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The Fall of the Ranger

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"Its not that I dont want to give up, Mace. But we've been at this for almost 18 months now. What have we achieved?"

Mace stood silent and then looked, almost defiantly, at Tomeran before answering:

"Well, we have at least tried. Maybe its not as much about the results as much as the attempt. At the very least we havent contributed to humanity's downfall."

Tomeran sighed and nodded. Mace was right. The ranger lieutenant possesed a rare wisdom and had helped to rejuvinate Tom's flailing hope and determination before.

But with the recent slaughter and carnage of the council conflict, that hope had been harder to rekindle. Humanity was killing itself off. The Outpost Rangers had always been about trying to prevent our extinction as a species, to help people endure this. But it had proven to be such an uphill struggle that it had now broken Tomeran's back. After more then 18 months of nonstop fighting.

"I...I just wish we could have some results to speak for with all our hard efforts. Maybe we should try a different approach. Or maybe we should just stop trying. I dont know, I need to...think about this."

Mace nodded, the concern barely concealed on his face.

The two men had been standing in the Quiver discussing this for hours now, on the future of TOR, Tom's hopelessness in the face of humanity's grim nature, Mace primarily going on about how TOR should persevere and carry on. It was without a doubt however that TOR had gone through some rough times.

"I think I need to clear my head. Get out there in the field, distract myself, keep myself busy." Tomeran said, breaking the silence that had now endured for a minute between the two.

"When I come back we can continue the conversation, alright? We'll figure something out, I suppose. We always do."

Mace nodded, not saying a word.

Tomeran stepped outside the Quiver. Most of the rangers were there, an unusually big gathering of the otherwise scattered group.

"Alright fellas. Grab your kit, we'll be going on a bit of a journey up towards Pobeda." Tomeran uttered before picking his own equipment up from the wall.

"Its gonna be a bit of a trek so I hope you're fed'n'watered."

The rangers replied a "yes chief" in choir and then the group departed through the front gate.

*Elsewhere. In fact just 300 meters away, in a nearby treeline.*

Buck adjusted his binoculars. He had been lying in this damnable shrub for over four hours, spying on the Trade Post for any potential targets of opportunity.

Sure, there had been the occassional small group or vehicle coming and going, but nothing worthy of actually investing the time and resources into attacking.

He hated this job, recon was not his thing. Assault and interrigation was. But this was his "punishment" after his botched attempt to retrieve the CTC scout.

There, movement at the front gate. A lot of it, even. He looked through the binoculars. "Hm...six or seven people. Walking on foot. Cant recoginze the pa-oh wait...".

Buck put the binoculars down and flipped through his notepad. The local "heraldry" was complicated. Dozens upon dozens of groups, each with their own little silly tags and symbols. It was part of his job as an operative to keep track of them, but this was never Buck's specialty.

He flipped through the pages until there...a shield, the letters "T.O.R" and two claws.

"Huh, the Outpost Rangers. Considered a level 3 target due to close cooperation with CTC and an unusual ability to rally survivor support in face of zombie horde threat." he muttered to himself while reading.

Buck shrugged. Level 3 wasnt exactly top of the food chain, TOR wasnt even notably much of a threat. They rarely fought other people and usually lacked combat experience against anything other then the undead. Still, it was enough that maybe he'd be transfered of this damned bush. And a dead native was a good native.

"This is Raven six. I have a level 3 target leaving location Bravo. Be advised, seven footmobiles, travelling north. Target's designation is TOR, destination unknown, but intel suggests group keeps a camp at Pobeda. How copy, over?"

"Solid copy, Raven six."

Buck smirked. He'd be back at base in notime.

*Pobeda Dam, 4 hours later*

"Looks empty, chief."

Tomeran nodded while he set down his backpack at the fire at the Pobeda camp.

This had been TOR's "off-TP" camp for a while now. Apart from the rare bandit attack, it had been relativly peaceful and undisturbed.

Pobeda had initially been just a pile of rubble around an abandoned shack of a house. But TOR had renovated it, fixed it up and build the walls for it. Then they had used it a base of operations for a while, cooperating with the free medics. Then eventually the free medics had taken over and the rangers went elsewhere. But with the Trade Post's arrival, many camps around Zagoria had been abandoned, including Pobeda. So now the rangers were back. The Trade Post was too noisy anyway.

Since TOR had almost always been a group that were few and never stirred things up, most people probably associated the Pobeda homestead with the free medics. And that was fine with Tom.

