Vee_rtmb: forum

[image: blogger.googleusercontent.com]

RTMB Farm Corp.

🟩 Looking for work? 🟩

What to expect:                                      

• Comfortable salary
• Good work community
  
• Company benefits
  

 

What we are looking for:

• Hard working people
• No experince required
• Minimum 150 work stats all round
  

Entry One - “Concrete Baptism”

City never sleeps. It just stirs - restless, hungry, like a wounded animal gnawing on its own tail. The neon lights of Torn bleed into the puddles, reflections of promises that never quite make it off the ground. Every corner whispers danger, every shadow hides a deal. You learn to listen… or you don’t last long enough to regret it.

I wasn’t born into this. No family name, no silver spoon - just rust, rot, and the hiss of leaking O₂ tanks. Spent my youth knee-deep in junkyards, scraping together change from metal and fumes. You learn the value of every coin when it’s the difference between hunger and heat. Nights were cold, mornings colder. But the city… she rewards those who don’t blink.

[image: blogger.googleusercontent.com]

 

One day, I stopped scavenging and started taking. A wallet here, a watch there - Torn didn’t mind. Nobody does, as long as the blood stays under the rain. That’s when I caught their attention - the Italians. Suits sharp enough to cut your throat, smiles sharper. They saw something in me. Maybe desperation. Maybe potential. Doesn’t matter. They gave me work. Real work. 

 

[image: blogger.googleusercontent.com]

 

Now I move in quieter circles. The kind that don’t show up in newspapers. Corner boy of the Crime Lords - sounds fancy, but it’s just another title for “useful.” Still, in this city, that’s a kind of power. Torn’s veins run thick with greed and ambition, and I’ve learned to swim in it.

[image: blogger.googleusercontent.com]

 

So here I am - ten levels deep into a life I didn’t plan but can’t leave. The city’s my mother now. She raised me with broken glass and cigarette smoke. And when I walk her streets at night, I swear she whispers my name.

– Vee


[DISCLAIMER: Pictures generated using AI (I'm lazy to draw)]
Support me here - ➡️www.torn.com/bazaar.php⬅️

[image: blogger.googleusercontent.com]

RTMB Farm Corp.

🟩 Looking for work? 🟩

What to expect:                                      

• Comfortable salary
• Good work community
  
• Company benefits
  

 

What we are looking for:

• Hard working people
• No experince required
• Minimum 150 work stats all round
  

Entry Three - “The Walk to the Warehouse”

 

Morning came gray, like the city forgot to wake up. Streets still damp from the night’s drizzle - that thin mist that crawls under your coat and reminds you Torn doesn’t care how clean your shoes are. I had a meeting down at the warehouse near the docks. The boss wanted a word. He never says why, and I never ask. You don’t last long in this life by asking why.

 

The city was alive in that quiet, broken way it always is. I passed a small café - saw a family inside, all smiles and syrup, the kind that look like a postcard someone left behind. The kid laughed, loud and honest. For a second, I almost forgot what that sounded like. Torn’s got a funny sense of humor - it shows you hope just long enough to remind you it’s not yours.

 

Further down, a couple sat on a bench, hands tangled, eyes locked like the world had stopped spinning just for them. I almost envied them. Then I remembered what envy costs around here.

[image: blogger.googleusercontent.com]

 

Took a left by the alley, and the soundtrack changed - three kids roughing up another. The kind of cruelty that doesn’t need a reason. I stared just long enough for one of them to notice me. That was enough. They scattered like roaches. The beaten one just sat there, staring at the ground. Didn’t thank me. Didn’t need to. Gratitude’s a luxury in Torn.

 

A few blocks more and I passed the old mission. Some bum was on the steps, half-drunk, half-dead, preaching about “the end coming for us all.” I told him, “You’re late. It’s already here.” He laughed. I think. Hard to tell under all that coughing.

 

[image: blogger.googleusercontent.com]

 

When I finally reached the warehouse, the smell hit me first - oil, metal, and damp wood. The perfume of industry and crime. I stood outside for a moment, just watching the seagulls fight over scraps near the docks. Even they were desperate. Even they belonged here.

 

Inside, I could already hear the boss’s voice - calm, low, dangerous. The kind of voice that makes you forget you had plans. I took a breath, adjusted my collar, and stepped in. Torn’s heartbeat was waiting.

