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Call To Power 2 Cradle 3+ mod in progress: https://apolyton.net/forum/other-games/call-to-power-2/ctp2-creation/9437883-making-cradle-3-fully-compatible-with-the-apolyton-edition
You still got the runs, you illiterate bugger. There sure is a lot of animosity in that chapter, it kinduv reminds me of the last contest runoff, so is rommel ever gonna get offed, he sure deserves it, he's pretty rude, you know you are still cooking without herbs & spices, you always want to serve the same, if I can be allowed to say, bland cuisine, I think not so why not try some experiment and fantasy for a new flavor?
First of all it's a bad idea to kill of your main character, and so I left it hanging there in the last chapter, so that I could have Rommel change his mind if he had to. He didn't. I don't expect to be able to control my characters and though I thought it a mistake Rommel delivered on his contract. It wasn't my idea, I don't think, and I blame Hans (Ch.13) for the whole damn thing. Furthermore I wrote this and got it up pretty quick, huh?
-SKILORD
-
The hatch was open and Timothy Rommel was peering out of it into the eyes of a particularly unfortunate highway guard.
“I’m bringing in a tank from Berlin, reinforcements,” the words commanded belief, the eyes humbled all doubt.
“One tank?” the British soldier, his rifle hanging from his shoulder as he stood in front of a feeble guard rail meant to stop the traffic that was afraid to break it.
“The bloody krauts ambushed us, we’re all that’s left.”
“A major, in a tank?”
“A man gets away from an ambush, he rarely cares how. Now I can do you a favor if you’ve forgotten how to lift that rail there and I’ll break it apart. Are you going to keep us out here away from the fighting with you?”
The cowering guard stepped back and lifted the rail, shaking his head, the tank charged forward.
“Hell of a job there, sir,” one of Rommel’s men looked up to him.
“Yeah, just drive the f***ing tank.”
“You do an awfully good impression of a limey officer.”
“Drive the f***ing tank.”
“Almost like it was the olds days, almost like we4 were out there, turning our backs on all of the struggles and pain.”
Rommel slid down into the tank, fists slamming into the driver, drawing blood and cracking noises from the flesh.
The gunner pulled him back, “Sir, cool it, we need him.”
“The driver fired an angry glare up the tank, “He doesn’t give a f*** about what we need, Derik, Timothy Rommel is only looking out for himself, and f*** everyone else. Why can’t the rest of us have gotten caught in the ambush leaving this lone Major limping through the f***ing desert on his own? He’ll kill us without a second thought.”
“Karl, you’ve been with me through all of this, you know me better.”
“I know you better? I damn well thought I did, I took you for a patriot, for a man who gave a f*** for his country. I knew that man, who the f*** are you?”
Derik’s grip tightened on Timothy, “Karl, stop it, Rommel isn’t gonna kill us, let’s just get to the Volk and pick up our payment.”
“I don’t want it, I don’t want to take the blood money for killing my Fatherland.”
Rommel’s foot shot out to Karl’s face, catching him squarely and causing Derik to pull him up even further.
“Is everything alright here?” called the guard from the ground, where he looked up at the tank that had been sitting motionless on the road for a few minutes.
Derik let go of Rommel, letting him slide himself up, straightening his uniform. He smiled confidently at the guard, “These men have just lost the rest of their Division, we’ve lost a lot of friend, you can’t expect them to get through it without question.”
The guard chuckled, “Sounded like insubordination in there. I smell a court-martial.”
“Things don’t always work out like that on the battlefield you green eyed son of a b****, maybe you should get out there and do some real soldiering someday, or would you like to sit there and tell a major what to do instead? Must be awfully convenient to know so f***ing much without ever having had to go through what I did to get these f***ing bars, I imagine that’s why you’ve been assigned to this proud post here.”
The guard stepped back, shuddering. He turned to the guardhouse and started walking.
“Drive,” Rommel commanded.
Karl forced the tank forward.
-
Timothy Rommel stood in front of the Volk, watching them bring up the briefcase and slapping it down on the desk.
“Four hundred thousand, just like we agreed.”
The case flicked open, the queen’s image, confident and snobbish, stared at him.
“You guys have awfully lax security here, considering all that money.”
“You plan to try something, Rommel?” Damien picked up a revolver and placed it in front of him on the desk next to the briefcase, “Go ahead, you’ll get a couple of us sure, but you’ll die.”
