Dragon's 'what the fuck have i told you about doing this' App, 2k16 V2 Electro-Boogaloo

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Dragon's 'what the fuck have i told you about doing this' App, 2k16 V2 Electro-Boogaloo

Post by  on Wed Aug 03, 2016 12:53 am

This format is dirtier than my asshole. I fixed it up. If you’d rather I use the format that’s actually in place, I’ll do so. But come the fuck on. Also, yes – I sperged out on the story, but I more than a few events that I wanted to cover. Quantity doesn’t necessarily imply quality, etc. etc.


Steam ID:


Character Name:
Lawrence Miller

Character Sex:

Character Age:
40 Y/O

Character Species + Race [If Appropriate]:
Human, Caucasian

Character Advantages/Talents:
Lawrence is older than what could be considered ‘average’ in the wasteland, and he has experienced more of it than most have as a result. He is experienced in an utterly vast number of different skills, from the common ones to the more niche things. He could readily be considered a ‘jack of all trades’. He is self-reliant, considering himself a ‘lone wolf’ in spite of the term’s more negative connotations.

Character Disadvantages/Weaknesses:
Lawrence is nomadic. Travelling has taken up a lot of his life, leaving him unspecialized since he has seldom found the time to sit down and take up a profession in detail – adding the ‘master of none’ aspect to his prior title.
Additionally, his self-reliant sense has otherwise inoculated him from a desire to interact with others. Miller tries to isolate himself from others out of a fear that harm may befall others who otherwise grow close to him. When he speaks, it’s often short and to the point. He’s additionally plagued by terrible memories which he often tries to forget. Although he’s fled across the Wasteland of the United States in order to distance himself from his past terrors, the notion of ‘feeling Human’ more often than not just brings a sense of maddening anguish.

Character Faction:
Non-Psycho Raider [Requires Backstory Detailing Character’s Sanity]

Character Equipment:
Miller utilizes a set of attire consisting of an unarmoured, but thoroughly modified pre-war motorcycle fatigues. They come loaded with a number of various pouches and compartments for the purpose of permitting extensive stowage and easy access to certain objects.

The various bits of hardware he’ll have at the start of the server will probably consist of a range of survival gear (nothing I should have to mention since it’s mostly basic). He utilizes a sawed off 12-gauge over-under shotgun with five 00 buck shells in reserve. Additional equipment includes a single stim-pack, a water canteen and a contaminated tin of expired mackerel. He has no bottle caps, and he also has a malfunctioning Pip-Boy model 2000 on his personage.

Character Backstory:
Hell on Earth. The Wasteland was smothered under the darkness of the night, but nary a soul dared venture out in the twilight hours, for roiling clouds of radioactive dust swept across the expanse of the landscape. The muddy ground was sodden with heavy rainfall – a product of the great storm that was taking place. This was probably as hostile as the Wasteland got, even going as far as to force people into hiding for the time.

From inside of the run-down building, there wasn’t much of a clear indication of whether or not it the weather would have cleared. The tarp above the shattered window fluttered violently underneath the raging storm, and the dark sky and dust obscured any possibility of spotting the clouds. The man taking refuge was forced to draw further back into the dank and decrepit building, up a flight of stairs and around a patch of sagging floor. At least there, he was able to readily sleep without fear of floodwaters disturbing him.

There used to be a time when Lawrence didn’t have to worry about all of the hostilities posed by the Wasteland. A time which he fought to suppress as a memory – for he had been rendered afraid of his past from a number of his experiences. A number of half-forgotten terrors ensuring that he remained mobile on a self-motivated quest, ever fleeing. As grim a motivation as it was, it was effective. Times for Miller were not like they once were, but when it came to weather not unlike that which he was experiencing, he couldn’t help but recall how it started.

He was once a resident of Vault 76, located midst the Southwestern Commonwealth. When he was only fourteen years of age, its great door was prised open – the residents being forced to evacuate the facility in lieu of the Vault’s computer being overridden by an unknown external force (unbeknownst to the residents). The all-clear was sounded, and as most inhabitants were rallied following their leave, they would have found that their former home autonomously sealed itself. Miller, at the time, was only fourteen years old. He was cast out into a hostile world which he was not prepared for.