It had always been like that with the rangers: They rarely presented themselves with a strong enough force to be remembered. They kept "under the radar" and that was the way Tom liked it, it meant TOR could operate in peace. And usually, it worked.

He looked around. The six rangers with him were all busy setting up supplies in the camp storage room.

Tom smiled to himself. These men(and woman, with Amanda's recent entry into the group) were so dedicated to be selfless, in an -apocalypse-, that it almost defied human nature. He was proud of thme.

Most of those supplies would be going to other people. TOR would do what they had always done: Share the spoils, make sure people dont die from starvation, dehydration, disease or zombies. Or at least try to.

As Tom's state of mind was testiment to, that effort hadnt been nearly as succesful as he had hoped. It had been an 18-month long effort of trying to go against people's suspiciouns to help them out. But the real problem? Even when humans were not desperate for supplies, they would kill each other. For ideological reasons, old grievances or maybe even just for an adrenaline fix. And that is what dismayed Tomeran to his core: Despite everything, death, not life, is what seemed to dominate the human race in this new world. And mother nature is not forgiving to a race that has such destructive traits: Extinction was likely.

One of the younger new rangers, Michael, approached Tomeran, breaking his daydrifting.

Michael was little more then a teenager that Tomeran had recently found living off refuse in Berezino. He had been incredibly grateful for the "rescue" but had only been in the ranger's ranks a few weeks, and was still learning the ropes.


"Yes Michael?"

"Where do I put the chicken fodder? I mean, there's not even any chickens here."

"Yeah I noticed. Maybe the SDS came and took them."

Tomeran grinned.

Michael looked confused.


"You can put it in the food storage in a sack."

"Yes chief. And...chief? If its okay with me asking, but..if there are no chickens, then why did we bother getting this stuff?"

"Well, first of all, I didnt know there were no chickens here. And second, we have to prepare if we find some!

Yeah, you might think why would we need them, we have canned goods and stuff lying around, why do we need chickens? Hell, why has TOR been trying to gather seeds for farming?"[/i]

"Yes, actually, I was going to ask about that..."

"Its because of sustainability. How long do you think we can keep scavenging the ruins of old human civilization in order to survive? There's not an infinate supply of cans of beans there.

In our situation, we have to prepare for the future, or we dont have a future. Unfortunetly, as has been the tendency of the human race far before this apocalypse, most people cant think beyond their own immidiate future. And its likely what's going to get us wiped out as a species."

Tomeran grunted out the last part, Michael frowning a little but nodded.

"So, there's no hope for us? Humans, I mean?"

Tomeran sighed. Michael was young and naive, but at least he wanted to help. And as depressed as Tom was, he didnt want to dampen that spirit.

"Its not what I meant, I...look, maybe there's a chance. You should really talk to Mace about this kinda thing."

Chris walked up to the two and timely interupted the conversation. "All the stuff's been loaded off, chief."

Tom nodded. Chris Pyke was one of the oldest and most dedicated members in TOR, and had recently returned after having been MIA for ages. It had been a huge relief for Tom to have his old "wingman" back, and the "chief" would've been energized with his return if it hadnt been for the circumstances of war.

"Alright, lets see if we can get the free medics on the horn, they might need some of those antibio-"


Tomeran was interupted by a sudden barrage of gunfire coming from the trees, not a hundred meters away. Before he could even react, he saw Chris get hit in the chest and collapse to the ground. Michael's shoulder practicly exploded and the man fell down screaming.

"Ambush! Its an ambush! Take co-"

He was interupted, again, when something knocked the air out of him, causing him to fall backwards. He looked down on his body while on his back, seeing the blood trickle out of his left thigh and his upper torso.

"That's...bad." he thought.

Three rangers were down before the rest could even react. But the rest were fighting back.

He looked around himself to witness the fight. His rangers were putting up resistance, but they were surrounded and badly outgunned.

Boutros Chayka, another one of the TOR "elders", fired towards the aggressors, men in black sneaking between the trees barely visible. Eventually he was hit and collapsed to the ground.

Seamus took position infront of the door and managed to shoot the first man in black that came through. But then there was an explosion..Tomeran lost track of him.

All around him rangers were going down one by one in a scene of absolute carnage and chaos. Tom wanted to shout orders, to try and rally them, but he could barely speak, all he could do was choke up blood.

"Bullet through the lung. Brilliant. This is it then. What a fucking end." he thought.

