blue Band, Cortesse's Bistro, Tuesday, May 14th, 6:00 pm – 9:00 pm.

Romanza: North Florida Saxophone Quartet

Romanza Festivale presents the North Florida Saxophone Quartet as they perform a variety of familiar music in a live concert in the Courtyard of St. Cyprian's Episcopal Church, on Sunday, May 14, 2024, beginning at 6:30 p.m.
The four saxophonists have each played with various ensembles worldwide, and North Florida music lovers have been delighted that each has made playing in this quartet a priority. They choose music from several genres — from classical to Disney — to create a lively show that audiences always enjoy. While the members of the North Florida Saxophone Quartet certainly focus on the sax, all of them are proficient with other woodwind instruments, such as the flute, oboe, clarinet, and bassoon.

• Paula Prince performs on the soprano saxophone and graduated from the Cincinnati Conservatory of Music.
• Charles Almeida performs on the alto saxophone. He served in both the U.S. Army military band and the U.S. Air Force military band. In addition, he has played with several well-known big bands such as Harry James and Tommy Dorsey.
• Robbie Zukauskas plays tenor saxophone and played with the U.S. Army Band and the Florida National Guard Band. Robbie studied music at the University of Central Florida.
• Bill Prince plays the baritone saxophone. He's a professor emeritus at the University of North Florida and arranges most of the music for the ensemble. Bill has also performed around the world with famous bands and as a solo artist.

Guests are asked to bring lawn chairs.
Admission: Free.
When: Sunday, May 14, 2024, from 6:30 to 7:30 p.m.
Where: St. Cyprian's Episcopal Church, 37 Lovett St. in downtown St. Augustine. The concert happens in the courtyard and attendees are encouraged to bring their portable chairs.
This event is part of the Romanza Festivale of Music and the Arts, an annual festival of two weeks of historical, cultural, and creative events celebrating all things St. Augustine. From May 3 -19, the nation's oldest city will be jam-packed with music and dance concerts, living history events and historical tours, live theater, and art exhibits.

2025 Pin Up Paws Calendar Contest

• May 14 @ 12:00 am - 11:59 pm
• 2025 Pin Up Paws Calendar Contest
• It’s that time of year! The St. Augustine Humane Society Annual Contest for the 2025 Pin Up Paws Calendar begins at 8:00am on May 1, 2024. The “Sweet Things” themed calendar will showcase the winning pets in all their adorableness.
• Submit a photo of your pet and start rooting for votes, each vote worth $1.00. Voting is May 1, 2024 at 8:00am through Saturday, July 13, 2024 at 8:00pm. And, you can vote as many times and for as many pets as you wish!
• The Pet with the most votes becomes the cover pet for the 2025 Sweet Things calendar. The next twelve pets with the next highest amount of votes will be a monthly pin up pet. All pets will enjoy a professional photo shoot with award-winning photographer Addison Fitzgerald.
• Prizes: *First-Place pet (along with being on the cover) also receives a $100.00 gift certificate to the Columbia Restaurant, two tickets to the Pin Up Paws Party, and two copies of the calendar. *Second-place winners receive a $50.00 Columbia Restaurant Gift Certificate and two calendars. *Twelve runners-up will be featured with their submission photos and a description. *The top 80 pet fundraisers will have a small photo on a collage page.
• The 2025 calendar will be revealed at the Pin Up Paws Party on Thursday, October 24, 2024 at The White Room.2025 Pin Up Paws Calendar Contest

Art in Public Spaces Exhibition

• May 14 @ 8:00 am - 5:00 pm
• FREE
• Stop by the Rotunda Gallery of the St. Johns County Administration Building to view the Art in Public Spaces Exhibition … Fair Winds to Elysium: William Bartram’s Travels in East Florida, 1774-1778. Presented by the St. Johns Cultural Council, the artwork celebrates the 250th Anniversary of William Bartram’s Travels in St. Johns County. The exhibition features the work of 24 local artists whose pieces were inspired by the flora and fauna of St. Johns County’s natural landscapes.
• Free and open to the public.
• Dates Time: Monday – Friday — April 16 through May 29, 2024. 8:00am-5:00pm
• Join us on Tuesday, April 16 at 8:30am for an exhibition preview prior to the Board of County Commissioners meeting. Or …. Wednesday, April 17 at 5:30pm for the evening reception.
• Participating artists include: Amy Hemphill Dove, Bob Arbogast, Byron Capo, Carole Adams, Catherine Avery St. Jean, Cindy Wilson, Dan Voellinger, Debra Mixon Holliday, Gail Beveridge, Gail Brown, Herrick Smith, Lauren Ehlers, Louise Meredith, Margaret Galloway, Martha Ferguson, Nikki Rakov, Paula Pascucci, Rhonda K. Lovett, Siv Spurgeon, Stephen Mullen, Stephen Rosche, Susan Miller, Teri Tompkins, and Terry Bottom.Art in Public Spaces Exhibition

Senior Yoga

• May 14 @ 9:45 am - 10:45 am
• Senior Yoga
• May 14 @ 9:45 am - 10:45 am
• Recurring EventFREE
• Looking for a Senior Yoga class to strengthen your core and increase your flexibility? Join SJC Parks & Rec at the Solomon Calhoun Community Center Gymnasium on Tuesday & Thursday mornings. Ages 50+.
• Offering eight-week yoga sessions, each consisting of 16 classes.
• Date Time: Tuesdays & Thursdays — *March 5 through May 28, 2024 9:45am-10:45am *Please Note: No class on March 19, April 16, 18, 23 and 25.
• Learn various yoga skills through a combination of physical exercises, mental meditation, and breathing techniques. Increase your flexibility and muscle strength, plus reduce stress.
• Participants — wear comfortable exercise attire. Please bring your own yoga mat, towel and water bottle to stay hydrated along with other items the instructor suggests.
• Space is limited to 50 participants!
• Cost: Zero for each 8-week session each session consists of 16 classes.

I am unable to post the sources because they are getting flagged as spam since they are all similar in name. So please visit this site for the list.
Written out urls here tinyurl.com/yjkw32kd

For future events please visit the Discord.