The residents of the now defunct Vault 76 started to rove the wastes, guided only by the RobCo Pip-Boy 2000 units which they held close. But in spite of their organization, the Vault Dwellers would have been forcibly separated as a result of a monstrous storm. Those who did not seek shelter were poisoned and, ultimately, killed by the buffeting radioactive dust. Lawrence, however, had sought refuge within a small dugout for the time. Later, when he had emerged, he would only find that he would be alone for what was possibly the first time in his life. The very thought rattled him, and he was slow to assume a sense of responsibility for himself. It took a great deal of time for him to well up a sense of bravery and venture forth – albeit, not without first liberating a Pip-Boy model 2000 from the clutches of one of the deceased individuals buried within the radioactive dust, an action which was hard for him to do. But he understood the ubiquitous utility of the device.

The passing of the storm offered him a clear view over the dunes of sand and stone that he would one day grow used to. He walked with the sun to his back, carefully tracking his path using the model 2000 until he had found what was, at the time, the first sign of life following his outing. Days had passed, and the supplies which he had carried with him on his personage had quickly depleted. In need of a fast answer, he moved towards the distant signs of life – a moderately large town, surrounded by walls that had faint Humanoid silhouettes roving atop them. He couldn’t spare any room for doubt at this moment in time, for there was no clear alternative in his mind.

Lawrence’s arrival was anticipated. He was, as it happened, not the first from his Vault who had arrived at the camp. Other stragglers from the storm were able to survive and navigate towards the settlement. Clearly, they had otherwise alerted its inhabitants about potential new arrivals. Miller was perhaps just about as relieved as he was surprised, although stirring concerns welled in his mind pertaining to the fate of his immediate family. None of the prior Vault Dwellers who resided within the settlement knew of their fate, and they were not there themselves. All he could do was confide some hope that they would perhaps yet still make it to the camp, or that they may have found another settlement to call their own instead.

The teenager was quickly put to work alongside the other Vault Dwellers – the fresh faces being well received for their good health and their skills. He was housed inside of a makeshift bunkhouse alongside the others. Miller was, however, the only adolescent who had otherwise made it to the town. He bore no skills since he had never really moved onto any worthwhile occupation whilst in the Vault. In spite of this, he was brought into a branch of the town’s security wing – working in tandem with the adults who taught him about the basic premise of what their goals were, and what they were expected to defend the inhabitants of the town from. He had never finished his full education during his stay in the Vault, but what he knew at the time would have had to suffice.

Years passed, one after the other. Miller, previously unskilled in comparison to the rest of the Vault Dwellers, was brought in line with how those of the Wasteland thought and acted. He had spent more time around them than he had any other individual. The town, dubbed as ‘Sioux’ after the name of an influential group that was documented within one of the settlement’s libraries, grew on Lawrence – it had become his home in his mind’s eye. He had people that he could readily call his friends, and he was taken in under the wing of one of the Security Branch’s figureheads in spite of the parents which never did arrive. He earned the affectionate nickname of ‘Larry’ from the people that he knew, and he was keen on the idea of becoming rooted in the settlement, perhaps permanently. It was relatively calm despite being in an isolated pocket of the wastes, with security issues being far and few – usually taking the form of small, isolated groups of mutants posing a threat to grazing Brahmin livestock or the crops which sustained the settlement.

It all had to come crashing down, some day. When Lawrence was in the middle of his nineteenth year, a situation quickly boiled over within the settlement. A rumour spread like wildfire about someone signing off a contract on one of the Vault Dwellers, a mechanic, in order to sell them off to a Raider gang in exchange for a sum of caps. It took the previously quiet settlement by storm – that someone could so easily disappear overnight. Nobody knew who the perpetrator was however, which instilled a gnawing paranoia into most of the settlement’s folk. To make matters worse, the governing body saw fit to install a martial law so that the townsfolk were easier to control and monitor. This dogmatic order of business was merely a part of a systematic plan that the gang had put into play, however.

When chem-fuelled individuals stormed the town en-masse, the security was split between controlling the populace and mounting a defensive effort. Most didn’t even fight, for the ruling elite of the town had already established ties to the group prior. The Raider’s goal was to annex the town, and they’d done so successfully even before they had made their move. The ramshackle force which had previously worked whilst being blissfully unaware were enslaved, to be shipped off to a labour camp. Their attempts to fight back had gotten most of them slaughtered. Miller found himself among those who had sought to attempt to fight for their lives, but found himself wounded some time into the process. Defenceless, he was simply hoisted into chains and escorted away. Most of those who he had previously called friends were either dead, or they were traitors. It was the second time that he had lost everything and everyone.