 

– Vee

 

[DISCLAIMER: Pictures generated using AI (I'm lazy to draw)]
Support me here - ➡️www.torn.com/bazaar.php⬅️

Entry Two - “The Fishmonger Incident”

 

Rain hadn’t stopped all day. The kind that doesn’t wash the filth away, just moves it around - from the gutters to the faces of the city’s forgotten. Sal’s Fish Monger stank of salt, death, and regret. Perfect spot for a drop. The kind of place the cops don’t walk past unless they’ve lost a bet.

 

I had two of my boys unloading the crate out back - tuna on the manifest, diamonds in reality. Smooth job. Quiet. Until he showed up.

 

[image: blogger.googleusercontent.com]

 

Skinny as a rake, twitchy as a dying lightbulb. Eyes darting like he’s watching a different movie in his head. He staggered up to me, one shoe missing, muttering something about “powder.” I told him to take a walk before I made him part of the pavement. He laughed - that high, broken laugh only the truly damned have - and asked if I was “holding.”

 

I looked him dead in the eye and said, “Buddy, the only thing I’m holding is patience, and it’s running out.”

 

[image: blogger.googleusercontent.com]

 

Didn’t work. They never listen. He kept circling, mumbling about angels and debt collectors, getting closer. I could smell him - a mix of sweat, fish, and desperation. Torn’s holy trinity. One of my guys, Rico, started snickering. Said the dopehead looked like he crawled out of the freezer with the rest of the catch.

 

“Hey Vee,” he said, “maybe he’s just here for a sniff of the merch, yeah?”

The junkie laughed, loud this time. Said we all got our habits, just different dealers. Then he reached out - maybe to grab me, maybe to make a point - and my hand moved on its own. Quick jab to the gut. Down he went, gasping, folding like bad origami.

 

I told Rico to drag him behind the dumpster and let him sleep it off. Didn’t need a scene, not today. The city’s already loud enough.

 

[image: blogger.googleusercontent.com]

 

As we finished the drop, I glanced back - the junkie was still twitching, whispering to the concrete. Something about “the fish talking.” I almost laughed. Almost.

 

In Torn, even the street trash thinks it’s part of the story. Maybe they are. Maybe we all are - just background noise in someone else’s tragedy.

 

– Vee

 

[DISCLAIMER: Pictures generated using AI (I'm lazy to draw)]
Support me here - ➡️www.torn.com/bazaar.php⬅️

Entry One - “Concrete Baptism”

City never sleeps. It just stirs - restless, hungry, like a wounded animal gnawing on its own tail. The neon lights of Torn bleed into the puddles, reflections of promises that never quite make it off the ground. Every corner whispers danger, every shadow hides a deal. You learn to listen… or you don’t last long enough to regret it.

I wasn’t born into this. No family name, no silver spoon - just rust, rot, and the hiss of leaking O₂ tanks. Spent my youth knee-deep in junkyards, scraping together change from metal and fumes. You learn the value of every coin when it’s the difference between hunger and heat. Nights were cold, mornings colder. But the city… she rewards those who don’t blink.

[image: blogger.googleusercontent.com]

 

One day, I stopped scavenging and started taking. A wallet here, a watch there - Torn didn’t mind. Nobody does, as long as the blood stays under the rain. That’s when I caught their attention - the Italians. Suits sharp enough to cut your throat, smiles sharper. They saw something in me. Maybe desperation. Maybe potential. Doesn’t matter. They gave me work. Real work. 

 

[image: blogger.googleusercontent.com]

 

Now I move in quieter circles. The kind that don’t show up in newspapers. Corner boy of the Crime Lords - sounds fancy, but it’s just another title for “useful.” Still, in this city, that’s a kind of power. Torn’s veins run thick with greed and ambition, and I’ve learned to swim in it.

[image: blogger.googleusercontent.com]

 

So here I am - ten levels deep into a life I didn’t plan but can’t leave. The city’s my mother now. She raised me with broken glass and cigarette smoke. And when I walk her streets at night, I swear she whispers my name.

– Vee


[DISCLAIMER: Pictures generated using AI (I'm lazy to draw)]
Support me here - ➡️www.torn.com/bazaar.php⬅️