https://discord.gg/NG4eZSWAgR

Killer Grips: Anne Maria, Brick, Jasmine, Justin, Millie
Screaming Gaffers: Chase, MK, Ripper, Scott, Sky
Episode 6: The Aftermath I: Trent's Descent
A riff from an electric guitar opened the episode as a pair of purple concentric circles flew across and back in the screen towards the upper-left corner, a group of smaller, bluer circles flying through them in the same direction but at a higher speed. As it neared the top of the screen a large and blocky red 'T' flashed into existence and descended back down, and the background music continued into a theme fit for an evening talk show. A similarly-styled 'D' and 'A' appeared next as a few more purple or blue rings crossed the screen, then the three letters slid in from the left to spell out 'TDA'. The word 'AFTERMATH' popped up from the bottom of the screen, temporarily bumping up the first three letters before they slammed back down and centered the text in the middle of the screen.
A gleam swept across the text from upper-left to lower-right, and the 'D' briefly popped forwards with the faint sound of a camera, turning a little bit counterclockwise before reversing into its former position.
Clip 1
"Any final words?" Chris asked the eliminated contestants.
“Yeah. You guys actually voted me off. I respect that,” Eva nodded with a smirk.
“Good luck dudes. Wicked play,” Geoff smiled as he and Eva got off the bleachers and went to the red carpet.
The 'D' popped out briefly again and another bout of recap footage began.
Clip 2
"Here's the deal," Chef stated, pacing about slowly in front of the teen. "I'll help you man up and win this thing. You don't ask any stupid questions and you split the prize with me.” He leaned in closer towards Brick's face. “Like they say, it's an offer you can't refuse. I won't let you," he finished with a deadly scowl, much to Brick's discomfort.
The 'D' popped out a third time, signaling the start of another set of recap footage.
Clip 3
“Trent, it's time to go!” Chris informed the eliminated contestant.
Trent got off the stands. “Before I do, can I at least say goodbye to Sky?”
“You could, but it'd be pointless since Chef will just carry you to the limo,” Chris smiled.
“Alright,” Trent sighed and faced his former teammates. “I'm really sorry about my actions, guys. I'll see you later.” With nothing left to say, he turned and walked down the red carpet.
A fourth time the 'D' popped out, and the last set of recap footage played.
Clip 4
"Izzy!" Izzy was left gaping. "Time to go!" Chris announced.
“I'm not going anywhere,” Izzy objected. “That's not my name.”
“Can I get a pen over here?” Chris raised his hand in annoyance. A pen was given to him, and he started to write on the paper. “It says "E-Scope" now, okay?!” This made Izzy finally stand up.
"And remember," Chris told her as she started to walk past the stage, "you can never come back, ev-er!" The host pressed an orange button next to his microphone, and two identical guards came over and grabbed Izzy by her arms.
(Theme Song)
The same sequence used to open the recap was replayed, an unseen audience cheering wildly after the 'TDA AFTERMATH' logo shined. The camera faded into a shot of a stage from the shadowed audience; it was set up like a talk show with one couch and table in the middle, and two tiers of couches on either side. A variety of lights both stage and decorative were scattered around, and to the left was a passage backstage half-hidden by dividing walls and the dark red curtains that framed the set.
And most importantly, sitting on that central couch, were two figures. Damien on the left and Priya on the right.
The camera zoomed in on them as the applause died down, a pair of computer displays visible on the table turned towards the hosts as Priya waved. "Hey there everyone!" she greeted with a smile. "Welcome to the brand-new Total Drama Action Aftermath Show!"
She paused as the audience cheered and applauded again, and once they'd died down, Damien spoke up. "We're coming to you live," he said, "to dish everything Total Drama Action!"
"This is where the real action is!" Priya said to another bout of cheering. "I'm Priya!" she added in with a smile.
"And I'm Damien!" Damien beamed.
"You may remember us from the hit series Total Drama Island," Priya continued.
"And it's thrilling sequel, Total Drama Action," Damien said, “even if we're not on it.”
"I hate that we missed out on the season and a chance to get the money,” Priya grumbled but regained her positivity, “but we have our own show, so I think it compensates."
"Being in the sequel could've given me the possibility of being rich, but when I'm with you, money doesn't matter," Damien smiled happily at Priya, and the crowd awwed.
"Aww, that's so sweet!” Priya gushed and turned to the audience. “And with no competitions here, we get to talk to all of you."
“So about that new season. Pretty cool, right?" Damien asked, looking out at the camera.
"Of course," Priya nodded. "They get to be on a film lot and do different kinds of movie challenges. How spectacular is that?" The crowd cheered in agreement.
"Super spectacular," a voice said from off-camera, the shot zooming out to show that the couches on the right had been occupied by the other non-competing contestants. On the top row were Rodney, Sam, and Gwen, while the bottom row had Topher, Katie, and Sadie.
“We were being rhetorical," Damien pointed out, "but hey, thanks for reminding everyone that you're not invisible! Topher, everyone!" The camera focused on the dirty blonde, who took stride in the applause from the audience.
"We also brought along all the others from the first season," Priya said.
"They may be considered losers," Damien said, "but not to us."
“Aww,” Katie gushed.
“That is so sweet, you guys,” Sadie added.
"The pleasure's all ours," Damien replied. "Give it up for Topher!" he said, and the crowd cheered as the camera cut back to the fanboy. He shot a wink as the screen was split and a clip played of him smacking a fly onto his eye and getting it swollen.
"And Rodney!" Priya added, the camera cutting to the country boy waving at the camera. The screen also split to play a clip of him, showing him returning back to the game on boat.
"Katie and Sadie!" Damien introduced the two girls.
“Oh my gosh!” Katie cheered.
“We are so super excited to be here!” Sadie expressed her happiness.
"Next we have Sam!" Priya said as the camera moved to the gamer smiling at the camera as a clip played in the split screen showing him hanging from a tree by his knees before falling down.
"And how about a shout out to Gwen!" Damien said. Gwen smiled at the camera while the split screen showed a clip of the goth eating blueberries from a bush.
The camera cut over to Topher, who was engrossed in a phone call. "How long are the papers going to take?" he asked before noticing the audience. "Sorry mom, but I'll have to call you back later!"
Priya and Damien shared a glance before Damien smiled at the camera. "We've also got a lot of texts and emails from all of you!" he said excitedly.
"Plus," Priya said, "we'll have a couple of you on webcam!"
"Eva and Geoff will be here," Damien announced, and the crowd went wild.
"And let's not forget our favorite nutcase, Izzy!" Priya added with a smile, earning another roaring cheer from the crowd.
"Plus the guy with the soul of music, Trent!" Damien finished to another round of applause.
"You know what's strange? The four that you two mentioned were part of the final six in Island along with Scott and you, Priya," Topher said.
"That is pretty shocking," Priya added. "Eva and Geoff especially."
"Eva could have won the season again, but I guess no one wants a repeat," Sam laughed a bit.
"We've got a lot to talk about," Damien told the audience. "It's almost time to welcome our first guests," he announced, "but first, take a look at this!" The nervous wreck looked up to the wide and flat television hanging above the central couch.
The television's static cut to a clip of Geoff and Eva running together to escape the monster. "Geoff and Eva's time on Total Drama Action may have been short," Damien said.
"But it sure was packed with the action that we grew to love," Priya continued as Eva and Geoff stuck their heads out from behind a cardboard cutout of a small red car.
"Eva managed to recover from her broken ankle from last season," Damien continued as the muscle woman was shown running through the sidewalk.
"And Geoff proved that losing a tooth doesn't mean losing your positivity," Priya said as footage of Geoff showing off his golden tooth replacement was shown.
"And they both did well for themselves, even if they didn't win the second challenge!" Damien followed up as clips of Geoff and Eva being shown on the ground along with being shot with paintballs courtesy of Chef played.
"But unfortunately, they weren't able to play for another day!" Priya continued.
"I don't even blame the contestants since Eva and Geoff were last season's Final Two," Damien spoke as a clip played of the two going into the limousine. "At least they still have their friendship!"
"One has eaten dog food," Priya said, "and the other has taken control of a forest fire. Our first two guests are Geoff and Eva!"
The Aftermath theme tune played and the crowd went wild as Eva and Geoff pushed open the backstage doors and walked out, smiling at both the audience and the hosts as they took their seats on the lower couch on the left.
"Hey guys!" Priya greeted with a smile as Damien waved.
"Damien! Priya! Glad to see you two again!" Eva said happily.
"Yeah!" Geoff added. "You two getting the hosting gig is impressive!"
"Great to have you guys!" Damien told them. "Sorry you two got eliminated first."
"No need to apologize," Geoff said. "We didn't leave completely empty-handed!"
"Wait, how so?" Damien asked in confusion. "You didn't win the money."
"Not like that," Eva answered. "Geoff managed to take pictures of everybody and everything from the first two seasons to put onto his scrapbook."
"And Eva managed to use part of her money to get construction to build her dream gym," Geoff added. "It's still in construction by the way."
“So how did you two manage to become the Aftermath hosts?” Eva asked them.
"The producers took note of me and Damien's relationship and decided on us being the hosts," Priya answered. "I couldn't pass up this opportunity."
"And plus, the other non-competitors either refused or were turned down," Damien added.
“They especially turned me down,” Topher grumbled. “I would've made a great host.”
"That's pretty understandable," Eva said. "I sure as heck don't want to run my mouth longer than I need to."
"Yeah, hosting a show is something I won't be able to perform well in," Geoff added.
"Moving on," Damien said, "how does it feel being the first two voted off the show?"
"Honestly, I gotta say it was kinda like a punch to the gut," Eva admitted. "I know I'm strong, but I didn't think the contestants would team up to vote us out in just the first episodes."
"I didn't mind as much," Geoff interjected. "I mean, I did want to win the million dollars, but given how we competed in every episode of the first season, it seems fair for us to go home early this time around and give the others a shot. And besides, money isn't everything."
"Thanks for your inputs," Priya said as the camera cut over to her and Damien, "I think it's time for a game called 'Truth or Hammer'!" The crowd started to go wild.
A grand tune played as a shot of a golden statue of Lady Justice was shown. The camera slowly pulled back from it, and as the music ended a large wooden mallet swung down from the left and smashed it to pieces.
Damien stood up as the scene cut back to the hosts and guests. "Here's how this works: we ask you a question, and if you give the wrong answer, a huge hammer will swing down on you."
"Uh, what?" Geoff said as he and Eva looked at each other nervously.
"Eva, Geoff, move out of the way as we do a test run!" Priya announced, and a giant wooden hammer immediately swung down at Eva and Geoff, the two barely avoiding the hit.
"Looks like the hammer is working well. How about we get to the questions?" Damien turned his head to the reality TV fan.
"Absolutely," Priya agreed. "So Eva, after winning last season, why do you think things didn't go well for you this time?"
"Like we both said, we were big time threats. If we didn't get voted off in the second episode, one of us likely would've been in the final two again," Eva answered and looked above her, the hammer still remaining in its position.
"I'm a strategic player, and if I wasn't the first season's winner, I obviously would've voted out the strongest player just so I could get closer to winning," Eva continued.
"Good answer!" Damien said. "So Geoff, are you even remotely mad at not winning the first season and getting kicked off in the second?"
Geoff looked up. "I'm not going to lie at all, especially when there's a hammer that can crush me," the party guy said. "I'm kind of upset."
Everyone was silent for a moment before it became clear the hammer wasn't going to swing down. "I mean... it's like you got dreams for this money and to see them flushed down the drain is disappointing," Geoff explained. "But it is what it is. I had a good time competing, and I got news from one of my brothers that my golden tooth can be sold for money, so at least I got some compensation."
"I'd suggest cleaning the tooth before you sell it," Damien advised before looking at the camera and smiling. "So how about we hear from one of the viewers!"
"Let's see," Priya said, looking down at the computer display on the table in front of her. "CunningLinguist316 asks: Who are you rooting for now that you've been eliminated?"
"Well, I'm rooting for Sky," Eva answered. "I can see some parts of myself in her, and she's one of the more worthy players in the game."
"I'm hoping my man Chase wins," Geoff answered. "He's super athletic and fast, and we're sorta like each other in many ways."
"Good to hear your thoughts," Damien told them.
"Exactly!" Priya added. "But I think it's time we bring out our next guest."
The camera panned up to the wide-screen television as footage of the wild child began to play. "Izzy's time on Total Drama Action may have been short," Damien said over a clip of Izzy pushing Ripper out of the way and getting captured by the animatronic monster.
"But it was a thrill ride," Priya added.
“Seriously, Izzy can make a bowl of paste tasty by adding herself to it,” Damien quipped over Izzy getting dropped into the bouncy castle.
"Later on, she suffered a serious blow at the hands of Chef," Priya added over the footage of Izzy falling onto the ground after getting shot in the chest with a paintball and Chef looking over her in worry.
“Chef thinks he's killed her. Look how scared he is!” Damien chimed in as the recap footage paused on Chef; a red circle was drawn around Chef's face.
“Never thought he'd have a sense of humanity. Check this part out! Super hilarious!” Priya giggled over Izzy standing up and laughing about her fake death. “Unfortunately, it was Justin that ruined Izzy's chances when the two took to the stage.” The clips of Justin performing his role and Izzy grumbling over her loss played.
"Dramatic and devious, Izzy will be back for more," Damien continued as the footage showed Izzy getting up from her seat and blowing kisses as the limousine took her away.
The scene returned to the hosts. "Our first guest has impersonated a grizzly and was caught peeing in a pool. Currently number eight on the RCMP's most wanted... Izzy, A.K.A Kaleidoscope!!"
The crowd went wild as the Aftermath theme played, but it suddenly stopped as the hosts looked up at the television. It was now showing footage of a room backstage where Izzy was currently sitting on a couch and eating crackers. The crazy girl had a snack tray-laden table in front of her, and to the left was a television showing the same feed as the one on-stage.
Izzy took notice of the television set. "I'm on TV!" she exclaimed before accidentally spitting out her chewed-up crackers, making the audience laugh quietly. “Oh, oops. Cracker crumbs, you get back here!” She grabbed the crumbs, along with a few grapes and a cracker sandwich with cheese in the middle, and put them all in her cleavage, prompting more laughter.
Izzy stood up and walked out to the stage, the Aftermath theme playing again as she opened the backstage doors and walked out. The audience cheered, and Damien and Priya, along with Eva and Geoff - who were now on the top row of the couches - waved at her, causing her to return the gesture.
“Hello E-Scope!” Priya eagerly greeted her friend.
"Hi, Priya. Hi, Damien," Izzy greeted back as she sat on the couch. "So glad to be here."
“Awesome to have you, but it must be hard losing out on a million bucks,” Damien talked to her.
“Yeah, well... you would know,” Izzy responded, unamusing Damien and Priya while the audience gasped. “Hi, you guys!” she focused on the Peanut Gallery.”
“Hi, Izzy!” Rodney waved.
“Hi, everyone out there in TV land!” Izzy turned to the camera and noticed someone in the audience. “Graham Cracker! That's my old boyfriend Graham! He got a restraining order against me last year. Remember that, Graham?” The audience started mumbling. “So funny. Okay. We were in the courtroom and the judge was all like, "You cannot come within two hundred meters of the plaintiff or you shall suffer the consequences of this courtroom."
After taking a moment to laugh, Izzy continued her story. “The long distance was hard, but we made it work. By the way, Graham, you should get new blinds for your room. What are they made of, lead? I couldn't see a thing with my binoculars! Miss you, Graham Cracker!” She took a cracker out of her cleavage. “I am totally into crackers right now. They're just so flaky!” She giggled and put the cracker into her mouth.
“Kind of like someone we already know,” Damien muttered quietly.
“So Izzy, how did it feel to be the third one voted off the show?” Priya asked.
“My life is an open book. Well, not yet, but it will be once I write it. And you open the book!” Izzy guffawed.
“What was going through your head after being voted off?” Damien questioned.
The music turned sad. “When you realize you're not getting a Gilded Chris Award, well, I can't lie to you,” Izzy sniffed in a rare moment of sadness.
“Oh, it was that painful?” Priya expressed her sympathy.
“No, I just can't lie to you,” Izzy returned to her normal state. “I was outfitted with a lie deterrent microchip that sends shock waves at the first hint of dishonesty. Those are really nice pants, Damien.”
Izzy then got shocked in her neck, demonstrating the microchip inside the body part, but the wild child laughed it off.
“Carrying on,” Damien said uncomfortably. “So what exactly did losing out on the Gilded Chris mean to you?”
“It means I missed out on that buttery chocolate statuette. Ooh, I once took an art class sculpting chocolate nudes, my instructor said I had a real flair for cocoa,” Izzy brought up and earned another electrocution. “Okay, okay, okay. He said I was totally loco. That's what he's actually said.”
"Let's see if you can be honest while answering our questions,” Priya said sneakily, “and the giant hammer will come down if you don't tell the truth!"
“If my implant doesn't get me, the hammer will!” Izzy said, earning laughs from the audience.
Priya and Damien shared a look of bewilderment before facing the camera happily. “Want to know which questions we'll be asking Izzy?" Priya asked the camera.
"Be sure to stay tuned," Damien said. "Right now, we have to take a quick break! We'll be right back!"
The show's logo was shown again, and the 'D' popped out and transitioned the scene to a close-up of a plate of brown mush sitting on a tan-and-goldenrod striped table. Flies were buzzing around it, and part of a familiar torso could be seen standing behind it.
"This episode of the TDA Aftershow," Chef Hatchet said to a catchy elevator music-like jingle as one of the flies buzzing around died and the camera began to zoom out, "was brought to you by Chef's Roadkill Cafe, where Sundays are Bring Your Own Meat!" The camera stopped moving to show the hulking man in full, standing between the table with the plate of mush and a large stone fireplace in the background. In his left hand he held a skewer of a reddish and steaming hunk of meat resting on a plate-like guard piece. The tail of a skunk extended from the top of the meat hunk.
"You hit it, we spit it," Chef said with a motion to the steaming dish in his hand.
(Commercial Break)

I’m looking for a top from the US. Looking for a masc, muscle, or jock kinda guy. Preferably someone who’s on the bigger side. Open to chat, please just send a message!!!

For those with performance issues… this is the place for you!

Whiskey Doodles #CCPRC8Y0!!

Here's why you should join us: - CWL – We Group Town halls Into Teams – So, everyone joins CWL regardless of Town Hall Lv - Capital Raid Weekends = 1500+ - Pub like atmosphere – where you get a good laugh after work with fellow adults - Games, donations, back rubs and everything everyone has said in their copy pastas and more - We will love you long time - Let’s make it happen!
Reach out and touch me. Let's get these balls swinging nomsayin.

Requirements to join our band of merry men...

You Must…

• TH13+
  
• Be Active – whether it be in wars, clan games, donations or banter, we want people who enjoy playing the game. No Ghosts!
  
• Join our Discord Server - https://discord.gg/dX5UH46xaX
  
• have a sense of humour
  
• don’t be a douchebag
  
• ran naked through a herd of zombie cock-biting midgets
  
• shat your pants on public transport and blamed it on the guy next to you
  
• been so drunk that you lost your car keys up a dog’s ass thinking it was your neighbour’s Lamborghini
  
• Use the password MR PLOW when requesting to join
  

BUT NO RUSHED BASES!
We cannot save the souls of the damned. You fucked it, we aint fixing it!

Clan Family Discord Server – All Members Are Required To Join!

Compulsory to join as we coordinate wars and family events on Discord.
With over 400 members there is plenty of banter and most of the time you can find someone there willing to engage in a conversation with you on a variety of topics.
There are also lots of Resources, Attack Strategies, Base Sharing and General Help available to all members.

So, if your underpants are flaccid, but your muscles bulge – follow the light to Valhalla!!!

(But if that fails, come on over to Whiskey Doodles #CCPRC8Y0)
If this clan sounds good to you, Use The Password = "MR PLOW" and request in game.
As we war back to back and don't let in spies!!!
If you have any questions message me here or contact us on our discord sever https://discord.gg/dX5UH46xaX

Here at Blistering Bandit Doodles we always aim to please between the knees!!

NOTE FROM AUTHOR: Hello Hello! I am a first-time writer embarking on my first dumpster fire; input is most welcome. I'm not the best self-editor, so get your hiking boots on. It's rough out there. Whenever I read it, I find or create more errors (:
OPTIONAL READS: For the Retro Computer or Programming Enthusiast OR if you are open to other formats of story telling. I tried to combine my love for programming as an UNDERSTANDABLE way to tell a story through a Visual Experience in the Command Line Interface;
A Stand-Alone VISUAL ASCII 'Programming Terminal' Story Prologue. Follow through(Screen Shots of my Command Line Interface) the UNE-EYE Observational Satellite Terminal as Kable extracts Classified Data about his Beloved Military Unit, THE HUMMINGBIRDS, a flying exoskeleton unit. This includes the origin story of a Technology Tree in Book 1.