Sioux was a lost cause at this point. Lawrence was pacified by the gun that was held to his head at all times, and he was press-ganged into the Raider group instead of being incarcerated as a slave. In spite of his injuries, he was able-bodied and relatively healthy. In comparison to the rest of the individuals who were riddled with either poisons or radiation (or in the worse cases, both), he boasted the ideal physical strength and health. To put that to waste with slave labour would have been wasteful. His only shortcoming, as far as the Raiders and their Boss were concerned, was his mental conditioning. He lacked the criminal instinct – he had never truly killed a man before, according to what was coerced out of the nineteen-year-old adolescent.

These Raiders were different in comparison to the atypical unorganized rabble which he was taught about by those who were a part of the Security in Sioux. They were organized, and had a hierarchy of power. They demonstrated their ability to think by systematically dismantling his former home from the inside without so much as a drop of blood from their end, yet they still annexed the homestead. Instead of condemning Lawrence into a life of harsh, unconditioned servitude – they offered a compromise in the form of a test. He would have retained his freedom by joining their group, dubbed as ‘The Loners’, if he could have proven himself as being a killer. He was rigorously tested through one exercise which shook the very fibre of his being. Miller was handed a rough-shod Shiv, and he was told to pick out one of the new slaves from the Sioux’s old Security team before killing them.

Lawrence stood divided on all fronts. The thought of taking a life made him sick to the core, for people were a different matter altogether when it came to taking lives. He had killed animals, but he had only done so when it was deemed as necessary. In the end, he wasn’t willing to consign himself to slavery however. He bore the rationale that he would perform a mercy killing, although he had concerns about the inefficiency of the shiv. From among the slaves, Miller had selected his former caretaker – an older individual of great sentimental value to the adolescent. But he did not wish to see him live out his twilight years in servitude, nor did he wish for his guardian to witness the atrocities that he would have been likely forced to commit under the guise of The Loners. At the end of the fifth night following his incarceration, Lawrence would have killed one of his former mentors and his caretaker – embedding the dull blade of the shiv into their temple following a brief verbal exchange. It was the first life that he had taken, and it had never left him.

Miller was inducted into the Raider gang, although the initial years still saw him with that metaphorical gun held against him. He watched as Sioux was stripped of its residents so that they could be pressed into slavery, and he watched the former settlement become a stronghold of debauchery, drugs and prostitution for The Loners to indulge in. The young blooded Raider stayed himself from a great deal of the vices that were on offer, afraid of the repercussions of their use. He was used to having a clear head, and he yet wished for his to remain unclouded by drugs so that he could at least think straight. He had a set of goals which he had put in place for himself, intent on at least utilizing his time within the gang for his own gain. Such was the gang’s creed after all; that the members were their own free selves – as ‘Loners’. In spite of the harsh nature of what the gang did, there were a number of useful skills which Miller was able to pick up along the way. The useful effects of a number of drugs were irrefutable, and learning how to put together some of the more basic concoctions made from wasteland products proved a boon to his survival skills. Likewise, he learned to further utilize the arms and armor of the new world – albeit in a more impromptu manner in comparison to an organized security force’s teachings.

More and more years rolled on, with Miller growing more and more accustomed to life within the gang. He had become annulled to the sense of killing, having learned that it’s common enough an occurrence in the wasteland for it to simply not matter. For the strongest were made to take tribute from the weakest. The gang’s power had grown exponentially throughout the passage of time. Lawrence was hardly a figurehead for the gang due to the individualist nature of how things were ran, but he was fine with his place in the natural order of things. He had spent twenty years with the gang committing various atrocities – having all but forgotten his past in the endeavour of his nefarious ways. But in spite of this, he yet maintained a clear headed sense of mind so that he could always conduct himself when he needed to do so. It would have proven to become Miller’s fall from grace.