In a final act of defiance he raised his pistol and shot one of the men in black, whom he now realized obviously were council operatives, in the leg. They were all over the camp in seconds. The gunshots died down, his pistol was kicked away and things went blurry.

The fight had lasted roughly two minutes.

In two minutes, the group that had endured for over 18 months was largely gone.

Through the haze of blood and pain, Tom could barely make out the noise in the background and the people moving around the camp, dragging bodies around.

"'ey, we got a few live ones 'ere. You guys need to practice on your fucking marksmanship. They were sitting ducks. Fuckin' turkey-shoot. Shall I finish'em off?

"Nah, we could use a few live ones."

Tom could see the shadows towering above him through his hazy vision.

"'ey, I think this one's the leader or somethin'. He's still breathing, but im not sure he will be for much longer."

"Interrigation-material then. Bring him along."

Tomeran blinked his eyes a final time, trying to get some clarity into what was going on, before a buttstock to the forhead ended every thought, and pitch-black darkness replaced it.

Later that day on the radio

"...in other news.

In the midst of the positive news of CTC and survivor forces succesfully rescuing a CTC scout, CTCBS also feels compelled to tell you some of the bad news.

The council has carried out a large-scale airstrike against the CTC stronghold of Miroslavl, killing dozens of CTC personel.

Furthermore, earlier today council operatives ambushed and effectivly destroyed a large part of the group known as The Outpost Rangers in an ambush at Pobeda dam.

A badly wounded man, suffering from several gunshots to the arms, shoulders and legs and going by the name of "Michael", was rescued by survivors near Krasnostav and then brought to the Trade Post for treatment. He told CTC of the ambush and upon arrival of CTC forces at Pobeda, most of the rangers were found killed, along with a handful missing in action, including TOR's leader, Tom Anderson.

This marks a significant decline in TOR's numbers and might effectivly mean the end for the group, as there are only a handful of survivors.

But it is also a reminder that the council is a threat to everyone, and that noone is safe from their aggression. "


This story is essentially meant to signal the end of The Outpost Rangers as a group, following the loss of the vast majority of its members and its leader in a council ambush. ))

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Man... TOR clan of the year.. I tell you.. I love youe clan.. all your members are epic RPers and even though less active you 100% made a mark in DayZRP lore.. you are one of the clan that will be remembered.. <3

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And so it ends......

Thank you so much for the wonderful times. Best experience on this server.

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Such an awesome ending to such a wonderful clan. Fantastic work Tomeran, o7 to TOR.

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Rip in pepperonies

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I cre ert tim

But that is actually really well written and makes me feel bad. Will miss you guys

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(I notice Tom isn't exactly dead yet)

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(I notice Tom isn't exactly dead yet)

Don't worry about that ;)

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Guest Graphix


(only met a few in my time, but certainly some of the best roleplayers around)

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While we may no longer carry the shield on our arm, to those of us who remain in Chernarus free men we carry on the ideals. Those whom we have helped and who helped us in return, every person we have touched ICly or OOCly with our presence will remember the Rangers. All stories must come to a close, but it is never cause for mourning, it is simply an opportunity to begin another adventure.

Long live Tomeran.

Long live The Outpost Rangers.

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Oh no...


Mikhaly was listening to the radio... All off a sudden he hears the news about Miroslavl.

"Thank god I left that place filled with death..."

He then hears about the Rangers getting massacred at Pobeda Dam. He listens carefully and feels strange... The soldier gets out of his barracks and asks James:

"Hey! Come here a little you foreigner!"

"What is it you want?"

"I just heard that some Rangers died... Could you tell me who they were?"

"The Outpost Rangers?!?"

James shed a tear.

"We must tell the General about this! This group was our chance to bring Chernarus back together in peace... But now it's lost... "

Both men head towards the General's office to inform him about the great loss of the people of Chernarus.

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((the following are the versions of events from Séamus' perspective))

As the hail of gunfire erupted around Séamus and his fellow Rangers, he had the quick thought that maybe his past had caught up with him

Séamus thought only to return fire to the attackers, he knew straight away that this fight was lost, but he would kill all these bastards before they got his friends. Séamus fired as many bullets as he could into advancing enemies, but his wounds became clear. He had been shot in the gut, and his left thumb shot off. Séamus felt a sudden wave of energy push him down, he was covered in dirt. He was certain his death was imminent, but the attackers dragged him by the feet.

