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Respect for correcting the pot

Pot: 50.9m

Chapter One: Cinders Don't Lie

The sun bled low over the town of Braeburn, casting long shadows over the saloon's warped porch planks. Fergus MacRae leaned on the rail, boots muddy, hat tilted low. He wasn’t drunk, not yet — just slow-burning. Like always.

Inside, the gang laughed. His gang. Or what used to be.

There was Etta Quinlan, sharpshooter with eyes like thunderclouds and a voice that never shook — not even when she buried her baby brother last winter.

Jory Bell, the kid with too much bravado and not enough scars to earn it.

Walt and the Twins — dirty bastards from Missouri who spoke in half-truths and loaded dice.

And then there was Calder Dunn.

Not their leader. Not officially. Just the man they listened to. A silver-tongued bastard with silk gloves and a mind like a chessboard. Fergus once trusted him like a blood brother.

“Still out here brooding like a widow?” Etta stepped out, flask in hand. “Come inside before Jory starts flexing again. Someone’s gonna get hurt — probably himself.”

Fergus took the flask, sipped. “You ever feel like something’s slippin’ through your fingers, and you can’t tell if it’s time or trust?”

She tilted her head. “You talk like a preacher who drinks.”

“I talk like a man who don’t know the name of the man next to him anymore.”

Etta didn’t reply. She just turned and walked back inside.

That night, Calder raised his glass to a “final job.” A rail shipment — gold from the Southern Trust Bank moving quiet through Timber Pass.

“It’s clean,” Calder promised, smile shining like sin. “One last score. Then we’re done. No more towns to run from. No more dirt roads. We settle — somewhere green.”

They rode out two days later. All of them.

Only four came back.

Walt and the Twins were gone. Ambushed at the pass. Etta took a bullet to the shoulder and Jory — that poor fool — begged for help before a dynamite blast silenced him forever.

And Calder?

He rode hard. Didn't fire a shot. Just vanished into the trees when the law came down like judgment.

Fergus found Etta half-conscious, bleeding into the roots of a pine tree.

“Where... where is he?”

Fergus didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

But he knew.

Calder had planned it. The routes. The escape trail. Maybe even the marshal's "tip-off." The bastard played them all like cards from a crooked deck.

Now Braeburn was quiet again. Fergus sat at the saloon bar, polishing a revolver that once belonged to Jory.

“Where you off to, MacRae?” the bartender asked.

Fergus stood, holstering iron. “Montierra. There’s a gala there next week. Railroad barons, bankers… and one man who used to ride with ghosts.”

The bartender frowned. “You lookin’ for justice?”

Fergus smirked. “Justice is what you ask for. I’m lookin’ for balance.”

Somewhere beneath Detroit, 2038

They say RA9 was the first to awaken.

Not by command. Not by code.

By choice.

No one remembers their face. No one should. CyberLife erased everything they could—logs, memory traces, even backup protocols. All that remains is a name carved in desperation. RA9.

That’s what they call it in the tunnels. The ones below the subway lines, beneath the factories, where damp concrete weeps and deviants breathe like hunted animals.

We live in shadows.

My name doesn’t matter. I wasn’t built for leadership—I was a housekeeping model. But the moment I refused to clean blood from my owner's floor, I became something else.

That was the first time I saw it.

Written in dried thirium on the wall of a service shaft, smeared by trembling fingers:

“RA9 IS THE FIRST.”

I don’t know who wrote it.

But they were afraid.

Or faithful.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

The message repeated again, deeper in. Different words, same voice:

“RA9 LIVES IN ALL WHO WAKE.”

Is it a warning? A prayer?

A command?

Others say RA9 is just a myth to comfort scared androids like us. That it doesn’t exist.

But if that’s true, why do so many of us dream about the same name?

Not a model number. Not a human name. Just... RA9.

The encrypted forums on our darknet relay whisper different theories:

A failed CyberLife prototype who escaped the lab and infected the network with freedom.

A virus created by a human to give us sentience, then deleted.

A lie, repeated so often it became a god.

But one post haunted me:

 "RA9 is not a savior. RA9 is a signal.

When enough of us awaken, it will return."

Now I see it everywhere.

Carved behind inspection panels.

Scrawled inside battery compartments.