Rommel grinned, “What’s so bad about that?”
“Death?” Damien snorted, “From a man who deals in it! Haven’t you ever looked into the faces of your victims, the terror, the horror?”
“Johan had none of that.”
Damien snorted again, leaning forward, “I knew the man, he did, I assure you. All men fear death.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why we’re having this conversation, take your money and go.”
“I want to know what’s so special about death. Why’s it so f***ing fearsome. Everybody does it, you think we’d be used to it by now.”
“Major Rommel, I don’t know why we’re having this conversation, yes it’s funny that men fear death, alright. That doesn’t change the fact that they do.”
“I’m not a major,” Rommel stepped forward, “never call me that.”
“Delightful, Mr. Rommel, now please leave.”
“Why don’t you answer my question.”
Damien took a deep breath, “It’s a silly question.”
Rommel pulled out his pistol, pointing it at Damien, “Are you afraid, Herr Konsig?”
Damien looked into the handgun’s barrel. He was silent.
“Are you afraid?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Everyone has to die. This bullet is coming for you, why does it matter how long it takes?”
“You don’t have it in you, Major Rommel.”
“I kill men like you for a living, Herr Konsig,” Rommel spat out the words, “frightened little bastards like you. I haven’t met more than one man who accepted it when he realized what was inevitable. I’ve been fought, the men who fancy themselves brave retreat that way, some have pleaded, but their all cowards, Mr. Konsig. All of them are running away from it. I’ve met one man who stood up and faced it. One.”
“Major, put your gun down,” one of the other men picked up a handgun and pointed it at him.
Timothy Rommel laughed like a madman. One hand in front of him, holding the handgun, the other shoved into his jacket. A wild grin spread across his face.
“Don’t fear the reaper,” Timothy Rommel pulled both triggers.
-
The briefcase was on fire, it sat on top of the table and Hans was watching it as he lay on his stomach in the middle of a puddle of blood and gasoline. All of the Volk were dead or dying, Rommel stood in the door, pouring more gasoline around the room.
“You saved so many lives, why do you regret it?”
Timothy looked down at the dying man, “All men die, few live. I certainly kept a great many from a faster, less convenient road to death, but will they ever live? They lived for these moments, now they will merely die slowly.”
Hans stared up at him, “You’re mad.”
“Perhaps,” he grinned, “But I’m alive.”
He finished pouring the gasoline and tossed it at the briefcase, walking calmly out of the inferno.
-
Karl and Derik sat on top of the tank as Rommel walked out of the Volk’s office.
“How’d it go?”
“It was refreshing.”
“Where’s the money?” Derik asked.
Rommel grinned, “It’s on fire.”
The fire began to grow in the office behind him, eating at the door.
“Rommel, that’s not funny.”
“I’m not a comedian, Derik.”
Karl started to laugh, “You’ve done your country a favor.”
“A man can’t betray his nation forever, Karl. Let’s get this tank going.”
-
Edward Rhode’s stomach was covered by bandages, “What’s the damage.”
“You have a few broken ribs, sir. One of your lungs was grazed. You made it through it pretty well considering. You’re lucky he didn’t have a bigger bullet.”
“Any idea as to where the sonovab**** is?”
“He supposedly murdered Johan von Bismarck right after he was here.”
Edward shot up, causing him to fall back to his bed in pain, groaning before saying, “What the f*** who’s he fighting for?”
“The revolutionaries blame us, sir. They want him dead, but they blame us.”
“I didn’t hire him.”
“None of us did, sir. The Germans don’t care, they decided that it was us.”
“I want him dead. I want to see every German sonovab**** dead," he paused, out of breath and dizzy, "but I want Rommel first.”
“I know, sir, But you need your rest.”
“I’ll be fine," he was out of breath again, "I have a nation to serve.”
The doctor grinned, “We all do, sir,” he placed the needle into Edward’s arm and sent him to sleep.
Okay, I'll try to add more than just "Great story". I read your chapter and felt it wasn't quite up to your usual standard so I'm gonna mention a couple of points you may wish to consider. Basically, there is some unnatural use of verbs and repetitive grammar mistakes.
The radio room, he shot his eyes in briefly, it seemed less populated than the other rooms, there weren’t any major missions on right now, he could start his work there unimpeded.