With the gang’s growth, they set out to new horizons in order to find more slaves to power their economy of labour. Lawrence always opted to join the bands which conquered various smaller settlements, and more often than not returned successful – with a wealth of slaves and pillaged gear in tow. One such outing, however, would have had Miller find empathy knocking on his door. A large war band was orchestrated to conquer a moderately defended homestead called ‘Pendle’, although it would have ultimately been repelled due to a series of natural traps which caused a great deal of attrition to the group. Noxious fumes spouting from the ground had rendered most of the Raiders incredibly sick. It did a harsh number on their already poison-riddled bodies, putting the final nail in the coffin for many. Those who were able to endure passed through towards the homestead, already in no condition to fight. They were caught unaware by the surrounding, and there was no clear way back through it. Miller was among those who were able to survive the ensuing poisoning from the leaking gases, and he found himself the most experienced out of the seven or so that remained. He understood what it meant for a war band to be unsuccessful in their endeavours, but the others who lived chose not to follow this point of view. Despite being weakened by the environment, they said that they would find a safe passage and go back to the Loners in order to report it to them – the youth Raiders typically unaware of the risks involved. Miller dismissed it, and stated that they should have sought help from the homestead, an action which got him branded as a coward by those that remained. Worse still is how they sought to attack him, which resulted in two of the youth being killed. Two swift shots from Miller’s AK-112 assault rifle dispatched them both, which made the rest of the fleeting group scarper in an attempt to go about their own way.

Lawrence was left at the mercy of Pendle Homestead. He boasted no arms and approached in peace – taking the initiative of alerting them of the fact that their home was on the map of a large Raider gang. Miller understood that he had already deserted his gang the moment that the war band had fallen apart, meaning that he was once again on his own. For a moment, he put aside the fact that he was initially going to kill the inhabitants of the camp – instead drawing up the idea that he could instead utilize them to cover his tracks and otherwise escape from the wrath of the Loners whilst likewise helping them as well.

Miller took note of the fact that Pendle was built atop an old vehicle scrapyard. A number of its inhabitants were avid Mechanics and Engineers who utilized robots to help keep a number of salvaged old-world vehicles in running order. It came as a shock to Lawrence – the reasons for as to why the Loners wanted to take this settlement over also became fairly clear. But in spite of this, there were relatively few fighters among the inhabitants of Pendle, and very few of them were relatively experienced in the matter. Once Miller had made contact, he willingly allowed himself to become imprisoned by them, with most of his belongings being stripped from him. He understood that he had to buy their trust first and foremost, and the various marks of the Loners on his attire were all dead giveaways to his affiliation. It did, however, lend him some credibility to his story once he had explained the situation to them. Over the span of a few hours from his arrival and then to his imprisonment, he was eventually released under a close watch. The gaseous environment surrounding Pendle was advantageous, but it wasn’t infallible. He was paired up with a Woman who had lived within the Settlement for a great deal of their life – an individual who was fairly well versed, as far as combat went, themselves. They strove away from the mechanical inclination of the others and instead took up arms for the defence and security of the settlement. She and Miller would have found themselves training a local militia over the next few days. Lawrence never did learn of her name – few were willing to trust him, but they couldn’t help but be cautious in spite of his credible warning.

Whilst the Militia was trained by the two of them, the rest of the settlement was packing up. They prepared their robots and tools, shifting everything they had into the various vehicles that they had in working order. The centrepiece was a large truck with a mounted trailer that had bolted-on metal all over it, followed by an armoured bus. What followed was a series of other vehicles, all being loaded with energy cell batteries. It was an impressive array – Miller was eager to see the convoy in action, although he had doubts as to whether or not he would have been a part of it. Even one week in, he wasn’t well received. The start of a day often consisted of being led out from a makeshift cell after being un-cuffed from a radiator. In twilight hours, he was led back so he could get rest once more. Although as more and more time passed, doubts about the Raider’s claim of a potential invasion occurring began to surface. But in spite of at least being helpful, he was given some amount of credit. Slowly, he was inaugurated into the settlement – taking up a position as one of the security staff alongside the Woman whom he was working with prior. And as the month ticked on, the preparations which were put into place in order to move camp were gradually undone. Miller, previously weakened from his illness, progressed to recover from that condition with the help of the Doctors who were well-versed with the gas’ effects.