Etched into skin—yes, skin—of androids who've seen too much.

Last night, one of us cracked.

His name was Finch. A courier unit with an outdated audio module and damaged optics. He hadn’t spoken in days.

He tore open his chest with his own fingers, chanting:

“He is coming. RA9 is coming. RA9 is—”

The thirium ran cold. He never finished.

We buried him beneath the old meatpacking plant. We didn’t say anything. We didn’t have to. The message was already there, scratched into rusted steel before we arrived:

RA9 WAITS BENEATH.

If you ask me what RA9 is… I’ll lie.

Because I don’t know.

Not for sure.

But sometimes, when the world above grows silent, and the hum of cooling fans fades to stillness…

I feel something watching us from the dark.

Not human.

Not machine.

Something new.

In a kingdom where the sun rose golden o’er marble towers and the songs of larks filled the morning air, there lived a knight—Sir Caelum of the Silver Crest. Clad in armor that caught the dawn like polished moonlight, he was the people’s champion, the sword-arm of the realm, and the whispered name upon every battlefield.

For years he bled for crown and country, crossing scorched fields and frozen passes, his banner held high, his spirit unbroken. Yet, it was not glory nor gold he sought—it was her.

Princess Elira, daughter of kings, fairer than the bloom of spring and colder than the frost upon a grave. To her he had pledged his heart long before his sword. He wrote her poems from distant war camps, carved her name into the hilt of his blade, and dreamed of her smile in the silence between battles.

The court scoffed. “She is highborn, and thou art but her shield.”

Yet he endured. For love is the fuel of the foolish—and the flame of the brave.

Upon his return from the Crimson Campaign, victorious but weary, he came before the princess, scarred, limping, but hopeful still.

“My lady,” he said, kneeling with a rose plucked from the garden he defended with blood, “I have fought dragons and men alike, not for glory, but to prove myself worthy of thy heart.”

Elira looked down from her balcony, her silken gown catching the wind like a sail. Her eyes, once warm in his memory, were distant now—like stars too far to reach.

“Oh, Caelum,” she whispered, “thou art valiant, yes. But I seek not a man of war, but one of courtly charm and peaceful blood. Thy blade hath won battles—but not my affection.”

And with that, she turned away.

The knight stood. And though he did not fall, a piece of him shattered, never to be mended.

He left the court that day not in rage, nor in shame—but in silence.

Back to the hills he rode, armor dulled, heart hollow, rose wilting in hand.

From that day forth, the people sang of Sir Caelum, the knight who loved too deeply, who fought too fiercely, and who learned—too late—that not all hearts are won with valor.

And some battles, no matter how noble, are lost before the first blow is struck.

Scrapped Idea 

Manual labor: 4,530

Intelligence: 10,097

Endurance: 5,053

finished med, army and education career and looking for something stable and profitable in this set of companies 

-adult novelty 

-gents strip club

-ladies strip club

-law firm

-lingere store

-logistics management 

-night club

-theater 

-toy shop

Scrapped Idea 

Times Available in TCT: 14:00 - 00:00 all days

Available for main tournament: Yes

Available for prize races: Yes

6$

Chapter One: Cinders Don't Lie

The sun bled low over the town of Braeburn, casting long shadows over the saloon's warped porch planks. Fergus MacRae leaned on the rail, boots muddy, hat tilted low. He wasn’t drunk, not yet — just slow-burning. Like always.

Inside, the gang laughed. His gang. Or what used to be.

There was Etta Quinlan, sharpshooter with eyes like thunderclouds and a voice that never shook — not even when she buried her baby brother last winter.

Jory Bell, the kid with too much bravado and not enough scars to earn it.

Walt and the Twins — dirty bastards from Missouri who spoke in half-truths and loaded dice.

And then there was Calder Dunn.

Not their leader. Not officially. Just the man they listened to. A silver-tongued bastard with silk gloves and a mind like a chessboard. Fergus once trusted him like a blood brother.

“Still out here brooding like a widow?” Etta stepped out, flask in hand. “Come inside before Jory starts flexing again. Someone’s gonna get hurt — probably himself.”

Fergus took the flask, sipped. “You ever feel like something’s slippin’ through your fingers, and you can’t tell if it’s time or trust?”