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A peal of thunder and the skies opened. It was the perfect kind of weather given the conversation he went through with the chief before his disappearance. Tomeran, Michael, whoever else had decided to go with them. There had been no word, and now he sat in the woods by Pobeda in the pouring rain, the water chilly despite the weather beginning to warm up. A frigid, otherworldly chill that swept over him, gripped his spine, and caused him to focus on thoughts that were far from pleasant.

Though he had tried given the communication equipment available, the Utes Expedition Force had no knowledge of a message from Tomeran since their last missives had been sent out about Council activity. The lieutenant hadn't yet made his way down to the Trade Post to check in with the CTC, wanting to do as much of the talking face to face as possible. No matter where he turned for outside help, it seemed that there simply weren't answers to be had, and the lack of them only added to the dread in the air.

Who was left? The battered, duct-taped radio spat intermittent bits of static no matter what frequency he tried. He'd have to travel south and find the materials to repair it. Blind and deaf, the perfect combination to breed chaos, and the rest of the members who had been making their way around the little settlement they had occupied for the last few days seemed absent as well. Just how bad was this? How many people had disappeared?

The fires in the camp had burned themselves out, the rain doing little to help in that regard. The pits needed to be stoked and covered, food needed to be wrapped up. Chores and tasks to put meat on the table for people who may never come back again. It was the kind of knot he'd felt during the last time the Council had taken away things he loved, and the rumors that had spread that it was some kind of involvement from them, that some bodies with their patch had been identified somewhere, was simply too much for the ranger to take.

Making his way back into the camp, he began to go through the nightly routine of setting things up. Food was stored, fires were carefully tamped out so even if some ember should survive the downpour no one was in danger, and the caches of supplies were properly sealed and secured should the rain continue through the night. Shaky steps led him back into the house where he pulled one of the rare, valuable sheets of fairly clean paper from the sheaf on the table and began to jot down with a bit of charcoal in the steadiest hand he could manage.

"To Whomever Finds This,

I am afraid that the events that have transpired or have been rumored to have transpired have caused some great tragedy for The Outpost Rangers. If you find this, it means that I have left in an attempt to make something for myself. Every bit of intelligence gathering at my disposal has come up with nothing, and I fear for the worst even from our senior members and chieftain.

If you come to take this place for yourself for however long you need it, remember the name of The Outpost Rangers. We may be scattered to the winds, but one day we will find our way back. We will fight, broken and battered as we are, until our last breath to see that humanity survives with humankind, and that we do not devolve to vicious, murderous thieves.

I am alive, and as long as there is one Ranger that draws breath, our ideals will not be forgotten.


Mason "Mace" Thompson

Lieutenant of The Outpost Rangers"

Folding the paper, he moved to pour a bit of wax from one of the homemade candles onto it before stamping it with a simple wooden signet he had created to bear the TOR emblem. It was not the most eloquent thing he could offer, but as he placed it in the center of the table and wiped the smudges from his hands, he realized it was time for the real work to begin.

In the middle of the storm, the cracks of thunder and jagged blades of lightning carving out the night sky and offering brief glimpses at the hunched figure, Mace moved about with the laborious task that was set before him. Every grunt of effort spurred on the chief's words, his concerns that everything that they had done was in vain, Sisyphean incarnate.

Wiping the mixture of sweat and rain from his brow, his drenched form was soon huddled over the heavy tarp pack carrying with it what he needed. Bits of wood he had been shaping into planks as carefully as possible without the use of proper tools, and everything he could gather from the buildings that wouldn't be missed but could still help him with the project at hand.

Tying together the ends and lugging it onto his shoulder, he made his way south, back into the midst of the apocalypse, away from the small haven that had been created for them, the tiny semblance of safety and modicum of comfort they had found for the time being. He had mused before in his writings that perhaps he was the last, and now that such a fate seemed all the more obvious, he found himself feeling reclusive.

It would not be an easy journey through the chilling rain, strained with the weight of material and the burden of survival while others may lie dead elsewhere, better men all than him, but the Ranger never chose the easy path. Sloughing through the mud and grass, Mace was reminded of what he had told the recruits when they joined, of what it meant to be a Ranger, and how all of them had to pay their dues in pain and blood.

The visceral message was burned into his mind as he vanished from view of the campsite, off somewhere alone, to think, to compose himself, to try to figure out what would come next.

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Another great Clan down.

Always liked the TOR interactions at your outposts.

Sad to see this Story beeing ended.

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