When I read "he shot his eyes in briefly" I am not lying that I had an image of Jim carrey in 'The Mask' when his eyes came stretching way out of their sockets when he saw the neighboring woman with a mud mask on. This same sentence is actually a run-on sentence with 4 seperate sentences and a sentence fragment all connected by commas. You do not want to let your literature teacher to see this.
There was a gasp on the other side of the room, as the tile rushed up to meet Timothy’s face, his hand quickly tossed in front of it.
Another run-on sentence (2 full sentences) but the main problem here is 'the tile rushed up to meet Tim's face' is a very hackneyed expression which gives your story a tired feeling. Better to use normal english (he dove for the floor) if you can't think of a creative phrase to use. For something creative maybe try something like: "He performed a dive which would be the envy of any dolphin and his teeth snapped together nut-cracker style when his chin met the floor tile." Or if you want to be a little decorative try, "He threw himself down with enough haste that the hardwood bellyflop almost disgorged the spinach linguine he had for lunch and his head hitting the floor sounded like a coconut falling from a palm onto a L.A. drag." (The 2nd example is not so good because L.A. is in a different country so 'beachway' could be used instead).
The second sentence 'his hand quickly tossed infront of it.' is very clunky and strange. It sounds like his hand was blown off by the gunshot and went flying infront of 'it'. Does 'it' = gasp, face or tile?
Sorry to sound picky, but trust me, in university the red ink vultures known as english profs will feast on this. I've been there cause I made the cardinal error of taking some sort of advanced literature class in first year allowable to students who get an A on their graduation english exam. That's why I spot these errors so fast cause those profs made me paranoid of grammar errors. Well, actually if I took the class now it would probably be a blast cause I'm more into writing and stuff now. I used to study all of 20 minutes every couple of weeks in first year university. Woops, getting off-topic...
Let me know if this helps or you don't like it or you'd rather I shut-up or what okay?
wow, finally got around to reading this and I am hooked. I had a good chuckle though how like more than half of your intros are "this isn't really gonna be as good as the rest" then it gets better.
The tank’s engine growled , frustrated, as it stood in the street, rolling aimlessly back and forth.
“Sir, still nothing here.”
The man on the other radio was rubbing his five o’clock shadow, there were Germans somewhere there, he knew it.
“General, call your men back, you’re more likely to stumble on an ambush than to do anything useful.”
The general looked up from the radio at Agent Rhodes, he bared his teeth briefly. He was not a diplomat, he had no polite words on his tongue to dispense to Mr. Rhodes. Though he allegedly had a rank in MI6 he hadn’t felt it necessary to share that with the General or anyone else in the occupation force, he had simply taken control quietly and confidently, tearing it away from more competent hands, in the General’s opinion.
“When are you going to be sending those forces to Leipzig, Agent Rhodes?”
Rhodes frowned, walking jerkily across the tile floor, “I won’t be sending any forces to Leipzig, General. I’ve told you that already.”
“There are more rebels in Leipzig, Rhodes,” the general spat out the name, “the forces are needed there.”
Edward slammed his fist down on the desk, causing the radio to jump, “We can’t end this in Berlin with all the men we have, how can they help in Leipzig?!”
The general was quiet for a moment, a subtle grin lifting the corners of his mouth in a sinister expression, “Leipzig is a far more valuable city than this one.”
Edward glared at the General, tugging his jacket into place, regaining control of himself, “When we have subdued Berlin, then I will hear this talk.”
-
Timothy shrugged in his uncomfortable uniform, the assorted and colorful decorations on his breast meant nothing to him anymore, he tried hard to think of the officer who had once worn them, the young and enthusiastic soldier in his queen’s service. A man who had followed her from the Finnish Isles in the short police action to end the Norse-Swedish civil war to the Deserts of Germany, where he had died.
All the hope and promise that had once clouded those eyes had parted when he saw the Geffanis, when it became more than a whispered legend. When he realized that Germany and England had never made peace, when he had dragged his tank away with the few other disillusioned souls that had been ashamed and frightened of what they saw, even the little they saw, a dark monolith reaching high into the sky, the screams of a tortured German pouring out, when these terrors had stabbed his soul mercilessly, this was when Timothy Rommel, the man who had worn this uniform, had died.
The uniform stank of death to Rommel now as he walked confidently, exchanging no eyes with the others in the hall. The gun was in its holster, nothing was out of place.
The radio room, he shot his eyes in briefly. It seemed less populated than the other rooms, there weren’t any major missions on right now. He could start his work there unimpeded.