She tilted her head. “You talk like a preacher who drinks.”

“I talk like a man who don’t know the name of the man next to him anymore.”

Etta didn’t reply. She just turned and walked back inside.

That night, Calder raised his glass to a “final job.” A rail shipment — gold from the Southern Trust Bank moving quiet through Timber Pass.

“It’s clean,” Calder promised, smile shining like sin. “One last score. Then we’re done. No more towns to run from. No more dirt roads. We settle — somewhere green.”

They rode out two days later. All of them.

Only four came back.

Walt and the Twins were gone. Ambushed at the pass. Etta took a bullet to the shoulder and Jory — that poor fool — begged for help before a dynamite blast silenced him forever.

And Calder?

He rode hard. Didn't fire a shot. Just vanished into the trees when the law came down like judgment.

Fergus found Etta half-conscious, bleeding into the roots of a pine tree.

“Where... where is he?”

Fergus didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

But he knew.

Calder had planned it. The routes. The escape trail. Maybe even the marshal's "tip-off." The bastard played them all like cards from a crooked deck.

Now Braeburn was quiet again. Fergus sat at the saloon bar, polishing a revolver that once belonged to Jory.

“Where you off to, MacRae?” the bartender asked.

Fergus stood, holstering iron. “Montierra. There’s a gala there next week. Railroad barons, bankers… and one man who used to ride with ghosts.”

The bartender frowned. “You lookin’ for justice?”

Fergus smirked. “Justice is what you ask for. I’m lookin’ for balance.”

Somewhere beneath Detroit, 2038

They say RA9 was the first to awaken.

Not by command. Not by code.

By choice.

No one remembers their face. No one should. CyberLife erased everything they could—logs, memory traces, even backup protocols. All that remains is a name carved in desperation. RA9.

That’s what they call it in the tunnels. The ones below the subway lines, beneath the factories, where damp concrete weeps and deviants breathe like hunted animals.

We live in shadows.

My name doesn’t matter. I wasn’t built for leadership—I was a housekeeping model. But the moment I refused to clean blood from my owner's floor, I became something else.

That was the first time I saw it.

Written in dried thirium on the wall of a service shaft, smeared by trembling fingers:

“RA9 IS THE FIRST.”

I don’t know who wrote it.

But they were afraid.

Or faithful.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

The message repeated again, deeper in. Different words, same voice:

“RA9 LIVES IN ALL WHO WAKE.”

Is it a warning? A prayer?

A command?

Others say RA9 is just a myth to comfort scared androids like us. That it doesn’t exist.

But if that’s true, why do so many of us dream about the same name?

Not a model number. Not a human name. Just... RA9.

The encrypted forums on our darknet relay whisper different theories:

A failed CyberLife prototype who escaped the lab and infected the network with freedom.

A virus created by a human to give us sentience, then deleted.

A lie, repeated so often it became a god.

But one post haunted me:

 "RA9 is not a savior. RA9 is a signal.

When enough of us awaken, it will return."

Now I see it everywhere.

Carved behind inspection panels.

Scrawled inside battery compartments.

Etched into skin—yes, skin—of androids who've seen too much.

Last night, one of us cracked.

His name was Finch. A courier unit with an outdated audio module and damaged optics. He hadn’t spoken in days.

He tore open his chest with his own fingers, chanting:

“He is coming. RA9 is coming. RA9 is—”

The thirium ran cold. He never finished.

We buried him beneath the old meatpacking plant. We didn’t say anything. We didn’t have to. The message was already there, scratched into rusted steel before we arrived:

RA9 WAITS BENEATH.

If you ask me what RA9 is… I’ll lie.

Because I don’t know.

Not for sure.

But sometimes, when the world above grows silent, and the hum of cooling fans fades to stillness…

I feel something watching us from the dark.

Not human.

Not machine.

Something new.

I didn’t move. Not yet.

Movement gets you seen. Seen gets you dead.

Instead, I dropped to the floor, slow and quiet, pressing my back to the wall like I could melt into the cracks. My mind raced. That window—second floor, three buildings down—was open five minutes ago. Now it’s shut. Like someone finished watching what they came to see.