####

INDEX

1. DEADCOAST - THE HUMMINGBIRDS PROLOGUE -> HERE <-
   
2. DEADCOAST - COMPLETE ILLUSTRATED INTRO -> HERE <-
   
3. HEAT & GRIZZLY REDS - CHAPTER 1 ILLUSTRATED -> HERE <-
   

"Deadcoast Book 1: Heat and the Grizzly Reds" transports readers to a 2063 Earth, a world on the brink, where the scarcity of fresh water has led to previously unseen geopolitical tensions. Amidst this backdrop, the nation-backed militant group DAGGR has emerged as a formidable force, leveraging advanced technology to assert control over Canada’s abundant water resources. At the heart of their arsenal is 'slugTech,' a technology pioneered by James Broadshaw, intended for ecological restoration but repurposed for militaristic dominance.
The story unfolds with the chilling invasion of Vancouver, marking a turning point as DAGGR makes its ambitions clear, culminating in the assassination of the Canadian Prime Minister. This act of aggression leaves the country reeling, exposing vulnerabilities and igniting a global reaction.
The UNE-EYE satellite is central to the international response, a significant narrative element representing the world's most advanced orbital tracking system. Once decommissioned in favour of privacy, the Dutch reactivated the satellite as a strategic move to monitor DAGGR's movements and coordinate a unified international effort against the aggressors. This revival of UNE-EYE symbolizes a crucial turning point, highlighting the global stakes and the interconnectedness of nations in the face of a common enemy.
As Canada grapples with its plight, the DAMU (Deserted American Military Units) rise in solidarity, breaching borders to fight alongside their Canadian counterparts. This act of defiance is mirrored by international forces, including the Netherlands and Ukraine, each bringing their unique strengths to the coalition, underscored by the strategic oversight provided by the UNE-EYE satellite.
Amidst the geopolitical chaos, a man who had all but given up, a boxer on the ropes, emerges from Vancouver's Gastown. Known as HEAT, this leader of the Grizzly Reds becomes a symbol of resistance and hope. HEAT's story, and that of the Grizzly Reds, is one of resilience, rallying not only Canadians but also global citizens to stand against DAGGR's tyranny.
" Deadcoast Book 1: Heat and the Grizzly Reds" is a compelling narrative of survival, alliance, and resistance. It deftly weaves together elements of advanced technology, international politics, and the indomitable human spirit. The inclusion of the UNE-EYE satellite serves as a testament to the complexities of modern warfare and the critical role of global surveillance and coordination in maintaining security and freedom. But something else stirs amongst it. The UNE still shrouds its use, albeit assuring it is for record-keeping purposes- there is no way to be sure. Join HEAT and the Grizzly Reds as they navigate the challenges of Time, War, Science and liberating their fellow man in Vancouver. THE GRIZZLIES NEED YOU, in this action-packed, emotional saga, speaks to the resilience and camaraderie inherent in the human condition.
CHAPTER 1 - The Blood Spattered Maples
ILLUSTRATED VERSION -> HERE <-
The early morning sun cast a serene glow over Vancouver, its golden rays gently coaxing the city from its slumber. The harbour lay still, bathed in a tranquil blend of crimson and amber, defiantly calm as if aware of the day's latent potential for tumult. The awakening streets, pulsating with the vibrant beat of daily enterprise, transformed into bustling arteries of life.
Amidst this urban renaissance, Ryan stood by his apartment window, one eye still tinged a fading shade of deep lavender from last night's ordeals. He absorbed the duality of the world outside – a peaceful façade masking an undercurrent of chaos, much like his own existence. The apartment, a silent guardian of his life's chapters, was awash with tangible memories; some stood proudly like trophies, and others lingered like indelible scars.
"Eugh, need to sort out this money mess," Ryan muttered, his voice a gravelly mix of resolve and weariness. He gingerly touched the bruise beneath his eye, a stark reminder of the previous night's fight. He wasn't just a boxer but a living, breathing paradox. His undefeated record of 12-0 was more than a tally of victories; it was a map of a life spent dancing in and out of shadows. At 17, he was a beacon of hope for Canadian Olympic Futures. Now, at 33, he was a spotlight in his subconscious, illuminating the relentless passage of time and a road riddled with 'what ifs.' Eleven of those wins were echoes from a past steeped in the sweat and blood of the ring before life's currents swept him into the city's gritty underbelly. There, he became an enforcer, not out of choice but a necessity, bound by ties, not of blood but of unbreakable bonds forged in adversity. Stepping back into the ring at 33, Ryan wasn't chasing glory; he was hunting redemption, a chance to rewrite a narrative that had veered off course.
Today's boxing was far from what he once knew; it had transformed into a digital spectacle, a charade he refused to partake in. The sport now paraded fighters adorned with loud chains and face tattoos, pretending to live a life of crime they don't. Vile symbols of fame he doesn't wish for. Ryan had always skirted the fringes of the spotlight, respecting the sport but despising what it had become - a glorified masquerade that he believed led the youth astray. He stared out at the awakening city, contemplating his place in this ever-changing world, just as the first notes of a familiar yet unwelcome voice crackled from the vintage radio on his shelf.
"Ah, jimmy2piece," he scoffed, the name leaving a bitter taste. The vintage radio crackled on, announcing the dazzling exploits of the heavyweight boxing champion, an embodiment of everything Ryan detested about the sport's current state. Ryan's hand lingered over the old radio, a relic amidst the bountiful thrift and trinket that abundantly filled his apartment. The announcer's voice, overly flamboyant in its praise of 'jimmy2piece,' clashed with the morning's tranquillity, grating against Ryan's every nerve. With a flick brimming with contempt, he silenced the intrusive chatter. The ensuing silence was a stark reminder of his path's divergence from the once-noble art of boxing to a life mired in moral ambiguity.
"Enough of this nonsense," he muttered, the disdain in his voice mirroring the snarl on his lips as he spun the dial back to silence.
*Click*
Ryan was a man of contemplation; opening his balcony door, he let the morning breeze mingle with the memories that haunted him daily. These reflections were a tormenting ritual, no matter the joys and love surrounding him. His only respite was constant movement – hobbies, work, art – anything to fend off the sharp claws of the past that threatened to shred the remnants of his self-respect. He had lost ten years to choices and actions that replayed in his mind relentlessly every single day.
"This 'jimmy2shoes' or whatever...pal throws pillows, a poser pretending he's about that gang life; I can see it in his eyes, he's not a killer," he grumbled, gazing out at the awakening city. This day promised a respite from his underground fights – at least for a while. His recent backstreet brawls, a far cry from the glory of the boxing ring, were what paid the bills now. "At least I've bought myself three more months..."
Leaning on the railing of his miniature balcony, Ryan cradled a cup of steaming coffee, his gaze drifting over the streets below. At this moment, the chaos of his life seemed distant, replaced by a transient calm. Despite his bruised, rough presentation, a certain peace enveloped him, a rare stillness that belied the storm of his existence. His thoughts meandered through the serene hum of the city and the gentle brush of the ocean breeze. The skyscape, with clouds dancing to the ocean's rhythm, offered a brief escape from his turbulent past.
Memories of Robin, his mentor and friend, floated into his consciousness. Robin's untimely death in Dubai was a wound that never healed. The sacrifices he had made to keep Robin safe, only to be absent on the fateful trip that claimed his friend's life, weighed heavily on him. "Why did it have to be you, Robin?" he whispered to the horizon, the question, a haunting torment upon his daily routines.
Ryan was a thinker; as he slid over his ashtray from the stool, he sparked up A morning 'dart' (cigarette), as he called them. His past began to creep into his head, as it did every morning. With each inhalation of addiction-soothing nicotine, his blazing thoughts followed as his brain began to become fully active from his sleep. It was a raven on his shoulder tormenting him, pecking at him ever haunting his consciousness. No matter the love he may have found or the happiness, friends, or family surrounding him. The time to reflect was always grim and consistently unbearable. If he stood still, the Ravel's claws sunk more profoundly; the only reprieve was constant distractions. It's why he kept so busy, creative, and active. Ryan constantly kept moving with hobbies, work, or art. Pushing off the switchblade thoughts ready to cut into his subconscious and bleed out whatever self-respect he had left that day. He threw away ten years of his life, and he relives them every. Single. Day.
"Damn man, what's the point of it all?" Ryan's voice was barely a whisper, lost in the morning breeze. His gaze lingered on the horizon, eyes clouded with confusion and pain. "Robin's gone, and here I am, a ship adrift; up shits creek without a paddle. What good can I do? What purpose do I serve? My skillset? My knowledge? Ive wasted my life, nothing is applicable." The questions hung in the air, unanswered. Ryan's life had indeed been a storm of violence and turmoil, from the gritty days working alongside Robin, watching his back to his hard-fought victories in the boxing ring. He had dreamt of leaving the world of fights behind, yet fate seemed to have woven a different path for him, one that he couldn't escape...
The distant sound of boat horns broke his train of thought. These weren't the usual rhythmic calls that echoed along Vancouver's shores; they carried a sense of urgency, growing louder and more frantic by the second. Ryan leaned forward, squinting into the morning light. The sight that greeted him was anything but ordinary. Dark, ominous and foreboding shapes were cutting through the waters toward the Seawall – military-grade ships that seemed like phantoms against the sun's bright backdrop.
"What the...?" Ryan murmured, a wry smile touching his lips as he recalled a line from a 1930s radio show. "Ah yes, the 'Anti-Frackers' upping their game, bravo!" He often found solace in humour, a shield against the world's harsh realities. Ryan was an unbreakable anvil to the world, always struck to sharpen others' steel. But what about his iron resolve? He bore the burdens so others didn't have to, a silent guardian shouldering the world's weight in stoic silence. Yet beneath that armour of stoicism beat the heart of a man grappling with his vulnerabilities, a man with a core as soft as it was intense.
Just like that- The world as we knew it, changed forever.
The morning's peace shattered abruptly as sirens wailed into life, slicing through the air with a sense of impending doom. The tranquil dawn was now a backdrop to a nightmare unfolding in real time. Ryan's eyes, mirroring the turbulent hues of a stormy sea, narrowed in primal alertness. These were not friendly vessels coming to grace the city's harbour; they were harbingers of chaos, their arrival a silent scream in the gardens of Vancouver's tranquility. As the city around him carried on, blissfully unaware of the looming threat, Ryan's mind shifted into high gear, honed by years of confrontation, conflict and reading other peoples intentions. He understood the unspoken language of death, the subtle shift in the air that preluded catastrophe. The serene calm that had greeted the day now seemed like the deceptive stillness before a devastating storm.
PFFFFT~~
Ryan's coffee ejected out his mouth, a clean mist dispersed, dancing in the ocean winds.
His eyes widened in shock. "That... No, that's not right. That honeycomb structure on the bow – that's rumoured military tech, not something you'd find on a civilian vessel. That's definitely not one of our decommissioned ships; Canada has always had a modest military budget- It's not the U.S. either; they've moved on to those massive city carriers," he muttered, recalling the recent unveiling of the U.S.'s latest naval behemoth designed to be a self-sustaining war ecosystem.
"These are destroyers...carriers...and what in the world are those landing crafts?" His voice trailed off as a wave of realization washed over him. A heavy breath escaped his lips, his heartbeat thundering in unison with a growing sense of dread. This kind of military might, sleek and menacing, was straight out of the pages of a dystopian novel. Ryan's pulse quickened, adrenaline coursing through his veins, mingling with an unsettling fear. Vancouver, with its serene beauty and peaceful reputation, was the last place one would expect a military invasion. Yet, as he stood there, the city around him persevered in blissful ignorance. Laughter and the sounds of daily life echoed up to his balcony, starkly juxtaposed against the darkening horizon of his thoughts.
Something sinister was unfolding, and he felt an urgent need to act. "Ah, damn it!" he exclaimed, frustration boiling over as he hurled his mug to the ground, where it shattered into razer sharp ceramic shards—a glimpse of futures past.
The walls of Ryan's apartment, once a gallery of memories from a life half-lived, now felt like they were closing in on him. The space that had been his refuge, adorned with mementos of a tumultuous past, suddenly felt like a prison. He felt trapped, not by physical barriers, but by the weight of the unfolding crisis. Who could he call? Who would believe him about an impending military assault? Was there even time?
Each option seemed as hopeless as the next, leaving him feeling powerless. His fists, which had once brought him victory in the ring, now seemed futile in the face of this immense and unknown threat.
BOOM
A thunderous crash tore through the city's fabric, piercing the veil of laughter and routine. Giggles changed to Shrieks, the buzzing of cars in the city turned screeching of panicked tires. It was a boom resonating with such force that it seemed to shake the very resolve of the most robust steel, a sound that demands attention and captivates a person, a sound of death; it rattles you to the bone. This explosion marked a pivotal moment that would forever alter the course of Vancouver's history and, indeed, the world's.
The resounding echo of the first explosion heralded a declaration of war on all that was ordinary. In Ryan, the shockwave ignited a transformation. Despair morphed into an unyielding determination, a fire kindled deep within. His skin prickled, each hair standing on end as if his nerves were braille, spelling out the moment's urgency.
"Are they firing at us?" Ryan's voice was a mix of disbelief and rising panic. The thought seemed almost too surreal to entertain. He hesitated momentarily, grappling with the reality of the situation. The explosion's roar, so fierce it shook the foundations of his apartment, jolted him back to the present. Racing back to his balcony, what he saw confirmed his darkest fears.
The ships in the harbour were no longer silent, ominous spectators; they had unleashed their fury, sending plumes of smoke and debris skyward. Vancouver's skyline, once a proud testament to peace and progress, now served as a harrowing backdrop to an unfolding apocalypse. Below, the streets descended into chaos. People scattered in a frantic attempt to escape, their screams piercing the air, a chorus of dawning terror.
Ryan's heart pounded against his chest, each beat a call to action. He was no hero, never the 'good guy' in his story, but he did value life above all. Standing there, witnessing his city being torn apart, he knew he couldn't remain a passive observer. Indecision and shock gave way to resolve.
"MOTHA FU-" he cursed, his words lost in the burst of an explosion, spotted at the last second.
The world around him had erupted into a maelstrom of fire and fury.
An air burst shell detonated with ferocious intensity a mere 50 meters from Ryan's sanctuary. The explosion ripped through the building, an unforgiving hatred that jolted reality itself. The blast wave, a monstrous force of destruction, assaulted his apartment, shattering the windows with an ease that mocked Vancouver's fragility. Glass shards, transformed into lethal projectiles, hurtled through the air with a hunter's precision, each piece seeking its target. Instinctively, Ryan lunged for cover, his only protection a vintage oak promotional board, a relic of a bygone era. This wooden guardian, decorated with the iconic image of Stan Lee, stood as a stoic defender, a symbol of comic heroism now repurposed to shield flesh and blood from the brutal onslaught.
A low hum erupts from the depths of his being as the fireball swirled around him. "Breathe... I can't... don't fall asleep... don't...sleep..." he whispered, fighting the encroaching darkness. His cobalt eyes, glazing over open, fighting to the last light, flickered between consciousness and oblivion. The distant, muffled voices of mentors past echoed in his mind, a fading chorus in the theatre of his memories. Ryan looked to his left, cast one last lingering look at the Vancouver sky, a canvas of blue that seemed so distant now. As his vision began to narrow, a tunnel drawing him away from the light, Ryan felt the grip of darkness pulling him under heavy, yet weightless. Once so vivid and alive, the world around him was fading into shadows.
Amid shrapnel-induced unconsciousness, Ryan's mind catapulted him back to a pivotal moment from his youth – the Ontario Canadian Olympic Trials.
The stadium's noise swirled around him, but it was an entirely different world within the ring. There, it was just Ryan and his opponent, every move a testament to the sacrifices he and Robin(Ryan's longtime mentor both inside, and outside the ring) had made together.
Ryan's style in the ring was unique, a blend of calculated ferocity in speed and agility. He adopted the elusive, angular movements that Robin had honed while serving alongside the hardened Ukrainians on the frontlines of Kyiv. This style was compelling and unpredictable, frustrating his opponents with swift and efficient strikes. Ryan's ability to slip away from counters, almost serpentine in its execution, left them grasping at straws.
Point fighting for the Olympics was a system that worked well with Ryan's style but not necessarily with his mindset. Ryan was a fighter at heart, and sometimes, when pushed, the disciplined techniques would give way to a rawer form of combat. Robin, who always believed in Ryan's potential, saw this as his greatest fault and biggest asset to "push past." In his gruff but encouraging voice, Robin would often spew "The stink in that mind, You've got a head on you that'd make an onion cry," highlighting Ryan's occasionally impulsive nature, and inability to control his emotions when it mattered. This characteristic made Ryan fearless in the ring but also sloppy, open, and vulnerable. It often led him into trouble outside of the solace in prizefighting.
In these trials, Ryan's physical attributes – his slender frame, broad shoulders, wide back and a peculiarly long wingspan that gave him an imposing presence in his weight class – it made him stand out. His frame synchronized with his style, creating a truly unique spectacle of genetic gifts, hard work, and skill.
These memories blended nostalgia and pain as they flickered through Ryan's mind. They were reminders of a path once trodden, a journey shaped by the influence of a mentor and the determination of a fighter's spirit.
As the Olympic Trials set to begin, Robin looked to Ryan to instill confidence for his upcoming bouts, but Ryan was in his element. It was fight day, the fun day, the day to show off all of the hard work. Ryan had confidence, and his style in the ring displayed it in full. He moved with an angular rhythm that was both art and battle – slipping, landing a quick stiff counter cross, then gracefully stepping out of reach inches from returning fire. He made it look fun and easy, as if playing with his prey before fangs clench throat, delivering the killing bite. Looking closer, you can only see fire and determination in his bright eyes. He found purpose in the beautiful science of boxing. His strategy was that of a technical boxer, The Counterpuncher; 1. To bait his opponent into committing, then counter, fight long, fight smart. 2. Beat em' up, Frustrate em', then start slinging the heat in the uppercuts and lead hooks.
The bell rang and the fight was officially underway. Ryan controlled the ring with his long frame. Each exchange was rapid yet controlled, a dance of precise strikes and evasive maneuvers. The world's complexities faded in these moments, leaving only Ryan and the pure essence of the sport he loved. He felt invincible, a force of nature within the confines of the ring. To Ryan, the fight was more than a competition; it was a performance, an exhilarating escape from the mundane. It was true Purpose.
The intensity of the round reached a frustrating outburst by his opponent, who grabbed Ryan by the back of his head– 'SPLIT' called by the referee, his hand placed between them. A judge calls for a correction, catching the referee's attention only for a split second. In this second, Ryan's Opponent saw an opportunity. Lifting his head to move away, Ryan locks eyes with his Opponent, sporting a grin and delivering a sly headbutt as a parting gift. It's against the rules, but part of the game's harsh reality if gone unnoticed. Expelling energy and detesting it was a waste of fuel. It was a jolting reminder of "at all times"(protect yourself), a stark contrast to the discipline and respect Ryan upheld, starting his boxing journey in Thailand under "Muay Thai" rules, ideology of the worrior spirit and discipline. There was a sense of Honor in Lumpinee Stadium.
The outcome of these unsavoury tactics here is an advantage for the opponent. Ryan's inner pools erupt, his mind swirled with raging white waters, crashing and colliding against each other, two oceans with opposite currents meeting in his consciousness. His once technical thoughts, muscle memory mixed with fight iq burst with flames, erupting and incinerating all strategy in his path. His eyes widened, open like he'd found his primal genetic ancestry hidden deep within. The slaughter and the war of history. The bloodshed of 1000 lifetimes. He felt it all. Manic in thought. Ryan wanted to take his glove off and rip his cheeks open from the inside out--
BREAK - Ryan snaps back into it, erupting in stoic, silent, primal rage.

