Hurricanes and such etcc

[zeq2mapper]

I think I've heard it being in one if the gta games. Not sure. But wouldn't it be amazing to see storms. Hurricanes. Tornados. Floods etcc?

[FortunateSon]

Rain, snow, wind, fire - they're all about the V. Congrasential and audible profiles of our wit nest.

 

 

The moon hangs elegantly in the navy sky, partially veiled by a thin layer of mist. The Stanford Canal shimmers below, reflecting the porch lights from rows of houses a top the verdants above, sat perfectly side by side on the finely cut grassy knolls of New Stanford.

 

Patrolling the gated-off community is a lone un-armed officer, who slowly paces in circles - night after night, month after month, year after year, never seeing a hint of trouble caused in the upper-wealth suburban area of Green State.

 

"Yeah, well," he says, talking in to the receiver of his mobile phone, "she's growing up; she's gonna start seeing boys. What did you expect to happen?"

 

Resting his shoulder blades against a stone pillar, he arches back and yawns, feeling a cold breeze sweep by and nibble at his skin through the two-layer uniform.

 

"Ah, you know, same old," he states, patting his jacket pocket down, fishing for his pack of smokes.

 

The rustling sound of tree branches being trod upon from the countryside below quickly draws his attention. Turning around, he looks down the opposite side of the shimmering canal to the dark forest; catching glimpses of moving shadows swaying from tree to tree.

 

"Who's down there?" he asks, removing the phone from his ear, etching closer to the edge of the vertical slope; peering over a set of large stone pebbles protecting pedestrians from falling, firmly planted in the grassy earth.

 

Chilling waves from the ocean crash into the steep cliffs in the distance; the sound immediately drowned out by a constant ringing of automatic gun fire. The patrolling guard is immediately caught by stray bullets, penetrating his chest, abdomen and thighs.

 

Losing balance and crying out, he falls head first down the vertical slope; his body bending and breaking with each thud along the rocky terrain.

 

In hoardes by the dozen, armed Caribbean refugees begin scaling the slope, each following the cartel member in front of the last, balancing on fallen branches and jagged rocks, pushing off and climbing higher, keeping a low center of gravity, clawing their dark gloved-finger tips into the cold soil for leverage.

 

Several hundred yards from the gun fire, a satin black BF Injection sits by the tall stretch of gates that lead in and out of the community, headlights dimmed, engine still purring. Alvaro Cortez leans against its metalic frame, keeping a constant eye on the minute hand of a gold watch, tightly clinging to his bare wrist.

 

Pushing off when the minute hand strikes twelve, he turns to face the driver. "Let's go," he commands, now walking towards the polished gates.

 

Switching the ignition off, the driver climbs out of the BF Injection, arriving at the gate's entrance alongside Alvaro, who's already begun to scale the slightly-chipped metal bars. Seeing him drop down the otherside, the driver begins scalling shortly behind.

 

"Emilio!" Alvaro calls out, visably watching as the breath escape his mouth, hearing more gun fire errupt close by. The driver drops down alongside him and both men begin marching towards the sounds of automatic fire, breathing heavier with each step.

 

"Over here, sir," he hears in the closing distance. Slightly alternating his pace to the left, he treads up a small grove until he reaches the man who responded.

 

"Emilio," Alvaro starts, surveying his dark outfit and tightly gripped M16 machine pistol. "How many survived the initial entry?"

 

Cracking a smile at the question, Emilio nods his head, watching as another flock of refugees make their way a top the slope. "They all made it," he assures his boss.

 

"Good. Now..."

 

Alvaro pauses, then locks eyes with the many upper-class citizens peering down in fear from their lit windows; seeing mostly middle-aged fathers stood beside young sons and daughters, noticeably trembling. He resumes, now looking back at Emilio. "I want this entire row," he states in cold blood.

 

Emilio chuckles briefly, running the grip of his machine pistol across his thick stubble, grating it. "And the consequences?" he asks, noticing the complete lack of emotion in his commanding officer's face, causing him to change his tone. "...And the consequences?" he repeats, more seriously this time.

 

"They all die."

 

Alvaro faces Emilio and glares intently, ignoring the question.

 

"...They all die," Emilio confirms back, now looking at the sixty-odd refugees all standing a top the cliffside.

 

 

 

Inside the well-lit living room belonging to Dan and Emily Rivers, the wake and service for Charlie O’Malley is drawing to a close. Most guests have come and gone, paying their respects to Paige, who's barely said two words throughout the day.