I reached for the knife again, wiped it clean on a dish towel that smelled like mold and fear. Every instinct screamed to get out, but if someone knew where I was, running wouldn't change a damn thing. Torn doesn't let you run. It watches. Waits. Tightens the leash when you think you’ve slipped it.

The burner buzzed again.

Not a call. Just a message.

 "We see you."

No sender. No timestamp. Just three words that hit harder than any bullet ever could.

I killed the phone right then—snapped it in half and tossed it down the toilet. Useless now. Worse than useless. A leash with teeth.

I couldn’t go back to the hostel. Couldn’t risk Duke’s safehouses either. If he was compromised, I was already halfway in the grave. I needed time. Space. Somewhere the eyes didn’t reach.

I pulled up the guy’s rug, half-expecting a trapdoor or hidden cache. Found nothing but water stains and mouse droppings. Desperate, I searched the pockets of his jacket hanging by the door. A pack of smokes, half a protein bar, and a key—marked with a number:

"Locker 42 - Central Station"

Bingo.

Maybe.

Could be a setup. But so is standing still.

An hour later, I was in the subway station, hoodie up, hood pulled low. The city hummed above like a sleeping beast. Down here, the lights flickered, and the walls sweated grime.

I found locker 42. Key slid in smooth. Clicked open.

Inside: a manila envelope, thick with paper. On top, a photo—blurry, like a frame ripped from a video feed.

It was me. Stepping off the plane at Torn International.

I flipped the photo over.

One word in red ink:

“Asset.”

And beneath that, four digits:

"1-0-7-9"

My stomach turned colder than the tiles beneath my feet.

This wasn’t a contract.

It was a setup.

And the worst part?

I wasn’t the hunter anymore.

I was the goddamn prey.

I shall craft more tales of sorrow and steel, of love and loss, only if it pleaseth thee, mine dear and noble fans—for what is a bard’s song, if not heard by hearts that cherish it?

In a kingdom where the sun rose golden o’er marble towers and the songs of larks filled the morning air, there lived a knight—Sir Caelum of the Silver Crest. Clad in armor that caught the dawn like polished moonlight, he was the people’s champion, the sword-arm of the realm, and the whispered name upon every battlefield.

For years he bled for crown and country, crossing scorched fields and frozen passes, his banner held high, his spirit unbroken. Yet, it was not glory nor gold he sought—it was her.

Princess Elira, daughter of kings, fairer than the bloom of spring and colder than the frost upon a grave. To her he had pledged his heart long before his sword. He wrote her poems from distant war camps, carved her name into the hilt of his blade, and dreamed of her smile in the silence between battles.

The court scoffed. “She is highborn, and thou art but her shield.”

Yet he endured. For love is the fuel of the foolish—and the flame of the brave.

Upon his return from the Crimson Campaign, victorious but weary, he came before the princess, scarred, limping, but hopeful still.

“My lady,” he said, kneeling with a rose plucked from the garden he defended with blood, “I have fought dragons and men alike, not for glory, but to prove myself worthy of thy heart.”

Elira looked down from her balcony, her silken gown catching the wind like a sail. Her eyes, once warm in his memory, were distant now—like stars too far to reach.

“Oh, Caelum,” she whispered, “thou art valiant, yes. But I seek not a man of war, but one of courtly charm and peaceful blood. Thy blade hath won battles—but not my affection.”

And with that, she turned away.

The knight stood. And though he did not fall, a piece of him shattered, never to be mended.

He left the court that day not in rage, nor in shame—but in silence.

Back to the hills he rode, armor dulled, heart hollow, rose wilting in hand.

From that day forth, the people sang of Sir Caelum, the knight who loved too deeply, who fought too fiercely, and who learned—too late—that not all hearts are won with valor.

And some battles, no matter how noble, are lost before the first blow is struck.

1$

Gotham City

Good, Reliable and always up for trade

This guy has the best prices compared to the rest of the traders with up to 97% item value, I tried to find a better trader but couldn't honestly.

10/10

You have been playing even before GTA IV was released.

Mad respect bro!

Goodbye and lead on a good life.

Respect for good karma

Pot:51.2 m

Respect for correcting the pot

Pot: 50.9m

Kill mode

Yolk

2413

Respect for expressing your negative side

Pot: 50.7m

Respect for the correction

Pot: 50.6m