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The fight escalated, Ryan's disciplined technique unravelled under the seething tide of his rage. The finesse and agility that once defined his footwork gave way to a heavier, more aggressive stance. His feet, usually light and swift under his commanding frame, now felt anchored to the floor, each step driven more by fury than finesse. This transformation in style played perilously into his opponent's advantage. Ryan, usually a master of stick-and-move tactics, found himself engaging in close-quarter brawls, trading his advantage for a risky gamble. His in-and-out maneuvers, once a blur of grace, turned into brutish, in-the-pocket exchanges. This was a terrain where his more muscular and compact opponent had the upper hand. A raw, primal contest of power replaced the tactical dance that Ryan excelled at. Ryan's precise strikes became wild swings, his movements predictable to his seasoned adversary. Seizing the moment, the opponent unleashed a devastating barrage of inside hooks with their compact frame. A vicious right hook, lands clean in the exchange, thrown with the grace of a milkbag, the power hooks brute force, cut through Ryan's defences. The blow landed with a bone-jarring impact, sending a shockwave through Ryan's frame. His world spun as he stumbled, his once dominant presence in the ring now faltering under the weight of his unchecked emotions.
The ground rushed up to meet him as he crashed onto the canvas, the taste of iron and the sting of defeat mingling in his mouth. The crowd's roar faded into a distant echo, a stark reminder of how quickly the tides of battle could turn. Robin's voice sliced through the ringing from the corner, resonating with a force that commanded attention.
"Get your shit together, JUMPIN JESUS RYAN! HEART OF GOLD AND HEAD OF STONE – GET UP, YOU LITTLE COWARD! YOU'RE LETTING IT WIN, AGAIN! STOP THIS ONION HEAD NONSENSE AND DANCE, BOX THIS FELLA – YOU'RE BETTER THAN THIS, ACT LIKE IT, BELIEVE IN IT!"
His words were more than just a call to action; they were a lifeline thrown into the stormy seas of Ryan's mind. Each syllable was drenched in the raw, unfiltered wisdom that only a life spent in the cauldron of combat could forge. Robin's tone was a volatile cocktail of fury and concern, the urgency palpable in his voice. His palms crashed against the ring mat; each hit thunderous punctuation to his fiery sermon.
"You've got the talent, kid, but it's as good as ash if you keep burning it to the ground. I'M HERE FOR YOU, IM RIGHT HERE. SNAP OUT OF IT AND BOX THIS PLASTIC PATTY! MOVE GOD DAMNIT, GET UP!"
On the canvas, Ryan lay dazed, the echo of Robin's voice ringing in his ears. It was more than a mere pep talk; it was a wake-up call that struck a chord deep within him. Amidst the haze of the crowd murmurs and the pulsating pain that coursed through his body, clarity began to emerge. Lying there, Ryan grasped the essence of Robin's message –
"coward? letting it win? Playing my ego are ya Robin...hes right though. Im throwing this shit away."
This moment, sprawled on the canvas under the glaring lights and the crowd's gaze, became a crucible of transformation. The raw emotion and the hard-hitting truth in Robin's words ignited a spark in Ryan. It was time to rise, shake off the shadows of rage, and embrace a fighter's true spirit like he had learned in Thailand – not just with fists but with heart and mind in unison.
Staggered yet stirred by the dual impact of the physical hit and Robin's piercing words, A padded fist crushed into the rings canvas, followed by a kneee and the eruption of the crowd. Ryan was back, and he began to pull himself up from the canvas. His resolve, momentarily dimmed, now reignited with a fierce, clear, calculated intensity. Memories of the gruelling hours spent in the gym flooded back to him – the relentless sparring sessions, the time spent in Thailand, the sweat and toil, and the invaluable lessons etched into his being under Robin's stern tutelage.
With a renewed spirit, Ryan stepped back into the battle, his movements now embodying controlled power and a fluidity to his step. He recalled his time fighting beside the backdrop of the "Sarama" a traditional Thai music played when in combat. The times of learning to move, fight with the music, to flow, to be fluid, to be concise. Ryan finally put it all together in the heat of battle. He had merged his inherent ferocity with the disciplined technique that Robin relentlessly drilled into him, and the mindfull practises of the years he spent under Burklerk Pinsinchai in the jungles of Chiang Mai. His style was now fully displayed, raw and visceral yet refined by countless hours of practice in mind, body and spirit.
The final rounds bell clang to a start in a clinic of skill and sheer willpower. Ryan, driven by a blend of desperation and unwavering determination, unleashed a barrage of calculated and explosive strikes. Each punch and maneuver was a nod to the efficient, no-nonsense Ukrainian style that Robin had imparted to him. Ryan moved rhythmically across the mat, steps measured and precise, executing short, angular movements and deft outside counterpunches. He had returned to his element – the dance of combat, where he felt most alive, a symphony of movement where every step and punch was a testament to his life's journey and experiences as a human being first, and as a fighter second.
In this wake-up call, Ryan reinvigorated and reminded himself of his love for the sport, the exhilarating blend of art and athleticism. He was not just fighting to win; he was celebrating boxing, combat, honouring the path he had walked with Robin, and reclaiming what it meant to be a true fighter through Burklurk Pinsinchai's Teachings.
The round pressed on, and Ryan executed his maneuvers with a surgeon's precision. First;
-- The counterpuncher; a display in timing and accuracy, delivered with the full force of training and innate skill. --

1. He deftly slipped his opponent's cross, a move as fluid as it was swift.
   
2. He angled off, creating a space wide enough for his next move.
   
3. With an almost predatory precision, Ryan unleashed a powerful right cross, targeting his opponent's cheek from the angle he had just created. But Ryan wasn't done yet.
   
4. He slipped out again, evading any potential counter from his disoriented opponent. The rhythm, he danced in and out with his precise timing, perfected down to inches and angles.
   
5. In a final, decisive movement of the exchange, Ryan slipped in. He timed his step with a long cross that came off-beat, catching his opponent utterly off-guard. The punch landed with a satisfying impact, culminating in a perfectly executed combination. As he watched his opponent stagger, Ryan couldn't help but think, 'cya sleepy boi,' a silent acknowledgment of his dominance in this singular exchange.
   

This sequence was a statement. Ryan was not only back in the fight but also commanding it.
ONE!…TWO!…THREE!…FOUR!…FIVE!…SIX!...SEVEN!..EIGHT!
Ryan's opponent stands, admirable, but futile, driven by sheer will but hampered by sluggish movements, the man rose to his feet, it was clear the fight was reaching its zenith.
The opponent, gathering his remaining strength for a final stand, launched a jab, a last-ditch effort relying more on brute force than finesse. But this was a fatal mistake in Ryan's world – playing right into what Ryan was best at. Counters.
Ryan read the move with the clarity of a seasoned fighter. As the jab came, he effortlessly slipped to the right, evading the punch with a short angular step that spoke of his ring intelligence. Instantly, he countered with the same sharp cross from his right hand, followed by a devastating hook that cut through the air with lethal intent in his left. Grasping at straws, reeling from the counter, Ryans opponent threw a desperate, looping last stand punch, Ryan dipped down and left, rolling the punch with an elegance that made it seem almost effortless. He was Hunting for the Kill Shot. Seizing the moment, Ryan unleashed a ferocious left uppercut, the force of the blow lifting his opponent's chin skyward. He followed up with a right overhand, but just before impact, he halted the punch. There was no need for it; his opponent was already collapsing, the "Lights were on, but no one was Home". The fight was effectively over, Ryan's last combination is the final note, a crescendo that echoed through the ring.
As his opponent hit the canvas, the crowd erupted. Ryan stood in the center of the ring, his chest heaving, every fibre of his being alight with the thrill of victory. This wasn't just a win; it was a performance, a display of skill, heart, and the indomitable spirit of a fighter who had walked through fire and flames to the otherside and emerge victorious.
The final bell Rings with not a single chair in the arena warm; a thunderous clap erupts from the crowd. It was more than just applause; it was an acknowledgment of a battle fiercely fought by both men. In that moment ringside, in a triumphant victory, Ryan and Robin shared a look that spoke volumes, a connection far beyond the usual bounds of mentor and protégé. Their bond, tempered in the crucible of hardship and struggle, was now sealed in the glory of this defining triumph.
Standing amidst the cheers and the adrenaline-fueled euphoria, Ryan found himself momentarily lost in the tide of memories. It was a poignant reminder of the journey that had brought him here, a path marked by triumphs and losses. Robin's teachings transcended the confines of boxing; they were life lessons imprinted deep onto him. Ryan began to slowly step out of the ring; the weight of these reflections settled upon him. The victory was sweet, but it carried the weight of all sacrificed to achieve it. Robin's presence was felt strongly, a guiding force that continued to shape his path, illuminating the way forward even in the most challenging times.

DISCLAIMER: Don't take this too seriously, it's meant to be more of a joke and exaggeration, started almost entirely by the mental image of three hardened criminals sitting in a bar, pondering that they still absolutely need to recruit a Catholic priest and some band guy or their next bank robbery just won't work. No offense intended towards any actual groups, nor to make light of any social issues. Also, I'm aware there's games with actual modernity-appropriate classes, but the absurdity of a nearly 1:1 port is exactly the point here. Finally, note that I play both D&D (various editions) and PF 1E and 2E, so expect a mixture of classes from either and some cherrypicking of interpretations.
FOREWORD: Style of play I'm imagining similar to Shadowrun or Cyberpunk, with a focus on the underworld, teams of specialists hired by fixers for various jobs of dubious legality, or vigilantism or hustling maybe. If one wanted to be extra absurd, it could also involve travelling the world in a camper van and taking on quests, or getting tasked with an important mission by a head of state (this may work better in a fictional modern-day setting instead of our own world). Class names are meant to be professional slang you'd see in that kind of environment, like Shadowrun's Street Samurai for example, thus justifying the existence of the classes themselves. But since it's supposed to be not cyberpunk, but the present, I deliberately tried to pick names that sound like they could be part of normal conversation too.
Magicless doesn't mean classes don't still have their powers and spells, just that they're explained differently, like by drugs or applied psychology or the like. Think a "wizard" (Pundit) casting a "fireball" by mentally calculating the exact angle they need to shoot a gas pipe to cause an explosion.
Without further ado, the...