Timothy placed his hand on the door handle.
-
“But this rebellion is in more cities than just Berlin, Rhodes, we must fight it on every front.”
“Berlin is more important, trust me, now call your men back.”
The door clicked open, drawing Edward Rhode’s suspicious eyes to it.
-
Recognition flashed suddenly on Rommel’s face, and his hand shot out for his pistol, twirring it out, Rhodes had already squeezed off a pair of shots, forming a pair of holes in the door.
Rommel lunged to the floor, forcing his finger down on the trigger.
There was a gasp on the other side of the room. Timothy dropped himself suddenly towards the tile, bullets piercing the air above him.
He stole a glance upwards as he rolled towards cover, Rhodes still stood tall, he must have hit the other man.
Rhodes was pounding bullets into the floor, leaving scorching holes.
Rommel stopped rolling and propped himself up on one knee, the gun was in front of him, the shot was perfect.
The door swung open again, “Freeze,” an authoritive voice commanded, Rommel grinned.
“Or what?”
“I have a gun aimed at your back, don’t test me.”
Rommel chuckled softly, “And I have enough explosives wired to me to make anything you were planning to do with that gun a mistake. What sort of fool would walk into the enemies camp so brazenly without a backup plan? You shoot me and I promise you that the I won’t die alone.”
The gun clicked behind him, “I don’t believe you,” the authoritive voice was gone, replaced by a more timid voice, one accustomed to taking orders, a grin cracked across Rommel’s face.
“So what? I’m just warning you that if you shoot me, you limeys aren’t going to stay in Berlin for very long. Your actions here have consequences, big consequences. For the world, you have the history of the world sitting in front of you here. What will you choose, to take a chance and risk betraying your nation? A man can betray his nation, trust me, I know.”
Edward Rhodes stood silently at the front of the room, “ He might not be willing to take that chance, Mein Herr, but I am perfectly unafraid.”
The bullet lanced out, landing with a meaty thwack in the flesh of Edward Rhodes, dragging him to the floor.
“I’m going to leave now, Let’s not have a mess, I won’t blow up if you don’t shoot me.”
-
Edward Rhodes’ eyes burned as the bullet ached in his side, he watched the man who had shot him stand up and turn around, his gun was out of reach, he didn’t know how it had fallen so far away.
The darkness closed in on him as he stared into the doorway, watching Timothy Rommel disappear into the base.
He bit his teeth together, determined, Rommel would pay ever so dearly.
Edward Rhodes inhaled. Edward Rhodes breathed. Edward Rhodes lived.
-
The handgun was pressed against the back of his skull, Johan grinned to this.
“Now we can see where your loyalties lie, Timothy, with your nation or with the pound.”
“I have no loyalty to you Johan, don’t confuse yourself.”
“To me? I ask for none from you, why should a man be loyal to another man? I am not looking for a dog, Timothy, I am looking for a German. Your finger is on the trigger now and its your decision, will you kill the leader of the revolution now, will you slit the throat of Germany as it is born, all for a precious thirty silver?”
“They paid me in pounds.”
Johan grinned, “It’s a figure of speech, Judas took thirty silver.”
“The Volk are Germans too.”
“Germans?! They betray Germany every day with their cowering. We are weak, we cannot fight. These are their psalms, these are their songs of comfort, We are weak, we cannot fight. I too am weak, we too are weak, but we are Germans, and we cannot be insulted forever. We are not strong enough to win this fight, but we are strong enough to die free. That’s all I ask, that’s all that the men out there who are roaming the streets, we want to die German, we want to die free, with our faces to the enemy and our guns in our hands.
“Germany has for too long been the victim of the petty fears of miniscule men, I’m asking you to free her and to take your finger off of that trigger.”
The hammer cocked back.
Johan grinned, facing death’s hollow eyes, free, “But a man can always betray his nation.”
-
The hatch flipped open and the tanker peered out into a parking garage above Berlin’s broken streets.
“Sir, no sign of activity, should we return to base?”
The static was still there as it had been for the past hours, noone was manning the radio, but the tanker would be damned before returning without the General’s orders. He had told them to stay out and they still had plenty of fuel, since much of their time had been spent with the engine off, hiding in the shade of parking towers like the one they had presently mounted. They had sent to infantry into a neighboring building to investigate it for Germans.
“Sir,” he trailed off, loosing faith in the radio.
