conversations.from: system
conversations.value: Nobody remembers how or why. Maybe nobody ever knew. The oldest living survivors have childhood memories of it: cities burning, society in chaos then collapse, families set to panicked flight, the weird nights when the smoldering sky made midnight into a blood-colored half-day.
  
  Now the world is not what it was. Look around you: evidently, certainly, not what it was. But also close your eyes, open your brain: something is wrong. At the limits of perception, something howling, everpresent, full of hate and terror. From this, the world’s psychic maelstrom, we none of us have shelter.
  
  _This game is based off of Vincent Baker's fabulous_ Apocalypse World, _and all credit for creativity should go to him._
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Mappy thing!
conversations.prefix: Archipelago:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: You've got a plan of attack — it may not be a good plan, but it's a plan.
conversations.prefix: The Plan:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Not the territory, but the map.
conversations.prefix: Map:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: You used to fuck Lala, and it… didn't end well.
conversations.prefix: I Fucked Lala:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Apocalypse World is all scarcity, of course it is. There’s not enough wholesome food, not enough untainted water, not enough security, not enough light, not enough electricity, not enough children, not enough hope.
  However, the Golden Age Past did leave us two things: enough gasoline, enough bullets. Come the end, I guess the fuckers didn’t need them like they thought they would.
  So chopper, there you are. Enough for you.
conversations.prefix: Chopper:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: Even in a place as dangerous as Apocalypse World, battlebabes are, well. ey’re the ones you should walk away from, eyes down, but you can’t. ey’re the ones like the seductive blue crackling light, y’know? You mistake looking at them for falling in love, and you get too close and it’s a zillion volts and your wings burn off like paper.
  ￼Dangerous.
conversations.prefix: Battlebabe (Taken):
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: It's just a few connected cabins around an empty swimming pool, which during the night is a mosh pit and during the day is usually a pile of unconscious or semi-conscious bodies.
conversations.prefix: Penn's Refuge:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: If there’s one fucking thing you can count on in Apocalypse World, it’s: things break.
conversations.prefix: Savvyhead:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: meaning fucking hot, attractive, subtle, gracious, sexy, beautiful, inspiring, exciting.
conversations.prefix: Hot:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: meaning sharp-witted, clever, alert, smart, perceptive, educated, skilled, trained.
conversations.prefix: Sharp:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: There is no government, no society, in Apoca- lypse World. When hardholders ruled whole continents, when they waged war on the other side of the world instead of with the hold across the burn-flat, when their armies numbered in the hundreds of thousands and they had fucking boats to hold their fucking airplanes on, that was the golden age of legend. Now, anyone with a concrete compound and a gang of gunluggers can claim the title. You, you got something to say about it?
conversations.prefix: Hardholder:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: no one wants to look at you, talk to you, work with you.
conversations.prefix: Foul:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Even in the filth of Apocalypse World, there’s food that isn’t death on a spit, music that isn’t shrieking hyenas, thoughts that aren’t afraid, bodies that aren’t used meat, sex that isn’t rutting, dancing that’s real. There are moments that are more than stench, smoke, rage and blood.
  Anything beautiful left in this ugly ass world, skinners hold it. Will they share it with you? What do you offer them?
conversations.prefix: Skinner (Taken):
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: you want to bump uglies with somebody, maybe somebody specific, maybe anyone will do.
conversations.prefix: Get Sexed:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Brainers are the weird psycho psychic mindfucks of Apocalypse World. They have brain control, puppet strings, creepy hearts, dead souls, and eyes like broken things. They stand in your peripheral vision and whisper into your head, staring. They clamp lenses over your eyes and read your secrets.
  They’re just the sort of tasteful accoutrement that no well-appointed hardhold can do without.
conversations.prefix: Brainer (Taken):
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: When you’re lying in the dust of Apocalypse World guts aspilled, for whom do you pray? The gods? They’re long gone. Your beloved comrades? Fuckers all, or you wouldn’t be here to begin with. Your precious old mother? She’s a darling but she can’t put an intestine back inside so it’ll stay. No you pray for some grinning kid or veteran or just someone with a heartshocker and a hand with sutures and a 6-pack of morphine. And when that someone comes, that’s an angel.
conversations.prefix: Angel:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Apocalypse World is a mean, ugly, violent place. Law and society have broken down completely. What’s yours is yours only while you can hold it in your hands. There’s no peace. There’s no stability but what you carve, inch by inch, out of the concrete and dirt, and then defend with murder and blood.
