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Tutorial Piece: Big Fish Little Fish
Topic Started: Jun 23 2009, 10:49 PM (77 Views)
Henri Guillard
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Mpiya
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[[This is a tutorial piece to show you how the system works, if you don't understand it from the rules, which is to be expected. This first one outlines how an introduction post works]]

The first thing I noticed as I stepped from the Cessna was the blistering heat. I'd been warned, of course, but nothing ever prepared you for the dry season in Mugambi. The air itself felt like it was on fire, each breath a struggle to swallow down. I let out a brief grumble and pulled a Gauloise from my little silver tin, fumbling through my pockets for my matchbook. It was a mess of spare batteries, loose change of various denominations, a pen and notebook and - hah! Matchbook! With a strike and a plume of smoke, I set off along the jagged runway of Aruma airport.

Booking the Cessna flight in to Aruma had soaked up most of my available funds, but in cash I still had roughly $1200; enough for most things in a city that didn't even have an official currency. I had learnt on my last trip here that the shopkeepers loved American dollars, which they could use to buy food and drink from the UN soldiers or Liberian sailors in port, but most currencies worked. It was simply a case of knowing what the shopkeeper wanted and being able to provide that need. In my case, that was saying I was from National Geographic and that I'd make them famous. Worked like a charm.

My foot caught in a pothole on the runway and I was almost sent flailing to the ground, only just regaining my footing in time. I was surprised the UN was even able to fly their big planes in here; the runway was in such a state of disrepair from decades of being fought over that it was amazing that it was still paved at all. That said, the UN engineers worked practically twenty hour days simply trying to keep their vehicles in a state of useability: the airport was way down on their list of priorities. And no wonder, with the amount of Humvees and other vehicles that limped back to base daily, the victim of an grenade attack or ambush by militants. A lot had changed since I'd last been here, and it had only been in a report from a colleague that I'd been alerted to these developments.

That colleague was Maggie Hetfield, a young and amazingly talented journalist and photographer. Beautiful, too; she could have been the cover girl for any one of those trashy magazines they sell. But she wasn't, she was slugging it out in Mugambi, trying to get to the bottom of the conflict. We'd met three years ago investigating copper mining in Zambia, and had struck it off immediately. Platonically, mind you; she was far too young for me. A month ago when she'd sent me a message about what was going on in Mugambi, I knew I had to join her. So here I was, a single backpack slung over my shoulder, waltzing up to the UN customs office.

It was a customs office in name only: it basically only stopped the people who wanted to be stopped. I entered into the stuffy single room office, placed off to the side of the airfield in a little forgotten corner of the UN base. A single man in desert camo and a blue beret sat behind the desk. He was a portly fellow, with big hands and sweat patches. He struck me as the sort of person who shouldn't be behind a desk.

"Afternoon, I'm Lieutenant Lowery, Multinational Taskforce. How may I help you?" the sour tone of his voice gave the greeting all the friendliness of a callcenter worker. His accent was thick, and I placed him to be from somewhere in Wales.

"Ah, 'ello. I am Henri Guillard, I am a photographer for Reuters. I would assume this is the place to get a press pass, no?" I replied with an equal tone of indifference. I would not be intimidated by a blowhard desk worker.

"I'm afraid, Mr. Guillard, that we do not issue any further press passes at this stage. Mugambi has been designated as an 'elevated threat risk'," he said, thrusting a document into my face that mainly consisted of UN bullshit to keep people like me from finding out what was going on there, "I would expect a person like yourself to know something like that"

The last comment was enough for me to stop caring about anyone with the name of Lieutenant Lowery.
"I'm afraid, Mr. Lowery," I silenced his imminent corrections with a raised finger, "that my stop here was a matter of mere courtesy. I will still enter this country and I will still take pictures to show the shitty job you people are doing at taking care of it. Now, I will be off; I think I shall leave you to rot in your office."

I stormed out the door and past the soldiers manning a checkpoint, who eyed me without an inkling of care as I passed. I was in Aruma proper now, and alone for that matter - I'd just alienated the only agency who cared for the press in this country. I checked the address written on my hand, lit another cigarette .. and disappeared into the crowd.

[[Hopefully you followed that. Now, in my example, just to spice things up for Henri, I've decided to piss off the UN. I'm going to throw that in with the requests, because it's probably pretty reasonable]]

Requests:

- To be in Aruma
- To have pissed off the UN
- To have 1200 dollars cash to start with
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Merc
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[[This reply illustrates how the GMing system works. There will be more of these, so don't fret youngin']]

Right here I would put critque for your piece. Given that this is my own piece and it turned out how I like, I'm not going to bother, but I will be nitpicking your pieces when you get to posting.

Requests:

- To be in Aruma [[Granted. Not much else to say]]
- To have pissed off the UN [[Denied. You've pissed off Lieutenant Lowery, not the entire UN. Still, it's a step in the right direction.]]
- To have 1200 dollars cash to start with [[Granted. Given your background and expenses, this is reasonable]]

[[Okay, so that illustrates the Granting/Denying system that I work with. Still, see how it's not black and white - in my denial, I compromised with the player so their request is partially fufilled]]
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