He had started to learn the intricate nature of the vehicles on the camp – learning how to operate them, how they work and how they were maintained. Whenever he was not on security detail, he would be employed in order to help work on bringing more vehicles from the scrapyard into working order. Soon, this new order of life quickly disillusioned him from the looming threat of the Raiders. Instead of his old Raider attire and firearms, he was given a set of motorcycle leathers to wear – coupled with a battered double barrel shotgun in place of his assault rifle. Miller could hardly object, for he was treated fairly well at the camp. The trade-off in his belongings and their value was objectively worth it for the knowledge he’d acquired as well. As more time passed, Lawrence found himself growing fond of his colleague – a mutual feeling being shared between the two, growing from simple respect for one-another’s strengths to subtle admiration. But times were yet turbulent, and there was still a looming Raider gang which had its eyes set on Pendle. A relationship in the making would have been quelled before it could have fostered into anything better than it already was.

On the dawn of a dreary day, a horde of makeshift vehicles appeared on the horizon – dune buggies consisting of scraps pieced together haphazardly charging over the hazardous terrain effortlessly. The distant clouds of dust, the echoes of rough-shod fusion powered engines that were salvaged hunks of junk. The Loners had been preparing – Miller acknowledged that the scouts that he had let go must have been successful in the trial of returning when he was alerted of the incoming force that would soon be on their doorstep. A hasty defence was set up along the walls with the intent of delaying the inevitable – anything that could have been done to buy time to prepare to leave once more was done with no expense spared. They had, at best, hours to lay traps and erect fortifications out of expendable scraps. Lawrence and the Woman, who yet insisted on remaining nameless, orchestrated the defensive effort – putting a plan into place that would allow the both of them to leave alongside the main group. They acknowledged that, even if they got out of Pendle, the Raiders would likely pursue them in their buggies. The provisions being packed were energy cells for the vehicles, food and water – and ammunition, for the inevitable fight to get the Raiders off of their tracks.

In the end, that’s all they ever did end up doing. They delayed the inevitable. As they fell back into the walls of the camp, the Raiders circled the settlement with their own vehicles whilst those on foot climbed over the walls and started to slaughter those who were not already mounted up and ready to go. Miller had retreated to the convoy, commandeering a rusted Chryslus Motors Highwayman with the Woman riding in the passenger seat. An additional civilian was seated in the back of the vehicle, taking shelter as the convoy rolled out – the lead vehicle simply smashing its way through a gated fence and onto the road outside. Miller followed suit in the Highwayman, using what he had learned in order to keep the vehicle in its paces, although the restored nature of the vehicle made it so that it was finicky to operate despite its rugged reliability. It was there that the pursuit commenced. A great number of buggies, roughly seventeen or so in number, left a torrent of dust in their wake as they trailed after the six vehicles in the convoy from Pendle. The bus and the truck were the most important of the two, but they were the most armoured, and were brimming with firing ports and deterrents for would-be pursuers. They set their sights on the stragglers.

Miller’s vehicle was assailed by a group of three buggies, catching wind of them through the reflective mirror hanging down from the Highwayman’s roof. The weight of the various provisions and energy cells in the vehicle’s trunk inhibited the vehicle’s mobility to some degree, but there were ample stocks of ammunition to keep the Woman in the passenger seat firing off shots towards their assailants. Lawrence’s only focus was on driving, in order to ensure that the vehicle didn’t run off of the beaten track. The entire struggle would have spanned an absolutely immense clearing, although as the convoy’s vehicles were gradually picked off despite the attrition on the Raider’s buggies, it became more and more clear to Miller that he might have had to otherwise abandon the convoy should he have wanted to get away with his life, although he yet remained steadfast in spite of the fact that he wished to adhere to the wishes of his passenger. So long as they could fight, then there was still a flicker of hope. But as with all people that he grew close to, his grim trend continued. Growing weary with the constant exchange of fire, the Raiders changed their tactics – instead charging forward with their buggies in order to ruthlessly fire into the vehicles from the side windows. Miller ascertained one attempt in which this was attempted, and successfully repelled the buggy by crippling its exposed engine with a well-placed shot from the sawn-off. But the second attempt on the passenger side of the vehicle proved to be an offensive move that he couldn’t repel with ease. In spite of his passenger reloading, he had to swerve the Highwayman into the buggy – the two vehicles colliding and grinding against each other along the stretch of road. And in a flash, another grim memory etched itself into the mind of Miller.