CLASSES
Militant (Fighter): Skillful weapons specialists and fighting experts who can handle any threat and stare down the barrel of a gun without flinching. Many are (former) soldiers, mercenaries, or private security, less commonly also from a background in law enforcement or violent crime, but anyone with the right abilities can be a Militant.
Thrasher (Barbarian): Tough guys, muscleheads, and sometimes also bullies, who get what they want by utilizing brutality, fear, and a vicious temper. Thrashers are often gang members and thugs, bikers, delinquents, jocks, pro wrestlers, or particularly dedicated powerlifters. Frequently appearing as a part of highly insular social cliques, they are prone to adopting neotribal mindsets, symbols, and practices.
Blackbelt (Monk): Martial arts and/or ascetic masters (not just disciples or regular practitioners) with almost superhuman control over their own body. Despite the name, these adepts of the physical can pursue any martial arts tradition, as well as freestyle street fighting, pro wrestling, self defense courses, special forces training, parcours, extreme sports, and of course practices such as yoga. While some seek enlightenment or health benefits, others hunger to put their skills to the test in a manner only real combat can provide.
Outlander (Ranger): Armed and dangerous people who thrive in the wilderness. Survivalists, hunters, drifters, particularly experienced outdoorsmen, forest rangers, animal trainers, and sometimes preppers or guerillas are all common candidates. Many Outlanders hold strong convictions, in a cowboyish sort of way, and so they are also found among military special forces or police departments, particularly as handlers to service animals.
Jailbird (Rogue): Multi-talented if often dubious individuals, prized especially as infiltration and security specialists. While they needn't be actual criminals, just in possession of the right talents, many still are of a less than legal disposition, and a brief stint in prison can certainly lead to picking up useful new tricks. Common sub-groups include murderers and serial killers, cat burglars and pickpockets, home invaders, carjackers, hackers, scammers and con artists, smugglers of arms/drugs/etc., as well as urban partisans.
Ideological Crusader (Paladin/Antipaladin): Stalwart defenders and enforcers of a given idea of justice, a social code, or an organization, capable of backing their demands with violence if necessary. They are natural authority figures with an extra edge in doggedness stemming from their strong beliefs. The vast majority of Ideological Crusaders originate in law enforcement (particularly riot cops) or sometimes the fire department or military special forces, but some are revolutionaries, armed activists, or members of neighborhood watches or citizen militias. Should they go rogue and their beliefs end up becoming toxic, however, Ideological Crusaders tend to turn into dreaded hatemongers or terrorists.
Special Operative (Inquisitor): The quintessential experts in making problems disappear, Special Operatives achieve (preferably) noble goals using subtle, unorthodox and sometimes questionable means, resolving delicate matters with cunning rather than the Ideological Crusader's brute force. Usually belonging to and trained in special tactics by some kind of organization, most serve(d) in intelligence agencies or commando units, but they may also be detectives in the police department, professional hitmen, or hacktivists and leakers and the like.
Humanitarian (Cleric): Devoted souls who follow a philosophy or faith they believe will help humanity, often trained in a variety of useful medical and mental techniques. Their skills may vary depending on the content of their particular belief system, with some potentially being quite sinister, but overall, Humanitarians are still primarily experts at keeping their team alive with first aid and supporting them in whichever way is necessary. Most have a background as healthcare personell such as doctors, surgeons, and nurses, but there's also plenty of social and charity workers and sometimes therapists to be found.
Additionally, a strong link exists between Humanitarians and religion. While ordinary ministers will rarely just go out to take on legally questionable jobs or vigilante work, some do protect their flock that way, and more still may be trying to save the souls of the underworld's denizens or view themselves as exorcists battling demonic forces. This goes twice so for the recruiters, envoys and missionaries of cults, of which there is an abundance in the underworld.
New Ager (Druid): Masters of the natural world. Using herbs and drugs, New Agers achieve a number of altered states of consciousness, enabling them to excel at various tasks with ease almost as if they could wholly transform themselves. When not doing this, they support their allies with wilderness knowledge, patch them up with "alternative" medicine, or command and train animals. Besides actual New Agers (who can come from any background), the class also frequently attracts environmentalists, naturalists, animal breeders, and natural scientists.
Influencer (Bard): Often glamorous individuals for whom doors swing wide open and ears perk up. Influencers are communications specialists, charmers, and frequently powerful orators and motivational speakers, who also know and dabble in a little bit of everything as a result of their colorful lives. In spite of the name, most members of this class are not youtubers, but rather celebrities of every kind, starlets and media personalities, entertainers and performers, life coaches, as well as journalists and reporters. While the class also contains plenty of artists (not just of the performing but also of the creative arts), their profession alone does not make them members, rather the ability to influence and powerfully motivate others is what counts (and a heaping of fame certainly doesn't hurt either!).
Middleman (Warlock/Witch): Middlemen are, for good and for ill, deeply connected and indebted to a powerful organization or individual, usually in an extremely unequal manner. This so-called sponsor they can call on for favors. Some examples of sponsors include organized crime, cults, megacorporations, or shady political lobbies. What the Middleman may achieve depends on the sponsor in question, but the support is always highly useful, from receiving access to exclusive venues to getting to borrow bleeding edge technology. In turn, however, the sponsor has their own expectations and demands and will sometimes come to collect their due. If the expectations are not fulfilled, support will be cut off, if not far worse.
Besides their main sponsor, Middlemen also collect lesser contacts and knowledge on how to play social institutions and conventions to their advantage. This, for instance, enables them to shield their allies from the law. They make excellent fixers for similar reasons. Anyone who enters a Faustian bargain may become a Middleman, but it is particularly common among entrepreneurs, lawyers, politicians, and similar power players. Membership in the sponsoring organization is not required, but still fairly common, especially as a delegate or representative of sorts.
Pundit (Wizard): Providers of expert knowledge. Ensure their allies always have all necessary information about their surroundings and can devise uniquely ingenious ad-hoc solutions to problems based on their chosen field of study, known theorems, and subjects they have recently looked into. Usually academics and other well-educated types, often with an actual university degree or even a professorship, but some private scholars or hyper-dedicated hobby nerds, too. Many are programmers or scientists (frequently pursuing one of the "big three" fields: biology, chemistry, or physics), researching, inventing, and using technology and other fruits of scientific labor, sometimes even creating things themselves when mechanical skill is not central (i.e. mixing chemicals). However, every field has its ways of dealing with problems, from highly communicative media studies to wealth-multiplying economics, and while scientists are often associated with gadgets, what a Pundit's ad-hoc solution looks like can really vary wildly.
Many interdisciplinary Pundits also exist, but in the first place, all Pundits have mastered research. Therefore, fields of study are more about with what approach and level of difficulty a goal can be accomplished, rather than what the Pundit can or can't do at all (unless it's of an "opposed" field, i.e. a field that fills with the Pundit with dread and horrid memories of their school days).
(NOTE: I've considered a pure Scientist class, but I liked the idea of university humanities professors regularly getting into shootouts too much.)
Technician (ArtificeAlchemist/Inventor): Technology specialists who excel at the hands-on operation, modification, and construction of various types of hardware, in contrast to the more theory-focused and software-based leanings of other classes like the Pundit or Savant (though a Technician can still absolutely learn how to program and hack). Technicians may come from the ranks of engineers graduated from their university with highest honors just as much as humble car mechanics, passionate amateur craftsmen, or even certain construction workers. Besides these, other popular specializations include electricians, driving fanatics, fighter or drone pilots, gunsmiths, saboteurs, and demolitions specialists.
(NOTE: This is essentially a fusion between craftsmen and pilots/drivers. Doesn't necessarily make that much sense to lump them together, but it's really hard to find a role other than dedicated getaway driver to play for a standalone driver class and Shadowrun's Rigger archetype provided some inspiration and a connection point.)
Savant (Sorcerer): Counterparts to the Pundit with similar abilities. Savants appear to possess a natural affinity and passion for the things that fascinate them strong enough to put them on equal footing with academics who gained their skills by more traditional means.
(NOTE: The Savant stereotype doesn't align so well with Sorcerers making for good socialmancers, so maybe these should be INT instead of CHA casters?)
Miracle Worker (Favored Soul/Oracle): Counterparts to the Humanitarian with similar abilities. Zealots, self-proclaimed prophets, and sometimes cult leaders hoping to impress future followers, Miracle Workers make up for the Humanitarian's specialist training with sheer confidence in their own abilities, mystifying language, and oftentimes more than a little bit of madness.
Medicine Man (Spirit Shaman): Counterparts to the New Ager with similar abilities. Achieve their skills less through drugs and herbs and more by "letting the spirits guide them", which is to say, through a combination of religious practices, empathic emotional connections with their environment and unconscious imitation of others, as well as sometimes through culturally inherited or acquired knowledge. May actually have an indigeneous background, or just wish they did.
Adventurer (Swashbuckler): Even in this day and age, there are occasionally people whose life story reads like something straight out of a movie script. Skillful generalists with a lot of panache. For some reason, this class tends to attract archaeologists the most.
Investigator (Investigator): Whether as private eyes, police detectives, or sometimes scientific researchers, investigators do exactly what their name says, getting results with their ability to draw the right conclusions and pursue leads.

TEAM ROLES
A well-balanced team archetypically consists of at least one Muscle, Breacher, Medic, and Egghead.
Muscle / Combat Specialist: Keeps the team safe from danger and if necessary draws it towards themselves. Suitable for: Militants, Thrashers, Blackbelts, Ideological Crusaders, Outlanders, sometimes Technicians or Adventurers.
Breacher / Security Specialist: Bypasses security and gets the team in and out where they're not supposed to be, whether by social infiltration or an old-fashioned break-in. Suitable for: Jailbirds, Special Operatives, Influencers, sometimes Blackbelts, Outlanders, Investigators, or Adventurers.
Medic / Support Specialist: Helps everyone stay alive and keeps them at their best. Suitable for: Humanitarians, Miracle Workers, New Agers, Medicine Men, sometimes Outlanders or Ideological Crusaders.
Egghead / Knowledge Specialist: Solves more intellectual challenges and helps out in numerous ways, often roped into tech/science support even if it's not their specialization. Suitable for: Pundits, Savants, Technicians, sometimes Influencers, Middlemen, or Investigators.
Nerd/Hacker / Tech Specialist: Optional, for when not covered by the Breacher and the Egghead is severely allergic to the natural sciences. Deals with tech. Suitable for: Pundits, Savants, Technicians, sometimes Jailbirds or Special Operatives.
Face / Social Specialist: Optional, for when the Breacher isn't a social butterfly. Represents and oftentimes leads the team and does the talking where required. Suitable for: Influencers, Middlemen, Ideological Crusaders, sometimes Adventurers.
Manager (Earner, Mom, Greaser) / Resource & Public Relations Specialist: Optional, depending on overall team composition and Fixer. May also be split into the three separate roles of Earner, Mom, and Greaser. Earner and Mom are two sides of the same coin, the former managing the team's side-hustles and extra sources of income, as well as purchasing equipment, while the latter takes care of supply and gear maintenance and also of all matters related to hideouts and the team's general needs. The Greaser is the team's networking specialist and often also their lawyer, greasing the right palms and ensuring law enforcement and other factions turn a blind eye to the team's activities. Suitable for: Middlemen are practically born for this, but Jailbirds, Influencers, Technicians, Pundits, and Savants also do well at various aspects of the role.
Eyes & Ears / Research Specialist: Optional, for when it's not the Breacher's (or sometimes the Egghead's) thing. The Eyes & Ears continually gathers intel and gossip and keeps the team abreast of recent events, potential dangers, and new opportunities. Suitable for: Investigators, Jailbirds, Special Operatives, Influencers, sometimes Middlemen.
Wheelman / Driving Specialist: Optional, for when nobody else is a particularly good driver. Primarily the designated and getaway driver, may also take care of and perhaps upgrade the team vehicle. Suitable for: Technicians, Jailbirds, Special Operatives, Ideological Crusaders, Adventurers, sometimes Outlanders.
Deadeye / Sniping Specialist: Optional, for when the Muscle is a Blackbelt, Thrasher, or otherwise close-combat preferring fighter. Does ranged combat, that's it. Suitable for: Outlanders, Militants, Jailbirds, Special Operatives, sometimes Technicians.
Treehugger / Wilderness Specialist: Optional, for when the group heads into the great outdoors for a prolonged period of time. Helps them not die there. Suitable for: Outlanders, New Agers, Medicine Men.
Fixer: Provides the team with jobs from interested parties and may also double as the Manager. Could be a designated part of the team or a freelancer. Suitable for: Any class, but Middlemen are the most common.