 

Showing another guest who's finishing up the last of the varied finger sandwiches to the front door, Dan pauses and turns to his wife, who steps aside and lets the man see himself out.

 

"How do you think she's really holding up?" Dan asks worryingly, keeping an eye on a seated Paige through the archway to the living area.

 

"I can't get her to eat or drink anything," Emily says, shaking her head, watching as the guest closes the door behind himself.

 

Grunting, Dan slowly strides back through to the living room, pocketing both hands as he has no idea of how to use them in this situation. "Paige," he says with a comforting tone, easing down on the edge of a creamy leather sofa cushion, "you're more than welcome to spend the night in the spare room," he offers with a smile.

 

Paige takes a moment to react, then nods her head, keeping her hollow stare glued to the muted plasma television screen across the room, playing news footage from the Caribbean refugee invasion.

 

Emily paces over, keeping her arms folded across her chest, noticing the sickening footage being broadcast live on the air. "What the f*ck?" she whispers, picking up the remote from a small wicker table and upping the volume.

 

Paige's trance is broken by the live report emerging from New Stanford, showing graphic images of shot dead men, women, children, and babies - all piled up, bound together by bullet-torn flesh and haggard clothing, stacked along the muddy walkway of the Stanford Canal.

 

Emily gasps, covering her mouth with both hands and takes a few steps back, now avoiding the gruesome death tally broadcasted on-screen.

 

Hearing the front door slam shut, the trio turn their attention to the archway and see an exhausted Evan and sombre Carter walk through to the living room.

 

"Have you seen this?" Dan asks his brother, motioning to the news reports playing on the television, now showing scenes of the refugees standing in a guard-like manor outside each family home, wielding various machine pistols and wearing balaclavas to top off their menacing dark outfits.

 

Evan's eyes shift and scan each and every refugee being shot from a grainy, farback lens, until one man in particular catches his attention -- the only man not wearing a balaclava -- Alvaro Cortez, who stands in front of a huddle of armed men, equipping a blurred object in his right hand, slightly concealed by his long coat.

 

In one swift raise of his arm, Cortez withdraws what appears to be a wooden crossbow and fires it, causing the screen to jump to static and the sound of the scenary to void.

 

Evan swallows the dry lump in his throat, hearing both Dan and Emily exhale in horror and disbelief as he stands inches away from the grainy black and white lines on the television.

 

 

 

Pinching the butt of a lit roll-up cigarette between his scarred lips, Alvaro Cortez stares off into the dark, bleak distance of the dirt road leading in and out of the gated Stanford community.

 

LHe takes a deep drag, watching as Emilio and another group of his men make sure the camera crew are all disposed of; tossed in the pile with the other innocents. Placing a crossbow down on the foot of the porch, he awaits Emilio to come back over.

 

"I know you've got a plan," Emilio starts, awkwardly trying to holster the machine pistol over his shoulder and lift the balaclava from his face whilst handing one of the cameras to Alvaro, "but we're gonna be open targets -- the police know exactly where we are."

 

SAlvaro brushes the comment off, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke into the chilled Spring air as he snatches the video camera. "Exactly," he affirms with confidence. "It's time we really introduce ourselves."

 

Emilio looks over his shoulder to the approaching group of refugees; all keeping their machine pistols tight in their grip and to their chests, then back to Alvaro.

 

"It's time for Auldrey to make good on his promises," he states, removing the cigarette from between his lips. "Gear up," he orders of Emilio, now examining the slightly cracked, mud-coated device.

 

I found this in my paste cache. Though it might elaborate what I meant.

 

[RetroMutt]

Hurricanes and tornados are not really common in southern cali... and by not common I mean that damn rare for one to ever happen. If it was set in Vice City, then maybe but it is not.

 

Flood maybe, but that would require a whole extra set of coding, physics, and details I do t think rockstar would do unless it was a major part of the game.

[gta5freemode4eva]

I need a year to read that - 1 sec

 

OT - I heard that Tremmors could be in the game (a rumor!), fire is in the game but whether there will be wild fire I'm not sure. Lightning could start it maybe? I'm a fan of all of mother natures gifts so howling winds, mad downpours, overflowing rivers, fire, earthquakes... it would be very cool. The stormdrains might fill up. That'd be cool.

Edited June 22, 2013 by gta5freemode4eva

[Gtaman_92]

LA dont get any serious weather like that except for earthquakes and rain.