  Sometimes the obvious move is the right one.
conversations.prefix: Gunlugger:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: Came the apocalypse, and the infrastructure of the Golden Age tore apart. Roads heaved and split. Lines of life and communication shattered. Cities, cut off from one another, raged like smashed anthills, then burned, then fell.
  A few living still remember it: every horizon scorching hot with civilization in flames, light to put out the stars and moon, smoke to put out the sun.
  In Apocalypse World the horizons are dark, and no roads go to them.
conversations.prefix: Driver:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: meaning cool under fire, rational, clearthinking, calm, calculating, unfazed.
conversations.prefix: Cool:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: it won't last, but you need to find somewhere you can be safe, if only for a little while.
conversations.prefix: Find Temporary Security:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: meaning a weirdo,
  psychic, genius, uncanny, lucky, strange, prophetic, touched.
conversations.prefix: Weird:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: you prefer your world nice and normal and easily controlled.  High weirdness and you do not mix.
conversations.prefix: Straight:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: people need leadership; you've got leadership; seems straightforward.
conversations.prefix: Amass Power:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: meaning hard-hearted, violent, aggressive, strong-willed, mean, physically and emotionally strong.
conversations.prefix: Hard:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: you quail at violence, hostility, and aggression.
conversations.prefix: Soft:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: you're not all here: distracted, simple, or otherwise unthinking.
conversations.prefix: Dull:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: when shit goes down, you lose it.  Fumbles, stutters, hesitations.
conversations.prefix: Mess:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: there's a thing you're obsessed with, and you want to find it, hold it, study it, revel in it, show it off, and save it forever.  (What is it?)
conversations.prefix: Fuel Obsession:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: In Apocalypse World, here’s what you’ve got, right? You’ve got Dremmer and Balls on one side, warlord slaver and his skinny fucking enforcer, raiding from their stronghold of concrete and iron spikes. On the other side you’ve got the barge people, living their short disease-crippled lives up and down the dead poisoned river. Further along and you’ve got Lighthouse, a men- and-women hunger cult gone wrong barricaded in on the edge of the breeding pit burn flats.
  You, you just want to make your way and have some freedom — but this is what you’ve got to work with. Not fucking rosy.
  ￼￼￼
conversations.prefix: Operator:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: someone did you wrong; you're going to make them pay.
conversations.prefix: Revenge:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: you've done someone wrong; now you need to make it right.
conversations.prefix: Atone:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: Now it should be crystal fucking obvious that the gods have abandoned Apocalypse World. Maybe in the golden age, with its one nation under god and its in god we trust, maybe then the gods were real. Fucked if I know. All I know is that now they’re gone daddy gone.
  My theory is that these weird hocus fuckers, when they say “the gods,” what they really mean is the miasma left over from the explosion of psychic hate and desperation that gave Apocalypse World its birth. Friends, that’s our creator now.
conversations.prefix: Hocus (Taken):
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Crine uses some special herbs and spices.
conversations.prefix: Drug-Laced Boar Meat:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: Skinny-ass punk gangster; part of Bill's Mad Boars crew. Likes knives.
conversations.prefix: Preen:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: A weasel-faced girl in biker leathers.  Half-shaved head, slumped shoulders, packing heat.
conversations.prefix: Fleece:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: Not only is there the possibly of getting beaten, there's also the fall.  Hooray!
conversations.prefix: Rooftop Brawl:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Penn's Outpost is engulfed in the released traumas of Fleece's brain.  It's already ugly, but it's going to turn dangerous, and fast.
conversations.prefix: Fleece's Trauma:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: A wiry little fuck dressed in a full suit of tactical kevlar three sizes too large and pulled tight with a series of canvas belts.
conversations.prefix: Lala:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: You know this person.  From where?  What went down?
conversations.prefix: I Know That Fucker:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: An ugly fuck, all bulging muscles and scarred face, in whatever rough-spun pants he put on a week ago and hasn't ever bothered changing or cleaning.