Where?: Chapin Forest Reservation in Kirtland, OH
When?: May 4-5, 2024
Goal: Uhh…
Stretch Goal: Find anything remotely appetizing.
Strategy: Pray?
This is the game plan at mile 50. 11.5 hours in. Are my seams really starting to split before the actual race begins? My cheer team from the daylight hours has dwindled. Off to their warm, luxurious beds and their warm, luxurious homes. But I’m out here doing exactly what I love to do, paying the price for it, and curious as to what I’ll find in this vast, approaching darkness.
——
This race was my litmus test. I’d done a few self-supported solo 50ks in the past, but I had yet to find my limit. I eagerly scrambled onto Ultrasignup the morning that I saw registration finally opened. Relying on a totally juvenile, unstructured 8-month training block averaging 50-60 mpw, I was ready to fuck around and find out.
Around 5am, my sister (who’d be my long-haul crew) and I arrived at the inky-blue park grounds; the overnighters still slumbering in their unlit camps, a few runners quietly organizing gear in truck beds and backseats as the balmy darkness lifted. We claimed our spot near the final bend of the 1-mile loop and began setting up as the sleepy atmosphere started to stir.
We took a stroll around the loop, admired “the hill” which comprised most, if not all of the 64-ish feet of vertical gain of the lap. All of us would grow a deep, intimate bond with this hill over the next day. Whether we wanted to or not. Because in the end, even more beautifully menacing foes would make themselves known.
It’s truly a wonderful course, however. It felt evenly broken up into distinct sections with their own unique landmarks and quirks: parking lot, trailhead, the “crescent” between two trail crossings, the hill, the bridge, rolling bunny hills before a smooth downhill, a few flat curves before heading down the straightaway along the field, final turn down another small pine-lined straightaway towards the hairpin back to the start. Monotony, to my surprise, would not be an issue.
Time to toe the line for the send-off. Balmy, cool, and overcast— not too shabby. An odd sense of tranquility washed over me in the corral. Maybe it was the peace of finally surrendering to the thing I hadn’t been able to wrap my head around this entire time: 24 hours. It was a huge relief to know that for the next entire day, I wouldn’t have to worry about much else other than finding a way to put one foot in front of the other. Nowhere to be, nowhere to go. And then, away we went.
——
Mile 0-20 [00:00:00-03:48:27]
I probably went out too fast. But damn, most everyone else seemed to, too! Maybe it was our collective exaltation of finally breaking free from our antsy tapers… or maybe it was just me. At any rate, it simply felt beautiful just to be moving.
A handful of miles in, I already got to chatting with a fella, as big as a minute and full of zest & zeal. A nomadic ultra veteran who looked like he’d been out in the scorching sun longer than I’ve been alive. But he ignited my spirits and made a few laps whiz by like nothing. I think he ended up carrying many other runners through more crucial hours. That guy definitely got me into the encouraging spirit of the endurance game, and I found a strong desire to pass that energy along.
Shortly after hour 2, my lady showed up with her sweet little face and bearing bunch of goodies that would prove to be lifesavers later on. I took a short break to tape up some hot spots and re-supply, but otherwise I was getting into the groove. Feeling fine. Surprised (and simultaneously concerned) that I was maintaining a consistent 10-11 minute pace.
Mile 20-40 [03:48:27-08:31:53]
I’d known long before the race that my Plan A had a 100% chance of falling apart. So would Plan B, C, and so forth. Plan A was to take a substantial break around every 2 hours— fully pull-off into camp, reevaluate gear, eat, re-up on food to-go, first-aid, etc.
I’d been dropping off my soft flasks for refills whenever I needed and picking them up on the next lap, but at about 4 hours in, I was getting a little worried. I‘ve been blessed with a pea-sized bladder, so not hitting the little boys room for over about two hours was a bit concerning. I didn’t want to dig the hydration grave this early, so I began diligently pounding water and tailwind like they owe me money, passing off flasks every loop or two.
Approaching mile 30, I ended up hiking the hill alongside a guy who’d been constantly passing me, looking consistently strong and relaxed. We both commiserated on starting to feel the burn. “I think I’m gonna stop at 50k”, he said. “Nonsense!” I blurted, “there’s a whole lot of race left, man!” I mean, the dude looked like he was fresh off the starting line, and I told him that. Plus he was only a few miles away from his goal. I caught him a little later on his victory lap. Had to give him props for the extra loop. I hope he got a few more in after that.
Midway through hour 6, more friendly faces of family and loved ones showed up to witness the absurdity. I’d just passed mile 33, and while my pace began to dwindle and dip into 12:00 and 13:00, I was still trucking and my soul still relatively intact. Relatively.
Alas, wrapping up mile 35, my cheer team was as numerous and jubilant as ever, and the sobering truth hit me across the head like a sock full of quarters: I’m only a fraction of the way through this thing. I wearily gazed in bags and rifled through coolers for fuel… and absolutely nothing sounded appetizing. I did not want to eat. I understood I had to, but I couldn’t decide on something to shove down that didn’t look utterly repulsive.
I’m pretty sure at one point I just thought aloud to everyone, “I’m really sad right now…” I’m not even sure if I really meant it. In fact, I’m not even sure what I meant to say, or even sure of what I was feeling. And that’s when I spotted the container of watermelon. God bless my sweet lady. She saved my sorry boo-hoo ass with those watermelon chunks. It was nectar. Pure. Lifebreathing. A borderline religious experience.
My sister geared up to keep me company for a few loops. I changed socks and switched to a fresh pair of shoes. So, with a newfound hope just dim enough to shine, I threw some boiled peewee potatoes into my vest and ventured on.
Mile 40-50 [08:31:53-11:22:10]
Among my bubbly cheer team was my lady’s father, a guy who’s been doing ultras long before I was even a thought. He wanted to get a few loops in with me, and I secretly hoped he would drop some life-altering ultra wisdom on me that would somehow alleviate all the bodily bullshit that was just starting to surface after the 40 mile mark.
We went easy, and I needed it. His pace was comfortable and sustainable, but the pounding was continuing to take its toll. The outer ligament behind my right knee began to smart with each step, and the top of my right foot was getting more tender as we went on. None of it was getting less painful. Instead of some earth-shattering, all-curing wisdom, he gave me something actually valuable: the truth. “I think you’re gonna be forced to walk pretty soon.”
Damn straight. In hindsight, what the fuck else did I expect to happen? I barely allowed myself any significant stretches of walking in the entire race up until this point. I surely wasn’t expecting to keep running the way I was in the first 20-30 miles— but whatever sleeper-cell of hubris that arose within me today was likely going to be served a fat slice of humble pie.
Truthfully, I just wanted nothing more than to give this thing my all. 24 hours was still too unwieldy to fit in my mind. So was 12 hours. So was the next hour. I was approaching the event horizon of the almighty present moment. Plans, expectations, goals… all began to dissolve under any amount of scrutiny. Because those things were becoming so besides the point. Something much greater and truer was revealing itself. A sense of appreciation grew that had little to do with running or suffering. There was so much race left, and even in my shitty state, I felt a great relief.
As I wrapped up mile 50, my cheer team fizzled out along with the light of day, and shit was finally getting real. His prediction was absolutely correct. The time was nigh that I would no longer be able to run with the pain. But I sure as hell could walk. On our last loop together, he left me with another piece of wisdom: “You’d be surprised at what happens in the middle of the night.”
Mile 50-64 [11:22:10-16:46:29]
“Oi sir, what are you doing?”
“Uh... trudging. You know, trudging? …To trudge: the slow, weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man who has nothing left in life except the impulse to simply… soldier on.” — A Knight’s Tale
—
I’d quickly come to grips with the idea of walking the remaining 12 hours. I texted my folks that the wheels had fallen off and I would endure an indefinite trudge. I was 11 miles away from 100k, which for me was plenty to be proud of. My sister tagged along with me for at least 6 or 7 of those initial “full-time” walking loops. Just chatting, belly-laughing, growing a little delirious, bumping various volumes of Jock Jams during breaks as my appetite started to come alive again.
Cup of ramen in hand on the trail, motes of pollen whizzing by in the light of my headlamp, the tranquil cacophany of crickets and frogs from deep within the perfect blackness… It was simply good enough to just be out there. This bizarre alternate reality was becoming my new home.
After a rest at mile 55, I figured it would finally be a proper time to bust out the big guns: caffeine and tunes. Boy, oh boy am I so glad I held off on my luxuries. Sipping on a can of Guru, jams in the headphones, my trudge became more of a solo top-rocking battle. The course had thinned out dramatically after dark, so the exaggerated bobbing and cartoonish, gesticulative path of my headlamp probably looked amusing from a distance. And completely unhinged up close. I was visibly, shamelessly enjoying myself at this point.
Music felt like the headiest drug, and caffeine… well, it is a drug. I was getting locked in to a pretty decently paced hike (or so it felt), soaking it all in, unbridled from any expectations, and seemingly from reality altogether. I enthusiastically pounded ‘round to mile 60, and by then walking started to feel… actually pretty damn good! Once I passed 100k, I dared a few yards of a trot. Oh shit, okay! That didn’t feel too bad! As I rounded the final bend past camp to wrap up mile 63, I picked up my feet into a careful, steady shuffle. I turned to catch my sister’s attention, punching the air in pathetic, delirious triumph, and her face lit up from above her book.
I was fucking doing it. Nothing hurt and everything was beautiful again. It wasn’t fast, but it sure as hell wasn’t slow. I stripped off my walking hoodie and theatrically threw it back at camp. I wouldn’t need it anymore. The warmth of the proverbial second wind would carry me.
Mile 64-75 [16:46:29-19:53:07]
I’d found a shuffling stride that was gentle and sufficient enough, and best of all, didn’t absolutely obliterate my right knee or foot. At this point, my toes felt like they were going to explode. All of them. But somehow it mattered so little. My quads were getting ripped a fresh pair of assholes on the downhills. Guess I’ll just twinkle-toe gingerly down those. It mattered so little. The amount of general soreness my entire body was experiencing was colossally esclipsed by the simple novelty that, by means unknown to me, I was running again.
I passed a trio of hikers who must’ve recognized me from the previous walking loops featuring my manic B-boy episode, because suddenly a woman from the group erupts, “YES!! LOOK AT YOU GO!!! LOOK AT YOU!! YOU’RE DOING IT!!” And boy did that have my heart soaring and bursting with fresh colors. I shout back with a corny, “I don’t know what the hell is going on! But I’m taking it!” Or something else also completely stupid and to that effect.
Many of the other overnighters had to have known exactly what I was experiencing. Because so many kind and encouraging words found me on those next 9 loops. And I did my best to give the handful of other night owls their rightful props, too.
My appetite held strong in these hours. Powdered mini-donuts were unexpectedly bangin’. Cold pizza, Pringle’s, overnight oats, cheese quesadillas I’d been picking at all race. Things were good. But as I got up from camp to wrap up mile 72, I could feel my triumphant flight coming to a descent. Top of my foot, behind my knee, my achilles, all of the little snags were surfacing again. I managed to eke out a couple wimpy laps in this state, and mile 75 would be the last hurrah of my second wind. The pains would resume business as usual, and Mr. Trudge would be holding court yet again.
Mile 75-81 [19:53:07-22:20:44]
The long walk. Rain began to patter through the shadowy new leaves above. I was certain I would not have the gumption to attempt a trot for the remainder of the race. Doing my best means a lot to me, but not getting injured means more.
My sister joined me every other lap. I started to grow a little delirious in earnest. Roots frequently mistaken for oversized newts. Shadows and pollen motes playing tricks in the light of my headlamp. I’d turn my headlamp off occasionally and let the impossible darkness swell into life; the brush would softly billow from obscurity into vague form, and finally the trail would reveal itself as my eyes adjusted, like a gentle beacon cutting through the shapeless black under a canopy-cracked steel-pink sky.
I remained pretty quiet. Even when my sister came along. Still had my music going quietly, and a cold brew coffee that made me have to piss literally every ten minutes. Sometimes I’d just piss myself if I found myself bookended by headlamps. I’d already been soaked by some flash downpours— okay who am I kidding. I probably would’ve pissed myself regardless. The race is almost over, and I didn’t give a fuck. I didn’t give a fuck who gave a fuck. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t sleepy. I was walking. Only walking. I wasn’t really thinking about anything. No words. No images. No ideas. No cares.
At this point, dear reader, we were getting close to heart of the onion. The existential onion. I’d been shedding layers all day and night, whether I knew it or not, and now some sample-sized essence of singularity was being unceremoniously revealed. No thinking. Just doing. It didn’t feel great. It didn’t feel bad. It didn’t matter what it was. The most serene emptiness. That serene emptiness pulled me around to close in on mile 80. The sun was coming up again.
At that moment I passed camp for what I planned to be the bittersweet end, my sister pops out of the gazebo and gestures down the path, wordlessly saying “One more?”
The thought of doing the loop even once more made me feel ill. Not physically. But in some intangible way. The thought of trying to get up the hill before my groin muscles and achilles detonate was bleak. Downhills? I’d rather be… fucking buried alive, I don’t know. But I can’t let big sis down. She doesn’t know I’m so spent. Plus, I didn’t want to do my last lap alone.
We brought it in for 81 miles at 22 hours and 20 minutes. I turned in my bib, snagged my medal, chopped it up with a couple ballers at the aid station who were still grinding out loops, then sat down in a lawn chair back at camp and stared purposelessly out into the ether. The same tranquility from the starting corral washed over me again in spades.
——
Nothing but pure gratitude. Gratitude became not only imperative, but a natural headspace in this race. Nothing but affinity and respect for everyone who showed up. I felt immersed in the most wholesome, human, ridiculous, faith-restoring, hubris-obliterating, gentle, zen, and idyllic alternate universe for 24 hours. The real world pales in comparison to this.
I now truly understand why people do these things. It makes perfect sense, and the explaination needs zero words. I got my shit rocked real good, in the most soul-enriching fashion, and that’s precisely why I’m doing it again next year.
——

DISCLAIMER: Don't take this too seriously, it's meant to be more of a joke and exaggeration, started almost entirely by the mental image of three hardened criminals sitting in a bar, pondering that they still absolutely need to recruit a Catholic priest and some band guy or their next bank robbery just won't work. No offense intended towards any actual groups, nor to make light of any social issues. Also, I'm aware there's games with actual modernity-appropriate classes, but the absurdity of a nearly 1:1 port is exactly the point here. Finally, note that I play both D&D (various editions) and PF 1E and 2E, so expect a mixture of classes from either and some cherrypicking of interpretations.
FOREWORD: Style of play I'm imagining similar to Shadowrun or Cyberpunk, with a focus on the underworld, teams of specialists hired by fixers for various jobs of dubious legality, or vigilantism or hustling maybe. If one wanted to be extra absurd, it could also involve travelling the world in a camper van and taking on quests, or getting tasked with an important mission by a head of state (this may work better in a fictional modern-day setting instead of our own world). Class names are meant to be professional slang you'd see in that kind of environment, like Shadowrun's Street Samurai for example, thus justifying the existence of the classes themselves. But since it's supposed to be not cyberpunk, but the present, I deliberately tried to pick names that sound like they could be part of normal conversation too.
Magicless doesn't mean classes don't still have their powers and spells, just that they're explained differently, like by drugs or applied psychology or the like. Think a "wizard" (Pundit) casting a "fireball" by mentally calculating the exact angle they need to shoot a gas pipe to cause an explosion.
Without further ado, the...

CLASSES
Militant (Fighter): Skillful weapons specialists and fighting experts who can handle any threat and stare down the barrel of a gun without flinching. Many are (former) soldiers, mercenaries, or private security, less commonly also from a background in law enforcement or violent crime, but anyone with the right abilities can be a Militant.
Thrasher (Barbarian): Tough guys, muscleheads, and sometimes also bullies, who get what they want by utilizing brutality, fear, and a vicious temper. Thrashers are often gang members and thugs, bikers, delinquents, jocks, pro wrestlers, or particularly dedicated powerlifters. Frequently appearing as a part of highly insular social cliques, they are prone to adopting neotribal mindsets, symbols, and practices.
Blackbelt (Monk): Martial arts and/or ascetic masters (not just disciples or regular practitioners) with almost superhuman control over their own body. Despite the name, these adepts of the physical can pursue any martial arts tradition, as well as freestyle street fighting, pro wrestling, self defense courses, special forces training, parcours, extreme sports, and of course practices such as yoga. While some seek enlightenment or health benefits, others hunger to put their skills to the test in a manner only real combat can provide.
Outlander (Ranger): Armed and dangerous people who thrive in the wilderness. Survivalists, hunters, drifters, particularly experienced outdoorsmen, forest rangers, animal trainers, and sometimes preppers or guerillas are all common candidates. Many Outlanders hold strong convictions, in a cowboyish sort of way, and so they are also found among military special forces or police departments, particularly as handlers to service animals.
Jailbird (Rogue): Multi-talented if often dubious individuals, prized especially as infiltration and security specialists. While they needn't be actual criminals, just in possession of the right talents, many still are of a less than legal disposition, and a brief stint in prison can certainly lead to picking up useful new tricks. Common sub-groups include murderers and serial killers, cat burglars and pickpockets, home invaders, carjackers, hackers, scammers and con artists, smugglers of arms/drugs/etc., as well as urban partisans.
Ideological Crusader (Paladin/Antipaladin): Stalwart defenders and enforcers of a given idea of justice, a social code, or an organization, capable of backing their demands with violence if necessary. They are natural authority figures with an extra edge in doggedness stemming from their strong beliefs. The vast majority of Ideological Crusaders originate in law enforcement (particularly riot cops) or sometimes the fire department or military special forces, but some are revolutionaries, armed activists, or members of neighborhood watches or citizen militias. Should they go rogue and their beliefs end up becoming toxic, however, Ideological Crusaders tend to turn into dreaded hatemongers or terrorists.
Special Operative (Inquisitor): The quintessential experts in making problems disappear, Special Operatives achieve (preferably) noble goals using subtle, unorthodox and sometimes questionable means, resolving delicate matters with cunning rather than the Ideological Crusader's brute force. Usually belonging to and trained in special tactics by some kind of organization, most serve(d) in intelligence agencies or commando units, but they may also be detectives in the police department, professional hitmen, or hacktivists and leakers and the like.
Humanitarian (Cleric): Devoted souls who follow a philosophy or faith they believe will help humanity, often trained in a variety of useful medical and mental techniques. Their skills may vary depending on the content of their particular belief system, with some potentially being quite sinister, but overall, Humanitarians are still primarily experts at keeping their team alive with first aid and supporting them in whichever way is necessary. Most have a background as healthcare personell such as doctors, surgeons, and nurses, but there's also plenty of social and charity workers and sometimes therapists to be found.
Additionally, a strong link exists between Humanitarians and religion. While ordinary ministers will rarely just go out to take on legally questionable jobs or vigilante work, some do protect their flock that way, and more still may be trying to save the souls of the underworld's denizens or view themselves as exorcists battling demonic forces. This goes twice so for the recruiters, envoys and missionaries of cults, of which there is an abundance in the underworld.
New Ager (Druid): Masters of the natural world. Using herbs and drugs, New Agers achieve a number of altered states of consciousness, enabling them to excel at various tasks with ease almost as if they could wholly transform themselves. When not doing this, they support their allies with wilderness knowledge, patch them up with "alternative" medicine, or command and train animals. Besides actual New Agers (who can come from any background), the class also frequently attracts environmentalists, naturalists, animal breeders, and natural scientists.
Influencer (Bard): Often glamorous individuals for whom doors swing wide open and ears perk up. Influencers are communications specialists, charmers, and frequently powerful orators and motivational speakers, who also know and dabble in a little bit of everything as a result of their colorful lives. In spite of the name, most members of this class are not youtubers, but rather celebrities of every kind, starlets and media personalities, entertainers and performers, life coaches, as well as journalists and reporters. While the class also contains plenty of artists (not just of the performing but also of the creative arts), their profession alone does not make them members, rather the ability to influence and powerfully motivate others is what counts (and a heaping of fame certainly doesn't hurt either!).
Middleman (Warlock/Witch): Middlemen are, for good and for ill, deeply connected and indebted to a powerful organization or individual, usually in an extremely unequal manner. This so-called sponsor they can call on for favors. Some examples of sponsors include organized crime, cults, megacorporations, or shady political lobbies. What the Middleman may achieve depends on the sponsor in question, but the support is always highly useful, from receiving access to exclusive venues to getting to borrow bleeding edge technology. In turn, however, the sponsor has their own expectations and demands and will sometimes come to collect their due. If the expectations are not fulfilled, support will be cut off, if not far worse.
Besides their main sponsor, Middlemen also collect lesser contacts and knowledge on how to play social institutions and conventions to their advantage. This, for instance, enables them to shield their allies from the law. They make excellent fixers for similar reasons. Anyone who enters a Faustian bargain may become a Middleman, but it is particularly common among entrepreneurs, lawyers, politicians, and similar power players. Membership in the sponsoring organization is not required, but still fairly common, especially as a delegate or representative of sorts.
Pundit (Wizard): Providers of expert knowledge. Ensure their allies always have all necessary information about their surroundings and can devise uniquely ingenious ad-hoc solutions to problems based on their chosen field of study, known theorems, and subjects they have recently looked into. Usually academics and other well-educated types, often with an actual university degree or even a professorship, but some private scholars or hyper-dedicated hobby nerds, too. Many are programmers or scientists (frequently pursuing one of the "big three" fields: biology, chemistry, or physics), researching, inventing, and using technology and other fruits of scientific labor, sometimes even creating things themselves when mechanical skill is not central (i.e. mixing chemicals). However, every field has its ways of dealing with problems, from highly communicative media studies to wealth-multiplying economics, and while scientists are often associated with gadgets, what a Pundit's ad-hoc solution looks like can really vary wildly.
Many interdisciplinary Pundits also exist, but in the first place, all Pundits have mastered research. Therefore, fields of study are more about with what approach and level of difficulty a goal can be accomplished, rather than what the Pundit can or can't do at all (unless it's of an "opposed" field, i.e. a field that fills with the Pundit with dread and horrid memories of their school days).
(NOTE: I've considered a pure Scientist class, but I liked the idea of university humanities professors regularly getting into shootouts too much.)
Technician (ArtificeAlchemist/Inventor): Technology specialists who excel at the hands-on operation, modification, and construction of various types of hardware, in contrast to the more theory-focused and software-based leanings of other classes like the Pundit or Savant (though a Technician can still absolutely learn how to program and hack). Technicians may come from the ranks of engineers graduated from their university with highest honors just as much as humble car mechanics, passionate amateur craftsmen, or even certain construction workers. Besides these, other popular specializations include electricians, driving fanatics, fighter or drone pilots, gunsmiths, saboteurs, and demolitions specialists.
(NOTE: This is essentially a fusion between craftsmen and pilots/drivers. Doesn't necessarily make that much sense to lump them together, but it's really hard to find a role other than dedicated getaway driver to play for a standalone driver class and Shadowrun's Rigger archetype provided some inspiration and a connection point.)
Savant (Sorcerer): Counterparts to the Pundit with similar abilities. Savants appear to possess a natural affinity and passion for the things that fascinate them strong enough to put them on equal footing with academics who gained their skills by more traditional means.
(NOTE: The Savant stereotype doesn't align so well with Sorcerers making for good socialmancers, so maybe these should be INT instead of CHA casters?)
Miracle Worker (Favored Soul/Oracle): Counterparts to the Humanitarian with similar abilities. Zealots, self-proclaimed prophets, and sometimes cult leaders hoping to impress future followers, Miracle Workers make up for the Humanitarian's specialist training with sheer confidence in their own abilities, mystifying language, and oftentimes more than a little bit of madness.
Medicine Man (Spirit Shaman): Counterparts to the New Ager with similar abilities. Achieve their skills less through drugs and herbs and more by "letting the spirits guide them", which is to say, through a combination of religious practices, empathic emotional connections with their environment and unconscious imitation of others, as well as sometimes through culturally inherited or acquired knowledge. May actually have an indigeneous background, or just wish they did.
Adventurer (Swashbuckler): Even in this day and age, there are occasionally people whose life story reads like something straight out of a movie script. Skillful generalists with a lot of panache. For some reason, this class tends to attract archaeologists the most.
Investigator (Investigator): Whether as private eyes, police detectives, or sometimes scientific researchers, investigators do exactly what their name says, getting results with their ability to draw the right conclusions and pursue leads.

TEAM ROLES
A well-balanced team archetypically consists of at least one Muscle, Breacher, Medic, and Egghead.
Muscle / Combat Specialist: Keeps the team safe from danger and if necessary draws it towards themselves. Suitable for: Militants, Thrashers, Blackbelts, Ideological Crusaders, Outlanders, sometimes Technicians or Adventurers.
Breacher / Security Specialist: Bypasses security and gets the team in and out where they're not supposed to be, whether by social infiltration or an old-fashioned break-in. Suitable for: Jailbirds, Special Operatives, Influencers, sometimes Blackbelts, Outlanders, Investigators, or Adventurers.
Medic / Support Specialist: Helps everyone stay alive and keeps them at their best. Suitable for: Humanitarians, Miracle Workers, New Agers, Medicine Men, sometimes Outlanders or Ideological Crusaders.
Egghead / Knowledge Specialist: Solves more intellectual challenges and helps out in numerous ways, often roped into tech/science support even if it's not their specialization. Suitable for: Pundits, Savants, Technicians, sometimes Influencers, Middlemen, or Investigators.
Nerd/Hacker / Tech Specialist: Optional, for when not covered by the Breacher and the Egghead is severely allergic to the natural sciences. Deals with tech. Suitable for: Pundits, Savants, Technicians, sometimes Jailbirds or Special Operatives.
Face / Social Specialist: Optional, for when the Breacher isn't a social butterfly. Represents and oftentimes leads the team and does the talking where required. Suitable for: Influencers, Middlemen, Ideological Crusaders, sometimes Adventurers.
Manager (Earner, Mom, Greaser) / Resource & Public Relations Specialist: Optional, depending on overall team composition and Fixer. May also be split into the three separate roles of Earner, Mom, and Greaser. Earner and Mom are two sides of the same coin, the former managing the team's side-hustles and extra sources of income, as well as purchasing equipment, while the latter takes care of supply and gear maintenance and also of all matters related to hideouts and the team's general needs. The Greaser is the team's networking specialist and often also their lawyer, greasing the right palms and ensuring law enforcement and other factions turn a blind eye to the team's activities. Suitable for: Middlemen are practically born for this, but Jailbirds, Influencers, Technicians, Pundits, and Savants also do well at various aspects of the role.
Eyes & Ears / Research Specialist: Optional, for when it's not the Breacher's (or sometimes the Egghead's) thing. The Eyes & Ears continually gathers intel and gossip and keeps the team abreast of recent events, potential dangers, and new opportunities. Suitable for: Investigators, Jailbirds, Special Operatives, Influencers, sometimes Middlemen.
Wheelman / Driving Specialist: Optional, for when nobody else is a particularly good driver. Primarily the designated and getaway driver, may also take care of and perhaps upgrade the team vehicle. Suitable for: Technicians, Jailbirds, Special Operatives, Ideological Crusaders, Adventurers, sometimes Outlanders.
Deadeye / Sniping Specialist: Optional, for when the Muscle is a Blackbelt, Thrasher, or otherwise close-combat preferring fighter. Does ranged combat, that's it. Suitable for: Outlanders, Militants, Jailbirds, Special Operatives, sometimes Technicians.
Treehugger / Wilderness Specialist: Optional, for when the group heads into the great outdoors for a prolonged period of time. Helps them not die there. Suitable for: Outlanders, New Agers, Medicine Men.
Fixer: Provides the team with jobs from interested parties and may also double as the Manager. Could be a designated part of the team or a freelancer. Suitable for: Any class, but Middlemen are the most common.

DISCLAIMER: Don't take this too seriously, it's meant to be more of a joke and exaggeration, started almost entirely by the mental image of three hardened criminals sitting in a bar, pondering that they still absolutely need to recruit a Catholic priest and some band guy or their next bank robbery just won't work. No offense intended towards any actual groups, nor to make light of any social issues. Also, I'm aware there's games with actual modernity-appropriate classes, but the absurdity of a nearly 1:1 port is exactly the point here. Finally, note that I play both D&D (various editions) and PF 1E and 2E, so expect a mixture of classes from either and some cherrypicking of interpretations.
FOREWORD: Style of play I'm imagining similar to Shadowrun or Cyberpunk, with a focus on the underworld, teams of specialists hired by fixers for various jobs of dubious legality, or vigilantism or hustling maybe. If one wanted to be extra absurd, it could also involve travelling the world in a camper van and taking on quests, or getting tasked with an important mission by a head of state (this may work better in a fictional modern-day setting instead of our own world). Class names are meant to be professional slang you'd see in that kind of environment, like Shadowrun's Street Samurai for example, thus justifying the existence of the classes themselves. But since it's supposed to be not cyberpunk, but the present, I deliberately tried to pick names that sound like they could be part of normal conversation too.
Magicless doesn't mean classes don't still have their powers and spells, just that they're explained differently, like by drugs or applied psychology or the like. Think a "wizard" (Pundit) casting a "fireball" by mentally calculating the exact angle they need to shoot a gas pipe to cause an explosion.
Without further ado, the...

