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Narrative Edit

What do you do when people try to walk on you? Don't answer, I already know what you're going to say: You put them in a bodybag. I mean you're mercs, after all. You do awful things for a living, you pack around enough ordnance to equip a revolutionary army, you snort stone and sneeze TNT; you're ANIMALS and that's all good. But do you ever think to yourself, 'what would life be like if you couldn't just grease and gack everyone that stomps your toes? What would it be like if there was a bigger kid on the block?'

Now realize that the reality of that question is what so many folks in this 'verse of ours have to deal with every day, especially in the Frontier. For every colony of miners and farmers, every port of shipbuilders and traders, every reserve of war refugees and independents, there's an army of scum lurking about, just out of sight, but never out of mind. You have to give a hand to these folks to do what they do with the constant threat of douchebags falling out of orbit and wrecking up shop. Still, bravery isn't worth much when you crumble like deadwood when trouble comes knocking and death comes 'ripping. Alone, all it amounts to is words of admiration on a plasma-scorched, bullet-pocked headstone, to speak in human terms.

And who's going to stand up for these folks? There's no law but for the pretenders out in the big black of the Frontier and our much beloved United League of Planets frankly doesn't give a your-favored-euphemism-for-excrement-here about anyone that isn't a citizen within their borders. It's the crooks and the asshole corps that have free reign out here and that's the way it's always going to be, unless we start taking a stand for those who can't.

Now don't start walking away just yet, because you're getting a bit far ahead of me if you think I'm asking you to be a hero; that's the last thing I'm asking you to do, because you know as well as I do that folks that set out to be heroes end up in early permanent retirement, but not before getting a whole lot of bystanders maimed.

No, I'm asking you to find your conscience. I know, for some of you, it's hard, but just listen for a second. We've all done jobs for the independent wealthy, tin-pot colony dictators (or the folks fighting against them) and folks that want to remain nameless. We do this because they both pay well and have good connections to ensure we're always knee-deep in capers. None of us ever thought to take the offers from the farming communes under hostile-takeover by crooked corps or the mining rocks under constant attack from pirates and plunderers. And why not? Maybe you don't think they'll pay you enough. Maybe you're an even bigger jerk and think that doing a good deed for folks in need will put you at odds with the usual underhanded skulks you do business. Whatever, you may have reasons, but I guaran-damn-tee you they aren't worth much to me or anyone else who still has a sense of ethics.

Think of it this way: You start doing the work of the little guy, the ordinary folk that make up the substance of the 'verse it self and all of the sudden, you're not some morally-ambiguous creep that lurks in shadows and only shows up when mayhem cuts loose; you're doing work you can be proud of. You're cutting down scum with all guns blazing, you're breaking the backs of crooks and their cadres, you're doing the right thing, which is something so many of us can't honestly say. Kinda makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, don't it?

-Bek Greskin, Outspoken Radical

Summary Edit

Radicals don't much care for typical mercenary thinking. They don't like to think of themselves as being heroes or saints, even though they do some distinctly heroic acts. They follow only a single tenet that unites them as a faction: work for the right people, not for the highest bidder. In a fight, Radicals use guerrilla tactics and cunning strategies to make up for the fact that they're almost always outnumbered. They also aren't afraid to bring massive and decisive firepower crashing down on their opponents with a total disregard to causing collateral damage, just as long as it doesn't harm any bystanders- buildings can be rebuilt, equipment can be reordered, but people can't be replaced.

The Flag and SymbolEdit

The Radicals' flag expresses all that they stand for. The white circle in the foreground represents a planet at peace. In the background a yellow bar sits proudly on a black bar, as good, honest people should be masters over the corrupt, greedy, and power hungry. We, the Radicals, are the line that separates the good from the corrupt, and surrounds and protects the peaceful planet. The purple circle and lines, when removed from the flag, are a symbol of the Radicals protection. You can find it posted anywhere the Radicals claim as their portected territory. The simple glyph means one thing: stay peaceful or face retribution.

History Edit

-Grid News Report from Citizen M-

The Radicals history is a varied mishmash of intermittant activism followed by periods of silence. Due to their small numbers, they tend to be short lived bursts of revolutionary action. The first Radical was nothing more than a 23rd century Androsi who was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time by some Crossbones Exchange members who may or may not have misunderstood something he may or may not have been allegedly doing at an unmarked storage facility. We don't even know his name, but he went down in the annals of the Radical as our founder. Hey, we all have humble beginnings. The point is that he (and by association, we) fought to do something right. Not Bleeding Heart right, full of pomp and circumstance, but just a simple, moral decision.

As word spread through The Grid about some Androsi getting the stuffing knocked out of him, that ruffled some feathers. "They can't treat people like that!" would be the battle cry for a while. It didn't quite roll off the tongue. A few enthusiastic souls even tried to take on the Crossbones Exchange single handed, but failed in a way that was so utter and complete that we don't even know what really happened to the poor bastards. This sort of cat and mouse-ery continued for the greater part of the 23rd and part of the 24th century. Suffice it to say, they needed organization, they needed gear, and they needed it fast. If they kept up in the way we were going, our numbers would never breach 50 without being wiped out by whoever pissed them off (or vice versa).

Through The Grid they started recruiting everyone who sympathized with them, which included some surprising individuals, complete with contacts, hook-ups, and the kitchen water receptacle. We continued in this manner through the 24th century, Cyberpunking it up with the best of them. Our wares got knocked out of commission in around midway through the 24th from some Corper software spikes. Bastards.

We were running some pretty high numbers by then, so they decided to take the plunge and actually hit the streets for more recruiting, and to pull some jobs (respectable jobs, mind you) to scrape up some dough. They didn't walk old ladies across the street or anything, but we didn't do anything that would make their collective mothers spit in their face. You could always tell where we rolled through, since nearly everything would be gone or fragged. Save for the innocents of course.

Anyways, now to the 25th. Ahh PAX, that glittering gem of a system. Once they heard about it, they knew that was going to be Radical territory, hands down. A place where the little guy could finally stand on his own two feet and against the two bit hounds that would kill him without a second thought. As they raced out to stake claims and kick (signal fades), they locked and loaded, with a few who stayed behind just in case there was some sort of monumnetal screw up. Good thing, because little did the Radicals know, Ultima Weapons had been busy in the R&D department, and...not many made it back. Maybe 3. Out of some much larger number. It was pitiful whatever the number was. But anyways, the Radicals are now in the process of rebuilding and striking back at what they see as their claim, the paradise for the everyday joe. I can't help but wish them luck. Then again, I do tend to favor the underdog. As always, remember to retain your freedom through thought! Citizen M, signing off.

-End Trasmission-

Current DayEdit

The survivng cells of Radicals have made the decision to re-double their efforts, especially in the Research and Development area of their faction, and have laid claim to the world of Ta'letop in order to have a centralized base of operations and planning for the first time in Radical history. The Radical way of life is everpresent on the planet, and the Ta'letop citizenry are forever grateful not to have to worry about the high and mighties coming in and stomping all over their respective sandcastles. They have been seeking to become to physical tech what the Crossbones Exchange is to software, the true macguyver of the factions. From the cleaners in their homes to the huge mining machines of the Corpers, they have begun to reverse-engineer everything they can get their hands on, and cross-engineer everything else, with decidedly unique effects. From a Tac-Arms Gunghir Portable computer station for the -ultimate- in hardware protection, to a Lorion Mining Arm attachment capable of mining ore at 2000lbs/minute, Radical Tech has the capability to be truly...radical. Their ranks numbering from 5 to 15k, depending on who you ask. Regardless of their number, even a lone Radical is considered a juggernaut...when you see them, that is.