conversations.prefix: White:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: A series of beach houses, much the worse for wear, far enough out of the way to afford some measure of sanctuary… although if it's sanctuary from trouble or sanctuary from righteous retribution is up to interpretation.
conversations.prefix: Shamble:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: The headman of the Mad Boars gang, Bill is a tall, rangy fuck dressed in a well-worn leather jacket and chaps.
conversations.prefix: Bill:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: The interior highland of the island is held by the Ikthrong, a herd of wild-eyed fanatics.  It's rough and rocky — and has its own watershed.
conversations.prefix: Ikthrong Plateau:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: The Ikthrong have held their plateau for years, and not with good wishes.  What keeps invaders like the Mad Boars out?
conversations.prefix: Survey Ikthrong Defenses:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: The leader of the Ikthrong is Ik.  What's Ik like?
conversations.prefix: Ik's Reputation Precedes:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: The Mad Boars are going to give you some support in your operation — what is it?
conversations.prefix: Confirm Mad Boar Support:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: You're facing down a formidable foe.  Take a moment to gauge their strengths and weaknesses.
conversations.prefix: Take Their Measure:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: Brainers are the weird psycho psychic mindfucks of Apocalypse World. They have brain control, puppet strings, creepy hearts, dead souls, and eyes like broken things. They stand in your peripheral vision and whisper into your head, staring. They clamp lenses over your eyes and read your secrets.
  They’re just the sort of tasteful accoutrement that no well-appointed hardhold can do without.
conversations.prefix: Brainer:
conversations.from: human
conversations.prefix: Wild:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.prefix: Wild:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Now it should be crystal fucking obvious that the gods have abandoned Apocalypse World. Maybe in the golden age, with its one nation under god and its in god we trust, maybe then the gods were real. Fucked if I know. All I know is that now they’re gone daddy gone.
  My theory is that these weird hocus fuckers, when they say “the gods,” what they really mean is the miasma left over from the explosion of psychic hate and desperation that gave Apocalypse World its birth. Friends, that’s our creator now.
conversations.prefix: Hocus:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.prefix: Wild:
conversations.from: human
conversations.prefix: Wild:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: Even in the filth of Apocalypse World, there’s food that isn’t death on a spit, music that isn’t shrieking hyenas, thoughts that aren’t afraid, bodies that aren’t used meat, sex that isn’t rutting, dancing that’s real. There are moments that are more than stench, smoke, rage and blood.
  Anything beautiful left in this ugly ass world, skinners hold it. Will they share it with you? What do you offer them?
conversations.prefix: Skinner:
conversations.from: human
conversations.prefix: Wild:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.prefix: Wild:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Even in a place as dangerous as Apocalypse World, battlebabes are, well. ey’re the ones you should walk away from, eyes down, but you can’t. ey’re the ones like the seductive blue crackling light, y’know? You mistake looking at them for falling in love, and you get too close and it’s a zillion volts and your wings burn off like paper.
  ￼Dangerous.
conversations.prefix: Battlebabe:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: meaning hard-hearted, violent, aggressive, strong-willed, mean, physically and emotionally strong.
conversations.prefix: Hard:
conversations.from: human
conversations.prefix: Wild:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: you're not all here: distracted, simple, or otherwise unthinking.
conversations.prefix: Dull:
conversations.from: human
conversations.prefix: Wild:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: people need leadership; you've got leadership; seems straightforward.
conversations.prefix: Amass Power:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Short fuse. Easily provoked. Poor anger management skills. Hot under the collar.
  
  You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.
conversations.prefix: Temper:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: It's got wires and lights and shit. And metal claws on each finger. God knows what's under it. But if she puts it on you, man, then she's in your head. And you don't want that. No way no how.
conversations.prefix: That Glove:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Sizzle.
conversations.prefix: Fucking Hawt:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: Sometimes you just have to pull a hidden knife from gods-knows-where, ya know?
conversations.prefix: Knives, lots of knives:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Fucking with a weirdo brainer with a mean streak is usually a poor idea. Zap holds a grudge.
conversations.prefix: Hateful:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: Nothing phases you, you're at home almost anywhere. You can make a haven from any harbor and a meal of any meat.
conversations.prefix: Comfortable:
conversations.from: human
conversations.prefix: Wild:
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.prefix: Wild: