Bigdude601

my only concern is the flip side of that, where criminals find a safe inside a car and drive it into a body of water to get access to the items inside instead of using roleplay mechanics to break open the safe. Even if the items in the safe are destroyed fully keeping them out of the hands of the thief in the event of a car being destroyed would be preferable.

+1 to this, A safe inside a car would solve alot of problems, Especially if the contents are protected if the vehicle winds up at mors. Especially with a tiny inventory like that. Idk how it would work from a scripting point of view but it would be a god send for new players who want to keep anything at all safe without rellying on parking the vehicle in city parking.

FundRaising Marcus sat at the front, meticulously going over the bank statements and tracking the ins and outs of their operation. Every dollar counted, and he wanted to make sure their efforts were paying off. With rising city costs and a growing congregation, the church had been in a tight spot, but he and his crew were making things happen. He’d invested in new tools, and with a few members recently gaining mechanic skills at Bayview, they’d found a way to generate funds by acquiring and selling car parts. In just three days, they’d chopped over 30 cars, creating the cash flow they desperately needed. As they settled into this new rhythm, the crew naturally developed their own signals and call signs, and their camaraderie grew. They even started making unexpected connections, strengthening their network as they worked. Despite the challenges, they kept things lively, operating with a style and sense of fun that only deepened their bond. After reviewing the numbers, Marcus sat back in his chair, looking around at the people who had come together for the church. I really do have the best guys and girls possible, he thought with quiet pride. Maybe this will work after all.

In the stillness of the midnight hour, the congregation gathered under the shadowy canopy of the forest, far from the prying eyes of the unsuspecting world. The only light that pierced the darkness was the pale glow of the moon, casting an ethereal silver sheen upon the circle of figures cloaked in the black robes of their order. There, among the twisted roots and thick, gnarled branches, the leaders stood, eyes flickering with the same cold gleam as the moonlight above. Whispers rustled through the group, the low murmur of concern and uncertainty hanging heavy in the crisp night air. The future of their purpose was at stake. The leaders had sensed it—doubt, dissent, and dangerous ideas festering among some of the faithful. And such threats could not be tolerated. Not if they were to achieve the greater destiny their gods demanded. The decision had been made. Tonight, there would be a reckoning. The air thickened as the eldest among them raised a hand, silencing the gathering. With a gesture, several of the robed figures were separated from the circle and brought forward, faces shrouded by the dark hoods that concealed their identities. They were the ones who had strayed—questioned too much, defied too openly, or lacked the will to follow the church’s path to its full, mysterious end. Eyes glittered in the darkness as they were surrounded by the others, their fate sealed before a single word was spoken. The ceremony began, ancient incantations spilling softly from the lips of the leaders, their voices weaving together into a dissonant chant that seemed to reverberate within the very bones of the trees. The forest itself felt alive with the dark energy being summoned, the shadows growing deeper, shifting and writhing as if responding to the eldritch forces that seeped into the earth. A cold wind swept through the clearing, though no leaves stirred. It was as if the woods were holding their breath, waiting. As the ritual crescendoed, the ones who had been singled out began to tremble, not out of fear, but as if their very souls were being plucked and pulled by unseen hands. The dark magic took hold. Beneath the chanting, soft cries escaped them—whimpers of confusion, voices losing coherence as the power of the ritual drained their will and their memory, leaving only empty vessels. They would not remember the ideals they once held, nor the secrets they had uncovered. To them, this night would be a blank void, and their loyalty, broken as it was, would never again threaten the church’s vision. But that alone was not enough. The offerings had to be made. With a sharp, ceremonial blade that gleamed in the moonlight, the eldest drew the first line, crimson streaking through the air as the ritual bloodletting began. The murmurs of the leaders rose higher, a wordless song of power and sacrifice, appeasing the nameless, ancient ones whose gaze lingered unseen. One by one, the sacrifices were made—no deaths, no final endings—only blood, freely given. The life essence spilled on the earth beneath them, the sacred symbols traced in it, sealing the pact. Only then did the cries of the broken begin to fade, their limbs slackening, eyes glassy and vacant. When the last drop of blood was shed, a hush fell over the clearing. It was done. The elders stepped back, observing the figures slumped in the center of the circle. The ritual was complete; the rebellious minds had been purged of memory, their bodies weakened but intact. They would be sent away, scattered like leaves in the wind. They would wake come morning, far from this place, with no recollection of what had transpired or why they had left. They would remember nothing—not the ideals that once fueled them, nor the church they had betrayed. As for the rest—the faithful who remained—they stood in silent reverence. No words were spoken, but they understood. The church was stronger now, its core purified, the leaders’ grip tightened. Those who had witnessed tonight’s events knew what awaited any who strayed, any who dared to question the will of the Elder Ones. With the final words of dismissal, the congregation dispersed, melting back into the darkness from which they had come. Only the moon remained, cold and watchful, casting its pale gaze upon the clearing now stained with the remnants of the ritual. The forest exhaled, the night returning to its still, quiet state. No witnesses, save for the night itself and the indifferent moon above.