CLASSES
Militant (Fighter): Skillful weapons specialists and fighting experts who can handle any threat and stare down the barrel of a gun without flinching. Many are (former) soldiers, mercenaries, or private security, less commonly also from a background in law enforcement or violent crime, but anyone with the right abilities can be a Militant.
Thrasher (Barbarian): Tough guys, muscleheads, and sometimes also bullies, who get what they want by utilizing brutality, fear, and a vicious temper. Thrashers are often gang members and thugs, bikers, delinquents, jocks, pro wrestlers, or particularly dedicated powerlifters. Frequently appearing as a part of highly insular social cliques, they are prone to adopting neotribal mindsets, symbols, and practices.
Blackbelt (Monk): Martial arts and/or ascetic masters (not just disciples or regular practitioners) with almost superhuman control over their own body. Despite the name, these adepts of the physical can pursue any martial arts tradition, as well as freestyle street fighting, pro wrestling, self defense courses, special forces training, parcours, extreme sports, and of course practices such as yoga. While some seek enlightenment or health benefits, others hunger to put their skills to the test in a manner only real combat can provide.
Outlander (Ranger): Armed and dangerous people who thrive in the wilderness. Survivalists, hunters, drifters, particularly experienced outdoorsmen, forest rangers, animal trainers, and sometimes preppers or guerillas are all common candidates. Many Outlanders hold strong convictions, in a cowboyish sort of way, and so they are also found among military special forces or police departments, particularly as handlers to service animals.
Jailbird (Rogue): Multi-talented if often dubious individuals, prized especially as infiltration and security specialists. While they needn't be actual criminals, just in possession of the right talents, many still are of a less than legal disposition, and a brief stint in prison can certainly lead to picking up useful new tricks. Common sub-groups include murderers and serial killers, cat burglars and pickpockets, home invaders, carjackers, hackers, scammers and con artists, smugglers of arms/drugs/etc., as well as urban partisans.
Ideological Crusader (Paladin/Antipaladin): Stalwart defenders and enforcers of a given idea of justice, a social code, or an organization, capable of backing their demands with violence if necessary. They are natural authority figures with an extra edge in doggedness stemming from their strong beliefs. The vast majority of Ideological Crusaders originate in law enforcement (particularly riot cops) or sometimes the fire department or military special forces, but some are revolutionaries, armed activists, or members of neighborhood watches or citizen militias. Should they go rogue and their beliefs end up becoming toxic, however, Ideological Crusaders tend to turn into dreaded hatemongers or terrorists.
Special Operative (Inquisitor): The quintessential experts in making problems disappear, Special Operatives achieve (preferably) noble goals using subtle, unorthodox and sometimes questionable means, resolving delicate matters with cunning rather than the Ideological Crusader's brute force. Usually belonging to and trained in special tactics by some kind of organization, most serve(d) in intelligence agencies or commando units, but they may also be detectives in the police department, professional hitmen, or hacktivists and leakers and the like.
Humanitarian (Cleric): Devoted souls who follow a philosophy or faith they believe will help humanity, often trained in a variety of useful medical and mental techniques. Their skills may vary depending on the content of their particular belief system, with some potentially being quite sinister, but overall, Humanitarians are still primarily experts at keeping their team alive with first aid and supporting them in whichever way is necessary. Most have a background as healthcare personell such as doctors, surgeons, and nurses, but there's also plenty of social and charity workers and sometimes therapists to be found.
Additionally, a strong link exists between Humanitarians and religion. While ordinary ministers will rarely just go out to take on legally questionable jobs or vigilante work, some do protect their flock that way, and more still may be trying to save the souls of the underworld's denizens or view themselves as exorcists battling demonic forces. This goes twice so for the recruiters, envoys and missionaries of cults, of which there is an abundance in the underworld.
New Ager (Druid): Masters of the natural world. Using herbs and drugs, New Agers achieve a number of altered states of consciousness, enabling them to excel at various tasks with ease almost as if they could wholly transform themselves. When not doing this, they support their allies with wilderness knowledge, patch them up with "alternative" medicine, or command and train animals. Besides actual New Agers (who can come from any background), the class also frequently attracts environmentalists, naturalists, animal breeders, and natural scientists.
Influencer (Bard): Often glamorous individuals for whom doors swing wide open and ears perk up. Influencers are communications specialists, charmers, and frequently powerful orators and motivational speakers, who also know and dabble in a little bit of everything as a result of their colorful lives. In spite of the name, most members of this class are not youtubers, but rather celebrities of every kind, starlets and media personalities, entertainers and performers, life coaches, as well as journalists and reporters. While the class also contains plenty of artists (not just of the performing but also of the creative arts), their profession alone does not make them members, rather the ability to influence and powerfully motivate others is what counts (and a heaping of fame certainly doesn't hurt either!).
Middleman (Warlock/Witch): Middlemen are, for good and for ill, deeply connected and indebted to a powerful organization or individual, usually in an extremely unequal manner. This so-called sponsor they can call on for favors. Some examples of sponsors include organized crime, cults, megacorporations, or shady political lobbies. What the Middleman may achieve depends on the sponsor in question, but the support is always highly useful, from receiving access to exclusive venues to getting to borrow bleeding edge technology. In turn, however, the sponsor has their own expectations and demands and will sometimes come to collect their due. If the expectations are not fulfilled, support will be cut off, if not far worse.
Besides their main sponsor, Middlemen also collect lesser contacts and knowledge on how to play social institutions and conventions to their advantage. This, for instance, enables them to shield their allies from the law. They make excellent fixers for similar reasons. Anyone who enters a Faustian bargain may become a Middleman, but it is particularly common among entrepreneurs, lawyers, politicians, and similar power players. Membership in the sponsoring organization is not required, but still fairly common, especially as a delegate or representative of sorts.
Pundit (Wizard): Providers of expert knowledge. Ensure their allies always have all necessary information about their surroundings and can devise uniquely ingenious ad-hoc solutions to problems based on their chosen field of study, known theorems, and subjects they have recently looked into. Usually academics and other well-educated types, often with an actual university degree or even a professorship, but some private scholars or hyper-dedicated hobby nerds, too. Many are programmers or scientists (frequently pursuing one of the "big three" fields: biology, chemistry, or physics), researching, inventing, and using technology and other fruits of scientific labor, sometimes even creating things themselves when mechanical skill is not central (i.e. mixing chemicals). However, every field has its ways of dealing with problems, from highly communicative media studies to wealth-multiplying economics, and while scientists are often associated with gadgets, what a Pundit's ad-hoc solution looks like can really vary wildly.
Many interdisciplinary Pundits also exist, but in the first place, all Pundits have mastered research. Therefore, fields of study are more about with what approach and level of difficulty a goal can be accomplished, rather than what the Pundit can or can't do at all (unless it's of an "opposed" field, i.e. a field that fills with the Pundit with dread and horrid memories of their school days).
(NOTE: I've considered a pure Scientist class, but I liked the idea of university humanities professors regularly getting into shootouts too much.)
Technician (ArtificeAlchemist/Inventor): Technology specialists who excel at the hands-on operation, modification, and construction of various types of hardware, in contrast to the more theory-focused and software-based leanings of other classes like the Pundit or Savant (though a Technician can still absolutely learn how to program and hack). Technicians may come from the ranks of engineers graduated from their university with highest honors just as much as humble car mechanics, passionate amateur craftsmen, or even certain construction workers. Besides these, other popular specializations include electricians, driving fanatics, fighter or drone pilots, gunsmiths, saboteurs, and demolitions specialists.
(NOTE: This is essentially a fusion between craftsmen and pilots/drivers. Doesn't necessarily make that much sense to lump them together, but it's really hard to find a role other than dedicated getaway driver to play for a standalone driver class and Shadowrun's Rigger archetype provided some inspiration and a connection point.)
Savant (Sorcerer): Counterparts to the Pundit with similar abilities. Savants appear to possess a natural affinity and passion for the things that fascinate them strong enough to put them on equal footing with academics who gained their skills by more traditional means.
(NOTE: The Savant stereotype doesn't align so well with Sorcerers making for good socialmancers, so maybe these should be INT instead of CHA casters?)
Miracle Worker (Favored Soul/Oracle): Counterparts to the Humanitarian with similar abilities. Zealots, self-proclaimed prophets, and sometimes cult leaders hoping to impress future followers, Miracle Workers make up for the Humanitarian's specialist training with sheer confidence in their own abilities, mystifying language, and oftentimes more than a little bit of madness.
Medicine Man (Spirit Shaman): Counterparts to the New Ager with similar abilities. Achieve their skills less through drugs and herbs and more by "letting the spirits guide them", which is to say, through a combination of religious practices, empathic emotional connections with their environment and unconscious imitation of others, as well as sometimes through culturally inherited or acquired knowledge. May actually have an indigeneous background, or just wish they did.
Adventurer (Swashbuckler): Even in this day and age, there are occasionally people whose life story reads like something straight out of a movie script. Skillful generalists with a lot of panache. For some reason, this class tends to attract archaeologists the most.
Investigator (Investigator): Whether as private eyes, police detectives, or sometimes scientific researchers, investigators do exactly what their name says, getting results with their ability to draw the right conclusions and pursue leads.

TEAM ROLES
A well-balanced team archetypically consists of at least one Muscle, Breacher, Medic, and Egghead.
Muscle / Combat Specialist: Keeps the team safe from danger and if necessary draws it towards themselves. Suitable for: Militants, Thrashers, Blackbelts, Ideological Crusaders, Outlanders, sometimes Technicians or Adventurers.
Breacher / Security Specialist: Bypasses security and gets the team in and out where they're not supposed to be, whether by social infiltration or an old-fashioned break-in. Suitable for: Jailbirds, Special Operatives, Influencers, sometimes Blackbelts, Outlanders, Investigators, or Adventurers.
Medic / Support Specialist: Helps everyone stay alive and keeps them at their best. Suitable for: Humanitarians, Miracle Workers, New Agers, Medicine Men, sometimes Outlanders or Ideological Crusaders.
Egghead / Knowledge Specialist: Solves more intellectual challenges and helps out in numerous ways, often roped into tech/science support even if it's not their specialization. Suitable for: Pundits, Savants, Technicians, sometimes Influencers, Middlemen, or Investigators.
Nerd/Hacker / Tech Specialist: Optional, for when not covered by the Breacher and the Egghead is severely allergic to the natural sciences. Deals with tech. Suitable for: Pundits, Savants, Technicians, sometimes Jailbirds or Special Operatives.
Face / Social Specialist: Optional, for when the Breacher isn't a social butterfly. Represents and oftentimes leads the team and does the talking where required. Suitable for: Influencers, Middlemen, Ideological Crusaders, sometimes Adventurers.
Manager (Earner, Mom, Greaser) / Resource & Public Relations Specialist: Optional, depending on overall team composition and Fixer. May also be split into the three separate roles of Earner, Mom, and Greaser. Earner and Mom are two sides of the same coin, the former managing the team's side-hustles and extra sources of income, as well as purchasing equipment, while the latter takes care of supply and gear maintenance and also of all matters related to hideouts and the team's general needs. The Greaser is the team's networking specialist and often also their lawyer, greasing the right palms and ensuring law enforcement and other factions turn a blind eye to the team's activities. Suitable for: Middlemen are practically born for this, but Jailbirds, Influencers, Technicians, Pundits, and Savants also do well at various aspects of the role.
Eyes & Ears / Research Specialist: Optional, for when it's not the Breacher's (or sometimes the Egghead's) thing. The Eyes & Ears continually gathers intel and gossip and keeps the team abreast of recent events, potential dangers, and new opportunities. Suitable for: Investigators, Jailbirds, Special Operatives, Influencers, sometimes Middlemen.
Wheelman / Driving Specialist: Optional, for when nobody else is a particularly good driver. Primarily the designated and getaway driver, may also take care of and perhaps upgrade the team vehicle. Suitable for: Technicians, Jailbirds, Special Operatives, Ideological Crusaders, Adventurers, sometimes Outlanders.
Deadeye / Sniping Specialist: Optional, for when the Muscle is a Blackbelt, Thrasher, or otherwise close-combat preferring fighter. Does ranged combat, that's it. Suitable for: Outlanders, Militants, Jailbirds, Special Operatives, sometimes Technicians.
Treehugger / Wilderness Specialist: Optional, for when the group heads into the great outdoors for a prolonged period of time. Helps them not die there. Suitable for: Outlanders, New Agers, Medicine Men.
Fixer: Provides the team with jobs from interested parties and may also double as the Manager. Could be a designated part of the team or a freelancer. Suitable for: Any class, but Middlemen are the most common.

In 2014 I weighed 140 pounds measuring above six feet. Naturally, I was teased by my friends for my lankiness / "feminine body". I always laughed it off, but deep inside it bugged me, and I knew I wanted to change.
So the following year, I started my lifting journey. As a beginner, I turned to and other Reddit wikis with free workout plans. Sometimes I would follow them and I started seeing great results. Lifting did wonders for my confidence.
But tracking everything was tedious, to say the least. Most of the plans are on spreadsheets or PDFs which is incredibly hard to use. I also tried several workout apps but found several of them too complicated.
I decided to tackle this problem head-on and decided to build a simple fitness app with the mission of making amazing workout programs easier to use because reaching your fitness goals is much easier when you develop good habits.
I started with a simple one-tap set counter. From there, I just continued building it out slowly with more and more features like splits, videos, charts, and my favorite feature which is the muscle visualizer (I painstakingly mapped over 500+ exercises to which muscle it targets so that when you're done with your workout, the muscles are shaded from most exertion to least). I also like to draw, so I added 500+ hand-drawn images to go with workout plans and exercises.
(by the way the app is 100% free and free from ads, I don't make a cent) After years of work (100% by myself), earlier this month I'm thrilled to say that I managed to publish to both app stores (iOS & Android). For anyone who wants to start building a good fitness habit, give FitnessWolf a try and shoot me a message if you have any questions or feedback.
App interface: https://imgur.com/gallery/5TRSXLF
My mission is to improve people's lives like resistance training & fitness did for me. Enjoy the app!
https://fitnesswolf.app
Free on iOS and Android

Hey naturalbodybuilding, I'm the creator of FitnessWolf. I'm on a mission to make lifting fun. Thanks to the mods for letting me post!
Key features of FitnessWolf: - Follow proven workout templates (with more coming soon).

• Create your own programs: build your own workouts.
  
• Track RPE for exercises: know what your last RPE (rate of perceived exertion) was so you can adjust the weight accordingly!
  
• Exercise videos: know what to do and just as importantly, what to avoid when performing the exercise.
  
• Stats: see your progress visually with beautiful graphs
  
• Muscle visualizer: each exercise is mapped to a muscle model that lights up depending on the RPE (rate of perceived exertion) you rated it.
  

Everything, and I mean everything is completely free with no ads.
After years of work (100% by myself), earlier this month I'm thrilled to say that I managed to publish to both app stores (iOS & Android). For anyone who wants to start building a good fitness habit, give FitnessWolf a try and shoot me a message if you have any questions or feedback.
App interface: https://imgur.com/gallery/5TRSXLF
My mission is to improve people's lives like resistance training & fitness did for me. Enjoy the app!
https://fitnesswolf.app
Free on iOS and Android