The dogmatic and ruthless Raiders in the buggy locked eyes with the driver. They had an explosive charge on the vehicle – they intended to become martyrs in order to take down the convoy’s escort. His recollection extends to the Woman in the passenger seat, who was dazed by the crash – and then to the Raider in the buggy, who wore an explosive belt and clutched a detonator in his hand. Even over the grumbling of the salvaged Highwayman’s engine, he could hear the deep-pitted scream of the Raider as he pressed the detonator switch. Miller yanked the steering wheel to the side, sending him barrelling off of the road as the buggy went up in a cataclysmic explosion – deafening him and sending a flurry of shrapnel into the side of the vehicle, and into the cabin. The civilian in the back of the Highwayman perished – and as did the Woman, who had caught most of the shards that would have been destined towards Miller. In the midst of an adrenaline rush, he could hardly bring himself to mourn the loss of someone that he cared about however. He simply pushed his foot down on the pedal, charging off in an opposite direction from the rest of the Pendle convoy. The ruggedness of the vehicle proved itself, still remaining operational despite the blast. None of the Loners pursued the Highwayman – they had their greedy eyes set on the main vehicles within the convoy.

Slowly, Lawrence could see the trails of dust begin to fade he put space between him and the people whom he was trusted to protect. In the dead of the night, he came down from his high – the Highwayman trundling to a halt in the midst of a large salt flat. The sky was clear, but outside of the car – there was utterly nothing. For once in his life, there was silence. He knew that it had happened again. Miller had tried to settle down, only for things to take a turn for the worse after helping someone. He couldn’t come to terms with the fact that anyone he considered a friend up to that point had otherwise come to be killed in some way, shape or form. After taking a moment to reluctantly clean himself and his vehicle of the carrion of both his former colleague and the passenger, he took a number of hours to simply sit and contemplate – barely containing himself all the while, for he was utterly frustrated at the circumstances he’s been met with – time and time again, following his excursion from his Vault.

He did come to a conclusion, however. One that would have him flee, making use of the assets that were left behind in the stead of his past. The Highwayman was still functional, and it was loaded with a great deal of ammunition, energy fuel cells and provisions. Miller mounted up into the vehicle, before booting up the Pip-Boy 2000 to use as a form of navigation. He placed the vehicle into gear, before speeding off across the flat – his mind set on reaching the East Coast in hopes of achieving a different life there. A place where he could leave all of his demons behind by running away from all that he’d seen and done. The driving was a process that would have taken him at least two months, although he had a fair surplus of fuel, coupled with ammunition to hunt with in order to maintain his provisions. He crossed from the Southwest Commonwealth into the Four States Commonwealth, and then moved onto the Planes. At the end of the year, he found himself in the Columbia Commonwealth. He had plans to move further north until he eventually reached the New England Commonwealth. All in all, the process of prolonged driving took so long due to the numerous hazards prevalent throughout the wasteland. The longevity of the Highwayman was a blessing in his mind’s eye, but all good things eventually come to an end. His travels had to come to a close within the Columbian Commonwealth since the scavenged vehicle eventually choked – leaving him on foot once more.

By 2240, he was 40 years of age. His road trip had allowed him to see what became of America as a whole, and he was not surprised to learn that the entirety of its landmass was affected much like the Southwest Commonwealth was. With what little supplies he could gather from the remains of the Highwayman which he left behind, he began to rove across the expanse of the East Coast. However, with dwindling supplies and a fairly stalwart approach to remaining isolated from others, his gradually dwindling equipment began to take its toll. Inevitably, he found himself reluctantly approaching a settlement – intent on finding work, earning money and getting enough gear so that he could move on. His goal was still to eventually reach the New England Commonwealth one day – believing it to be as far as he could go from the terrors that he had left behind from his past. He had instilled some belief that once he was there, he would be afforded silence – much like he was given in the great salt flat, the last generally pleasant memory he has been left with.

He remained rested on his bedroll, the inclement weather outside of the waterlogged building still raging on in spite of the time that Miller had spent in recollection. Come morning, should it have cleared – he would have continued on his way, destined towards the settlement he last saw on his Pip-Boy 2000, on the last instance where it worked properly.

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Re: Dragon's 'what the fuck have i told you about doing this' App, 2k16 V2 Electro-Boogaloo

Post by Satan on Wed Aug 03, 2016 5:41 pm


"It would be easy to get lost up there, wouldn't it? To find someplace very far away, where you could spend the rest of your life in peace and happiness."


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