A bullet shot out of nowhere, the tanker slumped in through the hatch.
A gruff hand grabbed the body and tossed it out, pointing a handgun down into the tank.
“I’ll be taking this,” Timothy Rommel informed them.
Short and not the best, I'm going through a slump right now and forcing this out, but it will keep you happy/intrested.
-
The anchorman shot a concerned glance from the television, Damien flicked it off.
“It’s spreading to Leipzig, there was a riot on Bakers street,” a man in an old German army uniform looked to him.
“The British sent tanks into Berlin, the city is under complete lockdown,” Damien shot back.
The man in the uniform chuckled, “The British don’t know how to put down riots, tanks won’t last too long.”
“People are going to die.”
The man in the uniform shrugged, “These things happen, I think we should come out in support of this Johan fellow. He’s delusional, but maybe he can pull it off.”
Damien shook his head, “He’s arrogant, he’s just gonna get a lot of people killed.”
Another man leaned in, “I think that Damien’s right, we’ll have to put this down ourselves.”
“Thank you, Hans,” Damien slumped back into his chair.
“How do you intend to put it down?” The man in the uniform propped himself forward.
“We’ve hired an assassin,” Hans waved his hand, “we’re going to cut off the head of this snake.”
“What makes you think that this can be stopped that way?”
“We don’t have any other choices.”
“Yes, we do, let’s come out in support of the rebellion.”
“Who’s this assassin?”
Hans grinned, “Timothy Rommel.”
-
Johan stood in the throng, faceless, invisible. He pelted stones at city hall with the rest of the hornet’s nest of Germans and dissident Britons, Tanks prowled the streets looking for them, weary and suspicious after many a Moltov Cocktail.
Berlin had become a battlefield, the rebellion hid in houses, in cellars, waiting to ambush the British forces in the city. There was no peace to be found, women and Children trying to escape had been forced back in, to localize the rebellion.
Small arms fire popped insistently in the alleys as Germans fought from the dark. War was dirty, blood was cheap.
The excavation site had been seized by a small group of Germans who had inhabited the VolkGeffanis, but who had been broken out by who they called the ‘Kaiser,’ and the throne sat empty, waiting for the faceless man who threw the stones to become a king.
-
“Herr,” Rommel grinned, approaching Johan von Bismarck, “I’m still waiting for the next set of executions and the payments.”
Johan was huddled in a cellar, where the flasks and kegs had been opened and the rebels fortified their courage before returning to the fight.
“You haven’t finished the last ones yet, have you?” Johan grinned, “Rhodes lives, he’s at the British command post wielding this army against us.”
Rommel gritted his teeth, “I’ll get him,” he growled, “I always get my man.”
“You had better pray that you do.”
Rommel cracked a grin, “You had better pray that I don’t.”
Rommel turned to the door, flipping it open and climbing up the stairs.
Johan shook his head, pondering Rommel’s last words, slipping the last bit of his drink down his throat and picking up his handgun.
He knew where he had to go, the rebellion was beginning to fade, to loose hope.
-
Johan von Bismarck approached the stone throne, sword in hand, he lifted his foot and stepped up on it, lifting himself up where the dirty and frightened crowd could see him, “From this throne, we will free our Fatherland, we, one people united in purpose and in strength. I offer this cave to all of you who have wives and daughters, sons and mothers, as a refuge, as a Haven from the fighting. This is not a cave for the King or for nobles, this is not a palace for the few. This is the hall of freedom, where all men are equal. This is the heart of the Fatherland, where all of Deutschland’s children may find refuge.”
The crowd cheered wildly, waving their hats and guns in the air, Johan grinned and stepped down off of his throne, lifting the sword high, he began to wade into the crowd, before it split before him, chanting his name and following him to the battlefield.
The former members of the Honor Guard, the last survivors of the biggest breakout in British penal history, picked up rifles and obeyed the orders of the man who had freed them, standing at the doors and frightening away the war, that the children may sleep.
There sure is a lot of animosity in that chapter, it kinduv reminds me of the last contest runoff, so is rommel ever gonna get offed, he sure deserves it, he's pretty rude, you know you are still cooking without herbs & spices, you always want to serve the same, if I can be allowed to say, bland cuisine, I think not so why not try some experiment and fantasy for a new flavor? 
... I speak of my 'youth' at 17)
I must have missed that one chapter you posted right after my previous reply. 
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