To Be fair, Bayview and roadcrew are basically the NFL now.

Increasing the bounty reward for corpses would be nice, 500 per body bag is just ridiculously low unless you get lucky, and that rarely happens. I also second the allowing players to use personal vehicle suggestion. What's the point in spending 130k on a hearse if you can't use it for the coroner job and are only allowed to use it for ICLY RP funerals once or twice a month at best? My only other thought would be a burgershot style timer, where after X time you start drawing a salary as coroner, But you must remain within x distance of a hearse to do so. There just isn't enough fiscal motivation to really roleplay as a coroner atm. Not when you can make 10k an hour doing roadcrew, 15k an hour driving a bus, or go work at burgershot and make 5-6k an hour before tips. The system really needs a rework majorly.

Reserved

Reserved

Reserved

I should’ve been dead. The desert doesn’t give second chances, but there I was, sunburnt, dehydrated, and barely clinging to consciousness. Left for dead after a con gone south, I had nothing but sand and sun, and even those seemed to be slipping away. I don’t know how long I wandered before I found him—Samuel. He was already gone by the time I stumbled onto him, face down in the sand, stiff and lifeless. No signs of violence, just a body beaten by the desert, like mine should’ve been. At first, I cursed my luck. Some dead guy in the middle of nowhere wasn’t going to save me, wasn’t going to fill my canteen or get me out of this hell. But then I saw the small leather journal by his side. It was worn, cracked from the heat, but still intact. I grabbed it out of desperation, hoping for a map, instructions, something to point me toward civilization. What I found instead were his thoughts. Pages and pages of writings, like the man had been purging his soul onto paper. He wrote about love, forgiveness, redemption, all that stuff people like me usually laughed at. But in that moment, alone with his corpse, it didn’t seem so funny. It seemed like a ticket out. That’s when it hit me—the idea. Samuel Smith might be dead, but he didn’t have to be. People eat up stories about prophets and saviors, especially if they think the guy’s still out there, roaming the wilds, offering enlightenment. So why not give them one? A prophet they could never find, but always believe in. I took the journal, leaving the body behind. By the time I made it out of the desert, Samuel was already being reborn—not as a dead man, but as a living prophet. I told people I had met him, that he’d been wandering the desert for forty days, finding enlightenment. I told them he couldn’t speak anymore because he’d been touched by something greater, something divine. And they believed me. Hell, I almost believed it myself. "The Church of Samuel," I called it. A movement built on the back of a dead man’s scribblings and my silver tongue. People wanted something to believe in, and I gave it to them. Donations rolled in. Followers gathered. I crafted sermons from his journal, twisted his words to suit my needs, always making sure that the elusive prophet remained just out of reach. They asked about Samuel. Where was he now? When would he return? I always smiled, told them he was still wandering, still seeking greater truths in the desert, but that his message would reach them through me. And they ate it up. It should’ve felt like any other con, like taking candy from a baby. But something was different this time. The people who followed "Samuel" weren’t just throwing money at me—they were changing. Lives were getting better, communities were forming, all based on a lie I had spun from the bones of a dead man. That’s when it started to mess with my head. Here I was, feeding them a line, and somehow, it was working. I watched them grow, become kinder, more forgiving, while I stayed the same con man I’d always been. I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe Samuel’s words had a kind of power after all. One night, lying awake in a fancy bed paid for by the faithful, I realized I couldn’t do it anymore. The lie had become too big, too real. It wasn’t just about money or survival anymore—it was about something else, something I couldn’t quite name but knew was bigger than me. So, I went back to where it all started. Back to the desert, where I’d found Samuel’s body. I stood there, looking out at the endless horizon, wondering if this was where I was supposed to find my own kind of truth. Maybe, just maybe, Samuel’s words weren’t all a lie. Maybe there was some truth buried in them, even if it hadn’t come from me.